The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

The Thieves of Tharbad

The Barrow Downs, Urui (August) 31^st, Summer 1409 of the Third Age of Middle Earth

King Ostoher Aranyónorë, 9^th Ruler of Cardolan

Smoke swirled across the fiery spring sky as the King’s Men made their last stand upon a hill.   Cries of dying orcs resounded like some hideous chorus, magnifying the terror that gripped the Barrow Downs.  A savage and merciless battle had been fought all night.  Bodies and fires dotted the hill, and the clash of steel could be heard ringing.  Some of the surviving men fled into the woods, casting down weapons.  Cardolan’s end was at hand.

Both of Ostoher’s sons had fallen defending him, their bodies lying broken nearby as orcs streamed past them to get at the king. His head would make for a prize back in Angmar.  Prince Braegil the Scholar had fallen with an arrow to the chest as he had no time to don his armor when the surprise attack began.  Crown Prince Thôrdaer fought the longest, fighting beside his father until dragged down by orcs who slit his throat with daggers.

His back to a Standing‑stone, King Ostoher surveyed the battlefield, all the while praying to Varda for salvation.  Down to under a hundred, his loyal warriors seemed hopelessly outnumbered, despite the fact that they had slaughtered a hundred score of the Witch‑King’s minions.  Daylight was still too far away.  His breath steamed out in the cool night air, large gulps as he tried to catch his breath.  This far north even the summer nights were chill.  And this had been a particularly cold year.

The troll warlord, Rogrog, struck at midnight, allowing the Cardolani no time to dress, much less prepare an adequate line of defense.  King Ostoher fought without pants, shirt, or even padding beneath his enchanted breastplate. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight, for he had never expected the Witch King’s Warlord to force march in the early evening.  He wiped sweat and dirt from his face, pushing back his black hair.  As he turned toward a noise, he uttered, “Why must these noble souls pay for my confusion?”  He thought for just a moment of his Queen, Lossien, who passed in childbirth early this year, something that he never recovered from.  Then, there was his young daughter, Princess Nirnadel. What would become of her?

A group of orcs rushed him, snarling and hissing, brandishing cruel jagged and notched weapons, all coated with poison.  Ostoher brought his enchanted great‑sword down, sweeping through the first pair of attacking Orcs.  He moved left and felled another with a mighty blow that cleaved the beast’s iron helmet.  He realized that he had been separated from his personal guard.  Through the black smoke, he spotted the huge shadow of his enemy. “Rogrog!” he shouted in defiance, bringing his sword back up on guard.  The beast carried a knight of Cardolan in his grasp.  The man struggled weakly until the troll smashed his head in with a punch of his fist.  He then tore the head off of the man and put it in a sack at his waist.  Ostoher noticed a mosaic of skulls that dangled over the troll’s loincloth.  Rogrog raised his massive spiked club with a snarl.

The King turned again, pressing against the cold stone that guarded his ancestors. As the troll closed with him, he uttered his last oath, “My blood may color this grassy hill tonight, but the Spirits of the Edain shall sleep undisturbed.”

The Tower of Amon Sûl

The Stone Seer

Amon Sûl was a marvel of ancient Númenórean architecture.  A monumental spire designed to hold the Master Seeing stone of the North, the fabled Palantír.  Constructed of grey‑blue granite and rising 280 feet above the moat, its spire could be seen many miles away.  The Dúnedain felt the tower to be impregnable, surrounded by a patchwork quilt of outer defenses: ditches, walls, and moats.  The garrison of the tower was split between the two remaining kingdoms of Arnor: Arthedain and Cardolan, both of whom shared a border at this place.  A force of several hundred elite knights and men at arms from both kingdoms protected the tower and a dozen veteran Stone Wardens were sworn to protect both King and Palantír.  In the past, the two forces had suffered strife when tensions rose between the Kingdoms, but today they would all be either victorious or dead.

At the very top of the tower, an old man with a long white beard peered into a pulsating sphere.  He wore the long royal blue robes of a member of the Stone Seers, those who had years of training and experience to do what he was doing.  His eyes focused and his mouth fell open in grief. “By the Valar...we are destroyed.…” the Warden of the great seeing stone, the Palantír, turned slowly away from the glowing crystal sphere.  His elderly face was drawn and tired, the weight of impending doom weighed heavily upon him.  From the ancient tower of Amon Sûl, he had viewed the invasion of his homeland by the armies of the Witch-King of Angmar.  Gwedhron, the Warden was native son of Cardolan, having been born and raised just outside of the capital of Tharbad.  Due to his skill and learning as a seer, he was selected to train with the Stone Seers in Annúminas in Arthedain.

The sun was just rising, illuminating the battlefield for the seer.  Twenty miles northeast of the tower it became apparent that the army of his homeland had been annihilated.  He could see the bodies of orcs mixed in with men along with spears, swords and arrows sticking out of the grass.  The troll warlord, Rogrog, had force marched his orcs through the night and attacked with surprise.  Completely unprepared, King Ostoher and his sons were slaughtered with well nigh 80% of the Army of Cardolan.  Gwedhron could just make out the king’s body, now decapitated, his head a trophy for the troll.  Barely stopping to rest, Rogrog continued his onslaught and would be at Amon Sûl by nightfall.

The Warden rushed from the chamber of the Palantír, his boots clattering over the stone floor.  Down the steps he ran and into the chamber of the King of Arthedain. He could barely stop the tears and sputtered to speak.  “Arveleg! Cardolan is gone.  Ostoher fell on the Barrow Downs and his army is scattered. The troll will be here by nightfall with six thousand orcs,” the Warden said, his face full of horror.  

Arveleg’s eyes glowed with rage, a snarl on his lips. “Those weaklings...I knew they could not be trusted hold our flank!”  He pounded his mailed fist on the oak table before him, splintering it. His legendary anger struck fear into even his elite Stone Wardens, hand-picked guardians of the Palantír.

Gwedhron, though offended by the insult to his homeland, withheld his feelings.  This was no time to lose control of his senses, he reasoned.  Right now, his sole purpose was to save the remnants of shattered Cardolan.  “King Arveleg, you must make preparations to depart.  I beg you, the Palantír must be saved!”

Arveleg bit down on his teeth hard, tension rippling along his jaw.  “We will not abandon the tower!” he shouted back.  “This is the birthright of our people, left to us by Elendil.  We will not yield to those savages.  Arnor split because of politics.  Rhudaur was lost because of politics.  Today, we will fight!”

Throughout the day, the men of Arthedain and Cardolan worked furiously, gathering stones, winding catapults, fletching arrows and boiling oil.  All Gwedhron could do was watch as their doom unfolded. Throughout the day, several dozen Cardolani stragglers had bolstered their ranks.  Now close to five hundred, perhaps there might be hope.  But at dusk, the army of Rogrog could be seen. A line of spears, torches and horses spread across the horizon.  On the battlements of the outer defenses, the grim defenders stood silently, ready to fight, ready to die.  These were veteran warriors, chosen to guard King and Palantír.  Beyond the walls, the cold wind howled through the crenellations, nearly drowning out the pounding of boots from the enemy.  By nightfall, the Army of Angmar had deployed, and the tower was surrounded.

From the pinnacle of the mighty tower, King Arveleg gazed into the Palantír, focusing his concentration.  Arveleg had donned his silver full plate armor with a blue tabard bearing the symbol of Arnor, a white tree surrounded by stars.  Gwedhron stood nearby to assist the king if needed as a master of the stone.  Unbeknownst to most, the ancient gem could be used to communicate with another who had a similar item.  Within the crystal sphere the face of a young man with black hair began to form.  The adolescent was also clad in silver plate armor adorned with seven stars.

Arveleg commanded, “Araphor, my son.  My force is surrounded...we can hold siege for a week at most...send reinforcements immediately!” The force of Arveleg’s will could be felt through the Palantir and it sent Araphor a step back.

The young Prince responded timidly, “Father, our city of Annúminas is under siege also. We are being attacked by none other than the right-hand man of the Witch King himself...the Angûlion.  We count nearly fifteen thousand orcs in the field.”

The King fumed and balled his fists.  “I did not ask for an excuse!  I asked for more men...You have eight thousand in Annuminas and another two thousand in Fornost.  I command you to send any not directly engaged in the defense of the city.  You will be here in three days!”

Araphor bowed.  “As…as you command, Father.”

The King turned away as the stone grew dark.  Gwedhron covered it gently with a velvet cloth.  “King Arveleg, I beg you to reconsider.  We cannot lose the seeing stone.”

Arveleg waved dismissively as he walked out of the chamber, his boots clacking on the floor. Gwedhron, looked around frantically. Then, his eyes focused on a wooden chest.  It would be about the right size.  The Warden had great respect for the King, but his heart would always be with Cardolan. Not that there would be a kingdom to return to.  King Arveleg had reigned for 53 years, ever since the death of his father, Argeleb at the hands of the Rhudarans.  He brought the Kingdom back from the brink of destruction and crushed the enemies of Arthedain.  He was truly a Warrior King and a hero even amongst the great.  This night, his armor shone like a star and his legendary White Bow would sing in the wind.

The proud forces of the Arthedan Dagarim Aran, or Royal Army, stood on the battlements with their black armor covered with black surcoats.  Seven white stars were arrayed on each warrior’s chest and black-faced shield.  The Cúrim, or company, from Cardolan wore silver-colored chainmail, and carried purple shields and surcoats trimmed in silver.  They each bore the symbol of their homeland: a hill surrounded by seven stars.  This was the tower of Elendil.  This, they would defend.

For three long days the defenders held a desperate defense of the fortress.  They fell, one by one, thinning out the force along the defenses.  Part of the outer wall had crumbled from the bombardment of catapults and fires smoldered throughout the compound.  Finally, the forces of Angmar were ready to deliver the coup de grace.  Three hours before sunrise, the mighty horns of Angmar tore the night silence.  Waves of orcs broke upon the outer wall.  Arrows poured thick upon attacker and defender alike.  Stones and boiling oil fell upon screaming orcs, but still they came. Arveleg’s bow rang out in the night until his arrows were spent.  One by one the Stone Wardens fell before him.  Soon, only the King was left, flailing about with his mighty enchanted sword. Piles of orcs grew around him, but it was only a matter of time.

The old Warden bowed his head before the Palantír.  “Arveleg is gone.  We are lost.” After a minute of silence, he rose and with renewed strength lifted the great stone out of its intricate mithril receptacle, put it in the chest and gave it to an Arthadan knight standing nearby.  He grabbed the man by his breastplate and said, “Take this and go...escape by any means.…”  Surprised, the knight took the chest, opened it and stared at the sphere for a second. The Seer pushed him violently.  “I said go now!” With that the knight took three squires and passed though the West Door.  Gwedhron hurriedly put a hex on the door to seal it.  He rushed to bar the East Door, but it was too late.

With a crash, the East Door fell open.  A bloody knight stumbled through, wounded with a dozen arrows.  His helmet smashed to the ground as he uttered his final words, “Flee...we are doomed.…” As he breathed his last, the Seer could see a huge, grotesque figure pass through the opening.  A massive, bloated creature it was, draped in heavy chainmail and wielding a spiked club.  At the troll’s belt dangled several human skulls including the heads of Ostoher and Arveleg.

The Seer collapsed in horror.  “Rogrog.…” The club came down.  Blood covered the walls.

Tharbad – Ivanneth (September) 4^th, Autumn 1409

Ciramir, Legate of Gondor in Tharbad

The crystal goblet caught the firelight and dispersed it to the corners of the room as Ciramir, son of Eärendur, the Gondorian legate twirled it in his hand.  It was finely made, a work of art like everything that came from the renowned glassworks at Fornost Erain in Arthedain.  Goblets like this graced the tables of the Shipwrights of Mithlond, the Queen’s board in Fornost, and the rough camp‑table of King Ostoher on the Downs, where the Cardolanian army camped this night, ever vigilant against further attacks by the terrible host of Angmar.

Such a simple pleasure, dining with finely crafted tableware.  It was almost funny in a way, that when the King went north to meet the onslaught of the Witch‑King’s realm on the borders of Cardolan, special provisions, placesettings, linen napkins, and his own crystal goblet went north with him.  The king had assured the city that Angmar would be defeated and that he would return, victorious.  He was still young for a Dúnadan, but he was well loved and respected by the people.  They saw him as a bold, knight errant, riding out to quash the forces of evil.

Reports, such as actually reached the city of Tharbad; leagues to the south, indicated that there had already been desperate fighting in the devastated area of Bree‑land where the North Highway crossed the East‑West Road.  Ciramir wondered to himself what the aftermath of this war would be.  Cardolan and Arthedain had become accustomed to constant war, both with the Witch‑King’s realm and each other.  Would a victory just mean more internecine conflict among the Dúnadan?  Would a defeat…  Ciramir didn’t even want to think of that outcome.  Neither kingdom had yet succumbed to Angmar like their sister kingdom, Rhudaur, which was now no more than a puppet state.  But when the dark realm attacked, they had always dropped their differences and marched together to oppose it.  But in the absence of that threat, the two northern realms always fell to bickering, drawing swords on one another over some tiny stretch of land.  Even during the reigns of the current kings, Ostoher and Arveleg, peacemakers both, the tension and threat of dissension was omnipresent.  And Gondor was already spread thin and would be unlikely to send much military aid.

Ciramir was no one’s fool.  He knew of the worm‑tongued dissemblers who came in fair guises to the courts of Arthedain and Cardolan, just as they had come to the King’s House in Rhudaur.  He knew who they served, and he knew how their efforts made the Witch-King ever more effective.  They were in Minas Anor as well, perhaps hoping to turn brother against brother in far off Gondor.  Yes, the best outcome would be a victory for the North and an alliance against Angmar. Perhaps even the return of the Kingdom of Arnor might be possible.  Arveleg would be the logical choice to lead.  Ostoher would be named a prince and rule with near autonomy in Cardolan.  The Legate nodded at his own wisdom and looked back to his glass. The light burgundy color of the crystal tinted the legate’s hand the color of blood, as he held it and gazed into its depths.  A sudden chill breeze ruffled the curtains.

Ciramir stood, goblet in hand, and walked to the window to close it.  He looked out across the sprawl of Tharbad and northward at the wide stone highway that stretched, dimly moonlit, into the distance. Somewhere, beyond the shadowy hill barely discernible near the horizon, the armies of Cardolan and Arthedain waited for another assault by the Witch‑King’s army.  Suddenly, he noticed a rider moving along the highway at great speed, the half­ shrouded moon dimly reflected in the horse’s accoutrements and the mail of the rider, visible as his cloak swept back in the wind.

A rider?  At this hour of the morning? Ciramir thought

The Legate forgot about the breeze that had chilled him and set the goblet on the window‑ledge.  His attention was completely on the swift moving rider approaching the North Gate of the city.  It was clear that the horseman was no ordinary traveler, for he passed quickly through the refugee settlements across the river.  The gate was opened for him at once; without slowing, he spurred his steed along the avenue toward the Royal House.

The rumors flew thick and fast in the rider’s wake.  While Ciramir stood at the window, a clerk reported the news to him, even as it was being echoed in the street below: the army was destroyed, the King and his sons had perished and there were not even enough Cardolanian soldiers to bury them.  Arthedanians and Lindon elves had placed what remained of Ostoher and his sons in his barrow. The Witch‑King had been defeated, but at a terrible cost: Tharbad, already crammed with refugees, would soon be flooded with thousands more.  And if any part of the Witch‑King’s army had survived intact, it would soon come to the gates of the city.

And if not? Then there would be war as well.  Arthedain would try to capitalize, if it could, on the terrible destruction wrought on Cardolan, which now had no king.  And, if rumors were to be trusted, had only a sixteen-year-old girl as an heir.

Odd, Ciramir thought to himself, for it to be so chill in autumn.

Though a watcher by nature, Ciramir knew that now was the time to act, and if there was any substance to what he had heard, he had to act quickly.  Turning away from the window, he strode toward the door of his study.  A corner of his robe caught the crystal goblet as he walked across the room and pulled it along.  It hung, teetering on the edge of the sill for a long moment, and then crashed to the stone floor, shattering beyond recognition or recovery.

Chapter End Notes

Ciramir, the Legate of Gondor from the RPG module.

Leave a Comment

The Thraden Forn, the Road to Tharbad – Ivanneth (September) 1409

Firiel Halatani

Only the occasional howl of a lone wolf broke the silence of the night as a broken-down wagon creaked along the North Road.  The driver, cloaked in dirty gray over chainmail armor, turned around and said quietly, “We must stop.  The horses are tired.”

From the inside of the wagon a woman answered, “No, we must reach Tharbad by midnight.”  The driver sighed and shrugged, shaking the reins, pushing the two horses onward.

The driver, Valandil, was a common soldier in the Army of Cardolan. His years of service brought him the rank of sergeant just prior to the war.  He had seen action against both Arthedain and Rhudaur, but nothing prepared him for the slaughter he had just experienced.  Having had his entire unit wiped out, the only thing left for him was to drive a wagon load of wounded back home.  The weight of his experiences reflected in his haggard expression.  He was clothed only in his torn and blood-stained tunic and breeches covered with a suit of rusting chainmail.  A week of facial growth made the usually clean-shaven man look like a Dunnish barbarian.  After sixteen hours of travel, he was as exhausted as the horses and his vision began to blur.

As Valandil began to nod off, the woman placed her hand on his shoulder, rousing him.  She handed him a cup of hot broth.  The aroma filled his nostrils, reviving him.  He thanked her and drank hardily from the cup.  The woman, Firiel Halatani, was a healer.  She was kin to the noble House Tinarë and the elves of Lindon, who had trained her in the healing arts.  King Ostoher had ordered her to accompany the army to the Barrow Downs to tend him and his sons.  Although she could save neither King nor princes, her talents nonetheless healed many worthy knights and soldiers on that dark day.  Tending to the wounded, she had not slept in days and now her blonde hair hung matted on her head and her eyes held the weight of doom.

Firiel huddled over one of the injured men in the wagon and gently gave him some of the broth.  The man drank hungrily for several moments and then fell unconscious again.  He was covered in blood soaked bandages and it was obvious that his wounds were grievous.  Though stained, his surcoat could still be recognized, marking him as a member of the noble House Tyrn Gorthad.  His family bore the brunt of the fighting on the Downs as those were their ancestral lands.  Few, if any, now could claim kinship with that House.  Firiel had brought him back from the brink of death, but even now she remained doubtful.

At the rear of the wagon, beyond several more sleeping bodies, a man sat huddled, honing his double-bladed axe.  Still clad in chainmail he appeared every bit the warrior ready for the battle.  Long, curly brown hair hung in disarray about his weathered face and his beard was tangled into the links of his armor.  The man’s name was Mercatur, a Tergil, a mixed breed mercenary from Rhudaur who fought only for gold.  At one time he had taken arms against every kingdom in the North and took no permanent loyalties.  The only reason he fought for Cardolan was the fact that they promised to pay him 13 more silver pieces than Angmar was willing to give him, and now he was on his way back to collect.  The muscular Mercartur placed his fine axe back in its sheath and then cocked his crossbow.  When Firiel gave him a curious glance, he smiled back, “one can never be too cautious.”

“I see the lights of Tharbad ahead,” called Valandil.  This would mean that they were within a few miles of the city and could reach the gates within an hour.  As the wagon drew on, the soldier was troubled by the presence of dozens of makeshift shacks to either side of the road.  These hovels were definitely not here when the grand army of Cardolan marched forth four months ago.  The stench was overpowering and Valandil could see masses of starving people moving about.  Suddenly, Valandil reined in the horses.  A tree trunk was blocking their path.

“Drop the reins man, unless you wish to die!” a voice yelled out from the side of the road.  Two blond northmen stepped out onto the road in front of the log.  One had a short bow drawn on Valandil, who quickly looked around and saw several others nearby, all armed and cloaked in dirty brown.  He released the reins and raised his hands. The man with the bow grinned and said to the other, “Eudail, tie him up.”

The shorter man drew a dagger and scrambled up the wagon, “No problem Nial.”

Without warning, a crossbow bolt sunk into Nial’s chest with such force it flung him back.  He crashed on the ground and did not move.  Valandil sprung into action.  Drawing his broadsword, he slashed Eudail across the throat.  The stunned northman spat blood and then collapsed backward off the wagon.  Then, a stocky, brown haired boy leapt up on the back of the wagon brandishing a short sword.  He cried, “You bastards killed Nial and Eudail.  I’ll cut your throats.”  With this, he turned toward Firiel and her patients.

Before he could move, Mercatur’s axe spit his head in two.  The rest of the robbers fled.

After rifling the body for gold, Mercatur rolled the dead adolescent out of the back of the moving wagon.  He then started counting the bronze and copper coins.  Firiel looked at him with disgust, “Is that all you care about...money?  You just killed that boy...have you no feelings?”

The mercenary sneered. “Blondie, you’d be dead or worse if I didn’t take him.  Besides, think of it as his final gift...a donation to the Mercatur fund.”

Irritated, Valandil looked back, “Hey, mercenary, don’t talk to the lady like that!”

Bristling at the command, the brawny mercenary drew his axe.  “What are you gonna do about it, boy?” he questioned, one side of his lip curled up.

Firiel stepped in, raising her hand.  She took Mercatur’s weapon arm and held it, “I’m sorry...I started it.  I’m just tired...we’re all tired...please sit down.”  The mercenary sat and said nothing further.

Creaking along in their wagon, they reached the Annon Forn or North Gate just before midnight and after displaying their credentials, they continued on to the South Bank of the city.  Tharbad was large by most standards and was arranged in three sections: A North Bank on the north side of the Gwathló River, a central island in the middle of the river, and the South Bank.  The wagon creeped through the deserted Menetar street, the main road through Tharbad, then over the Iant Formen and the Iant Harnen, the North and South Bridges, spanning the river.  Shortly before one o’clock in the morning the wagon rolled up to the familiar Houses of Healing, Firiel’s home.  Beyond tired, Valandil staggered to the door of the three-story building and pounded his fist.  Several sleepy attendants emerged minutes later.

“Can’t you see the Lady has returned?” spoke Valandil sternly.  The attendants gave a look of surprise and immediately rushed to the wagon.  They gently carried the wounded into the house and then returned to assist Firiel herself inside.  Mercatur gathered the trophies of war from the bottom of the wagon and then followed them in.  He sunk the blade of his axe into the back of an expensive wooden chair and then lay down on the floor.  Sleep took him in seconds.  Two of the attendants escorted Firiel to the Master Healer’s chamber and opened the door.

She stepped inside and sadly said, “leave me.”  The attendants bowed and shut the door.  The Healer had returned.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing characters, Valandil, a sergeant in the Cardolani Army.

Firiel Halatani, a half Sindarin, half Dunedain healer.

Mercatur, a mixed Rhudauran mercenary.

Leave a Comment

Tharbad – Ivanneth (September) 6^th, 1409

Chancellor Nimhir

It had been two days since the rider had brought news of the death of King Ostoher.  Initially, panic had gripped the ancient Council of the Sceptre, the administrative body that aided the King in his rule.  Chancellor Nimhir, head of the Council, decided that immediate action needed to be taken.  He convened an emergency meeting to determine the fate of the Kingdom.  Nimhir, though not a warrior, had advanced rapidly in the service of the King through dedicated, competent service.  He succeeded his father, Vinyarion, as the Steward of the Royal Estate of Thalion followed by a post as an advisor to the King in 1398.  In 1403 he became a full member of the Council and became its leader just prior to the war.  His rise had not been without cost as he earned the enmity of many jealous rivals.

A fortnight later, the Council convened at the Bar Aran, or the King’s House in Tharbad, upon the central island.  In the grand hall, the Master at Arms pounded his staff on the dark wooden floor.  “Hear ye, hear ye!  The Council of the Scepter is now in session!  Presiding is Chancellor Nimhir.  Attending are Mayor Minastan of Tharbad.  Representing the military are Captain Tardegil, Captain Guilrod of the Garrison, Captain Asgon of the Navy.   Representing the nobles are Hir Duin Tinare, Hir Celeph Calantir, and Hir Mablung Girithlin.”

The men were seated at the king’s grand table, carved of dark wood with slots for candles to illuminate the paper that made the kingdom’s bureaucracy run.  Overhead in the vaulted ceiling hung bright lanterns of shiny brass, gifts from the lords of Lindon in happier days.  Aged Captain Tardegil glanced around the room, stroking his white beard.  He was mostly bald now, his short white hair in a ring around his head.  He was a force to be reckoned with, a veteran of a dozen battles and was a survivor of the horror of 1356.

Nimhir rose from his seat and gestured to the men at the table.  “Gentlemen and nobles of Cardolan, after long thought and consultation with the seers, I have decided to ask your support in declaring myself Regent of Cardolan, acting in the name of the sole heir to the Royal House until she reaches majority,” stated the tall, dignified Nimhir, dressed regally in green and yellow.  His fine black hair was streaked with gray as was his finely waxed goatee.  He slowly surveyed the room, looking for responses. 

The scarred, grizzled Tardegil sleepily rubbed his eyes while Hir Girithlin glowered.  The nobleman wore a velvet tunic of green and red that matched his flatcap.  His clothing spoke of wealth and finery.

Nimhir continued, stroking his greying goatee, “I know our esteemed council members: Hir Ethir Gwathlo, Hir Eredoriath, Hir Feotar, and Hir Tyrn Gorthad have all been laid to rest, but we must go on without them and do what is right for all seven Hirdoms.  Before the transfer of power can be complete the decision must go to a vote.  You gentlemen must decide.  I beseech you however, to understand that this is for the good of the Kingdom. Failure to elect a unified government will only invite yet another civil war...or worse.”

Hir Girithlin, a burly middle‑aged warrior with dark hair, graying at the temples, rose and said, “Aye, we do need to be united... however, what we need is one with great battle experience.  No offense Nimhir, but Cardolan needs a leader not a bureaucrat,” he said with a sarcastic edge.  “As a direct descendent of the great noble house of Eldanar and closest relative to the Royal Family, it is I who should become regent.  Besides, I am the only one of us who was at Tyrn Gorthad when Rogrog slew the King.  My expertise with battling Angmar makes me the natural choice.” He swung his ermine cloak back over his massive shoulders as he returned to his seat.  Girithlin’s lands were large and wealthy and he had an ambition to match them.  His chubby face and thick neck attached to his barrel chest spoke of his physical strength.  Quietly, Nimhir fumed at Girithlin’s disrespect.  There had been bad blood between them for years.

Watching the duel of wills, the handsome, raven-haired Hir Tinarë leaned over to the ancient Hir Calantir and whispered, “So this is Mablung’s bid for the throne...  I hear he’s also thinking of having his pimply‑faced son, Falathar court the Princess. What a scoundrel.”

The gnarled Calantir smiled and nodded, his rheumy eyes focused and full of intelligence beneath thin whisps of white hair.

Suddenly, breaking eye contact with Hir Girithlin, Chancellor Nimhir turned to the Council and spoke, “Well, it is agreed that we need a Regent.  Just who will be the Regent is the question.  We will write our secret ballots to determine the vote.” The men quickly scrawled their choices with quill pens and folded the ballots.  A scribe was summoned to count them.

After a minute, the scribe stood at the podium.  The Master at Arms pounded his staff, getting everyone’s attention.  Dressed in green robes of the King’s Record Keepers, the scribe stated loudly, “Chancellor Nimhir is elected the Regent of Cardolan.” Upon hearing the result, Hir Girithlin struck the table and stormed out of the Hall, a sneer etched on his lips.

Hir Tinarë patted Calantir on the back, “Good job Celeph, I knew I could count on you.  I won’t forget this.”

The ancient Calantir smiled blankly in return, his wispy white hair barely covering his head.  He steepled his gnarled, weathered hands in front of his chin, quietly watching everyone around him.

Though exultant in his recent victory, Chancellor Nimhir was still very worried over Hir Girithlin, whose battle experience and seasoned troops could prove a formidable foe.  Given Cardolan’s long history of civil wars, the Hir’s every action needed to be scrutinized for the moment.  “Thank you.  Thank you gentlemen and nobles of the council.  I will do my utmost to serve the Kingdom of Cardolan.  We are adjourned for now.  I will be working on policies to return stability to the realm. My scribes will be reaching out to each of you for input.  Let us return in three days time to enact these.  We are in a state of emergency, and we must move with all haste.”  The Council rose and departed, Calantir’s servants helping him up and to his carriage.

As Nimhir was returning to his chambers, his attention was diverted by the presence of the skinny old nursemaid, Anariel, standing in the hall.  Her graying hair was up in a bun beneath a gable hood, that rose up to a point like the roof of a chapel.  “Your Grace, please come.  The Princess is refusing to leave her room again.  She needs to eat.  She’s just wasting away in there!” she pleaded, beckoning him to come to the door of the Royal Chamber.

Nimhir furrowed his brow.  “How long has this been going on?” he asked, both irritated that he was just learning of this and deeply concerned for the welfare of the Princess. The young girl was the future of the realm.

Anariel clasped her hands together and shook them up at the heavens.  “Ever since the news of her father and brothers’ deaths, she had gone into a deep depression. She refuses to eat or socialize. I fear that she is spiraling since her mother, Queen Lossien passed!”  The loss of her entire family in half a year had a terrible effect on the Princess.

The Chancellor strode in front of the maid, stopping before the rich mahogany doors.  Tapping gently, he called, “Your Highness, please come out for ‘Uncle’ Nimhir.  How will you ever rule if you do not eat? Besides, I have wonderful news for you.”

The door swung open revealing a grave young woman with gray eyes and raven hair that hung limp and disheveled.  Her gown was black as night, which heightened her pale features. Her beauty was something to which few could rival.  Her large gray eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips could capture many a brave knight. Slowly, Princess Nirnadel managed a forced smile for her favorite ‘Uncle’ and then stepped forward to give him a hug.  With teary eyes, she looked up at him and asked, “So, Uncle, what is the wonderful news?” she asked, sniffling, her eyes and nose red.

The Chancellor, observant and caring as usual toward the Princess decided to set aside his victory, “It is not that important.  What is important is that we spend some time together now.  Come, let us walk in the garden.”  So, the two, with the nursemaid in tow, walked to the Royal Gardens to talk about philosophy and science, one of Nirnadel’s favorite activities in happier times.  He genuinely adored her.  The King and his sons were often away and Queen Lossien was not known for her warmth.

The magnificent Royal Gardens had become slightly overgrown as they had not been tended since the death of Ostoher.  Some of the flowers had wilted and weeds now poked up through the fine grass.  Still, they provided the comforting familiarity that Nirnadel had grown up with. After several hours of intense conversation, the Princess smoothly changed the subject, “Uncle, the Kingdom is in ruins.  What can We do to help?”

Nimhir was taken aback; the Princess would never be expected to assist in any way until she took the throne.  “Your Highness, the best thing you could do for the Kingdom is to keep yourself healthy.  I will have a feast sent to your room and I expect that it will be entirely eaten. Do I make myself clear young lady?” He had often been much like a surrogate parent to her much like Anariel.  Such was the upbringing of royalty.

Nirnadel pondered a moment in silence.  She then recalled something that was important to her and her eyes lit up.  “Of course, dear uncle.  The plate will be clean, this We promise you.”  With a grin, she kissed Nimhir on the cheek and ran off.  The Chancellor mused with satisfaction that his charm had dispelled the Princess’ sadness.  He resolved to commission a tiara for the day in which she would be coronated.

Leave a Comment

The Houses of Healing – Ivanneth (September) 6^th, 1409

Firiel Halatani

Firiel rolled sluggishly out of bed.  She was still clothed in the tattered tunic and breeches that she had worn during the battle weeks ago.  Still dazed, she noticed several sheepish attendants standing nearby.  One woman stepped forward and spoke, “Lady, we’ve drawn a bath for you and laid out new clothes.”  Firiel blinked and then allowed herself to be led to the steaming tub.

As she entered the bathroom she noticed Valandil, already bathed and shaven, looking about with concern as the ward attendants scurried about the vastly overcrowded hospital.  She made eye contact with him briefly as she stepped to the tub.  No longer caring if he saw her or not, she dropped her towel and stepped in.  The hot water was invigorating and soaked into her every pore, releasing some of the horrors of the last four months.  She was tempted for a moment to just slide under the water and let go of all of the responsibilities that lay before her.  But that wouldn’t be fair.  She couldn’t do that to her loyal staff.  Her chief nurse, Kaile, a plump young woman with ginger hair, freckles and a girlish face, knelt down beside the tub.

“Firiel, the house is designed to hold a maximum of one hundred and fifty, the wards are already packing three times as many patients.  Conditions are awful: huge roaches scurry about and blood pools on the floor.  We are doing all that we can, but we are overwhelmed.  I am so thankful that you are back.”  The young lady was clearly overwhelmed, her blues eyes showing fear.

Firiel looked at her, seeming not to recognize her at first.  Kaile was very large prior to the war, a fan of sweet meats and pastries from Tharbad’s renown bakeries, but food was now in short supply, and the woman had lost almost half of her weight.  “Kaile…the King,” she said, trembling, forming ripples in the water.  “I couldn’t save him.  All of his sons are gone too.  The kingdom is lost.  It was…it was,” she began before bile formed in her stomach and she took short breaths to push the nausea down.

Kaile seemed not to hear and just continued on her rant.  “Moans and shrieks can be heard everywhere.  We cannot sleep.  And that mercenary that you brought back, he thinks that our furniture is his playground.  I saw him tossing a dagger into an elegant wooden table in the dining room.  Thank the Valar that he got restless and went out. I was going to say something, but he’s scary looking.”

Firiel cupped her hands and lifted the herbal water over her head and then let it pour onto her face.  The scent of lavender and roses filled her nostrils, and she began to feel a little like her old self again.  She could stay in this tub forever.  Would that be so bad?  It seemed like years since she had been the Lady of the House.  Reluctantly, she stepped out of the bath as Kaile handed her a dry towel.  She looked down the hall, but Valandil was gone.  It was time to resume her role, she thought to herself as she combed her short blonde hair.  She looked into the mirror and saw that her eyes were still sunken and her face still puffy.  She lost so much weight in the last four months.  Where had the vibrant beauty gone?  Did she die in the war too?  Who was this empty shell of a woman?  She then dressed in a plain brown robe, the attire of a healer, and left the room.

Firiel was totally unprepared for the den of misery that greeted her as she stepped out into the ward.  Patients lay in the hall, blocking the passageway.  The wars were over, but the battle was just beginning.  Regaining her composure, she flung on her brown cloak and knelt down at the first patient in the hall, calling to a young, female attendant, “Tithenel, I need hot water, two doses of Arlan leaf, and my sack.  Go quickly.”  The tiny woman nodded and rushed into the supply room.  Firiel immediately immersed herself in her work, tending to the patients one by one until the daylight had run out.  The attendants, covered in perspiration, smiled quietly to one another...The Healer had indeed returned.

By dusk, Firiel slumped against the corridor wall, exhausted.  She could barely feel her fingers and her legs and back ached.  But at least it wasn’t a tent on the hills of Tyrn Gorthad.  By the look of the House and the condition of the patients, things would get worse before they got better.  Several of the sick were showing signs of the plague: high fever; swollen glands; ravenous thirst.  This worried her: If the plague were to get loose in the city, thousands could die. It could spell the end for the entire Kingdom.  They would need to quarantine them quickly.  If she could only find the energy.

Just then, Kaile roused her, “Firiel, we’re nearly out of food.  The last shipment was commandeered by the Army. I’m afraid we won’t be able to feed everyone.”

Firiel just nodded and replied quietly, “Do what you can.  Feed the weakest first.  And we need to quarantine the sick.  I fear that it’s the plague.  Use your masks and leather suits and move them to the guest house.  The breeze there will do them good.”  The Healer knew her staff were very competent, but they couldn’t function well on their own and there were only six of them. They were completely overwhelmed. Still, she found some pride in the fact that they survived for four months.

Kaile and the others gathered the meager loaves of bread and pots of soup. Valandil lit a fire in the hearth to begin preparing the meal.  It was going to be a long, hungry night.  Just then, there was a knock at the large wooden door, the front entrance of the house. Firiel sighed.  More sick and wounded.  They were running out of space.  Kaile wrapped herself in a stained white cloak and then opened the door. There were two women standing there, one old and one young, both pulling a cart.  The younger one was tall and clad in a gray dress with a green cloak.  Her eyes were iron gray and her raven hair was tied in a ponytail.  She stepped inside and spoke, “We are the humble daughter of a food merchant who wishes to donate meals for the sick and injured.  Please accept our gift and our help.”  The girl smiled, ruby lips in a pale face, but seemed distracted, her eyes darting back and forth as if she were looking for something.

Firiel was stunned at first.  It seemed too good to be true.  She blinked a few times and then nodded.  She could not afford to turn this down as suspicious as it was.  She rose and motioned for the six nurses and they all ran outside to bring in the cart.  It was loaded with game, loaves of bread, meats, and cheeses.  The aroma was so wonderful that Firiel nearly passed out. The two visitors immediately began handing out plates and cups to staff and patient alike.  Valandil jumped in to help and soon all were well fed.  Then, the girl brought out pastries and pies for dessert and offered them up.  Valandil inhaled a custard tart and Firiel devoured a slice of pumpkin pie.  Only Kaile refused.  “I’ve lost a lot of weight and I like it.  I think I’ll stop at the three slices of roast beef.”  She put her fingers to her lips and kissed them. “Oh, the hot sauce.  I could marry the hot sauce.”

When the unexpected feast had been consumed, Firiel looked over to the young woman, who seemed to be in charge, despite her youth.  “I cannot thank you enough,” she said, putting her hands over her heart.  “This comes at a time where I was full of despair, thinking we would all perish from hunger.”  Firiel, finding new strength, continued, “We are most grateful for your timely charity. May I ask who your family is so that we may send a token of thanks?”

The young woman suddenly appeared nervous and avoided Firiel’s gaze, her earlier smile gone.  She tilted her chin up and placed her finger on her cheek, replying in a cautious voice as if thinking about her answer, “We are...  Nel, and this is our companion...  Anna.  Our family desires no token of gratitude.  The knowledge of our having made a difference is enough.”  With that the young woman rose and put on her coat. Turning to the crowd she spoke again, “We must return home now before nightfall, but please expect us again in the future...  good evening.”

Then, just as suddenly as they had come, they departed.  Kaile and the rest of the staff murmured quietly in curiosity, venturing several guesses about the identity of the pair.  Valandil was merely happy to have a full stomach. He had lost nearly twenty pounds since the war and was beginning to look gaunt.  Firiel was, however, still worried.  Always realistic, she knew that this source of food was unreliable and that only cold, hard money would ensure a steady stream of supplies.

The Sign of the Orc’s Head

Mercatur

For Mercatur, The House of Healing was downright boring.  Too many sick people and that was just depressing. He had drummed his fingers on the table a thousand times.  The mercenary stood up and declared, “I’m restless.  I’m going out.”  With that he slung his axe and left the house.  Mercatur felt lost during peacetime, it made him edgy and irritable. He had spent the morning braiding his curly brown hair and beard to appear even more barbaric.  Now he was in a bad mood, and someone was going to pay for it.

Wandering the streets of Tharbad, he was accosted by a vile stench floating on the easterly wind.  He quickly recalled an old Rhudauran saying, “When the smell is really bad, there’s trouble to be had.”  Grinning broadly, he turned in that direction.  Soon, he found himself on the docks.  Fishing boats had been coming in all morning and some of the catch had begun to spoil.  Mercatur spied a tavern nearby, packed with sailors.  The weathered wooden sign read, ‘Sign of the Orc’s Head’.  Undoing the leather retaining thongs on his scabbards he said, “This is the place for me.”

He was rewarded with loud yelling and off key, drunken singing.  There was a card game unfolding at a large circular table with an empty seat.  He took it, tipping away a pool of ale and vomit that sat in the chair from its previous occupant.  He gave the players a broad grin.  “My kind of place.  What’s the game?”

A Gondorian sailor began shuffling the cards.  “It’s bones,” he said in a distinct Osgiliath accent.  “I hope you brought money to lose.”

Mercatur dug around in his pouch.  The money that he had pilfered over four months was still there, including the coppers and silvers that he purloined from that stupid boy who tried to rob them.  “Oh, I got coin.  Lot of dead orcs to take from.”

“Dead orcs,” a merchant said.  “You mean to tell me that you come from the war?”

“Yup.  Fought every damn day.  Barely escaped with my life when that damn troll attacked.”

The sailor dealt the cards and Mercatur picked up his hand.  What a load of crap.  The dealer sucked.  Something had to be done.

“Bullshit,” a dock hand said.  “You look more a bandit than any soldier.”

“Who said I was a soldier, you idiot,” Mercatur snarled.  “I’m a damn mercenary.  I earn my living killing dolts like you.”  Now was his chance.  He slid a card from his sleeve and was going to place it in his hand when the sailor grabbed him by the arm.  He couldn’t believe he got caught.  He never got caught.  Well, except for that one time…and there was this other time.

“Cheater!  He’s a cheater!” the sailor yelled and then all hell broke loose.  The sailor took a swing at Mercatur, but he pushed the merchant in front and the sailor’s fist connected with the merchant’s nose.  The merchant went down like a sack of potatoes and the mercenary picked up a bag of coins and smashed into the face of the dock hand.  He then grabbed the sailor and flung him up on the bar, face down.  They both looked at a row of drinks, mugs and cups on the wooden surface.

“Say it! The King of Gondor is a custard pastry and your mother is a hamster!” Mercatur yelled as he ran the Gondorian sailor’s head through the bottles and mugs, shattering glass and throwing beer and ale everywhere.  The sailor fell over with a thud, blood running down his forehead.  Several other men lay unconscious nearby in pools of spilt drinks.  The more cautious patrons hid behind the bar and under tables. When the dust had settled, Mercatur looked at the damage he had wrought and scratched his bearded chin.  He stooped over the prone sailor and pulled out a wallet which he threw at the obese proprietress, Bereth the Fat.  As the coins struck her head, he laughed out loud, “For your trouble.”  With that he took his ‘winnings’ and left.  Enough fun for one night he thought.  But then, he felt a certain itch.  It had been four months.  Surely there was a brothel open somewhere in this wretched city.  He saw two possible establishments on the way here, Faelivrin’s Place and Velima’s Ambrosia.  Both stank of the sea.  Bah, better to walk a bit and hit Artan’s House and Baths of Delight.  It just sounded better, and he could wash off the stench of vomit and ale.  And the girls even washed you off.  After all, why did he come to Cardolan?  Drink, fight and wench.  What more was there in life?

The Bar Aran, the King’s House

Princess Nirnadel

Puffing heavily, Anariel ran to keep up with the princess as she skipped down the corridor to her chamber.  “Your Highness, I cannot believe you talked me into helping you...  Oh, my...  Nimhir will be furious...  You could catch a cold...  We could have been robbed...” Anariel wailed pitifully, shaking her hands at the young woman.

Turning suddenly, the still smiling Nirnadel raised her finger, silencing the maidservant, “We were not robbed, We did not catch a cold, and Nimhir will never know because we will not tell him,” she said confidently, pointing back and forth between them.

Anariel “Hrmpf’d” quietly to herself, but noticed Nirnadel munching a biscuit as she skipped along.  This is the most life the princess had shown in months.  Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

The Bar Aran

Captain Baranor

In front of the delicately carved doors to Nirnadel’s chambers, two Guardsmen sat playing cards.  These men were part of the Tirrim Aran, the Royal Body Guard and had been left behind to watch the Princess during the war.  Only eight were left out of what had once been a proud force to be reckoned with. Along with the highly touted regiment called the Raggers they were the most feared warriors in the land.  The eight knights had become despondent over news of the destruction of their unit and the death of their King.  Feeling that they had been left behind to guard an insignificant little brat while their brothers died as warriors added to the already low morale of the guards.  Unfortunately, they had not yet realized that they had been spared for another purpose.

The captain scooped up his cards and snorted.  “Just what are we going to do with the King dead?  And all of his sons?  All we’re left with is that shrew of a girl.  How are we going to get through this?”

The other poked his finger at the first.  “Baranor, I’m telling you that we’re screwed.  I’ll give you three to one that we don’t make it a year from now.”

Baranor threw his hands up in frustration.  “Don’t say that.  I’ve been here too long to do something new.  Besides, I guess I’m in charge of this circus now.  I’d give a month’s pay if Captain Calarion would return.  I’d step aside in a heartbeat.”  His promotion from lieutenant by Chancellor Nimhir was most unwelcome.  The loss of so many brothers left a huge hole in their world.  And their charge didn’t make it any easier.

Nirnadel stood over the two guards for several moments before they noticed. When they realized who she was they dropped their cards clumsily and leapt up to attention.  The other Guard, Sergeant Cedhron, blurted out, “Your Highness, forgive us...we did not see you...er...how did you get out of your room, Your Highness?”

Nirnadel gave her meanest look with a scowl, “Baranor, you and your men have grown soft.  You call yourselves Royal Body Guards of the Tirrim Aran?  My father would laugh.” With that she kicked over their cards, entered her chamber, and slammed the door behind her.  She stood next to the door for a moment to listen to the quiet cursing of the guards.  They didn’t hide the fact that they disliked her and she didn’t hide the fact that she enjoyed tormenting them.  She snickered to herself and walked over to the empty pewter platters that held food only a few hours ago.  “Uncle will be so pleased,” she said out loud as she leapt into bed.

The Courthouse

Eärdil

As Minister of Justice, Eärdil’s job was becoming increasingly unmanageable as the influx of refugees grew daily.  His staff of twenty constables, while adequate prior to the war, was now in desperate straits.  Petty theft and minor property damage had now become murder, smuggling, slavery, and banditry in three short months.  Vicious crimes were now becoming a daily occurrence.  Even word of slavery began to reach his ears.  Eärdil was furious to hear rumors that some of his staff had begun to accept bribes.  If so, he thought, they would wish they had never been born.  On the streets, however, fear gripped the city.  The face of Tharbad was changing.

The law needs to be enforced if the city is to survive, reasoned Eärdil, who was a tall, pure blooded Dúnadan.  Clean shaven with dark brown hair, he struck the image of the Númenórean lords of old.  His pedigree went back to a younger brother of King Tarandil, the warrior poet king of Cardolan who brought the realm to its height of power in the 1100s. Tarandil’s land and trade reforms brought food, wool and silver into the kingdom, and the sea and land routes were bustling with goods from Arthedain, Rhudaur and even Gondor.  The constant wars since with Arthedain, Rhudaur and now Angmar had drained the land and those days of plenty were long gone.

Eärdil had been the King’s Minister for sixteen years and had risen to this rank through unfailing and incorruptible service.  He had expected no less from his constables for so long. Sitting behind his massive teak desk, he reviewed yet another crime report.  This one was concerning a food riot in the shanty town.  Three constables arrived at the scene of the riot and elected not to intervene.  At first Eärdil was outraged and moved to summon the three constables, but he then realized that his men were ill‑equipped and badly outnumbered.  They would just have been injured or worse, and Eärdil could not afford to lose even a single man.  Minastan, the Mayor, promised Eärdil more men, but that was a month ago and no one had yet arrived.  Eärdil refused to deputize any citizens as he did not want his force diluted by amateurs. Pondering the problem, Eärdil realized four things: this year’s crop had been decimated by the war, food prices were skyrocketing, winter was just around the corner, and that more riots were inevitable.

The Houses of Healing – Narbeleth (October) 12^th, 1409.

Firiel

When dawn broke, new patients were huddled at the entrance of the Houses of Healing.  Firiel rushed to open the door and Kaile and Valandil carried in the sick.  Conversing with some of the patients in the hall, Firiel developed a worried expression.  She pulled Kaile aside and said softly, “It’s the plague, I’m sure of it.” Kaile nodded in understanding, saying nothing.  But her expression was one of fear.  Firiel continued, “Tell no one yet or there will be a panic.  Move them to the quarantine ward.  Take these bags and distribute the medicine.  It’ll slow the progress of the disease.  It’s all we can do for now.”  The Healer took a dozen silk bags from her cabinet and handed them to Kaile.  The young nurse rushed quickly to the wards to administer the medicine.

Firiel had noticed that the supplies in the healing cabinet were getting very low.  Journeying to the countryside to gather herbs and medicines was out of the question with the Kingdom in unrest.  With the absence of a patrol outside of the city, wolves and bandits roamed free over the hills.  Besides, Firiel could never leave her patients long enough to make the search worthwhile.  She would have to go to the Alchemist for supplies.  Right now, gold was cheaper than time.

Valandil approached, his face full of concern.  “Firiel, you need rest.  You’ve not slept in two days.  Except for rare visits by the two women, you don’t eat.  When were they last here?  Three days ago, I think.  How will you be a healer if you become a patient?”

Eyes bleary and weak from fatigue and hunger, Firiel nodded slowly, “Yes, but I have one more thing to do.  I must go to the Alchemist.”  She was gaunt and her eyes sunken.  She knew that it pained Valandil to see her in this state.  And she knew that he had become fond of her since they met in the battle of Tyrn Gorthad.  Otherwise, he would have left and returned to his home in Girithlin.  There was nothing she could do about it now.  It was of no use to think of things that were not healing the sick.

Firiel retrieved two large sacks of gold coins from her drawer and slung them over her shoulder.  Without another thought she walked out of the house and on to the Rath Ohtari, or Warrior’s road.  Valandil moved to join her, but she turned back and said, “No, I’ll be right back. Wait here.”  With that she continued down the road.  Valandil said nothing and returned to his room to brood.

The Alchemist’s establishment was clear across the south side of town heading east.  It was still morning, and traffic slowed movement on the road to a crawl with pedestrians and wagons.  Patiently, Firiel carried the heavy sacks through the street.  After half an hour of slow walking with the heavy coins, she began to tire quickly.  She sat down on a sidewalk and set her sacks beside her.  She thought to herself, “I only need a minute to rest.  I’ll be there shortly.”  Suddenly someone grabbed her by the hair.

The Houses of Healing

Valandil

At the Houses of Healing, Kaile found Valandil brooding over a cup of soup in the kitchen.  He was standing by the dining table, wearing a soft robe, but had his weapon tucked in his belt.  Valandil was a muscular warrior, and she found him quite attractive.  The ginger-haired girl sidled up to him and placing her pudgy hand on his shoulder she asked in a soft voice, “What’s wrong Valandil?”

The tall soldier took a sip from his cup and then set it down, “It’s Firiel...  I’m worried. She doesn’t sleep or eat.  Her whole life is wrapped up in the House of Healing.”

Kaile nodded.  “I’m worried too.  She gave me a job when I had nothing and now we can’t help her.”  The young attendant poured herself a cup of the hot soup.  “Well, if one good thing came from all of this, it’s that I’ve lost more weight.  It feels good.”  She drank the soup with cautious sips.  “But, yes, I do worry about our Healer.”

Valandil replied blankly, “She’s a remarkable woman.”

Kaile offered Valandil a chair which he accepted. Sitting down, he drank the rest of the soup in his cup.  Slowly, she moved around behind Valandil and began massaging his neck.  He inhaled the sweet perfume she had worn for the occasion. Kaile looked around a few times and then asked, “By the way, where is Firiel?” hoping she would be away on the ward for a while.  She began to get ideas.

Valandil shrugged, “She went to the Alchemist’s to buy supplies.  She said she’d be right back.”

Kaile stepped back as if struck and her mouth fell open.  She blinked and then screamed, “You… you let her go alone?  You idiot, she’ll never make it!”  Kaile shoved Valandil out of the way and frantically searched for a kitchen knife.  She seized a meat cleaver from a drawer and then bolted for the door.  Confused, Valandil sprinted after her.  Unbeknownst to Valandil, in his absence the streets of Tharbad had become a dangerous place.  “Follow me!” she shouted and ran down the street as fast as her feet could carry her.

The Streets of Tharbad

Firiel

A stocky Dunnish thug with a scraggly beard hauled Firiel up by her golden hair while a dirty teen scooped up the sacks of gold.  Firiel screamed, “Let me go!  Help!”  She was awestruck that someone would attack her in the middle of the street in broad daylight.  What was gong on?  She flailed and kicked, but the thug gripped her tightly around the neck with his filthy hands.

“No one’s going to help you missy.  The constables are in our pocket.” Drawing his hand axe, he looked around and continued, yelling, “and innocent bystanders don’t want to get hurt!” He was right.  Passersby were giving them a wide berth, just going about their business.  Even a City Constable stood by and watched helplessly.

Firiel shrieked, “You cowards!  What’s happened to our city?  Help me!”

The thug chuckled evilly and dragged the screaming Healer around a corner. In a gruff voice he told the teen, “Grath, take the sacks away.  I’ll rejoin you later.”  The dirty boy stood motionless for a moment.  Striking the kid on the head the thug yelled, “I said go you punk, or I’ll beat you senseless!”  With that, Grath ran off with the gold flinging two coins to the Constable as he passed.

Firiel cried out, “No!  That money is to help the sick.  Please!”

The thug threw her against the wall and her head slammed into brick.  She staggered under the impact.  Again, he chuckled, “Don’t worry, we’ll put it to good use.”  With that he unbuckled his belt.

Firiel’s vision was blurry and she felt nauseous.  She tried to raise a hand, but darkness began to fill her sight. She felt her skirt being pulled down, but she could barely speak.

The Streets of Tharbad

Valandil

They ran down the crowded street until they saw a commotion at an intersection.  Near panic, Kaile began grabbing people at random and asking if they had seen the Healer. None responded positively until she spotted a constable waving people on past a side street.  Valandil ran behind her as she forcefully grabbed the constable, “Have you seen a blonde woman with two sacks on this street?”  The constable looked about and then pointed around the corner.  Valandil got a sick feeling in his stomach and sprinted behind Kaile in that direction. The constable then slipped into the crowd and disappeared.

Kaile let out a terrible yell when she saw Firiel struggling with the Dunnish thug.  The man turned as she rushed at him and struck her full in the face with his gloved fist.  Dropping her cleaver, Kaile collapsed to the ground, holding her nose.

Snickering, the thug turned back to Firiel and said, “Looks like I’ll have seconds today.”  He moved towards the Healer again but was interrupted by another voice.  He turned to see Valandil standing there, broadsword drawn.  The thug laughed again, “Boy, you’d better leave now while you still have your head ‘cause I’ll cut it off when I’m done with you.”

The soldier looked down to see Firiel bare from the waist down and his throat tightened.  Rage filled his heart and he saw red.  Without responding, Valandil leapt forward with an overhead strike.  The thug drew his cutlass and stepped back parrying. Valandil continued the assault driving the thug back to the wall.  Thrusting forward, he sliced the thug across the nose.

The thug snarled and hollered, “You worthless rat, I’ll make you eat your bowels!”  With that, Valandil beat his blade downward and with his upstroke slashed the man deep in his side.  The thug gurgled blood and fell against the wall.  Valandil then pierced him through the heart.  He leaned forward and whispered into the thug’s ear as he slumped over.  “I’ve killed three score orcs on Tyrn Gorthad.  The rats will have their way with you.”  The thug’s eyes showed fear, and he tried to speak, but only gurgled blood as his eyes rolled back.

Kaile, who had begun to stir, wiped the blood from her nose and mouth. She saw the thug dying on the ground and rage took her.  She leapt upon his broken body and began tearing at his face with her nails. Valandil ran to Firiel.

She grabbed him, saying weakly, “The gold...  you must get the gold...” and pointed in the direction that Grath had run.  “The constable…he just stood there and took money!”  Valandil hesitated, not wanting to leave the women alone, but Firiel’s insistence forced him on.

Kaile rushed over, her face and hands covered in blood.  She took a quick look at Firiel and then covered her.  She looked at Valandil and shook her head. “It’s fine.  He didn’t…”

The soldier nodded, unsure if he felt horror or relief.  He rose and as he sprinted down the alley he could hear Firiel sobbing, “it’s all my fault...”

Valandil bashed in doors and threw trash cans over in his rage as he searched for the boy, but after fifteen minutes he realized the gold would never be seen again.  Three hundred gold crowns were now in the hands of thieves and scum, never to be spent on medicine.  Bellowing in anger Valandil sunk his bloodied blade into a wooden fence.  With a push he yanked the sword out and returned to the alley.  Kaile sat there cradling Firiel who was now unconscious.

Valandil sat next to the broken corpse and said in a monotone, “I couldn’t find him.”

Kaile turned on him, her mouth a snarl and her eyes full of rage. “This is all your fault!  This never would have happened if you had gone with her!  You bastard!”

Guilt wracked Valandil, thinking her to be right.  “I…I didn’t know,” he pleaded.

Kaile rose and with great difficulty slung Firiel over her shoulder. Seething, she spat at Valandil.  “We’re going home.  You’re no longer welcome.”  With that she began carrying Firiel back to the Houses as she had with many patients before.

Valandil sat unmoving for some time before anyone approached him.  A large figure clad in chainmail squatted on the other side of the corpse.  “Nice work, soldier boy,” the figure said.  It was Mercatur.  The mercenary held up the dead thug.  Examining the scratch wounds on the body and the face he commented, “Maybe you had a little help.”

Valandil replied quietly in a dead monotone, “He was already dead.”

Mercatur threw the body back down, “Oh, well my original comment stands then.”

Suddenly, the soldier stood up and shouted, “This is an outrage.  A crime like this committed in broad daylight. I’m going to the Minister himself!” With that, Valandil stormed out of the alley.  Mercatur drew his axe and picked up the corpse by its hair.  Valandil turned.  “What are you doing?”

The mercenary severed the thug’s head with one stroke and commented, “Hey, there might be a reward you know.  They can add it to the thirteen silver they owe me.  You’ll thank me later.”

Valandil grunted in disgust and pressed on to the Tharbad Court and Prison.

The City Jail

The city jailer, Mardil, sat at his small desk picking his nose.  He was a man of little learning and intellect, but he was immensely strong as well as immensely fat.  A veteran of the wars against Arthedain, it was said he threw a horse into the charge of Arthedan spearmen saving his commander.  As a reward, he was given a post in the city with an increase in pay.  It was the commander’s favorite horse, and despite being grateful he wanted Mardil as far away as possible in the future.  The jail itself was rapidly becoming full with many of the once empty cells now packed with three to four occupants apiece.  The recently, relatively peaceful prison was currently a den of noise, hollering, yelling, banging, and other ghastly sounds echoing down the halls. Fortunately, Mardil’s hearing was also lacking, and he was generally unbothered by the din.

The massive jailer’s attention was currently drawn to two men being escorted to his desk by a guard.  Mardil twirled the hair of his graying beard and without looking up, asked blandly, “What do you men want?”

Valandil blurted out, “We want to see the Minister of Justice... there’s just been an assault and robbery!”

The rotund man, looking disinterested, replied, “So.”

Valandil’s face began to redden.  He had not calmed down since the alley.  “What do you mean, so?  A woman was just assaulted and robbed on the street in the middle of the day in front of a crowd of people and you just say, ‘so’...  And another thing, your constable just stood around and did nothing, even taking money!  Look you... I want to see the Minister, now!"

Mardil scratched his bald head and rummaged around in his desk drawer for half a minute while Valandil stood there fuming.  Several roaches scampered out of the drawer before he found what he was looking for.  He pulled a sheet of paper out and began writing with a quill.  “Ok, Mr. Hothead, give me your statement.”

Valandil grimaced and took a step forward.  This was unacceptable.  “I don’t want to give you my statement, I want to talk to the Minister.”

Mardil sighed and rolled his eyes.  “The Minister is not here.  He’ll get your statement tomorrow.”

Valandil was about to say something else when Mercatur pulled him back. “I’ll handle this,” he said with a mischievous grin.  The armored mercenary moved up to the desk and very politely stated, “My friend wants to see the Minister.  Maybe you can tell us where he is?”

Mardil shook his head without even bothering to look up.  “Nope.  You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.”

With a mighty stroke, Mercatur hewed the desk in two with his axe and Mardil fell sprawling to the floor, ink spilling all over him.  The growling mercenary stood over the jailer with his foot on the man’s face.  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear...”

The Courthouse

A constable at the courthouse approached the two men and declared, “the Minister will see you now.”  The constable had his hands on his hips and glared at the men. Word got around fast.

Rising, Valandil shook his head.  “Mercenary, I don’t understand.  How can you go around cutting and smashing everything in sight? You just can’t do these sorts of things.”

Mercatur laughed cynically as he walked beside Valandil. “It gets results doesn’t it...  I mean, aren’t we walking in to see the Minister?”

Valandil shrugged and grunted.  “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a sigh.  Tharbad had changed since they left for the war and not for the better.

Mercatur patted him on the back.  “You see, I grew up in Rhudaur, which as you well know, is nothing but a den of thieves, murderers, and vile creatures.  Fine words and written parchment were not things that could keep you alive there.”  As he showed Valandil his axe, he said with conviction, “this gets results.”

Valandil looked at the mercenary sideways. “Rhudaur, huh?  Yeah, you don’t survive there unless you’re tough.”  He had never been there, but the stories of death and destruction were common knowledge in the north.

The constable opened the door and introduced the two to Eärdil, the Minister.  He was dressed not in the stately gray and gold trimmed robes of office, but in a chainmail shirt more suited to a patrolman.  Eärdil was slightly annoyed at his jailer for sending these two directly to him.  He looked up and made eye contact with Valandil.  “My jailer neglected to inform me of the circumstances of your visit.  I hope you’re not just here to whine.  I have a lot on my plate,” he said tersely.

Valandil thought that the Minister looked very ragged. He approached and bowed mustering his most professional demeanor.  “Sir, I know this is an unexpected intrusion, but something terrible has transpired. Please allow me to tell my story.”

Eärdil squinted his eyes and then rubbed them. He nodded with a pained sigh. “Very well, but what are your names first.”

The soldier spoke, “I am Valandil, a sergeant in the Royal Army.  This is Mercatur, a mercenary.  We recently returned from the war.  We’re survivors of the massacre on Tyrn Gorthad.”

Eärdil’s face seemed to soften at the news that they were with the King’s Army and had survived.  He listened patiently to Valandil’s tale.  The Minister began to shake as the story got to the thug who assaulted Firiel.  “Though I am often caught up in the procedure of law, I truly want to help people and protect the public,” he told the two.    When Valandil spoke of the constable who had ignored Firiel’s cries for help and accepted gold, Eärdil lost control.  The Minister shot up from his chair and glowered.  “This cannot be borne!  Come with me,” he ordered them.  He opened the door and shouted to a constable.  “Taerdor, gather the constables in the training yard.  I have some words that need to be said.”

Twenty minutes later all twenty constables were assembled in the yard.  Eärdil strode in front of them and looked them up and down, his jaw set.  He took a deep breath.  “A decade and a half of law enforcement ethics and principles are rapidly coming apart for me.  I think back on my studies in Criminal Justice at the University, which revolved around Ranek, the Minister back in Twelve Seventeen.  In desperation, he hired undisciplined deputies, which included a powerful brute named Dardan of Tyrn Gorthad.  During that year, Dardan led a force, which terrorized criminals and exercised no mercy.  By Yüle of that year, crime was only a minor problem,” he said and the constables looked at him strangely for he was a man of few words.

Eärdil continued, “I shudder as I remember both the lessons and the paintings of Dardan, which hang in Cardolan’s esteemed Military Academy.  Can I allow myself to throw away the lifetime of discipline and enlightenment which I stand for?”  Eärdil turned and walked up to Valandil.  “Who is it?  Who is the one who took bribes and allowed a woman to be assaulted?” he asked quietly.

“Front row.  Third from the left,” the soldier answered, not wanting to point, but he could tell that the constable was nervous, sweat running down his face.

Eärdil turned back to the team.  “Attention constables!” he called and the group stood ramrod straight, their faces impassive with the exception of one.  The Minister strode up to the constable whom Valandil had pointed out and with one brutal stroke of his broadsword clove the man’s head in two.

Horrified gasps issued from the gathered constables. Before anyone could speak, Eärdil held his bloody sword high and shouted, “This man failed in his duty to the citizens of Tharbad!  His transgression was unforgivable!  He stood by and ignored a woman attacked in the street while accepting gold from thieves. This will be the result of all future actions of a similar nature.  Dismissed!” With that he wiped his blade on a cloth and stormed out of the courthouse.

Valandil stood, awestruck.  What did he just witness?  Sure, he was glad the man who ignored Firiel’s plight was dealt justice, but this?

Mercatur elbowed him in the ribs.  “I like this guy already.  He gets shit done.”

Chapter End Notes

We're looking at how Firiel, Valandil and Mercatur deal with the aftermath of the war and the new battle against chaos, disease and famine.

Leave a Comment

The Office of the Minister of the King’s Justice – Narbeleth (October) 14^th, 1409

Valandil

Valandil and Mercatur sat quietly in the Minister's office waiting for him to return.  The room was immaculate.  A huge teak desk dominated the area, flanked by two large file cabinets.  Awards and certificates adorned the walls along with Eärdil's diploma in Criminal Justice.  Behind the desk were paintings of the Late King and Nimhir, the Chancellor.  Valandil couldn't help but notice how lifelike the painting of Ostoher was from what he saw of the man in the war.  For a moment, he could still see the King issuing the orders to retreat to Tyrn Gorthad.  They would be able to dig entrenchments and fortify their position beyond the reach of Rogrog.  That didn't work out the way they thought it would.

The mercenary broke the silence first. "You know, this Minister's not half bad.  I thought he was a softie at first...you know, one of those moral types, but what he did was right on track.  Maybe he can give me the thirteen silver coins Cardolan owes me?"

Valandil blanched, his eyes narrowing and his mouth open. "I can't believe you said that!  That was cold-blooded murder.  We have rules which must be followed if our Kingdom is to survive.  Otherwise we're no better than barbarians."

Mercatur shot right back, pointing his finger at the soldier.  "Hey, kiddo... This was the scum who stood and watched blondie get whacked.  So don't use your high and mighty crap with me."

Valandil was about to say something else when the door opened.  Eärdil entered, dressed now in his gray robes of state.  The Minister's jet black hair, which was just graying at the temples, was slicked back.  He was all professionalism today.

Eärdil sat and then steepled his hands in front of his chin.  "Gentlemen, these are desperate times, and I have a proposal for you.  I have had a recent change of heart regarding my policy of utilizing strangers.  The Mayor has not given me the extra manpower, which was promised and our situation is growing more serious by the day.  Therefore, I am looking for a small group of quick‑witted outsiders to help me track down the members of a smuggling ring which has been going on for months, perhaps years.  At first it was mainly illegal herbs: Gort, Kirtir, Feduilas, the usual stuff.  Now, with the food shortage, they're smuggling in certain hard to get foods, and getting fantastic prices.  I strongly suspect that they had a hand in the attack on your friend. I want this ring broken!" he declared with a fist pound on his desk.

Valandil nodded and the Minister continued.  "I want transients for two reasons: first, since we get a lot of people moving through Tharbad, the criminals won't suspect you; second, once they are caught, you will be gone, and there is little chance that there will be any retribution against you.  I will pay you each one hundred gold crowns if you can provide me with concrete information about who's bringing the stuff in and how, who is distributing it, and if you will testify in Cardolan court.  Somebody is getting a lot of Gort to the dealers in the Thieves Quarter; that's who I want, though I suppose you'll have to start by going through them.  I am not concerned with the small‑time people.  The food is somehow bought by the more wealthy citizens more directly, and I haven't been able to determine from whom.  You two have done a good job so far.  Can you help us?"

Without a second though, Mercatur stood up. "Fine, chiefee. I'm in, but you owe me an additional thirteen silver coins for services rendered during the war."

Eärdil smiled wanly, reached into his pockets and pulled forth two gold coins.  He flicked them at Mercatur who caught them deftly.  "Keep the change," Eärdil commented.  Mercatur smiled, pocketing the gold.

Valandil sighed in resignation.  He needed to do something.  "Where do we start?"

Eärdil filled them in on the details and bid them good luck.

After departing the Minister's Office, Valandil trudged along dejectedly while Mercatur read the scroll that the Minister had given them.  "Hey, we're granted immunity from prosecution.  Well... provided we don't kill any innocent bystanders.  Hmmm, some suspects... Anvelig the Chandler... Liam the Grocer... Hoegwar... Let's check it out," Mercatur called out excitedly, the smell of money and fighting growing by the minute.

Valandil grunted weakly and Mercatur patted his companion on the shoulder.  "Come on, you could give your share to Blondie.  Maybe she could get some herbs with it."

Valandil stopped. It was as if he were hit with lightning.  "You're right!"  The sergeant had been wrestling with his own guilt and self-doubt since the war, but now this gave him some purpose.  Maybe he could redeem himself for his lost men, the lost gold, and for Firiel.

Traveling to the North Bank of the city, they began to stake out the establishment of Liam the Grocer.  The man was a tall, blonde Northman, clean-shaven and well dressed.  Business was booming for Liam as Valandil and Mercatur observed with people coming and going constantly.  Soon, day gave way to night and still patrons were entering the grocery.  For a change of scenery, Mercatur decided to go around to the back and observe, still within eyesight of his companion.  He snuck down the back alley and situated himself between two overflowing garbage cans.  Pulling his cloak over his head he quietly watched for signs of movement.  He was not disappointed.

Shortly before midnight, a gang of youths approached the back door to the grocery. They knocked on the door in a strange pattern and soon it was opened by a short boy in tattered clothing.  The leader of the gang spoke softly, "Michl, we need another sack."

Michl replied snidely, "so, where's your cash, Brogas?"

The leader snorted and passed Michl a sack of coins.  The boy traded it for a green pouch and then shut the door.  The six youths chuckled gleefully and headed back down the alley. Each boy reached inside the pouch and took a sample of the drug Michl had given them.

"Leave some for sale!" Brogas scolded his comrades as he pushed the younger boy against the wall.  With their backs turned toward the door, the gang didn't notice the dark shape emerge from behind the pile of trash near the grocery.

Mercatur snuck forward, crossbow in one hand, axe in the other. "Six to one... I know it's not fair to them, but who said I was fair..."

Some time later, Valandil was beginning to drift off to sleep when Mercatur returned and roused him.  The mercenary placed a bloody green pouch in his hand.  Valandil's gave him a confused expression, one eye narrowed.

Mercatur gave him a big, toothy smile, showing a few gold teeth.  "Some kids were doing illegal herbs behind the grocery.  I told them about the error of their ways and they graciously gave me the pouch, promising never to break the law again.  You know, I kinda like being a lawman.  Yeah, law man. I like the sound of that."

Valandil was too tired to inquire further, merely imagining what the mercenary had done to those smugglers.  He opened the pouch and examined the numerous leaves, none of which he recognized.  Mercatur described the scene in which Michl traded money for herbs and then continued to tell Valandil about each herb and its effects.

"I think we have something here.  Let's take them in at sunrise," stated Valandil authoritatively.

Mercatur held him back.  "Wait a minute friend, these guys are just small fry.  They've got to be getting their stuff from somewhere.  I say we hang on a bit and keep watching.  Maybe we can bag the whole lot.  You see what I'm saying?"

The light came on in Valandil's eyes. "We're going to get these scumbags, Mercatur. I can feel it."

Several days of tedious surveillance passed while the pair scouted out the north side of town.  One cold afternoon a riot broke out in the shantytown outside the North Gate.  Garrison troops were dispatched to hold the gate, and the sounds of anger grew louder. The troops blocked the gate and eventually, the anger died away as the rioters dispersed after an hour and a tense silence filled the void.  Leaving Mercatur to watch the Greengrocer, Valandil went north to find out what was going on.  Soldiers were reopening the gate as the riot had been over now for about ten minutes.

Seeing Valandil passing through the gate the Gate Sergeant called out, "Hey, you don't want to go out there just yet.  That bastard Lamril is still lurking around.  He'll be the death of this city yet."

Valandil looked back and replied, "Thanks sergeant, but I'll take my chances."  He showed his badge of rank in the Royal Army.  The sergeant nodded and waved and went back to his duties.

Just outside the North Gate, Valandil entered the Trader's Bazaar.  The area was now occupied by a platoon of army troops outfitted in chainmail armor and carrying short swords, called ekets.  Merchants could be heard wailing over their damaged booths and goods.  Continuing along the North Road, Valandil noticed a man lying in the mud.  The poor man was covered in blood, which had soaked through his gaudy clothes.  Valandil rushed over there and immediately inspected the man's wounds.  He was still breathing but had a deep gash on his head.  Pouring some water on the man's face revived him somewhat.  His eyes blinked and tried to focus.  "Uggh, where am I?" the man groaned.

Valandil gave the man his canteen, which he took and drained completely. "You've been injured in a riot. I'm going to take you to a healer."

The man smiled weakly. "I thank you, good stranger.  My name is Haedoriel the Bard..." At this, Haedoriel lapsed into delirium, mumbling something about Gil‑Galad, the Elven King of old.

The Bar Aran

Chancellor Nimhir

The Chancellor paced about, punching his open hand with a fist. "Blast, another riot! Captain Guilrod, what is being done about this?  I thought you had the guard doubled. What is Eärdil doing?  All he does is complain that he does not have enough men," Nimhir stormed, his eyes darting back and forth at the gathered officers.  He turned to Guilrod and fixed his gaze.

Guilrod turned gray and pinched up his face.  "Your Grace, the guard is undermanned and the number of refugees has increased tenfold.  We just can't keep up."  Guilrod had been friends with Eärdil for many years and felt the need to stick up for his comrade.  And the fact that it was the truth made it easier.

Nimhir shot the captain a stern glare.  "Excuses... all I hear are excuses!  I'll bet it was that damn Lamril again... stirring up trouble.  This is just the kind of thing that Girithlin needs.  Call the council together.  We need to do something about this now."  He then turned back to the arched bay window with iron grilles and drummed his fingers on his chin.  He was honestly quite lost.  A military solution might very well be necessary and he was woefully ill equipped to address that and it worried him to no end.

The captain bowed stiffly and withdrew.

Now alone, the Chancellor raged inside.  "I wouldn't be surprised if Girithlin had some hand in all of this.  Riots only serve to undermine me and strengthen his position," Nimhir mused angrily.  He looked over to the portrait of King Ostoher.  "I wish you were still with us, my King.  I need your strength.  I miss our talks late into the night.  I miss our collaboration for the good of the realm.  I don't know who to trust anymore."  He sighed heavily.  It was no use wishing for something that would never be.  Even the Valar themselves couldn't fix this.  It was time to put aside all of this self-pity and check in on Nirnadel.  He was desperately worried about her.  She just might be the last hope for Cardolan.  "If we lose her, there's nothing to stop Girithlin from taking the throne."

The Fortress of Barad Girithlin

Hir Mablung Girithlin

"Hah, ha, another riot!  That incompetent Nimhir.  He couldn't hold together a ball of clay with two hands, much less the Kingdom of Cardolan," bellowed the massive Mablung Girithlin, a broad smile on his wide face, his heart full of glee.  In his youth, he had been the strongest knight in the realm, but much of that had gone to fat with his diet of red meat and sweets from far off Gondor.

Mablung's eldest son, Falathar, nodded in agreement.  "Yes, father, he couldn't hold together a ball of clay with two hands, much less the Kingdom of Cardolan."  Falathar was a good son, always obeying and never questioning his father.  He was what Mablung had been twenty-five years ago, tall and lean with jet-black hair, the image of a Dúnadan lord.

Mablung leaned back into his giant, padded red chair chuckling softly to himself.  This was precisely the break he had been waiting for and his luck was turning.  He ran his hands through the piles of gold coins stacked on the table before him, gold accumulated through the vast production of the amber beds near the mouth of the River Baranduin.  The amber provided the necessary wealth for the Girithlins to dominate the area and to construct the massive fortress of Barad Girithlin in Balost, the capitol of the Hirdom.  "This is a stroke of good fortune, and I mean to capitalize.  It would be a shame if better weapons found their way into the hands of the gangs in the shanty town.  I couldn't imagine how bad that would be for the city guard." Perhaps with the right nudging, he would become King after all.

"It would definitely be bad for them, father."

Mablung smiled at his dutiful son and put ten gold sovereigns into a pouch and handed it to Falathar.  "Take this and go to the manor house in the city.  Give it to Barahir.  He'll know what to do with it."  The money was nothing to him, barely a celebratory feast but to some men, it could topple kingdoms.

"Yes father. He'll know what to do with it," Falathar said and left the room.

With his lineage, Mablung would be the right choice to lead.  There was only a young girl in the way, and she would either bend or be broken.  He had seen her at the King’s Yüle Festivals, and she was spritely waif but fair of face.  Perhaps there was some way to use that.  He spun his chair around to look out the window at his fertile fields, full of wheat and corn. "I can't speak for the city, but I think we'll have a good winter."

The Streets of Tharbad

Valandil

Carrying the unconscious bard, Valandil searched for Mercatur. The mercenary was waiting near the home of the grocer.  He waved Mercatur down and together they ran to the Houses of Healing.  They were greeted at the door by Jonu, a young, skinny Dunnish teen with brown hair who had served Firiel for three years.  He eyed them suspiciously, having heard the curses of Kaile, with whom he was infatuated with. The boy put his hand out, blocking the entry of the three.  "You are no longer welcome here," he said venomously.

Valandil started to say something when Mercatur grabbed the youth by the jaw and applied a grip.  Jonu collapsed to his knees with a shriek.  The powerful mercenary released the boy and said politely, "Thank you for letting us in."  Valandil looked down with shock at the tearful boy rubbing his jaw, but followed Mercatur into the house. There was no time to worry about what was done.  A man needed to be tended to by a healer.

They ran into Kaile in the main hall and upon seeing them she began to develop the most vicious look, a sneer with her nose wrinkled up.  Valandil laid the bard on a table and with a point of his finger, he stopped Kaile in her tracks.  Mercatur turned to him surprised, smiled, and then went about dressing Haedoriel's wounds.  Kaile fled the room.

Firiel arrived a minute later, disheveled and exhausted from lack of sleep.  She had been torturing herself over the lost money since the attack and was plagued by nightmares of the death of Ostoher and his sons.  The ghostly faces never seemed to leave her alone.  Silently, she strode past Valandil and began examining her patient.  She crushed a pungent herb over the bard's face, and he began to stir.  He inhaled deeply and coughed for a few seconds, thrashing about.  Firiel caressed his face showing the care she had for all her patients.  He looked up and grasped her hand.  Smiling, she said to him, "you'll be all right.  You need to stay here for a few days to recover.  We'll notify your relatives and have any personal items brought to you that will increase your comfort."

The bard smiled weakly, his eyes still unfocused. "I am Haedorial the Bard.  Please go to my wife, Faeliriel, on Lindamel Street.  The Nightsinger’s Guild.  Please," he said weakly, struggling.

Firiel pointed at Kaile.  "Can you go?  Take Jonu with you.  Please be careful."  The assistant turned to go and waved Jonu over, who was still rubbing his jaw.

Mercatur fell in with them.  "You're going to need some muscle," he said and then looked over to Jonu.  "Sorry kiddo.  But, you're better off with me as a friend.  I'll get them back safe, blondie," he shouted back to Firiel as they left.

With Haedorial stable and sleeping, Firiel slumped into the chair with the axe mark.  She spoke not a word, but sank her head in her hands.  Valandil went to her and sat in another chair.  He put his hand gently on Firiel's shoulder.  "I'm responsible for the loss of the money.  I've taken a job, which will pay me well.  I'll return every copper that was lost. I swear!"

Firiel didn't even look up. "No, I alone am to blame.  The money is gone. Valandil... take your earnings and leave this sorry city... you can make a new life for yourself in Gondor."

This comment struck Valandil as a blow and he felt deeply offended.  He cared for her, but how dare she question his loyalty to his homeland.  "What do you take me for.  I am a warrior of Cardolan, sworn to defend her with my life if necessary.  I could not... would not ever leave like a skulking coward!  I offer to raise the money... I risk my life... and what..."  He tried to calm himself, but something roiled in his gut like a snake.

Firiel sat unemotional and unblinking as Valandil worked himself up into a greater rage, releasing the anger and despair that had been building up for months since the end of the war. 

Valandil finally lost control.  "You want to sulk and cry and let the city fall into ruin?  Fine! Don't be counting on me, I'm going back to the Army."  With that he stormed out, vowing never to return.  This…everything…was a fool’s errand and he wanted nothing more to do with it.

The Houses of Healing – Hithui (November) 20^th, 1409

Kaile

As Hithui wore on, the temperature began to cool, and nights were becoming chillier.  The cold, fall rains brought much needed water to the Houses of Healing.  But winter was nearly upon them, and food and firewood would become top priced commodities. And money was in short supply.

Jonu and Kaile sat in the common lounge, right off of the main entrance.  They cuddled together by a roaring flame, sitting on a fur rug.  The heat was nice and the crackle of the fire was soothing. Jonu was a soulful, intelligent lad who put his heart into healing and helping others.  Kaile felt drawn to those qualities and he seemed to like her in spite of her size.  It had been an unusually quiet afternoon and the two wanted to take advantage of that.  She undid her ginger hair and rested her head in the crook of Jonu's neck.  She was still losing weight, and she thought she looked downright good for this evening.  The diet was painful, but it was paying off.

A knock on the door caught their attention and they giggled together for a moment.  Jonu then stood and moved cautiously to answer it, his skinny frame hunched as if he might need to run.  He opened the door just a crack to see who was outside.  He was relieved to see Nel and Anna with another load of food.  Kaile rushed to the door and with Jonu, they hauled the wagon in.  It was none too soon.  Everything was reaching a critical point.  Nel wiped sweat from her pale face, smiling broadly.  Steam from the chilly evening blew from her nostrils and wafted off of her head.  Anna looked perturbed and nervous as usual, her wrinkly face pinched up from worry. They were dressed in simple gray tunics and brown cotton pants, but Nel wore fur boots that the nurse was sure were expensive.

"Thank you, thank you," Kaile said, bowing with every word.  "You are always so welcome here.  Please, have a seat and get comfortable."

Nel turned up her nose and held up her hand with a dismissive gesture.  "Again, We require no thanks," the young woman said in a strange, very formal accent.  "It is enough for us to see that our people are recovering and growing stronger by the day.  We are pleased." She swept her black hair back and tied it in a ponytail.  Her makeup was perfect and the cosmetics costly.  She then followed Kaile to a seat near the fire, removing her fine leather gloves and warming her hands.  She removed her emerald green cloak and hung it on a peg.  She was slender almost to the point of being emaciated.  As she sat, her gray eyes sparkled, reflecting the dancing flame.  She gave a faint smile, seemingly content.

As Jonu went to store the food, Kaile sat down and began her story.  "Nel, it's been a while since you were last here.  Please, I need to tell you something."

Nel nodded and put her finger to her cheek. "Of course We will listen to your story. Praythee, continue good nurse," she said with deep interest.

For a moment, Kaile wracked her brain, trying to pin down Nel's accent.  It was almost difficult to follow it was so formal.  The young woman was certainly not from the Common Quarter, where Kaile was raised as the daughter of a weaver and a midwife.  "We've got a problem, and some thief bastards stole our money for healing herbs... three hundred gold crowns... I don't know what we're gonna to do Nel.  We're almost out of herbs and the number of cases is growing daily.  We can't hold out."  It was a longshot but she had to take it.

Nel furrowed her dark brows and put her finger to her red lips.  Her eyes lit up as if she had an idea. "Wherever did you plan to go to purchase herbs?"

Kaile seemed a bit surprised at Nel's naiveté as everyone knew of the tight-fisted alchemist who sold the finest herbs.  "Why, we were going to Dirhavel the Alchemist," said Kaile cautiously.

"Of whom do you speak?"

"You know...the Alchemist...on Eril Street."  Kaile kept trying to pin down Nel's accent and ignorance of well-known Tharbad people and places but was getting nowhere.

Unexpectedly, Nel rose and lifted her chin, putting her finger to her cheek.  "Speak no more, good nurse. The hour grows late and We must depart.  We take our leave of your home once again and bid you good health.  Come Anna, we must away and return home."

Anna sighed, wrinkling her old forehead.  "It is about time Your Hi... I mean Nel...um... yes, we must take our leave."

When the two had left, Kaile pondered the curious conversation she had with the young lady.  She thought to herself that Nel must be from out of town as she was unfamiliar with the only legitimate Alchemist in Tharbad.  She looked at Jonu, narrowing one eye. "Her mannerisms are so…odd.  It’s like she doesn’t even make eye contact, and that accent?  I've heard it before, but where?"

He shrugged and then lay his head in her lap. "I dunno.  She's probably from out of town.  Maybe Arthedain?"  Kaile stroked his hair, gazing into the fire, her mind still fixed on their mysterious benefactors.

The Streets of Tharbad

Nirnadel

Outside, tiny flakes of snow began to fall as it grew towards late afternoon.  The Princess and her maid pulled their thick cloaks closely around their bodies.  Anariel shivered. "Thank Eru you have come to your senses,” she wailed.  “We will freeze out here if we do not leave now.  I still have to draw your bath and put you to bed.  Come let us depart.  Quickly now."

Nirnadel held up her hand.  "Good Anariel, our task is not yet complete this evening.  We will journey to the residence of the Alchemist and We will purchase the herbs for the poor and suffering subjects of Cardolan."

Anariel was horrified, her eyes huge and mouth open.  "Your Highness, you are mad,” she blubbered.  “I am taking you back right this minute.  You know, you are not so old that I cannot take you over my knee again."

Nirnadel stood her ground and shook her head, arms crossed.  "Maid, pray, We are not returning with you until We have completed the transaction.  Only then will We return to Bar Aran.  You will either accompany us or you will not."

Anariel backed down, but her jaw was still held tight.  Grimly, Nirnadel turned and began jogging down Eril street with her maid puffing along behind, shaking her head.  With a few inquiries as to direction, they turned down the right street.

The pair arrived to find Dihavel's closed for the evening.  Above the entrance was a sign depicting a glowing Palantír.  Nirnadel pounded on the solid oak door.  Several well-constructed locks barred it making it certain that all but the most skilled burglars could not penetrate.  And for those, other dangers lay hidden inside.  After a minute a deep booming voice rang out.  "Go away, we are closed for the night.  We open tomorrow at nine."

Nirnadel persisted.  "Good Sir, We need your assistance tonight.  It is an emergency! Please good sir, just a moment of your time!"

The door opened a crack and Nirnadel could see a tall, Dúnadan man with a well-trimmed beard and long brown hair.  His bearing was quite noble, and he reminded the Princess of Nimhir. 

The Alchemist spoke sternly, "Young woman, I am busy.  Please return tomorrow."

Nirnadel produced a sack full of sovereigns, which got Dirhavel's attention.  He snorted and then unbarred the door and ushered the women in.  He looked at Nirnadel and narrowed his eyes.  "Now what is such a young and beautiful woman doing here at this hour of the evening?" he asked in a rich, cultured baritone.

She turned her nose up and put her finger to her cheek as a good royal should when addressing a merchant.  "Good sir, We are in great need of healing herbs.  Our people at the most auspicious Houses of Healing have run low and We praythee good sir, may we impose upon you for a purchase?"  Surely her good manners would convince the alchemist.  After all, she had never been turned away before.

He stared at her intently, narrowing one eye and then looked away, his curiosity piqued.  "Definitely not a commoner," he said softly, stroking his beard, not caring if she heard him.  "Now I've heard of corrupt and greedy noble families paying exorbitant sums for illicit drugs, not that greed is too bad of a thing in my opinion."  He turned his head back, narrowing the other eye at her.  "So, what's a young noblewoman doing in my little shop?  What can I get you?"

"We would like to pay you five sovereigns for several sacks of healing herbs, my good sir.  If such transaction is acceptable, We would be most appreciative."  She lowered her head to make eye contact as uncomfortable as that was.  This was going well.  She was truly a woman of the people.

Dirhavel kept stroking his beard.  "Yes…yes, that will be acceptable.  This will really help to finance…something.  Yes, I'll be right back."  He took the coins that were offered and smiled.  A single sovereign was worth a hundred gold crowns so this was a large sum of money.  He ran out the door to a blonde woman in a purple cloak and gave her the coins.  She handed him twenty pouches of finely ground and cured herbs.  He spoke to the woman in a low voice, but Nirnadel could still hear him.  She always had unnaturally good hearing.

"How strange is it for this girl from some petty noble family to come here at night for healing herbs when there's so much valuable drugs to be had?  It makes no sense, love."  He paused for a moment before continuing, "Wait, is she part of some scheme to sell my wares for a profit?  Maybe I am the fool?  Wait, no.  Then she would've bought drugs.  Eh, I don't know.  I'm overthinking this.  At least this will go a long way to fund my experiment."

The woman turned and looked directly at Nirnadel.  The woman's eyes got big and the Princess looked away.

Dirhavel returned and gave Nirnadel the sacks of herbs.  He smiled and took her hand. "Thank you, young lady.  Please travel safe.  I look forward to additional business with your family."

She returned the shake and bowed.  "We thank you, good sir.  You have done the realm a great boon and We shall not forget it.  Please be well and We wish you a good morrow."

The Streets of Tharbad

Three scraggly youths hung out on a street corner boasting of their latest activities. Brug, the oldest, held the younger two in awe about how he cut one of the city constables during a drug run for one of the dock masters.  His cruel tales were always embellished with amazing deeds and beautiful women who admired him from afar.  Brug's story was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of two women carrying heavy bags.  They looked rather helpless in the lightly falling snow and the dim illumination of the streetlamps.  Brug struck one of the younger crew in the jaw, chuckling.  "Let's go to work, boys."  They began moving down the street, fanning out to surround their quarry.  Brug drew a jagged, rusty dagger from his cloak and held it closely to his chest.

Nirnadel's elation suddenly turned to blood chilling panic when she finally noticed the three closing in on her and Anariel.  They were now only about twenty feet away.  There was nowhere to run.  She gasped seeing Brug's blade and Anariel's attention was gained.  The nursemaid shrieked, "See what you have done!  We should never have come here!"  However, before Anariel could say another word, a gull-feathered arrow sank deep into Brug's eye followed by another which buried itself into another boy's neck.

Both crumpled to the ground without so much as a gasp.  The last teen hesitated, looking at his fallen comrades.  This was his undoing as two arrows struck him in the chest, sinking in up to the feathers.  He staggered back against the streetlamp as another arrow pierced his face, the tip poking out the back of his neck.  He sagged to the street as two more shafts sunk deep into his belly.  He let out a final gasp and slumped over into the muck of the gutter.  The two women ran for all they were worth back to the House of Healing.

When the women were out of sight, two men stepped out of the shadows.  They were cloaked in green with thick hoods over their heads.  Both men slung steel composite bows over their shoulders and strode over to the three corpses.  Silently, they removed all the arrows from the bodies and wiping them, placed the shafts back into their quivers.  In a quiet monotone one spoke, "Go after the Princess, I'll clean up here."  Without a word the other raced down the street.  When the second man had gone, the first man easily hefted the three bodies over his shoulders and carried them off to the banks of the river.

Panting and wheezing, Nirnadel and Anariel collapsed on the doorstep of the Houses of Healing.  Within a few seconds Jonu cautiously poked his head out the door.  Seeing the friends of the Healer lying on the steps he rushed out to help.  Once inside he slammed the door and locked it tight.  The two women lay on the floor in a daze trying to catch their breath.  Coughing, Nirnadel produced the sack of herbs. "Jonu, my good sir, We praythee take this to Firiel right away."  The boy took the bags and sped off with Kaile. Their mission was complete.  They had survived a terrible fright.

Minutes later Firiel returned.  A stern expression was on her face, but a glow that had been long absent seemed back.  "My friends, you have risked your life to bring these medicines.  This was my responsibility.  I cannot allow you to be in danger when the task is mine and mine alone," Firiel stated, shaking her head.

Nirnadel stood, raising her chin and putting her finger to her cheek. "Mistress Healer, you are most incorrect.  We all must share in the responsibility if our realm is to recover, and if anyone should be responsible for that it should be ourselves, good lady."  The pain and suffering of the people had to be addressed.  She could sit in her luxurious room on her expensive sheets and cry or she could do something.

Alarmed, Anariel pulled on the Princess' sleeve. "We must go now, before you say any more."

Nirnadel nodded.  "You are most correct good nurse," she said and then stood and made a grand curtsey, swishing her hand through the air in circles and bowing with a flourish.  "We praythee goodnight and a happy morrow."

Anariel practically dragged the princess out the door. "They are getting suspicious!  And you nearly got us killed!" she hissed.  "You need to learn to speak like a commoner if you're going to keep this madness up, Valar forbid.  You'll be the death of me, young lady.  If we're caught, Chancellor Nimhir would hang me!  Ohhh, you'll be the death of me."

Nirnadel looked at her nurse sideways and turned her nose up.  "Praythee, what do you mean, good nurse?  We…I mean I can speak very much like a commoner.  Our dear friends continue to believe the ruse, I'm sure.  Hmrph.  We are very much a chameleon.  You needn't worry, good woman.  And We are most apologetic for your near death experience.  And We wonder who might have been our saviors?"

Anariel put her hand to her mouth.  "Oh, I am very sure it was just rival thugs. Although…those arrows were well placed."

Chapter End Notes

Street crime, drugs and smuggling are on the rise in the city as its resources are strained from the war and refugees.  The spectre of plague and famine grows as political plots emerge.

Dirhavel the Alchemist from the RPG module.

Leave a Comment

The Argond Tower – Hithui (November) 29^th, 1409

Hir Duin Tinarë

The aged Hir Calantir sat in his massive green, padded chair unmoving while his family wept around him.  His bent form held the weight of despair.  He spoke quietly to himself, “My son, my son...Varek.” His withered face and wispy white hair gave him the look of death.  His eldest son and heir Varek was slain when bandits burned his castle and sacked the village.  There were too few soldiers of the Hirdom left after the war to guard everywhere at once and the castle was vastly undermanned.

Hir Duin Tinarë and his son Ostomir were visiting to pay their respects.  Seeing Calantir’s paralysis, Duin pulled his son aside.  “This bodes ill for us; Varek was a staunch supporter of the crown and old Celeph cannot have more than two winters left.  I smell Girithlin in this.”  Mablung’s naked quest for the Crown was of deep concern to the other Hirdoms. Duin’s claim was just as strong with his father being the uncle of the late King Ostoher.

Ostomir nodded sullenly.  “Father, I just hope that the grain we gave to Tardegil can bolster our position.”

“That is my hope.  We need Tardegil in a strong position.  He will always be loyal to the Crown and that Crown cannot go to Girithlin.”  Mablung had once been a great knight but his approach to everything was bluster and power.  That would not get them far against Arthedain or Gondor.  He lowered his head to put his palm on his chin. “And the girl…Nirnadel.  I just don’t know, son.  She’s a complete unknown.  I barely remember her from the balls at the Bar Aran when she was just a child.”  To him, she was a sullen, studious child who loved dolls and cats.  How could she rule a kingdom?

Ostomir took a glass of wine from a servant and took a long drink. “I believe we can always count Nimhir and Captain Guilrod as allies.  I think our position may be secure.”

Duin shook his head slowly.  “It’s politics in Cardolan.  The Royal Family was never a strong central government like in Arthedain or Gondor. The lords, us included, hold too much power.  We were actually Ernil, or princes a few centuries ago, all brothers of the king, but King Tarandil reduced us to Hiri.  Still, the King has very little power over us if we decide not to comply with him.  Civil wars are rampant in our history, and another one would destroy the realm.”

He then patted his son on the back.  He was proud of the young man who thought for himself and understood the intricacies of the realm.  “Come Ostomir, we best return to Tinarë before the weather worsens.  Let us say our farewells to the Calantirs.  We will need to find some way to strengthen this house.”  On the way out, he reached down to take Hir Calantir’s hand.  “We are here for you Celeph.  You have but to ask.”

Old Celeph nodded and tried to smile up at Duin, but his face turned back downward in sorrow.

“No father should have to bury his son.  We are truly sorry,” Hir Tinarë said with all sympathy.  “We will have to take our leave now.  Please be well.”

Father and son strode out into the courtyard of the grand Calantir manor where their carriage was waiting.  Ostomir entered, followed by Duin, who paused on the carriage steps.  He licked his finger and held it up.  He shivered and pulled his cloak tight.  “It will be a cold winter.”

The Bar Aran – Hithui 30^th, 1409

Chancellor Nimhir

A messenger kneeled before Nimhir, delivering a sealed scroll in a sealed gold case.  “Your Grace, His Highness, King Araphor of Arthedain sends his compliments.” The knight wore a heavy chainmail hauberk under a black surcoat with the arms of Arthedain, a white tree topped with a star and surrounded by Tengwar script.  His helmet was replaced by a felt blue beret, befitting an Arequain, a Royal Knight.

Nimhir took the scroll and nodded to the knight, who then stood a respectful distance away.  The Chancellor wore his robes of state, velvet in green and gold with a golden flatcap sporting a gaudy feather.  “Cardolan thanks you for your long journey.  Please rest and refresh yourself in the main hall.” The knight bowed and withdrew.  Nimhir popped the lid off of the case and removed the scroll, breaking the wax seal of Arthedain and unrolling the parchment.  He read the document with a rare intensity and when done he set it aside gently.  He leaned back, closing his eyes and sighed.  “This could be our salvation, but the timing is all wrong...all wrong.”

Nimhir clenched his fists and then sat for several minutes in contemplation.  He then rolled up the parchment and placed it in his safe, turning the combination dial and locking it shut.  He turned down the lantern and left the room.

In the hallway he was approached by Anariel, who was all out of breath, red faced and her eyes bulging.  The old woman always seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy.  “Your Grace, you must come with me.  I have something very important to tell you. The Princess...  She has been behaving very recklessly, very recklessly indeed.”

This got the Chancellor’s attention and the conversation continued as they walked down the hall.  “Recklessly?  What do you mean, nursemaid?  Tell me.”

Anariel blanched, stepping back, putting her hand over her mouth. “Oh, your Grace, I hate to say this…hate to speak against her.  She has been dragging me around town to help the Houses of Healing.  We were nearly assaulted last night!”

Nimhir stopped, his mouth open and he grabbed Anariel by the arm. “Wait, what?  Tell me everything.”

The nursemaid recounted how they had been going to the Houses of Healing several nights a week for more than a month now to deliver food and medicine and how three thugs nearly attacked them before being killed by arrows.

The Chancellor felt as if he had been gut punched.  The heir to the realm had been putting her life in danger. Sure, it was for a good cause, but her loss would ensure Mablung Girithlin’s ascension to the throne and likely another civil war.  “This…this cannot continue.  I must put a stop to this.  Thank you for coming to me, Anariel.  I will set this right.”

The nursemaid took his hand in hers.  “Thank you, Your Grace.  Thank you.  I cannot endure this any longer.”

The Bar Aran

Baranor

In front of the Princess’ ornate wooden door, two soldiers stood talking.  “Baranor, we can’t keep letting her go out on these forays.  If anyone finds out, we’re dead,” one warrior with a silver breastplate pleaded with his partner outside the Princess’ bedchamber.  His eyes were intense and focused, concerned with some great matter.

Baranor shook his head.  His face showed disgust, his nose wrinkled and his mouth pursed.  “Cedhron, you know that the Royal Guard has protected the Sovereigns of Cardolan for more than half a millennium wherever and whenever they would go.  If that brat Princess goes out, we follow.”  He pointed down to his surcoat, a green field with a red hill in front of a white tree, surrounded by stars.  “This symbol means that we guard the realm and the King or heir that comes with it.  And that we gladly lay down our lives for that person.”

Cedhron struck his mailed fist against the stone wall in frustration, letting out a pained sigh.  “Are you willing to be executed for that little...”  His words were interrupted by the opening of the great bedchamber door.

The guards came to attention, saying in unison, “Good morning, Your Highness.”  The Princess passed without acknowledging them and continued into the garden for her morning walk and devotion to the Valar.

A bead of cold sweat rolled down Baranor’s face, and he shot his comrade a sharp look, whispering, “We will speak no more of this.”

Cedhron shook his head.  “Most certainly if we hang.”

The captain pursed his lips.  It was true that she had not treated them very well. At least since the passing of her mother, Queen Lossien, earlier this year.  And it had only gotten worse since the war.  But he really couldn’t fault her for that.  And her journeys to the Houses were not for her own glory.  The fact that she put herself at risk for the betterment of the sick and for Cardolan had to mean something.  Perhaps there was more to her than he realized.  He resolved to keep an open mind about her now.

The Royal Chambers

Nirnadel

It had been a good day so far.  In the cool Fall morning, Nirnadel strolled the Royal Gardens, listening to the birds sing and smelling the flowers.  She particularly loved the roses and the gardens had ones of all colors, from red to white to pink and indigo.  She knelt before the icons of Manwë and Varda, that flanked an icon of Eru, the One.  She quietly contemplated the majesty of these great powers that she barely understood and said aloud the prayers that she learned from Anariel and her late father. She lowered her head to grassy floor and raised her hands to the icons.  “Please help us bring peace to the realm.  Please bless our people and keep them safe.  Please help us to become the leader that can heal the land.”

Her afternoon was consumed by physical exercise which included swordsmanship, dancing and riding.  Captains Guilrod and Baranor trained her over obstacle courses and with sword work.  She was more than a beginner with an eket or shortsword and was improving, her night with the thugs giving her incentive to learn.  She was already an excellent rider and never turned down a chance to come out to the stable and saddle a horse.  Every royal in Cardolan was expected to be able to use weapons and ride and she intended to perform her duty.  This was a standard since the dark days of civil war after the fall of King Calimendil when his surviving family was massacred in the snow outside of the Palace of Thalion.   

Having completed her daily training, she returned to her room to wash and prepare for dinner.  Clothed only in a linen chemise, she took a wet, soapy cloth and wiped herself down, followed by a dry cloth, scented with oils and herbs.  She inhaled the sweet aromas with a sense of satisfaction. She had been doing good and helping the realm to heal.  There was a knock on the door.

The Princess opened the door with a radiant smile. The adventure of the previous night had left her flush with the confidence of youth.  She felt that nothing could stop her.   

Hmmmm, those thugs…  They must have perished in some foul gang rivalry.  It has no bearing on our work, she pondered briefly, making light off the experience.  Her brush with death left her exhilarated as only an adolescent could feel.

“Why uncle, praythee, what brings you here so early in the afternoon?  Supper is still a ways off and We are not yet hungry.” Nirnadel chimed.  Seeing Anariel behind the Chancellor quickly changed her tone. A knot began to form in the pit of her stomach.

Did she inform him of our activities?

Nimhir’s stern expression revealed the answer.

“Your Highness, I think you know why.  Let us go inside and speak,” he said brusquely, pushing past the two guards. He motioned toward the Princess’ chambers and followed behind, snorting and clomping his boots on the wooden floor. He shut the door before Anariel could enter, leaving her huffing outside.  Nimhir sat in the plush red velvet chair next to Nirnadel’s vanity mirror. Enchanted lanterns supplemented the now fading sunlight.  Nirnadel plopped onto her massive bed, allowing the netting to shroud her in her discomfort.

“Damn her,” Nirnadel exclaimed.  “The nursemaid has no business revealing our activities. We are doing what it right.”

“Do not blame Anariel,” the Chancellor shot back.  “It was you who was wrong.  She was correct in coming to me.  You are out of control,” he continued, point his finger at her.

Nirnadel’s anger began to rise.  “Uncle, We are heir to the Throne of Cardolan.  We will not be kept prisoner here while the land is ruined...while you play your foolish political games with Hir Girithlin.”

Nimhir rose, shaking his fist at Nirnadel, yelling, “Foolish games! These foolish games save lives and secure your crown, which I might add, sits very precariously at the moment. Life is all fun and games to you! Run around and save the people. If only we all had such freedom. Who would ascend to the Throne if you are killed?  We'd have civil war!  Remember Calimendil?  What happened then?”

Nirnadel was in tears by this time, her thin body shaking.  She remembered being taught about the devastating civil war, which had nearly destroyed Cardolan two centuries ago.  King Calimendil and his heirs perished leaving numerous claimants to the Throne and the kingdom was nearly consumed with strife.  Without a male heir, his widow, Queen Almariel tried to claim the Throne, but the Hiri would not accept an Arthedanian ruler.  She abdicated in favor of Princess Mirien but the civil war was already playing out.  The stories of the Queen and the three Princesses being violated, dragged out of the palace and butchered were horrifying.  Blood feuds and deep mistrust endured even to this day as a result.  Sobbing, she spat, “Fine, what do you want from us?”

Nimhir face softened.  “I…I am sorry that I have made you cry.  I have never done that before and I hope to never again.  However, I must be hard hearted here.”  He took a deep breath and focused his eyes on her.  “Your Highness, as Chancellor of the Realm and Guardian of the Throne of Cardolan I confine you to the Bar Aran until such time as you demonstrate an ability to control your actions.”  With this, he stood and departed.

Nirnadel lay wrapped in her quilt for some time before rising.  She shuffled over to the silver mirror and gazed at her reflection.  With her eyes puffy and her cheeks red, she sat and washed her face.

“We swear We will never cry again.  The land needs our strength not our tears,” she whispered.

The Houses of Healing

Firiel

The herbs delivered by Nel and Anna came as a very welcome relief. Many of the patients were improving and Firiel was finding new strength.  Haedorial the bard was even up and about, munching on crackers.  He still had a black eye and a deep bruise on his cheek, but a smile was on his face now.  Swallowing his last cracker, Haedorial took his empty soup bowl to the kitchen passing Firiel and Kaile.  Bowing with courtly grace he grinned.  “M’lady, this humble bard gives many thanks for his life.  Please tell that brave swordsman that my services are also at his disposal.  I am but a simple ...” The bard stopped mid‑sentence, looking directly at Firiel.  He surely noticed the ladies’ discomfort with his mention of Valandil.

Firiel gave Haedorial a wan smile and quickly changed the subject. “I was beginning to think that nothing would go right.”

Kaile took her queue.  “We really must do something to repay Nel and Anna.”

“Nel and Anna?” inquired Haedorial, tilting his head and listening intently.

“Our mysterious benefactors,” replied Firiel.  “They came from nowhere bringing food, herbs, and supplies.  We have no way of repaying them for their kindness,” she continued.  She was mostly content to just receive the goods from them, but curiosity had been eating at her and the nurses.

Kaile furrowed her brow.  “Perhaps we can retain the bard’s services for this,” she said brightly.  “I have something in mind.” Turning to the bard she continued, “Haedorial, are you familiar with all of the noble houses of Cardolan?”

The bard, flush with pride, responded, “Why of course, fair ladies, of course.  I’m normally one to do all of the talking about lore,” he said, bowing his head in a self-deprecatory gesture, “but my recent brush with death has given me some deep insight into who I am and where I am going.  And I thank you ladies for that.  Back to your original question, please fill me in and what would you like to know?”

Kaile smiled broadly, clearly interested.  “The younger one, Nel, seems to be in charge and she has some really weird mannerism and, the way she talks…weird.  Now, I’ve heard nobles talk and I’m pretty sure she’s a noble. She’s really pretty and her makeup is perfect every time.  That takes some money.”

At one time, Firiel was glad to just let the question be, but her curiosity was coming out.  She struck a pose with her nose turned up and her finger to her cheek.  “Nel does this.  It’s definitely something that she learned, and her speech is always excessively formal.”

Haedorial narrowed his eyes.  “This is…most unusual.  Are you sure?”

Firiel nodded.  “She’s also quite pale and her hands are far too soft for her to have done any manual work. She is extraordinarily well read too. She once told us the entire history of the Kingdom of Arnor and Númenor.”

Kaile chuckled.  “I don’t even know what I had for supper a week ago, much less stuff that’s happened for the last two-thousand years.”

The bard made an ‘O’ with his mouth.  “If we’re talking about Númenor, we’re going back almost five-thousand years to Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first king,” he said proudly.  “He was half elven, but chose to become mortal.  King Ostoher comes from that line, but not directly as he was not directly descended from Elendil.”  He put his finger to his lips and began tapping.  “Well, this begs looking into.  Now, Hir Tinarë has a young daughter, Galadel.  She is of fine, aristocratic breeding and the image of a young, Dúnadan woman.  I’ve heard that she is kind and generous.  Yes, that would make sense.  I think we have your answer.”  He took his glass of wine and raised it to the healer and her assistant.

The Streets of Tharbad – Girithron (December) 1^st, 1409

Valandil

“Damn that woman.  Damn her and her crusade,” Valandil muttered as steam came from his breath.  The day was chill with heavy rain and sleet, and the two partners had their cloaks pulled tightly around them.  Would nothing get better?

Mercatur grunted, “Blondie, eh?  I knew she was no good.  Too uppity, that one.”  Valandil grunted in return.  They stood near the wharf on the North Bank near Liam the Grocer’s, watching and waiting in the lightly falling snow.  The two were soon to be rewarded.

Michl, the short Dunnish boy working for Liam, came out of the grocery and made his way to the North Bridge. Valandil backhanded Mercatur. “Let’s go.” The mercenary fell into step beside the sergeant.  The soldier was hungry for something good to happen for a change.  And come what may, he fully intended to return 300 gold crowns to the Houses of Healing, Firiel be damned.

The plainly dressed Michl crossed the bridge and turned right toward the docks.  He stopped outside the residence of an old sea captain and looked around. Valandil and Mercatur ducked around a corner.  Seeing no danger, the boy crossed the street and entered the office of the Harbormaster.

“Why did I know he would go in there?” Mercatur shrugged with a smirk.  “You know, this part of town reminds me of Rhudaur.”

After nearly ten minutes the youth reemerged and began heading back.  Valandil motioned to Mercatur and said, “Let the boy go, we can pick him up later. Let’s find out about the Harbormaster’s connection.”

“We’ll try to convince them that we’re outlaws from Rhudaur.  That’s right up my alley,” Mercatur nodded.

Valandil snorted a chuckle.  “And why did I know you were going to say that?”  The mercenary was really starting to grow on him, and he felt that he could trust the man with his life.

The mercenary splayed his hands in mock surprise. “You wound me.  I gotta admit, I think we make a decent team.  You know, you and I could live like kings in Rhudaur. I know this keep that we could take over.  It’s on the trade route so the money’s good and the women!  Oh, the women.”

“Tempting, oh so tempting,” Valandil said.  “Let me think it over.”

Mercatur gave a half smile through this thick beard. “Take your time.  I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

The Harbormaster’s Office

Mercatur

Hallas the Harbormaster was a mixed breed Dúnadan, known as a Tergil, and a large one at that.  He stood six foot four, and was all muscle.  His darkly tanned skin was coarse and leathery from years at sea.  He wore a brown leather tunic and breeches and a dark red sea cap made of wool.  Hallas was preoccupied at the time ‘correcting’ the ship’s cargo logs to match the loads he was actually sending to the noble families and businesses of Cardolan.  At least ten percent of what came through the port of Tharbad never made it to its intended destination.  Hallas had grown wealthy, but not stupid.  He never flaunted his spoils, but had rather hidden it away in a secret location for better days or an emergency.  The entrance of the two broke his concentration.

“Eh, what do you two want? I’m busy,” Hallas croaked as he looked up from his ledger.  Mercatur played on a thick Rhudauran country accent, common among the river boatmen where he had worked for a few years.  “Aye, friend, we be two mercenaries from afar and we be here to meet a ship in Tharbad.  Have you the schedule of shipping?”

Hallas quickly stuffed his books in a drawer as if he didn’t want anyone to see them.  “Err...It’s on the wall, over there.”  He said, pointing at a sheet of parchment tacked to the wall over a fishing net. The walls were covered with old harpoons, spears, nets, and tattered sails.  The smell of the sea was strong here, even this far up the Gwathló River. Valandil scanned the document looking over the names of the vessels that would soon dock here.  A great many were supply ships from Gondor bringing relief cargo to Tharbad.

“I see our ship.  Thanks.”  Valandil smiled, waving to the Harbormaster.  Hallas grunted, anxious to get back to his manifests.

As the two left, he went to the door and bolted it.  “Damn, mercenaries and Rhudauran scum,” he commented to himself.

The Courthouse

Valandil

Valandil knocked on the Eärdil’s back door.  The Minister gave them access to the secret passage at the rear of the courthouse to avoid being seen by any subjects of the investigation.  They were to remain covert, after all.  The Minister opened the door and ushered them in.

“Sir, we have some information, but we need a favor to follow up on our lead,” Valandil stated, bowing before the Minister of Justice.  The Minister sat at his teak desk in a gray and gold trimmed robe.  He wore a gold velvet flatcap with a hawk’s feather along with his chain of office around his neck.  Valandil explained the transactions at Liam’s and the boy’s trek to the Harbormaster’s.

Eärdil nodded attentively and when Valandil was finished he spoke.  “You have made some progress.  It grieves me to hear of the Harbormaster’s possible involvement,” the Minister said, stroking his chin, thinking.  Then he continued, “What is the favor that you ask?”

Mercatur extended his hand as if expecting a handout. “Chiefie, we’re gonna need some fake passes.  Ones that’ll make us out to be harbor inspectors.  We’re gonna see the difference ‘tween what arrives and what gets delivered,” the mercenary said with confidence.

“Very well gentlemen, you will have them by tomorrow morning,” Eärdil agreed, nodding.  Mercatur began to speak, but Eärdil cut him off as if anticipating the question.  “Of course you’ll need some money for bribes,” he said handing over a bag of 200 silver coins to the startled Mercatur.

The mercenary made a half grin and spoke, “you a wizard or somethin’?” He reached out to take the bag.

Suddenly, Eärdil retracted the bag, holding it next to his chest.  “Wait, I think Valandil should hold the coins.” Mercatur gave a hurt look, but smiled. Valandil took the bag, and they both bowed before departing.

“He’s not the Minister for nothin’,” Mercatur commented as they walked out of the secret passage into a back alley.

Valandil nodded with his lips pursed.  “I’m beginning to see your point of view.”  He pulled out a coin from the bag and took a look at it.  It was definitely a silver piece from the Royal Mint of Cardolan with an image of King Minalcar that was stamped over fifty years ago.  “Hmmmm, Thirteen-Fifty-One.  That was a year before the Great Northern War.  It was us and Arthedain against Rhudaur and Angmar. If I remember correctly, Minalcar was brother of the earlier king and was not a direct descendant of Isildur.”

“Eh, whatever.  I don’t know nothing from kings.  But I do know that when this is over, we take our coin to hire some mercenaries and we take that beacon tower in Rhudaur and set ourselves up like the fat nobles around here.  Then, we sit back, relax and enjoy.”

The soldier bit his lower lip and then sucked his teeth.  “That, my friend, sounds better every time you mention it.”  He looked up to see the snowfall beginning to worsen.  Winter was here.

Chapter End Notes

A little tie in with The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  

Leave a Comment

The Docks

Mercatur

Dorlas Borlinte was supervising the unloading of his ship, the Freelancer, as laborers brought up crates and barrels from Mithlond. The ship was tied down to the pier amid the creaking of planks and the lapping of the water against the hull.  Dorlas was known as a competent ship's captain who had worked for the House of Finwarin for many years.  He had amassed enough wealth to purchase his own vessel and begin freelancing.  His ship was named accordingly.  Dorlas and his First Mate stood on the deck counting the boxes and marking them on their inventory.  Mercatur and Valandil approached the gang plank, careful to remain clear of the growing stack of crates.

"Permission to come aboard, Capt'n," called Mercatur in his strong country accent.

Dorlas handed the inventory to the Mate and replied, "who be ye?"  Valandil produced an inspector's pass and held it out.  Dorlas squinted, then motioned, "Awright, come aboard, I've been expecting you." The two scurried onto the ship, dodging workers and crates.  The Captain handed Valandil the copies of the cargo manifest, "you two are new here.  These are for the Harbormaster and these go to the City Office."

"Aye, we just started.  So undermanned around here, don't ya think?  We'll make sure they get these.  Don't you worry none," Mercatur responded.  "We'll be out of your hair now, good Capt'n."

Departing the ship, Mercatur winked at his partner, and they headed for the courthouse. Valandil reviewed the copies and smiled grimly. "Now for step two."

Valandil turned the copies over to Eärdil and duplicates were made by an expert scribe. The copies were then sent to the Harbormaster and the City Office so as not to arouse suspicion.  After a day, Valandil and Mercatur went to the house of Hir Eredoriath in King's Row, one of the noble families.  The shipment was being delivered on schedule and four workers were unloading the crates and barrels, and taking them in through the service entrance.  Valandil counted the parcels, as they were unpacked and when the workers were done Valandil mused aloud, "two crates and a barrel short."

"Looks like we're getting close," Mercatur replied, jotting down some notes on a parchment.

The Tinare Mansion in Tharbad

Ostomir Tinarë

The young nobleman gazed out of the window of the Tinarë mansion in King's Row.  He was preoccupied with the political issues confronting his family.  As the heir to the Tinarë Household and eldest son of the Hir, he took these issues very seriously, learning and studying all that he could.  Ostomir was a tall young Dúnadan, a strapping knight and a proud aristocrat.  He wore the blue surcoat of his family over a gold silk tunic and his jet-black hair reflected the light of a nearby lamp.

Looking out at the overcast skies and falling snow, Ostomir's attention was caught by two men standing near the Bar Aran, or Royal Mansion.  They looked to be common warriors holding some sort of parchment.  The more muscular, darker one took notes while the leaner, taller one pointed at a wagon that was being unloaded.  They looked suspicious and he decided to find out what they were up to.  Ostomir summoned four household knights and sent them out to bring the men in.

A short time later the knights returned empty handed.  Apologizing, they stated that the men could not be found.  Ostomir nodded, and dismissing the knights, he made a mental note to keep an eye out for these men.  Even if this were benign, it could be advantageous for the clan to know what was happening.

His attention was broken by someone tugging his shoulder.  He turned to see his younger sister Galadel, all of 17 and curious as a cat. She wore a dress made of silk and lace, the color of sea foam under a fur cloak made of ermine.  On her head was a blue silk and velvet beret lined with pearls and gold cord atop her jet-black hair. "What are you looking at brother?" she asked, trying to peer out of the window around his arm.

He smiled at her. They had always been close as the Tinarë Clan were very tight knit. "Hmmmm, I saw two men out there, sister.  Near the Bar Aran.  I have a feeling about that.  It was…unusual."

Galadel put her hands on the cold window and gazed out, looking around. "Are they still there?  Where are they?"

"No, they left a while ago.  I sent some of our knights to bring them in, but they could not be found."

She cocked her head to one side. "What do you think was going on?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure, but something in me feels that it's important." He then put his arm around his sister and ushered her towards the door. "Galadel, it's also important that we secure your future too as well as the future of our house.  Come, let us speak to mother."

They went down the hall to one of the dens that their mother, Sílriel, liked to read in. She had been a princess in Arthedain, and the marriage bolstered the fortunes and holdings of both families.  As the brother and sister entered, Sílriel smiled and put her book down. "My children, what can I do for you?" she asked.  She wore a blue and silver dress along with a beautifully woven shawl to keep out the winter cold.  Her jet-black hair and youthful face would fool anyone into thinking that she was Galadel's sister.  Such was the long life of a Dúnadan.

They took seats in the den near the cozy fireplace as their mother poured them a cup of hot tea.  Ostomir took a sip and then warmed his hands towards the fire.  "Mother, Galadel is now seventeen.  Wouldn't it be appropriate for her to take a position at court?"

Sílriel looked to her daughter. "Is this something that you would like?"

Galadel nodded her head. "Yes, mother, very much so.  I want to represent the family, and I would very much like to see more of the realm."

Sílriel smiled warmly. "Of course.  It's settled then. I will speak to Chancellor Nimhir and secure you a position as one of Princess Nirnadel's ladies.  As you know, I am King Arveleg's sister, may he rest in peace, and I was a lady for his wife, Ardis.  I studied astronomy in Annúminas and dancing in Fornost.  I even had a peek at the Palantír once," she said, nodding to Galadel. "Such a position would open doors for you, my dear.  And the travel…oh, the wonderful sights that you will see."

Ostomir looked over to his sister. "We are the grandchildren of King Argeleb of Arthedain and High King of Arnor.  He was a great warrior."

"Who passed too soon," Sílriel added with a sad edge in her voice.  She bowed her head for a moment to honor her father, who was killed in battle against Angmar and her brother, who was killed at Amon Sȗl.  She gazed into the face of her daughter for a moment. "Have I told you that you look remarkably like the princess?"

Artan's House and Baths of Delight

Mercatur

Mercatur and Valandil were sitting in the waiting room of Artan's House and Baths of Delight discussing what had just occurred.  The room was outfitted with lavish furniture and decorations, mostly in red hues that accentuated the lusty nature of the establishment.  The mercenary felt right at home here.  In fact, he felt right at home anywhere there was vice to be had.

"So, we know that the merchandise disappears between the ship and the delivery point. What we don't know is who or how," Valandil mused, tapping his cheek with a finger.

"Well, we now know that the Harbormaster has knowledge of this.  I say we break into the office and look over those books he was so anxious ta hide," Mercatur said, baring his teeth through his bushy beard.  He had been a bargeman and had worked the Dunnish Track as a mercenary in his youth in Rhudaur and he hated uppity men like the Harbormaster.

"You noticed that?  You know, I would like to look at those records.  Then we would know the extent of his involvement," Valandil continued.

"It's settled then, we go at midnight.  C'mon let's enjoy the baths." Mercatur stood and walked over to a blonde woman clad only in a sheer lace robe and gave her four silver coins. "For me and me partner," he spoke, caressing her cheek.  She smiled and put the coins in a strongbox.  This work wasn't half bad.  He could get used to it.

Valandil rose and started to follow, but then he shook his head sharply and walked towards the exit past a cold, scared looking Dúnadan girl dressed in rags.  She was being escorted by Ancalimë, the young and beautiful madam, likely a new hire.  Waving to Mercatur he called, "Uh, no thanks. I'll meet you back here a half hour before midnight." The mercenary nodded as Valandil left.

Taking a towel and robe from the young woman, Mercatur stated, "My buddy's got domestic problems. I'll just assume his share of the evening." He gave the girl a peck on the cheek and then headed down the steam filled hallway toward the luxurious baths that smelled faintly of cypress.

The Houses of Healing

Firiel

Three days had gone by and neither Nel nor Anna had come with supplies.  Firiel was more than a little worried as they had been visiting almost nightly for some time.  She sipped a cup of tea and thought about how many patients had fully recovered and had been sent home, however, more still came in daily as the weather grew worse.  Haedorial was one of the fully recovered.  He wished the healers good luck and promised to return whenever they needed him.  Jonu had become friends with the bard and had learned much about his own Dunnish culture from him.  The boy was especially sad to see him go.

Firiel felt empty somehow without Valandil and Mercatur.  She disliked the mercenary, but in a way he made life more colorful.  Valandil was another matter.  Kaile and Jonu were exceptional assistants but were too young to be close companions.

Alas, she thought to herself, it's too late now to do anything about that.  They will never return.  She put her head down.  The battle against despair seemed endless.

A voice called out, "Firiel!  We need you.  More patients coming in!"  It was Kaile.

The call snapped Firiel out of her self pity.  She leapt up and grabbed her kit.  She could see Kaile, Jonu and the other assistants bringing people in through the front entrance.  "What do we have?"

Kaile set one elderly man on a bench near the fireplace.  The man's face was red, but his fingers were almost black. "Frostbite.  These poor people are homeless and were on the street when the temperature dropped.  They found their way here.  I'll see what room we have on the wards."

Firiel counted a total of six patients.  She sighed and nodded to Kaile. "Go, but hurry back.  I'll need you." She shifted her gaze to Jonu. "I need some aloe, arkasu and kelventari.  Please hurry." Both assistants rushed off while others took their place with Firiel.  It was going to be a long night.

The Bar Aran

Nirnadel had settled down for a few days and put on a polite face for Nimhir.  The Chancellor, stern at first, quickly melted in the face of the Princess' charm.  Soon, his vigilance was lowered, and the Princess saw her opportunity.  "We will have to do this without Anariel," she said to herself.  Dressing in a deep gray tunic and pants she created a rope of sheets and hung it out the window.  She slid down the rope and then looked up toward the mansion.  No one had noticed she thought smugly to herself.  She then tucked the rope behind the many vines that grew along the walls of the mansion. Satisfied that the rope was not readily visible in the dark, Nirnadel crept to a small hole in the outer wall that only she knew about, something she discovered as a girl.

Pressing his ear to the door of the Princess' chamber, Baranor swore quietly, "Damn, I knew it."

Cedhron groaned. "I thought this was over with," he hissed, slapping his forehead with his palm.  I thought the Chancellor put an end to this nonsense.  That's it.  We've got to tell him."

Baranor held up his hand and shook his head. "No, not yet.  We just follow for now. Same as before."

Cedhron rolled his eyes. "I knew you were going to say that.  I just knew it."

Baranor led the way downstairs to the base of the mansion wall.  He kneeled down and skillfully examined the ground nearby in the light of the wall lanterns.  He tracked her to the outer wall and discovered a small hole.  The two guards struggled through and emerged near the City Offices.

Cedhron shrugged and pulled his cloak tightly about him, his breath steaming in the cold. "So, where do we go now?"

Baranor backhanded him in the chest. "Well, where do you think?  Where's she been going all of this time?"  The other guard's eyes widened with realization and the two set off for the south side of town.

The Houses of Healing

Nirnadel

Nel's return was a welcome event to all in the Houses of Healing.  She had brought another small bag of coins to fill the dwindling coffers of the House.  Jonu brought a pot of herbal tea, and the ladies were seated near the fireplace, making small talk.  Kaile gave Firiel a knowing glance and then spoke, "Good Nel, where is your friend this evening?  Anna, was it?"

Nel became flustered by this question and hesitated.  How was she going to present this?  She had not thought this part through.  She lifted her nose up and put a finger to her cheek, breaking eye contact. "Err, our friend, Anna, is very aged, umm, and she is no longer capable of these nocturnal forays.  Most unfortunate, yes, most unfortunate.  But rest assured, good people, that We will continue to journey to the South Bank to bring you much needed supplies."

Kaile continued, "Well, we thank you from the bottom of our very hearts and have but a small request."  Nel smiled and nodded.

"There is someone we would like you to meet.  Your generosity saved his very life.  He wishes to meet you and repay you," Kaile said sweetly.

"Praythee good people, there is no need to repay us, but We would be delighted to meet him," Nel answered.  Yes, this was all worth it.  She was doing the right thing.  Nimhir would see.

Kaile filled Nel and Firiel's cup with tea and then spoke, "Please come again tomorrow and he will arrange to be here."

Nel beamed with pride.  Oh, to meet someone that she had saved.  One of her own subjects.  It would be something that she would remember forever.  "We will be here. We so look forward to such an auspicious meeting."

The ladies talked on for a few more minutes, then having finished her tea, Nel rose and bid farewell with an elaborate curtsey.  Partway home her excitement was impossible to contain. "We knew there was merit to this.  Our people grow strong and healthy, and the land can be healed."  As she skipped along the well-lit main street, she failed to notice the two green cloaked figures in the shadows nearby.

The Streets of Tharbad

Valandil

As the city watch began calling out midnight, Valandil rose and strode over to Artan's. Entering the building he bumped into a man of wide girth who looked a lot like the Mayor.  The man quickly put his cap on and scurried out the door followed by two guards.  Valandil sat next to Mercatur who was reclining on a plush maroon sofa, seemingly content as he puffed on a long pipe. "You know, I think that was the Mayor," Valandil said.

Mercatur raised an eyebrow, sighing contentedly. "I think you're right.  Come, we have work to do," he responded, rising and walking to reception where two young ladies stood.  One seemed to be in charge, a pretty, mixed Dúnadan with dark brown hair and the other, a raven-haired and gorgeous Dúnadan, but seemingly afraid, practically hiding behind the other girl.  They handed the mercenary his weapons and he tipped them a few silvers, strapping on his belt.  He checked his axe, and being satisfied with its lethality, ushered Valandil to the exit.

The two made their way to the docks, and at Mercatur's insistence, entered the Sign of the Orc's Head.  A true dive, this place repulsed Valandil.  Unnamed substances lay on the rotting floorboards along with unconscious sailors and riff raff.  Valandil was sure this was a mistake, but upon entering, everyone gave Mercatur a wide berth.  A horrifyingly ugly and obese woman called out to them, "Mercenary, a drink for you and yer friend." Two scrawny serving maids warily approached, bringing the pair some ale.

Mercatur took his mug, downed its contents and then smashed the mug on another patron's head, shattering it. “Outta my chair!” he yelled. The scruffy character bellowed in pain, grabbing his bleeding head and staggered away.  Mercatur sat at that table with a window overlooking the Harbormaster's Office.  Three patrons who were there quickly left.  Valandil followed his partner, holding his mug.

The two sat down and the soldier gave the mercenary a quizzical look.  Mercatur smiled and said, "I've been coming here for more than a month now.  I had to break a few heads at first, but now that I have a reputation, I only have to maintain it once in a while."

Valandil nodded and then took a sip of ale.  He sprayed it out the window.  "Blah...This is the worst ale I've ever tasted.  Did that…woman piss in it?  It's putrid."

Mercatur took the mug from his comrade and drained the ale down his throat. "Isn't it?" he asked as he wiped foam off of his beard with the back of his sleeve.

The soldier wiped his tongue with a towel and spat on the floor.  "All right, I take the first watch," he said as he peered down onto the office to see lights on.  "Get comfortable. This could take a bit."

The Harbormasters Office

Valandil

The Harbormaster's office now looked deserted with all of the windows dark.  After five more minutes of surveillance, they headed out.  Valandil shattered one of the small glass panes on the entry window and unlocked the door.  The two entered in a crouch, gazing around for any sign of movement.  Mercatur fired up a lantern and slowly raised its shield, exposing only a small beam of light. Valandil searched near the Harbormaster's desk and discovered a locked strongbox.  He sat on the floor and began examining the mechanism.  Mercatur stood shining the light on the box.

The lock was pretty tough and neither man was a skilled lockpicker.  Finally, Mercatur grew frustrated. "We're not gonna hide the fact that we was here, so I'm just gonna smash the box."

Valandil shrugged and moved aside.  Mercatur drew his axe and raised it.  As he began his swing an arrow crashed through the window and struck Mercatur in the back.  The Mercenary swore as his swing went wide.  The front door burst open next, and a sailor rushed in with a cutlass held high.

Valandil turned and his eyes widened.  On instinct, he quickly drew his broadsword and kicked a chair at the sailor as Mercatur slid over the desk and landed with a grunt.  Another sailor came in and hurled a dagger at Valandil, missing wide, but forcing him into the open.  The first sailor swung hard at Valandil and was parried easily, the clang of steel ringing out.  The sailor then traded blows with the soldier, who scored a slash on the sailor's sword arm.

Nearby, Mercatur struggled to his feet, obviously hurt and was tackled by the second sailor, who was holding another dagger.  The two rolled on the ground with the sailor pounding at the arrow wound in the Mercenary's back.  Mercatur howled in pain.

To the side, Valandil dodged a wild swing and came up under his opponent's guard.  He drove his sword several inches into the man's belly.  The sailor winced, blood running down his chin and the blade of the sword.  The soldier quickly withdrew the weapon and kicked the man through the window with a crash.

Mercatur was stunned by the blows of the sailor to his wounded back.  Seizing the opportunity, the man sunk his dagger into Mercatur's left shoulder.  The mercenary gritted his teeth and clubbed the sailor in the mouth with his fist.  The man grunted in pain, but before Mercatur could follow up, Valandil plunged his own dagger into the sailor's back, twisting it in his grip.

The soldier was about to roll the dead man off of Mercatur when the mercenary called out, "Behind you!"

Valandil spun to meet the rush of the Harbormaster.  The massive man swung his spiked steel mace at Valandil's head, barely missing, but shattering a filing cabinet next to him.  Valandil stumbled and received a kick from Hallas that sent him flying over the desk into chairs, which crashed about the room.  He got up just in time to avoid another blow that sent splinters of wood up from the desk.  Valandil pushed the desk forward, but Hallas was too quick.

By the Valar, I am outmatched here, Valandil thought, his mind racing for options, bringing his sword back up to guard.

Mercatur rose and was immediately struck in the chest with the mace. There was a sickening thud on his armor and the crack of bones and he fell with a crash.  Hallas turned, brandishing his mace with now bloody spikes. "So, found what you were looking for, eh?" Valandil braced for the new onslaught, but it never came.  Hallas staggered forward and fell with a bolt protruding from his back.  Mercatur dropped his crossbow and then lay back, coughing blood.

Valandil sheathed his sword and rushed over to his fallen friend. "I'll get you to Firiel, just hang on."

He hoisted Mercatur’s arm over his shoulder as the mercenary groaned in pain. "Don't forget the box, you idiot," Mercatur rasped, blood running down his chin.  Valandil quickly scooped up the box and rushed out into the lightly falling snow.

The Houses of Healing

Mercatur

Supported by Valandil, Mercatur pounded on the door of the Houses of Healing.  He pushed Valandil away croaking, "Take the box to the Minister, I'll be fine."  Valandil hesitated but then ran off to Eärdil's home.

The door opened moments later and Jonu stepped out.  Seeing the mercenary he began to sneer, but quickly noticed the blood seeping from his nose and mouth.  The big Rhudauran clapped Jonu on the shoulder.  "Take me inside son, I need…I need to see Firiel. It's kinda urgent."  The Dunnish boy stepped aside and Mercatur staggered in.  He dropped his axe and crossbow to the floor and slumped down into the chair with the blade mark.  Weakly, he lowered his head onto the table. "This chairz muh favrit..."

The Home of the Minister of Justice

Valandil

Gasping for air as his breath steamed out of his mouth, Valandil roused the Minister, and a locksmith was summoned.  They gathered in the Minister's study as the smith worked the mechanism.  Eärdil sat on a plush green chair at his ornately carved desk, which was made of oak and stained to give the wood a rich luster.  When the box was opened, it was revealed that indeed Hallas was passing illegal herbs and smuggling food while taking bribes and pirating imports.

In his cotton night robes, Eärdil read some more of the documents, grunting occasionally and nodding his head. "Liam the Greengrocer has received much of the illegal products to sell at exorbitant prices.  Two others are implicated: Lorindel Lintehen, a guildsman with the sailors, and Anvelig the Chandler.  Lintehen was the actual smuggler in bringing the goods into Tharbad.  A good friend of Hallas', his ship was personally 'inspected' by the Harbormaster and always passed.  Anvelig was the treasurer of the group.  He laundered the money gained in the drug trade through his warehouse."

Some footsteps caught Valandil's attention and he put his hand on the grip of his broadsword on instinct.  This had already been a night of unpleasant surprises.  A woman in night robes came through the door to the study, carrying a tray of hot tea and snacks.  She was a slender, mature Dúnadan with chocolate brown hair and just a hint of crowsfeet around her brown eyes. "You boys will need some refreshment to keep working," she said, nodding to Valandil with a smile.

Eärdil took a cup and a pastry.  "How would I do without you, my dear Rîneth?"

"You wouldn't."  She set the tray down and pecked Eärdil on the cheek.  She extended her hand to Valandil.  "And you are, good sir?"

He took her hand and bowed.  "Valandil, madam. I am a sergeant in the Royal Army, but currently commissioned by your husband."

"Nice to meet you, Valandil.  May I ask why you are on leave from the army?"

The soldier paused a moment.  This was a very painful memory.  He blew out a long breath.  "The battle…the one at Tyrn Gorthad.  My whole company was annihilated.  I…I am…the only survivor.  My captain ordered me to take the wounded to safety before the final assault.  I…will always regret leaving.  I should have stayed.  I have…many regrets," he said haltingly, full of remorse for his actions.

Rîneth put her hand on his arm.  "I cannot imagine.  We only heard of the horrors of the battle.  Poor Ostoher.  We knew him well.  I, for one, am glad that you escaped.  Practically every household lost someone.  We are still counting the dead and I fear that we may never know the full truth of who was lost."

He shook his head slowly.  "I have no company to return to.  I am on furlough until some form of an army is reconstituted.  Until then, I am at you and your husband's service."

Eärdil raised a parchment high over his head.  "Aha!  I have something." He laid several sheets on his desk.  "Look here.  These are detailed records of transactions and deliveries.  This is enough to make arrests."  He gave a broad grin and looked at his wife.  "Go and rouse Ferion, please. Tell him that I need fifteen constables to rally at the courthouse and for Lieutenant Nestor to come here. I will fill him in and have warrants for him to arrest Liam, Anvelig and Lintehen.  Hurry now, please."  Rîneth rushed off to wake their personal bodyguard.

Eärdil, chuckled to himself and then tore off his night robe and quickly put on a thick wool tunic and pants, followed by fur lined boots.  He then slung his cloak of office over his shoulder and fastened it with a golden pin in the shape of a scale.  Valandil thought him to be positively giddy.  The Minister then sat back down and began writing out arrest warrants as fast as his hands could go and then pouring hot wax on the lower corner and pressing his signet ring into the blob.  He took a look at one of the seals.  "The hill beneath a measuring scale," he said, showing it to Valandil.  "This is the signet of the Minister of Justice in Cardolan."

In fifteen minutes, a middle-aged man with receding salt and pepper hair ran up to the landing of the house.  He had thick, muttonchop sideburns down the sides of his face and he wore a chainmail shirt under a thick, green woolen surcoat that had a red hill, surrounded by stars, on his chest. He banged on the door.  "Minister!  Minister!  I'm here!"

Rîneth rushed to open the door to see Nestor slapping at his arms and stomping his feet, his breath steaming out.  "Come in, lieutenant.  Please, get warm.  I have a hot cup of tea for you."  She led Nestor to the nearby study and pointed to one of the plush green chairs, where he sat and took a cup.

Eärdil looked up from the documents.  "Nestor!  Thank you for coming so late.  We have had a big break in the smuggling case.  I have warrants for you," he said, holding out the documents.  "My signature and seal are upon them.  I want the following men arrested and brought to the courthouse lockup.  Liam the Grocer, Anvelig the Chandler and Lorindel Lintehen. Hold them in cells for interrogation.  I will be at the courthouse in an hour, awaiting your arrival with the suspects."

Nestor took the warrants and bowed.  "Thank you for your hospitality, Minister, Lady Rîneth," he said and then drained the last of the tea in his cup.  "I'll be on my way then."

Rîneth grabbed a couple of pastries and put them in Nestor's palm.  "I wouldn't dare let you out of my house without a proper snack for a busy night.  Please stay warm and safe."

Nestor smiled and bowed.  "Many thanks Lady Rîneth."

Eärdil motioned to Valandil.  "Why don't you go along.  I'm sure my men could use an experienced hand."

The soldier perked right up.  It was all that he wanted.  "I'm on it.  Hold up Nestor."

They rallied with the constables and Nestor sent five to each location.  Valandil went with Nestor to the grocer's house.  Amid the light dusting of snow, the arrest of Liam went smoothly, Nestor knocking on the door and arresting the grocer as he came out. Valandil spun him about and slapped the irons on him.

"That went better than I expected," Nestor said with a smile.  "Easy is good."

Valandil thought it was a little anticlimactic, but he had had enough excitement for a while.  "Let's get back to the courthouse and update the Minister."  They hustled back to jail to meet with Mardil, the City Jailer.  The old, fat man looked none too pleased.

"Ehhhhh," the jailer groaned and fixed his beady eyes on the team, his snoutlike nose turned up, nostrils flaring.  "You know what time it is?"

Right about then, another team arrived with Anvelig the Chandler in irons.  Nestor went up to the jailer and presented his warrant.  "Yeah yeah yeah.  It's about time you worked for a living, Mardil," he said impatiently.  "C'mon, open the cells.  It's getting cold out here.  We have two with one on the way."

Mardil huffed and waddled back to the cells.  "Fine. Follow me."  They followed him into the jail, which was surprisingly clean given Mardil's lack of hygiene.  He opened two cells as Eärdil walked in.

"I see you have two in custody," the Minister said, looking around with a smile.  "Good. Any news from the third team?"  Eärdil's excitement was infectious and Valandil was feeding off of it, pacing around.

As if on cue, the constables, tasked with arresting Lintehen, stepped in.  The sergeant looked to Eärdil.  "M'Lord, Lintehen was apparently alerted to the incursion into Hallas' office.  He fled only moments before we arrived, and a city-wide search is in progress.  The Night Watch will stop him from leaving the city."

Eärdil nodded at the news.  He was a little disappointed, but aware that they had done pretty well overall.  "I see, Sergeant Haldaer.  Well, thank you for your report and action.  Mardil, please secure these prisoners and make sure they cannot speak to each other.  Ummm, and not with your club.  I need them able to provide us with information when we return and having all of their teeth will be…helpful."  The jailer snorted a chuckle, but then pushed the two into separate cells and locked the door.  Eärdil looked back at his constables.  "Come friends, the night is just beginning.  We must return to the residences of the smugglers and uncover more evidence.  Nestor, please have more constables on standby for another shift and we will need crates and wagons to transport evidence to the courthouse."

Nestor grabbed one of the young constables.  "Raedon, go quickly.  Rouse fifteen more constables for another shift," he said and the man rushed out of the jailhouse.  He grabbed two more young constables. Thandirion, Ravenor, go to the storehouse and get what the minister needs.  Here are the keys.  Go.  Hurry."

For the next few hours, Eärdil, Valandil and the team of guardsmen combed the houses of Liam, Anvelig, and the fugitive Lintehen.  All three homes were a veritable treasure trove of illegal goods: hallucinogens, sedatives, stimulants, and even poisons.  These were confiscated and brought to the Courthouse to be locked away.  As the sun rose over the chilly city the job was finally completed.  The Minister dismissed the guards, giving them each a gold coin from his own pocket.  Wearily turning to Valandil he smiled and said, "I am still too excited to return to bed.  You have done a magnificent task here and I would like to invite you to my home for breakfast.  My staff can cook a marvelous meal."

Valandil was also quite wound up.  "I would be glad to Sir, but first I must check on Mercatur.  He was wounded in the fight with Hallas and is now at the Houses of Healing.  I will come by afterward."

Eärdil clapped the soldier on the back and nodded.  "You give my best to that cocky mercenary.  If there is anything that I can do, you have but to ask."  Valandil smiled and turned away toward the South Bank.  He was exhausted but couldn't stop to rest just yet.

Chapter End Notes

The drugs and herbs were creations of the RPG module.

Leave a Comment

The Houses of Healing – Girithron (December) 2^nd, 1409

Firiel

The Healer was sipping morning tea in the common lounge contemplating the return of Mercatur.  She held the cup just under her nose, letting the aroma of chamomile fill her nostrils.  She wondered, Where is Valandil?  What has happened?

Last night, Mercatur was going into shock when she was roused by Jonu.  He would laugh weakly and mumble incoherently.  She stopped the bleeding, but he had lost a lot of blood, and his injuries were serious.  He was now sleeping soundly in one of the wards on the third floor.  She felt he would recover, but he would surely be on his back for a while.  Kaile was in a dark mood with the return of the Mercenary.  She stomped about silently, cleaning out bedpans and folding sheets.  Jonu and some of the other attendants swept the halls and laundered the linens.  There was no end of work to be done, but the Healer needed ten minutes.

Firiel's mind wandered to other concerns, The Plague is still hitting the city hard, and supplies are still low despite Nel's constant charity.  The loss of the gold could still be felt keenly here and she still had not released herself from blame.  She twirled her long golden hair, contemplating her situation for a few more moments before downing her tea and donning her Healer's Robe.

There was a knock on the door, which was answered by Jonu.  Valandil stood there in a chainmail shirt.  He was dirty and had obviously been in a fight.  His gloves were stained by dried blood as was his undershirt.  His black hair was unkempt and the sleepiness in his eyes was clearly evident.  Seeing Jonu he grunted, "I've come to see Mercatur, how is he doing?"

Jonu turned away.  "You'll have to ask him," the boy said with a snide edge to his voice.

Without expression, Valandil entered, closing the door behind him.  Seeing Firiel he declared, "I'll not stay long.  I just came to see how he is."

Without looking up she replied, "He's on the third floor, room two."  Valandil grunted again and proceeded up the stairs.

Firiel didn't know what to feel.  In fact, she felt barely anything at all.  She could sleep for a week if the world wasn't falling apart.  With weary eyes, she looked around to see blood pooled on the floor of the main ward and heard coughing and moaning.  She went to the first patient that she encountered and felt his forehead.  Definitely hot.  She crumpled a leaf beneath his nose. "Inhale.  Inhale slowly.  Let the scent fill your lungs." The old man coughed weakly but drew a deep breath.

He let out a smile and nodded.  "Thank you, madam.  It really helps."

Firiel put her hand on his chest.  "Your lungs are clearing, and your temperature should come down.  I'll come by again in a couple of hours to give you another dose."  Then, she looked down the row of beds and counted all twenty to be full. It would be a long morning."

The Upper Ward of the Houses of Healing - Girithron 2^nd, 1409

Valandil

Seeing Mercatur unconscious he wrote a message detailing all that had occurred.  He left it on a table next to the bed and turned to go.  Seeing an adolescent girl attending the room he spoke, "Take good care of my friend."  She looked familiar and he searched for her name.  "Pelemeth, right?"

The young woman nodded and gave him a cautious smile.  Her height, dark brown hair and freckles made her out to be a Dúnadan.  "I will, good sir."

"Thank you," he said and gave her a silver coin.  He smiled weakly and headed back to Eärdil's home.

The meal at Eärdil's home was magnificent.  The food shortage had forced the Minister's staff to be creative.  The Minister used his rations for a week to provide this breakfast.  Valandil ate hungrily and downed a mug of coffee in a few gulps.  Eärdil extended his hand.  "Please, take more.  I cannot thank you and your friend enough for your work.  This broke open months of investigation.  How is the mercenary, by the way?"

"He's in good hands and he should recover fully, given time."

Eärdil nodded and then sipped on a glass of fruit juice.  "Good. I am glad to hear that.  He is a very capable man."  He took another bite of ham.  "A part of me identifies with the food smugglers who can enjoy excellent meals all the time, but I am the law and cannot afford not to set an example.  Our meals will be light for the remainder of the week."  Rîneth moved to fill his glass, but he waved her off.  "You served me all last night.  Let it be my turn," he said and dished some of the scrambled eggs onto her plate and then refilled her glass.

Valandil tore through the eggs and sausage and several glasses of fruit juice imported from the southern hirdoms.  "Thank you, Minister, Lady Rîneth.  I haven't eaten this well in months and I appreciate your trust."

Rîneth smiled and raised her glass.  "My husband speaks well of you and your friend.  It is my pleasure to extend the hospitality of our family to you."

Eärdil gave Valandil a large sack of coins as his promised reward.  "I do not have to worry about you not giving Mercatur his share.  However, if the roles were reversed..." the Minister joked, provoking laughter from Valandil.

The two sat and talked until noon.  The minister was interested in hearing about Valandil's exploits in the war and his adventures about town.  Valandil spoke about his frustration with Firiel and the loss of the money.  He revealed his promise to give his share of the reward to the Houses of Healing.  Eärdil was very impressed.  "Valandil, I have need of a warrior with your bravery and honesty.  Those are rare traits to come by these days.  How would you feel about accepting a commission in the City Guard?  The pay is decent, but the hours are long and hard," he asked.

"Minister, I would have to think on it and right now I am unable to think until I have had some sleep," Valandil answered groggily.  "I am so grateful for your trust though.  I feel…renewed and have a purpose again.  You shall have an answer by the morrow, but for now, I should take my leave."

"Fair enough.  Take some time... and good luck with your situation," Eärdil added, showing Valandil to the door.  The soldier trudged slowly back to his flat and the moment his head touched the pillow he was asleep.

Somewhere in Cardolan

Lorindel Lintehen stood in an intense light facing a figure shrouded in darkness.  He fidgeted nervously and sweat beaded down his face as he squinted.  He was a thin man with leathery skin from years on the sea.  His sailor's garb was soaked with perspiration and he fanned himself with his hand to stay cool.  Two men in masks and dark cloaks stood behind him holding his arms while one masked man sat in front of him.

"Fool, how did you allow this to happen?" spoke the figure, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

Lintehen's hands shook and his breathing was shallow and rapid.  He answered tremulously, "Uh, sir... I uh... Hallas was to blame, he allowed the guards to see his records... ummm, I was away... I had nothing to do with it... I swear."

The figure shrugged, then motioned Lintehen closer with a pull of his finger.  The men in the masks pushed the sailor forward, none too gently.  Lintehen shied away, repulsed by the figure.  Out of the shadows a hand in a black glove reached out and grasped Lintehen by the tunic.

"You were still part of his organization.  Failure is intolerable!  Take him to the mines, he'll make fine snaga for the orcs," the figure shoved Lintehen back into the waiting arms of the masked men.  They held him tight and dragged him out through the door.  Lintehen's wailing could be heard for some time before he was out of earshot.

The Houses of Healing - Girithron 3rd, 1409

Haedorial

Haedorial the Bard had arrived when Kaile and Jonu were setting the table in the lounge.  He was dressed in his best finery, a green silk tunic with slashes of red on the sleeves and green pants with gold stripes down the legs.  He removed his green felt flatcap as he entered.  The House's finest pewter settings came out for the occasion too.  The dining table was covered in an elaborate red and yellow cloth, a gift from Firiel's mother, an elf from Lindon.  Jonu greeted the bard and sat him at the table with a glass of wine which Haedorial gladly accepted.

"Thank you, dear boy, I could certainly use one of these.  It's quite cold out you know," he said and then took a sip and marveled at the taste and texture.  "Magnificent!  May I see the label?" he inquired.  Jonu brought him the bottle and cork.  Haedorial inspected the label and smiled.  "From the King's own vineyards.  A fine year too."  He set the bottle down and took another sip, relishing the slightly bitter taste.

Kaile brought out the platters of food.  It was meager fare, but times were hard.  Firiel, who had prepared the meal, excused herself and went upstairs to change.  Jonu sat at the table, entranced by Haedorial's stories of the history of Arnor.

It was shortly after Firiel had come downstairs when a knock was heard at the door.  Jonu rushed to open it.  Nel was there, dressed in a fine gray cotton tunic and breeches. Her boots were of doe skin with fur lining, a very expensive pair of footwear.  She had pulled her raven hair back and tied it in a ponytail.  She was radiant, cheeks rosy as she stepped into the light and the gasps of all could be heard.

No one gasped louder than Haedorial whose expression was one of awe, his eyes huge and his mouth slightly open.

Kaile ushered Nel in and sat her at the head of the table.  Firiel, who sat at the other end, spoke, "Welcome Nel, we wanted to thank you for your kindness, and we have a guest whose life you saved by your actions.  May I introduce Haedorial the Bard."  Turning to Haedorial she continued, "This is Nel, our honored guest."  Nel extended her hand to Haedorial who was seated next to her.  He took her hand and kissed it gently.  A look of recognition was in his eyes.  He worried that he was dreaming.

Nel smiled nervously, seeming to avoid eye contact.  "Praythee, good sir, have We met you before?"

"Er...not exactly...um...no we haven't," he replied.  Though true, he had performed at several Royal functions in happier times.  He encountered her once on the Festival of Yüle two years ago, but that was not a true meeting.  Kaile and Jonu began serving the meal, bringing platters of hot, steaming soup, bread, meats and cheeses.  A wonderful aroma of a finely cooked meal permeated the room.

As Kaile dished food onto her plate, Firiel smiled warmly.  "We have not entertained since before the war and these table settings have not been out of the attic since the turn of the century.  However, I won't bore you with my plate stories," she said with a chuckle.  "Haedorial, please explain your story to Nel."

Haedorial turned to the young woman and told her the tale of his scuffle outside the gate and how he was beaten to within an inch of his life.  "Two strangers took the risk of saving me and carrying me here.  I was dying and healing herbs were very scarce and only your charity saved my life.  This, I am sure of."

Nel flushed with pride and blushed furiously.  She turned her nose up, happy with the outcome of her journeys. "My uncle was wrong.  He tried to dissuade us from helping the sick and needy.  This, dear friends, is proof that We need to be directly involved in the kingd…affairs of the city.  There can be no other way.  We are proud to have been of service, dear bard, and We are ever so glad to see that you have recovered fully."

The meal was most entertaining thanks to Haedorial.  He told tales of Gil‑Galad, the Elven King of Old and of far-off Gondor.  Jonu was enthralled and Nel listened to every word.  "I can't wait to grow up and see the world for myself," the young assistant said, gazing at Kaile.

Nel smiled, her perfect teeth showing through.  "It can be a wide, wonderful world, my good assistant.  Our father," she began before her smile faded, "traveled far and wide. He stayed in Arthedain, studying war and astrology.  He also visited Minas Anor and Minas Ithil and marveled at the wonders of Gondor.  He would tell us tales of Elendil the Tall and Isildur and long-lost Númenor.  He even spent time in Lindon with the elves, learning how to maintain a fleet.  We daresay that he was even friends with Cirdan the Shipwright," she said proudly. She then stared at the bard.  “We swear, good musician, that We have seen you before.  Your voice…you seem so familiar.”  Nel thought for a moment.

He grinned and twirled his audacious mustache.  “I perform regularly at noble and Royal functions,” he said proudly, almost as bait.  “Perhaps you saw me there.”

Nel nodded, a demure smile on her lips.  “Ah yes, that must be it.  We think We recall seeing you perform.  Sublime, simply sublime, good sir.”

He tilted his head down and lifted his flatcap.  “Many thanks, good lady, many thanks.”

Finally, when it was getting late and the stories were getting scarce, Nel bade farewell to everyone and thanked them for the dinner.  "You have been such wonderful hosts, my good people. We shall not forget this, and We shall endeavor to replace the food and coin that you have so graciously spent for our entertainment."  With a curtsey and flourish worthy of the Royal Court of Cardolan, she departed into the darkness as she had arrived.

When several moments had passed, Kaile grabbed Haedorial impatiently. "Well?"

Haedorial looked slowly back to her, his face still showing amazement. "Young lady, you are not going to believe this."

Elsewhere in Tharbad – Girithron 3rd, 1409

Three men entered the shop of Nomrel the Cartwright as the heavyset man was repairing a wheel for a carriage of the Jewler's Guild.  The men, two tall and one small were cloaked and hooded, snow melting off of their clothes.  They stood behind Nomrel for some time before he noticed them.  The balding cartwright gasped in surprise when he saw them.

"Hoa... You men scared me.  Why didn't you just ring the bell?  What can I do for you?" he asked, shaking off the surprise.

One of the tall ones stepped forward.  He reeked of alcohol as he spoke, "We are the Gurth Rodyn.  We have noticed that this is a very dangerous neighborhood.  We'd like to offer you some protection."

Nomrel pinched up his face, suspicious.  "What do you mean?  This is quite a safe neighborhood."

"No, it isn't.  Bad things can happen to people who are unprotected.  If you donate a small weekly sum of goods or gold, we can be persuaded to make sure nothing happens to your shop," the tall one spoke again.

Nomrel laughed heartily at their preposterous words.  "You men are insane, get out of here."  He pointed to the door.

The tall one smirked.  "All right, we'll see.  Soon, you'll beg to have us protect you."  With that the three departed.

Nomrel shrugged.  "I can't believe the gall...and on the month of Yüle," he declared and then went back to repairing that tire, putting the incident out of his mind.

The Houses of Healing

Firiel

Kaile's mouth hung open for several minutes, her eyes as big as saucers in anticipation of more.  Firiel and Jonu were tense as a tightrope, too stunned to speak.  Haedorial nodded and spread his hands to illustrate his words.  "Yes, I saw Her Highness at a Royal Tournament two years ago. King Ostoher was holding his annual joust, and I was a player at the festivities.  It was a grand gathering.  And then again, later at the Royal Festival of Yüle.  My wife, Faeliriel and I were doing The Lay of Leithian along with 'Dardan the tragic warlord’ and..."

Firiel interrupted him with a sweep of her hand.  "Never mind that. What about Nel?"

Haedorial smiled apologetically and put his hands up.  "Apologies, good Firiel.  Her real name is Nirnadel Aranyónorë, daughter of the late King Ostoher and the Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Cardolan.  She is descended, though not directly, from King Elendil the Tall, who defeated Sauron. All these lands are being held for her by Nimhir the Regent and Chancellor of the Realm until her majority when she will be coronated at the Royal Palace of Thalion."

Haedorial's audience blinked hard.  This was unbelievable, the future sovereign of Cardolan running about like an errand girl.

Firiel shook her head and narrowed her eyes.  "No, this can't be.  Haedorial, could you be wrong?"

Haedorial sniffed in mock offense.  "Madam, I am a bard," he began with a bow.  "I pride myself on knowing who is who and what is what.  Have you noticed the quality of her clothing?  First rate.  Her boots were surely made by Ibal, the most skilled shoemaker in Cardolan.  I can't imagine them costing anything less than twenty gold crowns.  How about her accent?  Her mannerisms?  Most definitely royal...the best tutors...access to the finest books, her knowledge of history and lore.  The way in which she described her father?  Surely, she means King Ostoher.  How about the way in which she refers to herself as 'We'...the Royal 'We'?"

Kaile bit her lip.  "Well, I'll be damned," she said softly.

Firiel blew out a long sigh.  This changed things.  "So, what do we do now?  Surely, we can't have the next Queen of Cardolan risking herself for us.  That would be madness."

The bard furrowed his brows and put his hand on his chin.  "I had not thought that far ahead, good people.  I was caught up in the excitement of the moment.  I cannot speak for you, but you are right.  It would be a disaster if she were harmed."

"I need to…I need to think this one over," Firiel said, feeling the pressure of making a decision now.  "If she were harmed trying to help us, I couldn't live with it, but we cannot make do without her help.  Let's clean up and sleep on this.  I would not have dreamed that something so monumental would fall into our house and I would welcome any ideas."

Elsewhere in Tharbad

"The shoes will be delivered on time, as usual," Ibal said mechanically to the Gondorian page standing before him.  The adolescent nodded and paid Ibal twelve gold coins; a large sum.  Ibal, the exclusive contractor of footwear for the Gondorian Embassy and the Royal House of Cardolan, put the gold in his safe box.  He thought to himself that the winter of 1409‑1410 wouldn't be so disastrous after all.

As the page departed, two tall men and one small one entered his shop.  One of the tall ones picked up a shoe and strode toward Ibal.  The conservative shoe craftsman looked up and smiled. "May I help you?"

At Other Shops

Serinde the designer collapsed to the ground, trembling.  Tears flowed from her eyes.  She rubbed her head where the small man had struck her with a stick.  A lump began to rise.  "Such an outrage!" she screamed.  Only after several of her finest fabrics were torn to shreds did she pay the men some silver.  They left, cackling to themselves.

Findegil the merchant groaned.  His hand was bruised by the small man.  The two tall ones held him while the small one stomped his hand with a boot.  They had gone, but not before they got Findegil's 'elven cloak'.

Later that week, Barkwell's Tannery and Leather shop was burned to the ground.  Word got out that this was an example of the disasters that would befall 'unprotected' merchants.

Nomrel's mood was very different when the three men returned the following week.  The two tall ones approached while the small one stood watch.  One of the tall ones spoke quietly to the other, "Merwai, don't forget the speech now."  Nomrel just managed to overhear this and kept it in his memory.

After Merwai had made the group's demands, Nomrel nodded grimly.  He handed the man a bag of ten silver coins.  The men left and Nomrel returned to his work.

Chapter End Notes

Now that the members of the Houses of Healing know that Nel is Princess Nirnadel, how will they react?  Can the guards continue to protect her?  Will my cat stop walking on the keyboard?  How will the protection racket be dealt with by the Minister?

Leave a Comment

Valandil’s Flat – Girithron 4^th, 1409

Valandil

Valandil felt renewed after a week of rest.  As it was midweek, he wanted to stretch his legs around town, shopping at the various markets and kiosks.  He also wanted to check on Mercatur, who was still recovering.  He was truly worried about the crusty mercenary.  They were really coming together as a team, and he found that he liked investigating.  On the busy, snowy street on his way to the Houses of Healing he was approached by a well-dressed, heavyset man.  The man appeared nervous, sweating in spite of the chill and biting his lower lip.

"Excuse me, young man.  Please, don’t think I’m stalking you, but I’ve asked around and they said you come this way.  Ummm...I heard of your success with the smugglers... Er...can I buy you a drink?" the man blurted out.  Valandil was taken aback. He became suspicious thinking that smugglers might want to take revenge on him.  Seeing Valandil's expression the man continued, "Er...I am Nomrel the Cartwright...Umm, maybe you know me?  My father built the coronation carriage of King Minalcar a century ago?  Um, no?  Well, I need your help.  Please, please follow me.  I swear that this is not a setup.”

Valandil nodded, now a little curious.  He followed Nomrel into the King's Crown Tavern, vigilant against a possible ambush.  Nomrel requested a secluded booth near a fireplace and soon the two were seated in a private room.  Valandil sat after the merchant and warmed his hands near the glowing brazier.  He scanned the booth and kept his hand under his cloak where he kept a small dagger.  A wise precaution he learned from Mercatur.  Some hot tea was served to ease the chill.  Nomrel warmed his hands on the teacup, blowing across the liquid.

Valandil looked up.  "I'm listening," he said quietly, both cautious and interested.

Nomrel nodded and cleared his throat.  “Several shopkeepers in the central district, including myself, have recently been contacted by a group of ruffians who call themselves the Gurth Rodyn.  They have demanded weekly payments of money or goods in return for 'protecting' our shops," he said, putting his words in quotes.  "At first, I did not take these demands seriously.  Then, Barkwell's Tannery and Leather Shop was burned down as an example.  The gang told me they would return on Orgillion for their payment.  I will not continue to pay such extortion, but I have no wish to lose my shop either.  If you can find and eliminate these blackguards before their next visit, I will gladly pay you fifty percent of the money they are demanding.  I've heard of your deeds, Valandil.  You and your mercenary friend have a reputation for getting the job done.  What do you say?  Please, I am desperate."  He put his hands together in supplication.

Valandil was a little disturbed at 'having a reputation' as well as still harboring some suspicion.  He leaned back considering the offer.  Eärdil would surely be interested in this information.  He decided to play along and see where it might lead.

If Nomrel is honest, so much the better.  Valandil nodded and the two men shook hands.  "What can you tell me?" Valandil asked.  Nomrel sipped more tea and scratched his balding head.  He then related the incident at his shop while Valandil quietly nodded.

When Nomrel had finished, he summoned the servant and ordered some bread and cheese.  When the servant left, he continued, "I know of five other shops that have been visited: The Mithril Crown, Herbs of Quality, Ibal’s Shoes, Findegil’s, and Serende’s Originals.  I think some of these shops may already be paying out protection."  Valandil nodded understanding.

Nomrel spoke again.  "The gang appears early.  Three men, two tall and one small, all cloaked and hooded.  One of the tall ones talks...I heard his name...Merwai, yes that's it.  He reeked of alcohol too.  The other two...," he added before stopping short.

At that moment the servant arrived with the plate of bread and cheese.  He left a bowl of condiments also: mustard, corn relish, and a creamy spread that was the specialty of the house.  Nomrel thanked the young man and tipped him a copper coin.  When the servant had departed, the merchant looked Valandil square in the eyes and asked, "Will you help me?  I sense you to be a good man.  I will give you ten gold coins today.  Forty more will follow if you agree."

"Why not go to the town garrison?" Valandil countered, honestly curious.

"They mean well, but frankly, they are so understaffed I can't rely on them.  Besides, I heard rumors that many of them were corrupt." Nomrel answered.

Valandil remembered the execution of the corrupt constable by Eärdil. “The Minister of the King's Justice is a true man.  He executed a corrupt official before my very eyes. I think he can be trusted.”

Nomrel shook his head emphatically, holding out his hands. "That may be true, but what of his staff?  My shop could be ashes before they get around to me.  Please, consider my offer." Valandil was still uncomfortable with vigilantism but agreed to think it over.  Nomrel insisted that he take the ten gold coins with him and that they meet back at the King's Crown tomorrow at the same time.

The Houses of Healing

Mercatur

Mercatur was finally up and very mean tempered, his muscles sore and his bones creaky.  He chided himself for being ambushed like he did.  That would never have happened back on the Dunnish Track in Rhudaur.  He could smell a trap a mile away out there. He sulked in his bed quietly eating the meal Pelemeth had brought him.  Except for bringing his meals and changing his bandages, she avoided him, clearly afraid.  He pushed the oatmeal away, feeling weak and very sore and had still not read the note nor counted the money from Valandil.  Finishing his last crumb of bread, he grabbed a stick and reached over to close the curtains, blocking out the sunlight.

The Courthouse

Valandil

"Minister, I need to speak with you about a matter of great importance," Valandil said to Eärdil entering his office.  He was starting to feel part of the city and was gaining a vested interest in its survival.

The Minister was dressed immaculately as usual.  He was going over the Constabulary's budget and seemed positively bored.  He looked up and smiled warmly at Valandil, motioning him in.  "All this paperwork.  I miss getting out into the field with my constables.  We have no scribe now you know, and I have to do all of this myself."

Valandil sat and put Nomrel's bag of gold coins on the teak desk.  "Sir, I was approached by a merchant named Nomrel, who states that he is being threatened and extorted.  He gave me these coins as an incentive to help him.  I knew it would be best to bring this to your attention."

Eärdil nodded.  "That was good thinking.  We cannot have vigilantes running around.   We need to coordinate our efforts if we are to succeed in overcoming this wave of crime."

Valandil felt good at hearing these words.  "What can we do?" he asked.

"I'd like to take this money and hire some willing men.  These men will assist you in your first investigation.  You will have a wide latitude of action in closing this case.  That is, if you accept the commission," he said with a hopeful grin.

The soldier returned the grin.  "Yes, I'm all in."

The minister let out a long sigh.  "I wasn't entirely sure that you would.  But I trust your judgment.  I can get you six men by tomorrow with this.  You may personally interview each one and choose the ones to your liking.  Tell Nomrel that you will take the job but let him think you are acting on your own.  We need to keep this on a low profile," Eärdil stated, drawing up a form to procure more manpower.  "I hate to use outside funds, but we really have little choice."

"Thank you, Minister. I do have a few questions about my status, though.  Where does this leave me with the army?"

The minister smiled.  "I knew you would ask that, such is your dedication to duty."  He slid a parchment across his desk that had already been filled out.  "This is a commission as a lieutenant in the Royal Constables of Tharbad.  It is open ended, and you can return to the army at any time.  The commission will transfer as well, and you can take it with you back to the army when you are ready.  You are an officer now," he said and put a golden cloak pin on the desk.  It bore the symbol of the scales over the red hill.  Eärdil smiled sheepishly. “I also took the liberty to do your paperwork for pay and benefits. You'll find life as a constable to be…comfortable.”

Valandil took the parchment and the cloak pin.  "Thank you, Minister.  I won't let you down.  I am glad to be back in charge of something.  It seemed that my life was going nowhere since the war, and this gives me a ray of hope."

That afternoon, Valandil headed south to the Houses of Healing to check on Mercatur. The mercenary was in a foul mood, but seeing Valandil brightened him somewhat.

"It's awfully dark in here," Valandil noted, checking the curtains.  "You might want to air it out some," he said waving his hand in front of his nose. It was definitely a little more than musty.

Mercatur nodded, grunting.

"Did you get the payment?" Valandil added.  Mercatur grunted again, pointing to the unopened brown sack on the table.  Valandil sensed the Mercenary’s depression.  "We've got another job.  It should pay pretty well," he said, offering some incentive.

Mercatur shook his head without looking up. "...not interested.  I think I'll hang here for a while."

"So, you do talk," shot Valandil, a little sternly.  He had hoped for more.  Mercatur sat motionless.  Valandil pulled out ten of his own gold coins from his purse. "Here's your half of our first day's pay," he lied, giving the man the whole amount.  He tossed the coins next to the sack.  "Meet me tomorrow at the King's Crown Tavern at nine in the morning so you can earn this money."  With that, he left, disappointed but still hopeful.

Mercatur groaned, rolling out of bed. He walked over to the table and stacked the coins. Ten light golden coins with the image of Ostoher on one side and ram's head on the reverse.  Shaking the bag of unopened coins in his hand he pondered for a bit.  Setting the bag down, he pulled off the musty patient's robe he had been wearing and put on his wool tunic and pants.  Picking up his axe, he strode over to the window and opened the curtain to see the snow-covered ground.

The King's Crown Tavern – Merchant Quarter - 9:00 AM – Girithron 5th, 1409

Valandil

Valandil sat at one of the booths, eyeing the timepiece that was carefully situated on the mantle above the fireplace.  The owner of the tavern, Elgwain Grelive had just brought a baked ham and some bread to the soldier, and the aroma brought rumbles to his stomach.  This was a family place, certainly not where trouble would occur.  Elgwain and his wife, Arma ran it with their five teenaged children and it was clean with great food.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nomrel enter the establishment.  Nomrel took off his snow-covered cloak, shook it out and then spotted Valandil and waved.  The soldier searched around for Mercatur but was disappointed.  Maybe the mercenary was too far gone. He sighed as the cartwright sat down at the booth and slid in.  Valandil took a gulp of mead and passed some of the ham to the merchant.  The older man thanked him and ordered his own beverage from Elgwain.

Valandil spoke, "You have my services.  It appears that I'll be acting alone..."

"Don't speak so fast," a familiar voice spoke.  Mercatur slid in next to Nomrel and grabbed a hunk of ham with his fingers.  “You can’t eat all that by yourself and not share,” he said with a smirk.

Valandil nearly jumped out of his chair in excitement.  He caught himself and continued, "Sorry.  Let me introduce my partner, Mercatur.  He's the muscle behind the operation."

Nomrel sighed in relief and took a sip of ale.  "This bodes well.  If you like, I will allow you to set up at my shop.  You can see firsthand the group's operation.  As I said before, their spokesman is Merwai, and he reeked of alcohol.

Mercatur put down his ham and his eyes got big. "Merwai?" he asked.

The soldier cocked an eyebrow. "You know him?" he asked with a sense of relief that his partner was here.

The mercenary stroked his brown beard. "Why, that little bastard.  He's just a two-bit drunk from the Orc's Head.  How'd he get hooked up into this sophisticated an operation?"

Nomrel nodded.  "I see that I came to the right men.  As I promised, here is the forty gold on top of the ten I gave you before." He slid a velvet bag, heavy with gold toward Valandil, who counted twenty to Mercatur.

The merchant downed the last of his ale and stood up.  "I will return to my shop.  You may come by any time." With that, he departed.

Valandil and Mercatur also stood to leave.  They bumped into each other briefly and Valandil felt a new weight in his pocket.  Reaching in, he felt thirty gold coins in a sack. He turned to Mercatur.  "What's this?"

The mercenary hefted his axe and smiled.  "So, you gave me half of our first day's pay, huh?  Well, this mercenary wants to actually earn it.  I'm giving you five extra for saving my behind too."  Leading the way out of the tavern he added, "By the way, thanks. It was getting dark in that room, and the nurse was annoying."

Around Tharbad

Valandil and Mercatur walked into the Mithril Crown, a beautiful shop stocked with exquisite jewels.  The shop's owner, Irimon, approached the two with a rather haughty expression.  Thin as a rail with sharp features and a hawk's beak nose, he was dressed in fine silk robes and adorned with some of his precious jewels.  In a high, nearly squeaky voice he asked, "What do you two want?"

"Sir, we've heard about the problems you've been having and we want to help," said Valandil.

Irimon raised his nose and commanded, "I do not know what you are talking about and if you do not leave now, I will call the constables."  He pointed right at the door.  His hand was shaking like a leaf.

Valandil was about to counter that he was a constable, but Mercatur grabbed him and pulled him out of the shop.  "What was that for?" Valandil asked.

Mercatur shrugged.  "He's a weenie.  It's not worth it.  Let's go to the next shop."

At the Herbs of Quality, Valandil and Mercatur browsed around the unusual herbs for a time before the owner, Aladil came out.  He was a short man with a round face and warm features beneath a bushy brown beard.

"Excuse me.  Are you the owner?" asked Valandil.

Aladil smiled. "Why yes.  How may I help you?"

"Sir, we've been told by a friend that you have recently been threatened by some group. We have been sent to help," Valandil told him.

Aladil became obviously frightened, looking around and peering out of the window.  His brown eyes were huge.  "I...I... don't know what you are talking about."

Mercatur stepped forward and gave his best friendly expression. "Look, we're not the bad guys.  We would just like to keep an eye on your shop.  No cost to you of course."

Aladil nodded slowly, looking around, still suspicious. "That…that would be alright."

Valandil nodded, and then he and Mercatur left as Aladil wiped the perspiration from his face and sat down.

Ibal, the owner of Ibal's Shoes on the South Bank confirmed the group's threats against him.  The cobbler was a middle-aged man with graying hair.  He was rather fit for a craftsman.  He also confirmed Nomrel's description of their operation, the crow's-feet around his eyes crinkling with anger.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Valandil.

Ibal thought for a moment, putting his finger to his chin. "Well, I think there was a fourth hooded man on the roof across the street just before the three came in the shop," he stated. "I definitely saw that."

This was important information.  Was the man a spy or an archer, covering the bag men?  Mercatur stepped in. "We would like to set up an ambush in your shop.  I think we can round up the whole lot.  Would you be willing to let us do that?"

Ibal looked at them sideways, obviously concerned. "But there are only two of you."

Valandil nodded, but countered, "Sir, we are veterans of the war against Angmar.  I even shot an arrow at Rogrog, the Warlord."

The cobbler stepped back, clearly impressed. "Rogrog?  The troll? Well...um…alright. Just let me know when."

Mercatur nodded. "Thanks.  We'll get them."

As if struck by an idea, Ibal turned and grabbed a pair of boots off of his shelves. "Kind sirs, if this works out, I will gladly make each of you a custom pair of boots, no charge. You know, I once made a pair of boots for the Princess Nirnadel, fur lined in ermine and made of the supplest doeskin.  That, was thirty gold crowns, but for you, free."

The mercenary gave off a huge smile, teeth peering through his beard. "You have a deal bud."

The soldier added, "We will be careful.  We don't want any harm to come to you or your shop."

Serinde, the owner of Serinde's Originals was also helpful once Valandil showed her his constable's cloak pin.  She was a well-dressed, mature woman of exceptional beauty, slender and statuesque.  The attractive designer agreed to purchase supplies for the two and also felt certain that the short one of the group was a dwarf.

"A dwarf?" exclaimed Mercatur.  He continued, "This is bad.  I hate dwarves.  They're tough little buggers.  I can see now how Merwai got up the stuff to do this.  I'll bet the dwarf is behind this."

Valandil calmed him down. "We're going to hire some extra manpower with the gold, so we'll have numbers and surprise on our side."

Serinde held up a cloak and a padded tunic. "I will have more of these delivered to you," she said in her melodic voice.  My patron Findegil will also supply weapons and armor to your group.  I want these scoundrels taken down and thank you for protecting us.  We were beginning to lose hope."

Later, Valandil took the gold that was allocated for manpower and hired six able-bodied men and women.  He stationed them at Serinde's and Nomrel's.  Serinde was true to her word and weapons and armor arrived for their team.  This was all coming together, but he was worried about the dwarf.  A dwarf would be an unknown variable here.

Ibal's Shoes – Girithron 6th, 1409

Mercatur

Early one chilly morning, Valandil and Mercatur sat behind a closed kiosk on the Rath Romen, or Romen Road in front of Ibal's Shoes.  They could see Ibal pacing nervously in the shop through the frosty window.  Mercatur motioned for Ibal to sit, pushing his hand down several times, and he did so.  Their vantage point offered a view of the entire road and of the rooftops opposite the shop.  Little did they know someone else was watching them.

The two were not disappointed.  A hooded figure with a composite bow made his way across the tiled rooftops opposite the shop.  Mercatur nodded. "That's my target.  You get at least one of them in the shop." Valandil nodded in turn.  A few minutes later, the three bagmen arrived and went into the store.  Valandil drew his long bow and nocked one of the arrows that were given to him by Serinde, fine shafts with gray gull feathers.

Mercatur cocked his trusty crossbow, pulling the string over a catch.

Ibal could be seen inside handing money to one of the tall bagmen.  Then the three turned to leave the shop.  It was time to move.

Valandil tapped Mercatur's shoulder. "This is it." The three walked out of the shop and Mercatur fired a bolt into the chest of the man on the roof.  The bolt sunk in up to the feathers and the man fell forward with a thud, dropping his bow into the street.  Valandil shot an arrow into the small figure, but it broke with a clang.  He had obviously hit armor.  Mercatur laid his crossbow down and pulled out his axe as Valandil drew his broadsword and shield.  The three bagmen, breath visible in the cold morning, also drew their weapons and threw off their hoods.

Merwai stared down Mercatur and sneered, "So big man, want to dance?"  The two-bit thug seemed to have found some courage in a group.

The mercenary shot back, "Anytime, punk.  Anytime."   He grinned, tapping the haft of his axe into the palm of his open hand.

The dwarf was now revealed in dwarven-forged armor with a beautiful steel hammer and dwarven shield.  A thick, dark brown beard hung down over his chest to his belly, braided and forked.  This was not going to be an easy fight.

Valandil looked at the finely forged weapons of the dwarf and commented, "Oh boy." Ibal slammed his door shut and barred the windows.  The icy streets were also rapidly cleared.

Merwai and the other tall Dunlending man warily circled Mercatur.  Merwai occasionally feinted with his broadsword, but Mercatur stood, unblinking. The other man was more passive.

"Is that all you got?" Mercatur sneered.

On cue, Merwai and the other man lunged forward.  Mercatur beat their swords down and swung his axe at the other man clad in soft leather armor.  He brought his shield up and caught Mercatur's blow, but in the process his shield was split, wooden splinters flying.  He backed up and discarded the shield into the snow.

Merwai went back into a defensive stance. "Orcare, you alright?"

Orcare, steam rising from his body, wiped the sweat from his brow with his now free hand. "Yeah.  This guy's dead meat.  This isn’t just a bar brawl now, big man."

The dwarf put on a fantastic display of hammer twirls and mock attacks.  He clearly outclassed Valandil.  Bravely, Valandil strode forward, head behind his shield.  As the soldier began probing the dwarf's defenses, the armored runt launched a vicious assault.  Raining blows down upon Valandil's shield, his hammer appeared to be a blurry wheel, spinning furiously.  The new lieutenant warded off the blows but could not even mount any attack through the ferocity of the hammer strikes.  His shield was soon dented and crushed in several areas and his arm was also quickly becoming numb.  Under the assault, he steadily retreated backward toward the kiosk from which he had emerged with Mercatur.

Mercatur had problems of his own.  He had managed to strike Orcare twice, causing a slight gash across the bandit's shoulder, but he too was being driven back toward the kiosk.  The mercenary grabbed at several potted plants on the side of the road and hurled them at his two attackers to no avail.  Alone, the two were no match for Mercatur, but they worked together and both wielded good weapons.

Growing concerned, the mercenary picked up another pot and threw it at Merwai, connecting with his face as the pot shattered, spraying dirt around.  Merwai grunted and fell to one knee.  The mercenary took the opportunity to lunge forward and cut Orcare with his axe.  The axe bit deeply into the man's side.  Blood spurted out from the soft leather armor and Orcare fell to both knees.  The bandit dropped his short sword and grabbed onto Mercatur's axe.  Blood flowed from his nose and mouth. The angry mercenary gave him a kick in the face and Orcare fell backward but took the axe with him.

Shaking his head, Merwai wiped the blood from his face.  Seeing the situation, he rushed the now disarmed Mercatur, who quickly drew a dagger and parried the attack away with a clang of steel.  Merwai body checked Mercatur, who staggered back, crashing into the wooden kiosk.  Flowers and plants fell down around him, showering him with dirt.

Valandil saw his comrade crash against the kiosk but had desperate problems of his own.  His shield was now useless, and he tossed it away.  The dwarf feinted high and then stuck low, hammering his opponent on the armor of his thigh.  Valandil clocked the dwarf with his fist sending him back a step.  The stunned soldier limped around the kiosk to catch his breath, but his left leg was entirely numb and sweaty steam rolled off of his body.

Mercatur threw a handful of dirt into Merwai's face, blinding him temporarily.  As he was about to tackle the thug, a bolt of fire hit the bandit full on.  The bolt burst into flames sending sparks everywhere.  Where the hell did that come from?  Merwai was engulfed for a second and let out a howl that echoed down the street.  The bandit's clothes caught flame, and he fell to the ground batting at his shirt and face.  Mercatur fell upon him, grabbing the burning shirt and plunged his dagger into Merwai's throat twice to end the fight.

Valandil turned to see his enemy rounding the kiosk.  He could not outrun the dwarf in his condition and swung desperately at the little guy.  His opponent easily parried, but just then a 'boom' was heard and then a howl.  The dwarf hesitated and stepped back. Looking around the corner, the armored runt saw Mercatur finish Merwai off.

Just then, the dwarf lit up with electrical energy as if struck by a lightning bolt.  The tough bandit jolted in spasms as electricity ran over his body.  When the energy had dissipated, smoke rolled off of his armor.  The dwarf shook his head, and with a grunt, ran down the street, away from the battle.  Valandil attempted to pursue, but his leg collapsed from under him, and he fell to his knees in the snow.  Mercatur did not even see the dwarf depart.

As Valandil attempted to rise, he looked to see a hand outstretched.  A Dúnadan woman of stern beauty stood there, dressed in a blue robe with a blue cap over her blonde hair.  Her eyes were amber in color and her skin pale.  She looked around for any other threats.  Valandil accepted the hand, and the woman spoke, "It appeared that you were in grave trouble.  I am Silmarien.  We have been watching over you for some time and have a stake in your success.  Your friends will be along shortly." Having spoken, Silmarien faded and then vanished into thin air.  Valandil blinked, almost not believing what he had seen.  He sat down and scratched his head as he massaged his leg.  The image of Silmarien's face and the wyvern symbol on her cap were etched into his memory.

Moments later, Firiel and three others ran down the street towards them.  Firiel saw Valandil and Mercatur sitting in the road with three bodies, one of which was smoldering.  She ran to Valandil and hugged him. "Are you all right?  A strange woman appeared and told me you were in grave danger.  I thought she might be a mage or something."  Kaile tended to Mercatur and Jonu checked the bodies for any sign of life, while the third drew a bow and scanned the area.  That man was dressed in fine chainmail armor and wore a forest green cloak.  His features were finely chiseled, accented by a sharp blonde goatee that poked out from under his hood.

Firiel pulled off Valandil's cuisse, the armor over his thigh, and placed a pungent herbal pack on his left leg.  The smell alone brought tears to Valandil's eyes. "Oh, that's strong!"

She tapped him on the forehead. "It's meant to be that way.  Don't be a baby.  At least it's not broken."

Mercatur stood, shaking Kalie off and grabbing his axe.  "Come on!  The runt's getting away."

The armored man held up his gloved hand. "Don't worry.  I can track that dwarf.  It looks like he headed toward the Menatar Road.  You've done well.  We'll get him."

Valandil also stood, feeling much better though his left leg still wobbled.  He looked at Firiel. "I'm sorry.  I was such a hothead.  You've always been there for me."

Firiel hugged him again. "It's alright.  We need to stick together during these times." This was all that Valandil had wanted to hear.

Mercatur shook his head slowly, pulling at his beard. "Alright, break it up.  We got a dwarf to hunt."  They gathered in the street near the bodies of the thugs, just being covered in a dusting of snow.  He waved to the six hired men who were running up the road now.

The armored man was already heading up the road toward the Bank of Cardolan, barely leaving footprints in the snow.  This guy had to be a ranger.  He motioned to Mercatur. "He went north across the bridge." The mercenary followed quickly with Valandil limping along behind.  Firiel, Kaile and Jonu brought up the rear, along with two of the men that they hired who were catching up, the other four going to alert the constabulary.  At the Ryncaras Tharbad or bridge gate, Valandil caught Mercatur.  The huge, stone gate structure towered over the waters of the river Gwathló, shadowing the group.

Valandil got Mercatur's attention.  "Hey, did you see that woman back there at Ibal's? She was some kind of wizard or something."

Firiel chimed in. "She came to the Houses of Healing, too.  She warned us of what was happening and that your two were in danger.  She had some kind of lizard symbol on her cap."

Valandil corrected her. "It was a bronze wyvern."

Mercatur stopped suddenly and his brown eyes widened in horror. "A…a bronze wyvern?  That's the symbol of House Rhudainor of Rhudaur.  Are you sure?  They're all dead but for the new lord in Rhudaur.  I was there at the tower Tirthon when Lord Rhudainor fell.  You must be mistaken," he said emphatically, punching his hand out with every word.  His face had gone white.  The horror of the Tirthon was not something easily forgotten.

Valandil and Firiel looked at each other, wondering what had shaken Mercatur so much. The armored man waved the group up, urging them to hurry.

Firiel motioned to the man. "We're coming Amrith."

Valandil queried, "Who is he?"

"That's my cousin Amrith.  He's the best ranger in all of Cardolan."

"I didn't know you had a cousin?"

"You didn't ask," she replied playfully.

Amrith turned left at the Rath Annún or Annun Road.  He quickly began walking toward the docks.  As they neared the wooden piers, Amrith stopped and surveyed the area.  As the group caught up, he knelt down on the road.  "Sorry I haven't introduced myself, Amrith of the King's Rangers.  I've been with Tardegil's men fighting those bastard Cultirith near the border.  I got word that my cousin Firiel had been attacked in the streets, so I took my leave to return to the big city.  I can see that things have gone downhill." Mercatur was about to speak when Amrith rose and pointed to an abandoned warehouse on the docks. "The dwarf and others are dug in there.  This will be…tricky."

Leave a Comment

The Royal Palace at Thalion – Girithron 6th, 1409

Captain Tardegil

The scarred and grizzled Captain Tardegil sat in the throne room of the King's House. He remembered the days in which he fought for King Tarastor nearly 100 years ago. Tardegil was old, even for a Dúnadan, but he could still hold his own in a fight.  Tardegil thoughtfully fingered a long pinkish scar running down his neck, which he received from the dagger of an Arthedan regular during a brawl in the King's Rest Inn in Bree back in 1407.  The death of the King had weighed heavily on the captain, who now guarded the palace with well over 300 hand-picked men.  His loyalties were solidly with the young Princess, but his mistrust of Nimhir made him unpredictable.  He was not overly fond of politicians.  The old captain looked at Ostoher's throne from his nearby wooden chair.  He still couldn't bring himself to sit in it.  Hopefully, it would soon be occupied by a young woman.

Tardegil's quartermaster, Talremis, entered. "Sir, more grain has come in from Hir Tinarë.  The men are storing it as we speak."  The quartermaster was a tall, thin mixed Dúnadan with bright ginger hair and a beard to match.  He wore the uniform of a soldier of Cardolan, forest green with the symbol of a red hill, surrounded by seven stars.

Tardegil stood slowly, rubbing his back.  Old age came with a lot of pain and stiffness.  He straightened his green uniform, let out a few times over the years as he got older.  "Good news.  A fine Yüle gift from a fine warrior.  Talremis, any new raids from Rhudaur?"

The quartermaster shook his head. "I think those Cultirith bastards have gone into winter quarters as the snow thickens.  Hirgrim is no fool.  They took enough of a licking last time we met them."

Tardegil smiled through his gray beard.  "Aye, lad, we sent their Cultirith rangers packing with our own, good old Amrith.  He's a true leader.  And our Raggers are still a force to be feared."

The old captain had referred to the Ragh Crann-Sleagha, Dunnish for Ranks of Pikes, affectionately known as the Raggers.  There were over 300 Raggers defending Thalion, and they were considered the steel heart of the forces of Cardolan.  Their professional pride was legendary, and they were easily the finest heavy infantry in Endor.  At the end of the Second Age in 3434 as part of the Army of Arnor, they held the flank of the Alliance against Sauron's forces after the rout of the Silvan Elves.  More recently, in 1235 at Cameth Brin, the Army of Cardolan under King Calimendil was caught by the orcs of Mount Gundabad.  Calimendil was slain and the army surrounded.  The Raggers, despite an exhausting day of heavy fighting, fought their way out of Cameth Brin through hordes of orcs.  Finally, the bravery of the Raggers at the Barrow Downs saved the remnants of the Army of Cardolan and took a heavy toll on the forces of the Witch King.  Their long, heavy pikes and thick steel hauberks were feared by any force.

Tardegil walked over to a map of Tharbad, which was up on one of the fine paneled walls of the Throne Room.  He quietly remembered better days when lavish parties took place here and the room was full of handsome knights and beautiful ladies.  Now, empty mugs of ale and full quivers of arrows sat on the exquisitely carved Royal Table.  Tardegil mused out loud, "I wish Prince Braegil were here.  He was always such a smart one."  Snow could be seen falling lightly outside.  He scratched his head, which was covered in a buzz cut of salt and pepper hair. "How long could we hold out here for?" he asked.

"I'd give us three, maybe four months if no help comes.  The deepening snow will slow down any force and give us the advantage.  Plus, the King's Rangers are quartered a mile down the road.  We could have two hundred here within a day."

"That bodes well.  How is Amrith?  Is he back from furlough yet?  His bow is worth twenty rangers."

Talremis nodded.  "He led that foray that threw the Cultirith back into Rhudaur.  Well, he's still in Tharbad, helping his cousin.  She was robbed in broad daylight.  It seems that crime in the city has really peaked."

Tardegil turned sharply to face the quartermaster, his eyes open in surprise.  "Firiel, the healer?  Is she alright?"

"Yes, she is fine, but the thieves got away with three hundred gold crowns.  A princely sum.  It seems that they are also working with a Sergeant Valandil, who was present at the final assault on Tyrn Gorthad.  Valandil is a fine man and fought bravely.  He would be with us, but he has no unit to come back to."

The captain put his head down and could see in his mind's eye the brutal final assault of the orcs and the pure chaos around them.  As commander of the Raggers and of the King's Rangers, he was cut off from the Royal Compound and finally retreated when it was confirmed that Ostoher had fallen.  Nothing could penetrate the wall of pikes and the arrows of the rangers, and they were able to retreat back into Cardolan with few losses.  "He's doing good work then.  Let him be.  Our focus is in defending the palace and reconstituting some kind of army and that will take time."

"Thankfully, with the gold and grain coming in from Hir Tinarë, it's more than just a dream.  I've counted about three thousand effectives in the ranks, but the Houses of Healing are returning many more.  Perhaps we could field five thousand by Spring."

The captain poured a glass of brandy for himself and the quartermaster.  "Please send Firiel some of our food and supplies.  She's more than earned it."  He let out a long sigh. "To think that we marched with ten thousand, months ago.  And we still had a king.  I don't know what will happen, but I would die to bring Nirnadel to the throne and see this land prosper again."

The Fortress of Barad Girithlin

Mablung Girithlin

A fierce wind howled outside the tower as inside, Hir Girithlin paced along the reflecting pool on the ground level of the fortress.  Dressed in gray robes and gold cords of the Númenórean style, his massive frame cut an imposing figure.  Two mithril daggers were thrust into his belt as a caution against would be assassins.  Girithlin stopped and rested against the ten-foot-tall red obelisk next to the reflecting pool and stroked his chin.  It was time to turn up the heat.

After a few minutes Falathar entered with two of Girithlin's knights.  He was dressed much like his father, in a rich gray robes with his black hair slicked back.  Falathar smiled broadly. "Father, good news.  Lamril is open to our offers.  We have been meeting him through a discreet third party.”

The elder Girithlin returned the smile. "Excellent.  Take the gold and weapons we have for him and see that they are delivered.  Also, talk to Thrangull and find out where my payment is.  This is unusual; the Gurth Rodyn is never late.  We need to get that straightened out."

Falathar and the knights bowed. "By your leave," they said before departing.  As they rode away toward Tharbad, the heptagonal shape of the tower could be seen in the fading light as a spike emerging from the earth.

The Shop of Dirhavel the Alchemist

Silmarien

Dirhavel put his hands on his hips and frowned. "You should not have gotten directly involved, Silmarien," he chastised.  He was dressed in a rich robe of blue and violet that was adorned with stars and three bright gems on his chest, his interpretation of the Silmarils.  He was tall and lean with just the hint of dark facial hair on his handsome features.

Silmarien turned sharply to the Alchemist. "I did what I had to do!  Not getting involved cost me my lands, my home, and my family..." She stormed out onto the balcony where Dirhavel's complex telescope stood, looking heavenward.  Her robes were of rich deep purple fabric and she wore a floppy violet hat with the symbol of a bronze wyvern.  Dirty blonde hair flowed from under the hat, framing amber eyes.

Dirhavel followed her out.  In their finery and appearance, they looked as though they were elves out of legend, noble and proud.  Dirhavel started to speak, but Silmarien stopped him.

"Like you, I come from a noble family.  I am the last of House Rhudainor," she said forcefully. "I let my brother Marendil, the last lord, perish because I did not get directly involved.  If someone does not get directly involved here, we will all perish!  I know your experiments are important, but I have to do my work also.  I would never compromise your work, never.  So let me save a small part of Cardolan even if I could not save Rhudaur." Silmarien stood, looking up at the stars for guidance, her eyes misty.

Dirhavel put his hand gently on her shoulder.  He knew she was hurting over having to leave Rhudaur before the war.  She wanted nothing to do with the petty dynastic politics of the last few Dúnedain houses there.  Her brother, Marendil and House Rhudainor took the brunt of the Witch-King's initial assault.  She read the dispatches with growing fear but kept telling herself not to get involved until things were desperate.  Her delay caused her to arrive too late to save Marendil or their people.  Silmarien's rage took a heavy toll on the enemy in Rhudaur in the aftermath, but that is another story.

Silmarien melted into Dirhavel's arms.  He caressed her long hair softly and whispered, "I'm sorry, I know you need to help.  I was only worried about you." Silmarien nodded, choking back tears.

She bit the back of her hand. "My whole family…gone.  All that we were… I have to.  I have to help, Dirhavel.  The horror from the Yfelwood.  You cannot imagine.  It was too powerful even for me.  I was forced to flee.  I couldn’t help them.”

After some time, they went back into the shop.  Dirhavel combed his jet-black hair, while reading an ancient text on chemical properties.  He showed it to his wife.  “This is a tome that I had managed to procure with a series of favors to the elves.  It’s written in a nearly dead dialect of Quenya,” he said, sucking his teeth.  “It will take some time for me to decipher.”  He pointed to a particular text.  I hope that this will prove to be the salvation of the north.  It’s a longshot, I know.”

She read the text with some difficulty.  Her Quenya was less than fluent and this information was at least an age old.  “I know that your skills as an alchemist will be up to the task.”

He marveled at how the pages of the book were so well preserved after thousands of years.  It was truly the magic of the elves.  He scanned the forward, trying to make sense of the Tengwar script, handwritten in a strong, flowing style.  He focused on one name and pointed it to his wife.  “Look here.  It says, Fëanor.  We are on the right path,” he said with a broad smile.

Silmarien wiped her face and her nose and set up a mirror that was mounted in gold and silver and had been polished to perfect shine.  She gazed into the mirror, seeing herself, her heart shaped face with amber eyes.  She touched the mirror and said, "Hithui," the elven word for misty.  The mirror quickly became cloudy and then an image of the Princess appeared in the pane.  Silmarien motioned to Dirhavel. "Come here love, look at this.  I told you that one night."

The Docks

Mercatur

Amrith moved cautiously toward the warehouse.  No lights could be seen inside and daylight was rapidly fading into darkness.  Mercatur moved in behind, crossbow at the ready, his feet crunching in the soft snow.  Valandil, Firiel, and her two attendants crouched behind several barrels across the street, along with the hired men.  The ranger held out his hand, stopping Mercatur from approaching the door.  He examined the doorstep carefully and then looked up. "Trap... Don't step here."

Mercatur nodded.  This guy seemed to know what he was doing.  The battle at the kiosk and the discovery of a surviving member of House Rhudainor had put Mercatur in a pensive mood.  Was this the Silmarien who fled Rhudaur before the war to study her…magic?  His cousin? No one in the family had heard from her in years.  He had a sudden flashback of the siege of Tirthon just over two years ago, where Marendil Rhudainor perished at the hand of one of the Blood-Wights.  He, Marendil and the remaining knights charged the enemy line in what was supposed to be a glorious fight. His axe hewed at the hordes in front of them, Marendil beside him, and then they saw her.  At first, she was a vision of beauty, a lithe young woman with black hair and white wings.  She was unclothed and unashamed, a temptress floating before them.  It couldn't be real. Then, her soft silver eyes glowed and she sprouted fangs and claws.  Then, in an instant, the demon swept his friend, Gamrid from his saddle and drank his blood.

Then, Marendil was shot with a ballista bolt.  As Mercatur tried to save him, the demon seized Lord Rhudainor as they attempted to retreat back to the palisade.  The mercenary stared, slack jawed as the demon whisked Marendil away to his doom.  Mercatur snapped back to reality and shuddered.

"Are you alright, Mercatur?" Amrith asked, seeing his distraction.

"Hmmm, yeah, just a…just a bad memory is all.  I'm good."

Amrith drew out a long steel tool and inserted it between the door and the frame.  He jiggled it for a minute and then slid it out.  Then, he slowly opened the door and peeked inside.  It was hard to see in the dark, but he could make out a number of boxes, barrels, and assorted goods.  Mercatur entered, followed by the others and looked cautiously around.  In the dark, he failed to see a trip wire that he had just snagged. "Damn, I hit something," he whispered.

Amrith moved up and checked it out. "Well, I guess the element of surprise is lost." Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Mercatur saw movement.  He jumped just in time to avoid a stack of barrels as they came tumbling down.  Amrith got hit with one barrel and shouted, "Oww!  Damn, it's too dark."  Valandil heard this and opened up his lantern.

Mercatur fired a bolt from his crossbow blindly to cover Amrith.  A 'thunk' was heard as the bolt struck one of the wooden walls.

A loud, angry voice was heard. "How did they find us, Thrangull?  You said we were safe.  You said we would be protected.  I burned my shop for this."

Another, deep voice answered, "Shut up, Barkwell you idiot.  I'll deal with this."

Mercatur was listening for the location of the voices when an axe imbedded itself in a crate next to him.  He ducked around some more barrels and let out a sigh of relief.

Valandil took cover at the entrance and let the light of his lantern shine in.  The illumination revealed an average looking man holding a short sword and dagger.  He was blinded by the intense light and shielded his face.  Amrith saw him and fired an arrow into his chest, sinking up to the gull feathers.  The man staggered back and hit the wall.

The dwarf popped out and threw another axe at Valandil, who ducked back around the entrance throwing the room back into darkness.  Firiel then leaned around the corner and fired an arrow with her short bow.

Barkwell cried, "Thrangull, I'm hit bad.  Help me."  He was answered with only silence. Barkwell gurgled again, "All right, I give up.  Help me."

Amrith warily moved toward the sound of the voice.  He came around the corner of crates to the source, but was met by something unexpected.

Mercatur heard a crash and the sounds of struggle.  Valandil reentered the room with the lantern as Firiel also moved in with her bow ready.  The mercenary moved in to see Amrith and the dwarf locked in a death grip, wrestling over a dagger.  Barkwell was lying nearby gasping weakly and trying to pull the arrow from his chest.

Mercatur grinned broadly. "Bye, bye dwarfie."  Thrangull looked up from his struggle with Amrith just in time to see a razor sharp, double-bladed axe sweep toward his head.

The ranger stood, wiping the blood from his face and clothing.  "Oh man, I'm covered with this stuff.  Did you have to lop his head off?"  Mercatur laughed and put his damp boot on Barkwell's face.  Firiel and Valandil rushed in.

Firiel asked, "Is everyone alr... Ohhh, look at all that blood."  She saw Mercatur standing on the struggling Barkwell.  "Hey, stop that.  That poor man's dying."

Mercatur quipped, "And I'm trying to help him die."  He shrugged and stepped off Barkwell's face.  He walked over to the dwarf's headless body and went through the pockets and pouches.

Firiel sat down by Barkwell and soothed his wound, applying a poultice around the arrow and then giving him smelling salts under his nose.  "I'm here to help you.  I can't condone what you did, but that's for the authorities to decide."  She pulled out a scalpel. "Valandil, Amrith, hold him down.  This is going to hurt." She cut into the wound, causing Barkwell to cry out in pain and then deftly removed the arrow.  She covered the wound with a bandage and applied an herbal pack and pressure to the site.

Mercatur pulled a pouch from the dwarf's pocket and placed the axe and shield in a pile.  This was some good loot and dwarven shit was always valuable.  He opened the pouch and displayed the numerous gold coins to Amrith and Valandil.  Mercatur cooed, "Ohhh yeah, this is it baby.  We each get even shares."

Mercatur finished counting the gold and put the piles of coins back into a nearby box. "Just over four hundred gold coins by my count.  That makes more than a hundred for each."

Firiel began to protest, but Valandil stopped her.  "The money will do good. I'm giving my share to the Houses of Healing.  Think of what two hundred gold coins could buy."

Firiel nodded in understanding. "I don't like this looting and pillaging, but you're right. We're going to make things better."  Mercatur sealed the box with some cord.  He pointed to Valandil.  "Uhh, you better carry it."

The new constable cocked his head, looking at him funny. "What's gotten into you?"

"Ehhh.  Let's just say that my past seems to be catching up to me.  We'll talk more over ale."  It was a good haul, but the idea that another Rhudainor might still be alive was disconcerting.

Leave a Comment

The Shantytown – Girithron 9th, 1409

Lamril

Just outside the Annon Forn, or North Gate, lay the shantytown.  This tiny strip of land was now covered with squalid huts and tents.  Blotches of snow covered the area adding misery to the plight of the refugees who had fled from the devastation from the war.  For them, it was not a kind Yüle.  They had fled to the capitol in the hopes of assistance.  Moans and wails could be heard among the coughing of the sick and diseased.  Inside of one small hut a plot was being formulated.

The large, former blacksmith, Lamril stood at the head of a battered table.  Even under this thick coat, it was obvious that he was muscular with thick arms like tree trunks.  He had a full head of curly black hair and an unkempt beard beneath a nose that had been broken more than once.  "Friends, my patron has come through for us," he said with a voice full of excitement.  "I have here both gold and weapons."  Lamril motioned to two sacks and two crates near the entrance of the hut.  The dirty men and women seated on the cold ground murmured in approval.  This was not something that he wanted to do.  It was something that he had to do.  Promised aid from the Regent was minimal and people were dying by the day, freezing to death, starving or brought down by disease.  Their pleas only brought harsher crackdowns by the garrison and the constables.

The people were at the point of desperation and had pushed him forward to lead them.  It hurt him deeply to see the corpses, stacked like cordwood, frozen in the snow. They couldn’t even be buried, the barren ground was so hard.  The weeping into the night shook him badly.  Some of the women had escaped the Shanty Town, selling themselves for entry into the city, finding employment in the brothels.  Young Îudis and Neldis managed to get inside.  He last heard that they were working at Artan’s.  What a sad fate for two bright young women. This could not be borne.

"Hoegwar, Pulg, open the crates," Lamril commanded.  The two men sprung up and pulled the crate lids off.  Within lay several dozen iron short swords, called ekets, daggers, and spear heads. 'Ooohs' rose from the crowd as each stood in line to get his or her own weapon.  The Royals would soon pay for leaving these desperate people to die outside of Tharbad.  Hoegwar and Pulg stepped back, allowing the throng to grab weapons.

Hoegwar was a burly man with a thick brown beard, dressed in an adventurer's outfit, a leather buckskin jacket and trapper's boots.  He quietly commented to Pulg, "Girithlin is doing all our work.  Our master didn't even have to spend one copper."  He crossed his arms in satisfaction.

Pulg nodded with a smirk on his lips.  The Dunnish man was of middling height, but was also muscular with a jagged scar on his forehead and a lazy eye.  He wore a weathered sword belt over his tattered clothing that held a weapon of fine steel.  "We'll own Cardolan soon," he answered in a thick Rhudauran accent.

The Fortress of Carn Dȗm in Angmar

The Witch-King of Angmar

A dark figure sat in an infernal hall with blood red vaulted ceilings.  His throne had the appearance of the gaping maw of a sea monster out of the darkest nightmare, teeth, fangs and tendrils.  A crown sat over two red eyes, but where a face and head should have been, there was only empty space.  A black robe covered the body of the Witch-King, and an aura of evil permeated the hall.  Other than dim lanterns lighting the perimeter of the chamber, it was shrouded in darkness.

To the Witch-King's right stood a tall man in a blank silver mask.  He towered over anyone in the chamber, but the Witch-King himself.  He was dressed in black robes with flared black metal shoulder pads.  His staff was of solid, dark wood, held in his right hand.  Carved into the staff were nightmarish images of demons and fire along with symbols, written in the Black Speech.  He was the Angûlion, one of the right-hand men of the Lord of Angmar, a Black Númenórean who seemed ageless in his devotion to evil.

Next to him stood a blond male elf who was dressed in green with a green cap and black cloak.  His dragon horn cap displayed the symbol of the skull, and he carried a short brown staff.  He was Camthalion, one of the Avar Moriquendi who had served the Nazgȗl, Hoarmȗrath, in the far east.  It was the Dark Lord himself who ordered him to come west and serve the Lord of Angmar.

Two others attended the Witch-King as well.  The first was some mutated monstrosity.  A creature with goblin fangs and a canine snout within a mannish face.  His long red hair was braided with copper chains and fell down to his waist.  He had hazel eyes and sharp claws at the end of his fingers.  He was Ulduin, the product of blood magic and dark sorcery by the Nazgȗl, Dwar of Waw, Lord of the Dogs.  Ulduin's own sorcery was something to be feared.

The last was a pretty female elf with rich, silky blonde hair.  She was dressed in blue with a black gauze veil over her face that just barely revealed her features.  Covering her wrists were black leather thongs woven in an intricate pattern and she held a trident with three razor sharp prongs.  She was Ulgarin, an Avar Elf from the far northeastern realm of Helkanen in the distant Second Age.  Recruited by Khamȗl, the Easterling, she had served the Dark Lord for thousands of years now.

The four bowed to the Lord of Angmar and the Dark Númenórean spoke.  "My King, I bring good news."  Looking upon the Angûlion, it could not be determined if he were young or ancient.

The Witch-King raised a ghostly fist in a leather glove.  "Our defeat has left our forces drained, but we are patient.  I have endured years beyond count to vanquish our enemies.  Speak, Angûlion.  Tell me of your good news," he said, his voice deep and unearthly as if it were coming through a thick mist.

The Angûlion nodded, pointing to the female. "Our servant, Ulgarin has infiltrated the city of Tharbad in Cardolan using her many disguises.  She advised me that her agents are in place and that the Cardolani fight among themselves.  We will start a civil war without spending a single copper."

The Witch-King stretched out his open hand. "I am pleased.  Come forward Ulgarin and receive my praise."

The lithe female moved forward and knelt before the throne, laying her trident flat on the stone floor. "You are most generous, Lord of Angmar," she cooed in a pleasing voice, her hair falling in front of her face.

The Lord of Angmar held out his hand and a necklace of pearls appeared as if from nowhere. "This is from your homeland of Helkanen.  I thought you would like it."

Ulgarin took it gently and caressed the many pearls.  She placed the necklace over her head and let it lie around her neck.  The iridescent pearls shone like the stars that Ulgarin loved so much. "I am honored, my King.  I dove for pearls as a child in that far off land.  That is, before my mother was executed by the queen.  Now, I serve only you and the true Dark Lord."  She touched her forehead to the ground before rising and stepping back.

The mutated creature raised his fist to the sky. "Soon, the kingdoms of our enemies will be ground into dust.  I, Ulduin so swear.  I shall unleash my hounds upon their screaming throats," he said in an inhuman voice.  He raised his hand up in a fist and howled like a wolf, causing his pack to respond from the far off kennels.

The Lord of Angmar nodded in satisfaction.  Tiny fleas would soon bring down the fatted cow of Cardolan.

The Merchant's Quarter at the Shop of Halfred the Weaponsmith

Mercatur

Halfred had been the weaponsmith to the Royal Family for over two decades and he had forged the weapons and armor for Ostoher and his sons.  Business had been off since the end of the war with so many of the land's warriors killed in battle.  Thus, the entry of Mercatur and Valandil caught his particular attention.  The brawny smith approached the two with a broad smile.  "Halfred, at your service sirs.  May I be of assistance?" he asked warmly.  His dirty mop of red hair fell down about his ears and he wiped his sooty hands on his blue coveralls.

Mercatur put a sack of heavy items up on the counter and pulled out two throwing axes, a hammer, a shield, a suit of chainmail, and a helmet.  Halfred's eyes widened. "Dwarven make.  Very superior.  I take it you're selling," he said hopefully.

Mercatur nodded. "We could get one thousand gold for this.  What will you give us?"

Halfred stroked his red bearded chin. "Well, times are hard... I can only offer six hundred." He was almost apologetic.

The mercenary shook his head and pursed his lips. "Not enough. We had to pay for these…in blood."

"How about a trade then?" Halfred spread his hands apart and grinned.

The mercenary thought for a moment.  He looked at his partner, who nodded.  Mercatur turned back. "Sounds like a plan buddy." The burly weaponsmith beamed with happiness and went to the back of his shop.  He returned holding a broadsword in a scabbard, an axe, and two helmets. Halfred laid them on the counter and drew the sword from its sheath.  The blade glistened in the daylight, and the grip was wrapped in gold wire over blue leather.  The pommel bore a small jewel and the hilts were gilded in mithril.

Halfred looked at the weapon lovingly. "This is a good one.  I made this for Prince Braegil, but he never came back from the war to get it.  It's made from Dwarven Adarcer, a mithril alloy.  I paid a pretty silver for the materials, and you'll not find a finer blade in Tharbad."

He then removed the oiled leather sheath from the blade of the axe.  It was a large, two-handed weapon with a spike at the tip and another opposite the blade.  The axe head was tightly mounted on an ornate wooden haft with steel langets to prevent the haft from splitting or being cut.  Mercatur picked it up and saw his reflection in the steel and smelled the fine weapon oil.  The balance was superb and the grip solid.  A big smile escaped his lips from under his thick beard.

The helmets were made of superior steel, covering the head and back of the neck.  A visor could be attached to the open face as well.  Halfred measured each man's head for the fittings. "These bascinets will be completed in two days and ready for pickup.  You have my personal guarantee or my name isn't Halfred the Weaponsmith."

Both Mercatur and Valandil nodded, smiling like kids in a candy shop. "Oh ho ho ho," the mercenary laughed out loud.  He tested the axe's wooden handle again, ensuring a good fit with the axe head.  He took a two-handed grip over the leather and wire wrapping and nodded again. "Oh, I like it.  Can we take these now?"

Halfred gestured to the weapons as he put the dwarven items beneath the counter. "Oh, of course, friends, of course!  And, to be honest, I'm getting the better deal with the dwarven weapons and armor.  I'm an honest man, you know.  One hundred gold crowns to you will make it even," he said.  He went to a safe and opened it, pulling out a modest sack of coins.  He put it on the counter and tilted his head down.  "Here. This is fair and square.  No one will ever say that they were cheated by Halfred."

Valandil raised an eyebrow and squeezed his lips in surprise.  "Why I…never would have thought there was honesty in Tharbad.  You are a rare, good man here. I know where to go for all of my weapon needs."

The smith pushed his red hair from his face and bowed low. "At your service.  You may come here to buy, sell or trade anytime and I am glad to find two new friends."

Outside of Tharbad at the Annon Lindamel Gate – Girithron 24th, 1409

The stone gatehouse, flanked by steep earthen ramparts, was manned by ten members of the city watch, shod in chainmail hauberks under the green uniforms of Cardolan.  Their conical and kettle helms were lined in fur to keep out the cold.  Their task was to observe the shantytown, report any suspicious activity there, and try to rescue any legitimate travelers assaulted by the mob.  Unfortunately, with the small resources that were stationed there, only the first task was accomplished with any effectiveness.

Today, just before Yüle, the snow fell in flurries as the sun set.  The cold of this winter was quite unusual for the area, and the people were sure that the Witch-King of Angmar had a hand in this.  Little did they know, they were closer to the truth than any would care to admit.

One sentry, standing at the second level of the gatehouse, observed an angry mob working its way to the gate.  He called down to his troop, "A mob is headed this way. I see more than four hundred!"  His voice was shrill and heavy with fear.

The sergeant looked up, and his eyes grew large in shock with his mouth open. "Four hundred?" He pointed to another man drinking hot coffee. "Go get reinforcements, now! The rest of you, spears and bows.  Move!" The other men scrambled for weapons while the coffee drinker sprinted for the Annon Forn, or North Gate.

The mob was closing in on the gatehouse as the watch deployed across the battlements, bows at the ready.  Sharp spears lay nearby to repel climbers.  When the mob was within earshot, the sergeant called out, "You there, disperse!  By orders of the Chancellor, I command you to disperse."  He gave them a sneer that made him look sinister in the torchlight.

Leading the mob, Lamril heard this and shouted angrily, "These people are starving and sick.  Let us into the city!"

The sergeant shook his head and pointed at them angrily.  "Again, I command you to disperse or I will fire on you."

"Then we'll have to enter by force!" Lamril shouted as he signaled his mob forward.  The angry people surged toward the gatehouse in a cacophony of enraged voices.  Nine bows twanged and nine people fell.  Still the mob came onward, driven by anger and desperation.  Another volley of arrows struck the mob just as they crashed against the gatehouse throwing up ladders.

Several watchmen grabbed for their spears and thrust at the people climbing up.  These weren’t soldiers but desperation does things to angry people.  Another volley of arrows pierced flesh and bone.  Screams now mixed in with angry shouts.  Two rioters had reached the top, but were skewered by spears and fell back over the gatehouse walls.  A number of rioters scaled the nearby twenty-foot high earthen ramparts to flank the gatehouse.  The sergeant saw this and pointed in that direction. "We're being flanked! Pour fire on them!"  A watchman was grabbed by several people at the wall and was hurled over the gatehouse into the angry crowd.  Another guard took a dagger to the throat and collapsed where he stood.

Still, they fought on.  The sergeant fired another arrow into the belly of a rioter just climbing over the wall.  That man crumpled to the ground, but two men and a woman replaced him, howling in rage.  The sergeant drew his broad sword as another watchman fell under four assailants, kicking and screaming as fists and clubs rained down.  The sergeant lopped the arm off of one of them and turned to confront the three new attackers from the wall.  His breath was coming out in gasps as the steam flowed from his mouth in the cold.  Two more watchmen went down, surrounded by more than twelve mobsters.  The sergeant ran.

Making his way downstairs, the sergeant was confronted by the inevitable.  Lamril and thirty mobsters had already burst through the gate on the ground floor.  They were waiting at the foot of the stair.

The Annon Forn

A watchman ran up to the battlements and got the attention of the sergeant at the North Gate. "Sergeant!  Sergeant!  A mob is attacking the Annon Lindamel!  They need reinforcements!" The young man's eyes were huge and full of fear.

The sergeant looked over the wall. "Slow down son!  How many?"

"Four hundred!"

"Did you say, four hundred?  Dammit!  Guards, to arms!  To arms!" he yelled and began ringing a brass bell. "To arms!" He put his steel conical helm over his head and secured the leather chin strap.

Guardsmen could be heard in the barracks, scrambling around and then mustered in the yard.  The sergeant looked towards the Lindamel and could see an orange glow and smoke where the gatehouse should be.  He ran down the steps of the Annon Forn and opened the great wooden gates and then looked back to the barracks. "Form up now! Form up!  The Lindamel is being attacked!"  He met his ten on duty guards and signaled for them to advance and they broke into a run.  The off-duty company would join as soon as they could, but he would go forth with what he had.

The Bar Aran

Chancellor Nimhir

"What?" Nimhir gasped in horror, his eyes huge and his mouth wide open. "How did this happen?"

Captain Guilrod bowed his head.  He was a middle-aged man with a bald head and thick brown goatee that just spoke of his martial prowess.  His bearing told of a lifetime of military service.  "Your Grace, Lamril has broken through the Annon Lindamel with more than four hundred rioters.  I am mobilizing the troops.  Already fifty from the Annon Forn have responded.  I am setting up barricades along the Cherant Echor Canal.  We will stop them."

Nimhir fumed, his nostrils flared. "I hope so.  If they cross the canal, what's to stop them from crossing the North Bridge and looting this house?"  Steam practically rose from his head, he was so enraged.

Guilrod replied calmly, "We'll stop them."  He put his hand over his heart and bowed. "By your leave, Your Grace.  I'll take what troops I have and shut this insurrection down."

Nimhir could only nod as Guilrod spun about and left the room, his boots clacking on the wooden floor.  Would they survive the night?  Would there still be a kingdom left?

The Bar Aran

Nirnadel

Nirnadel sat in her bedchambers reading a text written by her scholarly brother Braegil when she heard distant sounds of strife.  Peering out of the northwest window she could see smoke coming from the north bank of the city over an orange glow.  Distant angry voices wafted up and to her ears.  Her attention was then distracted by the sound of Baranor's booming voice coming from beyond the door.

"Everyone, this is serious.  I want you all in full armor.  If those rioters get here, we are to defend the Princess with our lives.  I want two of you with her at all times."

The sounds of metal on metal could be heard as the eight-man bodyguard donned helmet and armor.  Nirnadel opened the rich red mahogany doors revealing the warrior's preparations. "Captain Baranor.  Praythee, what is happening?  What is that shouting? Is the city on fire, good sir?" she asked, her voice full of anxiety.  She pulled a cloak around herself, covering her linen slip.

Baranor and the men bowed. "Your Highness, a mob has broken through the city gates," he said gravely, his eyes fixed and his jaw taut.  He was already fully armored in steel plate with the hint of chainmail at the joints.  His barbute helmet was already strapped on his head.  "They are headed this way and I have assigned two men to guard you.  Please do as they request."  The headstrong Princess began to balk at first, but seeing the seriousness in Baranor's eyes, she nodded quietly.  The captain then motioned to the other five. "The best defense is a good offense.  Let's go to the front." They nodded and followed Baranor out the door to the north side of town, armor clinking as they jogged.

The two remaining Royal Guards escorted her back into the bedchamber and began to pull furniture away from the windows and stack arrows. "Stay away from the window please.  My name is Cedhron, my Princess, Sergeant Cedhron.  This is Corporal Riston."

Nirnadel smiled awkwardly.  "We…we know who you are, my good Cedhron…Riston. You like to lose money at cards.  We have heard as such through the door," she said nervously, trying to put on a light air.

Cedhron paused for a moment as if thinking deeply.  Then, a smile crossed his lips and he began laughing.  "By the stars, you were making a joke!"  He slapped his thigh with a gloved hand.

The Princess blushed.  "Was it…was it funny?"

"Damn straight it was.  You're not quite the stick in the m…I mean…it was very funny Your Highness."

She went back to her awkward smile, but she actually made eye contact with a commoner.  "We thank you.  Now, what must We do?"

Cedhron ushered her into her room.  "Stay here with Riston.  I'm going to get your maids and I'll be right back.  I want you all together as it will make my life easier and I'm sure you'll want some company."

The Princess' room was veritable museum of the history of Cardolan…from a woman's perspective.  Enchanted gowns of all colors from hundreds of years ago, all kept fresh by spells and loving attendants.  One was worn by Queen Aerondes, the wife of King Tarcil the Mariner.  Drapes made in the Calimendil Style, bold and brooding, woven in rich fabrics of green and lavender.  Cabinets and drawers carved in the Tarastor Style, crafted from Haradan Red Mahogany, the pieces so well made and fitted that no nails were required.  Finally, a canopied bed in the Ostoher Style, carved of oak with a thick mattress and heavy blankets quilted in Pelargir that showed the White Tree and stars.

As she entered the room with Riston, Nirnadel continued blushing as her interactions with men other than family or Nimhir was rather scant.  She went over to her chess table and sat.  The table was crafted by master woodworkers in Fornost.  It featured a base that was fashioned to look like the White Tree of Gondor with branches holding up the board itself.  The checkerboard pattern held polished obsidian in the black squares and veined white marble for the white.  She began moving the gold and silver pieces to their original starting position.  She looked up. "Would you care for a game, good Riston?"

"Oh, no thank you, My Princess."  He clearly looked as uncomfortable as she did.

"Cards then?"

He was about to answer when Cedhron came through the door with Anariel and someone new.  They were both dressed in emerald green blouses, covered by ermine cloaks and green skirts to match.  The older maid wore a burgundy flatcap over her weathered features while the newcomer wore a stylish Gondorian hood, a rounded strip of stiff fabric over the middle of her head that was adorned with pearls, a sure sign of nobility.  Anariel bumped the new girl with her elbow. "Come on, curtsey to the Princess, love."

The girl bent her knees outward and pulled her skirt away from her body as she looked to the wooden floor.  Her torso went straight down, not swaying to either side as befitting a noblewoman of good breeding and manner. "Galadel, My Princess, daughter of Hir Duin Tinarë, at your service.  Chancellor Nimhir has named me as one of your ladies.  I am ever so deeply honored."

Nirnadel walked slowly, as if she were gliding, to her new maid.  She looked her over for a moment, noticing that she and the maid could be sisters with the similarity in their looks.  Alas, they were distantly related as the Hirs of old were once princes, brothers of the king.  "Arise, good Galadel.  We welcome you with open arms.  I am sure that we shall become fast friends.  Indeed," she said as Galadel returned standing.  She then turned her nose up and put her finger to her cheek.  "Praythee, good ladies, We beseech you to make yourselves comfortable.  There are many pillows and seats.  We shall set up a card game anon.  But for now, let us refresh ourselves."  She went to a cabinet and pulled out a pair of tight brown leather breeches and a jade green cotton tunic. "We beseech thee, good men, to turn about so that a girl can change."

Cedhron sputtered and immediately spun around. "Of course, Highness."  He kicked Riston who immediately did the same.

The Princess set about changing as the other ladies held a blanket up in front of her.  "We have a deep feeling that these will be needed this dark evening."

Anariel rolled her eyes and shook her head, her gray hair swishing.  "Manwë's breath. I knew it.  I just knew it.  Your Highness!" she said in some protest.

Galadel looked at both of them, a lost and quizzical look on her face. "What?  What did I miss?"

The Cherant Echor Canal

Captain Guilrod of the Garrison

Captain Guilrod stood behind one of the barricades across the canal.  The seventy men currently under his command had just thrown back an assault by the rioters.  Bodies lay in the street and some of the wounded crawled slowly in the snow, leaving trails of blood.  Guilrod wore a heavy chainmail hauberk over padded leather and a thick winter cloak.  His steel barbute helmet was adorned with his family crest, a crane taking flight.  He held his thick falchion in his right hand, directing the placement of more barricades.  "Over there!  More!  Over there! Yes!" he shouted.  He pointed to another group of soldiers.  "You there!  Yes!  Light the beacons and help stack arrows!  Get the wounded to the rear, now!  What are you waiting for, the bloody elves?" His falchion dripped blood into the white snow.  The captain knew that he held a strong position and his strength was increasing steadily with the arrival of more and more troops.  Meanwhile, Lamril's strength lessened with every failed assault, and Lamril knew that too.  Time was on the captain's side.  Lamril would try again soon.

The arrival of Eärdil and a dozen constables bolstered the ranks.  The fact that Amrith, Valandil, Firiel, and Mercatur were among them made matters much better.  Across the canal, the mob could be seen massing again, pitchforks, clubs and a fair number of steel weapons held high.  Where could they have gotten those?  Guilrod counted about ninety troops now.  It would have to do. "None too soon, my friend," he said as he patted the minister on the back, one of his oldest friends.  "And Amrith!  Well met.  The situation is dire.  The gate has been breached and if we fail, there's nothing stopping them from sacking the Bar Aran and the treasury.  We must protect the Princess at all costs."

Eärdil grimaced.  "We are at your disposal, captain." He gestured to Valandil. "These are my friends, Lieutenant Valandil, Firiel of the Houses and Mercatur.  They survived the Tyrn Gorthad debacle and are stout defenders."  He was dressed in a chainmail shirt with steel armor for his knees and elbows.  He wore his green uniform under that with a thick green cloak pinned with the scales of justice.

"Most welcome," Guilrod said, extending his gloved hand.  "We need all the help we can get.  Time is running short.  Amrith, get up there and take command of the archers, if you please!"

The ranger vaulted up the steps to the battlements and began looking at the mob to get a read on the situation.  "Looks like just over three hundred!  They're rushing toward the smashed gate!  Archers at the ready!" he commanded.

Guilrod raised his sword. "This isn't going to be enough of a barricade.  Still, it'll slow them down.  Soldiers!  Stand ready to repel!" Spears, billhooks and glaives rose up, tips all aimed at the broken gate.

The mob surged forward across the small bridges over the canal.  The anger of the Shanty Townsfolk was evident and the soldiers could feel their rage.  It was a seething mass of desperate people.  They were screaming.

"Down with the Royals!"

"Kill the oppressors!"

The troops fidgeted nervously as the distance closed.  At no more than twenty feet Amrith called, "fire!"  A volley of arrows tore into the mass.  Eärdil and Mercatur added crossbow bolts for good measure.  The first rank of rioters sagged as gull-feathered shafts found their marks.  Firiel hated to take any life, but the mob left little choice.  She was a passable archer, taught by her mother, and would demonstrate that several times that day.  The mob wavered, slowing their charge.

Lamril urged them on, and a second wave of rioters surged forward, brandishing pitchforks, spears, swords, and daggers.  Another volley tore into them, but they kept coming this time, rage driving them onward.  Bodies lay in the falling snow, twisted in grotesque contortions, many who were trying to pull arrows from their flesh.  The horde crashed into the barricades and began hand-to-hand fighting with the troops.  Eärdil launched a bolt that passed clean through a man climbing the crates, who crashed back down.  The minister dropped his crossbow and drew his fine short sword that had jewels on the pommel and a solid steel blade that had median ridge with no fuller, a weapon made for stabbing.  Two men confronted him, but he thrust his blade into the belly of the first and kicked the second man back over the barricade.  Nearby, Mercatur was hewing about with his new battle-axe, blood spatter flying into the air.

The line was holding, but only with difficulty.  They were still heavily outnumbered.  Guilrod pointed to a hole in the line that was opening where the barricades had been ripped down.  "Plug that gap, damn you!" he shouted to some of the reserves.  "Push them back!  Push them back!" Clubs, hammers, sticks and rocks rained down upon their shields, the cacophony of shouts, screams and wails tearing the air.

The nerve of the mob was beginning to waver.  Suddenly, six men in the livery of King Ostoher arrived and plunged into the fray.  The Tirrim Aran or Royal Guard was worth ten soldiers to every one in skill, arms and armor.  This was the elite of Cardolan's martial prowess.

The troops cried, "Baranor...Baranor is with us!" and they hurled the mob back across the bridge.

The Bar Aran

Nirnadel

The sound of battle in her city was rapidly becoming too much for Nirnadel to handle. She paced back and forth in her study while Anariel fretted and Galadel chewed her nails.  The two Royal Guards peered out of the window to try and get a better view of the battle.  Finally, Nirnadel had reached her limit.  She stormed out of the study into her bedchamber.  The others were too preoccupied to notice.

After a few minutes she reemerged.  Anariel gasped, getting the attention of the two knights.  Nirnadel was dressed in a silver chainmail shirt and a conical helmet displaying the royal symbol of the seven stars around a hill and a white tree.  A short sword and dagger were sheathed at her belt, and her expression was as one not to be trifled with, mouth set and jaw tight.  Cedhron turned around. "Your Highness, what do you think you are doing?" he asked tersely.

She walked past him with all of the determination in her heart and opened the mahogany doors to the corridor.  "We are going to defend our land."  Her voice was polite, but firm.

Anariel gasped again.

The guards followed her down the corridor. "Your Highness, please return to the room.  We don't want to make you return."

She glared at them and seethed, hand on her sword. "By my troth, touch us and We will kill you," she said, trembling with fury.  The guards stepped back, letting her by.  When she had passed, they looked at each other in awe and consternation and then followed her down the grand stairs of oak with oak railings and a thick beige and red Easterling carpet flowing down the steps.

The Princess walked right out of the front gate of the Bar Aran and turned north.  Following at an increasing distance, Anariel ran up to the two guards and slapped them.  "Go get her you fools!"  They came to their senses and ran after her.  Anariel fell in the snow, sobbing while Galadel sprinted to catch up to Cedhron and Riston.

The Cherant Echor Canal

The snow over the canal bridges had turned red as the bodies piled up.  Baranor and Guilrod had broken the mob's attack.  Now both sides sat across the canal from each other gearing up for the finale.  Lamril had lost nearly half his strength and Guilrod continued to receive new men.  Guilrod, Baranor, and Eärdil met behind one of the barricades.

"It's good to fight by your side again, captain," Eärdil said to Guilrod as they warmly shook hands.

Guilrod took off his barbute helm and wiped his bald head of sweat.  He nodded. "I wish it were under better circumstances like fighting those damn Rhudaurans.  We're killing our own people," he said firmly but with a hard edge of disgust.  Eärdil had once been a knight in the army, while Guilrod was once a Ragger.  A grim smile escaped his lips through his goatee. "Aye, my friend.  We've both seen many campaigns together and climbed the ranks through sheer grit."

The minister then clapped Baranor on the back. "And we are lucky to have the greatest knight in Cardolan.  Your strength is sorely needed here."

Baranor peered over the barricades, craning his neck and putting a hand over his eyes.  He sensed an opportunity. "Gentlemen, the balance has tipped, I tell you.  We can destroy them once and for all. I say we attack." Guilrod and Eärdil nodded in agreement.

Baranor lowered his visor, the metal piece snapping securely over his face. "It is done then.  Let us finish it."

Guilrod thumped his fist on his armored chest. "To your posts then, gentlemen.  We still have grim work to do." The three returned to their troops and prepared for the final assault, men wiping blades and refilling quivers of arrows.  Some began to remove parts of the barricade for an offensive.

On the other side of the bank, Lamril and his mob saw the troops mustering and knew what was coming.  He was no fool.  Their wounded numbered many dozen and their shrieks were unnerving.  Bodies and limbs laid strewn about the bridge and in their camp.  "Prepare defenses!" Lamril shouted.  "Archers, refill your quivers.  By my soul, we will make the oppressors pay dearly.  Stack crates!  Use bodies if you need!  They are coming!" While the sting had been taking out of the mob, they were still a flurry of activity. "Let them come!"

Suddenly, a slender figure appeared on one of the barricades, facing north towards the mob.  A silver helm with the symbol of the King could be seen.  Both sides became hushed.  The figure strode onto the bridge with hands raised, showing a glistening mithril shirt of fine chainmail.

"Citizens of Cardolan, listen to us!" a young woman called out, her voice unnaturally loud, carrying across the bridge as if by some enchantment.  "As a kingdom and as a people, we have suffered beyond measure at the hands of the Witch-King!  We now sit on the brink of destruction!  If we continue to kill each other, he alone will be victorious!  We will lose a thousand years of our precious civilization!  We come now to ask, nay, beg of you, plead with you to lay down your arms!  To the staving and sick masses, We swear to you that you will receive assistance!  We…no, I will personally see to it!  The realm cries out for healing, not violence!  If blood is all that you want, then you may have mine!" Nirnadel shouted, removing her helmet and pointing to her exposed throat.

She walked slowly onto the bridge, stepping around the fallen, never taking her finger from her throat.  The entire area fell silent and only the crunch of her boots in the snow could be heard.  Before the stunned audience, she walked calmly to the center of the bridge between the two forces.  Bows and spears were brandished on both sides for nearly a minute.  The tension was unbearable.  Finally, the sound of weapons falling on snow could be heard.

Lamril emerged, palms outward as a sign of peace.  Guilrod did the same, his helmet off and in the crook of his arm.  They both approached and knelt before the Princess.  Each took her hand and kissed it.

Guilrod was in tears as his breath streamed out of his mouth. "Your Highness, you are truly the sovereign of Cardolan."

Lamril nodded grimly, wiping a rivulet of blood that dripped down from a gash on his forehead.  "We have no wish to die.  I accept your offer of assistance.  We will return to our refuge to await your word.  Please, have mercy on us and help our wounded.  We need medical assistance as soon as possible.  I put my trust in you, Highness."

Baranor, the guards and Galadel inched forward, still wary, ready to die for Nirnadel.  He was still stunned that it was her.  Behind them was Firiel, Valandil and Mercatur, hoping for the best.

Firiel gasped. "Haedorial was right.  She is the Princess of Cardolan."

Mercatur sat in the snow, reeling from the sudden turn of events. "Whoa, this is heavy.  I'm going to need a drink after this."

Slowly, the two sides withdrew.  The mob returned to the shantytown and released the gate sergeant and others, unharmed.  The Royal Guards moved around the Princess, unsure whether to be outraged or proud.  Baranor chose the latter.  He knelt before her and took her hand. "I knew this day would come, Your Highness.  I watched you grow into a brave young woman and an able leader.  You will rule one day, and I know we will be better for it.  Little do you know, but every time you went out, I was there."

Nirnadel gasped with realization. "Those men... the ones who were going to attack us."

Baranor nodded. "We are not the Royal Guard for nothing." The comment elicited laughter from all.

Nirnadel pulled the knight captain up. "Baranor and my brave guards, forgive us as We have been most unkind.  I was…I was not myself after the passing of our dear mother.  But our father would be most proud of you all as are We.  Come friends, we must attend to the wounded and lay the dead to rest.  We have a long night ahead of us." She gazed at everyone who was gathered and made eye contact with them all. "We…I am honored by the good people who have fought on my behalf.  Now it is time for healing.  Good Firiel, accompany me to the Shanty Town where we will attend to their people.  Good Captain Guilrod, praythee, send word to the Houses of Healing and summon the nurses.  Good Minister Eärdil, let there be no retaliation for this night.  I pardon all who were involved on both sides, lest they committed some grievous atrocity.  Good Lady Galadel, be at my side and help with the people of Cardolan.  This is my command.  Let us go forth and make the realm whole again."

Chapter End Notes

I wanted to showcase a Law and Order style investigation and then to show Nirnadel growing into the role that she needs to fill.

Leave a Comment

The Bar Aran – Girithron 25th, Yüle 1409

Nimhir

On the day of Yüle, the jeweler Lothiriel sat in the waiting room of the Chancellor, Nimhir.  She was a prim woman of middle age, dressed in an elegant winter gown of green and red, trimmed with lace and pearls.  Despite some gray hair among brown and a few wrinkles, she was still beautiful woman, full of grace.  She seemed a little nervous though as she waited for someone to call her.  What could the Chancellor want?  She stood and nervously paced, reading tourist pamphlets about Cardolan's beautiful southern shores.

Suddenly, the huge oak doors to the Chancellor's office opened and an attendant caught her attention. “The Chancellor will see you now.”

She entered the grand office of the Chancellor and sat before Nimhir, who was reading some papers.  His graying black hair was slicked back, and he wore his finest silk robes of state, in the greens and reds of Cardolan's colors along with a warm wool scarf around his neck.

Lothiriel was shaking in her anticipation. "Your Grace, I have come as you have bid me," she said slowly, glancing around at the decorations and paintings that told of the history of the realm.

Nimhir looked down and smiled, alleviating some of her anxiety.  "Thank you for coming so quickly.  I have reviewed many jewelers in the land, and I have determined that you are the most skilled."

Lothiriel smiled coyly. "Why thank you, Your Grace."

Nimhir continued, "The Princess Nirnadel is soon to reach the age in which she will become the Queen and rule this land.  I wish to commission a tiara for such an occasion.  You are the jeweler to create such a piece," he said, gesturing to her. "Ten thousand gold crowns have been reserved for such an event.  I trust you will accept the commission."

Lothiriel's mouth fell open. "Why...why...um, yes of course.  I will begin immediately." They went over some of the details and then she stood and curtseyed to the Chancellor and then scurried off to her shop to begin the design specifications.

The Houses of Healing – Yüle

Firiel

On the morning of Yüle the members of the house and their valued guests gathered in the common lounge on the first floor.  Several lit fireplaces gave off a nice warmth, letting the light of their flames dance on the walls.  A festive mood was in the air, and the healthier patients were brought in to partake in the tradition.  Even in the wards for the sicker patients, attendants brought them some cake and small gifts.  It had been a long night for Firiel and the staff as they helped the wounded of the Shanty Town well past dawn, but the Healer would not miss this for the world.

She drained another mug of Eriador Roast coffee and then refilled the mugs of her staff, which now numbered a dozen.  Haedoriel held out his mug. "Another for me, please, good lady." She poured him another cup full and yawned, tired from the long night.  She still could not believe how it turned out.  One hour, the kingdom tottered on the brink of destruction, the next, some semblance of peace prevailed.  The stress made her stomach churn, and she held one hand over it to calm the gurgling.

Firiel set down the pitcher and clapped her hands. "Good people!  We gather again on Yüle to celebrate life and fellowship.  We look up to the Valar and the One for guidance.  We honor the sacrifice of those who have gone before us."  She reached down to a chest and opened it with a key.  "With everything going on, we have not had time to decorate properly.  We don't even have a tree in the lounge like we always have.  However, I did not forget," she said in a loving voice as she brought out red Yüle stockings that were full of some secret gifts.  She began handing them out to the staff and their guests as Kaile passed out cake to the patients.  "I am so grateful for our benefactors, the Princess Nirnadel and Captain Tardegil, for their generous gifts that have allowed us to heal so many and to afford these small presents.  I dedicate this Yüle to them."

People pulled gifts from their stockings to find nice baubles, coins, treats and candy.  The children squealed with delight as "Ooooos" and "Ahhhhs" filled the room along with laughter.  Firiel nodded in satisfaction and put her hand over her heart.  Tired though she may be, she would not deprive her friends and patients of some small joy.

The bard was practically bouncing with anticipation.  Not even the Valar could keep him from blurting out, "Good Firiel, please, good Firiel, I am dying to hear your account of last night.  I simply must hear this.  Please, people, listen."

Firiel smiled and then sat on her plush seat as Haedorial handed her a small glass of brandy. It felt good to get off of her feet.  She pointed to Valandil and Mercatur.  "We were all there at the battle last night," she began and then pointed to her assistants.  "And then my staff worked tirelessly into the morning to heal the wounded.  We will return later and resume our work, but for now, we rejoice."

Haedorial grasped his chest as if he were having a heart attack.  "Please good Firiel, I can wait no longer."

She smiled at him and then began to tell of the riot that overran the Shanty Town and then breached the Annon Lindamel.  "The Gates were smashed with a ram and the guards were overwhelmed by the mob.  Men from the Annon Forn were able to hold them and brave Captain Guilrod brought in reinforcements.  We arrived with Minister Eärdil," she said, the crowd hanging on her every word.  "The mob was thrown back several times, but kept coming.  I regret that I had to use my bow many times last night.  It was then that Captain Guilrod determined that it was time to attack.  Cousin Amrith led the archers, Eärdil and Valandil led the constables and Guilrod led the knights.  We began to advance when she appeared," Firiel continued, gesturing in the distance. "The Princess Nirnadel…she was clad in mithril armor, leaping down onto the bridge, showing the rioters her throat.  She called for peace and said that if there was blood to be spilled, it should be hers.  The rioters threw down their arms and pledged to the Princess.  I have never seen anything like it.  I wept for joy," she said, holding her hands together above her head.

Valandil wiped a tear from his eye as the crowd sat, enraptured.  Firiel sniffed and then blew her nose into a handkerchief.  "For the first time in a long time, I have hope," she said with all sincerity.  "I will give my all to see the realm made whole again."

"No way!  I want to hear this again," said the enthralled Kaile, sitting before Firiel.

The healer held up her hands, palms out. "Of course, of course.  Then, we shall have breakfast.  Small though it may be, it was made with love." Jonu and Haedorial also sat, hanging on Firiel's every word about the battle with the mob, just as attentive as the first telling.  Kaile had to hear the part about the Princess once more.  Mercatur sat nearby, chewing on a turkey leg while Valandil put the gold into the house safe.  Partway through Firiel's recounting of the battle, there was a knock on the door.  Jonu rose to answer it.

He opened the door to reveal Nirnadel, stunningly dressed in an emerald green and red gown with gaudy slashes on her sleeves that was woven with diamonds and sapphires. She wore a velvet bonnet of the same color, adorned with pearls and a hawk's feather.  She was beyond radiant, her black hair woven in an intricate waterfall braid and adorned with flowers.  This time, the Princess was also accompanied by her eight-man Royal Guard, dressed in dashing green surcoats along with Anariel and Galadel.

Jonu fell to his knees. "Your Highness," he cried out.

The room fell silent as all knelt down.  Nirnadel blushed.  "Please friends, rise and be at ease.  We were Nel long before We were the Princess to you.  We…I come as a friend and a guest this day," she said and then cleared her throat.  "I am still getting used to…trying not to speak as an uppity royal," she added to some laughter.  "It will take some time and…I ask for your patience."  The group took their seats again as Nirnadel entered and sat in one of the padded chairs.  She handed Firiel a parchment. "Praythee, good Firiel, open it."

Firiel broke the wax seal of the King of Cardolan and unrolled the parchment.  She gasped and held her hand over her mouth.

The Princess gestured to her.  "Read it to the gathering, if you please."

Firiel inhaled deeply and then read it out loud, "To the Houses of Healing and all members associated with it.  We, the Princess and heir to the throne of Cardolan, praise the heroic efforts of the House and its members in battling the ills and wounds of the citizenry of Tharbad.  We also acknowledge the warrior bravery and skill of Valandil and Mercatur during the war against Angmar and in defense of the city."

She took another deep breath and continued, "To the Healer, Firiel, We grant an annual Royal stipend for use in the Houses of Healing.  To Valandil, lieutenant now in the Royal Army and of the constables of Tharbad, We grant knighthood, with lands and men from the Royal domain.  To Mercatur, mercenary in the service of Cardolan, We grant a fief within the Royal domain and leadership over the mercenaries of the Royal House.  To Kaile, assistant to the Healer, We grant a position as lady in waiting in the Royal Chambers and assistant physician to the Royal House.  To Jonu, Pelemeth, Coru, Omah, and all junior assistants to the Healer, We grant full educational privileges, compliments of the Royal House.  To Haedorial, the bard, We grant the right to play at the Royal functions, the Royal Banquet for the New Year, and every New Year thereafter."

The group gasped as Haedorial and the assistants wept openly.  They were honored by the generosity of the Princess.  Nirnadel chimed in when they had settled down. "More important than lands, titles, or gold, I freely offer you all my friendship.  Also, best of all, an invitation to the Royal Banquet for New Year."  All nodded vigorously.  During Ostoher's time, it was an event held annually which was usually reserved for the richest and finest of Cardolan.  Nirnadel would change all of that.  The Princess then stood and held her hand out. "Sword, please, good Baranor," she said as the knight placed the handle of his weapon in her palm. "Good Valandil, kneel and be knighted in the service of the realm."

He scrambled over, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve and then knelt. "It is my honor, My Princess, to serve you." He lowered his head and Nirnadel tapped him on each shoulder and then the top of his head.

"Arise, Sir Valandil, Arequain of Cardolan," she said in a voice full of pride as she handed the sword back to Baranor.  The new knight rose, and she grasped him by his arms, looking him in the eye. "Be brave, be honorable and be true."

Then, she gestured to Anariel and Galadel. "We have another surprise for you.  Good ladies, please bring in the Yüle meal." The two scrambled to the door to open it for the wagon driver who began handing them trays of baked ham, roast turkey and yams from the Tinarë fiefs.  The aroma was overwhelming for the hungry. "We give thanks to Hir Tinarë and to good Ciramir, the Legate of Gondor, for sharing in their largess.  I am also having a Yüle meal sent to the Shanty Town, and Nimhir and I have commissioned an architect to design proper housing for these people."

The Princess then yawned and blinked heavily.  She was exhausted too, but this time was for her people.  She stood and went to Firiel, leaned over and hugged her. "This is for your tireless efforts to restore the city and…for showing me your art and skill last night. I believe that I could now work as one of your assistants," she said with a genuine laugh that was echoed by the gathering.

Firiel smiled back. "You can work for me anytime…Your Highness," she said with a small curtsey.

Nirnadel stood tall. "I may take you up on that, good Firiel," she said and then gestured to the food. "Come friends, let us partake and enjoy the festival of Yüle."

Valandil and the assistants began handing out plates full of turkey and gravy, slices of glazed ham and candied yams. It was the best day that they had in months.

The Shanty Town

Lamril

The leader of the insurrection looked on as wagonloads of food and supplies arrived, medicine, bandages and clothing.  The starving people stared in disbelief, murmuring their approval.  Soldiers began passing out bundles of food and barrels of water as people took blankets and coats.  The townsfolk took them graciously, thanking the men and praising the Princess.  Lamril took a handful of bread and cheese and stuffed it in his mouth.  Chewing loudly, he proclaimed to Pulg, "This is all I have been asking for.  A fair shake for these people.  We still have many wounded, but we did not fight for nothing."  He was deeply conflicted about the riot.  Many had died but it had achieved the results that he had hoped for.  Right after the battle, he stood there, in the infirmary as Firiel, her staff and Royal ladies worked tirelessly through the night to attend to his wounded.

True to his character as a champion of the people, Lamril joined them, half expecting the effort to peter out and the Royal Ladies to drift off back to their palace.  But that never happened.  The Princess and Lady Galadel held bandages over wounds and mixed potions and poultices under the Healer’s and Chief Nurse Kaile’s directions.  He could tell that the noblewomen were upset by the blood and the shrieks, but they never flinched.  He knew Firiel by reputation and she did not let him down, barely slowing to take an occasional drink and never stopping to eat.  He did notice the knights of the Royal Guard watching him closely, not fully trusting him.  Understandable.  As dawn broke, he realized that he made the right choice.  He went to every one of the wounded and touched them, thanking them, wishing them a swift recovery and letting them know that he would watch out for them and their families.  He meant every word.

As tired as he was and as much as he wanted to just lay down, the Princess and Galadel did not let up, always asking what they could do next, comforting the wounded and bringing more bandages and medicine.  He would be forever shamed if he gave in.

As the first wagon was unloaded and continued on to be replaced by others, Lamril sighed.  “I wish it hadn’t come to this, but things will get better.  I can feel it.  I wish I would have known to just petition the Princess.  We might have avoided all of this.”

Pulg, one of the men who brought gold and weapons for the insurrection, nodded unenthusiastically. "Yeah, right." 

When Lamril had finished chewing, he dove into the throng of people and helped distribute the food.  Pulg sat down on a roadside bench and shook his head. "The Master is going to be very upset." He put his head down into his hands and did all he could not to think of what the fallout for failure would be.

The Argond Tower

Varen Calantir

In the magnificent Argond tower, twenty miles southwest of Tharbad, Celeph Calantir slipped in and out of consciousness.  He lay in his bed, rolling and groaning, surrounded by the marble walls of his chamber.  Nurses and his doctor hovered over him with potions and herbs, their faces grave.  His fourth son and now heir to the Hirdom, Varen, sat patiently nearby on a plush white seat.  Varen had met with Falathar Girithlin earlier that day, but was still unsure what to make of that meeting.  Unlike his father and older brother Varek, Varen was friends with the Girithlins.  Varen and Falathar had attended the military academy together as classmates.  Celeph had always disliked the Girithlins, but did not oppose Varen's choice of friends.  However, with the death of Varek, this friendship could change the political landscape of Cardolan.

Now, Celeph lay old and decrepit, dreaming dark dreams of days long past.  In his youth long ago, Celeph was a page in the Army of King Calimendil as it laid siege to Cameth Brin in Rhudaur.  He accompanied the King into the fortress when Calimendil and his vassal Anveleg, son of Dardan, took the lower levels.  When the orcs of Mount Gundabad attacked and overran the Royal Pavilion, Celeph became separated from the King and was saved by Anveleg.  In the ensuing civil war, Celeph grew into a squire and then a knight, fighting both for and against the surviving sons of Calimendil.  Celeph also witnessed the warlord Dardan's fall into evil and his ultimate physical corruption by the Witch-King.  He was also present after the warlord's fall from power and ignominious death in the dirty alley behind the Sign of the Orc's Head.

Celeph moaned quietly in his semi sleep, "Dardan is coming.  Save yourselves." Varen took his father's hand and bowed his head.  He thought about the meeting with Falathar and it gave him some anxiety.  What his friend was asking went against all that his father held dear.  Old Celeph had always favored the Tinarës and the Royal Family.  He would have to think long and hard about this.

The Fortress of Barad Girithlin

Mablung Girithlin

The large Hir stewed in his office on the third floor of the tower.  His heavy frame was posited on the ornate desk, which was covered in maps and letters.  He was dressed in an ornate gold and olive doublet with padded shoulders.  A scowl was written on his face, and he ground his teeth.  The mob attack did not go as he had planned, and he had just discovered that the Gurth Rodyn had been destroyed by a previously unknown group.  He growled and banged his closed fist on the desk.

I will make them pay… but not now… in time.  There are more important tasks at hand.

Girithlin had a sudden inspiration, and he opened one eye wide and put his hand on his chin.  He sat down at the desk and took out a quill.  Dipping it in ink, he began to draft a letter.  The missive took longer than half an hour to write, but when he was done, he folded it and dripped wax over the edges to seal it.  He then pressed his heavy ring on the blob to impart the seal of House Girithlin.

Mablung sauntered down the iron stairway past two guards and then to Falathar's room.  He beat at the door calling, "Falathar, come here!"

His dutiful son opened the oak door and replied, "Yes, father?"  He was dressed only in a linen nightshirt.

With a serious expression, Mablung handed his son the letter, telling him, "Take this letter to Nimhir.  It is an introduction to meet the Princess Nirnadel.  You are going to get married."

Falathar blinked as if lost and then focused his eyes in recognition. "Married?  Why of course, father.  As you wish."

Mablung clapped his son on the back. "Get dressed.  You leave immediately," he said forcefully.  "Move along now."

Falathar retreated back into his room and began to don his riding gear.

The elder Girithlin began drumming his fingers impatiently on his son's door.  "Hrmmph. If you can't beat them, marry them.  By my troth, I'll have that throne yet."

The Royal Palace in the City of Fornost Erain in Arthedain – Girithron 26th, 1409

King Araphor of Arthdain

People gathered in a massive amphitheater with rows of plush seats on a floor of white marble.  Onyx statues of Arthedain's past kings and ministers lined the marble walls, a testament to the strength of the realm.  The stone of the amphitheater had been quarried, cut and polished in Númenor and the construction of the huge chamber had been overseen by Elendil himself.  It was designed to mirror the amphitheaters in Minas Anor and Osgiliath so that no one, once inside, could tell which city he was in.

The young King Araphor sat uneasily on his throne before the King's Council, the Lord Commander, the Captain of the Palace Guard, and the Seers and Guardians of the Palantíri.  He wore a doublet that was the envy of the kingdom, black and trimmed in gold with crimson accents along with a gold flatcap with tassels over his black hair.  He was a handsome man with a square jaw, prominent cheekbones and a strong, straight nose.  On the day after Yüle, the adolescent monarch was besieged by rules and edicts, which he had to enact to govern the kingdom.  He felt lost and out of control, hoping to fake his way past this.  The young man had fought bravely in defense of the capitol of Annúminas.  When that city was sacked by the armies of the Witch-King, he fought in the rear guard to allow the Royal Family and people of the city and their treasures to escape.  With the death of his father, it all became so complex.  While the late King was an able and experienced statesman and warrior, young Araphor longed for the simplicity of the battlefield.

Most of the Arthedan Court nodded in agreement with the letter sent to Cardolan a month ago.  Araphor had his doubts, and the Court felt he needed convincing.  The regal Artos Tarma, Lord of the powerful House Tarma and head council member took the floor.  A Dúnadan of middle age, he was tall and lean with thick black hair that was graying at the temples.  He wore a rich black and silver robe along with a gold ring with seven small diamonds set on it.  "My King, we have been gravely weakened by the war with Angmar to include the loss of Amon Sȗl.  It was the will of the Valar that the Palantír escaped with a squad of knights.  Now, I will talk of Cardolan.  A union between our two kingdoms is only right and natural.  Let us bring back Arnor, the Kingdom of old.  This would ensure our survival.  Their King Minalcar already accepted our King Argeleb of Arthedain as High King of Arnor." Many of the lords and ladies nodded and murmurs of approval were heard.

One of the seers, however, spoke out, "I, Ar-Elon, one of the High Seers and guardians of the Palantíri, oppose this foolish action.  Cardolan is weakened and dying.  If we assume their burdens, we will weaken and die as well," he said, turning his nose up as if offended.  He was a proud Dúnadan with white hair that formed a ring around his bald head.  He wore a grand seer's robes, black with long, loose sleeves and adorned with diamonds that appeared as stars.  Many others in the Council agreed with the seer also known as Malborn.  Malborn continued, "I also hear that the heir to the throne of Cardolan is a spoiled brat who is uglier than a toad.  Surely, My King does not want such a horrible child to be his bride?" he said with a disgusted sneer.

Araphor's young brow furrowed in thought.  Malborn was a close confidant of his father's, who had always put his faith in mysticism, a tradition carried down from mighty Númenor.  But this was his kingdom now and he would do what he thought best, regardless of how his father did things.  He pursed his lips, thinking on his next words.  Malborn was clever and powerful. "You are correct Malborn.  We do not wish such a thing to happen.  Therefore, it is our will that We visit the Princess of Cardolan to make that determination."

Malborn started to speak, "But…but My King-"

Araphor cut him off with a raise of his hand, something his father never would have done.  "We appreciate your concern, so We must see her for ourselves.  We are not thrilled with the idea of marriage, but if the Princess is at least a respectable person, a union may benefit our two lands."

Malborn's face darkened and he flared his nostrils.  He had been used to getting his way with King Arveleg. "My King, this is a mistake, a grave mistake.  I have looked into the Palantír and can prophesy disaster for you if you even meet this disgusting girl."  His voice was charged and emphatic.

Araphor nodded impatiently.  He never put as much stock in the seers as his father did.  It all seemed so unreal.  A sword and a bow, well, that was real to this young man.  He was anxious to be done with this bureaucracy and get back to riding and fencing.

Artos Tarma smiled as he gestured to Araphor.  "My King, that is a wise choice.  We cannot all wed such beautiful brides as we might chose.  I for one would like to accompany you to Cardolan.  The King needs an adequate guard."  Many of the finest warriors stepped forward proudly.

Malborn turned red and grit his teeth hard.  He waved his hand dismissively and slipped out of the Royal Hall into the thick and gathering snow.

Chapter End Notes

Now that peace is beginning to take hold, players in and out of the kingdom will press their suit for the Princess' hand to gain power.

Leave a Comment

The Bar Aran – New Year's Day, 1410

The house had been lavishly decorated.  Colored lanterns and candles lit the premises all along the walls, inside and out.  There were even some ancient enchanted lights blinking near the opulent gate to the Bar Aran.  There was a true joy in the royal residence.  A light sprinkling of snow gave the appearance of purity and muffled the harsh sounds of the street.  In the growing darkness, guests began to arrive for the Royal Banquet.  Jugglers and players pranced about in the courtyard, entertaining guard and guest alike amid the shaped bushes covered lightly in snow.  Inside the main hall, Haedorial strummed his lute, singing of the downfall of Númenor and the escape of Elendil the Tall.  He was dressed in his finest outfit, a crimson, fur-lined doublet and a sable cloak, while his boots were of supple leather.  His wife, Faeliriel, and young daughter, Idhrendiel, sat in the audience, beaming with pride.

Ciramir, the Gondorian Legate, also sat in his best attire, a jade green doublet emblazoned with the White Tree and seven stars in silver.  He was deep in thought, concerned with the events of the recent past.  He had made his superiors in Osgiliath aware of the war and following crisis.  Through tireless work, he had been instrumental in bringing food and aid up from the south to ease the famine and end the plague.  As in the days of Elendil, Gondor would support her sister kingdoms if he had anything to say about it.  The legate breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps Cardolan could recover and continue to serve as one of the leading trade partners with Gondor and a bulwark against the growing evil of Angmar.  Meanwhile, the contingent of Gondorian knights wandered about, viewing the many paintings and sculptures in the hall and on the grounds.

Duin Tinarë sat with his family listening to Haedorial's song.  Tales of Númenor were always dear to him as he could trace his lineage back past Elendil to the Lords of Andúnië.  Tinarë had also pledged food and supplies to the people of Tharbad and he had delivered.  His position and prestige had grown great recently as a result and he felt it was time to take advantage of it.  He had heard of Girithlin's idea to have his son court the Princess through his spies.  "Perhaps Ostomir would make a better suitor," he said quietly to himself, looking through the crowd to his son.

Eärdil stood by the punch bowl, drinking with Lieutenant Nestor and some of his constables.  His wife and children sat in the audience listening to Haedorial’s music.  His wife, Rîneth, was infinitely glad that her husband could take a much-needed rest.  Their children gleefully romped around the Royal Hall, chasing each other and squealing with delight.

One new face in the crowd was Annael, the new Hir of Feotar.  He was relatively young and strong of body, if not particularly handsome with large jowls and a pug nose.  It was said that Annael was an ambitious man who had the intelligence to match.

The entry of Firiel, Valandil, Mercatur, and the staff of the Houses of Healing brought a warm welcome from the occupants of the Royal Hall, who clapped as they walked in.  Firiel wore a dress of sea blue and green, created by her elven mother in Lindon.  It was a marvelous, form fitting dress that accentuated her platinum blonde hair which was now in that intricate waterfall braid that Nirnadel had worn so well.  Valandil was dressed in the green doublet of a knight of the Royal House over a gold silk tunic.  Even Mercatur had his ruddy brown hair styled and his beard trimmed neatly.  He too, wore a distinctive surcoat of a captain of mercenaries, green with the symbol of crossed silver swords over a red hill.  Kaile, already in the service of the Princess, greeted them at the door with a warm hug and kissed Jonu, who was in awe of the house.  She was already dressed in the gown of the winter colors of green and red as befitting a lady of the court and her ginger hair was done up in crown braid under a hood of stiff fabric adorned with sapphires.  Cardolan was nothing if not rich in gems and minerals.

"Wait until you see Thalion," Kaile told Jonu. "The Royal Palace is amazing!"

They mingled with the other guests, renewing old friendships and establishing new ones.  When Haedorial had ended his tale, the herald at the door announced the arrival of another guest.  The herald, dressed in an ornately colorful doublet, pounded his staff twice on the floor. "Announcing the arrival of Falathar Girithlin, son and heir of Hir Mablung Girithlin and Knight of the Realm," he said in a loud, clear voice.  Party guests turned and some of them clapped.

Falathar was dressed to the hilt.  He wore a red fur-lined flatcap and cape with a plumed doublet and knickers.  His long black hair was slicked back, and his goatee finely trimmed.  He carried with him a letter, which he displayed to the guard.  Though he looked terribly uncomfortable, he nodded to the gathering.  He was then escorted through the hall and into the Chancellor's chambers.

Duin cautiously noted the event and surmised what this must be about.  His spies were right, and it would take some planning to counter this move.  Looking around the hall, he saw his distant relative, Firiel Halatani.  Planning could wait for a little.  He strode up to her and smiled. "It's been a couple of years since I've seen you, Firiel.  That is truly my fault.  I've heard so many good things about my good cousin as of late and it is time that we caught up."

She turned and gave him a warm smile and a hug.  "Cousin Duin, or should I say Hir Tinarë?"

He waved his hand dismissively.  "Nonsense.  I'm still just the older cousin who taught you to ride.  I'm glad I caught you.  I wish to thank you and your friends for your service to the realm.  I have been sending food and supplies to Captain Tardegil, who in turn, sends them to you.  We were blessed with a rich harvest this year, which was untouched by the war, thank the Valar."

She touched him on the arm. "Thanks goes both ways, cousin.  We would not have survived without your aid.  And that of the Princess."

He nodded. "I heard about the battle on the eve of Yüle.  A horrible affair indeed though much good seems to have come out of it."

Firiel took a glass of wine from an attendant and handed one to Duin.  They both took a sip. "I would not have believed it had I not seen it.  And we have spent every day since going to the shanty town to heal the sick and injured.  Nirnadel has been true to her word.  She is actually one of my assistant healers now.  I daresay she can properly apply a bandage and brew an herbal tincture."

Duin chuckled.  "I simply cannot imagine.  Just take care of her.  We cannot afford to lose her, you know."

Firiel took a long, deep breath. "I am infinitely aware of that, cousin.  I am wary every time we go out.  Thank the Valar for Baranor and his Royal Guards."

"Good," he said. "You really must visit again in the spring during planting.  We have much seed stored for wheat, corn, rye and barley and I have to say our heads of hogs and cattle are impressive.  I think Fourteen Ten will be a much better year."

The Chambers of the Chancellor

Nimhir

At the door to the chambers, a guardsman spoke quietly to Nimhir.  "Your Grace, Falathar Girithlin is requesting to see you.  He brings an important letter from his father."

The Chancellor nodded and dismissed the guard.  This was troubling.  He could send Falathar away, but that would be a grave insult to a very powerful family.  If he saw Falathar, Mablung's requests could be outrageous, and he might end up insulting them anyway.  Hir Girithlin was nothing if not politically savvy.

Nimhir groaned, "Damn you Mablung," as he rose and opened the door to his reception area.  A warm smile instantly replaced his scowl on the experienced politician's face.  "Welcome Falathar.  To what do I owe this honor."  He extended his hand graciously.

Falathar replied in a lackluster monotone, his face impassive and seemingly bored.  "Your Grace, my father wishes to arrange a marriage between the Princess and I.  He says it would be most advantageous for the kingdom."  He held out the scroll that his father had written for him.

Nimhir blinked as he read it, suppressing a gasp.  He dared not let his true feelings show.  That scoundrel Girithlin had now placed him in a precarious position.  The Girithlins were indeed very influential, and little could be accomplished in the kingdom without their support.  Denying Falathar the opportunity to court Nirnadel would also be a grave insult.  However, allowing the young man to marry her would give effective rule of the kingdom to Mablung.  It was well known how the father ruled the son.  This was a rock and hard place, and the Chancellor had to give it to the Hir for thinking of this rather simple line of attack.  Why didn't he see this coming?

After a moment's thought, Nimhir replied diplomatically, "I see.  The Princess is still only a girl, you see, all of sixteen.  Does this not matter to you?" he asked, giving the young man a way out.

Falathar shook his head. "No, Your Grace.  My father has spoken," he said with great anxiety as if he would prefer to be anywhere else.  "I would like to meet the Princess to begin courting her."  He might as well have been going to slop the hogs of the Girithlin farms.

Nimhir sighed and pursed his lips.  He could easily see that they both didn't want the same thing.  However, he could not openly afford to insult the Girithlins.  He nodded slowly.  "Very well.  She will be entering the Royal Hall very soon."

"Thank you, Your Grace.  I remain obedient to my father, but I admit that I am not particularly thrilled by the idea of marrying a complete stranger."

Nimhir was surprised by the honesty coming from the young man.  He surmised that Falathar might be 23 or 24, still young for a Dúnadan.  "I would not be either," he said, forcing a smile.  "Now, if you wait over there, Her Highness will make her entry anon."

The Royal Ballroom

As the sun set into deep reds and purples on the western horizon, the musicians began a Royal fanfare the like which had not been heard in the hall in a long time.  Trumpets and horns sounded out, instantly getting everyone's attention.  The massive double doors to the Royal Chambers opened with a flourish.  The eight men of the Tirrim Aran formed two lines into the hall, standing tall and still, eyes straight ahead.  Nirnadel entered, wearing the fabulous gown that her mother wore during Ostoher's coronation.  It was white and silver and adorned with diamonds and pearls like sequins with ruffles around the skirt.  Her hair was made up in a crown braid beneath a white and silver headdress that was shaped like a crown and held in a wire frame that was laced with pearls.  She beamed with joy, and her smile captured the hearts of all in the room.  Kaile, Galadel and Anariel walked beside her sprinkling rose petals before her.

As she passed Firiel, the healer gasped.  "You look stunning, Your Highness!"

A faint smile escaped Nirnadel's lips.  "This is so uncomfortable," she said softly, continuing to look straight ahead as per royal custom.  "We prefer our tunic and breeches and a sack of herbs."  Both had a quiet chuckle before the Princess continued on.

Nimhir emerged, smiling to all and waving.  Each patron in turn knelt before Nirnadel and took her hand.  When it was his turn, Falathar knelt down and took the Princess' hand.  He then looked up into her eyes and he froze, unable to speak.  All he could do is stare up into her gray eyes: gray like the storm clouds.

Nirnadel blushed after a minute and then raised her nose, putting her free hand to her cheek. "Kind sir, We wish to know who you are.  You who are unable to let go of our hand."

Falathar stuttered, "Uh, I…I am…sorry. I am…yes, I am Falathar Girithlin, son of Mablung the Hir of Girithlin."

Nirnadel's smile melted him.  His mouth fell open and he stood, transfixed.  "May We have our hand back, kind Falathar?" she asked awkwardly.

He quickly let go and wiped his palms on his breeches.  "Uh, sorry. I am so sorry," he replied hesitantly.

Duin stroked his chin.  He leaned over to the Chancellor, who stood next to him. "This is going to be trouble," he whispered to Nimhir, who nodded with a long exhale.  They were both on the same page.

"I did not see this coming," the Chancellor said in a tired voice.  "I could use your insight, dear friend.  Hmmm.  Wait, what would you say to an introduction for Ostomir?"

Duin curled the right half of his lip up. "Your Grace, what a brilliant idea.  I anxiously await to hear of your plan for that."

Nimhir smiled at the compliment.  He had been working so hard to juggle ten things at once to keep the kingdom alive.  A year ago this would have been a non-issue, but, at 16, the Princess could legitimately be courted.  She would be an adult sooner rather than later.  Still, if he could play each of the players off against each other, he could buy himself a year.  Then, there was Arthedain to worry about.  Alliance was one thing, but if Nirnadel married Araphor, all of Cardolan could be absorbed into a greater Arnor.  Every hir and minister in the realm could be replaced at a whim.  Even the Princess would never become a true Queen, but the Queen Consort of Arnor.  He couldn't worry about this now. "Of course.  And thank you, Hir Tinarë, for your generosity.  The city would have fallen had it not been for you.  Now excuse me, I must attend to the evening events."

The Royal Ballroom

When the introductions were completed, Nimhir took the stage and bowed low. "Good people!  Good people!  We have for you this evening a musical event brought by our talented bard, Haedorial.  Please, put your hands together for a show of music and lights!"

Clapping filled the ballroom as Haedorial lowered the lights and began the musical show.  Players in the ballroom played flutes and strings to introduce the piece.  The bard took the stage and bowed low with a flourish. "Welcome good ladies and gentlemen!  I am proud to present to you a piece by Elurin, an elven bard from Imladris. It tells the tale of love and pain, hope and despair, darkness and light!" he called and then pranced about the stage, spinning and waving his arms.  He held out his hand and a flame burst from it.  "Now!  For your entertainment!" he shouted and colored lights from lanterns began to pulsate around the hall, throwing reds, greens, blues, and yellows everywhere to the delight of the audience.  Sonorous notes rose from the band and grew in intensity, imitating the chaos of battle and then fell into quieter tones as green lights created images of trees to a fiddle making the sound of birds.

As the lights danced and the music played, Firiel gazed at Valandil.  They had been through a lot together.  He was strong, and brave, and true...and he was also so handsome.  She stroked his face, and as he turned she grasped his cheeks and kissed him.  Valandil's eyes grew in surprise at first, but then he quickly gave into the moment.

Watching the show, Mercatur tapped him, saying, "Hey, check this out..." He quickly stopped himself as he noticed the two in an embrace.  He threw up his hands. "I knew this was going to happen...'guess I'll have to find a new partner."

The music and the dance of lights evoked images of Rivendell with crashing waterfalls and flowing streams around structures that blended seamlessly with the forest and landscape.  The piece ended with a grand flourish of strings and woodwinds that fell into silence as the lights went out.  Applause reverberated in the ballroom along with cheers. When the main lights came back on, the crowd leapt to their feet and continued cheering as Haedorial and the band took their bows.

As the applause died away, Falathar approached Nimhir and Nirnadel.  He excitedly addressed the Chancellor, the earlier anxiety on his face gone. "Your Grace, please express our offer to the Princess," he said enthusiastically.

Nimhir sighed, but tried to hide his facial expression.  "Your Highness, Falathar Girithlin has expressed an interest in courting you for the purpose of marriage."

Nirnadel recoiled, her eyes narrowed and her mouth open.  "Marriage? What…what is this?"

Falathar went to his knee again, but he seemed more aware, more focused. "Your Highness, before this night I…I knew not what beauty was, but tonight you have captured me."

Nirnadel blinked, still confused.  "Ummm, you are referring to Us?"

He nodded as a boy would to a sweet dessert.  Nimhir leaned over and whispered into her ear, "Do not insult him.  Let him talk for a while.  It will work to our advantage." Nirnadel trusted her 'uncle' and would do her best.  She blew out a long breath.  She had braved danger, bandits and battle, but this was something entirely new.

She smiled at Falathar.  "Well, umm, yes, We see.  This talk of marriage is so sudden.  Perhaps you can tell me more of yourself at the fireworks show," she said, leading them to the courtyard.  Her eyes darted around the field where guards stood, and lanterns lit the way.  She steered towards the gardens where she always felt safe and comfortable.

Falathar babbled on as the rockets flew into the sky and burst with many brilliant colors.  Amid the booms and pops he spoke of his horse, his room, even his frog collection. Nirnadel smiled patiently at him while occasionally looking up to see the bursts of fireworks.  She was not sure whether to be interested or bored.  The young man tried to reach for her hand, but she feigned an itch and began to scratch her cheek.  She kept hoping Firiel, Galadel or Kaile would walk by, but her hopes were in vain.

"I will tell you that the Girithlin lands have the best ducks.  My father told me so," Falathar said as a rocket burst overhead in greens and reds with silver sparkles floating down.

The Princess clapped at the burst. "Mmmmm, yes, ducks.  Of course, dear Falathar," she said without looking at him.

At the end of the courtyard an old man in a gray cloak and pointy, wide-brimmed hat carefully lit the fuses of the rockets.  The old man looked up at Nirnadel with a twinkle in his eye.  He gave her a wink before he went back to lighting the fuses.  The finale to the show left the audience thunderstruck.  Multiple rockets went off at once, bursting into the pattern of a dancing dragon, spouting flame from its maw.  Applause and cheers rang through the courtyard.  As the smoke and sparks slowly cleared, Nirnadel could hear the faint buzz of Falathar's voice.  She gazed at the fading image of the dragon in the sky and said quietly, "Oh, how wonderful."

Falathar, thinking she was talking to him, replied, "Why thank you.  I do try to stay up on the latest trends."

Nirnadel forced a smile while racking her brain as to the topic of conversation.  "Of course, dear Falathar.  We were…so enraptured by…what you were saying."  It wasn't so much that she disliked the young man.  This was so sudden, and her discomfort was overwhelming.  What did Nimhir get her into?  Why now?  Falling back on old habits, she raised her chin and put her finger to her cheek, trying to give off the most imperious vibe that she could.  She saw Firiel and Valandil strolling the gardens and started to rise from her chair, but she realized not to disturb them.  She looked back at Nimhir with a pleading look, but he turned away.  What a fine mess this was.

Almost resigned to her fate, Nirnadel sighed and asked, "Good Falathar, praythee, tell Us more about your…your butterflies, was it?"

"No Highness, it was frogs.  I collect frogs.  Big ones, little ones, green ones, brown ones," he said proudly.  "I would love to show you-"

He was interrupted when Galadel and Kaile came running out, giggling and chattering until the Chancellor gave them a look.  The two ladies curtseyed.  "Forgive us, Lord Regent, but you and the Princess are needed back in the ballroom for the dancing and to close the ceremonies."

Without trying to seem too eager, Nirnadel jumped up and gathered her skirt close, adjusting her headpiece.  "Do We look presentable, dear ladies?  Oh, We are sure that we do, of course.  Thank you.  Yes, yes, We must be there to close the ceremonies and to dance, yes, yes."  She gave Galadel and Kaile 'that' look that they had saved her.  She practically ripped Nimhir's sleeve off as she tugged him back to the ballroom.  "Your Grace, We are needed.  Please hurry.  We mustn't disappoint our guests.  We have practiced and prepared for the dance."

She and her ladies rushed back into the ballroom, and the room became hushed except for the sound of some instruments being tuned.  The herald pounded his staff thrice on the floor and announced, "Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel of Cardolan, will enjoy the first dance with the Chancellor and Regent, Lord Nimhir."

The band put bows to strings and lips to instruments and the music began to rise into a slow piece as Nimhir took Nirnadel's hand and they bowed and curtseyed to the audience.  Together with the music, they presented a dance that was elegant and graceful, their hands and movements designed to evoke images of the Valar in the Undying Lands and to honor the Ainur.  It was as if Nirnadel were floating in clouds around the Chancellor.  As the music died away, they gave a final bow and flourish to thunderous applause.

"Thank you, good people, thank you!" the Princess called, remaining in her bow.  She then raised her head.  "And now, good players, praythee, play something more lively."  She gestured to the crowd and beckoned them to the dance floor.

Firiel and Valandil walked on as the music grew again to a faster pitch, this time with tin whistles, mandolins and an accordion.  The two twirled to the rhythms of the musicians, laughing with joy on their faces.  The Princess smiled, seeing that they were lost in each other's gaze.  Would she ever experience that kind of love?  Or would she be sold like a cow to the highest bidder?  Then she saw Mercatur, as he gnawed on a turkey leg while inspecting a bust of King Calimendil.  He was such a rough hewn man, but she thought she saw something good in him.

Nimhir bowed again to Nirnadel and extended his hand.  They joined in on the step dance as the Princess laughed with gleeful abandon.  For these precious moments, she was a girl again, dancing in the Bar Aran with her uncle and father as her mother clapped from the gallery.  She noticed a sad look on Nimhir's face.  She furrowed her brows.  "Good Chancellor, what is wrong?  I see that you are distressed."

He stopped dancing for a moment and leaned in towards her ear. "You are correct my dear Princess," he said in a near whisper. "This…this reminds me too much of the old days; days in which there was a King and there was peace.  I remember you as a little girl, running through the halls, giggling with pleasure.  How simple things were back then.  Back then, before war, death, and famine thrust me into the most powerful and responsible position in Cardolan.  I…I miss your father and brothers."

She could see how the burden took its toll on him.  He had grayed a bit more in the last year. "You no longer have to shoulder the burden alone, dear Chancellor.  We…I am ready to assume more of the mantle of leadership.  But I rely upon you to teach me."

He smiled a bittersweet smile.  "I see that, and I absolutely will.  I was just a boy during your grandfather's reign, but I see so much of you in him."

"King Minalcar? I was not born then.  But, I beg of you to tell me more when there is time."

He smiled down at her, his eyes misty. "And we will have all of the time in the world."

After a handful of dances, Nimhir became winded.  Nirnadel tugged at his neatly groomed goatee, saying, "Nimhir, you are getting old.  We remember when you could last the whole night on the floor."

Nimhir laughed. "Not so old to where I still can't pick you up," he replied, lifting her off the floor.

She squealed with delight as he spun her around like a child.  Nirnadel treasured this time and wished it would never end.

But, as always, time marches mercilessly on.

Silmarien's Used Clothing

Silmarien

The old man, who had provided the fireworks, adjusted his wide-brimmed gray hat and picked up his wooden staff, which looked like driftwood that had been carefully polished. Having completed his task, he departed the Royal House and headed east toward the Thieves Quarters.  He walked over unconscious drug users and past ruffians in the street, but no one seemed to notice his passing.  He stopped in front of a small, fearful-looking shop with tiny windows.  Dim lighting could be seen within and the man tapped at the door with his staff.  The door opened as if by magic and he entered.  He wove his way through racks of clothing that appeared as if they were made in the time of Elros Tar-Minyatur, little more than rags.

Within a small study sat Silmarien the mage in a violet robe bearing the bronze wyvern of House Rhudainor.  She smiled up at the old man who returned the favor.  His bushy eyebrows stuck out like quills, and he looked quite comical.  He pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

"Greetings, Silmarien.  Things look much better here than they appeared in your letter," he said in a deep, sonorous voice that evoked comfort and confidence.

"Well, old man, a sudden turn of events has improved the landscape," she replied.  Then somewhat sheepishly she added, "I decided to get directly involved." The old man furrowed his brow. He mulled it over for some time before answering her.

"Things seem to have turned out well.  I know it would have been useless to caution you.  You will always do as you please.  I can only ask you to be careful," he said with a sigh and a hint of both disapproval and pride woven together.  He had been her mentor in the ways of spells and magic when she lived in Rhudaur and was a bulwark against the growing power of the Witch-King.  She had come to Tharbad at his suggestion.  The wizard was pleased at how well she had mastered the incantations.  He could still recall the night that he took her as a child from Cameth Brin before the death of King Elegost of Rhudaur, the last king in the direct line of Isildur for that realm and the last legitimate ruler.  The ensuing civil war would have killed them for sure or worse, slavery in Angmar.  Silmarien was the daughter of Elegost's sister in House Rhudainor.  She could very well be the last of that line.

She gave the wizard a wry half smile. "You know I always am careful," she replied.

"Hah.  Well, just the same... Be careful," he lectured as he produced a tome and several vials.  He passed them to Silmarien, instructing, "These are for you from the Council.  Read the tome and it will tell you what to do.  I can only imagine what you plan to do with this."

She accepted the gifts as her face lit up. "Thank you. I fear that this may be a longshot, but we have shown some progress in the experiment." She opened the tome and perused the Tengwar script. "Fëanor.  Yes, this will do nicely."

With that, he walked purposefully toward the door.  "I won't be seeing you again for a while.  I have business in the south," he told her as he looked back and smiled.  "I trust that you will be well until I return," he said and then went back out into the night.

Silmarien pursed her lips. "Take care old man. I will miss you."

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase more of the character arcs.  I did a good amount of research on medieval clothing, music, armor and weapons.  I also want to show the politics and power in the kingdom and how people fall into this when conflict passes.

Silmarien the Mage from the RPG module.

Leave a Comment

The North Road on the Border of Cardolan – Narwain (January) 2nd, 1410

Gurzug of the Uroth-Burm Tribe

The snow fell lightly as King Araphor and forty Arequain, or Royal Knights, rode south along the North Road.  The banners of the kingdom were held high among the men clad in heavy armor upon massive horses.  These were among the most elite warriors of the realm, all experienced and selected solely for their skill and abilities.  Hooves pounding on the road, they were quickly nearing the border of Cardolan.  The landscape was painted a pristine white, with snow covered pines and hills as far as the eye could see.  The sound of muffled hoofbeats crunching in the snow added to the wintry setting.

A mile ahead, a group of orcs lay in wait.  They were members of the highly mobile Uroth-Burm tribe who rode wolves into battle.  They had suffered heavily during the 1409 war and could now only scrape together fifty warriors.  They had been waiting in the cold for more than a day, and were beginning to lose confidence in the intelligence that they had received.

"Aggh, you can't trust those mystic types.  They're all liars and thieves," said one.

"What do you know?  You're a liar and thief," shot another.

"That's how I know," responded the first.  They started to fight, but the leader pulled them apart.

Gurzug shouted, "You rats.  The boss sez we gotta be out here to take out the King; so here we are.  I hear we got info from an insider, someone who wants to stop their little trip," he said with a dark chuckle.  "Well, we're going to stop them and get paid for it." The orcs rattled their scimitars and spears while their wolf mounts snarled.

The North Road

Lord Artos Tarma

The Arthedan riders continued on for a time before Artos Tarma reined in his horse.  He wore a thick, black steel breastplate and a black visored bascinet which was shaped like a bear's head with two sapphires set in the eye sockets.  His tabard was woven in black with the symbol of a bear rampant in the middle of seven stars.  The rest of the party followed suit as they had all come to trust Tarma's instincts.  He was a warrior who had fought in a dozen campaigns and had been victorious in every one.  Tarma had stood beside young Araphor in the rear guard at Annuminas and his quick thinking had no doubt saved the young man's life.  Artos stood tall in the saddle, his armor glistening in the evening sun.

Araphor walked his horse over to Artos.  "What is it?  I know that look." Araphor's black scale plate armor bore the circle of seven white, six-pointed stars, emblazoned on the breastplate.  He wore a white cloak over the armor that was lined in gray fur.  Artos raised his hand, silencing the King.  He scanned around, noting inconsistencies in the landscape.  Something was out there.  The King put his hand on the grip of his anket or longsword.

The Uroth-Burm were finally rewarded by the soft sound of hoofbeats in the distance. The orcs slobbered with glee: their enemies were approaching.  From their hiding spot in the forest, they readied their spears for a charge.  The wolves could already smell raw horseflesh.  They soon grew into a feral frenzy by the sight of armored men riding through the snow.  The men stopped for some reason and began to look around.  But that didn't matter.  Gurzug snarled, "Slaughter them all.  Today, we feast!"  Their wolf mounts poured out of the forest with orcs couching their spears.  They threw up a huge spray of snow behind them as they charged.

Artos immediately spotted them and pointed at the orcs.  "Here they come, lads.  To your bows.  Shoot for the wolves!"  The elite Arthedan knights were superb horse archers, and they quickly raised steel composite bows to meet the threat.  Tarma's tactical reasoning had placed the orcs at a severe disadvantage.  A volley of arrows struck the orc onslaught and fourteen wolves crashed into the snow and their orc riders tumbled over their bodies.  The thick snow slowed the movement of both wolf and horse.  This gave the knights time to fire again as they cantered their horses away from the enemy to keep distance.  Another volley tore into the attackers and twelve more wolves fell into the snow.  Some wolves could be seen writhing in the snow, leaving bloody imprints.  Others, pierced with arrows, ran off into the woods.  Dismounted orcs were also standing up, some trudging forward toward the knights, others fleeing back into the woods.  Artos waved his arms and called, "Caracal!" to signal the knights to keep distance and circle around the enemy.

The momentum of the orc charge faltered.  Another volley struck the enemy, felling both wolves and riders.  Ten more were out of the fight and the remaining orcs wheeled their mounts to flee.  Araphor spotted the orc chief fifty feet away and lined him up with his bow.  A steel-tipped arrow flew straight into the orc's open mouth.  As he fell from the wolf, his followers broke and ran.

"Reform!  Reform!  Enough for now!" Artos shouted.  "Well done lads!"

The orcs would go hungry today.

Araphor was exhilarated after such an easy victory.  He would indeed live up to the status of his father.  As the knights rode back into a column, the King moved beside Artos.  "Lord Tarma, We are…We are concerned that We may have made a mistake by travelling to Cardolan.  We cannot shake the words of Malborn the Seer.  He showed me the Palantír ere we departed.  What We saw…the fat, warty Princess of Cardolan. We cannot unsee that," he said with a grimace as he raised his visor.

Artos sighed, his breath steaming out of his mouth.  He felt for the young King, he really did.  "I would not put much stock in Malborn, Your Highness.  While your father trusted him, I do not.  I would advise you to be careful around him."  The great lord was not overly trustful of seers, Malborn in particular. The head seer had always been self-serving and insufferable.

The King sat in the saddle for a moment, pondering the words of Lord Tarma.  King Arveleg rarely made a move without consulting Malborn and had impressed upon his son the value of the seers, particularly Malborn.  But Araphor was determined to be his own man, a new king for a new realm.

The Palace of Thalion – Narwain 4th, 1410

Captain Tardegil

Tardegil had heard of the recent events in Tharbad and his mood brightened.  Perhaps the Princess and the Chancellor would return to Thalion.  With that in mind, he had his men begin to clean the palace and restore the grounds.  He had even shaved the perpetual stubble that covered his face.

Suddenly, Talremis the Quartermaster entered. "Captain, there are riders approaching. About forty in number bearing the banner of Arthedain."  Tardegil stood up quickly, popping creaky old joints.  He gazed out the window seeing the knights approach.  Was this Arthedain's attempt to capitalize on Cardolan's weakness?  Not if he had any say over that.

The old captain instructed Talremis, "Get the Raggers ready.  And tell Amrith to muster the Rangers.  Thank the Valar that he is back with us."

A rider approached the palace holding the banner of truce and the banner of Arthedain.  He walked his horse slowly through the snow.  He removed his silver helmet and looked the grounds over, seeing the palace set atop a sloped mound made of alabaster and tourmaline with an eight-foot wall surrounding the complex.  This was a fairly defensible position.  To the shouting of orders, a group of pikemen formed near the wall with weapons pointed in his direction, so he stopped thirty feet in front of them.

"Brave soldiers of Cardolan, we come in peace!  I am Artos Tarma of House Tarma and the King's Herald.  King Araphor of Arthedain requests an audience with Chancellor Nimhir," he spoke in a loud, clear voice.

Tardegil, now dressed in heavy chainmail, peered over the retaining wall.  He recognized the symbol of the bear.  He fought that man before.  The captain sneered. "Lord Tarma, how do I know that this is not a trick!" he shouted down at the rider.  "I have fought you Arthedans and you and I have crossed sword before, Lord Tarma." His hand was on the hilts of his weapon, ready for any deception.

Another rider trotted up beside Tarma, this one in plate armor with the symbol of the tree and stars etched into the breastplate.  "Because We, the King of Arthedain, have come personally to show our intentions."  The King dismounted and walked forward showing the palms of his hands.

Tardegil motioned to the Raggers.  "Lower you weapons men!"  He climbed down from the wall and moved past his troops to meet with Araphor.  He looked at the young man and nodded.  "Very well," he said with a sideways glance, still full of suspicion.  "You are welcome here at the palace of Thalion.  I must inform you that Nimhir is in Tharbad.  I am sorry that your travels must endure another day."

The King replied, "We thank you for your hospitality.  If we may rest here for the evening and then continue on the morrow, We would be most grateful."  The captain nodded, ushering the Arthedan knights into the palace grounds to stable their horses.

Tardegil grasped one of his rangers by the shoulder.  "Tell Amrith to ride to Tharbad as soon as able.  He is to tell the Chancellor that the King of Arthedain requests an audience."  What could his enemy and ally possibly want with the Chancellor?   Whatever it was, it had to be big, given that the King had ridden forth.

The Houses of Healing – Narwain 5th, 1410

Firiel

The morning revealed a thick layer of snow on the ground around the city and in the streets.  Icicles hung from the roof of the Houses of Healing, creating mystical shapes.  Firiel rose and yawned.  She donned a robe and walked over to a pitcher of water and poured two glasses.  "Time to get up.  It's getting late," she said sweetly to a form hidden under the quilt in her bed.  Valandil pulled the quilt off from over his head and ruffled his dark hair.  He blinked several times in the morning sun as Firiel slid back into bed with the two glasses.  They thirstily drank the water and set the glasses down.

Valandil took Firiel into his arms. "You shouldn't have gotten dressed so quickly," he said slyly, pulling her robe back off.

The Fortress of Carn Dȗm

The Witch-King of Angmar

In the mountain fortress of Carn Dûm, some research was taking place.  The Lord of Angmar stood at a stone bookshelf while reading a large text.  Six guards from his elite Hoerk regiment stood outside the hall, tall men with cruel weapons.  Two mages sat at one of the stone desks perusing other volumes.  The Sindarin elf, Ulgarin, knelt at the entrance to the hall awaiting judgment from her master.  The plot involving the rioters in Tharbad had failed and she shook in unholy terror knowing what awaited her.  Cold sweat poured down her face and she gulped hard.  She had seen the nearby Hall of Hidden Pains, where victims were horribly tortured in their dreams by the Witch-King or the Angȗlion.  This form of pain left no mark on the body, but also left the victims quite insane.

The Witch-King put the text back on the shelf and then turned to his guards.  Without a word, he pointed to her with a gloved hand and then curled his finger to summon her.  A guard looked down at her. "The Lord of Angmar will see you now," he said without emotion.  Without pity.  The darkly beautiful elf scurried over to him, prostrating herself at his feet.  Flat on the ground, she put her hands together.  "Forgive me, lord!  My spies in Tharbad told me that they would be successful.  It's not my fault.  Don't put me in the Hall of Pain, please," she begged, nearly in tears.

The Lord of Angmar appeared not to notice her.  He began perusing tomes on his shelf again, barely glancing at her except to walk around her head.  In the eons of his existence, he had taken on a different, inhuman, perspective.

"Have you heard of the Master Spell Texts and Rune Books of Annúminas?" he asked no one in particular in his unearthly wraithlike voice that seemed to reverberate in the room.

She blinked, wiping tears from her eyes.  She pushed up on her elbows and looked at him. "Uhh, what was that again?" she asked, still shaking.  "Lord, I am confused."

"The Master Spell Texts and Rune Books of Annúminas; have you heard of them?" he asked again in a calm monotone.  “A simple question.”

"Uhhh, no... no I haven't," she replied, still confused.

The Witch-King walked over to another book and pulled it out. "Do not worry overmuch about Tharbad.  These things happen.  If I killed everyone who failed me, I wouldn't have anyone left.  What I want you to do is to contact our man in Arthedain and arrange to acquire the Master Spell Texts and Rune Books of Annúminas.  I will send word to Ulduin to help you."

Ulgarin wiped the perspiration from her brow and palms as she rose to her knees. "Thank you.  Thank you, great lord."

He turned to her and nodded, his hood over a blank space where his head should be. All she could see were the hint of red eyes.  "Go to the Angȗlion.  He will have the details on the contact.  You will answer to him."

She stood and bowed low.  "I will do so, great lord."

As she turned to leave, the Witch-King spoke once more. "I grant you this second chance, but to not make it a habit to fail me.  Otherwise, I may have to take more…corrective action."

She froze for a moment and gulped down hard as a chill ran down her spine.  She could imagine the screaming coming from the Hall of Hidden Pain and the gibbering husks that emerged.  She had once witnessed the Witch-King break a traitorous sorceress, strapped to a rack.  During one of her decreasing moments of lucidity, she gibbered like a monkey amid some coherent words.  The Witch-King shushed the woman gently, holding her face.  In a voice, most kind, he said, "If you don't tell me what you know, I won't kill you." He blew a puff of breath into her face, and she nodded off to sleep.  In another minute, she began screaming, bucking her body and straining against the wires that tied her down.  The screaming would devolve into insane laughter, weeping and gibberish.  A nauseous pit grew in Ulgarin's stomach.  This would not happen to her. She hurried down the hall to find the Angȗlion.  She would not fail this time.

Leave a Comment

The Bar Aran – Narwain 6th, 1410

Chancellor Nimhir

The city was buzzing with rumors concerning the arrival of the King of Arthedain.  People were in the streets in the snow near the Royal Quarter, trying to get a glimpse of the young king.  Stories of his bravery during the war with Angmar and Rhudaur played in taverns and theaters all day.  From within the Bar Aran, Nimhir frantically made preparations to receive Araphor.  The King and his knights sat on feldstools in the Royal Hall, awaiting their hosts.  Araphor bore the Sceptre of Annúminas, a four-foot, plain silver rod, carved with a spiral of Tengwar letters depicting the history of Tuor and Idril and the Prophecy of Huor.  It was the sacred item that was duplicated to create the Sceptre of Thalion for Cardolan. He also wore the Shards of Narsil, the sword broken by none other than Sauron, at his belt.  These were priceless artifacts of the realm, used only for official state functions.  Several servants brought the delegation some refreshments.

The herald of the house pounded his staff thrice on the floor. "Announcing the Chancellor of Cardolan and regent of the realm, Nimhir!"

All but Araphor rose. Customs among the aristocracy were scrupulously adhered to, even between the kingdoms.  Nimhir approached Araphor and knelt before the King.  "Your Highness, you grace us with your visit.  To what do we owe this honor?" he asked with all courtesy, but his face belied his anxiety over the visit.

The King bade him to rise with a gesture. "Kind Nimhir, We are here concerning the letter We sent to Cardolan last month.  Have you had time to consider our proposal?" he asked evenly as a lord to a lesser.

Chancellor Nimhir nodded slowly, cautiously, gauging his every word. "A permanent alliance... Yes, it would be most advantageous to our two kingdoms," he said with a forced smile, trying to ferret out the true meaning behind the visit.  He sensed that the King was not entirely for this plan.

Araphor continued, "The Council of Arthedain has met, and we have come to ask for not only an alliance, but a permanent union.  A reforging of the Kingdom of Arnor."

Nimhir gasped and fought to contain his reaction. "The Kingdom of Arnor?  Why that name has not been heard here for five hundred years.  What do you propose?" Nimhir asked, already knowing what Araphor would request.  He would play ignorant and let the Arthdans reveal their hand first.

The King hesitated a moment, then spoke. "We propose... We ask for a marriage to be arranged between ourselves and Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess of Cardolan," he said very quickly.  It almost seemed as if he just blurted it out to get it over with.

Nimhir nodded and put his fingers on his chin. "I see.  The Princess has many suitors.  It will have to be up to her."  All he could do is buy time.  Things were happening so fast now, almost too fast for him to control, much less manage.

"Then we will just have to meet her," Araphor said with a grimace that screamed it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do.

Nimhir took a deep breath.  No matter what happened, he would insult someone.  It was just a matter of who would affect the kingdom the least by being insulted.  He was going to have to wear his dancing shoes for much longer.

The Great Hall of the Bar Aran

King Araphor

Nimhir bowed and left to find the Princess as the Arthedan group waited.  Araphor drummed his fingers on a table, bracing himself for the meeting.  Images played in his mind of women orcs and female dwarves with beards.  He popped a dried cherry in his mouth for something to chew on.  It made him feel better.  How did he get talked into this?  Wasn’t he the King?  Being the sovereign was far more than swinging a sword and riding a horse, it seemed. He best get this over with, his dignity intact.

Artos commented sympathetically to Araphor. "Who knows, maybe some other poor soul will get to marry her for as many suitors as she has.  You know...she can't be that bad looking," he said hopefully. "Besides, even Haros has learned to live with his wife," he jested quietly, pointing at another knight.  Haros Eketta was a wealthy lord, who had married into even more money.  His wife's ugliness was legendary in Arthedain and Haros took great offense to any negative comments about her.  He had been in twelve duels in the last five years, being victorious in every one.

Araphor pursed his lips and prepared for the worst. "Lord Tarma, that gives us no comfort."  He sighed audibly, a breach of aristocratic protocol.  He had been with women before and the thought of touching the creature that he had seen through Malborn’s Palantír made him ill. He popped another cherry in his mouth to ease the taste coming up from his stomach.

The great double doors to the Royal Hall opened and the herald again pounded his staff thrice. "Announcing the entry of Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess of Cardolan, Nirnadel!"

Kaile lead the way, wearing a pink silk dress with her ginger hair intricately braided.  She bowed before the knights.

Artos elbowed Araphor in the ribs. "She's not bad.  Actually, she's quite attractive, if a little chubby," he whispered in the King’s ear.

Araphor barely heard Artos as his attention was grabbed by the woman who followed Kaile.  The King replied, "We…we don't think this is her."

Artos watched Nirnadel enter, followed by Galadel and Anariel.  His eyes shot open wide.  "Whoa, what was Malborn talking about?  This cannot be the same Princess that he showed me." Nirnadel glided across the floor and curtsied before Araphor in a grand flourish with her hand.  She was dressed in a gown of red, black and silver in a square checker pattern with ruffled sleeves and shoulders.  Around her neck was a string of white and black pearls and her black hair flowed down in a waterfall braid.  Her heart shaped face was lightly made up with rosy cheeks and lips glossed in ruby colors.  She had expressive gray eyes over a slightly upturned nose.  Behind her, Anariel carried a red pillow upon which the Sceptre of Thalion sat, the badge of the ruler of Cardolan, which Nirnadel could not bear until her coronation.

The young King knelt before her and took her hand. "This cannot be, surely you are not Nirnadel, the Princess of Cardolan?" he asked suspiciously.  He looked at Artos and then Nimhir, half expecting to be the butt of some joke.

The Princess blushed. "Good King Araphor, why do you ask?  Surely you have heard our herald."  She also seemed confused as if she were also expecting some ruse to be revealed.  King Araphor scratched his head, remembering the vision that Malborn had shown him before he departed: the 'vision' of the 'Princess', bloated, scabby and missing teeth with a pig’s snout nose.  Araphor shook his head and winced.  Could the Palantíri break like one of those mechanical clocks in Annúminas?  It certainly wasn't functioning properly.

Nimhir stepped forward. "Perhaps a stroll through the Royal Gardens would suit the King and Princess?  I'm sure Anariel would love to escort you two."

The pair wandered the snow-covered Royal Gardens talking and laughing.  Anariel, Kaile and Galadel followed behind closely, seeing that nothing improper happened.  Araphor put on his most confident, humorous and charming display, using all that he had been taught in the Court of Arthedain.

Nirnadel looked up at him. "Good King Araphor, might we ask about your part in the war?  We heard about the fall of Annúminas and We are deeply sorry.  We lost our father and brothers in the war, and it is time that We learned of what happened if We are to govern wisely," she said thoughtfully. She had clearly been mentored by the finest tutors in culture, lore and grace.

Araphor sat on a nearby bench, and she sat next to him. "The city could not be held.  There were simply too many of the enemy," he said gravely.  "My father had asked for reinforcements to Amon Sȗl, but none could be spared.  We were barely holding on.  When we learned that the tower had fallen and my father, slain, We were prepared to defend Annúminas unto death.  It was Artos Tarma who convinced us to retreat.  We were able to get most of the citizens to safety and secure the treasures of the kingdom through his leadership." With his breath steaming in the cold, he showed her the Sceptre and the Shards of Narsil. "These are the heirlooms of our heritage, Nirnadel. The Sceptre was once given to the Lords of Andúnië in Westernesse.  Elendil carried it out of Númenor ere the fall.  Narsil has an even greater history.  Eons ago, it was forged by the dwarf, Telchar of Nogrod in lost Beleriand and then given by Tar Minastir to the Lord of Andúnië, Ciryon, for his service against Sauron after the fall of Eregion.  Here, We want you to hold the legacy of our people, the heirs of Númenor." He held out the two artifacts and offered them to Nirnadel.

She took them and looked them over, examining every detail and reading the Tengwar script. "Magnificent." She felt the weight and balance of the broken sword. "This was the weapon that cut the ring from Sauron's hand.  We are in awe, Good King." She handed them back to Araphor, who then passed them to Galadel.  The girl stood, stunned by the overwhelming history of the items.  The Princess looked into his eyes and said, "We were lost after hearing the news of our father and brothers being slain upon Tyrn Gorthad.  We were…in a dark place.  We have little idea or knowledge of how to rule.  We are…overwhelmed."

Araphor put his hand on top of hers until Anariel put her hands on her hips and he pulled it back.  Regardless of who he was, the maid was having none of this.  It was to be expected in a royal household.  "We too, miss our father.  He fought many campaigns and was a king to be respected.  We are…still finding our way."

Nirnadel nodded with a sad smile. "We…I understand.  The loss of so many still weighs heavily." She rose and then pointed to a swing beneath a snow-covered Birch tree. "I can still feel my father pushing me.  I can still hear his laughter.  Is this normal, Good King?" They walked towards the swing.  Nirnadel looked back to see Kaile smiling.

They sat together on the swing beneath the tree.  Araphor looked about. "Yes, Good Princess, it is entirely normal.  You have not felt anything that…I have not," he said and then swept his hand around the gardens. "Your house and lands are most fair.  As you know, I am offering marriage to strengthen our kingdoms.  I desire the reforging of the old Kingdom of Arnor, the legacy of Isildur.  I am not asking for any answer right now. Please take time to get to know me.  We are both young and have our whole lives ahead of us."

Nirnadel sighed. "Marriage is such a distant thought for me, Good King.  I am enjoying the pleasure of your company and would gladly get to know you better.  As for marriage, praythee, let me think upon it."

Araphor smiled. "Fair enough... One moment...," he began as an idea formed in his head.  Why hadn't he thought of it before? "Would Your Highness be opposed to a visit to our fair city of Fornost?  I would also show you the recovery efforts at Annúminas."

Nirnadel brightened as her face beamed with interest. "I, indeed, am not opposed.  After all, I have never been beyond the borders of Cardolan.  When can we go?" she asked as if ready to pack her bags this instant, a bright smile on her face and her eyes wide.

Araphor jumped up, laughing. "Why, right away of course.  We will leave tomorrow if you wish."

Nirnadel joined in the laughing, taking Araphor's hands. "Splendid... simply splendid." She saw Anariel with her hands on her hips again and stepped back, blushing. "Come, let's tell Uncle Nimhir."

She practically dragged him into the Chancellor's Office to announce the trip.  Nimhir sprayed tea from his mouth across his desk.  Coughing, he spoke, "What?  Go to Arthedain?  You cannot be serious, Your Highness?  This is…this is most irregular."

Nirnadel smiled. "Good uncle, of course we are serious," she said in a soothing voice to elicit sympathy. "I have King Araphor's word that we will be well protected, right Good King," she said, tugging at his sleeve. "We shall bring our personal guards and staff for good measure.  Do not worry uncle, everything will be fine.  Think of it as a diplomatic visit." Araphor nodded quietly in agreement.

Nimhir scratched his head and sighed heavily. "Your Highness, you do not know how important you are to both me and the kingdom.  If something were to happen to you, I do not know what I would do."

Nirnadel put on her most pleading expression. "Oh, please..."

Nimhir couldn't look her in the eye. "I will speak to King Araphor first," the Chancellor said with finality.  The Princess' expression changed to a huge grin.  Nimhir could deny her nothing.  He motioned to an elegant chair and the King sat.  The Chancellor looked intently at the young sovereign. "I feel that you are an honest king.  I will grant the Princess her request to travel to your lands.  However, I will hold you accountable for her safety.  Do I make myself clear?" he said gravely.

The King nodded.  It was something that he could respect and honor. "We will hold the safety of Nirnadel no less than our own.  She will have the might of my kingdom to defend her.  This, I swear."  He found that he was enchanted by the young lady and thought that, perhaps, the union would be a good idea.

Nimhir sighed reluctantly. "Very well, Your Highness.  I will hold you to it and I hereby grant permission for the Princess to travel to Arthedain in the interests of unity."

Tharbad

Silmarien

News of the Princess' travel spread quickly as an entourage was formed to accompany her.  Her eight-man Royal Guard would make the trip, along with Amrith.  Firiel was offered a chance to join the group, but declined to stay with the Houses of Healing. Valandil and Mercatur were chosen to go, along with Kaile, Galadel and Anariel. Haedorial was chosen to be the Princess' herald.  Each of the noble houses were tasked to send two representatives.  The new Hir of Ethir Gwathlo sent two foot soldiers.  Ostomir Tinare and his squire volunteered.  Falathar Girithlin and his squire readily accepted.  Celeph Calantir also sent two foot soldiers. Thangar Eredoriath and his squire stepped forward.  Annael Feotar and his brother, Barahir, agreed to join. Finally, two dour knights from Tyrn Gorthad signed up to round out the entourage.

Given the state of the kingdom, the fact that the procession was ready to depart in just over twenty-four hours was nothing short of miraculous.  Araphor led his forty knights into Menetar Street in front of the Bar Aran to cheering crowds.  The sun was shining, melting off some of the snow and slush pooled in the divots in the road.  Following them was the Princess' entourage, dressed in their finest and marching or riding along.  In the center sat the Princess atop a snowy white horse.  Her sable cloak ruffled in the breeze as she waved to the people.  Falathar rode right behind her, seeming to always want to speak with her.  The staff of the Houses of Healing, now grown to fourteen, met them at the gate to the Bar Aran.  Valandil and Firiel embraced, vowing to see each other soon. Finally, as the procession headed north, they let go.  Valandil continued to look back until Firiel could be seen no longer.  Little did they know, Silmarien moved along behind them.  She was dressed in plain traveling clothes, blending in with the entourage.

"These folks are going to need a little help," she said to herself.

The Palace of Thalion

Captain Tardegil

Tardegil had done a bang-up job fixing up the palace.  He had the men work around the clock to remove dead plants, polish furniture, and replace wood paneling.  Though the work was crude by craftsman standards, it was a vast improvement over the decay that had taken over.  True restoration would come later.  The arrival of the Royal travelers improved morale considerably.

The hard-core, elite Raggers lined the road as the entourage passed, yelling, "Hurrah for the Princess!  Hurrah!" They had heard of her deeds during the riot and felt she would be no less of a ruler than Ostoher, their beloved King.  Tardegil waited at the entrance to the palace wearing his old, weathered silk robe.  Nirnadel rode up and dismounted.

The old captain knelt in the snow. "Your Highness, it is good to see you so well.  I was truly worried," he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

The Princess took his hand. "Your concern touches us, brave Tardegil," she said warmly.  The faithful captain rose and Nirnadel hugged him.  He returned the affection with his characteristic big bear hug.  "I remembered how safe I felt in those big arms," she said, looking up at him.

"And I remember the small, but willful girl who hid behind my chair during council meetings years ago," he answered, getting a laugh out of her.  "Now please, come in before you catch your death from cold."

The group was welcomed into the palace grounds and made camp and stabled horses.  The proud Tardegil took the Princess into the palace and up to the throne.  The massive, bejeweled seat appeared as golden eagle wings encircling a red velvet cushion.  The tall seat back mounted a crystal dome with an intricate etching.  Tardegil smiled broadly, the upturned palm of his hand pointing at the seat of power. "Your Highness, you will one day sit there.  As you know, this is the throne of Thorondur, the first King of Cardolan.  I know that you will live up to his name, and I hope that I live to see that day." Nirnadel nodded gravely.  She knew of the throne and of the long history of her people.  A great weight rested upon her young shoulders.  Quietly, Kaile, Galadel and Anariel waited behind them.

Tardegil led her beyond the throne into the main hall, where two ornately carved stairways ran upstairs on opposite sides of the wall.  Reaching the top, he revealed the fabulous stained glass windows facing west to catch the sunset.  Kaile 'ohh'ed and 'ahh'ed, being a simple girl from the city.  She had never before left Tharbad.

Nirnadel watched the last glow as the sun dipped behind the mountains to the west. "I have seen many sunsets through this very window.  And each one is as beautiful as the first."

Tardegil then ushered them to the King's Suite.  The ornate door held a gold disk bearing the circle of seven stars, the Royal symbol.  The Princess had never been in here before.  She spent her time at Thalion playing in the gardens or in the Queen's Suite and adjoining nursery.  With much unease, she opened the door.

Tardegil bowed with deep reverence. "Your Highness, I take my leave of you now.  The rooms are prepared, and refreshments can be found within.  Call if you require anything." Nirnadel embraced him once again and then slipped into the King's Office with her ladies in tow.

The King's Office

Nirnadel

The King's Office displayed portraits of the nine monarchs of Cardolan, including Ostoher. Nirnadel strode up to that painting and looked up into her father's gray eyes. His regal expression was just as she remembered: clean shaven, jaw set, eyes bright and hair neatly coifed.  The painting captured the essence of his being: confident yet gentle, proud yet understanding.  Nirnadel's knees weakened.  Anariel rushed to her darling Princess and held her up. "Your Highness, come with me. We will draw your bath."

Nirnadel stood straight and sniffled. "We are well, good Anariel.  T'was but a moment's weakness.  Please, take us to the bath," she said taking some deep breaths.  Seeing her father again, even as a painting, struck her to her core.  Less than one year ago, her family was whole, her mother expecting another child and she was the third sibling, playing with dolls and riding her horse, not a care in the world.  That was not even a year ago.  How could she even live up to any of this?  The weight of the realm was overwhelming.  She held out her arms as her ladies removed her clothing, layer by layer.

Sitting in the porcelain and gold tub of hot water, Nirnadel splashed water on her face.  A glass of fruit juice sat nearby along with several ripe apples and cherries from the winter crop.  She drank several sips and then called out, "Kaile, please bring me some reading materials." She had become much more informal and relaxed around the former nurse.

Kaile gladly gathered some books from the King's Library and brought them in.  She set them beside the tub on the counter. "This place is so magnificent.  I have never before seen such grandeur.  When I held the Sceptre and the shards of Narsil…it was…it was I can’t even describe it, and I don’t even know what those items are.  Thank you for the chance to see these things."

Nirnadel smiled. "Oh, I so much envied your life.  Such excitement.  I wanted so much to be involved with the city."

"Oh, you have been involved.  We couldn't have done it without you. I  felt bad having to leave the Houses of Healing, but your concern has allowed Firiel to hire three more assistants.  I hear the plague has already done its worst and the number of new cases is dropping.  You're the one to be envied," Kaile said seriously as she sat by the tub.

Nirnadel blushed and threw water on Kaile. "Oh posh, you are making me embarrassed," she giggled, then became serious.  “A year ago, Kaile, I was a nobody.  I would sit on the floor behind my Royal father during Council meetings, playing with my dolls, pretending to be a queen somewhere, not paying attention.  I rode my white palfrey and read books, danced and sang.  I was never destined for this.  My eldest brother, Crown Prince Thôrdaer should sit the throne and wear the crown. I would be married to some lord to secure an alliance and teach my children how to sing and dance.  That should be my life, one of luxury and ease without responsibility.”

The nurse wiped water from her face and ginger hair, listening along.  “Your Highness, if I may, I’m the daughter of a weaver and a midwife.  I was a nobody.  I learned from my ma and was hired on by Firiel.  I became the chief nurse because I was the oldest and had some experience.  Then, to me, you were some generous but weird noblewoman who helped us.  Then, you were the Crown Princess of the kingdom and then I became a lady of the Royal Court.  This is a dream to me.  My parents are still stunned.  Trust me, I am the nobody,” she said, “but at least I’m somebody to you.”  The two laughed and chatted on as girls are known to do.

Later, when Kaile had left, Nirnadel perused some of the books.  She noticed one written by her fallen brother Prince Braegil.  Braegil was a renowned lore master, even among the elves.  In the text, written in the Sindarin language, she read of an expedition that Braegil had undertaken in 1405 to the ruins of Lond Daer.  Just prior to the war, Braegil had organized another expedition in the hopes of finding a fabled 'Mithril Room' of the Númenórean King, Tar-Telemmaitë.  That king had an irresistible lust for the metal mithril, and his wealth and greed were legendary.  Though the king died nearly three thousand years ago, the fable of the 'Mithril Room' lived on.  Braegil wrote of a Númenórean ship lost in a storm, known to have carried 800 pounds of the precious metal in eight panels.  The panels were completed by the Dwarves of Moria on contract for Tar-Telemmaitë.  Near the end of his life, the greedy king refused to yield the Sceptre of Armenelos as was tradition, until his death.  And so he died, yearning and hungering for ever more mithril.  Nirnadel was fascinated by this tale.  However, she noticed that her toes were becoming a little shriveled.  Reluctantly, she put down the book and slid out of the tub in search of a towel.  As she found one, she heard the dinner bell ring. Galadel rushed in and helped the Princess prepare for the evening meal.

The dinner was the finest Thalion had seen in nearly a year.  Nirnadel sat at the head of the Royal Table with Araphor at the other end.  Knights, staff, and soldiers filled the outdoor festival court under a red and green canopy.  Four large reflecting ponds surrounded the court and diners.  A feast of roast turkey, mint lamb and flame broiled beef filled the bellies of host and guests.  Amid the sound of silverware clinking and conversation, Tardegil raised his crystal goblet full of wine. "A toast to House Tinarë and the House of Finwarin for this fine feast and the supplies that strengthened Cardolan." The diners rose and lifted their glasses as well.

Nirnadel stood and raised her glass again. "To our brethren in the north, a toast to King Araphor, House Tarma and House Eketta and to the courage that flows in their veins." Cheers arose and diners lifted glasses as Haedorial wrote down every word and sketched the Princess with her glass held high.

When the meal was done, Nirnadel sat by one of the reflecting ponds and gazed at the image of the full moon therein.  Falathar sat down beside her. "Fair Princess, have you thought upon my proposal?" he asked nervously.

Nirnadel splashed the cold water with her feet, attempting to distract herself. "Good Falathar, we have just met.  We are still young and in no hurry.  Please let us think on your proposal," she replied without looking at him.  An uncomfortable silence ensued until broken by Anariel, who had watched Falathar's every movement with eagle eyes.

The old nurse stood over Falathar with arms folded. "Your Highness, dessert is being served; strawberries with whipped cream among other delights.  I know this is your favorite."

Staff came out and placed the dessert before each diner.  Dishes of apple cobbler, raspberry tarts, pumpkin pie and, of course, strawberries with cream, brought squeals of delight and shouts of approval.

The Princess leapt up.  She took Falathar's hand and pulled him up.  "Come good Falathar, you cannot miss this treat," she instructed, winking at him in a friendly way.  His eyes bulged with surprise and happiness.

The Royal Dining Room

Mercatur

At another table, Mercatur stuffed strawberries into his mouth as fast as his hands could move. "Mmm, chomp...chomp...slurp...I never had it this good in Rhudaur.  If I ate sawdust I was grateful...chomp...chomp..."

Valandil laughed as he cut another slice of pumpkin pie. "Enough of this down in the dust mercenary crap.  Just how bad was it in Rhudaur?"

Annael and Ostomir nodded.  "Yes, we'd like to know." Mercatur drained another mug of ale and was feeling pretty good.  He traded knowing looks with Tardegil, Amrith, and Artos.  All had fought in Rhudaur at one time or another.  Mercatur's hand gripped his mug with such force that his knuckles were white beneath his tan skin.

"Have you heard of the Gondyrn-onen-Egladil, or Stone Trees of the Angle?  They were five beacon towers in southern Rhudaur that defied the power of the Witch-King.  The Cultirith, rangers in the service of Rhudaur would try to capture these towers every year and depending on the circumstances, I had both attacked and defended these towers. In fact, only four years ago I had dined in the Chamber of the Merethrond in Cameth Brin.  I was one of many being honored for our part in sacking a beacon tower.  The only one I had not attacked was the Tirthon.  I have…had…never mind."

He took a deep breath and then continued, "Well, the following year, when it was time to renew my contract, the agents of the Witch-King told me they weren't going to renew and the Dunnish tribes offered a pittance.  So, I took up as an Airund-shegan, or war lackey for some waenhosh or wagon train to deliver supplies to the Tirthon under this green wastrel.  It didn't pay much more, but a guy has got to eat," Mercatur explained, drinking another ale.  Nirnadel, Kaile, Anariel, and Falathar stood and walked over, listening to Mercatur's continuing tale.  Haedorial had also joined them, writing every word down.

"All seemed to go well until we reached the town of Maig Tuira, a well-known stopping point where we could resupply. But…the town was destroyed, its villages massacred or taken as slaves.  My friends and I, along with young leader of the waenhosh, rescued them but were pursued by wolves and Dunnish warbands.  We managed to evade them and arrived safely.”

The bard raised his quill.  “Good mercenary, this tale sounds familiar to me.  My young friend, Master Dagar-”

Mercatur stopped, sloshing his ale.  “Did you say, Dagar?  Yes, yes, that was he.  I didn’t know that you two were acquainted.”

Haedorial’s eyes bulged, and his elaborate mustache twitched.  “Why yes, yes we are.  He was our accountant at the Guild of the Nightsingers.  Pray, Mercatur, please continue,” he said, dipping his quill again, ready to write.

Mercatur nodded.  “Finally, we arrived at Ynarri's Drift, an inn just outside of the Tirthon. Well, we thought we had it made until the Cultirith attacked the inn.  Dagar, was frantic about getting his grain to the tower, so he promised me five extra silver coins.  Well, we cut our way out and made it to the tower.  I saw my old buddy Hirgrim among the attackers, but that is another story."

Nirnadel and Kaile gasped at the description of the incident and Mercatur looked up at them and nodded darkly. "This wasn't the end of it.  The Dunnish warbands arrived and a siege was formed.  It was there that I… oh, I'm just going to come out and say it, came across my cousin in House Rhudainor.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  I have drops of blood from the Royal House of Rhudaur and was once a noble.  Not that it means squat to me.  I'm much more of a bargeman and a rogue than any uppity royal," he said and then looked to the Princess. "No offense, Highness."

She put her hand over her heart. "None taken, good Mercatur.  Praythee, please continue."

He took a deep breath. "The lord and my cousin, Marendil Rhudainor, had recently lost his wife and had become depressed, almost delusional.  I was able to get him to sign my inheritance papers for my parents’ property in Rhudaur but I knew that something was very wrong with him.  Several days into the siege, he organized a cavalry charge into the prepared defenses of the Dunnish warbands led by an Easterling mage named Ethacali.  Well, we got our butts kicked and Marendil was badly wounded.  A demon appeared in the sky and slew my friend Gamrid and then took Marendil."

Nirnadel gasped, holding her hands over her mouth.

“As we retreated back to the tower, Ethacali unveiled his plan in full.  His troops began a full assault on the tower as a fire erupted in the kitchens, lit by his agents.  We rescued Mirthi, a Dunnish girl from the village and found that the mage had given the head cook a cursed ring that made him do that.  I sent Dagar to the roof to help with the defense and then, Sir Oswy and I led the a counterattack at the gate.  We could hear fighting on the roof, and I went up there to check.  Dagar had poured boiling oil on the attackers but that freak barbarian, Lumban had climbed up there.  Dagar told me to cut away one of the great bronze plates on the roof and it fell, crushing a troll and the siege tower.  Dagar then fought Lumban with that tiny pigsticker of his and actually wounded the freak.”

Haedorial was writing in a frenzy now, adding crude sketches of the mercenary holding his mug. "Yes, yes, the letter from Dagar a couple of years ago mentioned that.  I taught him that move, by the way.  Come on man, I need to hear the rest!"

“I told Dagar to fall back, and I sliced Lumban’s nose off and threw him over the side and the mage’s attack disintegrated, his men fleeing.  They then retreated back into the Yfelwood, a forest that hid an ancient evil.” Mercatur wobbled at this point, his words slurred and his eyes unfocused.  He downed yet another mug of ale.

Haedorial looked down at the scribbled notes that he had taken. "Go on," he urged. The Princess and Kaile grasped the edge of the table, white as ghosts and Anariel covered her face.

Mercatur shook his head.  “It’s still pretty raw and I’m too drunk.  I need to put my head down.”

Haedorial grasped Mercatur by the shoulder. "But you must."

Valandil pulled him back. "Don't push it, Haedorial. Let him rest.  He’s been through a lot.  I’ve yet to hear the whole story myself."

The bard nodded and sat back down.  “I’ve heard the story from Dagar, but I would so love to hear another perspective.  I will be patient, however.”

Mercatur drank another ale and then began to mumble an old Rhudauran song from the trollshaws.

Kaile looked at him. "I think he's drunk.  Let's get him to bed."

The crew helped Mercatur back into the palace and into one of the rooms and Nirnadel carried his bags.  The mercenary flopped into bed and began snoring very loudly.  After they shut his door, Ostomir looked at Valandil and commented, "You two look very familiar."

South of Fornost Erain

Nirnadel

The party was now approaching the outskirts of the new capital of Arthedain. Their journey had taken several days in the thickening snow.  The snow-covered hedges that lined the road gave a mystical feel to the journey.  Invigorated, Nirnadel and Kaile inhaled the fresh air and talked about riding and sledding.  Meanwhile, Valandil had finally satisfied Ostomir that he and Mercatur were engaged in a legitimate operation for Eärdil when they stood outside his mansion on King's Row those many weeks ago.

Nirnadel maneuvered her horse alongside Haedorial's mount.  She brought out the book she was reading and gave it to him. "Kind Haedorial.  Please read this book written by our brother, wise Prince Braegil, and tell me what you might glean from it.  If Braegil were interested in this Mithril Room, than it would be of some importance, yes?  I trust your skills as a lore master."

The bard was flattered, placing his hand over his heart. "Of course, Your Highness.  I will talk with you later."

He slowed his horse and fell back to the rear of the party, behind the foot soldiers. Nirnadel narrowed her eyes, somewhat confused, hoping he would have stayed and continued to converse.  She always enjoyed his knowledge and lore, ever since they met at the Houses.  In another moment she felt a tingling in her mind, almost an itchy feeling that couldn't be scratched.  She heard whispers in her ear.  It was Haedorial's voice, but she knew he was well out of earshot.  She stood up in the stirrups and looked around.

"Your Highness, I see that you are learned in my art," his voice sounded clearly in her ear now.  Some memories came back to her, and she turned around to see him at the rear of the column.  He smiled and waved.

Focusing her mental energy, she returned the whisper from afar, "A gift from our late mother.  I am still very unlearned." Haedorial bowed in the saddle.  She indeed had a lot to learn, and he had a lot to teach.

Chapter End Notes

This ties in the Battle of the Tirthon in the Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  Nirnadel begins to show some of the learning that she received from her late mother.

Leave a Comment

The Gates of Fornost Erain – Narwain 12th, 1410

King Araphor

Tharbad was by far a larger city, but Fornost Erain was better protected.  Thick white walls and towers, made of polished granite, surrounded the city and sentries patrolled the battlements, ready and professional.  Even in the aftermath of the war where the orcs had been decimated, vigilance was always the norm.  Snow lay thick over the city, and the wind blew with a howl, numbing the spirit.  Fornost Erain was further north than Tharbad and the temperature and weather reflected that.  Araphor raised the banner of the King and the gates to the city were opened.  The Princess scanned the walls, her mouth open.  She wanted to see every corner of the city.  In the far distance she could even see the beautiful Lake Melúnien, nearly covered in ice.  It was a sacred place for those in the north.

Falathar, riding next to Nirnadel, 'hrmphed', clearly unimpressed. "So, this is the capitol of Arthedain.  How puny.  Don't you think so, Nirnadel?"

Anariel gawked and scowled at Falathar. "Young man, do not be so familiar with Her Highness.  Show some respect."

Chastised, he bowed. "Apologies, I meant no disrespect.  Our city of Tharbad is by far the greater."

The party traveled on to the great citadel overlooking the rest of the city.  The Palace of the King put the Bar Aran to shame.  Constructed by Elendil with the knowledge and strength of Númenor still fresh, it was a marvel of architecture that rivaled that of the Argonath.  Araphor dismounted from his giant warhorse and walked over to Nirnadel.  He put out his arms and lifted her from her saddle, setting her gently down on the snow.  She blushed furiously; an event noted by Falathar, whose expression darkened.  Grooms immediately took the reins of horses and guided them to the stables.

As they entered the great hall, the Arthedan court had turned out to welcome their King.  Lords and ladies, dressed in robes of silk and fur, bowed low as Araphor walked past.  The men wore circlets of mithril or velvet flat caps of muted colors while the ladies wore white silk veils, called wimples, over their hair or tall, pointed hennins with black veils.  This was a place of long and deep tradition, adhering to the culture of Númenor as prescribed by Elendil.

The seer Malborn was also present and made a brief scowl, unnoticed by all except Haedorial, who mentioned it to the Princess.  The seer was dressed in rich black robes, trimmed in silver with a black flatcap over his thinning gray hair.  Araphor greeted his court. "Gracious courtiers and council members, We have returned safely, bringing the charming and beautiful Princess of Cardolan to visit our realm."  The court ohh'd and ahh'd at the ravishing Princess in her pert velvet riding suit and small red bonnet, lined with red fox fur, cocked to one side of her head.

Malborn knelt before the King. "Your Highness, forgive me, the great seer Ar-Elon," he said, referring to himself.  "Ar-Elon was shown a false vision in the Palantír.  This sometimes happens and even one as great as Ar-Elon can be misled.  Ar-Elon apologizes for allowing the King to be given the wrong impressions."

Araphor winced but waved his hand.  "Pray, don't mention it Malborn, We forgive you. We do not know who you showed me, but it definitely was not this Princess."  The warriors laughed, causing Malborn to grimace.  Nirnadel furrowed her brows, not knowing what they were talking about.

The group was then led into the Royal Hall and introduced to the Royal Family. The Princess knelt before the Queen Mother of Arthedain, Beriel.  She was dressed in a gown of blue and gold with ruffled sleeves and shoulders.  A tall, pointed hennin hat covered her hair with white silk gloves over her hands.  Though mature, she still appeared youthful with her Dúnadan blood.  The elder woman raised Nirnadel up by her hands and, together, they bowed to the Court to thunderous applause.  "My dear," the Queen Mother said, "you bring warmth to these cold halls.  I am honored to have you sit at my table.  Come, let me show you the courtesy of the Kingdom of Arthedain."

Beriel led them into the grand dining hall, where tapestries hung from the walls and the banners of the King, and the noble houses hung from the ceiling.  The staff hurried to and from the kitchen, bringing in great platters of meat, cheeses, fruits and vegetables. Many fireplaces and braziers roared, spreading warmth throughout the hall.  The Queen Mother led Nirnadel and Araphor to the Royal Table which had a blue and gold tablecloth and plush seats.  As they sat, one seat remained empty at the end with only a silver helm sitting on the table there, the seat for Arveleg, the fallen king.  Araphor sat in the middle with the Princess as dancers and jugglers entered the hall.  As her herald, Haedorial sat next to her, glowing with pride and joy.

The bard could barely contain his excitement. "I…I never…I could never dream of being at the King's Table in Fornost.  This is…this is a dream."

The chef then brought out a large platter on a rolling table with a roast pig on it.  He took the apple from its mouth and bowed low to the King's Table. "My King, good Princess, I present to you, the glazed ham.  Soaked in brine and lavished with my secret sauce, honey, basil, thyme and other closely guarded ingredients, this will be a delight for the palette and a treat for the senses." He took a bite of the apple and then took a large, serrated knife from his belt.  He bowed again and began carving.  Jugglers surrounded the chef and began their show. "Prepare for a night of entertainment, laughter and merriment!  Please, please, do not be so formal!  We live for mirth."

Araphor stood and clapped and then pushed his hands upward. "Good people, eat, laugh and be merry!  It has been too long since we had mirth in this hall.  We await good jokes and pranks!"  The young king had a much different approach to life than his dour, devout father, something not all of the nobles appreciated. However, Nirnadel seemed quite pleased.

Haedorial's eyes widened, and he leaned over and whispered into the Princess' ear. "Go ahead, Your Highness, try it," he urged in a voice full of mischief.

She pinched up her face in concentration. "We cannot," she complained.

"You can do it," he countered excitedly.  Suddenly, the roast pig on the center table began to oink and squeal.

The chef nearly fell over in surprise. "This pig is still alive," he shouted as he pulled his knife out of the ham.

Nirnadel and Haedorial exploded in laughter, followed by the Royal Table and then the rest of hall.  The Princess rose and apologized. "We are so very sorry.  It was just a sound effect.  Praythee, please, continue eating," she offered before bursting into laughter again.  She gave a deep bow to the chef. "Kind chef, please forgive us."

Araphor roared with laughter and applause.  This was exactly the kind of thing he enjoyed.  This was the culture that he wanted for the realm, one of mirth and smiles.  While he appreciated the tradition of the kingdom and his father’s adherence to it, it was time to make his own way.  Even his mother was laughing joyously.  It was a good sigh of the times to where he could make his own mark on Arthedain.

Malborn sat next to Falathar Girithlin, cutting his roast duck with his mithril knife. "How rude for the Princess to behave as such.  So juvenile.  She will not be a good match for the King.  Perhaps someone like yourself would be far better for her.  I, Ar-Elon, see how you look at her.  You could teach her.  You would be the perfect couple."

Falathar nodded with his jaw clenched tight. "Yes, I think she likes me and not that King."

Malborn smiled at the seed he had planted. "Yes, you are the one and Ar-Elon will help."

Fornost Erain – The Royal Suite - Narwain 14th, 1410

Nirnadel

It was now two weeks into Narwain, the first month of the year.  The Princess and her entourage had been shown the wonders of the northern kingdom.  A tour of the fortress city had been allowed so the party could stretch its legs about town.  Arthedain revealed itself to be an ordered, cultured, and well-tended society.  Song and poetry were highly revered in the fair city and Haedorial melded right into Arthedan society.  Mercatur, however, was supremely uncomfortable being around the artisans and players of Fornost Erain.

During this time, the Princess quietly celebrated her seventeenth birthday.  Her friends gathered to pay their respects and to wish her well.  In the lounge of the Royal Palace, she sat on a thick floral themed rug, woven in reds, blues and silvers.  Kaile, Galadel and Anariel sat with her as she opened presents.

The Princess opened one box that was wrapped in colorful paper with a bow.  She read the card.

Warm wishes and a happy birthday – House Tarma

Inside the box was some type of green cooking pot.  She stared at it for a few seconds, turning it around in her hand. "Does anyone know what this is?" she asked, never having cooked a day in her life.

"Cheese pot," Kaile said, beaming with pride. "You melt cheese in there and then dip crackers or bread in the melted cheese.  One of my favorite things for sure," she said and Nirnadel handed her the pot.

"Delightful," the Princess said, not entirely with enthusiasm.  "Would it be inappropriate to regift this to Firiel?"

Anariel snorted. "Of course it would be.  You will write a kindly worded letter of thanks to House Tarma for their cheese pot.  Am I understood, Your Highness?"

Nirnadel gave a big fake smile and nodded. "Of course, dear Anariel.  Nothing gets past you."

Anariel returned the big fake smile. "And it is about time that you realized that, dear girl."

The three younger ladies all squealed and began to giggle.  Anariel even joined in.  The old nurse sighed.  "It is so good to feel young again and in such youthful company. I was born under the rule of King Tarastor, son of King Tarcil.  Tarastor was the last in the direct line of Isildur.  Ah, it was a glorious and dreadful time…much like we have now.  You know, Your Highness, if you were to actually study your lessons like I tell you, you would know this."

Nirnadel sighed and rolled her eyes like teenagers are known to do.  "Yes, good nurse, yes.  I will get to it," she said in a singsong voice.

Anariel smiled.  She loved the Princess as a daughter and fretted constantly about her safety, education and happiness. "I am the sister of Hir Calantir and our father fought with King Calimendil at Cameth Brin.  He was one of the few to escape the rout that brought about the great civil war that followed the death of the king.  I have served the last three queens, including your mother, my dear."

Nirnadel had to respect her experience.  Anariel had been like a second mother to her for some time now. " My mother," she said, looking down. "I barely knew her.  She was generous…but distant to me.  What was she like?"

The nurse gave a bittersweet smile. "She was…a force to be reckoned with.  She and your father were the life of the kingdom.  He was a dashing knight errant, and she was the proud lady.  When your brother, Thôrdaer, was born the bells rang for hours all day. Then followed Braegil and then, of course, you.  Your mother cared deeply for all of her children.  I can still hear her singing in the conservatory.  I know she was stern and seemed distant, but she would be proud of the woman you've become."

The Princess wiped away a tear and gave the nurse a nod.  "I am deeply honored, good Anariel," she said as she grasped everyone's hands and placed them in the center between each person.  She put her hand on top. "We sisters will stick together through thick and thin.  And you will be my family."

There was a knock on the door and Galadel ran to answer it.  It was the King.  Galadel and the other ladies knelt as Nirnadel rose to greet him.  The Princess did a perfect curtsey, knees bent outward, back straight with head tilted down.  She had always been taught how to behave and adhere to custom.

The King bowed low from the waist, one hand behind and one over his heart.  He was dressed in a gold and green doublet and leather knee high breeches that were rather tight fitting.  Nirnadel tried not to stare as she rose.

"Good King, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" she asked.

"We have heard that it is your birthday today and We are bringing Her Highness a birthday gift," he said with a beaming smile.  He held up a pair of mithril earrings with emeralds set in the metal and surrounded by flecks of malachite.  Kaile and Galadel gasped with delight and moved in behind the Princess.  The King held one up.  "May I?" he asked and Nirnadel turned her head to show him her ear.  He clasped it on, somewhat awkwardly. "This is not something that is within my skill set," he said, scrunching his face up.  "Ah, there, I actually did it," he said with a humorous edge.

Nirnadel turned the other way, and the King clasped it on, this time more skillfully.  She found the touch of his fingers to be warm and her ears tingled.  "Such a magnificent gift," she said as she looked into a mirror that Galadel held up. "This is simply too much, good King."

He waved his hand. "Nonsense.  We…I wish you to have it.  It belonged to my grandmother, Elbeth.  She, in turn, got them from the elves of Imladris.  I understand that the stones have the properties of healing and wisdom."  He looked her in the eyes. "I have to say that the jewels accentuate the color of your eyes.  How do they feel?"

The Princess gazed into the mirror, holding one of the earrings. "They have no weight. And I…I feel wonderful.  I sense the enchantment within," she said and then curtseyed again. "I thank you, good King."

He grasped her gently by the shoulders and looked down on her with a smile.  "They suit you very well and it is our pleasure to see you wear them."

She blushed furiously, sensing Anariel's disapproval at having a man so close.  She could not meet his gaze. "I…I will…wear them with pride and will always remember so noble and kind of a King that you are."

He released his grasp and stepped back, suddenly seeming nervous.  "I am…I am…sorry. I must go.  There will be a council meeting this afternoon, called by the Seer Malborn.  It would be an honor for you to attend.  We will discuss matters of state that will likely involve Cardolan.  I would value your input." He bowed low. "Your Highness. Ladies.  I bid you good day."

Fornost Erain – The Council Chambers

King Araphor

The Royal Court was assembling in the hall to hear what the seers might have to say.  The power of these men was great, and their word was held in high regard, a tradition since the days of Númenor.  Araphor walked with the seers towards the semicircular chamber where seating was arranged to either side of a crimson and gold throne.  The chamber was carved of white marble that showed veins of gold with the walls covered in banners and tapestries that showed the sigils of the noble houses of Arthedain.  The King looked back at his seers and scowled.  "She will be here to attend the council meeting.  We have personally invited her and Our word stands."

"But Your Highness," one old seer protested.

Araphor pointed at him and leaned forward.  "I am the King," he said to end all dissent.  He broke eye contact and climbed the steps to the throne.  As he sat, two heralds blew on horns to play a flourish as everyone in the room stood.  The King was dressed in Númenórean style robes, woven to accentuate his powerful physique.  His jet-black hair was closely cut beneath the ancient crown of Arthedain.  The King lifted up the Sceptre of Annúminas to signal the commencement of the meeting and the lords and ladies of the court bowed in respect, and each announced their name and title.  Nirnadel sat in a seat reserved for honored guests, while two Royal Guards, Kaile, Galadel and Anariel stood behind her.  Kaile could barely contain her excitement, practically bouncing on her feet.  Only weeks before, she was but a simple assistant healer and a peasant girl before that.  Now, she stood with sovereigns and heads of state.

Malborn approached the throne wearing his finest robes of blue and black.  His balding white hair was slicked back under the gold circlet of the High Seer.  He bowed from the waist, a hand on his heart.  He glanced briefly at Nirnadel with a sneer and then looked back to the King.  "Your Highness, in the retreat from Annúminas last year, the Royal Library was abandoned.  However, it has come to Ar-Elon's attention that the library has remained nearly intact," he said and then looked at the interlopers from Cardolan.  "My King, they should not be here.  It was not that long ago that we were mortal enemies with…them."

Araphor sighed deeply.  This was becoming tedious. "Malborn, We have already spoken.  You must accept the King's will.  Pray, continue," he said impatiently with a flick of his hand.

Malborn snorted in obvious disagreement. "Very well, my King,” he said, a smile returning to his thin lips.  “The tomes contained within are priceless, detailing the vast history of our people from the days of Númenor.  Also contained within are tomes detailing the wisdom of the ways of essence and channeling.  There are spells and wards guarding these tomes, but they will not hold long against the enemy if he tries to recover them.  These tomes would prove to be a powerful tool in the wrong hands."

Araphor nodded.  He hated to admit it, but the seer's words were true.  Though a warrior by trade, the King knew the power of essence and channeling.  He knew what these powers could do against his kingdom.  "We understand.  The wards put on these tomes would prove difficult to defeat, but how long will they last against a determined foe?"

Malborn stroked his chin, seeming to regain his momentum. "Though placed in the rooms and halls of the library by Arthedan mages, none now living know the nature of these incantations.  All of those dedicated mages were slain by the Angûlion and his armies in the fall of the city."  It was true, a desperate sacrifice by the guardians of the tomes.

"Very well, Malborn.  We will contemplate your wise suggestion and give an answer on the morrow," spoke the King.  "You may withdraw and craft a plan to recover the tomes." The seer bowed again and returned to his seat, delivering another glare to Nirnadel.

Other minor business followed, such as the winter crop and spring planting, but this did not seem to interest Malborn.  During the lively discussion of planting corn, Malborn slipped out of the Council Chambers.  Araphor made note of this as he tried his best to pay attention and seem interested.  He knew that these issues were important, and he would do his utmost to be a good king.  Still, he would much rather be jousting or talking with Nirnadel than listening to intricate details of seed storage.

When the discussion had ended and the court was dismissed, Araphor spoke with an elderly female seer named Malwë.  He motioned Nirnadel to join them and she approached.

"We would like your assistance in determining a course of action," the King told Malwë.  While he put less stock in the seers than his father did, he knew enough to consult them.  Plus, he had it in his heart to impress someone.

The old seer nodded.  "Why of course, Your Highness.  Might I suggest a look into the Palantír?"

The King smiled. "That is what I was hoping you would say," he said.  Turning to Nirnadel, he added, "You, dear Princess, are in for a treat."

Leaving behind the guards and Nirnadel's ladies, the three journeyed to the Royal Tower.  Well-armed Guardians of the Stone came to attention as the King passed.  He clapped each of them on the shoulder in a warm way, brothers in arms.  They climbed the stairs to the pinnacle of the tower, where doors constructed of an odd metal barred their way.  The seer held out her hand and a symbol on the door appeared, shining in a silver glow.  The doors parted, revealing a circular room with glass windows.  Situated in the center of the room were two dark crystal spheres mounted in mithril atop marble pedestals.  One sphere was much larger than the other; so large, that it could not be lifted by a single man.

Nirnadel gasped.  "Are these…are these the fabled seeing stones…the Palantíri, that my father spoke of?  He viewed one once, in the tower of Amon Sûl."  Araphor felt her wonder and it warmed him.

Malwë nodded with a smile. "The mere existence of these stones is shrouded in secrecy.  Only the very learned even know of their presence in the city."

Malwë stood three feet to the east of the stone and focused her energy to the west. Araphor and Nirnadel stood behind her, gazing into the stone.  The crystal was dark, but a flickering flame could be seen growing inside.  An image appeared in the Palantír, showing the now desolate and ruined city of Annúminas.

Nirnadel blinked and her mouth fell open.  "Is this truly an image from miles away?"

Soon, the Royal Library could be seen nearly intact, covered by snow.  Orcs and trolls had little use for books.  In excitement and awe, Nirnadel grasped Araphor by the arm.  The scene slowly faded, bringing another of men and orcs fighting near the library.  There was blood in the snow.  That image also faded, followed by a scene involving an observatory.  Several of the tomes could be seen on a desk inside of the building.  The Palantír then went dark.  Malwë glistened with perspiration, breathing heavily. "I am not so young anymore.  Even a few minutes leaves me drained," she declared.

Araphor stroked his chin. "The enemy is trying to recover the tomes.  We must act now," he said decisively, smacking his fist into his open palm.  During the war, the seeing stones helped him and Lord Tarma to organize the defense against such an overwhelming foe.

Nirnadel tugged the sleeve of the seer, her eyes bright with a big smile. "May I burden you for a small peek to the south?" she asked sweetly.

Malwë smiled warmly, wiping the last of the perspiration from her brow.  "Why of course child.  I occasionally sneak a look at my home far away."  The seer moved to the north of the stone, looking south.  "Come, stand here, young woman."  Nirnadel stood beside her and gazed into the sphere as it glowed to life again.

Malwë motioned the Princess forward.  "Focus on what you want to see," she instructed.  Nirnadel concentrated, bringing forth an image of Thalion.  Soldiers in armor drilled on the snowy grounds.  Next, Tharbad was visible.  Wagons and people moved about the icy streets.  She then focused on the Bar Aran, where Nimhir could clearly be seen strolling through the gardens.  Finally, an image of the Houses of Healing appeared.  Three patients were departing and waving to Firiel.  Then the sphere went dark.  Both Malwë and Nirnadel sighed from the exertion.

The Princess wiped her brow. "Thank you, kind seer.  We feel better knowing our lands are safe.  Is it true that these stones were crafted by none other than Fëanor?"

Malwë nodded.  "It is.  The greatest of elven smiths crafted these eons ago in a land, far off and eternal.  They were gifted to the Edain at the end of the great War of Wrath and taken to Númenor.  They escaped with Elendil and his sons before the fall and now reside in Arnor and Gondor."  The seer then bowed.  "I thank you for allowing me to show you my craft.  I shall leave you now," she said and withdrew.

Nirnadel looked at Araphor. "We will ask our people to assist you.  We understand how important these tomes are to your kingdom."

The King smiled. "Thank you.  If... no when we recover the tomes, We shall grant Cardolan access to them.  It will greatly enhance both of our lands."  She held her hands over her heart and he thought that this woman might be someone that he would like to know better.

The Royal Chambers

Nirnadel

The Princess gathered her entourage in the lounge near her bedchamber.  The party sat around her, waiting to find out what was in store.  Her eyes were set and determined. "We have met with the King of Arthedain and have consulted with the Guardians of the Palantíri.  There is a matter of great importance to both of our kingdoms.  When the beautiful city of Annúminas was sacked by the Witch-King's forces last year, the Royal Library was left nearly intact.  There are tomes contained within which hold great power and We have agreed to assist.  We are willing to go personally, so We ask for your help," the Princess said, telling them of the task.

Ostomir Tinarë raised his hand. "Your Highness, with all due respect, you cannot go on this journey.  The risk is simply too great.  There are still enemy forces lurking about," he said as Galadel nodded.

Kaile agreed. "The kingdom cannot afford to lose you.  I will go in your place and accept the risk." The rest of the entourage voiced their agreement.  Nirnadel contemplated this for a minute.

"Brave friends, what shall We do then?" she asked.  One by one, they all stood, saying they would go to uphold the Princess' honor.  Nirnadel smiled. "You all put us to shame. We are truly blessed with such loyal followers."

Baranor, respected by all, stood and spoke, "Four Royal Guardsmen will remain behind to guard Her Highness.  Anariel will stay also...no offense Anariel, but I think your adventuring days are over."  Laughter erupted from the crowd and Anariel sighed with relief, putting her hands over her heart.  "Besides, who will keep her in line?  The rest of us can begin preparations and coordinate with the Arthedain party."

Mercatur leaned over to Valandil and said quietly, "There's got to be some gold action there. You think?" Valandil chuckled softly, nodding.

Fornost Erain – Narwain 15th, 1410

Mercatur

Lord Mallon Eketta, a devout man of great learning, was chosen to lead the Arthedan group.  He was the brother of Harros Eketta, the head of the house.  Aerin Eldanar, a woman of profound knowledge, was to be his assistant.  Twelve other ohtari rhyn, or mounted warriors, would accompany him.  The ohtari rhyn wore black chainmail shirts, cut to suit the ways of horse archery.  For weapons, they also wielded a longsword, shortsword, and two daggers.  In times of war, they would also carry a lance.  However, for the purpose of this expedition, they would forego the lance.

Mallon's family lived at Bareketta, a mansion along Lake Nenuial, north of Annúminas.  House Eketta was considered to be one of the most powerful in Arthedain, second to House Tarma.  Mallon's faith and wisdom were held in high regard by the Royal Council. Aerin belonged to House Eldanar, a family dispossessed when the forces of Angmar took their ancestral home, Barad Eldanar, in 1325.  Aerin's father, Elenuil, was the lord of the castle and made numerous attempts to retake the ancient hold.  Elenuil died brokenhearted only a few years ago, unable to regain the ancestral home.

In preparation for the journey, Mercatur led several of the Cardolan party members on a shopping spree to outfit themselves.  Valandil, Ostomir, Annael and the ladies wandered about the shop, looking at various accessories.  Mercatur was like a kid in a candy shop as adventuring was his life.  He tossed the others some backpacks to carry supplies over the desolate land west of Fornost Erain while Annael tried on some fur-lined boots.  Down another aisle, Valandil grabbed several lengths of fine rope and a number of waterskins.  A tent and compass were also added to the list.  Annael purchased up a lock pick kit, "I think we're going to need this," he commented.  When finished, they took their booty to the counter and poured out an assortment of silver, bronze, and copper coins.  The clerk took the coins and passed back a few coppers in change.  Mercatur looked at the coin in his hand, eyeing the image of King Arveleg on one side and the seven stars on the other.  "Hmmm, Arthedan copper," he mused as he bit the coin.  “Eh, it’ll do.  Now Rhudauran copper…no one can beat that.

The Castle of Barad Morkai

Ulduin, the Dog Lord

The mutated sorcerer, Ulduin, had come to Barad Morkai, one of the castles near the Angmar border.  Sitting in the meeting room of the Great Hall, he commanded fear from the men and orcs seated around him.  Ulduin was not above killing and eating an orc for no reason, just to shock his followers.  Ulgarin entered and gracefully sat down.  Her pretty smile could be seen beneath her veil, hiding the evil within her heart.

"Ulduin, I have met with our man in Arthedain,” she said.  “He has convinced the King to launch an expedition to Annúminas to recover the tomes.  Our plan is to let them recover the books, exhausting themselves.  When they emerge, we will take the tomes from them.  This way, they face all the traps in the library," she said gleefully.  "Our man indicated that at least twenty people will undertake the expedition; some from Arthedain and some from Cardolan.  He also says the bratty Princess of Cardolan is in Fornost," Ulgarin told Ulduin.

The dog-faced monstrosity replied, "Good, I will lead the Sharkai and Urughâsh tribes while you lead the group that we have hired.  We should dispense with them quite easily," he said in a growly voice that was not entirely human.

Ulgarin interjected, "Do not underestimate them.  These men have proved to be… unpredictable."

The dog faced sorcerer laughed. "That is why I have invited some friends." He extended a clawed hand summoning two of his thanes: an eight-foot tall, bloated cave troll with a huge, enchanted war hammer and a ghastly Uruk chieftain with a saw-bladed scimitar.  “I do not foresee a problem.

Chapter End Notes

For the clothing and fashion, I'm using the Tudor Era as a template.

Leave a Comment

The Gates of Fornost Erain – Narwain 16th, 1410

Nirnadel

The Princess stood at the great gate of the fortress city with the four Royal Guards that would remain with her.  She was dressed in a thick, wool tunic of green and red with an ermine lined cloak over her shoulders.  Her breath streamed out of her mouth in the cold of newly fallen snow.  Small snowflakes glided and swayed downwards, coating the ground in ever thickening amounts.  Falathar knelt in the snow before her and kissed her hand. "I will bring you riches and glory, Your Highness," he promised.  He wore a harness of mixed chain and plates over vulnerable areas.  He held his visored bascinet in the crook of his arm.

Nirnadel raised him up. "Brave Falathar, We would be most glad if you would bring yourself back alive.  That is all We ask."

Kaile came next and gave the Princess a hug.  "We'll be back soon.  Please don't worry."

Nirnadel grasped her tightly, "You must take care, dear Kaile.  You have become like a sister to Us." Other than her older brothers and Anariel, Nirnadel had no companions in childhood.  She had grown very attached to Kaile, and they had become nearly inseparable.  She then hugged Galadel. "Though you are new to our family, We already think of you as our sister.  Please be safe."

Galadel returned the hug and then stepped back and curtseyed. "I am honored to serve you, Highness.  I've been learning some sword work from Baranor," she said, a little nervous.  "So, please do not worry."

Nirnadel touched the back of her hand to her mouth and her eyes became misty.  "I will be joining you more in that soon," she said and then bit her lower lip.  "Forgive me, this is the first time we will be parted since you joined our house."  She took Haedorial's hand.  "And I expect to hear all about it when you return," she said, stifling a sob.  Her hand shook.

The bard bowed low with a flourish.  "I already have many tales and many sketches that will tell of this great adventure, Your Highness.  We will yet create as magnificent of a story as the Lay of Leithian and the Quenta Silmarillion," he said in his grandiose style and they both laughed.  The Princess put her hand over her heart and smiled broadly.

Nirnadel then took Valandil and Mercatur's hands.  "Take care of them and yourselves. We look forward to many more dinners in the Houses of Healing."  Finally, she moved onto Baranor. "Good Baranor, We trust in your ability to keep our friends safe.  You are our strongest champion."

He knelt in the snow and kissed her hand.  "By my sword, this I swear."

As the Princess stepped away, she noticed another woman in the party, someone she did not know.  She could not tell if the woman was old or young, seemingly both innocent and mature.  All she could tell from the woman's clothes was the sigil of a bronze wyvern.  It was certainly not one of Cardolan's noble houses.  She should know this sigil, but it escaped her.

The procession headed down the King's Road west toward Annúminas, away from the rising sun.  The crisp morning air bit deeply into Nirnadel as she watched her friends travel into grave peril.  She cupped her hands, blowing hot air into them.  Steam billowed out of her mouth.  As the travelers moved out of sight, she sent Haedorial a whisper on the cold Arthedan winds.

"Please return safely."

The Village of Rood

Mercatur

The quiet village of Rood was once a thriving stop between Annúminas and Fornost.  The devastation of the war of 1409 had forced most of the occupants to flee.  However, the residents had been slowly returning to rebuild and reestablish their lives.  In addition, river commerce had also begun to return and enrich the land, and a few barges could be seen tying down at the docks and unloading goods.  Through the snow, the party approached the village from the east.

Mallon pointed to the stately mansion along the south side of the road.  "There is the Eketta house.  We will lodge with my family for the evening.  There will be more snow coming as the sun sets."  He was a plain looking man with strong features, but a weak chin.  His dark brown hair was curly and cut in a short mop that was conducive for wearing a heavy helmet.  His surcoat had the sigil of his house, crossed swords over a silver tower.

Aerin nodded.  "I concur.  We can wait out the storm tonight."  She was an attractive woman on the edge of youth into maturity.  Though appearing young, as a Dúnadan, she was well into her forties.  Her black hair whipped unbound in the winds that were gradually picking up.  "The temperature will drop quickly.  We should make haste," she said emphatically.

Arriving at the Eketta House, Mallon saw two armored guards at the front door, dressed in the dignified Eketta colors.  Each carried an eket, a short, stabbing sword, for which the family was named, one supremely effective behind their favored shield wall.  Seeing Mallon, the guards bowed and greeted him warmly.  Mallon introduced his new companions, and they were all greeted by the Ekettas with great hospitality.  Quarters were given to each person, and they soon gathered in the main hall around the warm fire for hot cider and a meal.

Within an hour after sunset, the snow began falling in earnest, piling up outside in great white drifts.  The wind blew hard against the window shutters, howling and rattling.  Covered in thick furs, Mercatur sipped a mug of hot cider.  "This is too much like Rhudaur.  I prefer the warmer climate of Cardolan now," he commented to Valandil.  Sometimes, he just liked to gripe.  One day, Rhudaur was a paradise on Middle Earth, the next, it was worse than Angmar.

The gaily dressed Haedorial quipped, "I rather like the snow.  It feels pure somehow."

Mercatur grunted.  “I’m guess I’m becoming a city boy,” he said sourly.

Valandil shrugged.  "I don't know.  It's just cold out there and I hate to think of lugging back heavy books through it."

The Rhudauran mercenary walked over to one of the windows and looked out at the drifts, his breath misting on the panes between the iron grilles. "Snow and wind... wind and snow.  I might as well be home." He was feeling pensive.  He just needed something to fight and he would feel much better.  He sat back down and drummed his fingers on an end table.  Something was eating at his gut.

Valandil drank his cider and sighed. "Well, I'm going to get some sleep.  Mallon says it will clear tomorrow."  He set his mug near the sink and went to his room.  "There will be several long days of travel ahead."

As he departed, a woman entered and sat at one of the plush red seats near the fireplace.  She wore an indigo hooded cloak.  Mercatur looked over and could only tell that she was blonde.  She took a sip of cider from her mug.  "Nasty weather, isn't it?" she asked in a strong, clear voice.

Haedorial perked up. "Why yes, madam, it certainly is.  My friend here was just commenting on how much this is like Rhudaur."

The woman was silent for a moment and then took another sip.  "Indeed, it is."

Mercatur cocked his head and listened.  Her accent.  It was so familiar. "Where you from lady?"

She shook her head.  "Not from around here.  But I travel a lot."

The mercenary tried to get a look at her face, but her hood blocked his view.  "I don't recognize you, friend.  You are a member of our party, right?"  Something gnawed at him and his suspicion was growing.  Silently, he undid the strap holding his dagger in its sheath.

She sighed as if she knew what he was doing.  "I belong to one of the noble houses, yes."

"And might I have your name…friend?"

There was a glow about her face for a moment and then she turned to look at him.  She was a wizened old woman with wrinkled skin and cloudy eyes.  "Silmarien.  I own Silmarien's used clothing in Tharbad, you see," she said in a creaky voice.  Mercatur didn't think that this was the same voice he heard earlier, but her ancient appearance set him at ease, and he retied the strap on his dagger's sheath.

"Why would we need used clothing?" he asked, curious and still a little suspicious.  The name stood out for him.  Marendil’s sister was named Silmarien, but she would be much, much younger.

"Well, doesn't every adventurer need clothing?" she asked.

Mercatur was tired and he didn't have the strength to push this further. "Hmmm, yeah yeah."  One thing kept nagging at him though.  "So, friend…Silmarien, your accent. I've heard it before."

"Yes, you're from Rhudaur, are you not?  I can tell by your accent."

He inhaled sharply. "Who are you?"

"I am merely an old woman who sells clothing to adventurers, who has been to Rhudaur.  I can tell; you were a bargeman and a mercenary.  The rough hands, your manner, yes, most Rhudauran," she said knowingly.

He became uncomfortable and squirmed in his chair. "And what of it?" He didn't like that she knew much more about him than he knew of her.

"Oh nothing.  Just an old woman making idle conversation.  You know, when you get to my age, you just like talking to new and interesting people."

Haedorial warmed his hands towards the crackling fire. "Good mercenary, you spoke of House Rhudainor before, am I right?  Am I to understand that you were cousin to the last lord of that house?"

Mercatur harumphed.  "Yeah…yeah I am…was…whatever.  He's long gone and I ain't taking his place.  That was Dagar.  He’s Lord Rhudainor now." He paused for a moment, thinking, remembering. "You know, Marendil had a sister, one I never met.  I thought she was studying in Cardolan," he said, probing, and then looked back at the old woman. His eyes grew huge when he saw that she was gone without a trace. "What the? No…no, you're seeing things," he said, rubbing his eyes. "That's just crazy."

The bard cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "What?  What is crazy?"

"Marendil's sister.  She would’ve been next in line to lead House Rhudainor if I had not given the title to Dagar.  Her name…her name was Silmarien…no, that woman was way too old.  No. Look bard, I'm just talking crazy.  I need to hit the hay."

"Have a good night, Mercatur," Haedorial said.  "I best get some rest too."  The bard brightened for a moment before heading to his quarters.  “You know, we should visit Dagar one day.  I would dearly love to see the young man again.”

“You and me both.”

The Outskirts of Annúminas – Narwain 19th, 1410

Mallon Eketta

The desolation grew as the party neared Annúminas.  Mallon spread his warriors out in a skirmish line to expand the scouting ability of his force.  From a distance, the riders could be seen as slowly moving dots in the snow.  Trudging behind were the foot soldiers of Cardolan along with Mercatur, Valandil, and Kaile.  They moved slowly west along the Men Aran, or King's Road.  To their left, the Baranduin River flowed slowly along to Lake Nenuial, taking chunks of ice along with it.

Off in the distance, a great mound could be seen with snow-covered structures.  The wind blew fiercely, throwing flakes into the air.  Clumps of frosted pines surrounded the mound, but no other life could be detected.  Mallon looked up into the overcast sky. "Another storm is coming.  We might have two days," he told the group. "We best be quick about this."

Aerin pointed to the mound.  "Look, atop that hill lies ruined Annúminas.  Our goal is in sight." She wore a light chainmail shirt under a thick surcoat that was lined with fur.  It bore the sigil of House Eldanar, an image of Númenor in front of a rising sun.

When they were within a few hundred feet of the city, they could clearly see the devastation.  At first glance, not a single structure appeared to be intact.  Houses and shops were smashed and burned.  A tower at the northeastern part of the city was razed.  Rubble and twisted metal lay in piles.  The bridge across the Baranduin was severely damaged and would have to be crossed carefully.  They saw some repairs, but all operations had ceased for the winter and covered timber and quarried stone sat, unattended.

One by one, they went across the battered stone bridge over the icy Baranduin into the Old Quarter of the city.  Quaint brick buildings were wrecked or torn down.  Skeletons could be seen lying in the cobblestone street, partially covered in snow.  Kaile shivered at the sight and Haedorial grimaced.  Mallon commented, "These homes were more than one thousand years old.  This city was once the jewel of the Kingdom of Arnor." He bowed his head sadly, "Now it is just scattered rubble."

A straight road ran southwest from the bridge to the now shattered Royal Hall.  To one side of the Hall sat the King's Star Tower and to the other side sat the library.  The Royal Hall was once an oval-shaped dome, but now that dome was collapsed into ruin, leaving the intricate framework like the ribcage of a skeleton.  A cursory search of the building revealed that it had been thoroughly sacked and pillaged.  The library looked damaged but remained reasonably intact.  Several pillars had collapsed, and the roof had fallen in areas.  Otherwise, the exquisite marble structure stood defiantly in the snow.

Mallon had men probe the main entrance.  The solid mallorn-wood doors had been torn down and lay on the marble steps.  Two men stepped over the doors into the ground floor of the library.  "We're inside!  There are smashed bookshelves and burnt books lying in heaps."  Snow had fallen through gaps in the ceiling and icicles dangled from nearly every hanging surface.

"Sir, we have found two staircases down into the ground," called one man.  Mallon and several others stepped through into the library.  Two massive marble staircases wound down to the lower level.  One staircase had obvious cracks and gaps in the marble structure.  One man began down the first staircase and the other, down the second.

The second man stopped halfway down.  The staircase began to rock and pitch lightly, metal groaning under his weight.  The warrior carefully returned to the top saying, "It's too unstable.  We can't use this."

The first man reached the bottom of his staircase and called up, "This one's all right." Having said that, he was immediately incinerated by fire erupting from the floor.  The flame shot skyward causing those looking down to jump back.  At the bottom, the warrior's charred carcass fell to the floor and broke into pieces.

Mallon swore.  "The wards placed in the library are still intact.  I feared as much.  This will make our task more difficult.  I will take the next risk," he said with determination.   His face was set, obvious guilt over have sent a man to his death.  A devout man, he was known for taking responsibility for his actions and always tried to lead by example.  The loss of the soldier was his responsibility to bear.  Mallon crept out on the landing and walked cautiously down the stairs.  Nearing the bottom, he scanned around the room and on the floor at the base of the staircase. He held out his palm and uttered a prayer to Varda.  He was rewarded when a silver symbol appeared on the floor.  It was a symbol of fire, placed there by one of the now departed guardians.  Two charred orc skeletons lay nearby, attesting to the effectiveness of the hex.  Mallon called upon the help of Varda again, channeling his power toward the magical guardian.  Perspiration beaded up over his brow despite the cold.  Slowly, the symbol vanished.  Mallon sighed. "Thank Varda, the threat has been removed.  Come down one at a time," he instructed.

Aerin came down next, followed by Valandil.  The circular room housing the staircase had two exits: one southeast into a central domed room and one west to a set of double doors.  Mallon moved cautiously to the southwest archway, drawing his eket.  Having reached the bottom, Aerin and Valandil went to the double doors.  Mercatur then came down, followed by Ostomir and then Falathar and the others.

Holding up lanterns to light the way, Mallon and Mercatur moved warily into the archway.  Axe in hand, Mercatur looked about.  He noticed a heavy portcullis poised over the entryway, ready to skewer any who passed through.  He held back Mallon, who exhaled in relief.  Together, they scanned the circular room.  Black marble columns and walls led up to a magnificent, vaulted ceiling, also in black marble.  Ithildin gilded the columns, tracing the outline of fantastic beasts and constellations.  A pool in the center housed a white marble statue of a naked warrior, posed with sword raised in victory.  Another staircase could be seen directly across the room, while four grand corridors ran north, south, east, and west.

At the doors, Aerin discovered that they were securely locked.  The doors would take some time to open, even if they would try to bash them in.  Mallon ordered his men to bring down stones to prop the portcullis up and prevent it from falling on anyone.  Soon, men were bringing in rubble and piling them in the archway.  It took several minutes before the pile grew high enough to block the fall of the portcullis.

One of Mallon's men reported, "Sir, the ranger Amrith is with a group of men up top to guard our rear.  He thinks there may be enemy forces out there."

Mallon nodded.  "Very well.  We cannot be too careful," he replied. "We need to keep in regular contact.  I don't want any surprises."  He could feel a bit of tension rising in his neck.  He knew that this would happen, but it was far too soon.

Mercatur and Ostomir ventured into the central room and together, they moved to the fountain.  Looking in, they noticed the water of the fountain strangely clear.  Mallon called, "Don't touch the water.  I suspect it has been poisoned.  It should be full of algae by now."  Mercatur nodded warily as Falathar moved close to the western corridor.

Four man-sized statues, clad in heavy plate armor, stood in niches along the western corridor.  Each held a greatsword four and a half feet long.  Mallon pulled Falathar back harshly. "Those statues will come to life!" he scolded.  "They are enchanted by the seers.  You must be more careful." Falathar shrugged but kept an uneasy eye on the figures.  Mallon checked down each of the remaining exits: north; south; and east. Each had some hidden peril.

Mallon led the way back to the staircase.  He shook his head.  "We're stuck out there. Can we get through that door?" he asked, pointing to the east double doors.

Aerin nodded with a slight grin. "I've been waiting for you," she said with a snap of her fingers.  Tumblers could be heard rotating within the door.  Valandil returned the grin then pulled the double doors open.

Mallon grimaced, seemingly irritated.  "Why did you not open the doors before now?" he asked indignantly.

Aerin smiled playfully. "Why waste my energy if you can get us through this the normal way?" He rolled his eyes, but let a grin cross his face.  The energy needed for spells was not an inexhaustible commodity.

Together, they entered a rectangular room constructed of some type of creamy stone.  Aquamarines adorned the walls in abstract patterns and gossamer veils hung from the ceiling.  Porcelain bookshelves held leatherbound volumes on the lore of the sea and its creatures.  Mallon selected a number of books and took them upstairs. At the top, he directed the men. "Begin building a wagon.  We have begun to find some of the books. Amrith believes that we are being watched so be quick about it."

Within an hour, they had explored three more rooms: the Chamber of Silence; the Chamber of Trees; and the Silver Room.  Aerin had stacked several tomes on the history and mechanics of lens grinding in the crimson Chamber of Silence, which seemed to absorb all sound.  The Chamber of Trees held books on the history of Arnor along with detailed maps of the north.  The Silver Room was a marvel of mirrors along its domed ceiling with bookshelves of black wood, engraved with silver.  Kaile and Galadel pulled off maps of Gondor, Angmar and Lindon and stacked them in a pile.

A shout from Haedorial caught people's attention. "Come here! I found something. Magnificent!"

Mallon and Valandil rushed into a room that had mithril doors for an entrance.  Blond wood covered the floors and wall panels, which were covered in elaborate scrollwork of mithril paint.  The bard held a tome in his hand and held it up with reverence. "The Ainulindalë…written in Quenya.  I…I have no idea how old this is.  This is…is ancient and priceless," he said and then picked up another book. "The Quenta Silmarillion!  This was…this was penned by none other than Eärendil!  This is a treasure beyond imagining!" He held up the book to show writing in the Tengwar script.

Valandil tapped the bard on the shoulder. "Put them in the bag, Haedoriel.  We need to hurry.  Amrith thinks that someone is watching us.  Mallon and I are going to push west. Don't be too long."

"Right, right, yes, of course, good knight," the bard said and put some of the books into the sack before he began to read the Tengwar runes that wove around some of the pillars. "Amazing, simply amazing."

Mallon opened the door to the west and a stream of cold flowed out of the opening. He poked his head in to see a room that was paneled in bluish white stone that appeared as if it were ice. He pulled a book off of a shelf and read the cover. "A catalog of stars. Hmmm, I wish we could take these, but we simply don't have the time and this is common knowledge in the realm."

Haedorial had caught up by now, dragging the sack of books behind him with the help of Galadel. "This complex is huge!  How much more is there?"

Mallon sighed heavily as a great sadness came over him.  He had always been devout, had always given proper homage to the Valar and to Eru himself.  How could the Valar allow such destruction? "This is the greatest library in the north, my friend.  We have barely scratched the surface.  If we had a week, I would show you wonders that you could only dream of.  But I would beg of Varda only a few more hours."

Haedorial smiled, twirling his long mustache. "I would have liked that very much, brave knight.  Unfortunately, we live in interesting times."  He went to the north door and opened it.  Peering inside, he gasped.  "By the Valar…this is…amazing."

Mallon knew what he was looking at but couldn't help but to see it himself.  "Incredible, isn't it?  Behold, the Star Dome."  The room was paneled in blueish and black stone and was domed and encrusted with thousands of large, clear gems.  Many of these gems magically radiated light to represent the present configuration of the stars, twinkling as they would in real life.  It was magnificent.  The party entered, awed by the dazzling lights on the ceiling.

Mercatur's mouth fell open.  Tapping Valandil, he commented, "These guys were good. This stuff is amazing." Haedorial continued to write and sketch furiously, jotting down every detail into a leather-bound book.

Mallon patted Haedoriel on the shoulder.  "I would be greatly honored if you would allow me to read your book when it's completed.  You do us a great service to document the story of the north.  But come, we must press on."

Within the Ice Chamber, Kaile stood in awe of the walls of bluish-white translucent stone. "This is cold.  It's like it's really ice."

At the west end of the room, Valandil and Aerin struggled with a locked door.  Suddenly, electricity leapt from the door to Aerin's hand.  She cried out in pain, shaking her hand about.

"Are you alright?" Valandil asked with concern.  Aerin stuck her fingers in her mouth, nodding her head.  Kaile had observed this and hurried over to them.  She took Aerin's hand and looked at it.  It was red, but there was no blistering.  Fortunately, the injury was minor and the rune merely a nuisance.

Kaile reached into her pouch and produced a dried red berry.  Giving it to Aerin, she instructed, "Here, take this. It will make you feel better."  Aerin ate the berry while Kaile brought out a cream and began rubbing it on the injured hand.

After a minute, Aerin nodded her head.  "I'm fine now.  I was just careless.  I won't be making that mistake again.  Thank you."

Aerin invoked another spell to open a door on the west wall.  Beyond that was a large hallway that ran north to south.  They pushed on more quickly now, moving through the White Room, gathering tomes on stone lore, including one written in Númenor that had descriptions of the construction of the Tower of Orthanc and the Argonath.  The Chamber of the Sun had a golden crystal globe mounted on the ceiling that cast golden rays to all corners of the room.  Haedorial picked out one and cracked the book open.  "A tome on Anar, the Sun and the Maiar Arien!  This is a must," he said, carefully placing the book in the sack.  "I'm going to need another sack soon."

They pushed further into a large room where blue marble pilasters stretched up to a sculptured frieze of the same stone where carvings of dancers illustrated Arnorian festivals.  Sunlight from a domed skylight streamed in clearly, illuminating the entire area.  A fountain in the center sprayed water over two nude nymphs cavorting in the basin.  At the end of the room were three great stone doors, two of which had fallen off of their hinges and lay, haphazardly on the ground.  Mallon led the way into the chamber beyond, where he was greeted by a bas relief of Númenor that covered an entire wall.  He went to the bas relief to see all of the great landmarks of the lost kingdom from Andunië to Armenelos to Sacred Mount Meneltarma.

Haedorial came up next to him and admired the map.  He inhaled a deep breath, eyes huge. "This…this was carved by…Elendil and his son, Isildur.  Sacred Mount Meneltarma," he gasped, touching his hand on the raised portion that was the mountain.  "The King would utter prayers here at the festivals of Erukyermë, Erulaitalë and Eruhantalë."

Mallon nodded.  "You know your history, my friend.  I hear that you are the Royal Bard of Cardolan now," he said with reverence.  "I must come and see you play some time."

The bard smiled broadly and put his hand over his heart.  "I would be honored, good sir. I will see that you get an invitation.  Ah," he said, tracing some of the Tengwar script that adorned the map. "The great festivals began to fall into disuse after the reign of Tar-Ciryatan, the Ship King and continued on that trajectory during the reign of his eldest son, Tar-Atanamir, the Great, known as the Jewel of Men.  He was the one who began to speak openly against the Eldar and did not surrender the sceptre until death and became known as the Unwilling."  He shook his head sadly.  "It is said that his younger brother, Er-Mȗrazôr, known as the Black Prince, was a most evil man, most evil.  He vanished around Umbar sometime in the Second Age, so long ago."

Mallon nodded and then picked up a few books that detailed the history, culture and customs of ancient Númenor, written in both Sindarin and Adȗnaic, the native language of that lost kingdom.  He sighed heavily.  "I am honored to even hold these, but they are not what we are looking for.  Time is running short, my friends."  A look of worry formed on Mallon’s brow, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set firm.  If only they had a whole day to explore.  If only.

Leave a Comment

Outside of the Royal Library, At the Surface – 4:00 pm

The ranger Amrith cautiously eyed the surrounding area for any signs of life. Earlier, he had hidden the tracks that they had left in the snow so as to cover their movements. The wily ranger also had some of the ohtari rhyn hold their mounts over by the Royal Hall in case a quick departure became necessary. The newly constructed wagon also sat there, slowly being loaded with books. Annael and Ostomir, who had just taken another load over there, approached Amrith.

"Anything going on?" asked Annael.

Amrith held up his hand. "Something is out there. I can feel it," he answered quietly, his eyes fixed far ahead. "Be on your guard. Report anything suspicious to Baranor and I." His white cloak over white coveralls made him blend into the landscape very well. Fighting the Cultirith rangers had made him cautious and stealthy.

Annael and Ostomir crouched down behind the pile of rubble being used by the ranger. They scanned around. "I don't see anything," Ostomir said, his breath steaming out of his mouth.

Amrith sniffed the chill air. "They're out there. Best one of you go tell Mallon. Evening will be approaching soon. They'll attack then." Annael left immediately to inform the others. The ranger took a deep breath and unslung his steel composite bow. He slowly pulled a long-shafted arrow from his quiver that had a broadhead tip and gull feather fletchings. He made a glance towards Ostomir. "We might have an hour at best. Be ready."

The Rose Vault – 4:12 pm

Mallon and Aerin had hit the jackpot. They grabbed texts on runes from the Oval Room, details on astrology from the Indigo Room and instructions on alchemy from the Grey Room. They rushed through the North Garden, barely pausing to admire the jade pillars that rose to a skylight above a reflecting pool full of lilies and ferns. Now in the Rose Vault past the great mithril doors, they marveled at the pale wine porphyry fountains that stretched up to the ceiling as pilasters and buttresses. Mallon was starting to rush now. "Herblore, medicinal plants…good, take these," he said to Haedorial and the men. He would barely crack the cover and read a few words and then toss it to someone.

They quickly filled sacks and transported them upstairs. Haedorial held up one book with a leather cover and a painting of the Two Trees upon it. At the top and both lower portions of the cover were diamonds embedded in the leather. "The mystical properties of Silima?" he mused and turned the cover. "My word, my word, my word, I believe this was written by Celebrimbor," he said with a gasp and showed the Tengwar script to Aerin. "All in a long-forgotten dialect of Quenya."

Suddenly, Annael could be heard calling down the hall. "Mallon! We are going to be attacked. Prepare yourselves!" He came running down past two ohtari rhyn who had been standing guard.

Mallon turned, his face set and ready. "What? From whom?"

Annael shrugged. "Amrith told me to alert you, but I don't think he knows what is out there."

Aerin, overhearing this, cursed, "Damn, we need more time. We'll get these tomes up to the wagon and make preparations." Valandil and Mercatur picked up several books and began hauling them quickly toward the surface.

Mercatur called back, "We'll stay topside to meet the attack."

Mallon nodded quickly and went back to cataloguing the texts. "We must hurry," he said nervously to Aerin. "We are out of time." He put on his visored bascinet, fastened the leather strap and splayed the chainmail aventail over his armor. Unlike his mentor, King Arveleg, he would not be caught unprepared.

Outside of the Royal Library – 4:35 pm

Mercatur, Valandil, and Annael had just finished piling the books in the wagon when they noticed the growing darkness around them. Several lanterns provided dim lighting in the area around the Royal Hall and the library. Amrith, Ostomir, Thangar, and others were hastily preparing a defense by piling rubble and stacking arrows. Mercatur and the rest hustled over to lend a hand. Baranor led the guard in doing the same, helped by Falathar Girithlin.

Amrith was busy stringing rope along the line of rubble that was laid out in front of the library. "There are orcs out there. Perhaps a hundred or more. I'm sensing some trolls too."

Annael's eyes widened. "A hundred? Trolls? What are we going to do?" he asked with some obvious worry.

Mercatur slapped him on the back. "We're going to kill 'em. That's what we're going to do," he replied as he cocked his crossbow and placed a bolt in the groove.

In the flickering lights of the lanterns, movement could clearly be seen in the snow and the sun was setting rapidly. Ugly, fanged creatures advanced on their position. Many wielded jagged scimitars and a few held short bows. Valandil quickly unslung his composite bow while Mercatur drew a bead on one orc with his crossbow. "I've been itching for this," he said as he let a bolt fly. It pierced the dirty leather armor covering the beast. Snarling, the orc dropped his scimitar and fell over, clutching at the bolt protruding from his chest.

Amrith raised his hand. "Fire!" he yelled and Valandil and the others loosed arrows and several orcs fell, writhing and shrieking.

"Pour it into them!" Amrith yelled as he continued laying rope along the barricade. "I need another minute!"

Several arrows fell among the defenders, but none found a mark. Amrith finished stringing the rope while another volley flew.

Baranor pointed at the wagon. "You two! Start heading east! We'll cover you." Two ohtari rhyn manning the wagon leapt on and began to drive away to preserve the books, with two other knights riding as guard.

The orcs charged and the defenders drew hand weapons to receive them. A dozen more orcs fell to the flurry of bolts and arrows just before they reached the barricade. One ohtari rhyn was hit by an arrow in the leg. The wound was not serious, but Amrith ordered him below. The orcs climbed and hacked at the barricade, heedless of their own safety, howling and snarling like beasts. Mercatur sliced the leg off of one orc and Valandil thrust another through the throat with the point of his sword. Annael and Thangar held their own as well, while the two knights of Tyrn Gorthad fought off four orcs. A handful of arrows felled three more of the beasts, but the fighting was becoming desperate around the rubble. To make matters worst, a number of trolls began advancing toward the library to bolster the attack.

Baranor waved his arms overhead. "Trolls! Fall back, fall back in good order. We'll cover!" he said as the six Royal Guardsmen continued to hold back the enemy, their shields interlocking perfectly. With coordination born of endless training, one guard would move his shield slightly while the man to his left would thrust his sword out into an orc and then close the shield wall again.

The eight ohtari rhyn on the line began to fall back smoothly, their shields also interlocked. Along with the four Cardolani foot soldiers, they formed a shield wall, hacking at any orc brave enough to advance. Mercatur cut down another with a swing of his axe, but more were pouring over the rubble barricades.

Valandil called to Amrith, "Whatever you are going to do, do it now!" Amrith nodded and yanked the rope. Along the rubble piles, a number of skins filled with kerosene burst into flame, showering orcs with flaming liquid. A score of orcs caught fire and writhed in the snow, squealing and shrieking, consumed by the flame. Amrith leapt up and hacked at an attacker, while Thangar cut down yet another.

A stray arrow found the throat of one of the foot soldiers and he collapsed into the snow, spraying blood from his wound. By now the trolls had arrived and Thangar's squire was crushed by the great club of one of the hill trolls. Thangar moved to save him, but two trolls and an orc blocked his way. Annael put an arrow into one troll, but it barely blinked. The other monster then proceeded to rend the fallen squire where he lay. His screams pierced the night air for some time.

Thangar cursed, but fell back, pursued by the orc and troll. Valandil jumped in and slashed the orc across the face. The beast screamed and fell, holding its eyes. The troll swung its club down on Valandil, who dodged out of the way before the weapon shattered a wooden beam. Seeing an opportunity, Mercatur strode in and hewed the troll with his axe. The blade bit deeply into the creature and vile black blood gushed out. Following up, Valandil struck the troll in the leg while Thangar and Annael hacked at its body. Overwhelmed and reeling, the giant monster fell backward into the bloody snow.

Ostomir fought valiantly alongside his squire. Nearly ten orcs and a troll closed in, and they were in danger of being cut off. Amrith called to them, "This way! We must get back to the library!" Ostomir sliced another orc open, but took a cut along his arm, knocking some of the links in his chainmail away. In the violence of the fray, two of the vile creatures leapt at the squire, who skewered one. The other orc grappled with the squire, bringing him down. Ostomir moved to help, but another troll stepped up to engage him. Two more beasts piled on the hapless squire and plunged daggers into his skull.

Ostomir stood, swinging bravely at the troll. The orcs, having finished the squire, got up and rushed him. Seeing the danger, Valandil and Mercatur ran to Ostomir and slew the orcs. They then grabbed the young Tinare lord, shouting, "We have to go! He's dead!" Ostomir cut the troll across the chest and then turned to join the two as the beast bellowed in pain.

The library was in sight. Nearby, one ohtari rhyn was crushed by a troll before it was hacked to pieces in turn by the shield wall. Reaching the library, Amrith pushed everyone through the doorway before collapsing some rubble into the entryway. Catching their breath, they took a roll call: the two ohtari rhyn with the wagon had escaped with some guards; Thangar and Ostomir's squires were dead; one ohtari rhyn was dead and another wounded; and one foot soldier dead. Ostomir, Thangar, and Annael had received light wounds, but they were otherwise in good health. Forty orcs and perhaps three trolls lay slain outside, but the odds were still bad.

"There will be more where they came from and we can expect no reinforcements," said Amrith quietly.

Baranor nodded. "Aye, we best prepare a reception for them."

Baranor and three of the Royal Guards had created defenses inside the library leading to the staircases and they were ready for battle. They stacked more arrows in strategic places. Sounds could be heard outside of orcs and trolls digging out the rubble from the entryway. Baranor sat behind one of the piles of rubble with his bow. "Get ready to fall back to the lower level. I've created another line of defense," he told the others. His winged mithril helm reflected the light of nearby torches giving him the look of a Númenórean warrior of old.

Unexpectedly, the sounds of digging stopped outside. The defenders waited nervously, wondering what would come next. Haedorial, Kaile and Galadel huddled behind the soldiers, practically shaking. Galadel held the shortsword that she was given and had some training in, praying to the Valar that she didn't have to use it. The bard grasped both of their shoulders. "We…we have a strong position. We are…are with some of the greatest warriors of the north. We will survive and sing about this," he said, trying to force a chuckle, but he just made a weak, rasping sound.

Suddenly, piercing the still night air was a single demonic voice crying out in an unidentifiable language. It was like the shriek of a dying man mixed with the baying of a wolf. The rubble in the entryway began to tremble. Large stones crumbled into dust as the barricade at the entrance disintegrated.

Amrith blinked in awe. "What sorcery is this?" he said to himself. Visible now through the entryway was a horrid dog-faced monster. The ranger loosed an arrow at it, but it was deflected away by some unseen force. Orcs poured through the opening, squealing and gibbering.

Baranor fired an arrow, which sunk into an orc's chest up to the feathers and it crashed down the staircase. Mercatur popped another with a crossbow bolt that sank into its neck. A few others fell to arrows, but the battle was now joined. The orcs screamed with bloodlust, raising their scimitars. Giving a battle cry, Valandil and Ostomir clashed with five of the beasts, while the Cardolani Royal Guard took on six. The dog-faced creature strode in confidently and pointed his palm at one of the ohtari rhyn. Blood erupted from his nose and eyes and he fell, screaming. Thangar cut the throat of an orc, but was in turn stabbed in the arm. Chaos was everywhere.

Setting his defense in motion, Baranor kicked at several pillars, bringing heavy stones down upon the attackers. A number of orcs were crushed along with one troll, casting dust everywhere. The dog-faced beast dove out of the way to avoid one of the stones and was showered by small rocks. Baranor clove the chest of another troll and shouted, "Fall back! We must retreat to the next line."

Just Outside of Annúminas – 4:50 pm

Ulgarin heard the sound of fighting within the deserted city. She strained to see what was happening with her powerful elven eyes. The group she had procured to attack the emerging Arthedan and Cardolani group stood about, seemingly lost. Ulgarin kicked some snow in fury. "Damn, they were supposed to wait. If we go in after them, we'll get caught in all the traps as well," she fumed. Grabbing a paunchy hireling, she raged. "Go over there and get them to fall back. I don't know what Ulduin thinks he is doing." The portly mercenary began jogging toward Annúminas. He got no more than fifty feet, when he was hit by a solid bolt of ice, which split his skull. Ulgarin gasped just as her world erupted in jagged shards of icicles.

Suffering from multiple lacerations, Ulgarin fell backward with a cry. She could hear the screams of her thugs around her. The elf wiped the blood from her eyes and crawled behind a nearby snow mound. She pulled a sharp icicle from her shoulder and winced in pain. Scanning the snowy terrain, she spotted a woman dressed in white moving rapidly on a horse toward the ruined city. Ulgarin was too stunned to react and by the time her head cleared, the woman was gone. Of her force of twelve scoundrels, eight lay dead and three were badly injured. Ulgarin swore under her breath, "That wench will pay dearly." The elf grabbed her one remaining uninjured hireling. "Let's go!" she ordered. The man hesitated, pointing to the wounded. Ulgarin sneered, and with a wave of her hand the injured men burst into flame, writhing for a few seconds before becoming still. The man's jaw fell open, but he reasoned that following her would be in his best interest.

Within the Royal Library – 5:07 pm

One by one, the defenders fled down the staircase, the flickering of the lanterns creating an eerie light. Baranor, Amrith, and Mercatur held off any orcs or trolls brave enough to press the attack. Through the confusion, Mallon came up the stairs to assist in the defense. Hurling a rock at an orc, Baranor called, "We are heavily outnumbered. We must fall back."

Mallon raised his fist and called upon Varda. His body glowed for a moment before four of the vile beasts fell over, writhing in pain. Their shrieks echoed down the halls.

Slowly giving ground, Mercatur lopped the head off of one of them while Amrith shot another with an arrow. Baranor grabbed Amrith. "Get below!" he shouted, pushing the ranger roughly toward the staircase. Amrith took a few steps, turned and loosed one final arrow into a troll before he disappeared below.

Mercatur moved next. He feinted, fooling the troll into overextending itself, and then he sliced its belly open with his axe. As the troll doubled over, he ran down the staircase laughing. Baranor pushed Mallon back. "You're next!"

Mallon pushed right back. "This is my expedition. You go first!"

"There's no time to argue!" Baranor countered, slicing the arm off of another orc.

With a powerful grunt, Mallon grabbed Baranor and flung him back toward the staircase. He channeled raw power through himself and focused on an advancing troll. Black blood began to erupt from the troll's eyes, nose, and mouth. In a frenzy, two orcs swung at Mallon, but a flash of light caused them to miss. Then, the dog-faced creature peered from behind some rubble and pointed his finger at Mallon. A sickly green glow surrounded the Eketta Lord and when the light dissipated, he gasped as his ribs protruded from his chest. The front of his white surcoat was immediately stained red with blood. He staggered back and channeled what little power he had left.

"With my last breath I will stop you!" he cried, gurling blood. A ripple of energy shot from his hands and rolled over the orcs. Two were crushed by the channeled power and collapsed in a heap. Baranor tried to advance to save Mallon, but a dozen attackers move to block him.

Mallon was spent. He grasped his chest and fell to one knee, his breath streaming in ragged gulps and wheezes. He tried to stand, tried to channel his power, but nothing happened. As Mallon Eketta looked up, the beasts fell on the dying nobleman and tore him to shreds.

Baranor fled down the staircase and out through the west door into the White Room. Aerin put a ward on the door as they sealed it. The knight leaned up against the far wall and slid down to a sitting position. He shook his head wearily. "He's gone. Mallon is gone. We're trapped in here." Haedorial gasped and Kaile began to cry.

Valandil swore. "We'll make them pay. We'll fight room by room if we have to. We're not going down without a fight." Baranor and the other Royal Guards nodded in agreement, knowing that they were going to get their wish.

At the Top of the Staircase – 5:21pm

At the top of the staircase, Ulduin gathered the remnant of his force. Only half of his orcs remained while a third of his trolls had perished. He had sent a runner to summon Ulgarin and her reinforcements, but no one had yet returned. The dog-faced sorcerer called to his two thanes. "Burazog, Strulug, take a force down the staircase. Finish them off and gather up any books. I don't want any books harmed. Do I make myself clear?" he asked, baring his wicked fangs. The monstrous cave troll and the vicious Uruk chieftain nodded. The Witch King was very specific with what he wanted.

With a grunt, Strulug gathered a number of his depleted Urughâsh orcs and began heading down the staircase. Soon, a symbol at the base of the staircase glowed red. Ulduin tried to call out to warn Strulug, but it was too late. The symbol, placed by Mallon, erupted in flames. Smoke and fire leapt up to consume the orcs. Looking down, Ulduin stepped back amid the dust and flame that flew up. When the room had cleared, orcs could be seen below struggling or lying charred on the floor. In rage, Ulduin kicked over a frozen bookshelf.

This is not going as expected.

Strulug had survived, badly burnt, but seven of his force perished in the fire. Ulduin sighed with an angry grunt, snarling and gnashing his fangs. This problem would require some of his arcane power. He grabbed one of the orcs standing nearby and uttered a minor incantation. He shoved the whining beast over the ledge into the chaos below. The orc screamed, but to its amazement, it landed safely on two feet. Ulduin shook his head. "I should have known," he commented. He would need to do this for his entire force, depleting much of his sorcerous power and he was already growing weary.

Near the Street of Terraces, East of the Library – 5:32 pm

The wagon sat behind a grove of evergreens, covered with torn cloth and other hastily made camouflage. Two ohtari rhyn stood warily in the darkness, anxiously listening for any sound as the two mounted ones held their spears. The two drivers spoke softly, trying to figure out what to do next.

"What do you think happened to everyone?" one asked with a whisper.

"How should I know? You saw as much as I did," replied the other.

"I think we should go back and check it out," voiced the first one again.

The second one shook his head. "Our orders are to get the books back safely. Besides, if they survived, don't you think they would have told us by now."

The first one balked. "Look, we have to see if they're still alive. They might need help."

Suddenly, a woman on a horse appeared out of nowhere. She was dressed in a white hooded cloak that bore a bronze wyvern cloak pin. The two soldiers fell back in the snow. She appeared as a ghost in the dim light with her cloak and blonde hair whipping in the wind.

"Do not be afraid. I am here to help," she stated calmly. The men rose, pointing their swords at the woman.

The second one said indignantly, "Don't be afraid? You scared us half to death. Who are you?"

The woman held up her hands, palms out. "I am sorry. My name is Silmarien; a mage by trade. I come from Tharbad and am friends with members of your group. You must trust me." The men were skeptical, but realized that if she were an enemy, she could have just killed them and taken the books. They nodded in unison. Silmarien went to the wagon and pointed her hand at it. "Luhtu! Sairina!" she called and, to the amazement of the men, the wagon seemed to turn into a number of small pine trees.

One man slapped his own cheek. "Rogrog's teeth," he swore, "I've never seen this magic stuff before. What did you do?"

Silmarien smiled. "Don't worry. It's just an illusion. Come with me. Your friends are fighting desperately to stay alive."

With that, they headed west toward the library as the last light from the sun faded into black.

Leave a Comment

The South Garden – 5:45 pm, Narwain 19th, 1410

The bloody fight in the White Room had cost the party dearly and they retreated even further into the library, back to the Blue Vault where they could form another line of defense. Two more ohtari rhyn fell and another two were wounded. This left only three combat ready. Another Cardolani foot soldier perished along with one of the knights of Tyrn-Gorthad. Falathar's squire was missing and presumed dead in the chaos of the retreat. Only the Royal Guardsmen had suffered no casualties for as fierce of a knight that Baranor was.

Near the large marble basin filled with water lay the wounded, tended by Kaile and Haedorial, who jumped in as a makeshift healer. The fountain and the smiling marble nymphs were a bizarre juxtaposition with the horror that surrounded them. The two injured ohtari rhyn, along with Thangar, and Annael's brother sat or lay on the ground with bandages. Thangar was grievously injured with a wicked gash on his forehead and left arm and two deep arrow wounds to his belly. Kaile tended to him gently, washing out the wounds with water and putting an herbal pack over the arrow wounds. She had managed to stop the bleeding, but felt he might still die. "I wish I had Firiel's skill," she commented quietly over the unconscious Thangar.

Baranor directed building another barricade on the two fallen mithril doors. "Stack everything you can! Be quick about it!" He looked at the ranger as he passed by. "You realize there is only one way in and one way out. This will be our last stand."

Amrith nodded solemnly as he laid more traps while Aerin placed runes at the entrance. When she was finished, she practically staggered back to the basin and sat, head in her hands, her face drawn. "I am exhausted. I have nothing left." Her magical skills had held off the attackers and allowed the party to escape, but now she was drained.

Baranor walked to sit next to her, seemingly in a daze.  His eyes just radiated fatigue.  "Rest now and recover your strength. We need you when the time comes." He held a sword made of a glassy blue Laen on his lap. His steel composite bow had trimmed the overwhelming advantage in numbers the enemy had held, but now he had only two gull-feathered arrows remaining. Mercatur quietly honed his axe, happy to be at war again. Valandil paced nervously, thinking of Firiel far away. He could only hope that they'd live out the night.

Amrith, his thick white garments covered in the dried blood of orcs, examined the left door. He marked a part of the door with charcoal, muttering to himself, "Trap. Don't step here." They were as ready as they ever were, even if this meant their end.

The Gallery of Mirrors – 6:00 pm

An orc writhed in pain on the ground, all of its limbs twisted unnaturally. Unperturbed by its screams, Ulduin stepped over it into the gallery. Every surface of the room was covered in mirrors, including the covers of the books. Ulduin revealed his fangs in an evil grin. This was the right room.

However, the mirrored surfaces of the books made identification of valuable texts difficult. Ulduin paced impatiently as orcs poured throughout the tomes, hardly understanding anything that they read. Occasionally, one would fall over screaming after having discovered a destructive rune in a book. This whole day had not gone as planned.  The human party was supposed to have set off the traps and this was supposed to be an easy victory.

An hour went by before Ulgarin arrived. Her veil was shredded, and she was covered in cuts and bruises. Furthermore, there was only one hireling with her. Ulduin furrowed his canine brow, concerned. "What happened? Where are the others?" he asked with a growl, his lips curled in his doglike snout.

"Isn't it obvious? We were attacked by an unknown force. The rest are dead," she replied with a sharp edge in her voice.

"That's great. This is not according to plan," retorted Ulduin sarcastically, gurgling through his fangs. He did not like her tone of voice, and his already short temper was rising.

"You think I don't know that?" shot Ulgarin, sneering.

Ulduin's taut muscles flexed, and his lip curled slightly, twitching. The orcs had learned to recognize this as a bad sign. Many of their brethren became dinner after such a cue. Ulgarin tightened the grip on her trident. The tension was unbearable.

Suddenly, Strulug interrupted, "I've found one of the Master Texts." The orcs breathed a sigh of relief. Strulug handed the mirror-bound book to Ulduin who opened the volume.

He grinned a toothy grin, his fangs bared. "Good work. This is the Sorcerer's volume. Load this and the others in our wagon."

Ulgarin hrmph'd and turned to go, shaking her head.

On the way out she enlisted a few of the remaining trolls. "Let's go. I'm going to round up those pesky adventurers."

The Blue Vault – 7:01 pm

Amrith had filled the entryway with traps. "No one is getting through that unscathed," he said with some pride. He had gathered up another ten arrows from the wounded. He counted them again. "There are no more.  This will have to do."

Back in the vault, Haedorial gasped at the beauty of the blue room. "I actually have time to admire this, dear Galadel," he told Nirnadel's lady. "I know you're worried, but we have Baranor and Amrith on our side. That has to account for something."

She nodded, brandishing her shortsword. "I'm ready to fight for my family's honor," she said with a waver in her voice.

He patted her on the shoulder. "We'll get through this. We'll get through this," he said with confidence, but his face did not match his words. He took a deep breath and put his hand over his stomach. "Oh, look, dear Galadel, at the ornaments and carvings that adorn the blue porphyry walls. This is Númenórean craftsmanship. This is our heritage as Dúnadain. Oh, we simply have to survive to tell this tale." He walked over to one of the small reading rooms that flanked the entryway. Thousands of tomes resided on blue bookshelves with a large number carelessly strewn about during the rapid evacuation of the library.

The bard picked one up that was bound in a jade cover. He opened it to reveal silver pages detailing the journeys of Tar-Telemmaitë to Middle-Earth. "Oh my, this is precious," he said, showing Galadel the Sindarin Cirth characters that looked like runes. "He was obsessed with mithril. Rumor has it that he has tons of it hidden away on the coast. Good Prince Braegil mounted an expedition for it before the war." He placed this book in his leather backpack and continued to search. Haedorial was soon seated, cross-legged, and surrounded by books. He seemed to have completely forgotten the desperate situation that he and his comrades now faced. The bard was deeply engrossed in a text written by Elendil himself regarding the downfall of Númenor and the founding of Arnor. "If only we had another day without all of the orcs."

Near the reflecting pool, Aerin slept soundly, while Kaile changed the bandages of the wounded. Several hours had passed without incident, but all knew that this was only the calm before the storm.

The Chamber of Mysteries – 11:30 pm

Ulduin handed a wood-bound text to Strulug. "Take this one to the wagon. We have most of the Master Texts. It is time for us to depart. This should satisfy the Lord of Angmar."

Strulug bowed to his fiendish master. "Of course, my lord. We shall make ready to leave."

Ulduin strode across the purple carpet toward a group of orcs. "Go find that elf wench and tell her it's time to go. I'm not waiting for her. If you can't find her, she can rot with the books." The orcs immediately scampered off for fear of angering their lord. Ulduin weighed the benefits of killing off the adventurers against any disadvantages. His troops could probably destroy the party, but his force would be so drastically weakened that even a small group could wipe him out on the return trip. Perhaps this was a time for discretion. He might be a savage dog, but he was no fool.

Another orc entered the room, sniveling, "Master, we have secured the books... We await your next orders, master..."

Ulduin nodded, "Very well. Assemble around the wagon and make ready to depart."

The orc drooled in excitement, "Yesss, master," he soothed and then departed. Ulduin smiled, thinking that he would meet the adventurers another day. They had fought bravely, and he found some admiration for them in spite of his losses. Well, the orcs were of little consequence to him. He could breed more in a few years and then there would be a reckoning.

Outside the Library – 5:45 am, Narwain 20th, 1410

In the darkness, a heavy wagon sat, surrounded by more than two dozen orcs and half a dozen trolls. Ulduin emerged from the library and looked around. "Trolls, take the harnesses of the wagon. Start pulling!" The four wooden wheels creaked in the snow as the trolls began dragging the book-laden wagon north, up the snow-covered street. Orcs warily eyed the deserted ruins for any sign of an attack, holding scimitars and bows at the ready. Ulduin strode in front of the procession, glancing about nervously. He still sensed danger in the area. He took a long sniff with his dog snout. There was man flesh about.

He glanced back, wondering if that stupid elf would be coming or not, but he saw nothing. So much the better. He would get full credit and the biggest share of the rewards from the Witch King. He would not be sad at all if she never returned and he could tell his lord and the Lord High Priest, the Angȗlion, anything he wished. Perhaps they would create a seat for him among the Mor-Sereg, Quenya for the Black Blood, the elite assassins of the Dark Lord. He had longed for such an honor, but Ulgarin stole that from him, despite her incompetence. The priests said that he was not proper material with his appearance. The honor always seemed to go to Black Númenóreans or elves like Camthalion and Ulgarin. He would have to change that and change that quickly. Unlike the elves or the Angȗlion, he was long lived, but not immortal. Still, he had risen quickly in the service of the Nazgȗl, Dwar of Waw, and he knew that he would only rise higher and more quickly.

He took a whip to one of the trolls. "Faster! We must reach the borders of Angmar quickly. A storm is coming!"

Outside the Library – 5:47 am

Covered in bushes up ahead and disguised by a minor illusion, Silmarien and the four knights observed the approach of the wagon. Silmarien narrowed her crystal blue eyes. "On my word you shoot the lead orcs. Understand?"

The second knight shook his head. "Look lady, I don't know who you are, but there are more than thirty of them. Even if we could take out four or five before they caught on, we'd still be killed."

Silmarien turned to him and smiled, her white teeth showing through ruby lips. "Don't worry, I have a plan."

The second soldier rolled his eyes, but the first nodded. "I'm with you. We must save those books." He drew his composite bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver.

The wagon was now creaking along the road less than fifty feet from Silmarien's position. The second soldier reluctantly knocked an arrow as did the rest. Silmarien brought out three white objects from her pouch: a cube; a pyramid; and a sphere.

Looking skyward, she whispered, "Praise Varda and bless Dirhavel." When the wagon passed within fifteen feet, she hurled the objects toward the trolls. This would be some small revenge for what the Lord of Angmar did to her home in Rhudaur.

The Blue Vault – 5:50 am

Baranor roused Aerin and the five other Royal Guards. He pointed down the hall into the darkness. "I have a feeling that they are weaker than we think if they haven't hit us by this time. The time for us to attack is now." The other Royal Guards nodded in agreement.

Aerin took a swig from her water skin. "I fell rested. Thank you. I was worn from the recent exertion of the battle, but I am well now." The remainer of the able-bodied warriors prepared for the fray. Straps were checked on armor and weapons were hastily sharpened.

Baranor looked at Amrith grimly. "Do or die," he said calmly as he drew his blue Laen sword and put his mithril helmet back on.

Kaile would remain behind with the wounded. She placed a small dagger nearby to use on her patients and herself should the attack fail. Despite the cold, perspiration covered her palms. She would need to be brave. She looked to the bard. "Haedorial, please stay. I need some support here. Please, tell me a story."

The bard sat and began to tell her of the glories of the lost Kingdom of Nargothrond. "It was ruled by the fairest of elven kings, the great Finrod Felagund. The caverns were massive beyond measure, wonders of elven craftsmanship. There is a rumor that the daughter of the Dark Lord Morgoth resided there and that she was actually a good person. I'm not sure if this is even true or not, being so long ago, but I've heard the tale from my friend Dagar.  It was fascinating, simply fascinating."

Baranor, holding his bow at the ready, motioned the group down the wide hall back toward the central dome with the pool. Mercatur and Ostomir took the point with Amrith and Baranor right behind them. Galadel came up with the rest of the soldiers and knights. Cautiously, Mercatur peered up a wide stairway into the darkness. Ostomir held a lantern to illuminate the way. Scratching and banging could be heard up the stairway and a faint light could be seen at the top.

Mercatur motioned Ostomir to cover the lantern, cutting off the light. Listening quietly, they could hear a deep, harsh voice speaking in a guttural language. Mercatur whispered back to the group, "Troll."

Amrith and Baranor nodded and passed the news back. Into the darkness, Mercatur crept up the stairway, feeling the stone stairs with his left hand. Ostomir followed slowly, looking far less confident than Mercatur. At the top of the stairwell, the mercenary saw a faint light coming from the Ice Chamber off to the right. He crawled up to the entryway of the chamber and peered in. Three large trolls searched through bookcases, seeming to have no idea what they were looking for, while one held open a door on the far wall.

Ostomir came up behind Mercatur. Amrith, Baranor, and Valandil fell in behind; each crouched and battle ready. The mercenary held up three fingers, indicating the number of trolls within. Everyone nodded their readiness.

With a shout, Mercatur burst into the dimly lit room and fired a crossbow bolt into the nearest troll. The bolt sunk into the troll's barrel chest, spraying black blood. Amrith and Baranor fired arrows as well and each shaft found a mark. Baranor's target fell backward, clutching at the black-feathered arrow in its eye. Ostomir slashed at Mercatur's troll, and his elegant sword clove the belly of the beast wide open, spilling entrails on the floor as the troll doubled over.

Trolls are nothing if not tough and resilient, and soon the surprise had worn off. One troll hurled a book, striking Amrith in the face. The ranger went to one knee and covered his bloody nose with a grunt. Pressing forward, Mercatur unleashed his deadly battle-axe and sliced the arm off of a hapless troll. Despite its wound, the troll brought down a large bookshelf on top of Mercatur. The crash of wood and stone-covered books was deafening. A great 'ugh' could be heard as the mercenary was covered in tomes. Ostomir was also hit by several stone-covered tomes, knocking him back. The one-armed troll covered its stump and fell back to the far door. Baranor put his last arrow into the troll's throat, ending its retreat. In a flurry, the last troll fled and slammed the door shut.

In the aftermath, Amrith nursed a broken nose and two black eyes. Otherwise, he was unharmed. Galadel grasped him by the nose and snapped it back in place. He grimaced but nodded his thanks.  “I learned a few things from your cousin,” she said with a hint of mirth.

Mercatur was pulled, cursing and hollering, from under the bookshelf. "Gaah, get these damn books off of me!" he bellowed. "Where's the damn troll?"

Two trolls lay slain. Baranor inspected the fallen beasts. "Good work. Let us head back upstairs. We will attack their base. The one that got away may warn the others, so be vigilant." Turning to Galadel, he asked, "Go get Kaile and help carry the wounded. We don't want them to get trapped here." She nodded and took some of the men back to the garden.

The assault team worked their way back to the staircase, one by one, where Mercatur led the way up. The others followed while Baranor and another royal guard kept watch for Galadel to return. On the ground floor of the library Mercatur took up a defensive position near the great front doors. The dim morning sun peered through the holes in the ceiling. A heavy overcast kept the ambient light to a minimum. Amrith surveyed the ground, finding footprints in the snow. "They left the library; perhaps a couple of hours ago. Some were carrying heavy loads," he informed Ostomir, who stood beside him.

Mercatur, overhearing Amrith, commented, "Let's go after those rats. They couldn't have gotten far carrying all of that."

Outside the Library – 5:54 am

The six trolls pulling the heavy wagon bellowed in surprise and pain as the white pyramid thrown by Silmarien burst into bolts of lightning. Electricity danced over their bodies, and they writhed in agony. Nearby, two orcs fell, pierced by arrows. Ulduin quickly scanned the frosty terrain and saw four armored bowmen reloading arrows. He prepared a spell. "Zgurjab!" he growled, and he began to glow a sickly green.

Two trolls had fallen to their knees and the others continued to hop around, batting their smoldering bodies. Another arrow struck an orc in the face, and it keeled over backward. At that moment, the white cube burst into a fine powdery mist. Immediately, the trolls began to gasp and cough. A fourth orc fell forward, grasping at an arrow in its throat.

Ulduin unleashed his power, and the green glow shot towards Silmarien. As the energy engulfed her, a force surrounding her absorbed it into nothingness and the green glow vanished with a puff of smoke. Ulduin grunted in frustration. Elsewhere, the orcs began to return fire; however, an arrow found a fifth beast, striking it in the belly. The wounded orc tumbled over, howling in pain.

Silmarien fought back. She held her palms together and shouted, "Naurluth!" and a small ball of fire shot from her hand at Ulduin. The sorcerer waved his hand, and the bolt sailed past him into the distance and vanished. A dozen orcs now advanced toward Silmarien and the four knights as Ulduin prepared another spell, placing his hands together in front of his chest. The four warriors fired another volley, but the orcs raised their shields and the arrows sunk into them harmlessly. The beasts, led by Strulug, charged. The muscled Uruk brandished his jagged edged scimitar, howling with delight. He had a thick chainmail hauberk and helmet with the face of grinning demon. But he failed to see the white sphere lying in the snow as he ran over it. The orcs behind him gasped in awe as the sphere grew into a massive polar bear.

As the orcs stood stunned for a moment, the huge white bear smashed one with a swipe of its giant paw, crushing its head like a melon. Immediately after, it leapt on another and sunk its razor-sharp teeth into the orc's neck, spraying black blood into the snow. Unfazed, Strulug and another orc pressed on to engage the four warriors. The ohtari rhyn had drawn their swords and shields and met the two orcs on the snow mound. They traded blows and the thump of sword on shield was deafening as the bear rampaged among the orcs, flinging one away with a sweep of its head.

Ulduin focused his energy again. "Shabȃt fulok!" he shouted, and a wave of force swept over Silmarien and this time she could not stop it. She grasped her chest gasped, her face twisting in pain.

Silmarien staggered back and raised her hand at Ulduin. "Gond Gwanor," she said in a wheezing voice and lightning erupted around the dog-faced beast and a great sizzling sound could be heard as he howled in pain like a cry of a wolf.

Silmarien fell to her hands and knees, wheezing and unable to catch her breath. Ulduin hopped about, batting at his smoking fur. His muscles twitched violently, and he fell over into the snow, unable to rise.

Meanwhile, the polar bear had swatted another orc, smashing its skull wide open with several other orcs gashed and crushed on the ground. The bear had taken a few minor wounds from the scimitars, but this only seemed to enrage it. The last seven orcs began to fall back before the fury of the furry beast. On the snow mound, Strulug was clearly the superior fighter. He had wounded two ohtari rhyn and was pressing the advantage. Backing down the mound, one of the knights slipped on a patch of ice and fell over face down. Covered by the other orc, Strulug slashed the warrior's neck, severing his head clean off, it skidding away on the ice.

The remaining warriors batted down the scimitar of the covering orc and smote it in the head. Its helmet burst open, and blood streamed down its face. As it toppled over, Strulug grappled with one of the knights. As they fell over, the Uruk ran his saw-toothed blade across the warrior's throat, spraying red blood into the white snow.

Staggering, Silmarien fell over on her back as she wiped her eyes. She saw the two ohtari rhyn die but was powerless to stop it. She could see the two remaining knights falling back before Strulug's onslaught. Her breath came in strained, desperate gulps of air and her ribs ached. Her face was now pale and her lips blue. Looking up, she saw delicate snowflakes falling on her face. She thought of Dirhavel, and she turned her head to look upon her killers. She would face them bravely. Her fading eyesight revealed a strange scene: a rampaging bear; a shower of arrows; and a man in a winged mithril helm swinging a glassy, blue sword.

Chapter End Notes

I try to stay with soft magic, but I needed a little oomph.

Leave a Comment

Outside the Library – 6:45 am

"We got to her just in time," commented Kaile, looking down at the unconscious Silmarien. The beautiful mage lay resting peacefully on a tarp as Kaile rubbed a pungent herb over her throat and nose. Valandil nodded, sitting beside her. He felt for the battered mage as this was not the first time she had endangered herself on his behalf. "Do the best that you can for her, Kaile. She saved me back when I was fighting that dwarf." He scratched his chin which had a couple days of black stubble on it.

The healer looked over to the tired soldier. "Valandil, I know now that you didn't mean to harm Firiel. I apologize for overreacting before. I'm truly sorry."

The knight smiled at her despite the situation. "Make no mention of it. We were all under a lot of stress. It's in the past now," he said, patting her on the shoulder.

Mercatur ran up to Valandil, grabbing him by the arm. "What are you waiting for, those rats are getting away! This is personal now." His face was full of excitement, a toothy smile between his thick, bushy beard.

The knight rose quickly and started to jog after the mercenary, who as already walking off at a swift pace. They had killed nearly all of the beast's orcs and most of the trolls. The enemy fled when Baranor and the rest showed up, an elf witch throwing up a wall of ice and then helping the limping dog beast get away.  About only ten orcs and a couple of trolls remained with that dog creature and the big Uruk, nearly all of them wounded.  The party held the advantage now.

Still kneeling at the mage's side, Kaile called out, "Come back safely," and then turned her attention back to the injured.

Just up ahead, Amrith the ranger knelt in the snow examining a number of tracks that headed east. Looking up at Baranor, he commented, "Two hours old at most."

The Captain of the Royal Guard nodded and then motioned the group in the direction of the tracks. Two royal guardsmen and the three healthy ohtari rhyn remained behind to protect Kaile and the wounded.

"Take the wagon and escape back to Fornost," Baranor commanded.  “We’ll rejoin you there.”  The knights helped to load wounded in the wagon and rehitched the horses.

Valandil looked back at the wagon and got a sense of déjà vu. "Hey, Mercatur, this look familiar to you?"

The mercenary chuckled. "Yup. Another damn wagon full of wounded, headed back to some city. Hey, but at least we're on the attack now, huh?"

"Yeah, and that new axe of yours was pretty deadly."

"That it was!" Mercatur said with a big nod.

With this, the captain led the remnants of the force to pursue the fleeing enemy.

Northeast of Annúminas – 7:30am

Strulug led the remains of his battered force eastward toward the rendezvous point. Less than 10 orcs remained in total. Two trolls guarded the rear of the column while Ulduin limped along in the middle, supported by Ulgarin. Ulduin was spent; his arcane power depleted and his body burnt by Silmarien's spell. Ulgarin's timely arrival had allowed him to escape. Her spell caused a flurry of snow to burst upward, screening their retreat. Now, they had to flee with the remaining tomes in their possession to meet up with reinforcements.

Ulgarin detested the dog beast, but he was a favorite of the Angȗlion, and she wouldn't leave him to the hated Dúnedain. At least she had a sense of loyalty. "Where are the reinforcements?" she asked, straining to carry Ulduin. "We were supposed to get twenty of the feared Black Rangers for escort. We may need to rely on the incoming storm if they don't show up."

Ulduin's breath came in deep wheezes, steam shooting from his snout. "We have to stay ahead of them,” he said, straining to speak.  “They'll rip us to pieces and take the tomes!  I'm in no shape to fight."

For two long days, they eluded the pursuit through the snow. Still, the enemy could not be seen. However, Amrith's skillful tracking had closed the gap. Ulduin staggered and tripped over a fallen branch. "I can't…I have to rest."

Ulgarin set him down to lean up against a tree. She was glad for the rest too.  Her body ached after two days of running.  She slumped down against the tree as well and then pointed to Strulug. "Have someone on watch. Those Dúnedain are not too far behind us. But they'll need rest too."

Strulug nodded and then barked orders to the orcs. She peeled off her torn veil. "This thing just gets in the way." She looked over to Ulduin. "You know, I should have just left you like you would have left me. You're a real…ehhhh. Sevig thȗ úan."

"What?"

"I said, you smell like a…oh nevermind.”

He chuckled painfully, more of a beastlike gurgle than a laugh. "Yeah…I uhhh. Yeah. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"It better not. We get until we catch our breath and then we get moving again. And fine, I'll make no mention of this…unless you do it again." She sighed heavily. "And you're heavy too. You better cut down on orcs to eat."

He chuckled again. "Ow. Dammit. I broke half my ribs back there. At least I got that pushuruk mage."

The elf wiped her face with a dirty rag. "Well, don't make this a habit." She held her hand out, palm up, to catch falling snowflakes. "Can you believe that I grew up near the beach? Sun, surf, wandering the palace, watching the sun rise over the Eastern Ocean. My mother was the Lady of the Prith-an-Iryst, the Tower of Rainbows, a cousin to Queen Dardarien of Helkanen."

"So, what happened? Why are you sitting, talking to a dog beast demon in the snow? You seem to have fallen pretty far," he said, poking at her.

"Well…she betrayed the queen on behalf of Komȗl, then the heir of Womaw. She was crushed to death in the gwaen-en-wiroithe, where they smash you, one stone at a time."

"Sounds pretty painful. I like it."

Ulgarin snorted with a faint grin. "So, of course, I pledged for the queen, who became Tanȗl's consort when Helkanen and Womaw allied. He was Komȗl's father. Long story, short, Dardarien was already in league with our master, the Necromancer. She seduced Komȗl and enticed him with immortality and a Ring of Power, and he became Khamȗl, the Easterling. I was told to subvert the Womaw and I founded the Belaen-an-Voryl, The Sunsdeath. Then, I was given to Khamȗl as a student and the next two thousand years is history."

"Well, we both have colorful backgrounds.  I’ll tell you mine some time.  All right. I'm able to walk again." He stood with a heavy grunt and winced, holding his side.

Strulug walked back to them through the snow. "Orcs are weary. They want to turn and fight. We will defeat the bright men."

Ulduin snarled, baring his fangs. "Like we did the last time? Strulug, get them in line now or I just may feast on one of them." He limped a few steps and Ulgarin moved to support him, but he waved her off. "No, I can walk."

"The Dúnedain are closing and it's only a matter of time before they will catch us,” Ulgarin explained.  “Even their mages are formidable. We have no hope against them."

He grunted sourly. "Don't you think I know that? Do you have something in mind that will actually help?"

The elf nodded slowly. "With such a small force, we would not survive, and the designs of the Witch-King will be defeated. This cannot happen. We need to turn to the southeast. There is an ally that I need to call upon." She looked up into the gray, overcast sky, which gave no clue as to direction in this wintery landscape. She held up her hand and zephyr of a wind blew around her. She pointed in a direction. "It's this way."

The Seer's Observatory – 3:39pm

An observatory upon a hill came into view through the swirling snowflakes and the sinking sun. It was a slender tower of translucent, white stone capped with a sectioned dome of steel. Its graceful lines were bewitching under the soft rays of the sun.  An unfinished dirt path led to the hill and up to the tower.

The elfin maid, Ulgarin, pointed to the orcs. "Follow us at a distance. I don't want you scaring our contact.  He’s…rather twitchy.  The ranger following us is a sorcerer, that one. We have not been able to lose him." The orcs waited behind some snow-covered hedges as she and Ulduin hauled the books, marched up to the tower and rapped on the door.

"Seer, open the door! We have come with the tomes for the Master," she called into the whipping winds.

The door opened, revealing a man and woman dressed in thick, dark robes, trimmed in silver and red. They were both in late middle age with graying hair. They ushered Ulgarin and Ulduin inside along with the tomes.

"Your servants must wait outside," the man instructed Ulgarin with an indignant air, "Ar Elon so commands it."

With a sour grunt, Ulgarin entered through the door and gestured to the orcs to wait. They followed into a curved hallway that led to a spiral staircase of marble that ran upwards from the granite floor.

"This way," beckoned the woman, leading Ulgarin and Ulduin down a hall to the right. They passed through a circular room with a dome. Mosaics covered the floor in an intricate pattern of local flora. The dome portrayed the stars shining through the pastel colors of dusk. The man opened another door and entered into a sitting room.

"Ar Elon, the visitors are here," the man said in a monotone voice.

"Good, show them in." A distinguished-looking man in scarlet robes motioned them into the room. He wore a jeweled circlet of gold and mithril that was crafted in an elaborate geometric shape. Without even looking at them, he waved Ulgarin in. "You have brought me the tomes no doubt," he stated haughtily to the two servants of the Witch King.

Ulgarin bristled, doing her best to control her irritation. Though he was her contact within Arthedain, his arrogance was nearly unbearable. "Let me remind you that we all work for the same master. I take no orders from you, seer."

The tainted seer sneered in return. "And let me remind you that it is very cold outside and you have a long way to journey home. I suggest you become more…cooperative."

Although weakened, Ulduin snarled, baring his fangs. "The Lord of Angmar would hear of this."

"Then you must tell him upon your return. Until then, you two look horrible," Al Elon said, his voice and demeanor changing suddenly to become charming and sympathetic. "Let me get you some refreshments and we can get down to business."

Ulgarin knew that the Dúnadan seer was a master at verbal manipulation, rarely coming out on the losing side of a conversation. For all of her long years and expertise at political maneuvering, she knew to be wary of this snake. She brushed her wavy brown hair back behind her ear and smiled back at him in return. For as much as she wanted to teach him a lesson in humility, she could not harm so valuable of a resource and the man was a formidable mage in his own right. For now, false courtesy would work just fine.

Outside in the snow

The ranger Amrith rubbed his broken nose painfully. It had been reset, but it still hurt and both his eyes were now black. "Do you see that observatory? They went in there. The tracks don't lie."

"Do we know what that observatory is?" questioned Baranor, mist surrounding his face.

Haedorial looked cautiously at the structure. "Good sir, I would hazard a guess to say it was a Royal Observatory," he said, "It certainly fits the record books that I have read."

"Why would they have gone into there? Is it abandoned?" asked Valandil, rubbing his hands for warmth. This development was certainly disturbing. What could an observatory possibly have other than warmth.

"Well, it doesn't matter… We have to get those tomes. Let's make a cautious approach to the door," said Baranor. Slowly, in a crouch, he began to move forward, motioning to the others to follow. As they moved ahead, Baranor scanned the snowy ground, Amrith at his side with bow drawn.

As they neared the structure, a sense of foreboding grew within the group. At the base of the tower, Haedorial's eyes grew as recognition filled them.

"This is a Dúnadan tower," he announced quietly.

Baranor narrowed his eyes. "…a traitor to the Kingdoms…and a powerful one at that."

Aerin Eldanar bared her teeth in anger. "My grandfather, Elenuil Eldanar lost our ancestral home because of treachery. This strikes home for me. If someone is a traitor here, there may be some violence."

Valandil chuckled at her sarcasm. "I bet there will be."

Amrith pointed down at some tracks. "We have the advantage of numbers for once. There are less than ten orcs, that one, big Uruk, the dog beast and the woman. That makes me nervous. I'm used to being outnumbered. Don't let your guard down.

Leave a Comment

The Tower

Outside of the Tower – Narwain 21st, 5:45 PM

The Cardolani ranger, Amrith, made a cautious approach to the foot of the tower, covered by Baranor's bow. He spied the trolls and orcs that had accompanied the wagonload of books and crouched down out of their sight. Peering around a drift, he noticed that many of the books were not on the wagon and surmised that they must have gone in the tower with the two leaders of the band.

At the door, he drew his sword and checked around as the snow swirled about his form. On his signal, Haedorial and Aerin Eldanar moved up to join him. "Be on the watch for the orcs. They don't know we're here yet and I want to keep it that way while we figure out what's going on. If the seer is being held hostage here we need to keep quiet," Amrith told them and pointed off towards the orcs.

The ranger examined the large, ironbound doors and began to pick the lock. As he did so, the bard took careful notice of the step that they were on and cleared away some of the gathered snow.

"Amrith, hold a moment," Haedorial whispered amid the howl of the icy wind. He pointed down, where tiny holes were visible in the stone.

"By the Valar, I'm glad you've come along, bard," answered Amrith. The ranger nodded to Aerin, who extended her power into the door and the sound of tumblers rolling signified the opening of the door.

"I hate to waste my strength here, but the trap was rather nasty," the woman advised. "A hundred poison darts awaited us under this stair."

Haedorial gulped hard as Amrith blew out a long breath and then signaled the others to approach.

Cautiously, Baranor led the others to the tower, careful not to be seen by the evil horde. Arriving at the base of the observatory, Baranor had some of the men set up for a possible ambush against the orcs. He then pointed to Amrith and Valandil, indicating that they should enter the tower and explore it.

The ranger nodded and slid through the door followed by Valandil. They scanned the entry hall that contained a marble, spiral staircase with polished steel banisters. A large crystal sphere marked the beginning of the stairs.

Amrith motioned for Aerin and Mercatur to come forward and they crept onto the tiled floor, taking a second to notice the rich tapestries that lined the room.

"I think what we want is upstairs," Baranor whispered to his companions. The mercenary checked the crystal sphere and it began to move. He took a big breath as the sphere rotated into another position.

"I dunno what just happened, but it seems we're still alive," Mercatur added, and Amrith acknowledged it with a shrug.

Cautiously, they padded up the marble steps to the second-floor landing, which ended in a rich, piled carpet of blue and silver. Valandil looked down one of the long rows of wooden bookshelves that made up this grand library. They would need to go through this chamber to find what they were looking for.

Amrith crept out onto the thick carpet, occasionally peering through the numerous tomes to check the area around them. He held his breath for a moment, listening. He then looked back at his comrades and motioned them to remain still.

Three voices became clear.

"It was agreed…I would get my selection of the tomes prior to their final delivery. Do not forget, that I have the advantage here," a male voice spoke with some irritation.

A female voice answered, "You also forget that you owe your power to the King of the North. We are prepared to offer you three tomes of our choosing."

"Unacceptable!" responded the man.

"I suggest you find a way to accept them," cut in a voice that was not quite human. It was the dog beast and it was clearly a threat.

There was a sigh and then the sound of pacing. "Very well," spoke the man with resignation. "Follow me and we will hammer out the terms of the agreement." Footsteps on carpet could be heard followed by a door opening and closing.

Valandil narrowed his eyes and looked at Mercatur. The mercenary gave him a quizzical look in response. They moved quietly across the carpet to a double door made of the finest wood, with carvings of the constellations in the night sky.

At the door, Amrith heard the sounds of scuffling inside, followed by panicked shouts from the man. Without thinking, the ranger burst in to see a middle-aged seer wrestling with the dog beast that led the orcs. Behind them was a glass wall leading to a balcony.

"You've come just in time!" cried the seer. "Help me!"

Amrith blinked, noticing the elf woman standing nearby, and then charged at the wrestling pair.

Ulgarin, the elven woman, unleashed a flash of light from her hand, blinding Amrith momentarily. He turned aside as Mercatur fired a bolt from his crossbow. The quarrel leapt at the woman, but was deflected with a swing of her bluish trident.

By now, the sorcerer dog-beast, Ulduin had risen and howled a warning to his force below. With a snarl, he bared the fangs of his doglike snout and removed a chain hooked to three spiked balls from his belt.

Valandil bravely strode forward and stabbed at the sorcerer with the tip of his sword, which glanced along the metal plates covering the beast's arm. Ulduin swirled the spiked balls and landed them on Valandil's shield, smashing away bits of wood and metal from it.

The knight grunted, taking a step back and slashed the sorcerer across the jaw with a cut more desperate than lethal. A bolt then sank into the beast's side and it let out an unearthly howl.

At that, Ulgarin waved her trident and the glass wall shattered outward into the raging snow. In a flash, the two servants of the Witch King were gone. Snow blew into the now exposed room and Valandil stood, stunned by the ferocity of their departure. Only an inhuman howl could be heard over the wind now.

The man on the floor stood. "You have saved Ar-Elon. He thanks you for your timely arrival."

Aerin Eldanar gave the seer a funny look. "Ar-Elon…of the King's Seers? What were you doing with them?" she asked suspiciously.

Ar-Elon, also known as Malborn, took a defensive posture. "Knowing you were here, I was biding my time. It is thankful that you arrived when you did. Come, your friends are likely engaging the orcs outside. We must hurry," he stated and ushered them back into the library.

Together, they sprinted down the stairs and, at the entrance to the tower, the sounds of battle could be heard.

As Amrith bolted out the tower entrance, he saw Baranor leading the Cardolani Royal Guards in an attack on the trolls, while Ostomir Tinare and Falathar Girithlin drove back the orcs. With a shout, Amrith and the rest plodded through the snow to finish the assault, joined by a handful of Malborn's men.

Baranor dodged under a mighty swing of a troll's hammer and sprang back up, driving the point of his glassy blade deep into the monster's belly. Black blood flowed down the sword onto Baranor's gauntleted hands as he withdrew the weapon. The troll bellowed, but raised his arms for one last strike.

Seeing this, Valandil bounded through the snow drift and flayed the troll's leg open with a broad slash. On unsteady legs, the monster toppled over into the snow and was hacked several times by Cardolani warriors before it finally died. With the exception of a few fleeing orcs and the raging wind, the area was still and all fighting died away.

Baranor walked to the wagons left behind and lifted the canvas covers to reveal the tomes. Haedorial and Aerin breathed a sigh of relief – the most secret and powerful books of knowledge and lore in the North had been saved.

With a broad smile that seemed forced, Ar-Elon nodded to the group. "You have done King Araphor a great service," he declared in grandiose fashion, waving his arms about. "Come, let us bring the tomes inside and out of the weather. Ar-Elon will see to the return of the sacred texts." He pointed to the group. "Come now. Bring the tomes inside. Be quick about it. These are invaluable to the realm. Careful now, careful."

As they brought the books into the observatory, Ar-Elon described in elaborate detail how the minions of the Witch King had taken him unawares and forced him to cooperate. Seeing no alternative, he complied until help arrived. "It was so fortunate that you came just in time to save Ar-Elon. I will be sure to let King Araphor know of your valor and you shall be justly rewarded. Ar-Elon pledges this."

Mercatur leaned in closer to Valandil and whispered in his ear. "What's with this guy?" he asked, poking his thumb towards the seer. “Why does he refer to himself like that? That's just stupid."

Valandil chuckled. "He's obviously full of himself and he was the one who demeaned the Princess. I just don't get a good feeling with him. Something is up. Keep your eyes open."

Mercatur patted his axe in its sheath. "Oh, don't you worry about me. I already have a plan if this goes to shit."

Ar-Elon snapped his fingers and servants emerged from the tower, carrying food and drink. "For Ar-Elon's valiant friends. Ar-Elon will send out a rider to Fornost Erain to let the king know that we have recovered the tomes."

The mercenary gave a sour expression, one eye narrowed and the edge of his lip curled up. "We?" he whispered to Valandil. "I don't recall that joker being in Annuminas with us. I have more trust in Haedorial's fighting skills."

When they had finished moving the tomes into the foyer of the tower, Ar-Elon waved a hand and a fire burst into life in the grand fireplace, roaring and crackling. "Sit, my friends, sit. Make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the hospitality of Ar-Elon. You will find that friendship and loyalty with Ar-Elon to be most profitable. Ar-Elon defines loyalty."

In his long years, the tainted seer, Ar-Elon had learned that loyalty was a precarious thing. Regardless of who he was allied with, he would get what he wanted and now, it was delivered free of charge and he would also be a hero.

Chapter End Notes

I'm writing this portion with my aunt and we're not sure that a "no main POV" approach is the right one.

Leave a Comment

The Tower of the Seer – 7:50 PM

Standing on the intricate tiled floor of the ground level of his mighty observatory, the Seer, Malborn raised his arms as if in prayer. "Those fiends attacked Ar-Elon's home. Is there nothing that is safe these dark days? Thank the Valar you were here," he said, practically wailing, to the group in praise.

Valandil shot Mercatur a suspicious glance that the mercenary instantly recognized; the two had worked together for some time now. He watched as Falathar Girithlin hung on Malborn's every word. "Great seer, it is a shame what had been done to your observatory. We are here to help in any way that we can," he said as a child who hopes to impress an adult. Valandil rolled his eyes. He thought about interjecting, but he was exhausted and just glad to be safe for the time being. He looked out of one of the windows to see the snow falling more heavily now, the wind blowing it in thick flurries. He slapped his arms and bounced up and down to keep warm.

Even inside, their breath streamed from their mouths. Valandil and Mercatur spoke in low tones. "I don't like this, Mercatur," voiced the knight, looking around to make sure that they weren't being listened to. "That seer was far too chummy with that dog creature and the elf."

Mercatur nodded. "You noticed that too. I didn't survive Rhudaur to be fooled by some fancy mage. I won't be sleeping too heavily tonight…and neither should you."

With the tomes housed in the tower, Malborn took great delight in perusing and cataloging them, mumbling to himself in gleeful tones. It was almost as if he were staging a play for an audience. The seer's servants took the weary group to quarters and provided them with food and drink.

Valandil stood at a transparent wall that revealed a winter wonderland outside. The knight was oblivious to the ancient Númenórean technology that created such a marvel, but he had a healthy appreciation for the beauty beyond.

"Thinking of blondie, eh?" Mercatur voiced from behind.

Valandil gave a quick nod and turned back to see the mercenary reading by lamp light, the reflection of the flames dancing on his dark beard. "You read?" he asked, incredulously, more of a jab than a real question.

Mercatur snorted and shook his head. "I wasn't always a barbarian from Rhudaur, but that's another story for a later, more drunken time."

The knight nodded solemnly and then slid into his thick sleeping bag that was atop a luxurious throw rug on a gleaming wooded floor. Valandil's eyes were drawn to the reflection of the warm glow of the lamps in the polished boards and he soon drifted off to sleep to the sound of the crackling fireplace and the flipping of pages.

The Next Day

At daybreak a wagon trudged through the new fallen snow towards the tower. Valandil peered through the transparent wall and narrowed his eyes. "Hey, I think that's Kaile! Yes!" He could see four riders escorting her and some of the wounded. "Thank the Valar they're safe."

Mercatur put his hand on his forehead to shield the glare. "Yup, that's her. There was no way to find them last night. I don't know how they got through the snow. I wonder if that old lady helped them out. I don't see her. Silmarien…yeah, that's her name. She has to be some kind of witch." He grunted and pursed his lips. "Silmarien…I need to…nevermind."

"Old? When I saw her, she was young."

"Wait what? No, I met her in Rood, and she was old." His forehead crinkled and his beard bristled.  “Like ancient.  I was surprised she was even able to travel.”

"She's Rhudauran, isn't she? You know her from somewhere?"

Mercatur started to shake his head and then stopped. "No…I mean…I don't know. Too many weird things are lining up. I was at the Tirthon, maybe a couple of years ago. One of the last of the Dúnedain towers in Rhudaur. The lord, Marendil Rhudainor, had a sister, also named Silmarien. She could be the rightful heir to the throne of Rhudaur and the head of our house, but we…I mean they were dispossessed after the previous war."

"We?"

"Fine…fine…I was a cousin to Marendil."

Valandil narrowed one eye. "So, you're in line for the throne of Rhudaur?"

Mercatur shook his head emphatically. "I'm a nobody. I'm a sell sword in the armpit of the world. I'm a brute, who fights and kills for coin and sport. I'm no king and certainly not a royal."

Valandil put his hand on the mercenary's shoulder. "Were. You were a sell sword. You were a brute. You're a captain of the Royal Mercenaries now in Cardolan now. I'd say those days are behind you."

Mercatur looked pensive for a moment and then snorted. "You're making me think too hard. It's bad for my health." He stood up and pointed to the wagon that was close now. "Let's go help them out. I'm sure they're cold." He looked at Valandil and winked. "Thanks, and screw you too."

They greeted Kaile and her troop in the courtyard. Valandil helped her down from the wagon. "Thank the Valar, we thought you'd be lost in the snow. You must be freezing." He pointed to some of the wounded and called to the others who were coming out of the tower now.  “Let’s help these people inside!  Be quick about it!  They’re all freezing.”

The nurse hopped down from the wagon with a spring in her step. She was far too lightly clad for the intense cold. "We were fine. Silmarien had some old tricks to guide us here and she gave us potions to keep us warm before she left. Said she had important business. Still, she really helped us out.  I cannot imagine us surviving without her."

Valandil went and grabbed Kaile's healing bag. "Kaile, did you not see Silmarien before when she looked young?"

Kaile narrowed her eyes as if thinking. She seemed to be in a daze when pondering the question. "What? No, she's always been old to me. What are you talking about?"

He thought for a moment about the strange encounter with a mage who saved him when he was fighting the dwarf, Thrangull. He remembered the bronze wyvern and then shook his head. "No…that's too weird. I'm having trouble picturing her now. How…how strange. Eh, come on in. There are warm fires and hot food," he said and then leaned in towards her ear. "But watch yourself around the seer. I'm not sure we can trust him. The enemy was here before us, and he was pretty chummy with them."

Kaile's eyes widened. "Really? I'll be careful, but is there anything I shouldn't say?"

"He knows we were at the library, and we brought the tomes in. I sense that was his goal all along. Don't say anything about Cardolan or our dealings with the king. Just keep it light."

They went back into the library, which had been cleaned and repaired by the servants, and Malborn welcomed the newcomers. The seer was dressed in his usual gaudy attire, a multi-colored robe that was adorned with feathers and mithril pins for his scarlet cloak. He wore his seer's flatcap of indigo with a hawk's feather over his thinning white hair. He was effusive in his praise, waving his arms in an over-the-top gesture. "Gather round, gather round, people. Ar-Elon has a token of his gratitude," he said with a broad smile. He gave each of them a small silver cloak pin with the crest of the seer on it, a telescope aimed at an eight-pointed star.

The seer then gathered the group. "We should depart for Fornost Erain.  Ar-Elon is sure the King will be pleased by my recovery of the tomes. Very pleased indeed." He led them back down the stairs to the now loaded wagons and away from the copies of many of the tomes that he had made overnight. The King would indeed be pleased, but which king, the seer kept hidden in his dark heart.

Fornost Erain. The Grand Hall of the King's Council – Three Days Hence

In the grand chamber of the King's Council, Artos Tarma, Lord of House Tarma, Lord Commander of the armies of Arthedain, and head of the Council, known as the Cordagar, watched with some suspicion as pages brought the many tomes before King Araphor and Princess Nirnadel.  Tarma, ever a warrior, eyed the great seer, Malborn with deep suspicion.  The Cordagar had many concerns about the recent war and Tarma firmly believed collaborators were to blame for the death of King Arveleg and the destruction of Annúminas and Amon Sûl.  Although he liked the Cardolani, their presence here with Malborn did not win them any trust.  He stood tall as workers brought the tomes in from the wagons, surveying the work very closely. He wore a fine gray doublet, woven with cloth of gold in intricate geometric patterns and gold epaulettes. His black beard was trimmed to a sharp point and his hair was slicked back.

Tarma leaned over to Haros Eketta, the knight with the hideous wife. "I am most sorry about the death of your kinsman, Mallon. He was a good man and a good warrior. His loss will be felt in Arthedain.  However, I wonder about our King's courtship with the young princess.  Uniting our land with Cardolan may not be the most insightful course of action, after all the Cardolani failed to secure our flank."

Haros nodded without looking over. "I will give this some thought my friend. Our two houses control the destiny of the north. We must make sure to keep it that way." They watched as the party made their entrance to the grand hall.

Dressed in luxurious robes of state, Aerin Eldanar and Malborn bowed before the King. The seer raised his head and swept his hands toward the tomes in a dramatic gesture, swirling his scarlet cloak behind him. "My glorious King, it is Ar-Elon's pleasure to bring you the lost tomes of Annúminas. The servants of the Lord of Angmar paid dearly for their affront; I can assure you. It was with the help of these fine adventurers that Ar-Elon secured the tomes and the northern border of the realm."

The young king smiled and rose from his throne to take a closer look at the magnificent books. With hands gloved in brown doe skin, he selected a gilded text that spoke of the glory of Vinyalondë, a great city on the coast, built by Anardil Aldarion, then the Crown Prince of Númenor and friend to the elves of Lindon. There resided the Bar-en-Uinendil, the greatest fortress of its time.  As he read the text, the King spoke, "Sadly, Aldarion had very poor relations with his daughter Tar-Ancalimë, who became the first Ruling Queen of Númenor when he retired. Three thousand, eight hundred years ago, a hurricane devastated all of Vinyalondë save the fortress. Ancalimë used this as an excuse to abandon the outpost and, without repairs and maintenance, the proud towers were gradually swept away."

Nirnadel and Haedorial looked intently over his shoulder, absorbing every word about the lost city that existed millennia ago in another age, when Númenor dominated the world.

"Your Highness," voiced the bard to Nirnadel, "your learned brother, Braegil knew much of this. It was his dream to find the mithril room of Tar-Telemmaitë."

Nirnadel narrowed her gray eyes and lowered her head in memory of her slain brother. "We fear it was just a legend, good bard."

King Araphor turned, his ermine cloak swinging around him. "No, I believe it to be real. I know of Prince Braegil's hunt for the lost mithril. I understand that he was close to discovering its whereabouts."

"So he said before the war, my king" the Princess answered solemnly, some doubt written on her face.

The King let a faint smile escape from his lips. "I think it may be time to fulfill your brother's legacy. Would anyone care for another quest?"

The Royal Palace of Arthedain – That Evening

A roaring fireplace lit the den with glowing, orange light, casting long, dancing shadows across the hardwood floor and heavy throw rugs. Austere oil paintings of landscapes and the great seers of the kingdom adorned the richly paneled walls beneath the great, arched ceiling. Above the mantel rested a mithril eket, the short, stabbing sword of Arthedain's armies along with a staff, symbolizing the northern Dúnedain's love of mysticism, unlike their martial cousins in Gondor.

His voice soothing amid the crackle of the roaring fire, Baranor spoke to the Princess of his long travels in the service of Cardolan. "You see, Your Highness, Cardolan is much more like our southern neighbor, Gondor, in warrior spirit. The Gondorians see war as a business; conquer the enemy, take his lands. Arthedain, I would dare say, is much more…elvish in its outlook. They rely on seers and the stars to guide them. Other than their wars with our kingdom and with Rhudaur, they have no territorial ambitions other than to restore the realm of Arnor."

"As a knight errant, I had traveled both lands and found respect for both. Eldacar, King of Gondor, has seen that diplomacy is also a great tool and he has made solid alliances with the Northmen, who are powerful riders. The Gondorian fleet under Castamir controls the seas and trade flourishes. Your Highness, we will survive this dark time and Cardolan will be great once again."

The young woman thought upon what her guard had said. "We thank you for your counsel, brave Baranor. With your guidance, our land is sure to recover." She then cocked her head, her eyes reflecting the orange blaze from the fireplace. "What preparations will be made for our quest?"

"Our…quest?"

"Yes, 'our quest.' It has been decided that King Araphor shall lead us and that We shall accompany the sortie," Nirnadel said mischievously, a sly smile on her red lips.

"Your Highness, that's not going to happen." The shake of his head was full of horror and stern determination.

The Princess patted the knight on the head as she rose from the plush couch. "You know what happened the last time We were told 'no.' This is our brother's legacy. Please make adequate preparations for our departure. Rest assured, brave Baranor, that this will not take place for some time. There are many things to be done first."

Baranor bit his lip, obviously displeased. "Yes, Your Highness. We will have some time as we cannot depart until at least Gwirith, three months hence. It is still too cold, even on the coast. Then, we will have to worry about the spring seas. Powerful waves and storms will batter the coast. Osse does love his coastal storms," he said of the Maia who powered the weather of the littoral.

Nirnadel nodded and then yawned, putting the palm of her hand over her mouth. "Thank you, good Baranor. It is getting late now, and We should retire for some rest. We are so very pleased that you and the others have returned safely to us. We were ever so worried and there were many sleepless nights, We can assure you." She glided off toward her bedchamber, where Kaile and old Anariel awaited. "Good night to you, Baranor," she chimed as her ladies ushered her away.

Nearby, Valandil sat with Mercatur at an intricately carved dining table that still bore platters of leftovers and mugs from the earlier festivities. The mercenary fiddled with his axe, wanting to sink it into the back of a chair, but thought better of it; something was gnawing at him though.

Valandil saw this and narrowed one eye. "So, you getting civilized in your old age?"

"Hrmph…I'm only holding back out of respect for the Princess. Any other place and 'kathunk', the axe finds a new home. Valandil, I must know this…what happened to the blonde woman…the mage?"  His jaw was set and his eyes fixed.  He needed to know.

The knight shrugged. "Kaile said she vanished soon after we left Annúminas. She was the one with the bronze wyvern. I think-"

"Angmar's bones! I should have spoken to her. We were in such a rush to pursue those rats. She has the blood of House Rhudainor…I'd swear it." The mercenary took on a dark look and downed a mug of ale, letting droplets roll down his thick beard. "Look, we've fought together for a bit now and I'd daresay you were…a…friend," he said with difficulty. "I've never told anyone about this, but what happened to me in Rhudaur…it…it changed me…forever. My honor was lost.  I couldn’t stay in Rhudaur even though I was invited by the new Lord Rhudainor."

Valandil didn't quite know how to take the compliment. "You've never let me down, Mercatur. Whatever you think of yourself, I hold you in the highest esteem."

The big Rhudauran drained another mug. "Pah…look at us. Getting sentimental…In Rhudaur, there was no time for sentiment," he said and then wanted to change the subject. It was bringing back some painful memories. "So, you going to wed blondie?" he asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

Valandil smirked at the sudden turn. "You're drunk, big man. Come, best we get some rest."

Mercatur staggered off to bed and Valandil finished the mug of ale. "I understand lost honor, my friend. I am the sole survivor of my entire unit. I understand," whispered the knight.

Ro Malborn – the Seer's Observatory

Atop the great tower of the Seer, Malborn, the clamshell dome of the observatory stood open a crack to allow the chill night air and the light of Varda's stars into the structure to be captured by a mighty Palantír. The tainted Seer gazed into the glowing orb, set on a mithril stand carved in the likeness of a great wave.

He stood on the south side of the orb, looking north until his mind entered the land of Angmar. There, he focused his energy.

"Lord of Angmar…wait…do not be hasty, Ar-Elon has not betrayed you. In fact, Ar-Elon has the tomes that you seek. It was necessary to deceive your lesser servants to ensure that Ar-Elon could deliver your prizes.  Ar-Elon’s people will make the proper arrangements for delivery."

The orb went dark and Malborn stepped back, covered in perspiration, his skin steaming in the cold. Communicating from orb to orb was tiring, but communicating to a lesser stone, such as the Witch-King had, meant sheer exhaustion for a mortal user.

However, a smile covered Malborn's face. He could indeed serve two masters

Leave a Comment

Fornost Erain – The Palace of the King – Narwain 25th, Early Morning

A thick fog had gathered outside of the palace, which was coated in frost and icicles. In the slowly gathering, but diffused light, a rider sped up the cobblestone road, hoof beats clattering along, growing louder by the minute. The rider, clad in a surcoat of the Royal Family of Cardolan, shouted up at the sentries manning the gate to the palace. "I bear a message for the Princess of Cardolan from Chancellor Nimhir. Open the gate."

The Arthedan guards peered down into the soupy mist and waved to the warden below. The grinding of heavy chains could be heard and soon, the massive portcullis cranked upward, allowing the messenger to enter.

"Please bear me quickly to the Princess. I have an urgent message on a matter of state."

The warden, clad in shiny half plate armor, nodded as the rider dismounted. A groom quickly took the horse as the warden marched off toward the keep. Droplets of moisture beaded and rolled down the buffed metal plates and bassinet of the warden as he strode along through a lush garden, kept warm by enchanted heaters. The rider marveled at the bright flowers, blooming in the winter landscape of the Arthedan capitol.

With breath steaming, the two approached the fortified keep and two armored sentries snapped halberds to attention and then opened the great doors. A valet immediately took the cloak of the rider to be dried and hung for his departure as another servant carried in a platter of fruit and juice.

The messenger rubbed his nose and then his hands to shake out the chill and then gratefully accepted refreshment. As he gulped the fluid from the glass, Baranor came bolting down the broad, circular stairway, a smile of recognition on his face. "Cedhron, greetings my friend. News of your coming has preceded you."

Sergeant Cedhron, a fellow Royal Guardsman and the conspirator with Nirnadel's escapades, smiled broadly as the two men embraced. "Well, you have me at a disadvantage. Without a Palantír, we remain somewhat blind. You will have to fill me in on your adventures later; I bear an urgent message for the Princess. We will be returning to Tharbad as soon as possible."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Something is wrong?" he said more as a question than a statement.

"We must speak…in private," he said quietly as he scanned for eavesdroppers.

The valet bowed low to the two warriors. "I shall take you to the chamber of the Princess. Walk this way."

At the Mallorn Wood door to the Royal Guest Chambers, the valet rapped the bronze knocker, bringing Anariel to answer in her nightcap. The old maid seemed irritated at first until she saw Cedhron. The expression of joy on his face spoke volumes and she ushered the knights in, leaving the valet outside. Anariel walked to a lantern, bringing its light to life and she left to wake the Princess. Cedhron warmed his hands over a glowing brazier full of hot coals as Baranor mixed tea leaves into a kettle.

Soon, Nirnadel appeared, dressed in heavy velvet robes of burgundy as Anariel brushed the Princess' black hair. Barely concealed worry was cast upon her pale features. "Good Cedhron, We thank you for your long ride from Tharbad. Please, share your message with us."

The sergeant inhaled and removed a scroll tube from a pouch. He broke the wax Seal of the Chancellor and rolled the parchment out on a table. "There has been an attempt on the Chancellor's life. Nimhir has been wounded, but he is recovering," he said, his voice heavy with worry.

Nirnadel and Anariel gasped as Kaile and Galadel emerged from the next room. "What? How did this happen?" the Princess asked, her gray eyes wide with concern. She took the parchment and read it in depth. "This is the good Chancellor's hand. We can confirm this," she said, shaking.

Cedhron nodded. "The assassin was slain, but we have no clues as to who may have sent him. This vile deed has highlighted an important matter of state – the Chancellor has no successor and Cardolan has no sovereign. Valar forbid, should he perish, we would have anarchy."

Baranor hissed. "I smell Girithlin in this."

Nirnadel furrowed her brows. "Do not be hasty, good sir. Angmar is ever up to no good and We have seen great things from Falathar. We do not think Mablung Girithlin would go so far."

The captain knew of the Princess' naiveté but held his tongue. He merely exhaled sharply.

"Your Highness," added Cedhron, "We must depart for Tharbad as soon as possible. There, you must preside over a ceremony to name the Chancellor's successor."

Nirnadel frowned. "If We understand Cardolan law, We have no authority to invest a successor as of yet and such a matter must go to a vote among the Hirdoms. That is the law, good sergeant."

Baranor understood the underlying message. "Your Highness," he started with a sigh, "it is not that simple…and Nimhir has the power to bring about such a ceremony. When Nimhir was voted in as Chancellor, it was a near run thing with four for him and three against. This time, we may not be so lucky, and we must keep power out of the hands of Mablung Girithlin. Nimhir cannot choose his own successor…you must do it. The Hiri would scream foul if Nimhir did that. It would smack of corruption."

The Princess was shocked at such political maneuvering and her expression showed that she found it distasteful, her lips pursed tightly. "Kind Baranor, We will not manipulate the system…a system that our forebears founded and upheld for more than four hundred years of Cardolan's history. We find this abhorrent."

The captain bit his lip as the memory of a spoiled, prissy Nirnadel passed. "Your Highness…you may find it…difficult to believe, but your father, the great King Ostoher, learned about the realities of governing in his reign. Survival is often more important than law."

Nirnadel stood sharply. "You lie! You leave my father out of this. He was a good King and a good father." Kaile held her back.

Baranor shook his head and held up his hands, palms out. "I'm not saying he wasn't, Your Highness. I'm saying he understood what it took to rule…and it's not always pretty."

"Enough," stated the Princess with a wave of her hand. "This conversation is at an end. We will sanction a vote as it was laid down in Cardolan law." She then turned to Anariel. "Make preparations for our departure, good nurse." Tension lined the Princess' face, her jaw taut and her forehead furrowed. Baranor hated this. He wished he could do it over.

With that, the women strode off, leaving the two guards in the chilly room. Cedhron shrugged as Baranor rolled his eyes. The captain took a bite from one of the apples in a silver bowl. The knowledge of what was to come churned his stomach. "Girithlin will be poised to rule the Kingdom. When he gains control of the Chancellery, he will force Nirnadel to marry his son…and then we'll be lost."

Leave a Comment

Tharbad – The Bar Aran – Ninui 1^st

The journey back to Tharbad took three days in the wintery landscape even with the fast pace of urgency.  In the Bar Aran, the house of the King, Mercatur stood at the back of the luxurious bedchamber of the Chancellor, staring out the window from the grand mansion.  A thick blanket of snow covered the courtyard outside while tiny, crystalline flakes floated down from above.  In this area of the North, winter would last another month.

“Snow, ice…ice, snow,” he said in a voice full of gruff.  He blew on a glass pane, letting condensation form on it.  He grunted and wiped it off with his sleeve.

The Rhudauran mercenary looked about the room, wondering how he had come from being a simple sell-sword to joining the inner circle of Cardolan royalty.  It left a conflicted, bittersweet taste in his mouth.  For most of his life, all he had known were wars, skirmishes, and the feel of gold in his hands.  The expensive trinkets that adorned the chamber were entirely alien to him; a roof over his head and a mug of ale were normally all he required.  Even his ties to the Rhudainor Family were tenuous at best. He only fought for them at the Tirthon because they paid more than the Cultirith Rangers who fought for the Witch-King.  He blew out a sigh as he realized that he made the right choice.

He thought briefly about the home he had left behind – a stark, austere land of rocky hills and primeval forests, mostly untouched by man or elf…or orc.  It had once been the province of the exiled Dúnedain from Númenor – the tall men from tall ships.  It was the land of Elendil and Isildur, great kings of old, but through guile and treachery, it fell into ruin and was now the home of dark things and abominations.

Mercatur shuddered, but not from the chilly air. He could still picture her, floating through the Yfelwood forest, white wings spread out, a face of impossible beauty except for a mouth with rows of razor-sharp fangs.  Skrykalian, the Blood-Wight.  He closed his eyes and shook his head violently to banish the image.  He walked over to a luxurious green chair and plopped down on it with a grunt.  He took a deep breath.  Things weren’t so bad now.  He was a long way from bad.  Something felt right about being here in this place of nobility and he even felt some concern for the wounded Chancellor as he lay sleeping in his bed, covered in bandages across his chest as healers attended to him.

The big man looked over to Firiel Halatani and asked quietly, “How is he?”

The blonde woman looked over from a steaming bowl of herbs and glanced up at Mercatur.  “He’ll recover but the stab wound was deep.  It will take time and rest.”  The healer then gazed into his eyes, finding something. “Mercatur…you…look different somehow - softer, more intelligent.”

The Rhudauran pulled his chin back and curled one side of his mouth up.  “Angmar’s bones, woman, how insulting.  I’ve been spending too much time among civilized folk.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” answered Firiel with a faint smile.  She then returned to administer a dose of medicine to the Chancellor, who drank with groggy gulps, letting the liquid sooth his parched throat.  She then rubbed a salve on his lips.

The mercenary went back to the window and turned his brown eyes out to the snowy landscape once again.  He thought about how some semblance of order had returned to the great city as he noticed how the streets were carefully swept free of ice and foot traffic flowed along the sidewalks of King’s Row.  Shops were brightly lit with kiosks serving food to patrons.  A sense of normalcy was returning to Tharbad.

His attention was then drawn to a magnificent, covered sled that was departing the Bar Aran, drawn by four powerful horses. Mercatur immediately noticed the raven-haired princess seated in the maroon and gold vehicle, accompanied by Baranor, Cedhron and four Royal Guards.  Valandil trotted beside them astride a large warhorse.

As they rode out of sight, Mercatur returned to his musings on how much his life had changed.  For better or worse, Cardolan was now his home.

Along the Menetar Road

The great sled drew southward along the grand avenue, known as the Menetar.  The ancient way was paved during the reign of Tar-Aldarion, the great mariner of Númenor, some 3000 years ago.  With the technology of the ancients and the magic of the elves, the road had endured nearly intact for all of the long centuries of Dúnedain rule.  The knight, Valandil rode ahead of the royal entourage, yelling at people to clear the street.  The procession crossed over the southern bridge, known as the Iant Harnen and under the great Ryncaras Tharbad, the southern gatehouse.

As the sled came to pass the southern docks, Valandil could see vessels under construction.  He was then surprised to see Cardolani sailors turned out in their uniforms to salute the Princess.  Captain Asgon, Lord of the small fleet, bowed low with his gloved hand over his heart as the sled drove by.  The knight was also surprised to see two tall, blond men there – elves.

What could elves be doing here?  I wonder….

The procession turned a street corner to cross the Cherant AranCanal and came to a stop in front of the Gondorian Embassy.

A vote was to be held on neutral ground.

Baranor, his face set tightly in obvious displeasure, opened the door to the sled to allow Anariel, Galadel and Kaile to step out. The three women assisted the Princess down from the cabin while Gondorian knights lay a rich, red carpet before the sled.

Nirnadel walked down the steps and looked up at the large embassy, her breath streaming from her nostrils.  Appearing impassive, she held her hand over her stomach and winced. “Still feeling nauseous, Your Highness?” Kaile asked, her voice full of concern.  She started digging through her healer’s bag, but Nirnadel waved her off.

“It churns, good nurse.  However, I am determined to see these proceedings through. We must show the world that we are a realm of laws.  We do not do things because they are merely convenient.  This will be my first…official act.  We…I am scared.”

 

Baranor approached and bowed.  “Your Highness, we should go inside.  Soon, Hir Girithlin, Hir Tinare, and Hir Calantir will arrive, along with the proxies of the other four Hirdoms.”

“Do you know how those four will be?” she asked, her face hopeful.

The captain shook his head.  “No, I do not.  It remains to be seen.”

Valandil held the reins of the horses, watching the Princess walk toward the embassy doors.  How would this affect the fate of the Kingdom, he wondered?  Most of all, how would this affect him and Firiel?  He inhaled the crisp, cold air, holding the horses in place.

When would this long winter end?

The Gondorian Embassy

Princess Nirnadel was led by Baranor and his men into the squat, dominating structure that was the Gondorian Embassy.  Like many things Gondor, it projected power while maintaining a sense of elegance with door arches painted in gold leaf and stained glass windows depicting the great events of that kingdom.  She thought longingly about her recent visit to Arthedain and how King Araphor was so much like herself.  She thought about how she had bid him farewell, promising to correspond.  He seemed to be a man that she could respect, a man that she could love.  However, her idle musings were interrupted by more pressing matters – the life of her kingdom.

Ten Gondorian captains saluted with swords as she passed by the foyer, which held grand tributes to Gondor’s martial prowess. Tall statues with plaques of Gondor’s Kings flanked the massive room – Tarannon Falastur, Eärnil, Ciryandil, and Hyarmendacil, the great conquerors, all the way to Valacar, the current ruler of the Stone Land.  These were designed to awe the visitor, and it was working.  The young woman looked up at the proud statues of the men, mighty as the Argonath, and she quailed.  Although the blood of Isildur flowed in her veins, she was no mighty conqueror.

“They are designed to have such an effect on the viewer,” a man said.

Nirnadel caught her breath and focused her eyes on a gentlemanly fellow, dressed in the livery of Gondor, a black surcoat with the silver image of the White Tree over gray robes that were accented in crimson and gold.  His black hair was slicked back and slightly graying at the temples and he was clean shaven. He was a handsome man with soft features, full cheeks and a slight double chin.  Life as a Gondorian was good.

“Your Highness, I am Ciramir, Legate of Gondor,” he added diplomatically with a sweep of his hand and a low bow.  “We have met before, but in a different time.”

Nirnadel nodded, her eyes full of recognition. “Yes, good Ciramir, We remember your arrival three years ago and that you are well traveled.  We thank you for your shipments of food and supplies.  You and your King Valacar are most generous, and We will not forget that.”

“Indeed, and thank you, Your Highness.  Yes, I have been from Far Harad to Annúminas in the North to Círdan’s havens in Lindon and everywhere in between.  I have not seen you since before the war and I wish to express my condolences to your family.  Their loss is felt even in Osgiliath.”

“We thank you, good sir.  We much enjoyed your telling of your survival of the siege of Umbar last we met,” said the Princess.  “Come, we shall talk further afterwards.  We wish to begin these proceedings to name the Chancellor’s successor.”

Ciramir bowed again and ushered the Royal entourage into the inner sanctum of the embassy.  “Your Higness, I will be mediating these proceedings.  We also have an observer from Pelargir as a representative of Gondor’s nobility.  He is the master of ship, my Lord Castamir.”  As they walked through the massive doors, flanked by proud Gondorian soldiers, the Legate narrowed his eyes.  “I will admit to you, Your Highness, that one of my main concerns is whether the critical trade lines will remain open with Cardolan and Arthedain. I sincerely hope that you are up to the task to ensure that.  With all due respect, Your Highness.  Come, your table has been prepared.”

The Princess was given a royal seat in the chamber. The table was full of platters and pitchers of various refreshments from the south: exotic fruit, pastries and candies from far off lands.  The Lord of Ships sat next to her, wearing a silk blue doublet, woven by the finest clothier with mithril buttons and images of the sea, crafted with silver thread.  He was the image of power, rippling muscles beneath the sleeves of his doublet, clean shaven with black hair styled in the most expensive of salons.  He reminded the Princess of the paintings and sculptures of Isildur.

He looked her up and down and then leaned over to her and nodded.  “Lord Castamir, at your service.  Your bloodline is pure, Your Highness.  You are a true Dúnadan.  We have many things to discuss afterwards.  I control the fleets and the shipping.  All sea trade with Gondor is my purview.”

Nirnadel bowed her head just enough to show that she was of higher rank.  “It is our pleasure to meet you, my Lord Castamir.  We look forward to discussions of trade to ensure the prosperity of both of our realms.”

The grand doors opened again to let in the diplomats and the Hiri of the Kingdom.  All seven seats of the Hiri were filled, but only three by actual nobles. Mablung Girithlin was all smiles as the aged Celeph Calantir was carried to his seat.

As people milled about and the murmur of voices grew, Ciramir stood and raised his hands.  “Good nobles and representatives of the Kingdom of Cardolan, we gather here to discuss a matter of great import – the election of a successor to the Chancellery. As we all know, there was an attempt on the Chancellor’s life and the culprit and the people behind him have yet to be identified.  To avoid the possibility of internal strife, there needs to be continuity in this government.  Let it come to a vote here.”

Girithlin immediately spoke, “Legate Ciramir, first off, you have no business facilitating the internal affairs of Cardolan. Second, the Princess has not yet reached the age in which she can manage these affairs.  Third, I am descended from the great Eldanar Family, and, by blood, it is my right to be selected.”

Nirnadel chafed, but she was stopped from speaking by Ciramir’s rebuttal.  “Lord Girithlin, Chancellor Nimhir selected me personally for this assignment and has granted the Princess provisional authority to conduct this specific duty. I assure you; it is perfectly legal and correct under Cardolani law.  We have researched this.”

Mablung sucked his teeth.  “Pah, this is another attempt by Nimhir to manipulate and rig the system to his favor.  This is nothing but interference.  I see right through this farce.”

The Princess could stand it no more and her face flushed red.  She stood up and raised her hand.  “Gentlemen, to avoid the appearance of impropriety, We have concluded that a fair vote will decide the issue.”

Girithlin sat back with a grin as if he knew something no one else did.  “We have no objection to that.  Let the vote proceed.”

Baranor grimaced and glanced at Cedhron.  “He folded on all of this too easily.”

The Gondorian Embassy – One Hour Later

Hir Girithlin smiled broadly as Ciramir read the results.  “I hereby declare Mablung Girithlin as the successor to the Chancellery, should Nimhir pass in untimely death or incapacity.  The vote is final.”

Girithlin lifted his massive frame from his seat and gave a nod to his cousin, Barahir, the soon to be designated Hir of Feotar and to Minastan, the Mayor of Tharbad.  Faint smiles of satisfaction covered both men’s lips.  He pointed to one of his heralds.  “Go, ride now.  Tell Falathar that things have changed.”

Nirnadel had just cut her own throat, and ambition was often its own reward.

Chapter End Notes

This is a bit of an intro to a future story, the Kin Strife.

Leave a Comment

Balost – Ninui 3^rd, 1410

In the snow-covered tower of Balost, also known as Barad Girithlin, a meeting was held to celebrate Mablung Girithlin’s recent political victory.  The great tower was the ancestral home to the Girithlin princes in the days of Arnor and now held sway over the lands managed by the Girithlin barons.  Its construction heralded the dying days of Númenórean might in the sunset years of the Second Age and its heptagonal design was considered almost unique among the towers of the Dúnedain as was its alabaster covered walls.

Young Falathar Girithlin stood at the entryway to the tower complex with his father and their guests.  Though elated about his father’s victory in the election, he was troubled by the tone of recent events.  His father had been the rock of House Girithlin, holding their lands and family together through sheer force of will at times.  He had learned that nothing happened in the family without his father’s blessings and their house had now achieved the pinnacle of its fortunes. Upon the passing of Chancellor Nimhir, Mablung Girithlin would hold all power in Cardolan until Princess Nirnadel would be coronated in 1411 upon reaching adulthood.  Still, the sudden change of plans caught the young man off guard and his father spoke more often now about consolidating all power in Cardolan under their roof.  “This is not a democracy, my son.  The people need to be ruled with an iron fist.  It is what is best for them,” he would say at the dinner table.  “I’m doing this for you, son.  You, who will rule one day.”  Falathar would then look to his mother, quiet as a mouse, drunker than a sailor.

Entering the courtyard, Mablung laughed loudly among the group, more of the bellow of an ox than any true mirth.  He gestured broadly at the walls of the fortress and then to the tower itself.  “This fortress has withstood many sieges,” boasted Mablung as he led his guests through the tasteful rock garden in the central courtyard of the tower on the ground level.  “We are prepared for any eventuality.”  The Hir wore his finest outfit, designed to impress: a velvet doublet of forest green and gold, let out to hold his wide girth; hand-woven breeches laced with gold cord; a green and gold beret, adorned with gold cords with part of an eagle feather; and, most important of all, the chain of office of the Chancellor around his neck. He had one made just for occasions like this.

Barahir, the new Hir of Feotar, nodded and looked at his brother Annael.  “I’m glad we could come to some sort of arrangement, Hir Girithlin.  I am looking forward to assisting you in the amber trade and I’m sure you could use the winter barley that we have been stocking.”

Girithlin slapped Hir Feotar on the back.  “I’m honored that you came around to my way of thinking.  You and your brother accompanied the Princess to Arthedain, and I know you are fond of her. I tell you now that I only think of her best interests and the interests of Cardolan.”

Barahir and his brother nodded enthusiastically. “You represent strength, Hir Girithlin,” the elder one said.  “We stand with you.  I look forward to hearing your idea of how to install Annael as Hir Calantir, now that old Celeph cannot have many winters left.”

As they strode along, Annael, a tall, dark man of mixed Dúnedain blood, studied the defenses of the tower with wondering eyes. Bringing up the rear, Falathar trailed behind, glancing at the enchanting rock formations and well-tended plants in the garden.  His thoughts were preoccupied by the Princess, who was troubled by politics in their last meeting.  He so wanted to comfort her and show her that he would give them a better life and a better chance for Cardolan.

The group continued past a magnificent reflecting pond that was fed by a small spring.  Two intricately carved figurines of dolphins spouted water, casting ripples in the pool.  Mablung gazed down at his reflection in the water and smiled – his ascendancy was assured.

The four nobles sat on stone benches, flanked by four Girithlin knights.  Mablung leaned in toward the Feotars with a conspiratorial expression.

“I intend to press Falathar’s suit to marry Nirnadel.  With the power I have gathered, that fool, Nimhir will have to acquiesce.  Falathar will be named the new King of Cardolan, and we shall enhance the position of Chancellor with additional powers.  I will also remain in the palace as the King’s Counsel.  From that point forward, the Kingdom will once again be strong and free of foreign control.  We will expel Arthedain and retake eastern Cardolan from the Rhudaurans.  I know we see eye to eye here.”

Barahir smiled broadly.  After all, a reinvigorated Cardolan was what they all wanted.

Falathar forced a smile.  This was all beyond him.  He wanted to be with Nirnadel, but was this truly the way?  He cared little for the trappings of power and strength. The war was behind them and Cardolan had survived.  Could there be no time for happiness or peace?  He felt someone shake his shoulder and he stirred from his thoughts to see his father scowling at him, eyes narrowed.

“Pay attention, boy.  Is this not what we have striven for?  I do this for you, son.”

“Yes, father.  We are all in agreement.”

Mablung’s scowl faded back into a mischievous grin. “After all, you will get to bed the Princess.”  He shook his head with a lustful grunt.  “She is something, after all.  So prim and proper with the face of an angel.  I would take her myself if not for…for your mother,” he added with obvious disapproval at the end.  “Best prepare yourself, son.  You will be the King of Cardolan and our friends will prosper by our guiding hand.”

The Bar Aran in Tharbad

Princess Nirnadel sat in the Royal Meeting Room with the Gondorian Lord of Ships, Castamir.  Anariel was in the back of the room with Galadel and Kaile while Baranor and Legate Ciramir sat at the table with them.  Nirnadel wore her red and black checkered gown with the golden chain of office of the Chancellor.  She would represent him today in that capacity.  Castamir was dressed in his Gondorian finery, a doublet of sea blue and silver with mithril buttons and a felt hat, crafted to look like a kraken. The meeting room was full of bright paintings of past Cardolani royalty, ending in the painting of Ostoher and his family.  Nirnadel glanced up at that moment of happiness back when she was 12.  It now seemed longer ago than the fall of Númenor.

She looked over at the Lord of Ships and was nothing but intimidated.  Everything about him spoke of knowledge, experience and power.  She had heard that he fought in bitter wars down south in far Harad, but didn’t know any of the details.  She took a deep breath before speaking like Nimhir had taught her.  She needed to calm herself.  “My good Lord of Ships, We wish to thank you for coming to our house to talk of trade.  This is what our land needs to recover and thrive.  The good Chancellor remains in his bed, under the care of our healer. As you know, a foul assassin attempted to murder him in this very house.  That assassin has been dealt with and the situation is under control.  We will represent him in this discussion.” She gave Castamir an official smile, one used during functions, pleasant, but not particularly warm. Could he see how frightened she was? He had to see it.  But whatever she felt, she had to do this.

He looked around at everyone in the room, sizing them up.  “Good, everyone here is of pure blood.  Wait,” he said, then pointing at Kaile with a look of disdain, “she is of the lesser people. This is a meeting of Dúnadain for Dúnadain.  The High Men are rulers of this land.  She should not be here.”

Baranor started to rise, but Nirnadel motioned for him to sit.  She wanted to follow what the Lord of Ships demanded.  This had to go well.  She looked over at Kaile and saw the nurse’s eyes misting over.  What should she do?  Her stomach churned.

“Good Castamir…Kaile is our nurse and lady in waiting.  She…she has shown herself to be a true hero of Cardolan.  She saved many lives after the war and put herself in harm’s way more times than We can count.  We trust her with our life.  We…We apologize, but Kaile must remain.  Pray, good Castamir, let us…let us get to the matter of trade.  Cardolan stands ready to be a friend of Gondor.”  Nirnadel couldn’t believe that she said that.  She literally did not know what would come out of her mouth until it came out.  She felt ashamed that she even thought about sending her friend away.

Castamir snorted, but then took a deep breath. “Should I not treat with the Chancellor himself?  And I hear that Hir Girithlin will be Chancellor one day too.  May I speak with one who has the authority to make decisions?” While he said this respectfully, the meaning behind the words was clear: Nirnadel was just a figurehead.

She swallowed hard.  “We will be the true sovereign of Cardolan in under two years. We think it would be advantageous for us to conduct these negotiations here.  Besides,” she began, finding a sly angle, “We could learn a great deal from your experience with trade.  We look forward to hearing of your tales of valor and of the sea, good Castamir.”

He sat back and smiled, a look of satisfaction on his face.  “Very well. Your servant may remain.  He laced his fingers and put them on his chest.  “Good.  There is a little fire in you.  I like that. We Dúnadain must have that in order to rule.  You cannot hold the respect of the people by being a wall flower.”  He leaned forward and steepled his hands.  “As the Lord of Ships, I have travelled the world from Arthedain to the Kingdom of Tantȗrak in the far south.  Tantȗrak is a former Númenórean colony, established in the Second Age.  There is so much of our heritage down there.”

“That sounds amazing.  We would love to see such a magnificent land.”

“And I would show it to you, Your Highness.  You cannot imagine the architecture there. It is as if the paintings of old Númenor have come to life.  The king even takes the title of ‘Tar’ as the Kings of Númenor had done.  I would show you far Harad where I fought against the Haradrim and helped to subdue them for Gondor.  I led the raids that crushed their navy and secured the seas for our lands.”

“Your valor does our people proud.”  She smiled demurely, playing the ingenue, the naïve young girl looking for guidance.  “I seek to learn all about these things.”  She placed some documents on the table and opened one.  It was time to shift into work.  “Now good Castamir, We have here a list of our current merchant fleet and drawings of the docks.  It includes the figures on imports and exports that pass through our port.  We consulted with the…new Harbor Master and Mayor Minastan for these.  We are sure that you will find them accurate.  We have found additional dock space for your ships and hope that you will agree to increase exports to our land.”  She felt like she was finding her voice.  Her meeting with the Mayor and Harbor Master had gone well and she studied the figures late into the night.

The Lord of Ships looked them over and pursed his lips as if impressed.  “You have an eye for detail, Your Highness.  Details are important to those of the sea.  The sea is an unforgiving mistress, pardon the expression.”  He looked over to Ciramir.  “I believe we can make this happen.  Our Legate here was instrumental in bringing supplies to your land last year and I approved those.  I will authorize three additional ships per month.  We have grain, fish and oil for your lamps.  In return, I would ask that Cardolan increase its exports of lumber and glass.  The glass from Tharbad is the finest in the known world, I can assure you.”

Nirnadel held her breath for a moment.  This was all going very fast.  All such decisions had been Nimhir’s to make for some time now. But the world was changing and changing quickly.  She nodded. “We will agree to that,” she said proudly.  “We look forward to working with our Gondorian cousins.  And we thank you from the bottom of our heart for the supplies last year.  It was through your grace and generosity that our realm survived.”  She extended her hand, palm down and Castamir took it and bowed his head, kissing the back of her hand.

“It is done, Your Highness.  I, too, look forward to helping our Cardolani cousins. A strong north means a strong Gondor.”

“We have always been envious of the martial prowess of Gondor,” she said and then pointed to Baranor.  “We, too, have our martial experts though.”

Ciramir, who had been silent, spoke up.  “Lord Castamir, I can tell you honestly that Baranor is the greatest knight of the north.”

Castamir nodded in agreement.  “So, I have heard.  Captain Baranor, we have heard of your prowess in the south.  Your name is spoken even in Pelargir.”

Baranor bowed his head.  “I am honored, my lord.”

Nirnadel touched the knight on the back of the hand and smiled.  She looked over at Kaile and saw her face full of pride.  She stood up and pushed her chair in.  “Come, my Gondorian friends.  Though we are nowhere near the glory of Gondor, We wish to show you our gardens.  It is a place of quiet refuge that We have come to treasure.  There, We beg you to sample our wine, a fine claret from the Hirdom of Tinare, known for their expansive vineyards.”

The lords of Gondor stood and followed Baranor. As Nirnadel passed her nurses, she touched Kaile on the cheek and nodded with a smile.  A tear ran down the nurse’s face as she mouthed, “Thank you.”

The meeting had turned out far better than Nirnadel had dreamed.  Perhaps she had some potential for governing.  She only wished that Nimhir was here to see it happen.  He would be so proud of her.  All of his teaching was coming to fruition.  She took several fast steps to catch up with Castamir.  “Please, my Lord of Ships, tell us more about the exotic lands that you have seen.  It fuels our imagination.”

The Houses of Healing – Ninui 7^th, 1410

Firiel Halatani brushed her blonde hair from her face and breathed a sigh of relief.  The number of plague victims had been declining significantly and the recent intervention by the Princess had repaired the aqueduct systems, cleaning out the city’s water supply.  Additionally, a very important patient had shown much improvement.

“I hear the Chancellor is up and around,” voiced Valandil as he approached the healer from behind and massaged her shoulders.

Firiel cooed and closed her eyes.  This was a much-needed break.  “He is doing quite well…physically.  Upon the breaking of his fever, he was notably perturbed by the recent political events.  I daresay he was very upset with Nirnadel for allowing the election.  But he had to give her credit for negotiating the trade deal with Gondor.”

The knight cocked his head, thinking.  “I grew up in Girithlin and my opinion of the Hir is high.  After all, he was the only surviving Lord of those present at Tyrn Gorthad.  His warrior skills are legendary.”

Firiel lowered her head for a moment.  The savage imagery associated with that battle was still too much.  “Yes, Tyrn Gorthad…I don’t think of that place very often anymore.”

Valandil nodded sadly.  He was about to speak when Jonu entered and brought a letter for the healer.  She took it and examined the wax seal, noting the insignia of her mother’s family in Lindon, three gulls over a wave.  Her heart skipped a beat.  She loved her elven relatives.  They had taught her so much and were always kind and patient.  She especially missed her Sindarin mother.  She excitedly tore the wax, letting the red crumbs scatter on the dark wooden table.

Firiel read the letter quickly, scanning the flowing Sindarin characters, known as the Tengwar, written by an elven hand.  “My mother in Lindon…she has heard of the plight of our house and is sending medicines to assist us.  We are to meet her in Bree.”

“I had forgotten that you are half elven,” mused Valandil.  “We would have to journey through Tyrn Gorthad once again.  Would you be alright with that?”

“Since the war, the downs of Tyrn Gorthad are desolate.  We should be safe.  Let us prepare to depart.”  The healer rose and handed the letter back to Jonu.  It was times like this that she missed Kaile…and Nel.

The Great North Road – Ninui 9^th, 1410

Snow covered the broad road that had linked Arthedain to Cardolan for the past three thousand years.  Tar-Minastir, the Númenórean King that defeated Sauron after the fall of Ost-in-Edhil in the middle of the Second Age, commissioned his Admiral, Pharconatar, to pave the road to link the Dúnedain citadels of the North.  Pharconatar used the might and technology of the Númenóreans to build a road that would stand the test of time.  Fifteen hundred years in the future, hobbits would traverse the same stretch of road on an epic journey.

On this day in 1410 of the Third Age, four horses plodded along through the snow as the bitter wind howled along the barren landscape, throwing drifts of snow into the air.  The primordial forests that once covered Cardolan an age ago were leveled to build the fleets that fulfilled Númenórean ambitions, leaving rolling hills and scrubby brush in place of the trees.

Firiel squinted her blue eyes in the swirling winds as flakes danced around her.  She pulled her thick blue cloak about her slender frame as her teeth chattered. “I…I don’t seem to have inherited my mother’s immunity to the cold,” she complained to Valandil and Mercatur. “Damn elves get all of the good stuff.”

Haedorial the bard piped in, “Good lady, was it not possible for your mother to send the shipment all the way to Tharbad?  Surely this journey was unnecessary.  We could be home beside a roaring fire.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, shaking her head. “My mother is rather spiteful of our city and refuses to go there.  Bree is as far as she will travel, I’m afraid.”  Firiel thought deeply for a moment.  “I have not seen her in some time…maybe fifteen years.”

Mercatur wrinkled his nose in the cold.  “Fifteen years…not since you were a child?”

The healer laughed.  “I have not been a child in a long time, sir.  I am fifty-five years old.  We half elves live a long time.  We still write frequently.  Thankfully, the mail is better than it was last year.”

The mercenary snorted.  “I don’t trust anything elvish.  Valandil, how did you talk me into this?”  Just then, the howl of a wolf rang out.  Mercatur’s attention was drawn to it.  He pulled his crossbow from its sheath and nocked a bolt.

“It’s just a wolf,” said Valandil reassuringly.

The mercenary shook his head.  “Not a wolf…a warg.  Twice as big and five times as mean…and they come in packs.  Not uncommon in Rhudaur.”

Suddenly, a cloaked figure was among them.  He was thin and clad in white.  He quickly pulled his hood off, revealing his pale features and pointed ears.

“They’re right behind me!  We have to flee!” he shouted over the wind.  His face was full of fear, eyes huge.  He gestured behind him and the sound of lupine snarls filled the air.

Chapter End Notes

We see the roots of the Gondorian Kin Strife and the racism of Castamir that drove the kingdom to civil war.

Leave a Comment

The Old North Road – Ninui 9^th, 1410

With the sudden arrival of this newcomer – and an elf at that, Valandil bristled, his silver, knightly armor rattling in the stiff cold wind.  He put his hand on the grip of his sword, ready for any threat, including the elf. “Who are you and what is behind you?” he asked sternly, demanding an answer.

The elf flashed his green eyes beneath wildly waving sandy, blonde hair.  “I am Ascarnil of Rivendell, and there is no time to explain.”  He looked quickly behind him where the sounds of baying wargs could be heard close at hand.

Valandil quickly realized that the elf was far safer than the wargs and he grasped Ascarnil’s hand and pulled him up on his horse, whereupon the elf shouted something to the animal.  Valandil was surprised by the intensity with which his mount bolted away from the approaching beasts to be followed by the others.

The horses kicked up gouts of snow as they fled from the enemy.  Firiel looked back over her shoulder and gasped.  “By the Valar!”  Barely shrouded by the falling snow and wind were a dozen massive wargs ridden by snarling orcs with spears, their paws pounding the soft ground with incessant strides.

Haedorial needed no encouragement to ride.  He was kicking his horse with all the strength that he could muster.

With cool precision, Mercatur aimed his crossbow at the gallop and twisted his body left to angle for a shot.  He sighted his target down the shaft of the bolt and pressed the trigger, unleashing the black dart.  The bolt leapt forward, its feathers gripping the air to give it spin and, in an instant, it sank into the forehead of a warg.  The great beast, as big as a horse, toppled into the snowbank, hurling its rider forward with a squeal.

The elf followed suit and brought out a composite bow made of fine woods and sinews.  With a masterful eye, Ascarnil took aim as he drew the string back.  The bow sang as a long arrow shot forth and into the eye of another warg.  The giant wolf crashed to the ground, crushing its rider beneath.

Firiel moved to draw her bow, but then stopped. Her skill with it on horseback was nonexistent and she focused on keeping her horse ahead of the deadly monsters. Her breath shot out in streams in the icy chill as she looked back and forth between what lay ahead and the angry horde behind.  Firiel’s sharp eyes focused through the thick flurry on a line of hills ahead.  The Barrow Downs – the ancient and sacred burial grounds of the Edain.

The healer glanced over to Valandil as she hung onto the saddle for dear life.  He looked back at her, knowing that they would be entering the cairns that were built by their forefathers more than five thousand years ago.  The men and women that were interred there fell during the great wars of Beleriand, fighting beside the likes of Finrod Felagund and Fingon, lords of the Noldorin elves.  These epic battles, like the men and elves who fought them, were now only the stuff of legend.  They also knew that this was the place where Cardolan’s army was ground to dust by the iron fist of the Witch King and that this was Ostoher’s final resting place.

Despite their misgivings, they drove their mounts forward as Ascarnil took aim once again.  Another arrow flew back, imbedding itself into the throat of a warg, toppling it into the raging storm.

Mercatur swerved his horse toward Valandil and called to the elf.  “Which tribe?”

With his sandy blonde hair whipping in the breeze, the elf looked back and raised an eyebrow.  “Sulmog-vrás…why?”

“Sulmog-vrás?” echoed the mercenary.  “You must be pretty important.  They don’t have many left after the war.”

“Thanks to the elves,” finished Ascarnil with some pride.

The four horses began to climb the first of the Barrow Downs, galloping slowly through the thick drifts, steam rolling off of their warm bodies.  Ascarnil patted Valandil on the shoulder.  “I’ll turn and fight here.  Thanks for evening the odds for me.”

“What?  You’ll be killed!” answered the knight.  “There are still nine of them.”

“Great idea,” Mercatur stated as he reloaded his crossbow.  “It’s been too long since I had a good fight!”

The elf slid gracefully down the back of Valandil’s horse and drew a long sword from a leather scabbard.  The weapon immediately glowed yellow and Ascarnil yelled, “Runya!” causing the blade to burst into flames.  Snow sizzled off of the blade, turning into steam.

Valandil shook his head with frustration and turned, drawing his own dwarven-forged weapon.  He turned his horse about just as Ascarnil sliced through an orc spear. The elf then spun and cut through the two forelegs of the warg.  The beast howled as it crashed into the snow, throwing its rider.

The orc rose, hissing and drew a sharp scimitar and turned toward the elf in time to be shot by another bolt from Mercatur. The black shaft penetrated clean through the brute’s chest, and it looked down at the wound momentarily before collapsing.

As Ascarnil’s sword blazed in the swirling snow, sizzling, Firiel and Haedorial dismounted on the crest of the hill.  The half elf woman drew her short bow as the bard hunkered down in a snow drift.  He found two orcs charging at Valandil with spears outstretched. Focusing his energies, he cast a silent voice between the enemy and their warg mounts crashed into each other.

Valandil’s eyes opened wide at the sudden change in his fortunes.  He spurred his horse forward and lopped the head off of one orc with a wide swing.  He recovered his guard in time to parry a thrust from the second orc and the two traded blows, blades thumping on shields.

A small arrow punctured the orc’s mount, but to little effect and the giant warg leapt at Valandil.  Its huge bulk pounded him, knocking him sideways off of the saddle. Together, they crashed into the snow – man, horse, warg, orc, throwing up white powder everywhere.

Stunned, Valandil shook his head and saw the razor edge of a scimitar coming down at him.  All he could do is turn his face, letting the weapon strike his helmet. The ring of metal on metal reverberated through his head as he instinctively drew his dagger and plunged in into the orc’s thigh.

The orc howled and drew the point of his scimitar back, showing off its long curved edge.  As it began its thrust, the squeal of a warg distracted it for a moment. Valandil saw Mercatur’s axe fall hard upon the spine of the warg and he knew his opportunity was at hand.  He kicked the orc’s injured leg and reached for his sword.  In a broad sweep, Valandil raked the edge across the orc’s belly, spilling blood into the snow.  It took two steps back and then fell over.

Mercatur stepped over the corpse and pulled the knight up.  “We’re hard pressed and they have reinforcements on the way.  We must make for the Old Forest,” he said, pointing west.  “I love to fight, but I don’t love to die.”

The orcs had fallen back for the moment and Valandil peered through the falling flakes to see the faint line of trees that made up the Old Forest, known to the elves as Taur Iaur.  He nodded back at his friend.

Haedorial came forward and looked in the same direction. “They say an ancient sorcerer lives there.  It is fraught with danger.”

Ascarnil joined them, sheathing his flaming sword. “The Rhudauran is right.  It’s our only hope.”

The bard looked at the elf curiously.  “You spoke…Quenya earlier.  That is the language of the High Elves…the Noldor.”

“So, that’s why the orcs want you so bad,” voiced Mercatur.  “We don’t see a lot of you elfies out and about these days.”  Valandil listened closely.  He needed to know what was going on and why.

Ascarnil nodded.  He was slender, but short for an elf, standing three inches under six feet. His sandy blonde hair spoke more to his being a Woods Elf, unlike the raven-haired Noldor.  “Indeed.  My mother is of the Noldor.  They had killed my horse and I thank you for your assistance,” he said cautiously, observing his new companions.  “I sense that you are not of the enemy.  The truth is that I am on a…quest from Elrond.  It is of the utmost importance that I complete it.  Even since their defeat in the war, evil has not slept.”

“We’ll do what we can,” offered Firiel.  “I am merely going to meet my mother in Bree. We can help you in your quest.” She looked directly at Valandil, who nodded in agreement.

Ascarnil put his hands together in thanks and slung his bow over his shoulder.  The group gathered their horses and began to make their way toward Taur Iaur.  The tree line of the dark forest could just be made out in the swirling snow.  Valandil pulled his cloak around his armor.  The heat of the earlier battle was fading and that deep, penetrating cold was returning.  Why on Middle Earth did Firiel’s mother want to meet now?

In the falling snow, Haedorial leaned in close to Valandil.  “Evil things happen in that forest and, did you see the elf’s sword?”

The knight nodded.  “It’s impressive.”

“The runes on the blade are in the ancient Noldorin Tengwar script and are a blessing and a curse.  The sword is an orc and troll bane…but it draws them to the wielder like a flame draws moths.”

Valandil’s eyes widened.  “You mean that-”

Haedorial nodded.  “Yes, orcs will be coming after us as long as he’s with us.”

Leave a Comment

The Barrow Downs – Ninui 9^th, 1410

Valandil

Four horses plodded slowly through the white landscape, passing rolling hills and trees covered in white powder.  Atop his brown mare, Valandil put his hands together to offer a prayer to Varda in this most holy of lands of the Dúnedain.  Nearby, the atheistic Mercatur observed this, but spoke no word.  To him, a mercenary, there were no gods, no Valar, no higher power – there was only a strong axe, a bag full of gold, and a straight ride to battle.  The five travelers fidgeted nervously as the ring of orcs closed in, dogging them with every step, their numbers growing by the hour. In the distance, Valandil could just make out the red eyes of the wargs.

“It will be dark soon.  We should attack them now!” urged the elf, Ascarnil, his hand grasping the handle of his sword, Runya.

Valandil heard Firiel shout back over the howl of the icy wind, “Don’t be foolish.  We’ll all be killed.  We must seek shelter in the forest.”

The elf grunted in frustration as the group passed a snow-covered barrow.  This one was new, unlike the ancient ones around it.  Snow covered the mound, but the entryway stood clean.  A plain, metallic door kept the interior of the barrow from the elements and Sindarin runes announced the occupant – “Ostoher, King of Cardolan.  Slain in defense of the realm, 1409 of the Third Age.  A good man, a good father and a good king.”  Valandil shuddered as she recalled the King’s last hour and the onslaught of the Troll warlord, Rogrog.

I am sorry, my king.  I could not save you.  I am not sure I can save myself today.  I pray for your rest and for our salvation.

Unexpectedly, Mercatur veered his horse toward the stone barrow, its hooves crunching in the soft snow.  “Come, I’ll bet the King has quite a trove.  We could use some extra help about now.”

“No,” answered Valandil firmly, his breath steaming. “This is sacred ground.  We must not disturb the King.”

“What?” countered the mercenary, his reddish beard whipping in the wind, the rings of his thick chainmail chiming.  “You’re going to let us die because of a dead king? We could easily enter that barrow and be back in minutes.”

Haedorial the bard shook his head sternly.  “Valandil is right.  We cannot disturb the resting place of our King.  It would be sacrilege.”

Mercatur grit his teeth and his hand went down to his axe, but he inhaled the cold air and then waved his hand dismissively. “Paah, old women….  I think the elf is right, but let us continue running.”

Peering into the distance, Firiel pointed her gloved hand westward.  “Look, we are close to those trees now.  That must be the Old Forest.”

“Aye,” commented Ascarnil as he pinched his face up with concern.  “Let us go there then, but be forewarned – there is peril within its confines and it appears that we have no choice.”

With renewed purpose, Valandil led the group on into the coming darkness as the snow continued to fall around them, obscuring visibility with misty swirls.  They passed another series of burial mounds, but these were older than Ostoher’s…far more ancient.

Ascarnil lowered his head as they trotted by. “These are the barrows of the princes. Long before my time, the men of the Edain fought beside my forebears in the great wars of Beleriand.  In the time of the Finrod Felagund, the Lord of the great city, Nargothrond, the men awoke, and many joined the cause of the Noldor. They were valiant and stout of heart. Within this tomb lies Imrahil, a great warrior, felled by the fires of the Balrog, Lungorthin.”

“Balrog?  What’s a Balrog?” asked Mercatur with a grunt.

Valandil heard Haedorial gasp at the mention of the ancient evil.  “None now exist…but they were servants of the Dark Lord…creatures of fire,” said the bard. “At least thrice as tall as a tall man, they wielded whip and blade of flame, their bodies shrouded in steam and fire. It was in the lost city of Gondolin that Ecthelion of the Fountain threw down Gothmog, the mightiest of Balrogs -”

The mercenary raised his eyebrow, which had frosted over and silenced the wordy bard.  “Ahem…Hmmm, sounds tough.  So, this Imrahil must have some goodies with which we could fight the orcs?”

Ascarnil nodded.  “It is true, but we do not intrude upon the rest of the fallen princes. Come, let us continue on; the forest is near at hand.”

The elf received no response and he turned to look at Mercatur, but the mercenary was gone.  Valandil shook his head.  “Damn him.” This couldn’t happen at a worse time. This better not be about greed.  The knight looked back through the swirling snow and saw the orcs in the distance.  Reluctantly, he pointed to the group members.  “Fan out, we’ve got to find him quickly.  We do not want to be caught out here.”

The Barrow of Imrahil

“There is no way that I’m going to pass up a treasure trove such as this,” the mercenary said to himself as he stood before a great mound, ringed with frost-covered standing stones.  With a long dagger, he poked his way through the blanket of snow until he heard a metallic clink and knew he had hit a portal.  Now excited, Mercatur pushed the thick flakes away, revealing a grand door, fabricated from metals beyond his understanding.  He pushed the door to no avail and then yanked at the handle.

“Damn elven sorcery.  How’s a man suppose to get what’s inside?”

A voice startled him.  “A man is not suppose to get what’s inside.”  It was Ascarnil with Haedorial behind him.

Mercatur reached for the handle of his axe, but the elf stayed him with an outstretched palm.  “Hold, I am not here to harm you.  It would appear that you are right.  I have no wish to perish here.  We are going into the barrow, but you must return everything that we find within afterwards.  Is that clear?”

The mercenary looked long and hard at the slender elf until a grin broke across his bearded face.  With a chuckle, he nodded.  “Fine, elfie.  Let’s make it quick though.”

With a mildly disgusted look, Ascarnil removed a key from his pouch and inserted it into a hole that Mercatur had not previously seen.  The elf then uttered an incantation and the great door grinded open.  “This key opens most locks.  A loan from my lord Glorfindel.”

Haedorial gasped with wonder as Ascarnil led them down a thirty-foot corridor to a central chamber.  They filed in and an orb, that hung from a mithril chain, began to glow, giving the room a soft light.  Mercatur looked around at writings on the wall that were meaningless to him.

The bard’s mouth hung open.  “That is the history of the House of Beor, written in Quenya, Sindarin, and Adúnaic.”

“Indeed,” answered Ascarnil.  “Hurry, there is little time.  This way, to the tomb of Ostoher and Imrahil.”

“Ostoher?  The dead king?” asked Mercatur.

The elf shook his head as he walked to an open doorway ahead.  “No, this was Ostoher of the House of Beor and kin to Beren of old.  He was slain battling a dragon.”  The others followed Ascarnil into the tomb, where an enormous bejeweled bed dominated the room.  The bed was as pristine as the day they lay these people to rest.  There was obviously some sorcery involved.  Mercatur’s eyes were immediately drawn to a man and a woman lying on the bed as if at rest.  The man’s elegant features and golden hair seemed untouched by the violence of his last battle and the eons that had passed, such was the power of the elves of old.  The woman’s serene beauty was immediately apparent, but her face seemed to hold a despair that shook him.  She wore silver robes and a mithril circlet over her blonde hair that held a large green emerald in the center.

“This is Ostoher and his wife, Silwë,” the elf said. “She died of grief after he was slain.”

The mercenary blinked and then noticed Haedorial quickly scribbling notes as Ascarnil donned a black chainmail shirt and leggings.  The elf seized a sword, which he quickly drew.  The blade was covered in runes and glowed a pale blue.

“The orcs are upon us, we must go.”

“Where’s mine?” asked Mercatur sourly.

“Go to the other chamber and take the weapons and armor.  Be quick.”

Mercatur rushed away with Haedorial as Ascarnil charged back to the entrance.  The mercenary entered the next tomb and quickly grabbed a sword and shield.  Here, a man also lay on a pristine bed, perfectly preserved.  The bard sketched the scene as quickly as he could.

“This is Imrahil, a prince of the Edain,” the bard said, reading the inscription over the bed.

“I don’t care if he was the best baker in Tharbad. He’s got good stuff.”  He strapped the shield to his left arm and moved it around. “Weightless.  This is…is incredible.”  Shouts and the clang of steel got his attention.  He then ran past the bard and back down the corridor where the sound of battle greeted him.

Leave a Comment

The Barrow Downs

Haedorial

Haedorial stood in awe of the ancient tomb as the elf, Ascarnil, and the mercenary, Mercatur, scrambled for weapons and armor. The stout bard held his notebook open and tapped the tip of his quill to his tongue.  It was among his most treasured items, a gift from King Ostoher, that had an endless supply of ink.  He pulled his cloak tighter and pulled down the flaps of his flat cap for warmth in the cold barrow.  Putting his thoughts in order, he began to write furiously, knowing that his time was limited.

I considered myself well-traveled, but I never dreamed I would be standing inside the tomb of the great kings of old.  I can just feel the magic surrounding this chamber.  The stonework is magnificent, likely crafted by the masons of the lost Noldorin city of Nargothrond.  Unlike the dwarven masons, the elves built their underground halls with an airy feel, and this place fits that motif perfectly.

The script on the walls is in the ancient Tengwar, the characters of the Noldor, as well as the runes of the Sindar and the ancient men.  It details the noble history of the house of Bëor and I will try to write as much of it as I can in another book.  The script glows faintly under the light of the orb, no doubt enchanted by some means.  The wondrous thing is the characters move upon the wall to match where the reader’s eye falls.  Amazing.

I am now in the tomb of the ancient lord, Ostoher.  He is dressed in the finest of robes of silver and red and his blond hair is neatly combed.  The script in this chamber reveals that he perished fighting a dragon of Morgoth.  All of the dragons are said to have perished in the War of Wrath, but I am not so sure. As a bard, I have heard tell of great worms hidden in the far north.  The Northmen claim that there is a foul beast they call Scatha that is slumbering in the southern mountains.  But, I digress.

I am in awe at how the elves repaired Ostoher’s broken body, but yet, they could not restore him to life.

Besides him lies his lady, Silwë.  Such a lovely woman.  It says that she died of grief for the loss of her lord.  The tale of the early men is one of great nobility, yet great tragedy. The lady wears a mithril headband with a single green emerald the size of the tip of my thumb.  Her robes are woven with silver thread and her necklace is of mithril, laced with emeralds.

I cannot fathom what enchantments have kept their bodies intact for more than five thousand years.  I am humbled by their magnificence.

Along the walls of the chamber are many chests.  I have opened one that is full of gold coins and jewels. I am not here for treasure, but for knowledge and I shall not pilfer the resting place of these noble people.

By the Valar, one chest holds a great book, bound in gray leather. It is embossed with the Tengwar script – ‘Of the Elements.’  There is another book beneath.  It is heavy and also bound in gray leather.  There are two characters in Tengwar written upon them that only a bard or other learned person could read.  The style is ancient, beyond even the Wars of Beleriand.  ‘Este’ ‘Irmo’.  The names of two of the Valar.  Could this be?  I must open it.  By the Valar!

Valandil

Outside of the barrow, the knight turned his horse to avoid the charge of a warg rider and a spear passed by his side.  He drew back his arm and chopped the orc in the neck with his fine broadsword.  The blade sliced through the orc’s steel gorget and into flesh, sending a spray of black blood into the snow.  With a shriek, the orc tumbled off of its mount and the warg barreled into Valandil’s horse.

As the warg snarled, the horse reared in panic and Valandil slid from the saddle into the soft snow.  The blanket of flakes cushioned his fall, and he quickly got to his feet to block a spear thrust with his shield, but the force of the thrust pushed him back.

“Firiel, get to the barrow.  Find the others!” he yelled as he stabbed the point of his weapon into the belly of another warg.  A small arrow sank into the beast’s face and it howled in agony, toppling on its rider.

Valandil looked back to see Firiel notch another arrow. “I said get back!” he yelled again, but she seemed to be ignoring his pleas.

The knight stepped over the dying warg and rammed his sword into the heart of the helpless orc, but another two riders were upon him.  The first warg crashed into Valandil, its teeth digging into his shield, tearing wood from its frame into splinters.  Valandil fell backward, leaving his shield in the beast’s fangs.  A spear point jammed into his mail shirt, rattling the close-knit rings and bruising his flesh beneath.  The point caught on the links of the knight’s mail, and he used that moment to chop the wood with his sword.

With his left hand now free, Valandil grabbed the broken shaft of the spear and yanked the orc down.  He drew his arm back to strike, but the next attacker was on him and cut down upon his helm.  The scimitar blade clanged on the steel of Valandil’s helmet, and he staggered back, his ears ringing.  He brought his arm up to parry again, but was relieved to see another arrow sink into the throat of the orc.

With his chest heaving and his breath coming in vents of steam, Valandil cut at the riderless warg, the blade sinking into the beast’s shoulder.  His legs felt like rubber with fatigue and cold and he could not react in time to dodge away from the warg’s charge.  It slammed into him and its teeth crunched down on his left arm.

Valandil shouted in pain, but chopped down on the warg’s neck, letting the blade bite into its hide.  Another arrow sank into the beast, but it thrashed his head, rattling the links of chainmail.

The knight hacked again.  “Where is Mercatur?” he bellowed, his face pinched in pain.

This time, a crossbow bolt and a long-shafted arrow struck the warg and its jaws opened to cry out.  Valandil pulled his wounded arm back and rammed the point of his sword into its maw.  The warg gurgled for a moment and then fall over with a thud.

The mercenary’s battle cry from his flank bolstered his flagging spirits as Mercatur, now clad in black chainmail, rushed forward with his battle axe.  From the other side, Ascarnil struck an orc, crying, “Runya!”  The enchanted blade smote the orc in the face, throwing flame and smoke into the air.

The mercenary swung down on another orc, chopping through its parry.  The glistening axe blade clove its helmet and head, spattering blood.  Mercatur yanked the weapon back out and turned to Valandil.

“We got held up.  Here, take this sword,” he said, tossing the weapon.

Valandil caught it by the handle and drew it from its ancient scabbard.  The weapon shot from its sheath with a life of its own and he felt an energy rush up his arm.  He took a second to examine the blade, which seemed to have little weight.  The metal was black and forged by enchantments long forgotten.  Tengwar characters, which he could not read, adorned the length of the blade.  An orc rushed at him and Valandil made a diagonal, one-handed cut.  He prepared for the orc’s parry and for their blades to meet, but the sword went cleanly through the scimitar and then passed through the orc with ease.

Valandil’s mouth fell open with surprise as the orc fell to pieces into the snow.  Instinctively, he swung back at an approaching warg and the blade clove away half of its head.  “By the Valar!”

The orcs took notice of the sudden change of their fortunes and began scampering away amid the shrieks of their dying brethren and the howling of wounded wargs.  Valandil staggered to a rock to sit while Mercatur and Ascarnil finished off the beaten enemy.  The knight took a moment to examine the sword, which was mysteriously devoid of any blood or gore, which covered him from dented helm to armored boot.

Firiel rushed to him and began looking at his wounded arm.  The armor had borne the brunt of the bite, but he would have a nasty bruise.  She quickly applied a patch of herbs, but Valandil seemed oblivious, so obsessed by the sword was he.

“Valandil…are you alright?”

The knight blinked, reluctant to take his eyes off of the unearthly beauty of the weapon.  It seemed to be talking to him and he cocked his head as if listening to it.

“Valandil?”

This time, he looked at her with a blank expression. “Yes, my wounds are only minor. I’m glad you’re alright.  I thought we were done for,” he replied in a weird monotone.

She returned a weak smile.  “Maybe my mother’s herbs are not worth this risk. I cannot lose you…not now.”

His old self seemed to be returning, and he cupped his hand over her cheek.  “We’ll get through this.  Remember, we’ve been through worse here,” he said with a bittersweet laugh.

At that, Ascarnil stepped up and plucked the sword from Valandil’s hands.  “You fought well with Sulring.  Yes, that is his name…forged by the hands of Maeglin in the fastness of Gondolin, the hidden city.  He is a powerful weapon, but dark of heart.  It is time for him to return.”  Ascarnil sheathed the sword and Valandil felt the urge to take the weapon back and strike Ascarnil.

The knight trembled for a moment as the elf took off the black chainmail that belonged to Ostoher.  Ascarnil smiled.  “You should feel honored.  Sulring has not been wielded since the dawn of men. He, along with this armor that I wore, were forged of a meteoric metal known as Galvorn.  You will feel his presence…and his thirst.”  Ascarnil then turned and walked to Mercatur.

“Mercenary, it is time.  We must return the items to their rightful owners and seal the tomb.”

Mercatur looked down upon the Galvorn rings of the armor, touching them lovingly with his finger.  “I don’t think so.  This will be far more useful to the living than the dead.”

The elf stopped, letting snowflakes fall between them.  “I said it was time and hold you to your word.”

“I said, I don’t think so.”  Mercatur’s hand drifted to the shaft of his axe.

Valandil shot up, his stupor now gone. “Wait!  We must abide by the will of the elf here.  These treasures are not for us despite their power.  Their age is past and we cannot hope to wield them wisely.”

Ascarnil nodded.  “Well spoken.  Elrond himself decreed that these barrows should remain undisturbed, and I shall have to answer for that.  Mercenary, you would not be able to travel ten leagues without Elrond’s sons confronting you.”

Mercatur didn’t flinch.  “Bring them on.”

Valandil walked slowly over to him and put gentle hands on the mercenary’s shoulders.  “Let it go, friend.  There will be other treasures.  Our fight is not with the elves.”

Suddenly, Mercatur burst into laughter.  “Very well,” he said and peeled off the armor. He tossed it to Ascarnil, who caught it deftly.  “Put your toys back in their boxes.  I care not.”

The elf quickly returned to the barrow, where Haedorial staggered out in a daze.

Valandil trod over.  “What happened?”

The bard looked confused.  “I…I don’t remember.”

Firiel

The half-elf woman sighed with relief at seeing Valandil’s wounds: they were mostly bruises with some torn skin and the herbs would heal them quickly.  Her skill in healing and herbal lore was the best in the Kingdom of Cardolan and most in her care recovered.  Beyond that, her treatment for her patients was beyond reproach and many sought her out by name.

As the icy wind howled over the downs, Firiel gazed across the white landscape and, for a moment, her mind saw the Army of Cardolan fighting desperately against the host of Rogrog and her eyes lost focus.

“The enemy is upon us!  Awake!”

Trumpets blared in the dead of night, rousing Firiel from sleep. She blinked her eyes heavily and swirled her tongue in her mouth.

“Rogrog is upon us!  To arms, to arms!”

Fear shot through her limbs and she seized a short sword that lay upon her table.  The sound of steel on steel rang through the warm night along with the cries of battle. Firiel’s breath caught in her throat as she drew the weapon from its scabbard and stepped through the tent flaps.

Men with torches ran about as others hastily pulled spears from racks.  A cloud of arrows sailed overhead…black feathered arrows…the arrows of orcs.

She grabbed a soldier by the arm.  “What is happening?  The King said we would be safe here.  We wouldn’t be attacked for days.”

The man, with the coat of arms of House Girithlin, was near panic. “Flee for your life.  Rogrog stole a march on us and - ”

An arrow shot by the two and the soldier turned.  Firiel saw an orc notching another black feathered arrow. The sigil of the red castle was on its dark gray helmet…the symbol of Angmar and the Witch King.

The soldier instinctively rushed at the orc and hacked through its chainmail with a sword.  The creature fell and the soldier struck again.  Two orcs charged past him and pointed sharp scimitars at her while howling in their guttural language.

Firiel stopped for a moment and then ran for all she was worth.

She passed burning tents and scattered weapons while horses were screaming and running.  She scooped up a short bow and a quiver and ran behind a barricade.  She quickly notched an arrow and took a breath as her heart pounded in her chest.  One orc rounded the barricade and searched the ground for her.  Firiel let her fingers go slack and the bowstring twanged, propelling the shaft into the orc’s chest.

The creature shrieked and collapsed to the ground.  Firiel notched another arrow with shaking hands as the second orc moved up.  She held the string to her ear for a moment before firing again.  The shaft leapt into the orc’s face through the opening in its iron helmet, but the beast staggered forward, raising its scimitar. She launched another arrow into its chest and still it walked toward her.  A third arrow shot into its neck and the orc fell a foot from her, its weapon slashing into the grass.

Firiel trembled uncontrollably until she heard the roar of a monster nearby.  Peering around the corner of the barricade, she saw a bloated form advancing on the King. It stood twice the height of a man with a spiked club held in both hands.  An apron of human heads hung at its belt.  It was an Olog-Hai troll, bred for war and killing and no other purpose.

“Rogrog,” she whispered and closed her eyes.  Her blood ran cold.

She rocked back and forth, full of terror, wishing for it all to end, until someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“The King is slain!  We must retreat.”

It was the soldier that she had seen at the tent.  It was Valandil.

Firiel sighed and then shuddered as the vision passed. As she returned to the present, Mercatur was being difficult…again.  She stood behind Valandil as tension mounted between the elf and the mercenary, and it seemed as though another battle would erupt.

Damn mercenary…always so stubborn and contrary.  Why can’t you just do what’s right for the sake of doing it?

Again, she sighed as Mercatur handed over the armor and Ascarnil returned to the tomb.  She followed the elf out of curiosity and Haedorial emerged from the barrow, looking dazed.  Valandil approached and they sat the bard down.  In his hands, he held a gray leather book.

“I…I…found this…in the tomb of Ostoher and Silwë.  I don’t remember anything else.”

Firiel was about to open the book when Ascarnil took it and entered the barrow.  He looked back and said, “This needs to end here.  We have opened something that should not have been opened.  As Valandil said, this age is past.  These things are beyond our understanding.”

Firiel followed the elf and marveled at the wonders of the tomb.  As Ascarnil returned the items to their rightful places, she rushed into the chamber to see Silwë, the grief-stricken lady.  Unable to take her eyes off of the dead woman, Firiel could hear the dead woman call to her, drawing her near.  The healer shuffled closer and closer until she stood over Silwë and gazed upon her delicate features, awestruck by the ancient woman, her beauty preserved over the millennia.

Ascarnil shook her.  “We must go.”  His eyes were serious.  He was not to be trifled with.

She shook her head and narrowed her brows and the elf pulled her away.  He looked her in the eye.  “We must lock this barrow and say a prayer to Varda.  You must never return here.”

She nodded reluctantly and they departed. Ascarnil closed the metal door and the keyhole vanished.  He looked up into the darkening sky as the stars twinkled and asked for Varda’s forgiveness.  The healer took a deep breath and mimicked his actions.  Is this what life among the elves was like?  The ancient elves and men were such a marvel.  If only she could see what life was like for them for a moment.  She had so many questions for her mother.  How old was she?  How was life in Lindon.  She knew so little about her own mother.  And her father?  What was he like.  She had never given him much thought for he perished soon after the last war in some skirmish in some lost village along the border of Rhudaur.  So much death.  So much destruction.  Would it ever end?

Chapter End Notes

I decided to switch to a main POV format.

Leave a Comment

Tharbad – The Bar Aran – Ninui 10^th (February)

Nirnadel

In the dim bed chambers of the Chancellor, the young princess sat with her head down.  The normally luxurious room smelled musty as most of the shades were drawn closed to keep the chilly wind out.  Nirnadel was silent as Nimhir stormed back and forth in his green night robe with bandages still covering his chest and arms.  He had only recently been on his feet since the attack that nearly cost him his life.

“What were you thinking, Your Highness?  Do you know what you’ve done?” he said, trying to contain his anger, his fists balled.  His normally styled black hair was mussed and the streaks of gray more pronounced since the attack and he looked older, more worn.  He stopped, putting his hand on one of the plastered walls to steady himself.

“We…We only sought to obey the Laws of Cardolan. We did what We thought was right,” Nirnadel answered in a near whisper.  Though she kept a stoic face, her lower lip quivered.  As strong as she wanted to be, she couldn’t help but feel weak and childish before her ‘uncle.’

Nimhir looked through the blinds of one of the open windows onto the snow-covered streets below.  He sighed heavily and warmed his hands over glowing braziers full of hot coals.  “Mablung Girithlin means to have your crown, and he is now in a position to take it. Should I be killed, he would assume the position of Chancellor and he could force you into a marriage for the good of the Kingdom.  After all, you have no heir and by law, a male should rule.  That would mean Falathar Girithlin would be king and under the control of his father.”

“Falathar is not such a bad man,” Nirnadel said meekly, straightening her emerald-colored dress.

Nimhir turned back, agitated, his eyes boring into the Princess.  “That is not the point!  The point is that Mablung will be the de facto king.  I fear for you, Your Highness.  Your indiscretions at the Houses of Healing were nothing compared to this.  We must accept King Araphor’s proposal, and we must do it now.  You are seventeen and old enough to marry, even for a Dúnedain.”

The princess’ pale cheeks turned bright red, but her expression remained impassive.  Nimhir stood for a moment, angry and obstinate, but his love for Nirnadel cooled his blood and once again, he melted.  Sighing, he came to her and knelt with a pained grunt, taking her hands in his.  “Your Highness, I apologize for my harshness.  My only concern is for you.  Mablung’s only care is for his own power.  He would use you like a handkerchief and discard you when your use to him was done.  I know him and his scheming.  I fear that he may be in league with our enemies, but I cannot prove it.  If we accept Araphor’s proposal, the northern kingdoms would reunite.  Araphor is young, but he is a good man and will be a good king.”

“But what of the sovereignty of Cardolan?” she asked, her eyes big.  This would change everything.  But everything was already changing.  “We have existed as an independent kingdom for more than five hundred years.”

Nimhir patted her delicate hand gently.  “We would endure and grow stronger.  The glory of the old Kingdom of Arnor would shine again.  Is this not what we want?  I would gladly step down as Chancellor if I knew that you and the realm would be safe.”

His words made sense.  Regardless of his speech or actions, his love for her was never in doubt.  Nirnadel nodded slowly, pondering the future.  She brushed her ebony locks from her face.  “Very well.  We accept your wisdom.  Kind Nimhir, please send a messenger to Fornost Erain to inform the good king that We accept his proposal.”  She would do her duty as befitting the heir of Cardolan.

In the corner, old Anariel smiled while Kaile approached and put a jade-hued cloak over the Princess’ shoulders and secured it with a mithril pin in the shape of a tree.  Nirnadel stood, and all bowed to her as she turned to go.  Nirnadel’s three ladies followed her out, but Nimhir held the old nursemaid back.

Stroking his graying goatee, he whispered, “She is still young and still a princess.  We must do all we can to see that she becomes a queen.”

Anariel bowed submissively.  “Yes, Your Grace.  I will do my best to see that it becomes so,” she said and then scurried off as fast as she could.

Nirnadel strode down the hall and into the garden, which was covered in a thick blanket of crisp new snow.  Young pine trees poked up through the frosty covering, lining the pathways.  The Princess stepped along the path, her feet crunching on the soft flakes and she felt the cold breeze on her face.  Her cheeks quickly became rosy red, and her ebony hair and cloak fluttered behind her.

Galadel came up and straightened her gold necklace that held a single, massive ruby and two smaller ones.  She then began to move snow off of the path with a small shovel.

Nirnadel gestured down the pathway.  “Good Kaile, this path leads to my favorite part of the garden, the reflecting pond and fountain.  It is frozen now, but come spring, it will burst into life once more.” The gardens gave her solace.  They always eased the pain and angst of her youth. Now, with her father and brothers dead and the weight of the kingdom increasingly on her shoulders, the quiet of the snow-covered trees meant even more to her.

As Anariel shuffled to catch up, Nirnadel and Kaile strode along the wintry walkway to a small stone bridge that spanned the icy pond.  “Look below the ice and you can see the fish, golden and orange,” the Princess continued, her expression bittersweet.  “How I loved to feed them with my royal father.  I would also play here at being knights with my brothers.  Good Kaile, I was never meant to rule,” she said sadly, her mind full of doubt and fear.  “I would have been happy as a lady of the court, dancing and singing all of my days. Why has this fate been thrust upon me? Is this Illuvatar’s vision for our people?  A year ago, I played in the garden and studied the classics of literature and danced at balls.  I would have married a prince or a baron to seal a meaningless alliance.  That should have been my fate.”

Nirnadel’s gray eyes narrowed and a darkness swept over her face.  She pointed northward and the emerald ring on her finger sparkled in the diffused sunlight. “But the Lord of Angmar changed all of that.  What must I do?  Give me your council.”  Every action, every decision she made could destroy the kingdom.  She sat on a wooden bench and felt utterly lost.

Kaile bit her lip softly as her sandy hair ruffled in the chilly breeze.  She seemed out of place in her silk dress of forest green rather than the rough spun brown robes of a healer.  “Your Highness, you’re frightening me.  I have always seen your confidence.  I don’t know…I am just a healer.  I don’t know the ways of ruling.  I’m a commoner.”

Anariel moved between Kaile and the Princess, giving Kaile a sour look through her wrinkled skin.  “Your Highness, we must trust in the Chancellor.  We must put our faith in Nimhir.  He will guide us through this.”

Nirnadel adjusted the mithril and emerald collar around her neck.  “If I wed King Araphor, then what of Cardolan?  What of the realm that has stood alone and unafraid for more than five hundred years?  We would become a province of Arthedain, lost in the politics of that land.  Would we stand with the seven great families of Arthedain…the Tarma, the Eketta, the Orros, the Hyam, and the rest or would we be subservient to their power?  What of our own proud lords?”

Kaile moved around the old servant.  “Your Highness, I see good in King Araphor.  He will care for your people, and I know you will see to that.”

A faint, forced smile broke over Nirnadel’s ruby lips.  “Indeed, We shall.”

Barad Girithlin

Hir Mablung Girithlin

Within the fortress of Barad Girithlin, the barrel-chested, pot-bellied Hir Mablung Girithlin swung his ermine cape back as he strode confidently through the hall of his keep.  He was clad in a rich, maroon doublet with a mithril chain of office about his neck that hung down to a glittering green and gold medallion in the shape of a lion.  His hunting boots were made of the finest doe skin with a thick fur lining, and he wore a soft, fur flat cap that complimented his red face.  Following behind the massive lord was his personal guard and his son, Falathar, dressed in a doublet of brooding crimson with a fur cap to match.

They ascended an iron staircase until they reached Mablung’s office, high in the tower.  Two guards came to attention as they approached and opened the grand wooden door, revealing a luxuriously decorated chamber with a raging fire in a red brick hearth.  Mablung walked past the guards, undid the clasp of his cloak and tossed the heavy item over a chair made of dark woods and fabrics.

“It’s a shame Nimhir recovered,” the heavy-set lord complained.  “I shall have to bide my time.”  He blew out a sigh of frustration and curled the edge of his lip up in distaste.

A look of concern grew on Falathar’s face. “Father, surely you didn’t….”

Mablung’s hand came up quickly, and his penetrating stare silenced his son.  “How dare you even think that I had anything to do with that.  I might scheme and manipulate like all good lords do, but stoop to assassination?  Never. I sense Angmar’s hand in that. However, I would certainly stand ready to exploit any opportunity that could occur from Nimhir’s demise.”

Falathar bowed meekly, chastised by his father.  “I meant no disrespect, father.  It just seemed -”

Again, Mablung put his hand out and turned to the fire, ignoring his son.  He took a blood red apple from a basket atop the Mallorn-wood desk and took a bite, the flesh of the fruit snapping off crisply.  As he chewed, he warmed one of his large hands near the flames, thinking.

“I have it…I must contact our agents in Tharbad. I must make it appear as though Arthedain had a hand in the attack on Nimhir.  That would profit us most.  Son, your wedding is not far off.”

“But father….”

Mablung continued to ignore him, caught up in his own thoughts.  “That would end the courtship of young Araphor to our beloved princess and put us at the forefront, methinks.  Then, all we would have to do is deal with the Tinarës.”  He took another bite of the apple and turned back to Falathar. “Go son, summon a rider to take a letter to our man.  Also, have the King’s Road watched.  I don’t want messengers from Nimhir scurrying about before we’ve had time to hatch this.”

Young Falathar pursed his lips for a moment as if thinking until his father waved him off dismissively.  Mablung looked away as his son departed, not seeing the frown on Falathar’s lips.

Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, also known as Tindomul, the Twilight Son, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl

The most powerful of the Ringwraiths stood on the dais of the Council Chamber in the highest level of Carn Dûm, the fortress-city of Angmar.  Next to him was his iron throne, forged to resemble the maw of a kraken.  He turned his translucent face down to a gold ithilnaur ring around his translucent index finger and read the Tengwar script that adorned the band.  He both loved and hated the ring, a gift from his master eons ago.  It was the source of his power, his mastery, his immortality, but also his endless torment.  Above where his head should be was a helm of sea-drake skin that rose to a spiny crown-shaped crest.  The ancient helm was of the design of the captains of Númenor, but this helm held greater power.

Before the dais, knelt his servants – the Númenórean sorcerer, known as the Angûlion; the pretty elf, Ulgarin; and the dog-man, Ulduin.  The Angûlion, in his black robes with black pectorals of meteoric metal known as eog, rose and stepped forward, laying several tomes at the feet of his lord. He then stepped back to reclaim his staff from a servant.

The Witch-King passed his hand over the books, and one rose to his grasp.  The tome’s cover opened of its own accord and the Nazgûl’s ghostly eyes scanned the text. He emitted a chuckle that sounded like the dying gasps of a drowning man.  He then spoke, his voice a dagger of ice.  “…A historical accounting of the age of Númenor.  It speaks of my father, Tar-Ciryatan, the Ship Builder.  He sent great fleets to Middle-Earth to extract tribute from the lesser men and expanded the might of Númenor.  You remember those times, Angûlion, don’t you?”

The mighty sorcerer and right hand of the Witch King had lived uncounted ages through dark magic, and he nodded with a smile for his lord.  That magic had a toll though and the Angûlion’s features could barely be recognized as human.

The Nazgûl brought his hand to his lips, the ring of power shimmering with his movement.  Pages of the tome flipped over, and the Black Prince continued, “My brother, Atanamir, was heir to throne of Númenor and I was but an unloved second son, born during a solar eclipse, a sign of ill luck.”  He walked away from the book, letting it float in mid air.

“I assembled a fleet and took it to Umbar, where I proclaimed myself king.  This angered my father, and he ordered me to return to Armenelos, the seat of power in Númenor.  I refused, and there, I took control of my own fate,” he said as he held up a hand and closed a fist.  “Through the agents of the Master, I entered Barad-Dûr in Mordor and became his greatest pupil.  My powers expanded at a prodigious rate, and I was rewarded with this ring.  I could then watch my brother grow old and senile, afraid to surrender the Sceptre of Armenelos until his death.”

The Witch-King turned back to his servants. “You have done well.  Take the spell texts to the mages and alchemists when we are finished.  I also commend you on further destabilizing Cardolan with the attack on the Chancellor.”

The Angûlion looked perplexed and glanced at Ulduin and Ulgarin.  “My lord, we had nothing to do with that, but it does suit our purpose.”

The Lord of Angmar cocked his head for a moment. “Then was it that fool, Girithlin?”

“Our spies have made no mention of his involvement in such an act.”

Er-Mûrazôr stroked his ghostly chin.  To a ring bearer, he looked to be at the peak of his manhood, tall, strong, noble, with thick raven hair.  But to his servants and his foes, he appeared to be a phantom, ancient beyond years, wizened with stringy gray hair and sunken eyes and cheeks. He narrowed his ghostly eyes.

“Then, we may have a new player in this game.”

Chapter End Notes

Nirnadel agrees to marry King Araphor to reunite the Kingdom of Arnor.  Plus some more backstory on the Witch-King, expanding what was in the RPG guide.

Leave a Comment

The Bard’s Tale, Nenui (February) 21^st, 1410

Haedorial the Bard

Gil-Galad was an Elven-King,
Of him the harpers sadly sing;
The last whose Realm was fair and free
Between the mountains and the sea.

His lance was long, his sword was keen,
His shining helm was far aseen;
The countless stars of heaven's field
Were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he went away,
And where he dwelleth none can say;
For into darkness fell his star,
In Mordor, where the shadows are.

Haedorial’s liquid voice hung on the last note as his golden harp became silent.  The crowd in the King’s Rest Inn sat hushed, enthralled by the bard’s talents.  To heighten the effect on his audience, Haedorial dressed in his finest Númenórean-style robes of jade and silver with a silver chain around his neck that was studded with garnets and tourmalines.  His fur hat was also trimmed with silver and bore a circular stone of lapis lazuli with a silver tree inlaid on the gem.

The bard bowed low with a flourish, sweeping his thick velvet cape, and the crowd of merchants and farmers clapped and howled with delight.  Though most of the people gathered in the inn were simple folk from the small town of Bree, they had the blood of the North in them, and they loved a good song despite its high brow origins.

Haedorial smiled and set his prized harp aside.  Sir Valandil sat with Mercatur at a table with a trencher of roast beef and hard cheese between them while Firiel sat with her elven mother at another table.  A huge central fireplace roared with licking flames, casting shadows about the dark room.  The rich aroma of food and drink hung thick in the air as servers moved about the dining area while patrons laughed and talked freely.

Two stout, brown-haired men approached the bard and handed him a large mug of famous Bree ale.  “Well sung!” shouted one who was dressed in a simple, but well-tended tunic of cream and brown.  “I’m Westin Heathertoes and this is my brother Erling.”  Westin had a plain, broad face with warm, blue eyes.  His hair was receding to form a crown around his shiny pate.  Around his neck he wore a thick, golden chain that hung down to a medallion with the image of the late King Arveleg that was the symbol of the Mayor of Bree.

Haedorial was more comfortable with the sweeter wines of the King’s table, but a mug of ale would suit him fine.  He took the heavy stein that was frothing bubbles and downed a swig of the heady brew.

Erling gave a cheer and clapped the bard on the back. “I always love the tales of the old elves and such.  We don’t see much power and glory in these backwater parts and few if any elves pass through Bree Town.”  Erling had a broad smile of brown teeth stained by chewing tobacco and a love of dark wine from Dale.  He nudged his head toward Firiel and her mother.  “Two elves in one day…that’s a record.  ‘Ave you got anymore of those songs?”

“Of the elven songs of old, Gil-Galad is one of my favorites, my good man,” replied the bard in his most elegant, bardic tone. “It is a sad tale, but one of great inspiration.  If we stay another day, I shall sing the Lay of Luthien…in its entirety.”

“I can’t says as I’m familiar with that one,” said Mayor Westin as he took another stein from a comely serving wench.  He took a long drink and escorted Haedorial to one of the shuttered windows of the inn that looked out onto the snow-covered town. “We certainly could’ve used a bit o inspiration last year.  Orcs and wolves come over the wall, they did…those as weren’t wiping out the King’s men on the Downs.”  He pointed a stubby finger back at a chubby hobbit and a black-haired man in the white surcoat of Arthedain with seven golden stars.  “The Halfling, Sandheaver, ain’t much to look at and is more of a farmer, but he knows how to shoot a bow and throw a rock, he does.  And good Sir Maldir, Captain of the Town Guard, no finer swordsman is there.”

The red-faced hobbit raised a colorful stein at them, kicking his hairy feet back and forth under a table while dour Maldir merely tilted his head down in greeting.

Erling nodded his agreement.  “Aye, the buggers burned Combe and Archet towns nearby and meant to turn Bree to ashes too.  Jolly Jolo Sandheaver brought his hobbit kin inside the wall while Sir Maldir rallied the guard.  The knight hails from old House Eldanar, the dispossessed.  That bugger Witch King took his family’s castle and turned it into a place of evil.”

Westin raised an eyebrow.  “Erling, stick to the battle.  Castle Eldanar is a whole other story.”

“Oh, I know that story well,” interjected Haedorial. “We traveled with Aerin Eldanar to Annúminas.  Pray, continue.”

“Pardons, as the smoke and flames from Archet and Combe come climbing high into the gray sky, a horde o orcs come storming the wall, flying their nasty arrows.  The farmers on the wall broke in panic, running to save their kin as the beasties climbed over the stone.  Then suddenly, jolly little Sandheaver come flying his arrows back, knocking many o the louts down into the mud.  Amid the snarling and baring of orc fangs, good Sir Maldir come and rallies the farmers…and him and his guard put the rest to the spear and sword.  ‘Onward, men of Arthedain’ he cried, his sword glittering in the dim sun.  It was a sight I’ll never forget.”

Haedorial was impressed.  “You tell the tale as well as any bard, my good Erling.”  He took another frothy drink from his stein, and his head began to spin.  He blinked hard and set the ale down as his legs wobbled.

“Whoa there, don’t drink Bree ale too fast,” warned Westin.  “Here, have a seat now.”

The bard removed his fur cap and fanned himself with his hand.  “That is very strong.”  His world continued to twirl and his vision blurred.  A flash shot across his eyes and he gasped as a vision filled his mind.

Snarling orcs came in waves under the cover of darkness, scrambling up the onto the Barrow Downs of Tyrn Gorthad. A cry rang out and sentries with the livery of the noble houses of Cardolan scrambled for weapons as black feathered arrows flew.  A man-at-arms hurriedly donned a pot helmet and hewed down two orcs before he was tackled by a wave of horrid creatures.  He was held down and an axe split his head in two.

A volley of arrows fell among the orcs and shafts pierced deep into their horde.  Men in green with hastily donned armor tried to form a line and drew back their bows once again.  Orcs fell in waves as another volley flew.  From the side, a tall man led a counterattack with a gaggle of soldiers, his brown hair waving in the chill wind.  He wielded a long sword and assaulted the orc horde from a flank. With precision, born of professional training, he cut and thrust at the mass of orcs, driving them back.  Spearmen stood around him, stabbing at the enemy behind a ragged shield wall.

As the men of Cardolan advanced, a dark shape emerged, growing greater with each step.  It was inhumanly bloated and monstrous in size.  In its ham-sized fist it held a spiked club that was covered in blood and gore.

Before the spearmen could respond, the troll batted the line of spears away and swung his club down on the shields, crushing them like paper. The tall man clove a trio of orcs and then made his way to the beast.  “My father needs more time.  We have to hold them!”

He stood upon a rock and slashed down at the growing mass of orcs, parrying attacks and slicing off heads and limbs.  A pile of bodies mounted around him, growing ever higher. He turned to see the troll crashing through the line of spears and stepped to intervene.

An arrow pierced his chest.  Thick and stout, the shaft sank deep.  If only he had the time to don his armor.  Now, it was too late.

In horror, his personal guard pressed forward recklessly, but the man sank to his knees upon the rock and clawed at the black shaft.  He could feel the barbed tip in his chest – it could not be pulled out.

“Guard the prince.  Prince Braegil is wounded!” he heard his men cry, but a chill gripped his heart and the sound was distant.

Men and orcs battled around him as he lay upon the rock, tired, no longer caring.  He felt helpful hands on his person and then the sensation of being dragged.  He blinked, looking up into the cloudy sky.

“Who will find the Mithril Room?  Who will complete my quest?” he whispered.

“Do not worry about that, my prince.  We must escape.  The troll, Rogrog, has broken our lines.”

“No, Tar-Telemmaite…the King of Númenor…Mithril Room.  Treasure beyond imagining.  Rebuild the Kingdom….”

His eyes shut and the sounds of battle faded.

“Haedorial…are you alright?”  It was Firiel’s voice.

The bard blinked heavily and took a glass of water that was offered.  “We must find the Mithril Room.  Prince Braegil was close.  I think I might have found it.”

Leave a Comment

The Mouth of the Gwathló River

Gwirith 4^th, 1410.  Spring

Valandil

A light drizzle under gray skies dampened the camp near the wide mouth of the mighty Gwathló River. Tents and rough shelters sat upon the wet grass and soft earth near the shore.  A score of men with tools dug a swampy pit as the knight, Valandil stood in the rain, letting the drops roll down his face.  Moisture beaded on the chainmail that peeked out from under his green Cardolan surcoat.  He was pleased that Firiel’s meeting with her mother went well.  Apparently, they had not seen each other in more than a few years, which is nothing to an elf.  Her mother, Elanoriel, donated a significant amount of herbs to the Houses of Healing as well as to the expedition they were now on.  In addition, she decided to accompany the party on their journey, which was proving to be a boon and a burden.

The mercenary, Mercatur, thrummed his fingers on an oak table under the tent while pulling on his beard with his other hand.  “How long have we been in this wet, miserable place?”

Valandil chuckled, but did not look back into the tent. “Only a week.  Give it some time.  I’m sure it will grow on us.”

The mercenary grunted and continued thrumming his fingers. “Bard, what are we supposed to find here again?”

In his gaily-colored, red and yellow tunic and breeches, Haedorial stood in the tent, looking at a map hanging on the wall. “If you could be patient for just a little while, my good Mercatur, we shall find the Mithril horde of Tar-Telemmaitë, the King of Númenor nearly three thousand years ago.  We are near the ruins of Vinyalondë, also known as Lond Daer Enedh,” he said with authority.

“Vinya…what?” asked Mercatur, perked up by the reminder that Mithril could be near.

The bard looked back with a smile, now that he had gotten Mercatur’s attention.  “In the Year Seven-Seventy-Seven of the Second Age, the Crown Prince of Númenor, Anardil Aldarion began the construction of a great harbor to house the mighty ships of the realm.  He wanted an impregnable base nigh to the Elf-lands to expand into Middle Earth. The great mariner erected a lighthouse on a small rocky islet near the outer mudbank and on the western promontory that formed the bay.  An earthen rampart sealed off the eastern promontory as well.  From there, the Númenóreans constructed docks and raised the castle of Bar-en-Uinendil, the House of the Venturers’ Guild.”

Valandil entered the tent to better hear the story and Haedorial’s smile broadened at the prospect of more attention.

“Provisions would be Aldarion’s greatest concern this far from Númenor,” the bard continued.  “As such, he made the Bar-en-Uinendil one of the largest fortresses ever built by men.  There was a great, sloping basalt wall on the seaward side to resist storms and an elaborate drainage system was provided so that the twin towers on the landward side would not be overwhelmed by the sea.  Soon, a populace moved in, and settlements grew near the defenses.  It must have been a sight to behold.”

Valandil moved over and took a look at the map.  “What happened to Vinyalondë?”

“Ah, I thought you’d never ask,” Haedorial said with a broad smile as he twirled one of the ringlets in his hair.  “Aldarion was a mighty king and expanded the influence of Númenor far and wide.  Sadly, he and his daughter Ancalimë were constantly at odds.  She became the first ruling Queen of Númenor when the great mariner retired.  Three hundred years after construction began, a hurricane obliterated all of Vinyalondë, except the Bar-en-Uinendil.  Ancalimë abandoned the fortress, and the proud towers were eventually worn down by the wind and sea.”

Valandil was genuinely curious and studied the map intensely.  “So where does the Mithril Room come in?  Didn’t Tar-Telemmaitë come after Aldarion?”

Haedorial nodded.  “Very astute, my good knight, very astute.  Well, six-hundred years later, another Crown Prince, Minastir, decided to build Lond Daer anew.  The coastline had been altered by the seas, but Minastir wanted to build around Aldarion’s old house.  It took fifty-six years, but the city proved pivotal in the wars that crushed Sauron. Minastir constructed an artificial harbor and raised massive walls.  Along with this came the fortress of Minas Mellon that sat on a huge pyramid. Minastir’s finest feat of engineering came in the form of the Floating Avenue to resist the power of the storms.  Once again, in Twenty-Five-Eleven of the Second Age, the Wrath of Ossë, a hurricane beyond imagining, wiped out the city. The Kings of Númenor made some repairs, but they were beginning to fall into evil by this time.  The site was finally abandoned during the reign of Tar-Palantir, who hoped to restore Númenor to the old ways.  The last straw was when Ar-Pharazôn the Golden incurred the wrath of the Valar, the site was drowned in the tidal waves that came from the Downfall of Númenor.  Water and earthquakes ruined the coastline and sunk the site beneath the waves.”

“That’s pretty impressive.  How do we hope to find this?”

Once again, the bard smiled and produced another map from a wooden scroll case and laid it out over the table.  “Over time, the coastline has changed again and what was once sunken has now resurfaced.”

Valandil looked at the map and then walked back to the tent opening.  “It still looks pretty wet to me.”  He looked out onto the river where flat boats were pulling up onto the shore – more supplies had come in, courtesy of Elanoriel and another benefactor.  “I’ll be back shortly.  I’m going to help with the incoming supplies.”  The knight strode across the muddy ground toward the rivermen where Firiel and her mother were tying off their lines.

A burly man, with the look of the sea, stepped off of the boat as his men began unloading crates and barrels.  He wore a floppy red leather cap, that had been waterproofed against the rain and ocean.  “We’ve some goods, courtesy of Westin Heathertoes,” he said with a curt bow.

“Westin?” asked Valandil.  “Well, this is welcome news.”  The knight extended his hand.  “Sir Valandil of Cardolan.”

“Aelfred, Captain of the Bargemen’s Guild.  The rain’s swollen the river like a pregnant sow, which made our going a lot easier,” the man said as he wiped moisture from his blond hair and mustache.  He turned back and motioned to his men.  “Come on, look alive.  I want to shove off quickly.  We’ve got a lot of cargo to move.”

Valandil pitched in and began rolling a barrel, with the Royal Seal of Cardolan, down the walkway as Aelfred strode along.  Men carried crates and rolled their own barrels as the constant drizzle continued.  The blond guildsman looked off at the excavation site.  “What’s the deal with all of this work?  Not since Prince Braegil has there been anyone out here.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we’re picking up where he left off.  Our bard, Haedorial, thinks he has the solution.”

Aelfred looked skeptical and his lips curled up.  “Well friend, I wish you luck.  The river and sea are harsh mistresses to be sure. What might be a little bad weather elsewhere can be sure death here.  Oh, by the way, your expedition seems to have some favor.  It seems that the Princess of Cardolan is sending more supplies your way.  I heard Brethil the Old and Findegil Finwarin set sail a week ago.”

“I thought Brethil was too old to put to sea anymore and Findegil…he has a good heart, but not much sense,” Valandil said with a wince and a head shake.

Aelfred laughed deeply.  “Indeed.  As I said, I wish you luck.”

Up ahead, there seemed to be a commotion at the excavation site.  Valandil set aside the barrel and trotted up to take a look.  “What do you have?  What is it?”

Haedorial stood over the muddy hole where the men stepped back from something.  “My good knight, what we have here is the outer wall of Lond Daer.  My friends, I think we’re onto something.”

The Ruins of Vinyalondë

Firiel

The healer sat in her tent as light rain pattered on the canvas.  She looked down at an open journal, pondering what to write.  She took a deep breath and then put quill to parchment.

Two weeks have passed and we’re still digging in this muddy pit.  I don’t know how much longer I can remain here.  Jonu is still too young to manage the House by himself.  With Kaile and the princess away from Tharbad…I just don’t know.

Firiel closed her journal and then ventured outside. She looked up at the gray, overcast sky and then sat atop a low sand dune in the constant drizzle.  Off to the northeast, diggers continued to shovel sand and mud out of the hole near the wall, which was really starting to look like a wall now.  Firiel vacantly looked at the rusted iron wall fittings that were piled on the dune from a fruitless search a few days ago.  She reopened her journal and held her free hand over it to keep the rain from smudging the ink.

We found some old torch holders and door handles, but it’s not much.  Haedorial seems to think that everything will be found near the outer wall, but it’s been millennia since this place was in its glory.

Just to the northwest, another long, stone wall protruded from the sand and water.  Battered granite and rusted steel could be seen rising a yard above the ground.  Another sand and mud dune, just north, appeared to be square and man made.

She heard footsteps in the sand, drawing closer – it was Valandil.  He pointed to the square dune.  “Haedorial thinks that the dune was the foundation of the old bailey.  I’m really glad that he’s here.  He seems to have the corner on arcane knowledge in the group. Even your hard to please mother seems taken in by him.”

“He does indeed,” Firiel answered curtly.  Are you glad that I’m here too?  She shifted her body to look out at the dune, which was flanked by ruined walls and a line of small, sandy islets heading straight out into the water.  “He says that those islets are the remains of the Floating Avenue, a wonder of Númenórean engineering.”

Valandil took her arm gently and tugged her toward the square dune.  “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

Her mood lightened and she gave him a shy smile.  Between the bustle of the expedition and the visit with her mother, there had not been much time for them to be alone.  They trudged down from their position past the rusted fixtures, letting their feet crunch on the moist sand.  Firiel felt Valandil’s fingers tracing along her slightly pointed ears.  She felt a tingling in her body.

“The gift of being half-elven,” he said, and she turned to look at him.

“Valandil, what do you want to happen?  Is there a future for us?”  It had been a question gnawing at her for some weeks.

He looked at her curiously, his brows furrowed.  “Wh…why of course.  Oh…I’m sorry.  Now that I’m a knight and a man of Cardolan, I’ve dishonored you.  We should make our bond permanent.”

Firiel looked away.  That’s not exactly what I was looking for.  With a sigh, she spoke, “No, it’s not that.  I do want a future with you, but not because of honor.  Do you…do you l-”

They had now reached the wall north of the square dune and Firiel saw a small whirlpool draining into a hole at the base of the wall. An old, weather-beaten engraving was carved in Tengwar runes into the stone of the wall:  Minas Mellon.

“Valandil!  Look at this. I think we’ve found something.”

The knight watched the sea water swirl into the hole. “This must be the access way into the tower basement.”  He waved frantically back at the men at the excavation site and soon, Haedorial and the crew came rushing over.

Breathless, the bard bent over, hands on his knees. “What do you have…my good knight?”

Valandil and Firiel smiled together.  “I think we have a way in,” they said in unison.

In the Ruins of Minas Mellon

Mercatur

“I was really beginning to enjoy sitting on my ass and drinking ale,” said the mercenary in a frustrated monotone as he wiped brew from his beard.  He looked at the excavation around the entrance to the basement of Minas Mellon, which had been dammed off to prevent the sea from flooding the hole.

“Well, I’ll bet you’re curious about what we might find inside,” answered Valandil.  He held out a lantern to see into the hole, which had drained sufficiently for people to enter.

“Númenórean loot?  Okay, I’m game,” Mercatur said with a smirk as he took the lantern and walked down the worn stone stairway.  The light shone into a tunnel that quickly shrunk down to almost nothing.  “Crap, we’re going to have to crawl for a bit. There better not be any rats!  I hate rats.”

Valandil chuckled and started down the stairs, followed by Haedorial and Firiel.  Four diggers rounded out the crew, carrying lamps and shovels.  Mercatur crawled through the watery sand for about five feet until the tunnel expanded once again.  He stood, brushed off the wet sand and looked at a split in the tunnel as Valandil emerged, soaking wet.  The mercenary examined the two tunnels.  “The right one is more recent.  I’ll bet this was one of Braegil’s digs.  I’d say the left one is our way.”

The knight nodded in the gloom and Mercatur continued on while the rest of the party came through the crawlspace.  Soon, the tunnel expanded into a large cave with a pile of rocks in the center.

As the party came up behind him, Mercatur entered and shined the light on a strange sight.  Facing the rocks were five lines of small, stone statues, roughly carved. Haedorial burst into the cave and stared at the totems, eyes wide with wonder.  “How odd.  These carvings are rather chubby and crudely done…certainly not Númenórean in origin. This almost looks…pagan.”

“You don’t know what these are?” asked Firiel.

“Not a clue, good healer.”

Mercatur snorted.  “Well, there’s a first.”  He kicked one over and it fell into the sand.  “Whatever it is, it’s harmless.  Let’s keep moving.”

Valandil shrugged and brought his torch near to get a better look at the figurines.  The largest one was horribly bloated and clearly monstrous.  Slowly, he drew his sword and looked around.  He drew Firiel close to him and then pressed on behind Mercatur.  “Stay close,” he whispered.  “I just have a feeling.”

The mercenary drew his double-bladed axe and leaned it against his shoulder.  “Be ready for anything.  These ancient sites aways have some unpleasant surprise.”

As they filed out of the cave toward a stairway that led further down, two bright eyes appeared in the darkness behind them and the fallen figurine righted itself.

In the Ruins of Minas Mellon

Haedorial

The bard’s heart beat incessantly in his chest as they descended lower into the ground.  The stairway was partially clogged with rocks and debris, but the workers quickly cleared it.  “I don’t think Braegil made it this far,” he said, his voice reverberating in the watery tunnel.  “I saw his markings down the previous tunnel, but nothing down this way.”  Here, the tunnel was finely finished with smooth walls that still gleamed in the lamplight.  “Most certainly of Dúnadan construction.  Look at the polish,” he added.  “Remarkable.”

The corridor was long, heading east, with several adjoining corridors.  They initially took another long one, heading south, which ended in a pentagonal room. Again, the walls were finely polished despite the millennia that had passed.  Mercatur held up the lantern, which revealed an alcove.

“That is where the shrine to the Valar would have sat in days of yore,” announced Haedorial.  “We are in a holy site.”

“Yah, whatever,” said Mercatur with a grunt. Without another word, he turned and walked back up the corridor.  Haedorial genuflected toward the alcove and fell back in with the group.

They pressed on past a few more rooms until they came to a tiny chamber.  Haedorial looked closely at the ground.  “Look, my friends, more of these figurines.  I’m beginning to think that they have some religious significance.”

“Do you think that they’re recent?” asked Firiel.

“Hmmm, I believe that they are, but it’s hard to tell if they’ve been here a week, a month, or a year.”

A commotion outside of the room caught his attention. “What was that?” voices called out.

Haedorial rushed back into the tunnel, where Mercatur stood, axe in hand.  Three of the workers huddled together.

“Where’s Bova?” asked Valandil.

The workers cowered and pointed down the corridor. “It took him!  It took him!”

Haedorial pushed his way past the warriors to the workers.  “What took him?  What did you see?”

“The demon.”

Leave a Comment

Beneath Minas Mellon

Gwirith 4^th, 1410.  Spring

Valandil

“All right, everyone, stay calm,” the knight declared beneath the flicker of his torch.  He needed to get a handle on what had happened.  He looked into the panicked eyes of the workers and knew he had to take charge.  Haedorial and the workers continued to mutter and fret until Mercatur stepped in.

“Shut the hell up!” the mercenary bellowed, letting the fires reflect off of the blade of his axe.  Valandil looked at him and a smile escaped from his lips.

He definitely has his uses.

The workers were silenced by Mercatur’s now echoing voice and the mercenary pointed back down the tunnel.  “You people stay here.  Valandil and I will go look for Bova.”

The knight nodded and reached out for Firiel.  “If anything happens, take everyone and get back to the surface.  If something gets by us…well, just get out.  I won’t let anything happen to you while I can still swing a sword.”

Firiel took his hand for a moment but could not speak. Valandil released her reluctantly and headed off behind Mercatur.  Within fifty feet they came across Bova’s head.  The mercenary shone the beam of the lantern on the bloody object and the worker’s face was frozen in horror and agony.

“What do you think?” asked the knight.

“Well, I think he’s dead.”

“Yeah, I can see that….  What do you think got him?”

Mercatur shrugged.  “I dunno.  I’m just a dumb mercenary.  Demons, they said, huh?”  He hesitated for a moment as if remembering something and then a look of concern came over his face as his brows furrowed.  “We best get back to the group.  We have to head back…now.”

Valandil knew something haunted the mercenary from the Battle of the Tirthon.  He fell in beside Mercatur as they strode quickly back to the group.  “Hey, I know a bit about your last venture in Rhudaur. I know you fought against something demonic, and it shook you up pretty bad.”

Mercatur stopped on a dime and turned sharply.  His eyes were huge, full of fear.  Valandil knew that even a horde of orcs wouldn’t shake his friend like this.  “You don’t know anything about that,” Mercatur hissed.  “It was…nevermind.  Let’s just move on, shall we?”

Just then, an inhuman shriek echoed down the tunnel toward them and the air became chill.  Valandil swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.  “Yes, let’s keep going.”

In the dim lantern light, Valandil could see Firiel and Haedorial’s eyes wide with mouths open.  “What was that?” the bard asked, voice trembling.

“No idea, but we need to move,” the knight answered and ushered the group further into the ruins.  They hustled to the end of the corridor where another stairway led down. At the base of the stairs, Mercatur swung the lantern about.  The mercenary was clearly nervous.  “Hey, I see some arrow slits.  There must be an old guard room behind these walls.”

Valandil stood guard at the rear of the group with Firiel right behind him, short bow held ready.  “Check it out,” said the knight to Mercatur, “and be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Mercatur inched up to the wall, axe drawn while Haedorial opened a tome under his torch light.  The mercenary took a quick peek into one of the arrow slits.  He cried out in surprise and fell back with a splash into a puddle of water.

Valandil turned.  “Are you alright?  Talk to me!”

“Angmar’s bones!  There’s something in there.  Red eyes!” Mercatur shouted and quickly got to his feet.  There was the sound of something scurrying beyond the arrow slits and then all was quiet.

The mercenary grunted and shook seawater and sand from his trousers.  He picked up the lantern and moved ahead.  Rubble from the ceiling clogged the tunnel, making it difficult to proceed. Valandil watched as Mercatur picked his way through the stones, followed by Haedorial and the frightened workers.

The lantern cast an eerie glow over the walls and various openings on the left side of the tunnel.  “I think those are guardrooms,” said Haedorial quietly.  The tunnel grew gradually narrower as more and more rubble choked the area and Mercatur had to hug the left wall.  Valandil could see the mercenary’s breath come in vents of steam.

“It’s getting colder,” he told Firiel.

Just then, something reached out of one of the openings and seized a worker in a red shirt.  “Wicks!” they yelled as the man vanished amid screams.  Valandil rushed up and shoved his torch into the opening, letting his hearing guide him to the screams.  The flame danced on the walls of the narrow tunnel, and he could hear the sound of Wicks being dragged away.

“Hang on,” he shouted and moved into a wider room, sword held with point forward.  What he saw froze his heart.  “Dear Varda….”

Mercatur

The big mercenary turned back to see the man in the red shirt vanish.  On instinct, he rushed back past Haedorial just as Valandil ran down the side tunnel. He looked at Firiel.  “Wait here!”

Not again…not another damn demon.  I’m not going out like the Easterling mage.  I’m not.

He took two steps into the tunnel when he saw Valandil come running back.  “Get the hell out of here!  It’s a demon!”

Shrieks and cries echoed down the tunnel as the knight pushed Mercatur back into the main corridor.  “I took a couple of swings at it, but my sword had little effect!”

Mercatur was about to speak when something large and hairy barreled into them.  It had a rank, fetid smell and red eyes burned in the darkness.  He landed on the wet floor with a grunt, dropping the lantern and all went black except for a couple of smoldering torches.  The thing was on his chest, and he instinctively drew his enchanted dagger and plunged it into the beast.

With a horrid shriek, it slithered back and Mercatur saw long fangs flash.  With the flat of his axe blade, he batted the snout away.  Valandil thrust his sword into the flank of the thing, but it knocked the knight back.  One of Firiel’s arrows sank into its mutated face.

It lunged at Mercatur, but he slashed it along a cheek, and it howled, snarling.  Then, it rose to its full height, two heads taller than the mercenary and it emitted an unearthly wail.

“Screw this!” yelled Mercatur.  “Press on!  I’ll hold him!”

If I gotta go, let me go like a warrior.

Firiel hustled the group ahead, but Valandil returned. He lunged ahead of Mercatur and stabbed into the beast’s leg.  It jumped back from the sting, but then got down on all fours again and began to observe them, looking for a weakness.  The mercenary quickly grabbed the lantern and together, they backed slowly away.

Soon, the creature faded from the light and Mercatur shuddered.

“You did good back there,” said Valandil.

“We’re not out of this yet.  That…thing is sizing us up.”

They retreated down the ever-narrower tunnel until Firiel could be seen.  “Thank Varda, you’re alive,” she said breathlessly.  She held up a rope.  “Haedorial and the workers went up ahead, but they had to swim.  The tunnel is flooded.  We’ve hauled most of the gear through.”

“Great, just great,” muttered the mercenary.  “How far?”

“Maybe thirty feet.  Give or take….”

Valandil nodded.  “Very well.  Firiel, you go.”

She shrugged and stripped off her tunic and breeches, revealing a form-fitting shift underneath.  Mercatur raised an eyebrow.  “Well, that’s worth living for.”

She smirked and then touched Valandil briefly before diving in. The knight then grabbed Mercatur. “You’re next.”

The mercenary shook his head.  “Not a rat’s chance in Rivendell.  I’ll be the last one out.”  His eyes told the knight that this was not open for negotiation.  Valandil nodded once and then grabbed the rope.

“You stay right behind me.”

“Yeah, yeah, just go.”

Valandil

Valandil took a deep breath and dove in, hauling himself along the rope in the pitch darkness.  The weight of his armor and weapons drew him down and the line became taut.  His feet touched the bottom which was covered in silt and one of his boots snagged on an object.  With one hand, he grabbed what felt like a dagger and stuffed it in his pouch. Just as the air in his lungs was about to give out, he was yanked to the surface.

Immediately, he began to cough.

“Don’t breathe too deeply,” Firiel said in a wheezy voice with her hand over her mouth.  “The air is rank.”  A torch sputtered in her hand, a sign that the air was indeed fetid.

He nodded, wiping the water from his eyes.  “I’ll wait for Mercatur.  You go join the others.”

She shook her head and started to answer, but the water began to roil up.  Great bubbles spouted from the hole and Valandil drew his sword.  Something erupted from the water and Firiel screamed.

“Whaddya screaming for?  It’s me!” groused the mercenary.  “Somebody get me outta here.”

Valandil pulled him up and he stared at the knight. “What?  You said stay right behind you.  You think I wanted to sit and talk with rat demon back there?  I’m brave, not stupid.”

Ah, the old Mercatur has returned.

Valandil chuckled and slapped Mercatur on the back. He cut the rope and then they crawled the rest of the way into a grand chamber.  There, Haedorial was looking at a stack of tiles in his hand.

“Thank Varda you are safe, my good friends,” he said. “Look what I have here.”

As Valandil and Mercatur piled rocks behind them, Firiel went up and looked at the mirrored tiles.  “What are those?” she asked.

“Well, good lady, I found them in yonder trysting chamber,” the bard said, pointing back to an open door.  “I suspect that this is the quarters of a Númenórean lord.  These tiles are quite valuable.”

Firiel pinched up her face.  “A trysting chamber?”

“A place where the lord could bed his mistresses,” Mercatur called out with a snicker.  He grabbed one of the mirrored tiles and held it up above Firiel’s head.  She looked up into the mirror and made an ‘O’ with her mouth.

Haedorial blushed.  “A very uncouth way of putting it, but yes…he liked to watch himself, I suppose.”

“Well,” Valandil said to the group, “These rocks aren’t going to stop that thing forever.  We need to keep going.”

“I was just getting to that, good knight.  If you look here on this wall, there is an engraving…very recent by the look of it.”

Everyone crowded around the wall as Haedorial continued, “I was mistaken earlier.  Look here, this is Prince Braegil’s sigil.  He did come this way.  According to him, there is a secret panel on this wall that leads to the Tiras Formen, or North Fort of Lond Daer…and beyond that is Aldarion’s House.”

“And the Mithril Room,” added Mercatur.

Leave a Comment

Beneath Minas Mellon

Haedorial

Standing in a large chamber, full of rotten wooden racks, Haedorial looked around.  “Now that we have a bit of time to sit and think, I think it was a bad idea to not bring along any of our men-at-arms,” said the bard as he sipped from a bottle that had been on the wine rack in the basement of Tiras Formen.

“Well, we made a mistake,” retorted Valandil with a sigh. “I didn’t think that anything could be living down here.”

Haedorial nodded slowly.  “We’re safe for the moment, except for our two poor workmen,” he said, looking at the remaining two men in red shirts.  “It is a true tragedy, and we will honor them and take care of their families.”  He reached down and touched the workmen on the shoulder.  “We will do our utter best to get everyone out of here.  You have my word.”

He then walked over to a rusty metal shelf and pointed at some bottles.  “Look here, now, I’ve found the most delightful cognac.  It must be over three thousand years old.”  He held the mouth of the bottle up to his nose and inhaled deeply.  The rich aroma filled his nostrils, and he allowed himself a smile.  “Ah, Númenórean oak and a hint of peat.”  He took a sip and let it linger on his tongue before swallowing.  “Mmmm, pear and spice too.  Magnificent.” He held the liquor out to the mercenary.”

Mercatur accepted the bottle and took a frothy swig. “I dunno, ale from the Starry Crown is just as good,” he said with a shrug.

“Oh, of course it is to you, my good mercenary.  What would you know about Númenórean cognac?”

“About as much as you know about fighting demons.”

“Point taken….  However, my good mercenary, I do have a tome that I brought with us, and I have been thinking upon the visions that I have had since our visit to the Barrow Downs.  I didn’t have time to read the tome prior to our descent, but it has notes written in the hand of Prince Braegil that talk about a beast in the water.  It seemed that he had enough soldiers to frighten it away. As a learned scholar, the prince speculates that the totems are indeed religious in nature and belong to a people called the Beffraen.”

“Beffraen?” asked Firiel.

The bard nodded to her with a smile.  “Ah yes, the Beffraen….  Legend has it that they are the original inhabitants of Cardolan and are related to the Drúedain people, called Woses by the Northrons.  It is said that they have the gift of night sight. Apparently, they are rather primitive and were nearly annihilated by the Númenóreans in the Second Age.”

“Well, they probably won’t take too kindly to any Dúnedain,” said Valandil, looking at Firiel and then back at Haedorial.

“I guess I’m fine here then,” joked the mercenary, hinting at his mixed blood.

Valandil made a wry smile.  “Regardless, we should continue on to Aldarion’s House. Hopefully, we can get to the surface there and call for help.”

The two workers had discovered a series of large drainage pipes that led away from the wine cellar.  Haedorial carefully rolled the bottles of cognac into a blanket as he followed Valandil to the pipes.  “It smells like more seawater in there.”

The knight motioned for the workers to enter, and he looked back at the tunnel to Minas Mellon.  “If I’m correct, we’re getting closer to the water.  Haedorial, you go up with the men.  Mercatur and I will guard the rear in case that thing comes back. Our weapons aren’t having much effect, but I think we wounded it pretty good, so I hope it learned its lesson.”

The bard nodded and stepped into the huge pipes followed by Firiel.  His feet sloshed in several inches of brackish water, and he held his lamp ahead to light the way.  The pipe soon began to slope downward and Haedorial heard Valandil say, “I think that I was wrong.  We need to hurry.  That thing has broken through our barricade.”

The Gwathló River

Nirnadel

The carriage ride from the palace of Thalion to Tharbad brought back so many fond memories for the Princess.  The annual visit to the palace with her family for Yüle was always such a treasured event where bards like Haedoriel would play, sing, dance and make merry with the royal family.  Then, there were the festivals of Erukyermë in the spring, Erulaitalë at midsummer and the grand harvest faire of Eruhantalë in autumn when the crops were harvested and marketed in the city.  These traditions stretched back to mighty Númenor where the king and queen, dressed all in white, would ascend holy Mount Meneltarma.  The King would offer prayers to Eru, and the Queen would offer fruit picked from the orchards of the great kingdom.

But it was the journey down the Gwathló River in the royal barge that really made Nirnadel long for the simpler times of the past.  Paneled in rich fabrics of green, gold and red, the vessel was the height of luxury for the royal family.  The magnificent barge had cushioned seats and a covered aft for the family and guests and comfortable seats for the rowers.  The eight-man Royal Guard accompanied the Princess along with a royal chef, four stewards and her ladies in waiting.

“It was not easy to convince Nimhir to let us come on this expedition,” Nirnadel said with a sigh as she sat on a burgundy-colored cushioned seat in the lounge, which was paneled in rich, textured woods with a sea foam colored carpet.  “I think that he preferred that I was away, however, so that I could not make decisions that would affect the kingdom.  He is still upset over my decision to hold an election.”  She was very torn about her ruling.  She did what she thought was best for the kingdom, but was it?  There would be a million decisions like this, and she knew that she was not ready to make them.  Would she remain a lost teen, or would she grow into the queen that the land deserved?

Kaile looked out the glass window onto the wide river. “I’m glad he let us make the journey. This is really quite exciting.”

Galadel picked up a brush and began combing Nirnadel’s hair. “Your Highness, please believe me when I say that Hir Girithlin has only his own best interest at heart.  I say this with all due respect, but who provided the realm with crops right away and without any urging?”

Nirnadel thought for a moment and then looked at her lady.  “It was your father, Hir Tinare.  I will not forget his kindness in service of the realm.”

“All I ask is that you remember, Your Highness.” Galadel gave her a warm smile and nod and the Princess could see just how much alike they looked.  At one point, there had been a passing mention of Galadel serving as a body double.

“I shall not forget, dear cousin, this I swear.”  She took a handful of blueberries from a pewter bowl and tasted the sweetly tart flavor on her tongue.  She listened to the rhythm of the oarsmen as the paddles struck the water and propelled the barge forward.  The air became moist, and she noticed the patter of rain now on the roof of the royal enclosure.

Davrion, the Captain of the Royal Barge called out, “Rig the canvas and light the lanterns!” and the canvas cover was pulled over the oarsmen amidships to protect them from the rain.

Nirnadel stood and looked out of the forward window to see the synchronized oars hit the water and pull.  The grayish-green caps and cockades worn by the men signified their status in the Bargemen’s Guild.  There was a knock at the door and Kaile went to open it.

Baranor poked his head in.  “It’s a little wet out, ladies, but I think you’ll want to see this.”

Nirnadel’s heart quickened.  Anything that would break up the monotony of the journey down the Gwathló was welcome.  She followed Baranor out along with her ladies and could see a large shape on the river, shrouded in growing fog and the steady downpour.  She could feel the moist air on her face, and it made her feel alive.  This would be her kingdom soon.  Her land. “What is that, good Baranor?”

“Wait for it…” he said as the shape grew larger and clearer. It was clearly a ship, a large one.

“Ahoy!  Ahoy!” called Davrion as he waved his arms.  He put on a yellow leather jacket that the rainwater just flowed down off of. “Ahoy there!  You approach the Royal Barge of Cardolan!”

A horn blew from the other ship.  “Ahoy!  We bring supplies from Pelargir, courtesy of Gondor!  Lord Castimir sends his compliments to the Princess Nirnadel!”

She could see the black banners with the silver tree of Gondor now and her heart swelled with pride and relief.  The great Gondorian ship was twice as long as the barge and sat eight feet higher in the water.  Two banks of oarsmen propelled the ship forward at a leisurely pace and brightly colored shields lined the walls of the upper deck.  Nirnadel waved upwards towards the crew of the Gondorian vessel.  “Ahoy, my friends!  Welcome to Cardolan!  You are most welcome!”

One man, dressed in heavy black and silver robes, waved back.  “I am Herucalmo, Captain of the Narchor!  The journey is safe all the way to the coast, if you’re going there.  It should only be an hour more for you!  But can you tell me the depth of the riverbed further up? I don’t want to run aground.”

Nirnadel had no idea what he was asking about so she looked at Davrion.  He put his hands to his mouth and called back, “The draft of your bireme will be fine all the way to Tharbad, my friend!”  He smiled at the Princess.  “It’s how far below the water his keel is.  He needs to be careful in rivers where the riverbed may be too shallow.”

Herucalmo waved a hand.  “Thank you, my friends!  And well met, good princess!  We wish you safe travels!”

She waved back as the great bireme passed and then receded into the fog.  “Thank you, good Davrion.  I am so pleased that Lord Castimir has been true to his word.  We must send good King Eldacar our thanks and best wishes.”

Kaile frowned and the Princess noticed this.  Nirnadel put her hand on her friend’s shoulder.  “Please, good nurse, speak your mind.”

Kaile blew out a long breath and pursed her lips as if thinking deeply.  Nirnadel knew that her friend didn’t want to offend her, but it was important that she heard the truth.  The nurse twirled her blonde hair nervously before speaking.  “I am concerned that Lord Castimir…doesn’t like…Northrons like me.”

Galadel chimed in.  “And his relationship with King Eldacar is…fraught with conflict.  The King is part Northron.  I would advise caution when dealing with the Sea Lord.”

Nirnadel looked down for a moment.  “Hmmm, a sticky situation indeed.  I have no wish to offend the Sea Lord, but all of my people are Cardolani, without exception.  I will take your advice to remain cautious.  Thank you both for your honesty.”

Kaile smiled warmly as she made eye contact.  “I knew I could count on you to listen…Your Highness.”

Nirnadel opened her arms.  “Nonsense…I was simple Nel to you before I was anything else.  Please, you can use my name.  Both of you.”  The nurse embraced her and Nirnadel gestured to Galadel too, and the three hugged tightly.

“Thank you…Nirnadel.  Our lives would not be the same without you,” the nurse replied.

Galadel took a deep breath.  “There is one other thing I wish to say,” she began.

The Princess suspected that this was coming and Galadel Tinare was not one to hold back.  Much like her.  “The election?  I have worried that I may have made a grave mistake.”

Galadel nodded.  “It was your decision to make, and you had every right to do so, but giving power to Hir Girithlin will not end well.”

“I appreciate your honesty.  I have struggled with this since I made the decision.  How should I proceed, do you think?  If I rescind the election, I offend the hir.  If I leave it be…I just don’t know.”  It seemed that at every hour Nirnadel felt she should change her mind.

“I don’t know, my Princess, but I am sure that you will figure it out and we will help and support you.”

Then, at the forecastle of the barge, Davrion called out to the crew, “Oarsmen!  Slow to half pace!”  He looked back amidships at the ladies.  “We are approaching Lond Daer!  We should dock in ten minutes!”

The ladies rushed back to the royal quarters where stewards were already packing their bags under the direction of Anariel. Four young men, dressed in black tunics and pants with white lace undershirts, came to attention and bowed in unison to the Princess and then resumed their packing.  Each of these stewards was a son of a prominent merchant or guildsman and this was a way of improving the social standing of the house. Nirnadel approached them and smiled. “My good stewards, you have recently come unto the Royal House, and I wish to get to know you.  Please, introduce yourselves.”

One young man bowed low.  He had a wine-colored cockade on his shirt pocket.  He was chubby with bright red cheeks and a scruff of a brown beard.  “Brondon, Your Highness.  Of the Vintners Guild.  My father provides the finest vintages to the Royal House.”

“Angion, son of Halfred, of the Smiths Guild, Your Highness.” He wore a black cockade that was surrounded in white.

“Allion of the Carpenters Guild, Your Highness.”  He wore a light brown cockade.

“Mindolinor of the Nightsingers, Your Highness.”  He wore a pink cockade on his pocket and was a lean, handsome man with ginger hair.

Nirnadel cocked her head.  “Nightsingers?  Do you know Haedorial, our most excellent bard?”

Mindolinor bowed with a wry grin.  “The most famous bard in Cardolan?  My father?  Who doesn’t…Your Highness?”  He blushed deeply red.

Anariel glowered at him.  “Do not be so familiar with the Princess.  Know your place, young man.”

Nirnadel waved her off.  “It is quite alright, my dear Anariel.  It was I who asked them.  Besides, any stories by or about dear Haedorial will certainly be entertaining.  And I am sure that the best tales will come from his son.  And we shall see him anon once we dock at Lond Daer.”  She touched the young bard on his shoulder in a reassuring way.  “He would love to see you.”

Davrion could now be heard yelling to his sailors.  “Oarsmen, all stop!  Prepare to cast lines!  Bring us in slowly…slowly!  Ahoy! Ahoy!  You there on the dock!  Prepare to receive the Princess!”

They could feel the barge slow, and the Princess gazed out of the window as dock workers gathered to receive them.  Ropes were thrown to the dock, and the workers pulled them in carefully, securing the barge to the landing.  “Tie down!” Davrion called.  “Extend the gangplank!”  Nirnadel could see a man with a horn, who then blew out the Royal Welcome, a pomp and flourish to announce the arrival of royalty.  She felt bad seeing these loyal men soaked in the rain.

She led the way out and Anariel tried to hold an umbrella over her, but she waved it off, letting the steady downpour soak her hair and clothes and run down her face.  Is this what it was like to be a normal person?  The rain felt good, and she looked up for a moment and closed her eyes, just feeling the drops.  Anariel grumbled that she’d catch her death of cold but put the umbrella away.  Her Royal Guardsmen led the way across, but as she stepped onto the gangplank she waved to the men on the dock.  “Good people, please!  Please get to shelter and dry off.  This is far too kind for me.  Please, I beg you.”

No one moved, until the hornsman knelt and all followed suit. There was a moment of silence when only the patter of rain could be heard.  “Your Highness, we live to serve the realm, and you are the realm.  The rain is nothing,” he said.  “When all was lost, you saved the realm from destruction. We can do no less for you.”

Her heart nearly stopped in her chest as she wiped her eyes with the back of her gloved hand.  It was of no help in the rain, and she chuckled.  “You do me too much honor.  Your name, good sir?”

“Gwaendir, my Princess.”

Nirnadel extended her hands out, palms up and lifted them.  “Please, good people, rise.  Thank you, Gwaendir.  I shan’t forget this auspicious greeting.  Now, let us all go to shelter.  I could do with a hot cup of tea, if you please.”

The Gwaendir laughed and gestured towards a wooden longhouse that was built for the expedition.  They all ran towards it, splashing mud along the way.  The Princess’ boots and stockings were soaked and muddy, but it was the most fun that she had in a while.  The game of politics was so complex and fraught with peril. She turned and kicked water from a small pond at Anariel and then laughed out loud.

“Oh!  You wicked little girl!” shrieked the older nurse, but then began to laugh too.

They piled into the longhouse where roaring fires blazed in braziers and in a cooking pit.  The smells were simply delightful with the aroma of roast beef and mince pies.  Racks of herbs lined the walls along with tapestries of Cardolani life; farmers, fishermen, weavers and herdsmen.  The true heart of the kingdom.  Nirnadel shook out her raven hair, spraying drops all around as Kaile and Galadel giggled.  It was simply wonderful.  Anariel covered her with a towel and began to wipe her down as Mindolinor brought her a cup of hot tea.  As they sat, there was a commotion at the far end of the longhouse where the other entrance was.

“Stop!  You cannot come in here!” someone yelled and Baranor pointed towards that end of the hall. Swords were drawn and Anariel and the ladies instinctively moved between the Princess and the noise.

“We come in peace!” another voice called out in a thick accent.  “We wish to speak to the leader who just arrived.  It is important!”

Nirnadel pushed past her ladies to see a half dozen of the strangest people she had ever seen.  They were short and squat with dark skin and had bizarre tattoos on all of their exposed skin.  They were dressed in animal furs and their hair was braided in strange and unique patterns.  Baranor and his men, along with men at arms, surrounded them, swords drawn.  She stood behind Baranor, waving her arms.  “Please, good guards, stand down!  Stand down!  They are unarmed.  I wish to hear them out.  Good stranger, do you wish to parley?”

One man stepped forward and tilted his head down in a seeming gesture of respect.  “I am Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn.  We are the people you call Drúedain or Woses.  Ours is the Beffraen Tribe and this is our land.”   

Chapter End Notes

I took a lot of inspiration from the Tudor Era for the fashion and customs.  

Leave a Comment

Beneath Aldarion’s House

Spring

Mercatur

Damn, this bite itches.  I’m going to clean that oversized rat’s teeth if it’s the last thing I do…demon or no demon.

Holding up a lantern, the mercenary’s feet sloshed through the water in the basement of Aldarion’s House, a structure that was once the glory of Lond Daer.  The explorers had come in through the sewer entrance into what looked like a commode.

“Creepin’ in through the king’s privy…just the way I like it,” he muttered as he scratched the wound beneath his belt.

Haedorial examined their surroundings and shook his head. “Looks to be more of a dormitory for the servants rather than the king’s privy.  I’d say the royal quarters would have been above us but washed away over time. Look out for the sea urchins,” he said as water sloshed around them.

Valandil led the way through the dormitory into a hall filled with water.  A stone door was partially wedged open and the sound of the water slapping against the rock echoed.

“There’s a lot of silt out here,” said the knight as he entered the hall.  His lantern cast an eerie glow which the group followed.  Sloshing through the silted walkway, they wandered through empty rooms, shorn of their Númenórean glory by the passage of eons.  Everywhere they went, Haedorial would scribble notes in his book.

“Damn silt…damn rats,” Mercatur muttered.  It seemed that the further they went, the worse his mood became.  He caught the bard staring at him and locked the smaller man in eye contact. Haedorial quickly looked away.

That’s right, bookmaster, you think you know it all, huh?

Mercatur grunted and the wound on his arm burned like he was being stung by bees.  This time he bit at it to ease the itching.  That poultice Firiel gave me isn’t working anymore.  This is driving me mad.  I wish that bard would stop babbling about all that lost history crap.

As he massaged the wound, they sloshed past three wide staircases up, which were clogged in rubble and debris.

“We’re not getting up that way,” said Valandil as he prodded the massive stones with his sword.  “Just one of those rocks weighs a ton or more, I’d guess.”

“Aldarion’s House would have been mighty indeed,” Haedorial chimed in.  The bard glanced back at Mercatur, and his eyes betrayed his fear.  “We must hurry, good knight,” he urged Valandil, “We must hurry.”

They pressed on through ever deepening waters, until the silty morass was up to Mercatur’s knees.  The mercenary grunted in pain, holding the wound tight.  He set his lantern down on a stone that protruded from the water.  “I’ve got to sit a moment.”

Firiel rushed to him, leaving a wake behind her.  She felt his forehead.  “You’re burning up!  Valandil, we’ve got to stop.  Mercatur is feverish.  The wound’s infected.”

“It’s nothing, woman.  Stop fussing.  I just need a moment’s rest.”

She ignored him and began mixing another herbal pack. “Here, I need to dress the wound. Let me see it…damn, stop being so stubborn,” she said with an edge of frustration and seized the injured arm. She unwrapped the red bandages and took in a deep breath.  “It’s not clotting.  It’s completely infected….  How can that be?  It’s only been a few hours.”

“Just burn it already.  I’ve been through worse.”

Firiel was about to say something when Haedorial interrupted.  “Kind lady, if you could spare a moment of time, I may be able to shed light on this situation.  I need you to step over here, however.”

Firiel nodded and set down the finished herbal pack. “Mercatur, apply it to the wound,” she advised and then stepped away with the bard.

Mercatur did as he was told.  Never cross the lady when it comes to herbs and stuff.  I’d just as soon she burn this out though.  As he held the pack to his injured arm, he saw Firiel’s eyes grow huge as Haedorial told her something.

He felt a surge of anger.  What’s he told her?  I don’t like no secrets.  He stood and took a couple of sloshing steps, but something called to him.  He stopped and turned about.  “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” one of the men in red shirts asked.  “I didn’t hear nothing.”

Haedorial

Firiel’s eyes widened in horror as he told her about the Nurga.  “If I’m correct, the ancient Beffraen were occasionally afflicted with lycanthropy…they were shapeshifters.  I don’t know if any of your herbs can help him.”

“There must be something we can do?”

The bard looked from side to side.  “We must watch him.  It seems that the disease has spread much more quickly than normal.  He could succumb to the malaise within hours.”

Mercatur’s outburst caught everyone’s attention and Haedorial grabbed Firiel with strong hands.  “We must press on and quickly.  We don’t have much time.”

Trying to focus the visions that had been passing through his head, Haedorial led the group onward into a series of large rooms. “This was the smithy,” he announced as he waded into the middle.  As he raised his lantern, the reflection of a hundred lights illuminated the room. Firiel gasped as the lights twinkled off of the dark water.  Haedorial looked up and, to his amazement, an elaborate chandelier dangled above them. “Such was the mastery of the Númenóreans that their works could withstand the tests of time.  Ahhh, what have we here?”

“Careful, now,” said Firiel, cautioning him.

He reached down slowly and brought up a coil of wire and a small, silver hammer.  He slowly examined the coil and then handed it to Firiel.  “I think you could make use of this – it’s a coil of Númenórean bow string.  Incredibly preserved, it I might add.”

“And the hammer,” she asked.

“I suspect it belonged to the smith.  It has a few barnacles and things growing on it, but it should be as good as new with a little work.  Just at a glance, I’d say it was mithril…but I can’t be sure.”

Valandil took a quick look.  “Sounds like we’re on the right track.”

Haedorial nodded.  “Indeed we are.  We must keep moving though,” he said as he led them from the smithy back into the hall. He kept up a good pace, wading quickly through the silt toward the southern face of the basement.  He reached another open doorway into the stone and pointed urgently.  “I feel that the way is through here.  Something is drawing me.”  Through the dim light, he saw Mercatur’s pale face and knew that time was running out.

The bard strode through the muck toward the rear of the large chamber and began probing the walls.  “It’s here…I know it must be here.”

Firiel came up and stood beside him.  “What are you looking for?”

“A secret door…I sensed it in a vision.”

In the distance, a shriek echoed down the corridor and a chill ran down Haedorial’s spine.  “The Nurga, it’s coming….”  He began to press at the wall more urgently and Mercatur began to twitch.  The bard pointed back and called to Valandil, “Watch him!”

He turned back to the wall, not wanting to see what was coming.  “Focus…focus,” he whispered to himself.  As the Nurga’s wails grew in volume, Haedorial’s hands found the niche in the stone, and he pressed forward.  A deep click was heard and then the roll of tumblers.  “We’re in!” he yelled back and then pushed the wall back.

Haedorial rushed in and almost fell down a long stairway. He braced himself on the rusted railing and Firiel caught him, holding him steady.

“Hurry,” she said, and he sped down the stairs along with the murky water.  Screaming and the sounds of fighting echoed downward and Haedorial’s breath came in ragged gasps and his heart pounded like the hammer of a smith.  He landed in a deep pool of water at the base of the stairs and water splashed all around him.  He quickly pushed open the stone door and the muck flowed into an unseen room.

Firiel was hot on his heels and the sound of screaming grew fainter.

Dear Varda…dear Varda…save us!

Haedorial could hear Mercatur bellowing in pain while hewing about with his axe.  He pushed his way past the opening, and he was greeted by an unexpected sight.

By the Valar, do my eyes deceive me?

His eyes swept across a long room, new, as if the tile had just been laid.  The walls were whitewashed and a crystal chandelier dangled above, lit with tiny points of light.  A man stood at the center of the room, dressed in archaic Númenórean robes. Before him stood an ebony pedestal, which held a large crystal rhombus.  The man’s hair matched the pedestal except for streaks of gray at his temples.  He turned and looked at Haedorial and motioned to the crystal, which gave off a faint, violet light.

This cannot be.  How could he survive so long in this place? thought the bard.  What does he want me to look at?

The bard stepped forward on clean, white tile, inching toward the crystal.  He looked into the man’s eyes, which were just empty sockets and he gasped.  The man pointed urgently toward the rhombus.

I must look…I must.

Firiel

At the base of the stairs, Firiel looked back up, aiming her lantern that way.  Screaming and snarling echoed downward and her gut tightened at the horrid sounds. Valandil appeared at the top of the stairs, and she breathed a sigh of relief.  His sword was bloody, and his surcoat was covered in gore.

“Don’t wait!” he ordered and waved her ahead.  Then, he turned and she could hear him slashing at something.

She moved through the door into a long, abandoned chamber.  Water surged into the room, swirling on the floor.  In the lantern’s light, she could see Haedorial sloshing toward the center, where an ebony pedestal stood, holding a glowing crystal.

“Haedorial, what is that?” she asked, but he didn’t seem to hear her.  Instead, he looked blankly into space, talking to someone who wasn’t there. “Who are you talking to?” she asked in a near panic.

The sound of people running down the stairs could be heard now and then the splashing of feet in water.  Valandil rounded the corner and turned with sword in hand. “Something’s wrong with Mercatur! The last two workmen are dead. The Nurga is just behind me!”

Firiel set her lantern down and drew her bow.  She had restrung it with the Númenórean wire and nocked an arrow.  Valandil squatted into a defensive stance and set his sword to thrust.  His chainmail glistened in the dim light, and he looked back at Firiel.  “We’ll make our stand here.”

As shrieks erupted into the chamber, followed by the giant lycanthropic rat, Valandil drove his sword into the beast’s chest. An arrow followed, sinking deep into its flank.  The Nurga wailed and hurled Valandil back into the silt with a blow from his arms. Mercatur walked in behind the creature, twitching and growing hair by the second.

Firiel fired another arrow into the Nurga as Valandil struggled to rise in the muck.  She moved to reach out to the knight, but her vision was blinded by an intense light.  She tried to look away, but the whiteness surrounded her.  The thought she saw Haedorial take out the corroded mithril hammer and strike it on the crystal.  A tune rang from the blow and Firiel’s ears were filled with the reverberating tone. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and she could see the Nurga flailing about, thrashing water and silt.

Firiel tried to call out to Valandil, but her voice was lost in the ringing of the hammer.  Her legs seemed weighted as she moved ahead, and she grabbed the knight by his waterlogged surcoat.  The Nurga shrieked and looked down at them.  Firiel tried to draw her short sword, but the silver hammer flew past her and imbedded itself into the Nurga’s chest.

The beast let out an unearthly wail and clutched at the hammer, but to no avail.  It staggered and struggled in the intense light while Mercatur covered his rat-like eyes. With a final gasp, the Nurga pitched over backward, falling into the muck-filled water.

Then, all went dark except for the fluttering flames of the lanterns.

Firiel looked around, trying to let her eyes adjust to the darkness.  All that could be heard was the inhuman groans of the Nurga and the lapping of water.

Haedorial stirred.  “What happened?  Where did the man go?  What happened to the room?”  The bard strode up to the dying lycanthrope as it breathed its last.  He reached down to take the mithril hammer from its chest and the body began to writhe and change before their very eyes.  It twitched violently, causing everyone to take a step back, including Mercatur, whose rat-like transformation had been reversed.  The beast shrank until its form was that of a short, squat man, covered in blueish tattoos.

Firiel looked on the body with horror.  “Was that…a Beffraen?  How did you kill it?”

The bard looked equally stunned.  “I…I think so.  The man,” he said, pointing back to the crystal.  “He was Númenórean.  He reminded me that lycanthropes cannot tolerate silver…and mithril is the finest silver in Middle Earth.  Didn’t you see him?” he asked, looking around.

Firiel shook her head.  “I saw no one else.”

Suddenly, Mercatur spoke, “Angmar’s Bones, what happened? Where am I?”

The healer rushed over to see Mercatur’s look of confusion.  “You were infected by the Nurga…you were becoming a lycanthrope.”

“A whatathrope?”

“A changeling…a shapeshifter.”

The mercenary slapped the palm of his hand to his helmet. “Oh, great.  What now?”

Firiel took his arm forcefully and unwrapped the bandage, to reveal a clean wound.  “By the Valar, this wound is nearly healed.  I’d like to take credit, but I think something else is at work here.”

Mercatur shrugged.  “It takes more than an oversized rat to bring down a Rhudauran,” he said with a smirk.  “So, bardie, what’s that crystal you found?  Is it worth anything?”  The mercenary captain seemed to be himself again.

Haedorial let out a sly smile – the tension in the group had dropped remarkably and everyone seemed almost giddy.  “What we have here, my friend, is Aldarion’s own seeing room. As you may know, the Palantíri were given to Elros Tar-Minyatur, the First King of Númenor, who was of course, the brother of Elrond.”

“Yah yah, get on with it,” the mercenary said with a groan.

“Of course, dear mercenary…Why, many great gifts were also given to the Númenóreans by the elves to include seeing stones such as this.”

“Well, that’s great and all, but we’ve been hunted by an overgrown rat, nearly drowned, and all over this freaking basement…where is the Mithril Room?”

Firiel nodded at Mercatur’s words – indeed, she was impatient at the bard’s need for drama.

Haedorial took it all in stride.  “Patience, dear fellows,” he said and stepped back up to the crystal.  “All shall be revealed.”

Valandil

The scene was magnificent.  The rhombus came to life and glowed with an inner light that reflected violet hues across the room.  As if by magic, the waters receded, and the bare stone was replaced by white tile.

“Behold, the glory of the Númenóreans!” called Haedorial to wondered gasps.

Valandil staggered in awe as he stood in the room as it was in the days of the mighty kings of old.  In the corner of the room, a fountain sprayed water over silver and gold figures of the Valar.  Tall men of Westernesse strode into the room, led by a tall king, who towered over the knight and his friends.  They gathered for the worship of the Valar and celebrated their kinship with the elves.

Haedorial motioned for them to follow, and they walked through the walls like ghosts.  Valandil gasped, but he stayed behind the bard as they moved through solid rock and sand to the nearby tower of Minas Iaur.  There, they floated to the surface and saw the magnificence of the great city – tall spires; massive, squat sea walls; and a port that left Tharbad in shame.

Haedorial pointed to the ground.  “Here, beneath us lies the Mithril Room.”

Then, all went dark for a moment.  Valandil opened his eyes, and they stood on the wind-blown dunes over ruined stone walls.  “We’re back on the surface?  How is this possible?”

The smell of sea water and the sound of the surf filled his senses and Haedorial nodded.  “Indeed, we are.  Are you ready?”

Leave a Comment

The Gwathló Camp, Gwirith 4^th, 1410

Nirnadel

The Princess was stunned by the revelation that the Beffraen claimed this land as their own when it was clearly part of the Kingdom of Cardolan.  They seemed serious and they were clearly interested in parley.  She walked forward with Baranor and Kaile beside her.  She splayed her hands slowly, a sign of peaceful intent.  “Good people, yes, we would speak to you in peace.  Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn…are we saying that correctly?  Please, have a seat here,” she said, gesturing to a simple wooden table.

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn nodded with a grunt.  It was a serious matter, but his appearance looked almost comical to the Princess, his tattooed face soft and fleshy with his braided hair pulled back in some barbarian style.  Even his head had a sort of jack o lantern look, like a pumpkin sat on his shoulders with his wide, flat features.  She noticed two women in the group that wore nothing but paint above the waist, and she blushed.  What would that be like, she thought, pondering the corset and the tightly laced bodice that fitted over her emerald green gown that gave her a wasp-waisted look. She sat opposite from Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn as Baranor stood right behind her, ready for any trouble.

“We are the Princess Nirnadel, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Cardolan.  We consider this land as part of the land that was held by our father, good King Ostoher. Can you show some proof of your claim, good sir?” Nirnadel asked, trying to sound as diplomatic and princely as possible.  She tilted her head up and put her finger to her cheek, falling back into an old pattern.

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn pursed his lips.  “We do not have…papers or…documents as you do,” he said in heavily accented Sindarin.  “We Beffraen have been here since the great ship men landed on the coasts and dominated all of the other men.”

She knew that he meant the Númenóreans, so they had been here a long time.  She pondered for a moment and was determined to negotiate some kind of peace.  “We see.  We want to believe what you say.  Is there anything that you could show us that would prove your claim?  We hope that you will find us reasonable.”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn made an awkward smile, at least Nirnadel thought it was a smile.  He then narrowed his eyes.  “I am not…how you say…the most capable in Sindarin.  Our language is Beffraen.  What I learn is…how you refer to yourself, I do not understand.  Are you more than one person?”

The Princess was taken aback a bit.  The Royal ‘We’ was a habit that she grew up with in the Royal Court when addressing those not of the blood.  She had never thought of it in the context of someone outside of the Dúnedain kingdoms.  She knew she had to meet him on an even playing field for her to be understood. “Ummm, I…I apologize.  It is a custom among certain of our people.  I did not realize that it would be confusing. You may call me ‘Nel’ if that is acceptable.”

He nodded.  “Nel…I like that.  I do not understand ‘princess.’  Is that who you are in your tribe?”

She squinted for a second before smiling with a nod. “Yes…yes, I am the daughter of the leader of our…tribe.  He…he died in a war so I will become the leader someday when I am old enough.  I take it that you are the leader of the Beffraen?”

He thumped his chest with a meaty fist.  “Yes, Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn is leader.  We have many women as leader too.  They have mystic powers.  So, I respect woman leader of Cardolan tribe.  You are very skinny, though, but I sense that you have big heart.”

Nirnadel glanced down at her thin, waif-like body and chuckled.  “You are correct, my good Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn…see, I am getting used to your name now.  I am but a tiny girl, but I wish for us to become big friends.  We were about to dine for supper.  Would you wish to join us?  I can assure you that you are safe here.”

Anariel snapped her fingers, and the four stewards came forward and bowed.  “Bring supper for Her Highness and her guests.  Be quick about it young men.”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn smiled.  “You have most interesting customs in your Cardolan tribe.  I see sometimes from afar, but to see you up close is most exciting.  I, too, wish for peaceful outcome.  You are skinny and very pale compared to Beffraen.  You wear much clothes compared to Beffraen women.  We are so different.”

Mindolinor, the son of Haedorial, led the stewards with platters of meat, fruit and vegetables, cuts of roast beef, pies, and small hens, slow roasted over a fire.  Brondon the Vintner set crystal goblets on the table and began to fill them with a red wine from his family’s winery outside of Tharbad.  Anariel raised her finger.  “Her Highness prefers white,” she said fussily.

Brondon bowed low.  “My apologies, Your Highness.  I will be right back.”

Nirnadel waved him off.  She wanted to try new things and show the Beffraen that she wasn’t a stuffy bureaucrat or politician.  She had seen the streets of Tharbad and knew what it meant to live among the people.  She always looked back at her time as ‘Nel’ with great fondness.  “No need, good Brondon.  I would like to sample the red.  I hear that reds are good for the heart.”

She picked up her goblet and let the light reflect off of the crystal.  Cardolan crystal along with the works of art from the glassworks of Fornost Erain were considered the most prized in the civilized world.  Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn stared intently at the object, clearly fascinated by the craftsmanship.  Nirnadel raised her glass.  “I propose a toast to our friendship.  I know that we will come to an agreement whatever happens.”  She was about to drink when another commotion sounded at the entrance.  She looked over to see her guards clearing way for Haedorial, Valandil, Mercatur and Firiel.  She stood and beckoned to them.  “My friends! You look…wet.  I hoped to see you here at Lond Daer and learn of your progress.”

They rushed over and started to kneel, but the Princess waved them off.  “Please, my friends.  You must be hungry.  I praythee, stay and dine with us.  We have some guests from the Beffraen tribe.”  The four stewards quickly brought up more tables and chairs.  “Our new friend here, Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn, told us that his people have occupied this land for many years and that it is theirs.  I am hoping that we can come to some agreement.  Let us dine and we can talk about this, and I would love to hear about the excavation of Lond Daer.  It was something that was special to my dear brother, Braegil the Scholar.”

The four adventurers gathered around a table.  “We have very good news, Your Highness,” Haedorial said, hugging his son.  “It is so good to see you, Mindolinor.  Your mother wishes you well.  I trust that you are serving Her Highness with a high standard?”

Mindolinor nodded with a wide grin.  He had his father’s ringlets of hair that went down below his shoulders with a hint of a scruff for a beard.  “Of course, father.  And give my best to mother.”

They bowed to the Princess and nodded to the Beffraen. Haedorial swept his hand across his body in dramatic bardlike fashion.  “Before we begin, Your Highness, we have found your brother’s legacy, though it cost us several lives.  We found the Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë.”  Nirnadel gasped, putting her hands over her mouth.  Her heart raced with excitement.  “What’s more, is that we have found proof of what our friend, Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn, has said.  These lands have belonged to the Beffraen since before the arrival of the Númenóreans.  There are artifacts and records that we found that will show the Beffraen’s claims are true.”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn’s face lit up and Nirnadel nodded.  “My friends,” she said to the Beffraen.  “I accept the word of our most esteemed bard, Haedorial.  On behalf of Cardolan, I acknowledge your claim upon this land.  I would offer you friendship, however.”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn put his hands together and looked towards the sky.  “I feared that we would have to fight for our land as did our ancestors against your ancestors.  But Nel, I sense in you a big heart in your small body.  We, the Beffraen, thank you.  I offer you our friendship in return.  How may we help each other?”

Nirnadel took a deep breath.  She was finding confidence in her diplomacy again after the fiasco with Hir Girithlin, but these people were entirely unknown to her.  Still, they came unarmed with few members and could have easily been slaughtered, yet, they came anyway with hope.  “I do not know your tribe, but I wish to, and I don’t know what we can offer you that will help the Beffraen.  I would offer trade, finished goods, food, music and art, but I know you would not have survived this long without having these of your own.  Our armies are still recovering from the horrible war so we can only offer limited military assistance, but what we have I freely offer.”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn thought for a moment, his hand on his chin. “We are simple people who live off of the land.  We saw wealth and power of your people when your brother was here.  They were wondrous but we still afraid.  Would you share knowledge of your farms and of your metal working?  Also, we suffer from pirate raids every year.  Would you have your ships come more often?”

Nirnadel nodded slowly.  “I will speak with our High Captain Asgon of the navy.  We currently have eight warships with two more under construction.  I will see to it that he dispatches vessels to patrol the river down to the coast.  I will also arrange to have farmers and smiths share our knowledge with you and I am glad to do this.”  The navy had four light caravels, fast patrol boats, and four of the larger biremes like the Gondorian ship, built for war.

The Beffraen all put their hands together and looked up. “And we will help you keep your lands safe too.  We will warn you of threats and will fight by your side if you need.  We are not great and powerful warriors like you are, but we have our ways.  We know the earth, we know the water, we know the air.”  He looked at the gathering and then focused on Mercatur.  “You my friend…you were bitten by the Nurga, yes?”

The mercenary narrowed his eyes.  “Yes, how did you know?”

“The Nurga was once of the Beffraen.  He has been there many, many years.  We know the look of someone who was infected, but you seem cured. Still, there will be dreams and shaking for some time.  Do you wish us to ease you?”

Mercatur continued to look sideways.  “What do you mean…ease?”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn pointed back at his people.  “If you want, we hold a…how you say…ceremony?  We draw the evil from your mind and body. If you want.”

The mercenary curled his lip and started to shake his head when Firiel elbowed him.  “Uhh, yeah, fine, yeah, let’s do it.”

“Good, we do after we eat.  And you say you found the den of the Nurga.  You must also have found the great room of the sea people…the room with the silver metal that Nel’s brother looked for.”

Nirnadel put her hand over her heart.  “You know of it?  Will you help us?”

Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn nodded emphatically.  “We help.  I sense that the Nurga is dead.  You have done well.  It was a plague upon our people for a long time.  I am glad to help fulfill your brother’s quest.”

The Princess put her hands together and looked up as the Beffraen did.  This day did not turn out the way she thought it would, but it was far more fulfilling. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.  This day has been most auspicious.  Please friends, it is time to eat.  We give thanks to our new friends and,” she said, looking to Haedorial, “we honor those who fell in our quest.  I will see to it personally that their families are cared for and that they will be recorded as heroes of the kingdom.”  It was never easy to learn that people had sacrificed for her, and she looked down for a moment to say a prayer to the Valar.  Nirnadel closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  It was important to keep the group in good spirits.  She then took a silver knife and cut a drumstick from her roast hen.  “I am positively famished from our journey, and I am sure you are too.  Please, friends, I praythee, join me in our supper.”

The roasted hen with rosemary and thyme was superb, a crispy layer of skin over succulent meat.  Nirnadel, of course, ate it daintily, using proper manners with the correct use of silverware.  She dabbed her lips with a fine linen napkin and watched the Beffraen devour the food. It felt good to bring people together and her intuition told her that they were trustworthy.  “My friends, I hope you are enjoying yourselves.  My table is your table,” she said just as dessert was brought to the table by the stewards.  Silver trays bearing blueberry cobbler and raspberry tarts were set out before the group.  The Princess gestured to the young men.  “Please, good stewards, I praythee, please join us.  You have worked so hard today.”

The young men’s faces lit up and they sat down and began digging into the dinner.  Galadel picked up a tart and raised it up towards Nirnadel.  “To the Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer’s day.”  The group laughed and drank, toasting the witty lady.

As Nirnadel took a bite of her tart, Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn and two of the Beffraen women came around the table with a leather sack. “To you, Nel and to you, mercenary, we now perform ceremony.  Please trust us.”  They brought out brushes and some containers of dye.  The Princess could see Anariel getting antsy, so she waved her off.

One of the Beffraen women sat next to Nirnadel as the other woman sat next to Mercatur.  “I am Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn,” said the one with the Princess in halting Sindarin.  “I will give you ceremony of our people.”  She opened the clay pots of dye and began mixing them in a bowl.  There were numerous different colors, some bright, some dark.  She dipped one of her brushes into a green dye.  “I see this color in you, Nel,” she said and then applied the dye to Nirnadel’s face.  The Princess’ eyes widened for a moment as she had only worn makeup on her face and one of her ladies always applied it.  The dye felt warm and had an earthy smell.  Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn then painted with blue, yellow, red, purple and pink, creating intricate shapes and images of trees and a sunset.  “I summon the whisper of the ancients,” she said in a singsong voice.

A feeling of comfort and warmth came over Nirnadel and an image of her mother holding her when she was a girl slipped into her thoughts. It was like her mind and consciousness were heightened and she could feel and sense things that would be beyond her ability.  She saw Mercatur smile, and his muscles relax, and it was as if a dark mist were floating away from his body.  She couldn’t help but glance at Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn’s bare chest, covered with tattoos and various dyes in wondrous patterns.  Another image formed in her mind, and she saw Prince Araphor standing before her and he smiled.  His black hair was unkempt and fell loosely about his face as his eyes bore into her. She looked down and saw that he was unclothed, and she gasped, her face turning hot.  She then saw that she was also unclothed and the Prince held her in an embrace and she could feel tingling all throughout her body along with his manhood against her stomach.  Her breath caught in her throat and sensations that she had never known washed over her.  She let out a soft moan.

She blinked and the vision was gone, replaced by the smiling face of Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn.  “It is done,” the Beffraen woman said with satisfaction.  “Feel the warmth of our people and know that we are now sisters. And your man is now free of the darkness of the Nurga.”

Nirnadel still felt tingles all along her skin. “What…what praythee were the vision that I saw?  Were those part of the ceremony?”

Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn nodded.  “Yes.  You see things in the past that were of comfort and happiness.  You see things in the future that you want to come to pass.”

The Princess blushed furiously.  She had always thought of herself as a chaste representative of her people, undistracted by petty urges.  Her needs and wants should never factor into her actions.  But now she gulped and consciously held her legs together.  “I…I…uhh. I don’t know what to say.  It was…was most…enlightening.  Thank you, Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn.”  She was desperate to change the subject now.

Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn grinned broadly, her wide mouth showing bright teeth through thick lips.  “We Beffraen are not embarrassed when we couple.  My sister, Thȃn-Beri-Thȃn and I belong to Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn.  It is the nature of people so do not be embarrassed Nel.”

Nirnadel wanted to hide her face in shame.  “Oooh, umm, how about another raspberry tart?”

Kaile about spat her drink in laughter.  She leaned in and whispered into the Princess’ ear. “It’s really quite wonderful, you know.”

Nirnadel shook her head.  “Stop it,” she whispered forcefully.  “I’m trying to be dignified.”  She looked back up, her face red beneath the dye.  “Yes…yes, I think we can say that we have come to a successful agreement, don’t you…agree?  I mean…yes. I agree.  This was…very successful.  I agree.”  She was completely flustered and realized that she was being an idiot.  “I’m just going to shut up now.  Thank you.”  As much as she felt like a responsible adult who would soon lead a kingdom, she still felt like a girl, lost and silly.  It was still a very difficult time for her.

Then, she remembered something, and she pulled a letter from her handbag.  She cleared her throat and presented the letter to the bard.  “Good Haedorial, I almost forgot.  This letter arrived for you at the Bar Aran before we departed.  It is from your friend, Lord Rhudainor of Rhudaur. It bears his seal.  I now know that it was you that night of Yüle those years ago.”

The bard’s eyes lit up.  “Dagar!  Oh yes, that was I.  Here…no, please read it, Your Highness.  I’m simply too excited!”

Mercatur stood up sharply.  “Did you say ‘Dagar?’  He was…he was with me at the Tirthon!”  The mercenary’s eyes held both joy and terror.

“You know the young man?  He was my protégé at the Nightsingers’ Guild.  He sent me a letter a few years ago and I was so proud of him. But I feared the worst after the war. Yes…yes…I remember now that he mentioned you.  He has a lot of respect for you, you know.”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head.  “He was a snot nosed city kid when I first met him, but damn if he didn’t save us all at some point.  And he went on and on about you.  I think I’m beginning to understand why.”

Nirnadel held out the parchment and unfolded it. “Shall I, good people?”  They nodded and she took a deep breath and began to read.  “Good Haedorial and Faeliriel, I bid you greetings from Rhudaur.  I am so deeply sorry that I have not written sooner.  The war threw everything into disarray and the roads have only recently become safe again as the forces of Angmar retreat.  I understand that it was devastating for both sides and that Cardolan was near ruin, and I heard about the fall of King Ostoher and his sons.  I am so deeply sorry.  I am ever so glad that Princess Nirnadel survived and that there is hope for the kingdom.”

The Princess smiled, feeling proud that she was a hope for her land and people.  “The war was hard on Rhudaur.  Ethacali’s failure was just a respite and much of the Witch-King’s forces came down and sacked several of the Gondryn Towers, though two survive under the Vulseggi.  The Tirthon is still abandoned though some bandits have taken up in the ruins.  We received advanced warning of the war from Hirgrim and Cagh and were able to recall our forces just prior to the attack.  We secured our lands in the nick of time.  Finculion and Alquanessë were true to their word, hiding House Rhudainor and leading any enemy forces away.  We were able to bring the people of Thuin Boid to my lands and so my father and mother are well.  She is completely healed now thanks to the wealth that we amassed in the aftermath of the Yfelwood.”

Nirnadel looked up.  “I recall the last letter from Dagar.  I admire this man for his great accomplishments and all that he has overcome. Good Haedorial, I shall write him a letter, inviting him to Thalion.  I would dearly love to meet him.”

She looked back down and continued.  “Sir Oswy and Lady Eánfled send their greetings as do Mirthi and Cicrid.  Can you believe that Cicrid is now 13?  Alquanessë has really become a great teacher and Cicrid is now an exceptional singer and dancer.  I would like to, one day, send her to the Nightsingers to perform, perhaps even apprentice.  And…we have a son whom we have named Mercatur.  He is now four and I know that he will be a great warrior as is his namesake.” The Princess looked at the mercenary and smiled.  “Now that the roads are safer again, I hope to correspond with you more regularly.  There is a matter that I think I should bring to your attention though.  Alquanessë has been a font of arcane information.  I daresay that she is a walking encyclopedia of history, and I hope that you will be able to meet her one day.  As your apprentice in Tharbad I never thought I would have a Noldorin prince and princess as my guests and teachers.  I feel that I now know more about Beleriand and Eregion than most scholars in Fornost Erain.  I feel as if I knew Fingolfin and Celebrimbor personally.  But the matter at hand is that she has felt her sister, Blogath, stirring again.  She says that it is only a matter of time before she frees herself and Balisimur from the temple, perhaps a year or two at most.  We are debating whether we should go and finish this before too long.”

Nirnadel gasped.  “We should help them.  Good Haedorial, let us plan an expedition to Rhudaur in the future.  Now, let me see…the letter is nearly finished.  Here…Dagar concludes…I wish you all the best, my friend and I do hope to see you soon.  Should you ever meet my comrade in arms, Mercatur, please give him my best and let him know that he is always welcome back home in Rhudaur.  While I have always had a crush on Princess Nirnadel, I am happily married now.  I still fondly remember the time that I saw she and Chancellor Nimhir in the carriage outside of the Bar Aran.”  The Princess covered her mouth.  She always struggled with being a well-known figure with both the adoration and animosity that such a position entailed.  “Finally, Alquanessë wishes you well.  She is lonely, unable to find a mate, something that I am astounded by, given her beauty.  But I suppose her being a vampire would put a damper on any relationship.  She and Finculion have a solid lead on their mother in the south and I fear that they may leave soon to find her and the cure to their vampirism.  It would not be the same without them.  And so, I bid you farewell and good health.  If the roads remain open, I may plan to visit you soon or, you are always welcome to visit us.  Namárië, my friend.”

Nirnadel smiled.  “I still remember the other letter as if it were yesterday.  This has been a wondrous day, my friends.  Now, it is late and we should all retire and rest. Good Baranor, would you see to it that a proper guard is posted?  My Beffraen friends, I bid you to stay overnight and enjoy our hospitality.  I am most proud to now call you my allies,” she said and then yawned, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

Anariel gestured to the four stewards.  “Our young men have prepared the Royal Chambers for you, Your Grace, and a bath has already been drawn.  Come, you are still young and need your rest.  I will not take no for an answer.”

The Princess nodded.  She was, indeed, tired.  She stood and bowed deeply to her guests.  “I bid you all a good night and I was ever so honored to be your hostess for the evening.  I had…I had a magnificent time.”  Anariel ushered her away and she grabbed one more raspberry tart which the nurse tried to take, but the tall girl held it up out of reach.

“Ohhhh, you little demon!” the nurse shrieked.  “I’m sure that you and those vampires would get along so well.”

Kaile and Galadel led the way and opened the door to the chambers where Nirnadel could smell the scent of candles along with lavender in the bath.  They quickly disrobed the Princess and guided her into the porcelain tub, full of steaming water.  The heat felt so good after a day in the rain, and she lowered herself up to her neck as her ladies in waiting scrubbed her back.  She splashed water on her face and then onto her hair.  She looked down at her body under the water, so thin and waiflike. “Kaile, you are so much more of a woman. I am just skin and bones.”

Her friend smiled warmly and tilted her head.  “You will fill out, Nirnadel.  You are still young for a Dúnadan.  You will have a long and fulfilling life ahead of you.”

Part of the vision still disturbed the Princess.  “In the vision from the Beffraen…I saw…I saw Prince Araphor and…and I think that we were married.  He was…and I was…we were undressed and I saw…saw his…he was…I’ve never seen that before.  I wanted to be with him.”

Galadel sighed happily.  “Praise be to the Valar.  I believe that it will come to pass and the kingdoms will be reunited as a greater Arnor again.”

They helped Nirnadel out of the tub and wiped her down. Anariel offered her a robe, but she waved it away.  “I think that I will sleep like this tonight.  It is very humid.”  She brushed her wet hair back and then slid into the royal bed.  “Goodnight my friends.  I will see you on the morrow.”  She put on an eye mask and brought a blanket up to her neck.  As she closed her eyes, she envisioned Araphor again…his electric smile and his piercing gaze.  She imagined looking down again and her breath shuddered as her hand went down below her stomach.  She would marry Araphor, and the two kingdoms would be as one and she would be happy.

Barad Girithlin, Gwirith 12^th, 1410

Hir Girithlin patted his ample belly, full with sweet meats and succulent roast hen.  He had once been one of the strongest men in the kingdom with a body that was the envy of men and the desire of women.  He once shattered the breastplate of an Arthedan knight in battle with his war hammer. That was now years ago, and his stomach had swelled with his ego and his wealth.  He read a report that had been sent from Lond Daer.  His agent had done well.  The Princess had arrived at the encampment and negotiated a treaty with these heathen, the Beffraen.  They were a stunted, grotesque lesser race that dabbled in forbidden sorcery.  The girl even allowed the heathen to paint her face as if she were some barbarian priestess.  The Princess needed to be taught a lesson and reined in for the good of Dúnedain society.

He quickly penned a letter to send to Pelargir in Gondor. ‘My good Lord Castimir,’ he began, telling the Lord of Ship of the tainting of Dúnedain culture that Nirnadel was instigating.  ‘She engaged in vile magics of a sensual nature, betraying her status as the future sovereign of Cardolan.  I beseech you, Lord of Ships, to intervene on my behalf to correct this travesty.  With your help, I will make Cardolan great again. I will soon press the Princess to marry my good son, Falathar and unite the land under pure Dúnedain rule.  No elves, no barbarians and no heathens will undermine our destiny.  Your loyal friend, Chancellor Mablung Girithlin.’

Leave a Comment

36) The Gwathló Camp, Gwirith (April) 18^th, 1410

Haedorial

The excavation of the site that he had designated was now in full swing, workmen digging with shovels and some heavier equipment, pushing the muddy sand away from the massive hole in the ground.  Firiel’s mother and the Princess were true to their word and funds and manpower flowed in, everyone excited to get to the wealth of Númenor.  Mid-morning rain fell in steady sheets, compounding the difficulty of the operation but no one was exempt from work.  Once a day, the bard would take a shift, donning rough workmen’s clothes and grabbing a shovel or a bucket to lift sand and water away.  The foreman had built a wooden barricade around the edge of the dig to keep sand and water from reentering the hole.

Haedorial’s shift was approaching so he dug further into his research, perusing the tome while sitting in the cantina tent where the workers came to eat.  He also reread Dagar’s letter several times that morning, wondering how his young friend was getting on in Rhudaur.  He was exited about the proposition of a journey there to destroy the remaining Blood-Wights.  He knew a little about them from Dagar’s letters, but when he pressed Mercatur for more information, the mercenary just grunted sourly and continued drinking his ale. The patter of rain on the waterproof canvas was the only sound in the tent beyond murmurs of diners, and the crackle of fire in a nearby brazier.

He came across a passage about a Númenórean lord named Maran the Silent, who was Tar-Telemmaitë’s trusted agent in the city. He was given the task of guarding the Mithril Room until its contents could be transported back to Númenor, but the storm struck first.  The passage stated that Maran chose to stay and guard the room while the basements of Minas Iaur flooded and he was never heard from again and surely perished in the flood.  That had to be the man who guided him in the catacombs.

The tent flap opened and Valandil led the party inside, shaking off the rain from their hair and bodies.  Nirnadel entered with them, dressed in treated cotton work clothes, Kaile and Galadel by her side.  They all got cups of hot tea and coffee and came over to sit.

“Good Haedorial, how are things with your son and have you found anything new?” the Princess asked, holding her hands around the hot cup to warm them.

The bard smiled broadly.  “Bless you, your Highness, for bringing him here.  His presence is a boon to my morale.”  He had previously told her the tale of the catacombs but now pointed to the new passage.  “The spirit that I saw was Maran the Silent, I believe.  He was tasked by Tar-Telemmaitë to guard the mithril but perished in the storm.  I know that we are very close to finding the room, very close indeed.”  He noticed that the Princess seemed more chipper since the Beffraen ceremony, her cheeks rosier.

She listened intently, her gray eyes focused.  “I am fascinated by tales of my ancestors, the people of Westernesse.  It was a sad thing though, what they did to the Beffraen.  I promise that such a thing shan’t happen again under my watch.”

Haedorial felt a glow at her words.  He had seen her grow from a lost, sometimes spoiled girl into a young woman who had great potential to be a fair and just ruler.  “I spoke to them at length since the ceremony and they are a fascinating people, simply fascinating.  Their culture is rich with song and story, much of it passed down, father to son, mother to daughter.  Their written language is mostly pictograms, drawings that have meaning to them.  Over the years, they learned Sindarin from passing elves.”

Nirnadel developed a faraway look for a moment.  “I am enraptured by them.  I would wish to try the ceremony once more,” she said, hugging herself.

Haedorial remembered that her ceremony had a somewhat…sensuous aspect to it.  He surmised that she was still a virgin for her previous destiny was as a bride to seal an alliance between some entity and Cardolan.  Now that things had changed, she would need an heir to secure the future of the realm.  “It looked…amazing, your Highness.  I would be very interested to know what goes into those paints.  And, I have to let you know that I am so, so appreciative of your commitment to send an expedition to Rhudaur.  I believe young Dagar in the threat that these Blood-Wights pose to the land.  You recall his previous letter, don’t you?”

Nirnadel nodded gravely.  “Indeed.  These are demons of the ancient world that we have no understanding of,” she said.  “But there is one amongst us who has seen them personally.”  She turned and waved her hand at her Captain of Mercenaries.  “Good Mercatur, I beg you to please sit with us.  We have some questions that I believe that only you can answer.”

He got that look that showed that he would rather be anywhere else.  He picked up his tray and sauntered over with the others, swinging his leg over the bench and plopping down.  He pursed his lips under his thick brown beard.  “What can I do for you, your Highness?” he asked gruffly.  ‘Please don’t ask me about the Tirthon.”  He tried to change the subject quickly and looked at Haedorial.  “You saved me back in the catacombs.  Thank you. And I was a little harsh on you too so I’m sorry.  It was that rat’s poison in me.”

Haedorial grinned.  He had always wanted to win the mercenary’s respect, and it seemed like that was beginning to happen.  “Pay it no mind, sir.  I am just glad that you were cured.”

Nirnadel gave her best demure smile and touched Mercatur on the arm.  “I will be proposing to the Council that we mount an expedition to Rhudaur later this year before the winters come.  The danger that your friend spoke of is of great concern to the realm.  You, my good sir, have knowledge that will be instrumental in the success of that task.  You know the land and the people.”

Mercatur’s face showed that he knew where this was going. “And you need to know about the Blood-Wights.  Am I right?”

She nodded her head.  “It would help very much.”

He sighed heavily and tilted his head back for a moment and then made a face.  “I knew this was coming so I best man up and face it.  So, where should I start?”

Haedorial brought out his journal and quill.  “You could start at the beginning.  I’ve read Dagar’s previous letter which detailed the waenhosh and the Battle of the Tirthon.  It mentions the Blood-Wights, especially the ones who later joined you.”

Mercatur glanced up at a time piece that sat over the mantle of the fireplace, and he seemed disappointed.  “Well, I guess we have time for that.  Our shift doesn’t start for another hour.  Fine, fine.  My crew and I were looking for work in Thuin Boid when we came across this skinny-ass wastrel, Dagar, who looked like he had never been outdoors in his life.  Pardon my Dunnish, your Highness,” he said with a chuckle.  “That barbarian freak, Lumban, offered us a job but then Dagar paid more so we took it.” He then proceeded to tell them about the waenhosh, the massacre at Maig Tuira, the rescue of the prisoners and the retreat to the Tirthon.  “It was all a set up.  That mage, Ethacali, wanted us to run and escape.  He had turned one of the key people in the waenhosh, Nasen, who poisoned some of the grain and had an enchanted ring that would drive the cook mad.” He took a deep breath and downed his ale, froth spilling onto his beard.

“This is the part…this is the part that I still have nightmares over.  The Blood-Wights can infect your dreams.  The male, Naranantur, seduced Lady Éanfled every night, causing conflict between her and Oswy, her husband.  That one’s a firestorm, she is.  She just oozes…sorry your Highness.”

Nirnadel gasped.  “Lady Éanfled was one of my ladies of the court.  She was always very cultured and sophisticated, excelling in art and music.  She left to marry Sir Oswy to continue the line of House Amrodan.  I would dearly love to see her again.”

Mercatur coughed, regaining his composure.  “Yeah, yeah, she mentioned that.  Now, the female Blood-Wight, Skrykalian, posed as my cousin’s dead wife, convincing him that she was still alive.  Lord Marendil spiraled into depression and could not lead, effectively giving command to Oswy.  But she convinced him that he was a coward and that’s why she died, so he ordered a rash cavalry charge that ended in disaster.  Skrykalian killed my friend, Gamrid, and then Lord Marendil in that battle.  I know now that she was forced to do that, but I wanted to rip her head off them.  The way…the way in which it happened,” he said, shuddering.  “I can’t unsee that.  She swept down on white wings and pulled Gamrid off of his horse like he was a child’s toy. Her eyes glowed red and her mouth opened,” he said, illustrating with his hands, “bigger than is humanly possible…rows of razor sharp teeth and ripped his throat out like she was biting a ripe peach.”

Haedorial, Nirnadel and rest recoiled in horror.  “I…I had…had no idea,” said the bard.  “The letter was very…generic.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Thanks to Dagar, our defense stopped the attack, and they fled into the Yfelwood.  We pursued the fleeing enemy to end them for good.  We entered Blogath’s Vale and then into her temple.  I saw things…from the ancient past…the Blood-Wights living, singing, eating.  It was…I don’t know.  Blogath appeared to us as a woman needing help and we fell for it.  She was…,” he said and then gulped hard.  “With a wave of her finger, she ensnared us, and we could not move or speak.  She forced us to sit like puppets, saying that she would feast on our blood and bodies and turn some of us into her slaves, vampires like her.”

Nirnadel’s hands were over her mouth. “Horrible…horrible,” she said.

“She was a power that I have never seen.  Skrykalian tried to rebel, but Blogath was too great. Skrykalian bit her own wrist and gave her blood to Ethacali so he would have the strength to break free if only for a little.  He sacrificed himself by collapsing the temple.  With Skrykalian’s and Naranantur’s help, we escaped.”

He took another breath and recited how they made peace with the Cultirith and the Siol Nûnaw tribe and returned to the Tirthon.  “That’s where I relinquished my land and claim to the title and invested Dagar as Lord Rhudainor.  That guy will be ten times the lord that I could ever be.  He just loved talking about king this and queen that. Oh, and your Highness, I know he said so in his letter, but that guy absolutely adored you.  I don’t know how many times he told me about the time you passed him in your carriage and waved to him.”

Nirnadel blushed.  “Now I definitely want to meet good Dagar.  But praythee, good mercenary, is it even possible to defeat these Blood-Wights?  It seems that they cannot be killed, and I will not risk my people for a hopeless cause.”

Mercatur mused for a moment before speaking, hand on his chin. “Ethacali was powerful but all he could do was trap them.  Even Alquanessë, who was Skrykalian, offered me her life in exchange for her killing Gamrid and Marendil.  I asked that, if I kill her, would she just come back later and she said yes but that it would still hurt.  She just bared her neck and spread her arms and woo…yeah, she wasn’t wearing anything. And damn was she a looker.  But, since she just saved us, I called it even.  But if anyone would know how to kill them for good, it’s her.”

Nirnadel thought about this.  “Yes, we will have to ask her.  Is it true that she is a Noldorin princess?”

Haedorial nodded.  “According to Dagar, she and her siblings are the children of Írimë, who, according to my lore, is the daughter of the first High King of the Noldor, Finwë. She is of an ancient lineage that is unimaginable to us…eons ago from a time that predates Númenor by untold years. There is no known record of what happened to Írimë, but Dagar says that she is in the south of Middle Earth.  He also explains that the siblings’ father is Maglor, a bard renowned in elven legends and the second son of mighty Fëanor. His fate after the War of Wrath is also unknown.  A fascinating tale by any telling.”

Nirnadel blew out a long breath.  “Thank you for sharing that, good Mercatur.  I know it wasn’t easy.  It is decided.  I will propose the expedition to Rhudaur, and we will journey to meet with good Dagar and lovely Alquanessë and determine if we can move forward or how to deal with the threat.”

Haedorial smiled.  The Princess had an empathy that couldn’t be denied, and she was showing a wisdom that was rare in one her age.  He was about to say something when the clock struck the hour.  “I guess it’s time for our shift,” he said, rising.

Workers from the last shift walked in, tired but smiling. “We found something!  An armory.”  They brought in a dagger that was crusted in barnacles, six spear heads, four axe heads and a tarnished sword that was made of a translucent blue metal, Laen.  “We had to pour in some poison first to get rid of the sand fleas, but we got these weapons.”

Nirnadel made a face.  “Sand fleas.  Sounds simply ghastly.”

One of the workers laughed.  “Oh, don’t get any down your pants, girl, or you’ll be dancing for days!”  The others cackled and Haedorial gasped.

Galadel stood and scowled.  “You are speaking to Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel.  Have some respect!”

The workers stopped and narrowed their eyes. “What?  No, you’re kidding?  That was a good one!”  They started laughing again until one of the men pointed at Nirnadel.  “No, no, she’s not kidding,” the one said, his face twisting into horror.  “I saw her on the barricades that night when…when she stopped the revolt. That…that’s her!”

Another stared intently.  “Oh my…oh my… I was sick in the Houses of Healing.  Mistress Firiel cured me…and Nurse Kaile,” he said, nodding to the Healer and the nurse.  “And…and it was Yüle.  She came…the Princess came to the house and gave us presents and a feast…it’s her!  I know it’s her!  I would never forget that face!”  He knelt as did the others.  “Forgive us, your Highness!” they called, lowering their faces.

She shook her head and laughed.  “I like to disguise myself and I’ve gotten quite good at it, my good men,” she said.  “No harm was done.”  She shook her lower body in a mock dance.  “There, now I’m ready for the nasty sand fleas.”  The men didn’t know whether to laugh or not but Mercatur burst out and, only then, did everyone follow suit.  Nirnadel went to the cantina and brought them a tray of coffee and served each one of them.  “I am grateful for your work and your efforts to make my brother’s last wish come true.”

Haedorial could scarce keep from sniffling, so overcome by emotion was he.  He could not be prouder to be Cardolani.  The men thanked them and the Princess as she shook every hand.  She then pointed out the door.  “Come, good people, we shan’t be late for our work shift,” and they headed out into the steady rain.  This part of Cardolan could still be cool in Gwirith and people stomped and rubbed their gloved hands together.  Kaile put a thick fur cap on Nirnadel’s head as they picked up shovels and buckets and proceeded down the wooden ramp to the dig site.  It was already over twenty feet deep and growing by the hour.  The foreman had rigged a pump to drain water from the pit, but rain kept pooling at the bottom.  It had taken Haedorial a couple of shifts to learn how to use a shovel, but he was getting the hang of it.  The four stewards came down the ramp, including his son, who was much better at this manual labor thing than he.

“Oh, Mindolinor, this is hard work.  I am beginning to see the challenges that my friend, Dagar, faced when he returned to Rhudaur.”  The ringlets in their hair had frizzed in the cool humidity and they both began to look like one of the jesters of the court in his frizzy wig, white face and red nose.  “Your mother would be horrified to see us like this, but I have to admit that it is kind of…fun.”  He shoveled a load of sand into his son’s bucket.

“Is it true, father, that you had a vision of this site and the location of the Mithril Room?  That is phenomenal!”

He nodded.  “I did indeed!  I’m not sure if it was a latent talent or what.  It truly was phenomenal, my son, truly phenomenal.”  They looked over to see Princess Nirnadel kicking water onto Kaile and Galadel and then laughing and the three splashed at each other.

Mindolinor gazed at her as a young man would, a faraway look and a dreamy smile on his lips.  “She is truly something, father.  I would never have imagined a royal princess being this…fun.  She’s like a regular girl.”

“That she is, son, that she is.  She has a heart that is for all of the realm, high and low alike. Now, I was young once and you may have some silly ideas and I would advise you right now to forget them.  I have a good friend, young Master Dagar…now Lord Rhudainor.  He had the most serious crush on Nirnadel.  But it was not to be.  She is not just a girl.  She is Cardolan.  Her Royal Highness is to wed brave Prince Araphor of Arthedain, and the realm will be reunited as the Kingdom of Arnor.”  He gave Mindolinor a loving smack on the head.  “Now, you remember what I said.”

He looked disappointed but nodded.  “Yes, father.”

There was a squeal, and they looked over to see the Princess poking at something in the wet sand with her shovel.  “By the Valar, I think I hit something!”  It sounded like she struck something metal.  People rushed over and began clearing the muck away. It was the top of a room that was shielded in a type of steel that did not rust.  There was some discoloration on the metal from millennia of neglect, but the silver hue could still be seen.

Haedorial rushed over and looked at the silver sheen and fell to his knees.  “This is it, your Highness!  You found it! The Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë!” They dug down to find a round steel door made of the same, unusual material.  “It was during the reign of his father, Tar-Ancalimon, that the Númenóreans began to fall away from the faith.  Tar-Telemmaitë was the first Númenórean King to hold the Sceptre until his death, breaking over two millennia of tradition that started with Elros Tar-Minyatur.”

Nirnadel was down in the muck, pulling sand away from the door with both hands.  “That shall not happen in Cardolan while I have a say,” she said, never looking up. “We obey the faith, and we honor those who came before us,” she said in a dignified voice.  Then, she looked at Haedorial with a wicked smile as she flicked sand at his face and giggled.  “And if I should forget, you will kindly remind me of my words, good bard.”

He laughed out loud, wiping rain and sand from his forehead. “I shall indeed, good princess, I shall indeed!  You truly have the blood of Elros in you.”  Nirnadel pulled sand away from what looked like a large combination lock and a heavy handle.  The dimensions of the room were large, looking to be 30’x40’x12’ high.  This had to be it.

Nirnadel took a breath and then pushed the handle down. She gasped to find it unlocked, and the handle moved easily as if recently oiled.  “My brother, good Prince Braegil, once told me that the mithril panels were to be shipped to Númenor to become the walls of a secret room for Tar-Telemmaitë.  It would stop nearly all magic with the right enchantments so that he could never be spied upon, so paranoid was he.  There was a belief that the panels were onboard transport to the island when the storm sunk them, but my brother did not believe that, based on his research. He met with elves and dwarves on the matter and concluded, rightly, that they would be here in the ruins.  I ask you now, my friends, to take a moment to give thanks before we open the door.”  The people bowed their heads in praise to wise Manwë and great Eru.  Then, she took a deep breath, anxiety and hope on her face. She tugged on the door, and it was surprisingly easy to move, given its size and weight.  The construction of the vault was extraordinary, the product of Númenórean engineering.  Kaile jumped in and the two swung the round door out and a silver glow emanated from the room as diffused sunlight streamed in.  Haedorial and Nirnadel peered in, practically shaking.  The Princess fell to her knees, sobbing for joy, her hands lifted to the sky. “My dear brother!  My dear brother!  We have finished your work!  Your loving hands guided us to the room.  Rest now in the embrace of the One!  Eru be praised!  We did this for you, brave Braegil!”  Kaile and Galadel held her, crying along with her.  Then, she leaned forward and dug her hands into the wet sand, grasping handfuls and gripping tightly as if they were the spirit of her fallen brother.

Haedorial gasped.  Four large panels of true silver were on racks for transport.  “I don’t…I never…this is magnificent!  Mindolinor, we must record this in the records of the kingdom.  Your Highness, we have done it!”

The site was quickly secured by the Guard and by soldiers of the realm.  Ships were called for transport.  The mithril panels were unexpectedly light, such was the mysterious quality of the metal. Four of them could lift one panel with only some difficulty.  The Princess decreed that half of a panel would go to Lord Castamir in thanks for his shipments, half of a panel would go to King Valacar as a gift of friendship to Gondor.  Half of a panel would be sold, and the proceeds would go to the Beffraen for their friendship.  They were already meeting with farmers and craftsmen from Cardolan for ideas on improving the land and making tools of metal.  Half of a panel would go to King Araphor of Arthedain as a dowry and for the friendship of the northern kingdom.  That left two panels.  A quarter panel would go to the Tinarës, who had selflessly provided food and supplies for the realm.  What was left could fund the kingdom for centuries.  They had gone from near poverty and ruin less than a year ago to a return of the days of King Tarandil the Prosperous where Cardolan thrived and stood at its strongest point.  Dwarven smiths would be invited to trade and to create things with the mithril.  Nirnadel danced with her ladies, waving her hands freely.  Right now, she was just a Tharbad girl, enjoying a special moment with her friends.

“Come, come!” she said to the gathering.  “Praythee, good people, we must celebrate in the longhouse!” They ran to the building, out of the rain, where she ordered musicians to gather and for supper to be served.  The workmen from the last shift had heard the news and were all leaping up and down.  A drummer began to beat out a rhythm, and a lute and recorder joined in, playing a lively tune. Nirnadel and her ladies pranced about, linking arms with as many people as they could.  Workmen were astounded that they were dancing with a princess. It was every young man’s dream come true.  Haedorial clapped in tempo, enjoying the moment and committing it to memory.  He would remember this day for all of the rest of his days.  Nirnadel shook out her raven hair, spraying rainwater, laughing with raw emotion. Anariel would have a heart attack if she saw this.

The Princess ran over and grasped his and his son’s hand. “What are you doing, good bards! Come!  Dance with me!”  She ran back to the open floor and pulled Mercatur out of his seat.  “You are dancing with me, good captain of mercenaries. This is a royal order!”  They all tromped onto the floor, their boots stomping on the wood as the music grew in volume and pace, bodies packing the room.  The tune ended on a high note and the people cheered as Nirnadel took the stage.

“Good people!  Good people!” she called in a clear voice that carried to every corner of the longhouse.  Haedorial knew that she truly had ‘the voice.’  It had been a gift of the Valar to the House of Elros, the faithful Edain who had fought and died in Beleriand in days of old.  Bards trained for years to develop it, but the Princess was born with it.  “We…no, no, no, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this day that you have all made possible.  You! You are Cardolan, my friends!  Remember this day with me!  And we will heal the realm together!”

Every person in the longhouse roared.  The bard looked at his son, who was already writing down every word and trying to sketch a drawing of the scene.  Mindolinor was going to make a fine bard.  Haedorial put his hand over his heart as music broke out again to raucous singing.  Ghȗn-Zama-Ghȗn and his people began a song in their throaty language that sounded like frogs croaking and birds chirping.  The room was a joyous cacophony of people cheering, singing, humming and instruments belting out almost random notes.  It was what the Nightsingers called ‘a jam.’  Nobody cared if it was just noise.  Small groups were just doing their own thing.  The Princess and her ladies were up on stage, happily flailing about.

Mindolinor, like a good apprentice bard, was quickly writing down every word into a journal, every observation and even did a rough sketch of the Princess and her ladies before the crowd.  Haedorial beamed.  He taught his son well.  He imagined a day where Mindolinor would replace him, and he would be watching his son from the audience during the Yüle Festival as the Queen performed a dance for the people.  He put his hand on his son’s shoulder and gave him a satisfied smile.

Amid the delightful chaos, he noticed three men, wearing uniforms of the Chancellor’s Guard, enter the longhouse, searching for someone.  They were adorned in riders’ clothing, carrying conical helmets under their arms, bearing a dispatch from the Chancellor in a message case.  They saw the Princess and made their way through the crowd to the stage.  With his bardic abilities, Haedorial focused his hearing to the men.

“Your Highness!” the sergeant called out, holding up the scroll case.  “We bear dispatch from Nimhir, the Regent and Chancellor of Cardolan.  We came with all haste.”

Nirnadel was still smiling when she heard the call and turned to make eye contact.  “Or course, good sergeant!  Please, join us.  What do you have for me?”

He undid the top of a sealed scroll case and handed her a parchment that was covered in script, written in the Cirth, common for the Sindarin elves and the Dúnedain.  Nirnadel began to read, and her expression became serious.  She held up her hand and called out, “Good people!  Good people, I beg you, please be silent for a moment. I have an important announcement to make.  I have received dispatch from the Regent in Bar Aran in Tharbad, and I beg you all to listen!”

The crowd went quiet with a smattering of curious murmurs. Valandil clapped his hands sharply. “Everyone quiet!  Her Highness wishes to speak.”  All eyes focused on Nirnadel.

She took a deep breath as she scanned the document. “Good people, I read to you from the Chancellor.  The Chancellor writes…To Her Highness, the Crown Princess Nirnadel, I beseech you to return to Tharbad with all haste for a matter of great import to the Crown has arisen.  We have intercepted dispatches meant for Gondor that are subversive and threaten your ascension to the throne.  Captain Davrion of the Royal Barge is to bear you back to the Bar Aran with all speed. I have convened the High Court to adjudicate this matter, and your presence will be required.  I wish you good speed and safe travels.  You will be met by other members of my personal guard at the docks of the Bar Aran.  We will meet and discuss the nature of the threat then.  Your faithful servant, Nimhir, Regent and Chancellor of the Realm.”

There were gasped in the crowd and Nirnadel’s face was wrought with concern.  Haedorial knew that there would always be challenges to her crown.  The mere fact that she was so young and inexperienced was an invitation to unrest and ambition from less than savory members of the kingdom.  She was never meant to rule, her two older brothers being closer in the line of succession, but fate had vastly different plans.  Right now, he could only guess as to the new danger.

Nirnadel paused for a moment, thinking, her finger on her lips. Then, she looked back out on the crowd. “Good people…I have had a delightful evening with all of you.  You have all touched my heart,” she said, holding one hand over her chest.  “I fear though, that I must leave you for urgent business of the kingdom.  My orders stand as to the distribution of the mithril and to its safe transportation to those that I have designated.  Good Baranor, you will see to it that my instructions are relayed and carried out. We will begin to break down the camp to return to Tharbad and so leave our Beffraen friends to their lands.” She gestured to the Drúedain.  “Upon my return to Tharbad, I will ratify our agreement so that it will be set in stone.  Good Ghûn-Zama-Ghûn, I bid you and your people farewell, and I swear that we will uphold our friendship.  Good Thȃn-Voma-Thȃn, I thank you for your ceremony.  It will guide me into the future.  I may, one day, beg you for another.  Be blessed in the embrace of the Valar.”  She gestured to her guard and the expedition party.  “Come, let us prepare to depart at sunrise tomorrow.”

Haedorial put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Mindolinor, my good son, you best prepare for travel.  I will be coming with you on this journey.  The Princess will need all of the support that she can get.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm using the period from the Wars of the Roses to the Tudor era as a guide for the culture, fashion and music of the north.  I plan to use the Italian Rennaissance as a guide for Gondor.

Leave a Comment

37) The Gwathló River, Gwirith (April) 28^th, 1410

Nirnadel

The journey up the Gwathló River was a mix of both joy at finding the lost treasure and trepidation over Nimhir’s dispatch.  The rhythm of the oarsmen blended with the lap of water against the hull of the Royal Barge.  A navy caravel, the Amathel, escorted them, a smaller, swift warship with triangular sails.  Nimble and stealthy, she was an excellent vessel for destroying pirate activity along the coast.  Captain Baranor had made arrangements for the ship to carry the mithril panels back to Tharbad and it was well guarded with marines.  Haedorial and his son, Mindolinor, sat near the prow of the barge, under the canopy, playing harp and lute for the crew and the royal party.  It was an elegant, dreamy tune that evoked visions of pastoral fields under sunny skies.  Nirnadel sat with her ladies in the royal quarters in the aft section, listening to the music.  She looked out through one of the windows to see the thick Gwirith fog along the river. Captain Davion had ordered half speed due to the low visibility.  The morning sunlight was diffuse, keeping the temperature low with a pervasive humidity.

Kaile leaned over to the Princess and smiled.  “Now, the ceremony, do tell.”

Anariel looked like she was about to intervene, but she had learned to just let Nirnadel be a young lady…with limitations, of course.

Galadel nodded.  “Yes, Nirnadel, do tell.”

The Princess blushed deeply, her ears turning nearly purple. “I…I ummm, saw a vision of my mother, the Queen.  It was when I was a child, and she held me.  It felt so real.”  She silently begged the Valar for that to be the end of it.

Kaile narrowed one eye.  “Yes, as wonderful as that was, you told us about that one already. Something happened after…you let out a little moan, and your face,” she said, mimicking a face at the height of intimacy.

Galadel giggled while Nirnadel blushed even redder.  The Princess poked Galadel in the arm.  “What are you giggling about?  You’re just as much of a virgin as I am.”

It was Lady Tinarë’s turn to blush.  “I…I…well…yes, but.”

Anariel snickered, something that was unexpected. “Ah, to be young again.  You will always remember your first, my dears.”

Nirnadel shot her a look as if she didn’t recognize her old maid.  “Good Anariel, are you not going to shut us down with a stern look?”

“A hundred and thirty years ago, I sat on the Royal Barge with your dear grandmother, giggling about the same things,” she said in a warm, motherly way.

“So, spill it,” Kaile urged, tapping Nirnadel on the emerald sleeve of her dress.

Nirnadel coughed and took a drink of pear juice from her glass.  She looked nervously out the window.  “Oh look, the fog is so thick.”

The nurse wagged her finger.  “Uh uh uuuhh.  Don’t change the subject.  I tell you everything.”

The Princess made a mock, pouty face.  “Huuu,” she sighed heavily.  “Very well, very well…dear nurse.  Yes…so…I saw a vision.  One of King Araphor and he was…he was very happy.”

“And…?” the ladies all asked in unison.

“We were…together and he was…unclothed…there, I said it.  He…he embraced me and I…I could feel his…he was…very happy.”  She looked up and blew out a long breath.  “Good Kaile, good Anariel, is this what it is like…to be in love…to be with a man?”

Kaile smiled in a warm, but lascivious manner.  She nodded.  “It is.  Jonu will propose soon.  I cannot wait.  Our first time was in front of the fireplace at the Houses on the wolfskin rug.  Like Anariel said, you never forget.”

Nirnadel beamed with joy and held her hands over her heart. “Oh, good Kaile.  We shall have such a wedding for you, and I will invite Jonu to join the Royal Household.  The two of you will always have a place of honor in my court.”

Anariel tittered as if she were a girl again. “My first time was on this very barge. Oh, he was a handsome knight,” she said with a faraway look and hugged herself.  “I miss my good husband too.  He has been gone far too long.”

The Princess touched the old nurse on the hand.  “Our kingdom has suffered far too much loss.  I wish for joy to return to our lands.”

“Well, joy is what you will have when you marry Araphor,” Kaile said with a wink.  “In your vision, did you ummm do it?” she asked, poking her palm with a stiff finger.

“Oh, you wicked nurse!” Nirnadel protested, tossing a balled-up napkin at her.  She held up a finger towards the sky.  “He was…he was, like this.  I’d never seen that before.”

Kaile laughed.  “Oh, that’s good.  Just wait till he,” she began and then stuck her tongue out, making a licking motion.

Nirnadel’s eyes opened wide.  “What?  What is that? What are you doing?”

Anariel laughed but then clapped her hands.  “Alright, that’s enough, young ladies.  We must be nearing the docks of the Bar Aran.”

The Princess was glad for the change of subject, but her body tingled, especially between her legs.  She stood, attempting to appear dignified and led the way onto the deck. The cool mist coated her face, droplets forming on her skin.  Haedorial and Mindolinor continued to play as the other stewards, Brondon, Angion and Allion, came out to attend them.  The three young men blushed, eyes huge.  Apparently, they had overheard the conversation.  Anariel leaned in towards them.  “You heard nothing, and you will say nothing,” she warned.

They nodded their heads.  “Yes, Nurse Anariel.”

Dim lights could be seen ahead.  Davrion called out, “Oars, slow to one quarter!” and the pace of the oars slapping the water slowed to half of what it was.  “We are approaching the tributary of the Sîr Caramaid, that joins the Gwathló.  Tharbad is just ahead.  We can already see the lanterns on the naval docks.  The Amathel will follow us to the Bar Aran.”  Soon, the structure of the wharf came into view and sailors began to swing the lanterns back and forth.  “Ahoy! Ahoy!” called Davrion.  “We have returned from the coast with good tidings!”

They could barely make out a man standing on the tower of the naval barracks.  “Ahoy! T’is I, Captain Asgon!  We welcome you back!  I have prepared the docks at the Bar Aran for your arrival, and an escort will meet you to take the cargo to the treasury!”

Nirnadel waved back.  “Good Captain Asgon!  I thank you for your work!  I also have a mission for you to help our new allies.  We will speak soon!”

“Most excellent, Your Highness!  I shall meet you at the Bar Aran shortly!” he called and then headed down the tower.  The two ships under construction were in a dry dock at the base of the tower.  With any luck, they could fund a fleet soon.

The city docks came into view through the fog.  A small red building could be seen and Mercatur pointed to it.  “That there is the Broken Oar, a tavern run by a nasty salt named Arleg.  I had to buy a round of drinks on Eärdil’s money to get information.  That was when Valandil and I were investigating the drug ring.  Oh, and that one there,” he added, pointing to a larger structure that looked as if it would fall into the river for as shoddy as it was made.  “It’s a quality establishment known as the Sign of the Orc’s Head.  The food and drink are atrocious, but the brawls…,” he said, laughing.  “I had to drag one Gondorian sailor across the bar to gain a little respect.”  The ladies held their hands over their mouths. “And the proprietress, Bereth the Fat…lots of cushioning…ummm, if you’re into that sort of thing, I mean.”

They sailed past the docks and then the Merchant’s Quarters and soon saw the great Iant Formen, the North Bridge, a massive structure created by the Númenóreans with means now lost.  Houses and shops now covered it in a patchwork of buildings.  The barge passed under the huge span, its shadow covering the entire vessel.  Just beyond were the city offices where the efficient bureaucracy kept the wheels of Cardolan moving. Revamped and reorganized under King Ostoher, the government officials oversaw the movement of funds, crops, trade and the maintenance of infrastructure as well as it being part of the arm of the King’s justice.  It was quiet but effective.  It would be Ostoher’s greatest gift to his daughter.

The oars continued to strike water, though at a slower pace.  The docks of the Bar Aran came into view where a platoon of the Chancellor’s Guard awaited in the foggy gloom.  Davrion raised his arm.  “All stop! Raise oars!” he commanded, and the paddles stilled and then pointed straight up in unison.  He guided the rudder gently to let the barge coast into the dock where guardsmen tied the vessel down with thick ropes.  The Amathel continued around to the far side of the dock where small boats guided it in to tie down.

Baranor led the royal party down the plank where they saw sailors of the Amathel carrying the mithril panels towards the treasury. Nirnadel breathed a sigh of relief as the treasury doors were closed and locked.  She would send messages to the dwarves and to other artisans in the city to begin cutting the panels apart for the distribution.  Baranor spoke to the captain of Nimhir’s guard and then returned.

“Your Highness, the Chancellor awaits you in the Council Chambers.  He has convened the High Court with Minister Eärdil, Mayor Minastan and Legate Ciramir as the matter involved Gondor.  He has also summoned the Hiri, who will arrive later today.  Please follow the guard and they will escort us.”

The royal party approached the Chancellor’s guards, and they bowed in respect to the Princess.  Their captain put his mailed fist over his heart.  “Welcome home, Your Highness.  I am captain Taerion.  It is an honor to meet you.  Captains Guilrod and Tardegil are already seated as is the mayor.  Please follow us,” he said solemnly.  The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in for Nirnadel.  She turned and gave a silent nod to her ladies.  The guards led them into the Bar Aran and up the wooden staircase to the third floor where Nimhir and the others awaited.

The Royal Herald stood in front of the doors, flanked by two large guards, holding halberds.  They wore steel breastplates with green doublets underneath and red flat caps of velvet with hawk’s feathers.  The herald pounded his staff thrice on the wooden floor as the guards raised their weapons and opened the doors.  “Announcing the arrival of Her Royal Highness, the Princess Nirnadel and the royal party!” The longstanding tradition in the north was one strike for a commoner, two for a noble, three for a prince or princess and four for a king or queen.

Nirnadel looked in to see Nimhir and the others rise and bow as she entered.  Nimhir blew out a long sigh of relief as everyone remained standing.  “Thank the Valar you are home safe, Your Highness.  Please have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the King’s chair, an elaborately carved and crafted piece of furniture with elegant cushions in green and red fabric with gold tassels.

The Princess was stunned.  As a girl, she had played on the rich carpet while her father conducted the business of the kingdom from that chair.  Her brothers would sit in it when the room was vacant, pretending to be the next king.  The seat was never meant for her.  She gulped hard and squeezed her lady’s hands tightly before walking to the symbol of power in the land.  Even now, she felt small and insignificant in the face of what that seat stood for.

Nimhir nodded as he pulled the chair back for her.  “This is your place now, Your Highness.  I understand how you feel.  You will grow into it.  Please be seated and let us begin.”  The Princess’ ladies stood behind her while Valandil, Mercatur, Firiel and Haedorial stood behind their seats.  The rest would have to remain outside.  Nimhir gestured to the party.  “We have gathered people who are essential to the realm.  Captain Tardegil of the Army, Captain Asgon of the Navy, Captain Guilrod of the Garrison, Eärdil, Minister of the King’s Justice, Sir Valandil, Captain Mercatur of the Royal Mercenaries, Firiel Halatani, the Royal Healer and Haedorial, the Royal Bard and scribe.”

Nirnadel trembled as she looked around at those standing for her.  “Please, good people, I praythee, be seated,” she said, and the gathering sat, people murmuring about the agenda.

Nimhir extended his hands outward.  “As the Regent of the Realm, I call this session of the High Council to order.  Your Highness, upon your coronation, this will be your duty, so please learn it well.”

She nodded, grateful for the lesson and for her “Uncle Nimhir’s” concern.  “I understand,” she said solemnly, her soprano voice lowering.

He smiled at her, setting her at ease.  “I hear that your search for the Mithril Room was a success,” he said proudly.  “I will admit that, when news first arrived, I was initially upset that you made a…treaty with the Beffraen on your own without consulting me per protocol, but…you did well.  We now have an ally in Minhiriath that will bolster our trade with Gondor by protecting the shipping lanes.  And…it was the right thing to do.  I would have done the same thing myself if put in your tiny shoes,” he said, adding a little humor.

Nirnadel put her hand over her mouth and snickered. “Thank you, uncle.  Honestly, I tried to invoke you during negotiations, thinking, what would you do?”

He winked at her.  “And, I see that your speech and mannerisms have changed as well, spending so much time outside of the walls of the Bar Aran.  It is now, me and I and you make eye contact with people.  I am torn between tradition and the fact that this is now a new kingdom…your kingdom.  I will guide you, but you must rule and make Cardolan your own.”

His words struck her like a tidal wave, and she fought to keep from trembling.  “Until Úrui of last year, I was content to sing and dance, read and play, and prepare to wed some random noble to secure an alliance.”  She gestured down to the seat of power.  “I was never meant for this.  Seeing you all gathered here…the people whom my father trusted with his life, the people who guided and counselled him.  I am nothing.  You people were as the Ainur to me.  How do I…how do I grow into this?” she pleaded.

Captain Guilrod extended his hand towards her.  “Your Highness.  I was there with you…at the riot when we feared that the Bar Aran would be overrun.  We turned it around but we still feared that so much blood would be shed that the realm would never recover.  But then you appeared…seemingly out of nowhere and stood bravely between the two warring factions.  It was you who brought peace and saved the realm.  You were meant for this, Your Highness.  I can think of no one now that I would rather follow.”

A tear ran down her cheek, and she wiped her nose with a handkerchief, laughing at herself.  “I…I am so touched by your words, good Captain Guilrod,” she said, her voice cracking.  “Now, enough about me.  What of the business of the kingdom?”

Nimhir reached into a leather case and brought out a parchment.  “Agents of Hir Tinarë intercepted a courier who was enroute to Pelargir in Gondor,” he said, sliding the paper along the smooth wooden table to her.  She began to read as Nimhir continued, “It is a letter from Hir Mablung Girithlin, addressed to Lord Castamir of Gondor, who was here recently.  As you can see, it is subversive and threatens your rule with foreign intervention. I have convened this High Council to investigate and adjudicate this alleged crime.  Beyond that, a spy is reporting to Hir Girithlin of your activities.”

Nirnadel’s blood ran cold.  It was if her private thoughts and experiences were being broadcast to the world and she was gripped with both fear and anger.  “Who is the spy?  Do we know?”

Nimhir shook his head.  “No, but we are searching.”

She read the letter again that accused her of engaging in vile magic and lewd behavior and requested that Lord Castamir intervene to force her to marry Falathar and cleanse the realm of lesser races.  She wanted to tear the letter apart and put Hir Girithlin’s head on a pike.  She now felt foolish for holding an election that brought him one step closer to the throne. But the law was the law.  He would have a fair trial.  As a noble who was related to the crown, he would first be adjudicated by a court of his peers.  The other Hiri would render a decision if enough evidence existed to proceed to trial.  If that happened, Minister Eärdil would preside and determine Hir Girithlin’s fate if found guilty.

The doors opened and the herald pounded twice. “Announcing Lord Ciramir, Legate of Gondor!”  And then twice more.  “Announcing Maerion, Hir Ethir Gwathló!”  Nirnadel knew nothing about the new Hir of Ethir Gwathló other than that he was entirely unrelated to the family that was wiped out in the war.  In fact, no replacement had even been found for the Hirdom of Tyrn Gorthad.  She noticed that Maerion and Nimhir exchanged knowing glances, and she suspected that her ‘uncle’ had him selected as the Hir for situations just like this.  She was no good at politics and wondered if she would ever be.

The herald pounded twice more.  “Announcing Duin, Hir Tinarë!” he called and Galadel perked up, seeing her father.  He only gave her a warm head nod.  This was not the place for public affection.

Within a minute the herald repeated the tradition. “Announcing Barahir, Hir Feotar, Thangar, Hir Eredoriath, Annael, son of Celeph, Hir Calantir, who is unable to attend due to health and Mablung, Hir Girithlin!”

Nirnadel was unable to look at him, her blood near a boil, but she knew that she had to remain calm under any circumstance.  Hir Girithlin would exploit any weakness on her part.  She saw Haedorial scribbling furiously, keeping up with the unfolding events.  He looked up and moved his lips silently, casting his voice to her ear.

“Your Highness, he will try to provoke you. You must not overreact.  I am here for you.”

She gave him a barely perceptible nod and whispered back, “I see him now for what he truly is.  I regret that it took me so long.”

“You see the good in people.  Do not lose that.  Let us look out for you.  Be wary though.  I am concerned that the four arrived together.”

Hir Girithlin snorted, his wide girth jiggling under this tight red doublet.  The others bowed to the Princess, but Girithlin just took his seat, tossing his scarlet flat cap on the table in a clear sign of disrespect.  He looked thoroughly disgusted, his nostrils flared over his graying black goatee and gray eyes narrowed.

Nimhir bit his lip and then spoke, “Hir Girithlin, you will show respect to the Crown.”

Mablung rolled his eyes and sighed.  “I would, but I see no crown here.  Just a frightened girl who needs real protection.”

Nirnadel tightened her fists under the table and felt Baranor tense behind her.  She wanted to lash out at him, but she held her tongue.

The Chancellor’s face darkened.  “Very well.  Haedorial, please note that in your official transcript.”

“What farce is it that you gather us for this time, bureaucrat?” Mablung growled, crossing his arms.  “We warriors have real business to attend to.”

Nimhir held up the document.  “This is the business of the realm,” he said, his anger barely concealed.  “We have intercepted this dispatch, written in your hand, to Lord Castamir of Gondor. It impugns the character of the future sovereign and plots insurrection.  I have called you all here to the High Council to address this grave matter and to administer justice.  Minister Eärdil, you have the floor.”

The Minister of the King’s Justice stood and glanced around the room, finally making eye contact with Nirnadel.  “Your Royal Highness, esteemed Hiri of the realm, captains, knights and other important persons to the kingdom.  We are to adjudicate the accusation that Mablung, Hir Girithlin has plotted insurrection against the realm.  Hir Girithlin, how do you answer the charges?”

Mablung made an offhanded gesture with his fingers, not even looking up.  He pushed his chair back and put his boots up on the council table.  “This is preposterous.  Who found that ridiculous fake?  It is an obvious forgery.  I am stunned that you people fell for such nonsense.  Actually, no, I am not.”

Eärdil’s lip twitched, and his face went a shade redder. “These charges are no trifling matter, Hir.  And I would ask you to remove your boots from council table.  You sully the memory of good King Ostoher,” he said in a tense monotone.

The Hir scoffed and began picking his nails, daring anyone to make him.  The Princess felt Captain Baranor tremble for a moment and start to move.  She stood up to block his way.  She took a deep breath, calming her frayed nerves.  “You forget yourself, my lord,” she began, turning her nose up and putting her finger to her cheek, not even bothering to make eye contact.  It was the way that royals showed lesser people their place, something Nirnadel would never do unless forced.  “We ask that you show proper decorum in this august chamber and restrain yourself in our royal presence,” she said in a calm, but venomous monotone.  She could not believe that those words came from her mouth.

He paused for a second, one eye wide.  Then, without another word, he placed his feet back on the floor.  Nirnadel returned to her seat and dug her nails into her arm to keep from shaking.

Eärdil nodded to her.  “Hir Girithlin, am I to take your previous statement as a not guilty?”

“Yes, yes, get on with this farce so that I may return to my lands to do real work.”

The Minister then held up the dispatch.  “I have examined the evidence, and it is enough to proceed with formal charges.  It was obtained by soldiers of Hir Tinarë and presented to this court with proper credentials under Cardolan law.  Esteemed Hiri, you will have the opportunity to view the document, one by one, under watch. I caution that anyone destroying or defacing it will be removed and detained in the naval tower to await charges of obstruction of the King’s Justice.  Do you wish to examine the evidence?”

The gathered Hiri all nodded, and they were brought up to view the parchment.  Mablung took one look at it and then turned to council.  “This is a fake!  Obtained by Hir Tinarë, huh?  A man who holds a grudge against me because it is my son who courts the Princess. He has been biased against me for many years, jealous of my valor.  How can anyone believe this…this disgrace?  I will endure this vile smear on my character only for the Princess.”

Eärdil pursed his lips.  “Very well.  Your dispute of the authenticity of the evidence is noted.  Per Cardolan law, you are a noble, a Hir of the realm and this must go to a council of your peers.  I call upon the Hiri to deliberate and then to affirm or deny the charges.  Should the vote be made to affirm the charges, we shall proceed to a trial by a jury of Cardolani citizens.  Should the Hir be found guilty, I, as the Minister of the King’s Justice, shall determine the sentence.”

Girithlin shook his head.  “Sad, simply sad.  Do you not see how Tinarë seeks to exploit this for his own gain?  If not, you are blind.  This is the biggest hoax in the kingdom.”

The Hiri deliberated for a short time and then nodded to the Minister.  Eärdil then pointed at them, one by one.  “Maerion, Hir Ethir Gwathló?”

“Charges affirmed.”

“Duin, Hir Tinarë?”

“Charges affirmed.”

“Barahir, Hir Feotar?”

“Charges denied.”

“Thangar, Hir Eredoriath?”

“Charges denied.”

“Annael, son of Celeph, Hir Calantir?

“Charges denied.”

Mablung laughed and stood, picking up his cap and flipping it on his head.  “We are done here,” he said, gesturing to the other Hiri.  “Come, let us remove ourselves from this…place and I will press my suit for the Princess to marry my son.  It is the right thing for the kingdom and numbers are no longer on your side, little Regent,” he finished and walked out, followed by the Hiri who had sided with him.  This was bad. Four of the seven Hirdoms stood in a coalition against the crown.  Another civil war would destroy the kingdom.

Nimhir seethed, clenching his fists and Nirnadel knew that they had been beaten.  “He always has something up his sleeve, that one,” the Chancellor said and then gritted his teeth.  “He now holds great power in the kingdom.  We must move quickly to counter his lust for the throne.”  He looked at Nirnadel.  “Your Highness, do you trust me?”

She nodded, feeling overwhelmed at the turn of events. “I do.”

“I will draft a dispatch to Arthedain…  We will accept Araphor’s proposal.  If you are agreed, that it.  It will end Girithlin’s attempts to solidify power and his proposal for you to wed his son.  I don’t mean to be vulgar, Your Highness, but I firmly believe that he intends to wed you himself and I fear for his poor drunkard wife.”

Nirnadel’s illusions about the Girithlins evaporated and she grit her teeth.  She nodded her head.  “Yes, good Nimhir, I agree.”

He leaned forward onto the table with one arm and pointed at her.  “You put him in his place, my dear and, for that, I am so proud of you.  But he will not forget that, mark my words.  I fear for you should he ever be alone with you. He is a dark and violent man.  Your father valued him because he was an able warrior and commander, but I could always see undertones of his ambition.  My agents constantly reported how he would speak in private against your father, calling him weak and indecisive and that he should be on the throne.  One of his ancestors was brother to King Cirion and so he claims that he has a purer bloodline to Elendil than you.”

She knew that the Hiri in times past were Ernil, or princes rather than the barons that they were today.  All of them were once younger brothers to kings, holding great power and autonomy until King Tarandil the Prosperous reorganized the realm and brought the Ernil to heel, reducing them to Hiri.  It was he that established a national army with the intent of ending civil wars between lords and provided subsidies that allowed farmers and shepherds to prosper and grow, providing the realm with an abundance of crops, wool and meat.  She inhaled deeply.  “My great grandfather was Tarcil the Mariner, cousin to King Calimendil.  I know about the great civil war that nearly destroyed Tharbad and devastated the land after Calimendil was trapped and slain in Cameth Brin by orcs.  My bloodline may not be as pure, but it was Tarcil who was elected king by the council, the Dwarves of Moria and the Gondorians who intervened.  My forefathers were the rightful rulers of Cardolan.”

“That is the law,” Minister Eärdil stated.  “And we are sworn to defend the law and we swear our loyalty to you, Your Highness.”

Nirnadel thought for a moment.  Something did not sit right with her and her foot tapped in nervous movement.  “Good people, I am disturbed with some aspects of the law.  Hir Girithlin was able to subvert justice by being…popular, by having wealth and influence.  I do not see the justice in that.  I believe that all of Cardolan’s citizens should be subject to the law, high and low alike.  How might I propose that the law be changed?  I would ask that anyone accused of offense be held to the same standards and receive the same trial and be subjected to the same sentence, regardless of birth.”

The Minister pondered for a moment.  “That is very noble of you, Your Highness, but would that not include you as well?”

“It should especially include me, good Minister.  How do I demand that our people obey the law when I am above it?  I was…offended by how he scoffed at our laws and traditions.  All of you tried to warn me about him but I refused to listen.”

Galadel touched her from behind.  “It is your good nature, Your Highness.”

She nodded, touching her lady’s hand.  “I propose the dissolution of the jury of nobles and the creation of…a grand jury, composed of citizens from all walks of life.  It would represent the diversity of our people and better demonstrate our commitment to the law and to justice.”

Eärdil pursed his lips for a moment before smiling.  “I shall draft the proposal and consult the barristers as to its legality.  Once that hurdle is passed, we move to ensconce it into law.  Hir Girithlin may challenge the proposal, but the nobles will have no say in its passing.  This matter is purely in the hands of the Regent, good Nimhir.”

Nirnadel grinned, feeling good for the first time that day. “And, good Minister, I will need some of your time to draft a treaty with our new friends, the Beffraen.”

Nimhir put his finger to his lips and then nodded, a wide smile beaming across his face.  “I see so much of your parents in you, my Princess.  Rest their souls, but they are looking down upon you with pride.”  He put his hand over his heart.  “I only wish that we could coronate you today but, by law, we must wait until you are Eighteen.”  He clapped his hands.  “We are adjourned and we know our tasks.  Let us get to them.  And, Your Highness, I suggest that you return to your normal routine here as soon as able. We want to show Hir Girithlin that we are not rattled.  Good day, gentlemen…ladies.”

But, she was rattled.  Her life had gone from an incredible high to a devastating low.  But then, she thought about her father on the Barrow Downs, surrounded and desperate, her brothers falling around him. She made a fist and bit her lip.  She had to see this through for them.  She looked up at the pendulum clock in the chamber. She would normally begin music and dance lessons about now, followed by riding and then swordsmanship.  Every royal needed to be able to fight, no exceptions.  After the death of King Calimendil, his gentle family was massacred in one of the sackings of Tharbad by a former ally.  The account of the viciousness and murder was a horror story.  She stood and the council all rose as one and bowed.  “My good people, I thank you for your participation in this difficult matter and for your wise guidance.  I bid you good day.”  She walked to the exit where the door was opened by the guards, her ladies following two paces behind.

“We should go to the dance hall,” Anariel said.  “We shall provide you with a dance lesson. You have been digging for too long in the muck.  It is time that we recivilize you, Your Highness.”  The older nurse snapped her fingers at Kaile and Galadel.  “Have the room prepared and Her Highness’ dance clothing ready.”  The two younger ladies sped off.

Haedorial and Legate Ciramir caught up to them as they descended the staircase.  “Your Highness,” the Legate said with a bow.  “If I may beg a moment of your time?”

“Walk with me, sir,” she answered, continuing down to the first floor.  “I have dance practice to perform,” she said with a hint of distaste.  Her adventures to Lond Daer had been beyond thrilling and her return to Tharbad was a significant let down.  Still, there was duty.  “We shall speak during breaks,” she informed.  They entered the dance hall, a long and wide room with mirrors on one wall and a pliable, wooden floor.  Musical instruments hung on racks, polished and tuned.  Nirnadel had a flash of a memory of her mother playing the lute while Anariel strummed a harp.  The old nurse had to be beyond One-Hundred and Fifty years as a Dúnadan.  With her lineage, the Princess was likely to live past Two-Hundred, barring some tragedy.

Anariel went to retrieve a harp while the other ladies returned with a glittering silver leotard with a frilly, stiff, pleated skirt for the Princess along with finely made dancing shoes, courtesy of Ibal.  Galadel took a lute while Kaile took a small drum. Nirnadel went to the changing room and returned in her outfit, hair pulled back tightly.  She looked in the mirror and saw how thin and waiflike she was. Would King Araphor even want someone like her?  Kaile was much more womanly and filled out.  Her doubts were interrupted by the start of the music, slow and dignified.

Haedorial clapped his hands, and she rushed up and curtseyed to him, her back straight, her knees slightly bent apart, not swaying at all as she pulled the pleats of her skirt out.  “Basse Danse,” he called, signifying the elegant dance of nobles of the north.  Kaile beat out a slow rhythm and Haedorial bowed with an elaborate flourish of his emerald green flat cap with a golden feather.  She stood still while he glided around her, precise, practiced steps, stopping back in front of her with a click of his shoes on the floor.  She then dipped her finger to the floor and then to the ceiling, her eyes following her hand.  With a step, she mirrored his path around him as he stood still, stopping before him with a click of her shoes, one arm arced upwards above her head. This repeated twice more before they moved closer and touched hands, turned away and touched hands again.  They linked arms, facing Ciramir, stepping forward, then back, forward then back in steady, measured and deliberate movements and gestures. As the music trilled for the final notes, the two separated and Nirnadel curtseyed to the bard, and he returned a flourish.  They turned towards Ciramir and did the same.

The Legate clapped, smiling broadly.  “Most excellent!  Most excellent!”  He stood and approached.  “Your Highness, if I may?  I would like to show you the dances of the Gondorian Court.  We are in a warmer clime, you see.  Our hearts are as fiery as the deserts of Harad.”  She nodded and he went to the musicians, whispering into their ears.  “I think that this would make a fine…gift for King Araphor.”  He gestured to the bard.  “I also think this would make a wonderful addition to your repertoire of arts.”

Haedorial gasped and then nodded enthusiastically, his face beaming.  “I would like that very much, good Legate!”

Ciramir clapped and the players began a faster, lively tune, the drum beats coming in a rapid three tap rhythm.  “You already know the basic movements, Your Highness.  I will show you the rest.  Just do what I do.”  He moved in behind her, so close that she could smell his cologne, a spicy fragrance from the south.  She could see Anariel wince.  The old nurse shook her head and then picked up a horn and began blowing out a powerful succession of notes, low and constant.  “You must always keep your eyes upon me, Highness,” Ciramir said as he gestured to her and began a series of tapping steps, his shoes clicking on the floor.  She began to follow, her shoes tapping in sync.

He gestured again and they began to circle each other, the tapping of their shoes filling the room, the Princess moving her skirt back and forth with her hands.  He gazed at her sideways, eyes full of want and desire and she blushed, but returned the same.  He gestured to the center and skipped to her quickly.  They leapt past each other, landing and spinning back to face one another.

Haedorial joined in with a recorder, playing rapid, higher notes and Ciramir hopped in place, his feet kicking and turning in an intricate series of moves until he stopped and bowed his head slightly, his eyes always on her.  She knew the steps, only they were much faster and more intricate.  She hopped in place, kicking and turning her feet, bouncing on her toes.  They circled again in kicking steps, eyes locked, rushing to the center to leap and spin once more.  Then, they linked arms, facing in opposite directions, a slower, measured pace with stutter steps.  “Smile, Princess, smile.  You will be electrifying.”  They released arms and spun in place, left then right, feet tapping the floor.  They leaned to the left and then right in opposite movements, hands making graceful movements.

The music accelerated, quicker and more intense and they rushed together, leaping and spinning.  He grasped her hand and twirled her around to face him, and his other hand went around her waist.  They moved in a circle and, with the heavy beat of the drum, he lifted her into the air by her thighs and spun her in a circle.  Nirnadel gasped as he caught her and lowered her to the floor, her hair twirling about her face.  No man had every touched her like that.  He did it thrice more before the music drifted off with a trill into silence and he stepped back with a bow and flourish of the Gondorian Court.  She paused for a moment, flush and out of breath, mouth open before performing a deep curtsey and tilting her head slightly down.

“This dance is garish…daring and I dare say, scandalous. I love it!” she exclaimed, clapping and then holding her hands over her chest.  Northern traditions had ruled Cardolan since its founding and Arnor before, established and passed down by Elendil and Isildur.  Nirnadel thought it was time to invite new culture into the kingdom.  “What is this dance called?”

“Sogenne naru miruvor, Your Highness.  It’s a lively tale of getting drunk on wine, of all things.”

“It sounds wonderful, and I cannot wait for the day that I visit Osgilliath or Minas Anor.”

Ciramir smiled.  “I would like that very much.  Now, if I may beg a moment of your time, I must tell you that Gondor stands firmly behind you.  It is of great concern to our kingdom that one of Cardolan’s lords seeks to undermine you. Should Hir Girithlin move against you, Gondor will come to your aid.  We desire a strong, prosperous and stable north and we are behind your potential alliance with Arthedain.  You must know this, however, that there is growing unrest in the south.  There have been factions, quiet for now, that advocate for Prince Eldacar to vacate the line of succession as he is half Northron. We are keeping these factions from gaining strength for now, but I believe that you should be informed as to the politics of such a powerful kingdom as ours.”  He then stepped back and bowed low.  “I thank you for this wonderful dance, Your Highness, and I bid you a good day,” he said and then turned and left.

This day had given her a great deal to think about, and every month seemed to bring a new challenge.  She dabbed perspiration from her face with a handkerchief and turned to see Kaile and Galadel holding up her riding outfit.  She was already a masterful rider, but she had to show the people that she was fit to rule and training was a must.  Afterwards, she would join Baranor on the training grounds for swordsmanship.  That was something that she needed improvement with.  She changed with her ladies into tight pants and high black boots with a coat and cloak.  Galadel was also an expert rider, but Kaile was still learning, often yelping as the horse trotted, something that amused everyone.  Walking to keep up, Haedorial scribbled notes on the music and dance.

Nirnadel paused as she guided her horse out of the stable. It was good to know that Gondor would support her in case of civil war.  She thought about her sword training for a moment and how she had improved since the incident at the bridge.  She only hoped that she would not need either one.

Chapter End Notes

I'm a nut for medieval and Rennaissance art, music and dance.  The dance between Nirnadel and Ciramir is La Tourdillon with a bit of a Volta.  I'm hoping to showcase the politics and other things that go into a kingdom for some world building.  I'm using some inspiration from Elizabeth I and Anne Boleyn for Nirnadel.  

Leave a Comment

38) The Traders Bazaar - Lothron (May) 4^th, 1410

Mercatur

The big mercenary walked through the rows of kiosks, north of the city gates, that sold food, wool and trinkets as rare afternoon sunlight poked through gray clouds.  The bazaar was nearly destroyed in the riots that overwhelmed the city guard in the days after the war.  Starving and desperate refugees in the nearby shanty town would storm the kiosks, resulting in harsh crackdowns by Chancellor Nimhir in the dark days of 1409. But the former agitator, Lamril, met with the Princess a few days ago to propose resettling parts of Tyrn Gorthad and it seemed to go well.  The forces of Angmar were all but destroyed in the war and there was little sign of them lately.

Summer would be just around the corner with clearer skies and warmer temperatures.  Winter and spring always reminded Mercatur of Rhudaur, snow and rain, rain and snow.  The recent talk about an expedition back to his homeland set him on edge.  Though it was good to hear word from Dagar, he had left all of that behind.  The thought of facing those Blood-Wights again made his skin crawl.  He knew of nothing that could defeat Blogath, and he pictured one of her forms in his mind, half falcon, half woman, wings sprouting behind her, her fingers as razor sharp claws and her face, a pointed beak. Her eyes were ablaze, her bare body growing feathers.  Then, her serene form, an elven princess, austere and powerful, able to take his will from him with a thought.  He shuddered and pulled his cloak tighter over his body.  Nirnadel said it best, Blogath was a demon of the ancient world, unimaginable to mere mortals.

He grunted, knowing that he needed to face his fears.  Perhaps, somehow, he might find Silmarien, his cousin.  Any foray into Rhudaur would be fraught with peril.  It was an untamed and often hostile land even without the armies of the Witch-King.  The power of a mage would be useful.  If called for this expedition he would also need an old friend, the Haradan, Jaabran. Jaabran took his earnings from the Tirthon and retired to a quiet life in a little town northwest of Tharbad.  Rumor had it that the guy married some farmer’s daughter and had a kid and he was drinking ale on some farm porch on his rocking chair.  Not a bad life at all.  Mercatur wasn’t sure why they lost touch.  He chocked it up to his life in Tharbad now.  Things were always busy and dangerous, and he liked it that way.

He pulled his wool tunic down into his leather belt.  He elected to wear rustic clothes from his bargeman days on the Mithiethel and the Baranduin Rivers.  The outfit was warm and comfortable, convincing him that he was not losing his edge as a jumped-up captain of mercenaries now.  He always thought of himself as the rough and tumble rebel, raging against the establishment, defying his parents, scoffing at his birthright.  Now, he was ‘respectable’, a leader, a part of the kingdom.  He couldn’t be certain if it was a good or bad thing.

He dug into his pouch, remembering the trinkets he pilfered from the barrows.  Well, they were gems, emeralds, sapphires and few others, plus items crafted in a metal that he did not recognize.  No one was going to miss them and that sneaky elf had no idea what he was talking about.  At least here, they would do someone some good.  He had stashed them in his wall safe back in his room and decided that maybe now was the time to sell them off.  After all, he wasn’t the type to wear jewels.  Part of him felt guilty but he shook it off.  Guilt had little place in the mind of a mercenary.  It was usually, kill or be killed, or how much money could you make to live until the next job?

He went to the kiosk run by a middle-aged Dunlender, Remodoc, a decent fellow who always bought things from Mercatur when he happened by.

“Hey Rem, got some things for you that I gotta unload.  I need some coin,” he said, falling back into an old habit before the money was plentiful.

The portly man looked up from counting coins, his messy brown hair spilling down his rough face.  “Hey Merc, whatcha got?  You know, we’re all real happy for your security here.  I remember you busting up that thieves rings and keeping the thugs out.”

“Nah, it was good coin.  I don’t do shit for the good of it, you know that.” He knew that he was lying through his teeth.  He had a reputation to uphold.  He liked busting the heads of those idiots, but it made him feel good deep down to help the vendors.  “How’s Ciga?” he asked, putting the gems on the counter.

“Crabby as always.  Everything is a problem to her.  ‘The door squeaks, the kids don’t visit, the stove isn’t hot enough.’ Don’t get married, Merc.  It’ll be the end of you.”

Mercatur chuckled, watching the sun lower on the horizon.  “Don’t I know it.  I’m going to spend some of this at the Silken Veils later.  I need some…companionship.  It’s been a while.”

Remodoc blew out a breath.  “Too rich for my blood.  Hey, I thought you said you needed coin.  Obviously, you don’t if you’re talking Silken Veils. One hour there is a week’s pay for me. And I’m hearing that you’re some kind of big shot now around here.”

“Paaah, it’s all bullshit.  I still fight for coin.  It’s all I need to do.”

“If you say so,” the vendor said with a hint of doubt.  “But if you go downscale, say Lover’s Delight or Artan’s, I just might join you,” the merchant said with a snicker.  “That’s more my price range.  Like I said, don’t get married.  Half of what I spend there is just to get a woman to say nice things to me.  Hell, sometimes, that’s all a guy needs.”

Mercatur had to agree.  Settling down was never his thing.  Any woman he had spent more than a few months with eventually became baggage with nagging.  Buying a good time was fine with him.  No strings attached.  And no one bitched about your beard.  “Well, whatever you do, don’t ever go to Velima’s Ambrosia down on the docks.  It’s cheap and you get what you paid for.  That shit’ll give you nightmares.  Best thing I can say is that the lighting is dim.”

Remodoc laughed.  “I’ll keep that in mind, my friend.”  He looked over the items on the counter.  “What do you say to two gold sovereigns?  I think that’s fair.”

“Make it two sovereigns and twenty crowns.”

Rem thought for a moment and then nodded. “Done.  You have a deal.”  He opened his safe and then took out two platinum-colored coins and twenty gold ones.  One sovereign was worth a hundred gold.  He put the money in a bag and handed it to Mercatur.  “Good doing business as always.”

The mercenary pocketed the bag and began walking back into the city as the sun began to set.  He wanted to check in at the Bar Aran for any updates on the expedition but first he might have to stop at the Royal Arms for a drink.  It was a sedate, family establishment but their honey mead was the best in town.

After he walked away, Remodoc examined a silver jewel that Mercatur sold him.  He swept the gems into a bag and put them in his safe.  Other kiosks were shutting down for the night, and he would be doing the same soon.  Jellek down in the merchant’s quarters would buy all of this for four gold sovereigns and he would make a decent profit.  It just might be worth a trip to Artan’s.  He spun the silver jewel around, admiring how light it was, the design being that of a dragon wrapped around a tree.  It was quite beautiful even if dragons were merely legend, fanciful tales nobles told each other or cautionary stories to scare the kids.  Something pricked his finger and he yelped, sticking the finger in his mouth.  He shook his hand and winced and noticed a drop of black sludge on the tip of his injured finger, which was then absorbed into his skin.

“Pah, stupid thing.  Well, it’ll be Jellek’s problem now.”  He put the object in his sack and pointed to his two assistants. “Hey, close up, guys.  I’m heading down to Jellek’s and then over to Artan’s. You’ll get your share tomorrow. It’s been a good day.”  As he walked off, he looked at his finger, and the tip was beginning to turn black.  “Damn, stupid thing.  I’m not letting a little poke ruin my evening.”

The Bar Aran - Lothron (May) 4^th, 1410

Haedorial

It was an absolute honor to scribe for the Princess and Regent as new laws and treaties were being forged.  The feeling of being part of history in the making was electrifying. Minister Eärdil was also a frequent participant, coming and going to consult with the Guild of Barristers on the legality of the proposals and providing legal guidance.  The Princess seemed tireless in her effort to reforge the kingdom, going with little sleep between sessions of deliberation, music, riding and swordplay.  It was already late into the night as Nirnadel and Nimhir went back and forth on another point of law and the economy as lanterns blazed on the walls of the Council Chamber.  Paper, written in Haedorial’s hand, was strewn about the rectangular wooden table, the product of their musings, debates and ideas.  Platters of snacks and fruit filled in the gaps on the table, crumbs, half eaten sandwiches and pitchers of water and wine rounding out the work into the night.

The good Princess was kind enough to invite the bard’s wife, Faeliriel, their son, Mindolinor and their young daughter, Istriel, who was now ten.  It was a blessing for Haedorial and a boost to his morale for as tired as he was. Even for a Dúnadan, he was no longer youthful, entering the age of maturity and he could tell that his stamina was not what it once was.

Announced by the herald, Eärdil reentered with a smile. “Regent…Your Highness, the treaty with the Beffraen has been approved by the Guild as legal and correct.  We are also at the final stages of your proposal for the new law to guide the courts.  He produced a stack of paper from his document case and pointed to some signature blocks. “I will need you and the Regent to sign on these lines to complete the treaty, and it will become a reality. Captain Asgon has already seen to it that patrol ships make regular sorties to the coast to assist the Beffraen. And, the two new naval ships are nearing completion.”

Nimhir signed it sleepily and nodded while Nirnadel beamed and signed her distinctive, flowing signatures.  She always penned her name slowly in a controlled manner.  “It is done,” she said in a voice full of relief. “I hear that the farmers and craftsmen are doing great work with the Beffraen.  I am so proud of our people, good Minister.”

He gave her a warm smile.  “With that, I bid you all goodnight.  My good Rîneth has been far too patient with me, my job keeping me away so much.  But the work of the kingdom never ceases.”

Haedorial looked up.  “Indeed it does not, good Minister.  The Princess and the Regent have authorized funds to hire three additional judges to work for you and reduce your exceptional workload.”

Eärdil seemed surprised.  “That is…wonderful.  You all have made my night,” he said and then departed with a bow.

Without hesitation, Nirnadel gestured to the Regent.  “Is there any news on the identity of the spy? Until then, we must swear any involved in our work to secrecy.”

Both Nimhir and Haedorial shook their heads.  “No, Your Highness,” the Regent answered, clearly tired, “but I am having…less trusted members of your party quietly questioned by my agents.  We will get to the bottom of that, I assure you.”  Nimhir was into middle-age as a Dúnadan and the last few years had been hard on him.  His dark goatee was now mostly gray and his hair a salt and pepper color.

The bard was starting to fade too, blinking heavily, and looked at Kaile, sleeping on one of the council chairs.  Anariel had already gone to bed, while Galadel rubbed her eyes, reading through one of the proposals.  “Your Highness, perhaps the remainder of the business could wait until the morrow.  We can continue first thing in the morning like we have done.”  It was likely that Faeliriel was already sleeping but Mindolinor would still be up, awaiting news of the day.

She put her finger to her lips, thinking.  “I apologize, dear Haedorial.  I have so many ideas running through my head.  I promise, good sir, I have only two left for the night.”

He chuckled and nodded, admiring the energy of youth. “Of course, my Princess.  I am honored to be part of this process in healing the realm.”  He truly felt that.  Being here, being part of this was one of the events that he would take with him for the rest of his life.

She gave a broad smile, her perfect teeth gleaming. “First and foremost, I would like to offer you a commission as my personal bard.  Your family would be given residence in the Bar Aran, and you would become part of the Royal Household,” she said and then winced. “It would require you to resign from the Night Singers, however.”

His face flushed with surprise and delight. “Why…why, Your Highness, I would be…I would be honored.  I accept!” Such a position would ensure his family’s well-being and the Nightsingers would actually benefit, having one of their own in the Royal Household, a great reputational boost.

She took his hand.  “And thus, I name you, Sir Haedorial of Cardolan.  Please enter this into the register of nobles of the realm. You have done the land a great service and I shall not ignore such courage.  I had this made specially for you by Lothiriel the Jeweler,” she said and presented him with a royal cloak and hat pin, made of mithril in the form of a hill, flanked by two silver trees, surrounded by the form of an eight-pointed star.  It was intricately carved, the etchings clear and clean.  The detail in the hill and trees were so precise on such a small object that one could make out grass on the hill and leaves and fruit on the trees. “It was carved from the panels that we recovered and I thought that would make it a special gift.”

His hand began to shake as he accepted it, and he could not steady himself.  His heart flooded with emotion as he remembered the excitement of the dig, the terror of the Nurga and the thrill of the discovery.  The fact that Nirnadel had this made for him from the fruits of their expedition was such a thoughtful gesture.  “I…I am so grateful, my Princess, ever so grateful.  This is so, so unexpected.”  He felt his eyes mist and his cheeks became hot.  He had to wipe his nose with a napkin.

She touched him on the cheek and smiled.  “And please extend an offer to Sir Valandil to join the Royal Guard.  I wish to reexpand their number to sixteen.  Valandil is a brave and noble man who has consistently shown skill and valor. I need a warrior like him.”

Haedorial wiped his eye and began writing another missive. “Of course, Your Highness.  I think he would also be honored.  He intends to ask Firiel for her hand.”

Nirnadel made an O with her mouth, clearly surprised. “This is wonderful!  Kaile will wed soon too.  Jonu has already proposed and she accepted.  We will have two grand weddings at Thalion, I think.  I will authorize Jonu to move into the Bar Aran when he wishes.  I fear, though, that I have taken two of Lady Firiel’s finest healers.”

“But her healers already number eighteen.  They will be fine, Your Highness.  The worst has passed.  And, might I mention that we are awaiting King Araphor’s response to your accepting his proposal.  We will have a third wedding to prepare for.”

New energy flooded into her and her eyes grew big. “Yes, yes, perhaps, if all are amenable, we will have all three weddings in Fornost.  Perhaps Yüle or New Years.  It would be wonderful, don’t you think?” she asked, holding her arms over her heart and twirling in a pirouette.

He nodded.  It was a grand idea, and it would be one for the ages.  “I do indeed think that, I do indeed.”  To cover such an event would be the accomplishment of a lifetime for a bard. The songs about it would last the age.

Nirnadel put her hand over her heart.  “I know you are tired and wish to rest in your wife’s loving arms, dear bard, so this is my final request for the night.  Funds and artisans from the Blue Mountains and Moria are already pouring in and the mithril is being distributed as I commanded. In fact, I have never seen so many dwarves before.  They must be so disoriented being above ground,” she mused, repeating odd rumors about dwarves that she must have heard.  “Anyhow, I wish you to pen a letter to the Royal Treasury for funds to plan the expedition to Rhudaur.  Good Dagar will have need of our help, and my father made a promise to House Amrodan to reclaim their castle from the Dunnish tribes.  Please have the treasury allocate funds for Captain Mercatur to hire reliable mercenaries for these tasks.  Please request that Mercatur begin to plan our foray as we will need his expertise on Rhudaur.”

He began to write but she stopped him.  “Good Haedorial,” she said in a sympathetic voice, “Please, please do it on the morrow.  You are tired and the treasury is closed anyhow.  And tomorrow we can work on Lamril’s request for funds to reestablish a town in Tyrn Gorthad.  Right now, it is only we mad fools who are still working.”  She pointed to Nimhir, who was snoring, face down on the table and then to Galadel whose head was back, papers falling to the carpet.

“I have all night for you, my Princess.  I am still glowing from your fabulous gift. Whatever you need, I am here.”

She looked around and then leaned in with a conspiratorial look on her face.  “Two more things,” she chuckled.  “I deeply apologize as it’s always two more things with me, isn’t it?  Well, one serious and one not so much.”

He nodded, curious.  Grateful that she would put such trust in him.  “I am all ears.”

“First,” she said quietly, eyes still looking about. “What do you think that I should do about Hir Girithlin?  I still think fondly of Falathar, but I would daresay that I would no longer marry into that family.  I already know Nimhir’s thoughts, but I need someone less…invested in the outcome and more knowledgeable about the lore.”

“Your Highness, Cardolan has a long history of treachery, murder and civil war.  We cannot allow that to happen again.  Girithlin is nothing, if not smart and slippery.  He is masterful at manipulating young minds and he knows the law as well as we do and will use it as a weapon against us.  Any military move against him will bring public opinion against us.  The good Regent and Hir Tinarë have already deployed agents against him and Hir Tinarë’s intelligence arm is the best in Cardolan.  We will get answers, this I am confident of.”  He took a breath.  “So, my advice will be to wait and uncover answers.  Then, you will have the law behind you, and you can act.  The other best course of action is to marry Araphor. With the power of Arthedain behind you and the assurances of Gondor, Girithlin would be a fool to act out.  But be wary.  A desperate Girithlin will be a dangerous one.”

She nodded.  “He is like an angry glutan from the Minhiriath, the farmers call them badgers, so I hear.  It is quick, fierce and insane when provoked.”  She pursed her lips, thinking.  “I shall heed your advice.  You are indeed as wise as your voice is silver.”

He grinned and made a little flourish with his hand.  “And you are as beautiful as you are intelligent, Your Highness.”

Nirnadel giggled, putting her hand over her mouth. Then, she looked down, seemingly sad. “Now for my second thing.”  She put her hands over her flat chest under her whalebone bodice.  “Haedorial, my dear bard, how…how will I even be attractive to King Araphor?  I have no womanly traits.  Firiel is gorgeous, strong and, even though she is slender, it is clear that she is a woman.  Kaile is voluptuous and curvy and she emanates sensuousness.”

Haedorial’s eyes widened, partly with horror.  The Crown Princess of Cardolan was asking him what it meant to be a woman.  “Ummm, errrr, Your Highness,” he started, invoking some formality back into the conversation.  “I…I am probably not the one to ask these things of.  Kaile and Galadel would be much, much more knowledgeable about being a woman.”

“Please Haedorial, you are knowledgeable in the ways of courtly love.  I wish…I wish for your experience in this.”  She put her hands together.  “I need a man’s perspective.  I need to know…will Araphor desire me?  Will he see me as a little boy, a child, skinny and without form?”

He could see how full of doubt she was, and he reluctantly nodded.  “I will…I will do my best to answer.  I believe in my heart that Araphor will see you as the woman of his dreams.  My Princess, you are so fair of face, a rare beauty and the flower of the kingdom.  Your gray eyes are as the sea after a storm, powerful and full of life. You have full, gentle lips and high, sculpted cheekbones along with a delicate, elegant nose, the desire of any man.  You have the beauty of Tar-Vanimeldë, the most desirable Queen of Númenor, though I daresay that your governing is far superior. And, my dear, you will fill out. Trust me.  Look at Lady Galadel.  She is only a year older and has…filled out nicely, if I may say so in a chaste manner.”

She gave him a grateful, awkward smile.  “Thank you, my dear Haedorial.  I have so worried about this.  Now, if I may beg of you one more question…how would I please him?  I have no experience in this at all.  I have no idea where to even begin.  Good Kaile has told me some things but I would be with a king. I need a man’s experience.  What would he want me to do?  Otherwise, he would know…he would know how inexperienced I am…what a silly girl I am,” she pleaded with a face full of fear.  “Please sir, I need a man’s perspective.”

The bard could imagine no greater horror than what he was in right now.  He put his hand on his forehead.  There was probably some way that he could be executed for this.  He prayed that no one would be awake.  He glanced around nervously.  “Ummm…well…that’s ummm…,” he stammered.  He was rarely without the right words for the occasion, but this was such an occasion.  “So…ummm, what has Kaile told you?”

She held up a pickle and opened her mouth wide and Haedorial thought he would die on the spot.  She moved the pickle towards her lips but was interrupted by the sound of the herald pounding his staff once and the guards opened the doors.  Nirnadel dropped the pickle on a plate, and her eyes went wide in surprise.

“Announcing Captain Mercatur of the Royal Mercenaries!”

Haedorial breathed a huge sigh of relief.  “Oh, bless you, good captain, bless you.  It is so good to see you.  Come in, come in.  Please sit down, good sir.  There is still a lot of food as you can see.  Bless you.”

Mercatur gave him a strange look, and a half smile.  “It’s good to be seen.  And good to see you too,” he said as the bard guided him to the table and pulled out his chair.  He looked at the Princess and bowed.  “Highness, I hope you are well.”

She practically jumped out of her seat.  “Yes…yes, we were just discussing a matter of great importance to the realm…yes, the quality of pickles, yes,” she stammered.

The mercenary narrowed one eye.  “Pickles…important to the realm?”

She nodded emphatically.  “Yes, pickles…they are oh, so good to eat, being large and thick and tasty…and…,” she said, blushing furiously.  “And I am just going to shut my foolish mouth now.”

Haedorial desperately wanted to either laugh or have Mercatur kill him with a dagger, a sharp one, preferably.  The Princess was growing up so fast.  She would be a woman in less than a year.  Her questions were natural but coming from the future queen, it was horrifying.  He knew that the Beffraen ceremony had awakened something in her.  With the fire of her being, he knew that she would figure it out with Araphor.  Valar help him when his daughter, Istriel, came of age.  He would have to hide the pickles.  He noticed that Kaile and Galadel were awake again.

Mercatur gave the Princess a sideways glance, not quite wanting to believe what he was hearing.  Kaile ran over, giggling and picked up the pickle, pushing it into her mouth, poking it into her cheek.  She then took it out, licked it and took a bite.  “Mmmm, large, thick and tasty.  Mmmm.”

Mercatur’s eyes widened, and he bellowed out a laugh.  “Oh…you were talking about…Oh!  I get it!  I see why you were so happy to see me, Haedorial.  Whew, I’m going to have to visit the Silken Veils after this…get my pickle taken care of,” he joked, referring the expensive brothel nearby.

Nirnadel turned a violent shade of red, and she put her head down.  “Oh blessed Manwë, strike me down now and cast me into the void.”

Haedorial joined the laughter now.  “Oh, Your Highness, everything you asked and everything that you feel is natural.  A young woman of your age will have these feelings, a desire for closeness, a desire for love.”

Kaile hugged the Princess from behind.  “You know that I love you.  You are more of a woman than I will ever be.  Fear not, my dear Princess.”

Nimhir roused and scratched his head, eyes blinking sleepily. “What’s going on?  Did I miss something?”

Nirnadel didn’t miss a beat.  “We need to order more pickles, dear Regent,” she said and the room burst into laughter.  It was another moment that the bard would never forget.  The dear Princess was most human.  So many royals were distant and superior.  Nirnadel’s dear mother was a gem, generous and giving, but the Queen was always cold and remote, sometimes even pompous to commoners.  And she was notoriously prickly if she felt slighted.  Watching the young lady mature into a kind, warm and even humorous woman was a joy.  The fact that she could not only make a joke, but take one in stride was a sign of her character.

The bard motioned to Mercatur.  “It is fortuitous that you have come, good mercenary captain.  We are funding the expedition to Rhudaur and we will need to meet with you on the morrow to plan.  Your expertise will be crucial.”

Nirnadel wiped the tears of embarrassment and laughter from her cheeks.  “I am authorizing you to hire a troop of mercenaries for the task.  We will first meet with good Lord Rhudainor, then take Castle Amrodan for Lady Éanfled and then proceed to Blogath’s Vale to end the Blood-Wights for good.  You will lead them, good Mercatur.”

He perked up.  “I can do that.  I’m going to pull that lazy Haradan, Jaabran, out of retirement first thing.  I sold a few of those Barrow trinkets so that will help the funding.”

Haedorial narrowed his eyes.  “I thought we left all of the items in the Barrows?”

Mercatur waved his hand dismissively.  “These were nothing.  Bits of glass, some pins, nobody wanted those.  I got some good coin though….which I think I’ll spend some of at the Silken Veils.  All of this talk about pickles in mouths has got me going.  You all have a good night…Haedorial, Chancellor, Your Highness. I’ll be back tomorrow to discuss the details.  It’s been too long since I had a good fight…and the chance to sink my axe into that demon…”

As he left, Kaile took the pickle again and bit another part off, chewing loudly.  “Mmmm, so large, thick and tasty!  Juicy too!”

Nirnadel’s face showed horror again, her lips opening wide. She was about to say something when Kaile put the pickle in her mouth.  The Princess rolled her eyes and took a bite.  Between chews, she looked at Nimhir.  “Yes, dear Regent, we need more pickles.”

The Houses of Healing – Lothron 4^th, 1410

Valandil

After the fight on the Barrow Downs and the terror of the Nurga, just being at home in the Houses of Healing was a great comfort and relief.  It was pretty late, and he and Firiel sat by the fireplace in the common lounge.  There was a fireplace in Firiel’s room, but she liked to spend time with the nurses before bed.  The flames crackled as they drank tea, covered in quilts, gifts from her mother after the expedition.  The other nurses sat around the room, murmuring about the day’s events. Pelemeth had stepped up to fill Kaile’s role and the staff now numbered 18, more than enough to handle the current load of patients.  Things were quiet, calm and stable, just the way that they were before the war.

“I’m so glad that you reconnected with your mother,” Valandil said, holding his warm cup in both hands.

“I dreamed of that, Valandil.  We spent a lot of time together.  She is a frequent traveler between Lindon and Rivendell and she’s in Rivendell now.  This is so weird to think, but one day, she will be ‘younger’ than me.  She was born in Lindon when the Númenóreans were just exploring the coast.  I was…an unexpected child.  It’s hard to imagine how elves are immortal.  Círdan of the Havens is ancient beyond our understanding.  Mother told me so much about him and some of the tales of lost Beleriand.  Imagine…like those Blood-Wights, knowing legends like Fingon or Gil-Galad?  Now I was raised as a Dúnadan so my understanding of elves is limited.  She did tell me that, as a half elf, my lifespan would be very long though.”

He nodded.  “You said you were…sixty something?”

“Sixty-Four,” she responded with a snorting chuckle.  She made a face, scrunching up and narrowing her eyes.  “I don’t know what it is, but I still worry about everything.  I know that this is the best that things have been, but I can’t shake this anxiety.”

He thought for a moment.  He couldn’t quite grasp her feeling.  For him as a soldier, when things were bad, they were very bad. When things were good, one tended not to worry so much.  Perhaps that was King Ostoher’s mistake.  But, whether he understood her anxiety or not, he would show empathy.  “There are always things that we need to be on the lookout for.  After all, Hir Girithlin must be plotting something.  I can’t believe that I thought so well of him.  I was pretty naïve.”

“Yes, you were, young man,” she said with a giggle.  “What are you, Thirty?  I think that I’m what they call a cradle robber.”

He laughed, considering that they looked the same age and, as a pure Dúnadan, he looked much younger as if he were only slightly older than Kaile or Jonu.  “Actually, I’ve heard the term, cougar, in the Army.”

She smacked her lips.  “Cougar, huh?  I like it, rawwrrr,” she said, raking her fingers as if they were claws.  They both laughed and she put her cup down and snuggled up to him, putting her head in his chest.  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and leaned over to kiss her when there was a knock at the door.  Jonu hopped up to answer it, and it was Mercatur.  The mercenary nodded to the young man.  They had long since gotten past the bad old days.

“Sorry, I know it’s late, but I just came from the Bar Aran. Nirnadel’s requesting funds for the Rhudaur expedition.  I think I’m going to need you two.  She put me in charge for some reason.”  He poured himself some tea and sat down.  “I’m going to be hiring some mercenaries too.  I’m thinking that we leave Cardolan in Cerveth, just before the temperatures begin to cool.  We’re going to want to be done and out of Rhudaur by late Hithui when the snows begin to fall.”  It was clear that he’d been thinking this through.

Valandil was just feeling comfortable back in Tharbad and it showed on his face.  “Another expedition…?  Really?”

Mercatur smiled through his beard.  “It’s a good one, I promise.  My friend, Dagar, needs help.  I tell you, if these Blood-Wights get loose, it would be bad, very bad.  And besides, I highly suspect that Nirnadel will be tagging along and she gonna need her personal guard…you, Sir Valandil,” he said with a weak flourish of his hand.

The knight narrowed his eyes, suspicious.  “What do you mean, me?”

“Oh yes, you’re hearing it from me first…she has named you to the Royal Guard.  Well, that is, if you accept and you’re going to accept.  She’s expanding the Guard back to sixteen.  I seem to remember that it was almost thirty when we went to war.”

Valandil stood up, putting his hand to his chin. “What?  Wow…that’s unexpected.  Yes, I’d absolutely accept.  Yeah, fine, count us in.”

Firiel shrugged.  “Well, I go where the Princess goes.  So, what do you need from us?”  She put her hand on Valandil’s shoulder.  “A Royal Guard?  That’s fantastic.  We really couldn't ask for more from the Princess.  I cannot imagine where we would be if she died on the bridge or if Hir Girithlin were King.”

Mercatur grunted.  “I’d probably be on a boat to Gondor, looking for work in some dump like Far Harad or Umbar.  Good, you’re in.  I think the Princess and the others finally went to sleep.  They’ve been at it all day.  New laws this, treaties that, financial reports and so on.  Apparently, the dwarves are paying big bucks for those panels and cutting them apart for shipping.  Shit, I get nervous when things are going too good.”

Firiel gestured to the mercenary in a ‘see, I told you’ stance. “He gets it.  Yeah, I just can’t shake this anxious feeling.”  She walked over to give him a hug and then she recoiled. “Oh, Manwë’s breath, you’re covered in cheap perfume and you smell like…sex.”

He bellowed out a laugh.  “Well damn, it was the Silken Veils so it wasn’t that cheap.  Oh, and get this, guys, when I came into the Council Chambers, Nirnadel was holding a pickle and simulating…,” he started and made a motion of sucking on his finger.  “I almost fell over.  She turned bright red, but we all had a good laugh.  You know, for a royal, she’s pretty decent.”

Firiel snickered and gave Mercatur the embrace anyway. “She’s a young woman.  She’ll start to think about these things.  I remember my first crush.  A young squire in the Tinarë household…”

Valandil blanched.  “You mean I wasn’t your first?”

She snickered.  “Oh dear boy, remember, I’m Sixty-Four.  I been around the block.”

Mercatur laughed again.  “Man, I might have to go back to the Veils now.  Whew, I bet Nirnadel gives good pickle, so young and innocent but full of fire.”  He shook his head.  “Just a thought,” he said with a wink.  “Well, don’t let me stop you from getting your pickle on.”  He nodded and headed to the door.  “See yah.”

Valandil sighed.  “Another adventure.  Well, he’s right.  We need to end those Blood-Wights.  I worry though if the Princess joins the expedition.  I think she puts herself at too much risk.”

Firiel nodded.  “I worry about that a lot.  We can’t lose her, you know.”

“I know.  I’m not going to let that happen while I still draw breath.  And Baranor…no one is better with sword and poleaxe in the kingdom. You know, Nirnadel gave him the laen sword recovered in Lond Daer.  It’s a relic from a lost kingdom.”  He looked around to see that the nurses had cleared out and gone to bed.  He stood and grasped Firiel by the waist.

She gave him that look, sideways with a sly smile.  “You know, Kaile and Jonu first did it on this wolfskin rug.  She thinks I don’t know,” she said in a motherly way.  She reached down his pants, and he gasped.  “Let’s take care of that pickle, shall we?”  She undid the ties of his pants and slid them down to his ankles. “I give good pickle,” she said, snickering and holding him in her hand as she knelt down.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, groaning. “Oh…I’m sure you could show Nirnadel a thing or two,” he said, his breath ragged.  “I’ll never look at another sandwich the same.”

Morning came all too quickly, and they maybe got a few hours of sleep.  Morning sunlight streamed into the common lounge.  Jonu and Pelemeth came into the room but quickly left, seeing the Healer cuddled on the wolfskin rug without even a blanket, the fire just smoldering now. Firiel stirred.  “Ohhh, I’m going to be walking funny today.”  She stretched and groaned, her body gleaming in the sunlight, blonde hair streaming down her back and in front of her face.  “Time to get up, young man,” she said softly, shaking Valandil.

He felt her hand rocking him and he opened one eye, stretching his arm.  “Ugh, can we sleep the rest of the day?”

She looked around.  “Oh my, I guess we didn’t bother to go back to my room.  Well, I’m sure Jonu has already made coffee.  I can smell it.  Mmmm, I’m hungry too.  Some eggs and bacon sound great.”

Valandil watched as she stood.  Her lithe body was radiant.  He had to be the luckiest man in Middle Earth.  He certainly felt like it.  He loved everything about her, her sly smile, her passion for healing, the way she put her blonde hair behind her ear when thinking.  And the way that her hair fell on his chest when he looked up at her…  It was time. Before she stood to go, he held her hand and dug a felt box out of his pants that were crumpled on the floor. He opened it to show her a ring.

She gasped, holding her hands over her mouth.  Before he could even speak, she nodded.  “Yes, yes, of course, yes!”

There was clapping at the doorway to the kitchen, the nurses standing there, some giggling, some just smiling.  Valandil’s eyes shot open, and he put one hand over his manhood and Firiel scurried to cover herself with a blanket.  Jonu winked.  “It’s about damn time, Valandil,” he said, nodding approval.  “You know, Kaile and I-”

Firiel waved him off.  “I know.  I heard it.”

It was his turn to blush.  He was about to retort when there was a loud banging on the front door. It sounded urgent.  Firiel slung on her robe and rushed to the door, opening it. A middle-aged Dunnish man stood there, his face twisted in pain.  He was holding his wrist with his left hand and…his right hand was nearly all black.

She ushered him in and snapped her fingers.  “Nurses, prepare the exam room.  Pelemeth, Jonu, get him prepped.  I’ll be in shortly.”  She shot Valandil a worried look and he quickly rose, stored the ring and dressed.  They ran back to her room and washed their hands and faces.  “I may need you to help me hold him.  His eyes were full of panic.  Come on, I need to find out what this is.”

They rushed into the exam room where the man was seated, groaning in pain.  “Please, it hurts so much.  Please help me!”

Firiel pointed to Valandil and Jonu.  “Hold him down.  I need to look at the hand, sir.  What is your name?”  Valandil gripped the man’s shoulder and held him tight.

“Remodoc.”

She scanned the blackened skin, finding a puncture on the tip of his index finger.  “You were poked, Remodoc, what happened?  Is this a bite?  Was it a snake?”

He shook his head.  “No, no, I got poked by some old trinket that I bought.  It stung at first but it went away.  Then, my finger started turning black but it felt fine. Is it poison?  Was I poisoned?”

Firiel gestured to her kit.  “Jonu, the test strips please.”  He handed her a few wooden sticks, and she touched one to the wound. She handed it to Pelemeth who held it over a burning candle.  The flame looked normal.  Firiel narrowed her eyes.

“What is it?” Valandil asked, his concern growing.

She shook her head.  “It’s not poison.  The fire would turn blue or purple depending on the poison.”  She pushed a little on the puncture and some black fluid came out and Remodoc winced, sucking air through his teeth.  Firiel recoiled, shaking her hand.  “Ouch!  What was that?”  Valandil could see that there was a smudge of oily substance on her finger, and she washed it off in the basin.

Another loud banging was heard at the door and Omah ran to answer it.  In a minute she came back with two more people, a young woman who was obviously a prostitute and a blond man who appeared to be a merchant.  The young woman had brown hair that fell over her face that now had black streaks that followed her veins and arteries.  The man held his right hand like Remodoc, the entire index finger black.  The man pointed at Remodoc.  “What did you sell me?  The damn thing poked me and now I’m like this!”

Remodoc groaned.  “I don’t know, Jellek, I don’t know.  I just bought the damn thing.  Came from the Barrow Downs, they did.”

Valandil gasped.  “Barrow Downs.  We were there recently.”

Firiel’s face showed horror.  “Oh no…oh no, this isn’t poison, this isn’t a disease, this is a curse. I have no power over this.  We need to isolate this room and we need to warn the city.  Pelemeth, Omah, go, go to the Chancellor.  Let him know that we may have an epidemic on our hands.  It’s a curse brought back from the Barrow Downs. We need outside help.  Go quickly!”

Valandil held her by the arm.  “What do we need to do?  What’s going to happen?”

She pointed to two of the newer nurses.  “Vicri, Sissi, lock this room down.  No one comes or goes without my say.  Bring anyone else afflicted here, but do not touch them!” She looked Valandil in the eye.  “According to my mother, they may become wights, similar to what those Blood-Wights are, horrible spirits trapped in agony.”  She grabbed him with her left hand and guided him to the door.  “You need to go.  Go, find my mother.  Tell her to come immediately.  We need the elves.”

He shook his head vehemently.  “No, no, I’m not leaving you.  We’ll get through this together.”

She pushed him out the door and held it.  “You need to go,” she said, shaking, a tear rolling down her cheek.  “You need to find my mother in Rivendell.  Go now,” she added, holding up her finger, which was just beginning to turn black. “I’m infected.  Go quickly, please.”

As she shut the door, his stomach fell through the floor and he began to shake.  There was always something lurking in the shadows, trying to destroy them.  He pounded on the door.  “I’ll find her!  I’ll be back with help.  I need you to hang on, Firiel.  I need you to hang on!”

Chapter End Notes

I want to show Nirnadel awakening as a woman.  I'm also working on Mercatur's character arc as he prepares to return home to Rhudaur to face his fears.

Leave a Comment

39) The Bar Aran - Lothron (May) 5^th, 1410

Nirnadel

They picked up where they left off last night, hammering out the details of Lamril’s request to resettle parts of Tyrn Gorthad and the expedition to Rhudaur.  Lamril would be given a year to settle the land without any obligation to the crown, utilizing towns that had been ruined in the war as a starting point.  They would be given the protection of the Royal Army and be subject to Cardolan law but would pay no duties or taxes until they were established.  Lamril felt this to be very fair and would begin construction of wagons to transport his people to what would be their new homes.

The sale of the panels to the dwarves made the funding of these projects more than feasible and Nimhir felt that a return on investment from Lamril would be seen in three to four years.  Government employees were even given a modest raise, something that had not occurred in years.

Mercatur had just begun to provide details of Rhudauran weather and culture that would impact the expedition, when the herald pounded once and the door opened.  “Announcing Pelemeth and Omah of the Houses of Healing!”  Kaile perked up and looked at the two young women rushing in, searching for someone.  Pelemeth was a tall Dúnadan with chocolate brown hair and Omah was Dunnish with dirty blonde hair.

Nirnadel could see that something was wrong as Kaile rushed up to them, asking.  Pelemeth waved her arms wildly, “You have to help us, Kaile!  Some kind of curse from the Barrow Downs has infected people.  They’re at the Houses, being seen by Firiel.  She asks the Chancellor to quarantine the area!”

Nimhir looked over and gestured for them to approach. They rushed over and curtseyed.  “What is it?  What is going on,” Nimhir said seriously as Nirnadel walked over and stood with them.

“Good sir, this morning, a man named Remodoc from the Traders Bazaar came to us with what looked like a poisoned hand,” Pelemeth blurted out, breathing hard.  “I tested it, but it was not poison.  Firiel determined that it’s a curse from the Barrow Downs that will turn them into wights. She’s locked down the Houses and quarantined the room, but we need to find out who the infected were in contact with. One was from Artan’s and the other is Jellek, the money changer.  And,” she said, her green eyes scanning the room, “Firiel is infected.”  There were gasps in the room and Kaile grabbed the Princess’ hand.  “Valandil will be riding to Rivendell to find Firiel’s mother.  We will need the elves to cure this.”

Though her stomach roiled, Nirnadel went into business mode like she had seen Nimhir and her father do so many times.  Her dear friend, Firiel was in grave danger and the Houses that she loved were threatened.  There was no room for doubt.  She clapped her hands.  “Attention if you please.  We will not let Valandil ride alone.  Sergeant Cedhron, take another guard and ride with him.  Haedorial, your lore will be key to speaking with the elves so go with them. Kaile and I will go with the nurses to the Houses to determine the situation.  Good Nimhir, please order the quarantine of the areas.  We will have Captain Guilrod establish checkpoints.” She grasped the nurses’ hands. “You did well.  Come, let’s go.”

The Chancellor summoned Captain Guilrod, but the snapped his fingers.  “Your Highness, you will do no such thing,” he said sternly.  ‘We cannot have you go to the Houses and risk infection.  You will stay here and manage things with me.”

She turned sharply.  “I have significant training in healing now and I can be of help.  I will not let my friend perish when I can do something.”

Nimhir shook his head vehemently.  “Absolutely not!  I’ve given you wide latitude, but I will not let this happen.  You are too important to the realm.  Now let them go and come back here so we can manage this crisis.”

“Good Nimhir, I say this with all due respect to you as the Regent, but I will either go to the Houses or I will ride with Valandil.  It will be one or the other.  Decide now for time is wasting.”

The Regent grimaced and sucked his teeth. “Fine…ride with Valandil.  Baranor, take the Guard and go with her.  Kaile, go to the Houses.  I will need regular reports.  Go, hurry and may the Valar bless us.”

Nirnadel felt both relief and terror.  She had to do something.  She snapped her fingers.  “Galadel, ride with me.  Kaile will do better at the Houses and she’s not a good rider,” she said as they rushed from the Council Chambers down to the stables.  A horn sounded, signaling that the royal party would need horses.  As steeds were taken from stalls, she saw Kaile and the nurses rushing to the gates with Captain Guilrod and a troop of soldiers, Mercatur in tow.  They made eye contact as Nirnadel climbed into the saddle.  The nurse’s eyes were full of terror.  The Princess nodded to her, a sign of confidence which she did not feel.

Galadel swung into her saddle, carrying a sack.  “I have supplies and changes of clothes.”

Baranor blew his horn, the visor on his helm raised. “Open the gates!  Open the gates for the Princess!”  Four guards set aside halberds and pulled the steel gates of the Bar Aran open.  As they rode out, Baranor blew again to the people in the street.  “Make way!  Make way for the Princess!  We are on urgent business of the Crown!  Make way!” Citizens scrambled aside as the horses broke into a canter up the Menetar, the main road through Tharbad and over the Iant Formen, the great north bridge.  Baranor pointed down a side street.  “We will make for the Annon Roch, the Horse Gate.  Valandil will be there, getting his horse.”

Sure enough, Valandil was with his mount, trying to quickly put on the saddle while pulling on riding boots, such was his haste.  Nirnadel didn’t bother to dismount.  “Sir Valandil!  Good sir!  We are coming with you!”

He looked as if he were about to wave them off, but he nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said with a curt bow.  “I would not ask, but I would not refuse.”

Haedorial smiled through his fear.  “We couldn’t leave you, dear knight.  And you will need a bard’s learning to work with the elves.”

Nirnadel nodded as the Horse Gates were opened.  “And you are one of us now.  Good Mercatur told me that you accepted.  Welcome to the Royal Household.  I wish it were under better circumstances.  We will save good Firiel.  I stake my life on it.”

Baranor gave the knight a tilt of his head, welcoming him to the Guard.  The gates were fully open, and he spurred his horse.  “Come, we ride for Rivendell!”  They burst into a canter up the road that followed the Bruinen River north. This would take them through Rhudaur.

“I have read good Dagar’s letters and studied his maps,” Haedorial called out.  “I believe that we should follow the Bruinen north to the Mithiethel, ford the river and then proceed up the Dunnish Track.  The Harnalda Tower is still held by the Vulseggi and Thuin Boid is nearby. We’ll be in friendly lands.  Perhaps we can make contact with Dagar for help. Then, we ride up the East-West Road and turn towards the Misty Mountains.  That should bring us right to Rivendell, by my lore.  I do wish that Mercatur would have come with us, but he seemed intent on helping the Houses.”

Baranor shouted back over the thump of hoofbeats.  “Excellent!  That is what we will do.  We need to minimize any threat to the Princess.”

The King’s Guard looked magnificent on heavy warhorses as they wore their silver plate armor that glittered in the diffuse sun. Valandil did not have the chance to change and wore his chainmail with plate elbows, knees and shins under his Cardolan Army surcoat.

It was a hard, swift, two-day ride through several towns to Fennas Drúinen, a large settlement on the border of Cardolan and Rhudaur.  The inhabitants were rough spun pioneers who guarded the approaches into Cardolan, and they were fiercely loyal.  Cheers went up when they saw the banner of the King. They had survived and repelled multiple forays from the orcs and Dunnish tribes last year and their pride was apparent. Baranor paid them for supplies and information.  There had not been a peep from the Rhudaurans, the mayor told him.  In fact, trade had resumed between them and Harnalda and Rilineldor towers as well as the Vulseggi of Thuin Boid.

Haedorial leaned forward in his saddle.  “Good Mayor Eston, might you have seen my dear friend Dagar?  His manor house is north of here.”

The lean mixed Dúnadan nodded emphatically.  “Why of course!  If not for him we would have been overrun here.  He warned us of the impending attack from Rhudaur and kept attacking them from behind, pulling a lot of those buggers off of us.  We can’t thank him enough.  He comes by a few times a year.”  The mayor had some battle scars along his arms and one above his eye. It was obvious that he fought in the war and knew what he was doing.

“That sounds just like Dagar,” the bard told Nirnadel.

Mayor Eston then reached up towards the Princess. “Bless you, Your Highness!  Bless you!  We proudly serve Cardolan!”

She felt her heart swell, and she reached down from the saddle and grasped his hand.  “And bless you, good Mayor Eston!  On the frontier, you are our guardians.  We sleep safe at night because of your work here!”  She waved to the gathered crowd and they cheered again.  “Fare you well, my good people!”

The horses set off at a nice trot, crossing over the wide bridge.  They were now in Rhudaur.  Nirnadel could see how worried Valandil was.  He could barely focus and frequently prayed to the Valar.  She leaned over and touched his arm.  “Good Valandil, we will make all haste to Rivendell. I promise you that I will stop at nothing to cure dear Firiel.”

He nodded stiffly.  “Thank you, Your Highness.  That means a lot to me.”

“We must trust that Kaile and other nurses are fighting for Firiel and the others now.  Kaile is very resourceful.  She’ll figure something out.”

After the bridge, they joined the Dunnish Track northeast through the En Egladil, the area also known as The Angle for the angle of the land where the Mithiethel and Bruinen met.  They tore up the dirt road, only stopping for short breaks.

Haedorial pointed to the northwest.  “Dagar’s manor is this way.  We’ll make it by sunset and off at first light.”  He looked back at Valandil with a reassuring gaze.

Within an hour lantern light could be seen on a three-story manor house.  The Princess could make out banners with the sigil of House Rhudainor.  A troop of cavalry rode towards them as Baranor raised the pennant of Cardolan.  They were led by a knight in black armor who rode a gray stallion.  They lowered their lances, and the leader raised the visor on his black bascinet helm over flowing yellow hair.  “Who comes to House Rhudainor unannounced, bearing the flag of Cardolan?”

Haedorial blurted out, “Sir Oswy!”

The knight looked at him sideways.  “Do I know you, sir?”

The bard put his hand out in a conciliatory gesture. “No, sir, I do apologize.  I am a dear friend of Dagar’s, and he has written so much about you.”

One of the lead horsemen, wearing a nasal helmet over a trimmed blond beard and flowing hair, started laughing.  “Only bad things, I’m sure!” he called out as the troop guffawed.

Sir Oswy tapped the man on his helmet with his lance. “And he doesn’t write anything about you, Ecegar,” Oswy shot back, laughing loudly.  He looked over to the bard.  “Yes, I recall the lord talking about a good bard from Cardolan.  He will be happy to see you.  Are you just here to visit?”  The troop turned their horses about, and began to walk up the trail to the house, followed by the visitors.

“We come on urgent business from the Cardolan crown.  In fact, good Oswy, this is Her Highness, Nirnadel, the Princess of Cardolan.  She can give you further details.”

Oswy glanced sideways at Nirnadel, doubtful at first, but then he bowed from the waist.  “Your Highness, welcome to House Rhudainor.  It is an honor.  My wife, Éanfled, speaks so well of you.  She is in Thuin Boid today and will be home this evening.”

She smiled broadly.  It would be so good to catch up and give them all the good…and bad news. “Sir Oswy, it is my honor.  I read of your bold defense of the Tirthon and your courage in Blogath’s Vale.  We need to meet with Lord Rhudainor for we are on an expedition to Rivendell to seek a cure for an epidemic in our city.  Any information you could give us about the route would be most appreciated.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” he said as they stopped in front of the house.  He snapped his fingers, and stable boys ran out to attend to the horses.  “They’ll feed and water your mounts and prepare them for your travels.  Please, follow me.  My wife will be overjoyed to see you when she arrives.”

Haedorial looked at the Princess.  “Having read Dagar’s missives, I feel like I know these people and this very place,” he said excitedly.  “But I know that we must be on our way again soon.  Lady Firiel’s life is at stake, and we will not let her nor Sir Valandil down.”

As they dismounted, Nirnadel rubbed her behind over her cotton riding pants.  It had been a hard ride and her rear and legs ached even for as excellent of a rider as she was, with a finely made saddle.  Stable hands took the reins of her mount and bowed to her as they guided the horses away.

As they stepped up on the porch, two tall elves walked around the corner, one male and one female.  They both wore elegant cobalt blue and silver robes with designs of stars woven into them.  The woman had a silver circlet with the design of a swan over her brow.  Their hair was raven black, framing pale faces with red lips and silver eyes.  Nirnadel put her hand over her mouth.  They were both, stunningly, ethereally beautiful.  She knew who they were immediately.

“Alquanessë and Finculion,” she said in nearly a whisper. “I am honored to meet you.”  She took a knee and lowered her head to a prince and princess of the Noldor.  Haedorial joined her.  She blinked, feeling as if a warm, friendly hand was passing through her mind.

Alquanessë smiled.  “Rise, Nirnadel, Princess of Cardolan and good royal bard, Haedorial,” she said in a voice that was friendly but disconcerting, multi-tonal, reverberating. The elf took the Princess’ hand and brought her up.

Nirnadel looked up into the Alquanessë’s eyes.  The elf stood a full head taller and the Princess was tall for a Dúnadan woman.  Nirnadel was awed, trying to form words.  She could feel waves of power radiating outward from her.  This was a being who was at least 5000 years old.  She gestured to her people.  “This is our party from Cardolan, my Captain Baranor, Lieutenant Valandil, Sergeant Cedhron…”

Alquanessë raised her hand, stopping the Princess. “I know who they are from your thoughts, good Nirnadel.  You already know my brother.  He is a man of few words,” she said gesturing to Finculion.  “You must have received Dagar’s letter.  Oh, I see.  You are planning an expedition, but you come on a more immediate matter…a cure.”

Nirnadel froze for a moment.  She knew that the elf could read thoughts and emotions but having it happen was overwhelming.  She was about to speak when Dagar came rushing down the stairs with his wife and daughter.  He wore a casual gray suit with a blue and gold jacket while his wife wore a silk robe of the same colors.  And, she carried a young baby, wrapped in white linens.

The young man’s face lit up, seeing them.  “By the sun and stars!  Good Haedorial!  Look! Mirthi…Cicrid, it’s my dear, dear friend, Haedorial.  Come in! Come in!  And…oh, by Manwë, it’s…it’s Princess Nirnadel!”  Dagar practically dove to his knees in front of her and took her hand and kissed it.  “Your Highness, I, Lord Rhudainor, am at your service.  I am…I am so deeply honored.”  He gestured to his wife and adolescent daughter.  “Mirthi, Cicrid, this is Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel.  She waved to me once, you know?”

Nirnadel giggled, holding her hand over her mouth. She then gave him and his family a deep curtsey and then a grand flourish.  “I am deeply moved by your hospitality, Lord Rhudainor.  Your family is beautiful as is your home.”  She gestured around, gazing at the structure, which appeared as if it were part of the forest with cedar and pine trees expertly woven into the walls and ceilings, no doubt the magic of the elves.

Lord Rhudainor shook his hand as if it was nothing. “Oh, my dear Princess, to meet you has been a dream of mine, but I was just a lowly accountant.  And please, please just call me Dagar.”

“Nonsense, Dagar, I value all of our good citizens, high and low.  And you must just call me, Nirnadel.”

He gasped, putting his hand over his heart, clearly touched.  “Come, come inside, come inside.  Oh, my dear friend, Haedorial,” he said, and they wrapped their arms around each other tightly.  “We are preparing for supper.  Please join us.  And what brings you here?” he asked as he ushered them towards the dining hall.

“Oh, dear boy…or should I say, Lord Rhudainor,” the bard joked.  “It is so good to see you.  We are on our way to Rivendell where we need a cure.  One of our dear friends has been infected by a curse and she will turn into a wight before long.”

They went into the dining hall and Dagar gestured to a buffet table.  “This is our midweek special,” he said.  “It’s an idea that I got from dad.  He’s doing great by the way, him and mom.  He still organizes the waenhosh to Harnalda and Rilineldor every year and I fund it.  My days of caravaning are done.”

Nirnadel took a tray and headed to the food.  She admired the quaint, family atmosphere.  There were some trinkets and decorations from Cardolan about but much of the wall was covered in local, Rhudauran items.  She took bits of vegetables and fruit and created a salad as she went to sit down with the group as members of the household filtered in.

Mirthi gestured to the walls.  “These are memories of my people, Your Highness,” she said in slightly accented Sindarin.  “We were the inhabitants of Maig Tuira when it was destroyed by the Macha Mur Tribe.” She began to shake with emotion. “They executed my parents,” she said, holding her knuckles up to her lips.  “It was Dagar and his friends who rescued us.  They didn’t have to, but they did.”  Their infant son smiled and moved his arms about.  “Oh look, Your Highness, he likes you.  His name is Arthor, the Noble Brother in your language, which I learned from the elves,” she added with a gleaming smile.  She was a cute woman with dark brown hair and eyes, who stood as much shorter than Nirnadel as the Princess was to Alquanessë.

Mirthi handed Arthor to the Princess, whose eyes went big as she accepted him.  She held him to her chest and started rocking, something that she just felt was right.  She was rewarded by a delightful little giggle.  “Oh my…oh, this is so, so adorable.  Thank you, good Lady Rhudainor.  I have wanted to meet you and your esteemed husband ever since good Haedorial read Dagar’s letter that one Yüle, over two years ago now.”

Alquanessë and Finculion sat and said a short prayer before dining on fruits and vegetables along with some chicken wings and sauce. “Dagar, they are also planning to assist us in an expedition to rid the world of our siblings,” Alquanessë told him as she nibbled on a celery stick.  Eating seemed to bring a more flesh like tone to their skin.  “The good Princess has allocated funds and has appointed our friend, Mercatur to lead it.”

Nirnadel was still taken aback.  Were there no secrets from her?  She nodded to Dagar as she rocked the infant back and forth.  Hers was a world of wetnurses, nannies and tutors. Play with her mother was…occasional and mostly lessons on the etiquette and protocol of the Royal Court.  How to dress, how to speak, how to pose to let people know that you were a royal.  She then thought how she might shield her mind from the elf.

Alquanessë looked at her with a smile.  “No, there are no secrets and only a powerful mage like Ethacali was would even have a chance,” she said in Nirnadel’s own voice, sending shivers down the Princess’ spine.  The elf then lowered her head.  “I apologize, Your Highness.  I am still suspicious of outsiders and have endured much…abuse.  It was rude of me,” she finished in her own melodious soprano. “I will teach some tricks on how to deflect your thoughts so that it would be more…difficult for us to discern. You will need that to fight Blogath, and you may count on our support when the time comes.  We will clear the way ahead of your party on its way to Rivendell, but we will not go there for we would not be welcome…as Blood-Wights.”

She went on to explain the nature of wights, part physical, part spirit, always torn between both worlds.  “If the curse emanates from the Witch-King or his minions, your friends will have perhaps two weeks at most,” she said with a voice full of empathy. “It was the vampire, Thuringwethil, who turned us by draining our blood and then feeding it back to us.  The transformation was agony as if my veins were filled with acid.  She stood there, laughing, as I writhed like a worm before her.”  Finculion put his hand on hers and nodded.  “Then…I begged for blood, I begged to kill, I begged to be her slave.”

The group sat, enraptured by the elf’s tale, a story of an ancient time, beyond the reckoning of any man.  Valandil, who previously sat, just staring, reached out to the elf. “Please, if it comes down to it, can you change her?  Can you change Firiel?  Would it keep her from dying?”  He sounded desperate and rightfully so.

Alquanessë nodded slowly.  “Aye, I can, but I would caution you.  Your love would have little control over herself at first.  It was years before I could defy Thuringwethil. The thirst for blood and the hunger for flesh would be too much for her.  She would thrash about at night, eyes red and fangs bared, screaming to kill. We master it now and can eat normal food and drink animal blood when the mood suits us.  But think long and hard, sir knight, or you may unleash an even more devastating plague on Tharbad.”

He sank back into his chair, thinking.  Nirnadel glanced at Haedorial, whose face was equally locked in horror.  “I had no idea,” the Princess said.  “We knew the basics from Dagar’s letters…”  She reached out to the elven princess and was met with a cool hand that held hers.  “My heart weeps for you.  All that I have will aid you, whether it be to end your siblings or to save them, I will try.”

A single tear rolled down Alquanessë’s cheek, tinged with red.  She tugged gently on Nirnadel’s hand.  “Even after thousands of years of my life, I am touched.  I have a lifetime of horror to atone for.  I have some ideas on how we should proceed but you have more pressing matters to attend to for now.  We will talk more when you return from Rivendell.”

Dagar gestured to Oswy and his troop as they arrived for supper.  “And we will join you as well tomorrow and provide you with a proper escort through Rhudaur.  This year has proven to be fairly safe since Angmar’s armies faded back north and the forces of Cameth Brin were devastated.  Cagh and Hirgrim are maintaining their truce with us and we even trade from time to time to everyone’s benefit.  But still, there are wolves or even trolls about, especially at night and I would see no harm come to you all and the hospitality of our house knows no bounds for my friends.”

The sun had set, and the sound of crickets wafted through the windows.  The air was cool but the sky clear with radiant pinks and purples spreading across the horizon to the west.  It was one of the wonders of untamed Rhudaur and Nirnadel admired it through a fine glass pane.  The air was so clear, only the scent of pine trees, cedar and a crackling fire in a nearby brazier that was held up by a metal mount shaped like a tree.  This was so much to take in.  She had never met an elf, much less an elven prince and princess who were also vampires.  The things that they had seen and endured over the ages.  And what they endured…  Alquanessë’s story was horrifying.  Torn from her home, turned into a creature, stripped of her identity, abused and exploited. The Princess could not imagine. The possibility of being forcefully married into an odious, power mad family was the worst of her fears.  She would have gone insane being subjected to what the elf survived.

Alquanessë came up behind her and put her hand on Nirnadel’s shoulder.  “You are worried about your upcoming marriage.  I, too, am in terror of love.  What man would have me, a creature of darkness, a used item?  He would live in fear of me tearing his throat out, even though that fear is no longer a reality.  You do not have that darkness in you and I feel that you have so much love to give.  You are good in mind and heart, and your body will follow.”

Nirnadel touched her hand and found it to be a little cold.  “I thank you for your kind words.  I have been worried.  I don’t know what he will think when he sees me on our first night.”

The elf chuckled.  “It will be hard to imagine, but I was young once as you are.  Now picture me as an innocent girl, standing atop the tower of Barad Eithel in lost Beleriand, counting the stars and daydreaming about handsome men, my dear mother laughing at my awkwardness.”  She pointed out the window as it drew darker and the stars appeared in the heavens.  “There, dear Princess…the Remmirath, the Net; Soronúmë, the Eagle; Telumendil, the Dome of Heaven; Wilwarin, the Butterfly; and Valacirca, the Scythe of the Valar…the lights of the night as they were meant to be by the hand of Varda.”

Haedorial stood behind them, entranced.  “Oh, dear lady, you do not know how long I have waited to meet you and to hear you speak.  It is like peering through a window into a forgotten age.”

“It was a time when we Noldor were the dominant people of Middle Earth.  Grand cities like Nargothrond and Gondolin thrived.  The white spires of Minas Tirith rose above Tol Sirion amid the wide river.  My uncle, Nolofinwë, or Fingolfin as you call him, reigned as the High King.  Magic and power flowed through our blood as easily as you breathe.”  She waved her hand through the air, golden tendrils of energy flowing from her fingertips to create a scene of lost Beleriand: the grand caverns of Nargothrond, the white towers of Gondolin and images of her family, the High King, Prince Fingon and her mother, Irimë the Fair.  “I do this often to remind myself of my people.  It brings me both great joy and deep sadness.  That is the essence of out kind.”

Both Nirnadel and Haedorial put their hands over their hearts.  This was the first elf that she had met and, while they seem so human, there was also something much deeper and more profound in their being.

“If…when we pass from this world,” the elf continued, “our spirits would be brought into the Halls of Mandos, there to be judged by the Vala.  Finculion may survive, but I would surely be rent asunder for my crimes or cast into the eternal void.  There is no forgiveness for me.”

“Dear Alquanessë,” Haedorial spoke in a soothing voice.  “We have no imagining or understanding of any of this.  However, if I am correct, did not Manwë forgive even Melkor his sins after three ages?” he added hopefully.

The elven princess cocked her head and a slow smile spread across her ruby lips.  “You are correct, my friend.  Does that mean that there may be hope for us?”  She looked over to her brother.  “Finculion, the bard has a point.”

The elven prince looked skeptical, then he nodded. “We will take any scrap of hope that we can get.  We are on to a cure, but I will admit that the thought of being cured frightens me. We can remember no other way.”

Nirnadel looked him in the eye and gulped.  Finculion was beautiful in a way that no human could be. He had flowing, wavy black hair, steel-colored eyes and a sculpted jaw and cheekbones.  “Is there anything we can do to help?” she asked.

The sound of Valandil rising and heading to the door, caught their attention.  Dagar rushed to head him off.  “Sir Valandil, I know your plight,” Dagar said, his voice full of concern.  “But you cannot continue at this hour.  You would not last the night.  Wolves prowl the roads now that much of Rhudaur is deserted after the war.  Your horse is tired and so are you.  I beg you, sir, please stay and I promise that we will rouse your party early so that you may set out before sunrise.”

Valandil tried to wave him off and brush past, but Alquanessë moved across the room in a blur and stood before him.  She put her hand out.  “Please sir, please listen to Lord Rhudainor.  We will accompany you and ensure your safety all the way to Imladris. Even if my brother and I were to be with you tonight, we could not protect you from all of the wolves or the occasional troll from the Hillshaws.  You could not help Firiel if you are dead.”

He trembled for a moment and then nodded.  “I…I am just so worried.  I need to be there, but I need to be here.  I…thank you.”  They guided him back to the table.

“It is small comfort when those we love are imperiled,” Alquanessë told him, “but allow me to soothe your soul.  I will show you the music of my people, something from the ancient past.”

Haedorial gasped.  “This is surely a dream.”

She gestured to him.  “Join me, quenso, as we say in Quenya, a bard as am I, quensi for a woman.” He rushed up as did Cicrid, Dagar’s daughter.  She raised her hands and instruments began floating in the air, a lute, a harp and a recorder.  “Allow me to show you our world as it was when the world was young.”  Power began to swirl around her form, a gentle breeze circulating around the hall.  The air began to shimmer and change before their very eyes.  Comfortable wooden tables and chairs faded, replaced by a table with frosted glass and mithril legs crafted to look like trees and elegant seats of dark wood and sky blue and silver cushions.  The walls changed to marble, adorned with elven banners and golden statues of the Valar.  Sunlight beamed through stained glass windows.  The floating instruments were now held by elven musicians in silk robes of sky and cobalt blue and silver, the colors of the House of Fingolfin.

Nirnadel gasped and held her hands before her mouth.  Was this an illusion?  Plucked notes rose from the harp and it was as if she could see the music floating on the air in golden tendrils.  She would never forget this journey but the worry about Firiel was always on her mind.

The elven princess beamed, proud to show her trade. “A Lindalë Ya Nauvar,” she said, “We are those who protect.”

Haedorial shook his head.  “I…I don’t know that one.  I’m sorry.”

She embraced him, inhaling his scent, her eyes flashing red for just a moment.  She then breathed into his face, silver threads of her being wafting into his nostrils.  “Now you do,” she said as his eyes lit up.  The lute now joined in, and they took a breath.  Haedorial’s strong tenor blended with Alquanessë’s intentional alto and Cicrid’s soprano.  It was as if a dream became music.  The voices rose and fell as if marking a battle, strong then soft.  All the while magic swirled around the hall and an image of Noldorin cavalry shimmered into being, warriors in silver atop white steeds, the banners of the High King fluttering in the wind.  The recorder brought sharp notes, the fight against the Dark Lord.  The lute and the harp rose over the other instrument, then softening to an ethereal, floating tone.  They could see Fingolfin, standing tall, his sword, Ringil, shining in the darkness as his son, Fingon the Valiant, stood by his side, surrounded by Noldorin warriors. As their last note hung in the air and then faded, so did the illusion, the room returning to a lord’s manor.

Every heart in the hall felt soothed, Valandil’s included. Every face was serene, every breath calm.  Haedorial knelt and grasped the elf’s hand.  “I cannot thank you enough for this gift, fair lady.  I was never a bard until now.”  She smiled down on him and then swept her hand across the room. “Rest well, people.  I will rouse you on the morrow.”

Everyone began to make their way to their rooms, Dagar and Mirthi guiding them.  Footsteps pounded on the porch and Lady Éanfled rushed in, her scarlet dress flowing behind her.  Her eyes fixed on Nirnadel, and she beamed with joy.  The two rushed together to embrace, Éanfled weeping.  “Your Highness!  My Princess!  I…this is a dream, is it not?”

Nirnadel waved Galadel over.  “Come Lady Galadel, join us.  This is Lady Éanfled Amrodan, who served me when I was younger.  We are heading to our room, but please join us, Éanfled!  We have so much to catch up on.  And we are hiring mercenaries to take back Castle Amrodan.  This was my father’s promise to you, and I intend to fulfill it.”

The Houses of Healing – Lothron 5^th, 1410

Mercatur

He ran along with Kaile, Pelemeth and Omah down the wide Menetar road to the Southbank where the Houses were, over the great Iant Harnen or South Bridge.  Captain Guilrod had stopped with his soldiers to set up a roadblock along the Menetar. At the massive gate of the Ryncaras Tharbad, Kaile held up her badge as a lady of the Royal Court and the guards ushered them through.  Out of breath, she put her hands on her knees and waved to the guard sergeant.  “Sergeant…we bear orders…from the Chancellor…to close the gate.  We need to quarantine parts of the south bank from an epidemic.  More…information will come shortly.”

The sergeant nodded.  As a lady of the court, she did carry the authority of the word of the Chancellor and the Princess.  “Close the gate!” he ordered as the massive portcullis lowered, grinding and cranking to a final thud.

Mercatur pulled her up.  “Are you alright?”  He knew that she hated him at one time, but he hoped that those days had passed.

She took several deep breaths.  She had lost a lot of weight, but she was still not a prime physical specimen.  Still, she had earned the mercenary’s respect in Annúminas and with her work in the Houses. “I’m…I’m good, thank you.  We need to keep going.”

She started off with the nurses and Mercatur thought for a moment.  Did he really want to risk this infection?  A good part of him wanted to keep heading south to the Annon Harn, grab a horse and ride for the Gap of Calenardhon, a province of Gondor that would one day become Rohan.  They needed mercenaries at the Tower of Orthanc.  Kaile looked back, her eyes narrowing.  “Well, come on!”

The big mercenary choked for a second.  Dammit, he wasn’t going to let some chubby little girl show him up for a coward.  And Firiel, how many times did she save his ass?  He knew, deep down, that he caused this.  If it meant his death to atone, then so be it.  He grunted and then sprinted to catch up.  They cut down a side street, the Augon Curhyth, past the Pisgedain, the Fisherman’s Guildhouse and over the Cherant Rynd, the canal that fronted the Houses.  They pounded on the door.  “It’s me, Kaile!  Open please!”

The door shot open and the two young nurses, Vicri and Sissi shook, clearly terrified.  “Come in, come in!  We’ve had three new cases already.”

Kaile pushed past them and looked around as Pelemeth comforted the two.  The lady and Mercatur ran over to the door to the exam room where Jonu stood guard. The young man let out a huge sigh of relief and embraced Kaile.  “It’s bad, Kaile, it’s bad.  I don’t know what to do.  She’s in there alone with the victims.  It’s already spreading on her, Kaile, it’s already spreading.”

Kaile fell right back into nurse mode.  “The Chancellor has agents locking down the money lender’s and Artan’s right now.  Have Vicri and Sissi keep bringing victims to the exam room.”  She gestured to Pelemeth, the woman who had replaced her as chief nurse.  “Pel, turn out all of the medicine and the healing tomes.  We need to read up and see if anything will be effective.  Omah, go help her.  I’m going to check in on Firiel.”

Pel did a quick curtsey.  “Yes, my lady.”

Mercatur felt helpless.  This was not his area of expertise.  Crack some skulls, stick a crossbow bolt in some thugs or Dunnish warriors, yes.  Healing, definitely not.  He watched Kaile move and speak like a commander of armies and he knew that he could not let them down.  But what could he do?  Pel and Omah dashed off to the Healer’s Chambers as others ran to the storage rooms.

Kaile pounded on the door.  “Firiel!  It’s me, Kaile!  I’m here. The Chancellor has locked down parts of the city and has people investigating the money lender and Artan’s. Anyone who came in contact with them gets quarantined!  The Princess and Haedorial rode with Valandil for Rivendell.  They’ll bring back help, I swear.”

Firiel’s voice came from the other side, shaky. “Good…it’s good, you did well.” There was a sniffle.  “I knew I would find some way to get you back,” she joked.  “Pull you away from all of that finery back to the grind…”

Kaile gave a sad chuckle.  “A horde of orcs in the snow and a dog demon couldn’t keep me away. What do you need?”

“I could use a hand, truly, but no one else gets exposed. I have six in here now.  I can slow it somewhat and dull the pain with herbs but it’s not a cure.  Have Pel and the rest research and pull the medicines.  There’s got to be something.”

Kaile nodded, laughing sadly.  “Already done.  It’s like I never left.”  She began to tremble and Mercatur put a steadying hand on her.  She nodded in thanks.

Firiel’s voice cracked.  “How did I know?  I could use you now, dear friend.  Remember Yüle…oh, that was such a good time.  And did you know that Valandil proposed, and I accepted.  I only wish…only wish that I will be here…for the wedding.”

The lady wiped her face.  “Don’t talk like that.  And yes, Nirnadel told us that he would.  You will be here.  I will be here.  And this big dumb mercenary will be here.  Nirnadel says that she will sponsor your and my weddings in Arthedain when she marries King Araphor.”

“Oh my, oh my, that would be so grand.”

Vicri brought another young woman to the door, another prostitute by the looks of her, a tall, young Dúnadan with black hair, a pretty one. “We have another one.  She’s also from Artan’s,” the young nurse announced.

Firiel tapped the door.  “Very well, I’ll open the door.  You all stand back.”  The door began to creep open.

Mercatur knew that this was his moment, the moment that he had to act to help and to atone.  The grasped the young woman by the shoulders and pushed into the exam room and shut the door amid gasps.  “What do you need, Firiel?”  He looked to see that her index finger was almost entirely black.  Remodoc writhed in pain, his whole hand infected by the curse.

Firiel’s face twisted in horror.  “You big stupid mercenary, what are you doing?  I can’t let you out now!”

“I’m not leaving my friend when she needs help. Now put me to work.”

The Healer closed her eyes for a moment and then shook her head.  “Dammit. Damn you, fine, fine.  Hold Remodoc down while I administer another dose of Gort.  It’ll ease the pain.  Then we’ll give him some Kelventari.  I found that it slows the curse for some reason.  I haven’t figured out why just yet, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Mercatur grasped the merchant by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, old friend.  I’m going to make this right.”

Firiel placed a poultice on Remodoc’s hand and then poured a dose from a vial down his throat and he relaxed, breathing easier.  “At this rate, we’re going to run out in a week. I just hope that Valandil will be safe in Rhudaur.”

“My friend, Dagar, will take care of him.  I’m sure of it.  He’ll be back right quick.”

Chapter End Notes

This ties in and sets up the finale for The Dark Mage of Rhudaur and has a little tie in with The Court of Ardor.  I wanted to showcase the interaction between Nirndael, Haedorial and Alquanesse, contrasting the elves with the Dunedain.

Leave a Comment

40) Lord Rhudainor’s Manor - Lothron (May) 9^th, 1410

Nirnadel

The morning came all to quickly for she, Galadel and Éanfled talked deep into the night, catching up on all that they had been through in the last few years.  Éanfled never told her husband, Oswy, of the nightly seductions by the Blood-Wights, though it still haunted her dreams.  It was awkward having Finculion in the manor at first and she could still picture him, passionate and full of fire.  But he seemed to avoid her once he resided with them, never speaking of the matter. Nirnadel shared her worries for her impending marriage to the King but Éanfled was beyond excited.  Lady Amrodan would surely be invited.  Galadel spoke of her family, the Tinarës and her hope for a handsome, loving husband.  She was glad that her father, the Hir, had no aspirations for a political marriage for her and it would be her choice.  Nirnadel felt as though Éanfled had never left, they all bonded so well.

Giggling and reminiscing about their times together, they drifted off to sleep.  Nirnadel dreamed of King Araphor again, his black hair cascading down his face, past chiseled cheekbones and a square jaw.  She could smell his hair, wet and freshly washed, scented like aloe.  His skin was dripping with water, and he smiled at her as she looked down.  She could see his need for her and she trembled.  He cupped her face, and she could feel the warmth of his touch.  With his other hand, he reached down and she gasped, her whole body tingling.

“Wake up, Your Highness.  We will be preparing to depart soon,” someone said, shaking her gently. Nirnadel looked up to see Alquanessë rousing the others, and the elf looked back at her and gave her a wink. The Princess sat up and noticed that her hand was between her legs, and she quickly scrambled up to dress.

Galadel and Éanfled were up in a flash and immediately set about helping Nirnadel don her riding outfit.  Galadel snickered.  “It’s like you never left, Lady Amrodan.”

Éanfled giggled.  “I think I still fit in, Lady Tinarë.  Is that old shrew still scolding all of the ladies, yourself included, Your Highness?”

Nirnadel snorted.  “Oh, Anariel?  She’s softened up a little.  I think our forays to the Houses of Healing shook her up a bit.”  The mention of the Houses brought a somber mood to her.  “We need to get going.  Firiel and our people need us.”

There was already activity in the main hall that otherwise only had the sound of crickets and the flames in the fireplace.  It was still dark outside with no sign yet of the sun. Valandil and the Guard were already armored, and the stable hands had brought the mounts to the front of the manor. Sir Oswy rode around the corner of the manor with one of the troops of lancers as Dagar stood in his riding outfit, his smallsword strapped to his hip.  He bowed low before Nirnadel, giving a flourish worthy of the Cardolan Court.  “Good morning, Your Highness…errrrr Nirnadel. Mirthi and I took the trouble to prepare breakfast for the road and supplies for the journey.”  His adorable wife curtseyed with a warm smile.

Nirnadel took his hand, and he kissed hers.  “Good Dagar, you are too kind.  And I thank you for the escort.  Our mission is of the utmost importance to the realm and all of Cardolan thanks you.”

One of the stable hands brought out a white palfrey, an excellent riding horse, famed for its stamina and smooth gait.  Éanfled took the reins and climbed into the saddle in her scarlet riding outfit with a scarlet bonnet.  Oswy rode up to her and gave her a kiss.  “We’ll be sure to draw every wolf and troll for miles around, my beacon of loveliness,” he joked.  “But fear not, my lance is all the protection that you’ll need.”

Ecegar roared with laughter.  “Which lance would that be, Oswy?”

The ladies blushed and Éanfled shook her head and rolled her eyes.  “You get used to them,” she said.  “I couldn’t stand Northron culture at the Tirthon, but I’ve come to accept their…rough ways.  I’ve even started calling Wiglaf the Hallweard rather than castellan or seneschal.”

As Dagar kissed Mirthi and Cicrid goodbye, Alquanessë and Finculion stood before the mounted group.  “We will scout ahead and make sure that the way is clear,” she said. “Fear not.  No wolf or troll could stand before us.”

Haedorial motioned to them.  “Are you not harmed by sunlight?  It will be dawn soon.”

She shook her head.  “No, that is an old wives tale that came from the time of Thuringwethil. Her very name, the Woman of Secret Shadows, tells of her darkness.  She preferred the night, but we prefer the day but, like any elf, we see equally well at any time.”

The very name of the vampire, who was the beloved of Sauron, brought chills to the Princess and the bard.  Éanfled gestured to the two elves as they prepared to take flight. “I never get used to this,” she said as the elves removed their robes, standing bare.  Wings sprouted from their backs, white swan wings for Alquanessë and brown hawk wings for Finculion.  Their necks and arms twisted in unnatural ways, and they opened their mouths, full of razor sharp fangs and they leapt into the air and flew ahead.

Nirnadel was stunned.  “What a delight and a horror this was.  I cannot imagine you all having survived that,” she said, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

Oswy raised the banner of Lord Rhudainor and then mounted it on his saddle.  “Ride forth! Ride now for Rivendell!” he called as Ecegar blew the horn to the thunder of hooves.

The day wore on as they pounded along the East-West Road, passing the corpses of wolves and a troll along the way.  These were freshly killed, throats torn out and drained of blood. The look of sheer terror on what was left of the hill troll’s face gave the riders shivers.  Nirnadel could not imagine being on the receiving end of that. While they seemed so serene and centered, she knew that the Blood-Wights were creatures of nightmares.  She was just glad that they were on her side.  But Blogath and Balisimur would not be, and it began to worry her.  Alquanessë told her that Blogath held more power than the other three siblings combined.

Oswy slowed for a moment to point at the slain troll, a monster almost twice the size of a warrior.  The whole lower half of its face was torn away by claws and fangs, its eyes full of terror.  “Look, see these tracks.  This troll was dragged from its cave over there and slaughtered like a lamb.”  They could see how it was kicking and pounding on the ground, trying to escape.

Nirnadel felt a chill down her back even in the warm sun. The troll’s body began to twitch and everyone drew swords, but it started to sizzle and turned to stone.  “Just like the legends,” she said, eyes wide as she relaxed her grip on her mithril eket, the short, stabbing sword that was favored in the north.

Just as they were about to ride again, Alquanessë landed in front of them.  Red and black blood covered her lips and down her front.  She carried a full-grown wolf in her arms that was struggling and yelping in her grip.  It tried to bite and claw but she squeezed its head with her hand, and it began whining pathetically.  The Princess almost felt bad for it, but then she remembered Mercatur’s talks about, “It will be Rhudaur, not the city of Tharbad.  Sometimes, you have to be merciless.”  She turned away as the elf extended her jaw beyond what was human, her mouth filled with rows of sharp fangs and ripped the wolf’s face off.

Éanfled closed her eyes.  “I never get used to that either.”  Galadel and Haedorial just stared, unable to look away.

The elf dropped the wolf next to the road with a thud. She flicked her fingers out and the blood that coated her body evaporated into fine droplets which she inhaled through her mouth.  It was fascinating and horrifying all at once to see a creature of Morgoth feed.  She was entirely unashamed of her body but noticed the discomfort among those who didn’t know her.  “I just ruin anything that I wear,” she said with a hint of humor. “The road is clear to the next bridge a few miles ahead.  Finculion is already waiting.  He grew tired of wolf’s blood.”  Alquanessë’s skin was practically glowing, her cheeks rosy, so much more lifelike than last night.  She crouched down.  “I’ll cover you from the air.  You can feed and water the horses at the next river.”  With that, she leapt back into the sky and started flapping her white wings.

The troop started off again at a canter, but they could tell that the horses were tiring as were they.  It was well into the afternoon, and they had only eaten the small breakfast and only drank a little.  Nirnadel’s rear began to ache again, and she could tell all were starting to get sore. She stood up in the stirrups to get some relief, and it felt so much better.  She looked up into the sky to see the elf gliding on the wind, her wings spread.  It was magnificent.  What would it be like as such a creature?  They seemed normal in so many ways.  Alquanessë was a masterful bard and had a wicked sense of humor.  She could fly and was immortal and had incredible powers at her fingertips.  Nirnadel imagined herself for a moment as a vampire, strong, fast, feared.  Would it be so bad?  If it came down to it, maybe turning Firiel would be the best thing. At least she would be alive.  She pictured the Healer with red eyes and fangs, thrashing about.  Maybe this was something that required more thought.  She looked ahead to see the Misty Mountains growing ever bigger, covered in snow and shrouded in fog and clouds.  Truly magnificent.  From Tharbad, they were so distant as to just be decoration on the horizon.

The next river came quickly and Finculion was waiting by the wooden bridge.  It looked well maintained for as far into Rhudaur as it was.  They were now at the foothills of the mountains, known to the elves and the Dúnedain as the Hithaeglir.  Some of the most important rivers in the land began at the mountains. The sun was lower now, its light shining on the face of the peaks and through the tall pines that lined the road. It was cooling rapidly and Nirnadel pulled her cloak around her as Galadel fussed with the cloak pin.

Alquanessë landed next to her brother and her wings folded back into her body.  “Imladris is across the river and about an hour ride.  It is easy to get lost and Master Elrond prefers it that way.  You will take the third path that goes north where you will see a series of waterfalls.  From there-” she was saying when a gull feathered arrow sank into the wood of the bridge.  Everyone stopped and turned to see where it came from but there was nothing.  The two vampires seemed to focus in on something and raised their arms above their heads.  “We mean you no harm,” Alquanessë said slowly in Quenya.  “We merely escort a delegation from Cardolan to ask for help from Imladris.  We were preparing to depart and leave you in peace.”

Nirnadel scanned around, unable to see who they were talking to.  She noticed the knights fidgeting, hands on weapons but she held her hand out, pushing it down.  “Let us not provoke anything,” she said softly.  She was practically shaking.

Two Noldorin elves seemed to appear out of nowhere, pushing their green cloaks behind them.  They were twins with dark brown hair, beautiful as Finculion was.  They each held red recurve bows with arrows nocked. Under their cloaks were breastplates of a deep blue metal that seemed to shimmer.  “Come no further, demons.  You may look like one of the Quendi, but we know what you are,” one of the elves said. “Creatures of darkness, you enter upon our lands where you are not welcome.  Why should we let you leave?  Why should we not destroy you here and now?”  He drew the bowstring back, past his ear and aimed at the vampires.

The Houses of Healing – Lothron 10^th, 1410

Mercatur

Five long days had gone by and there was still no word from Valandil.  From what he knew, it was probably a four-day ride to Rivendell and four days back if they rode hard and the weather was good.  If.  Too many ifs. They had been couped up for five days, food only shoved through the door twice a day and twice a day where the chamberpots were taken out.  He wanted to stick a dagger in his throat for being so stupid.  He looked down at his hands that were beginning to turn black, and it itched like a mother.

“Don’t scratch it,” Firiel said, her voice beginning to sound weird.  Most of her right arm was black and he could see parts of her shoulders changing.  Remodoc writhed weakly, his face turning black.

He looked at Mercatur, his eyes pleading.  “Kill me, please Mercatur, kill me.  I don’t want to become one of those…things.”

He shook his head.  “No, my friend, we’re going to find a cure.  Please trust me.  I’m so sorry. I never meant for this…”  He grunted in frustration.  He could think of no worse way to go, wasting away to become some kind of horrific ghost.  He wasn’t afraid to die, but not like this.  The room was nearly full now, people groaning and coughing.  There were no more beds, and the people lay on the floor, weeping.  It began to smell of death.

Firiel stood up and then faltered.  She gritted her teeth, clearly in pain.  “Time for…for another dose, everyone,” she said with forced cheer. “I’m adding some brandy to the mixture.” There were a few laughs amid the sobs. “Help me, Mercatur.  I’m so weak.”  Her hands shook as she mixed the potion of Gort with a pour of alcohol.  He steadied her arm.

The mercenary then held the first prostitute down and she writhed in agony.  Her whole body was turning now, her nearly red eyes full of terror.  He did not want to get to know her or anything about her before, but as he held her shoulders down, he looked into her eyes and gulped. Her breathing was labored and raspy. “What’s your name, dear?” he asked kindly.  “I’m here with you.  Talk to me.”

She was panting now, struggling to breathe.  “Îuldis…that…that’s my name.  From my grandmother.  What…what’s happening, sir?”  Her voice sounded weird…ghostly.

He bit his lip.  “Nice to meet you, Îuldis.  So, you’re the Ember Maid by your name?  That’s beautiful.”  He stroked her thick, dark brown hair, surmising that she was a mixed Dúnadan like him.  She was actually very pretty in spite of the curse.  Firiel came over and rubbed some of the Gort poultice on her skin and then poured the Kelventari mix into her mouth.

Îuldis bucked, her face twisting.  “It burns!” she cried, gurgling.  Firiel said that as they changed into creatures of darkness, medicine would start to become painful.

Mercatur tightened his grip.  “Relax, Îuldis, relax.  Swallow it.  It will slow the curse.  Breathe, my dear, breathe.”  He focused on her face just to keep himself calm.

She began choking and sobbing, struggling in his hands. “I don’t want to die, sir. Please.”

“Firiel is the best healer in Cardolan.  We are in the finest hands there is.  Tell me, Îuldis, how did you come to Tharbad?  How did you come to work at Artan’s?”

She blinked, her nearly all red eyes searching for him. “I…my family…my family…we lived in Tyrn Gorthad.  Gone…destroyed.  Everyone. I had…I had nothing.  Selling myself…the only way to survive.  I…I was so hungry...so cold.  Better than starving.”  The Gort seemed to be taking effect and her body relaxed, her eyes unfocused.  “Thank you, sir…for…taking care…of me.”  It was horrifying.  As a man, he could fight to make coin and live.  The woman here had little choice.  He still recalled the frozen bodies in the shantytown, stacked like cordwood when the snows began to fall last year.  This girl was a fighter…a survivor.  He had to admire that.

Mercatur began to tremble.  “Mandos, spare them.  Take me. If we get out of this, I swear, I swear that I will not be greedy and stupid.”

Firiel put her hand on his shoulder.  “I know.  I know. It’s never easy.  Come, we have to do the others.”  One by one, they administered the doses.  Afterwards, Firiel slumped against the wall, struggling.  She held her arm out.  “It hurts so bad.  I can’t…I can’t focus, but I can’t take the Gort or it will dull my mind.”  She winced hard, making a fist.  She got back up and staggered to the door, knocking softly on it.  “Kaile, Kaile, are you there?” she asked weakly.

There was a sob from the other side before she answered, “I…I’m here, Firiel.  I have some good news,” she said with a forced laugh.  “Minister Eärdil has quarantined the affected areas.  I think we may have it contained.  And he unlocked the evidence storage…you know the drugs that Valandil got from the investigation?  Well, we’re stocked with Gort and Kelventari again.  No shortage there now.”

Firiel coughed, pounding her chest.  “Good…good.  We needed some good news.”  Her words held the suggestion of the unasked question.

“No, no sign of Valandil yet.  It’s at least an eight-day ride there and back and I know he will be balls to the wall,” Kaile said, using a Northron expression of speed.  “So, maybe six or seven?” she added hopefully.

Firiel’s breathing was labored.  “Kaile…Kaile, my dear friend, I’m so afraid.  I’m so scared,” she said, her voice wavering.  “Things were going so well.  I want you…I want you to have the most wonderful wedding and for you and Jonu to have a happy life.  And you make sure that Pelemeth does the record keeping like you did.  You had everything so well organized.  She needs…needs a lesson in that,” she said, her voice fading.  “I wanted…wanted to be Valandil’s wife.  I really did.”

The sound of sobbing came through the door.  “Stop it, Firiel.  Stop it.  Don’t talk like that, please.  I have everything under control out here.  All the potions are premixed and we are onto something in your tomes.  We will figure this out.  Nimhir sent us a roast turkey and Jonu is carving it up for you all. I…I need you to stay with us,” she said, her voice cracking.  “I haven’t hardly slept in five days.  I will figure this out.”  Grit came back into her words.

Mercatur listened to this, his brown eyes misting up, his hands trembling.  Damn, he wasn’t supposed to feel anything.  He came to Cardolan to fight for coin and to drink and wench.  Hard years in Rhudaur taught him that feeling things led to death.  He didn’t raise an eyebrow when his father threw him out and dispossessed him of any claim to House Rhudainor.  He didn’t shed a tear when his parents passed from illness, recanting and leaving him a manor house in their dying days.  He had no attachment to his childhood home and gave it freely to someone that deserved it more.  Don’t get attached.  Don’t feel. That was the hard heart of Rhudaur. Why now, did he want to collapse to the ground, curl up and weep like a baby?  He rose with a feral grunt and walked towards the Healer.  She would lose the ability to function before he did.

“Come, Firiel.  Here, take my arm.”  He pulled her up gently as she coughed and he guided her to an open spot on the floor. “You need to rest.  Here, take a dose of Gort and Kelventari.  You need it.”  He pulled the vials out of her kit.

“No, no, I need my mind.”

“Not for a while, you don’t.  We just gave them all a dose.  You rest a while.  I’ll watch over everyone.  When you get up though, you best teach me this mystical healing art,” he said with little humor.

She drank it greedily, her body relaxing as she got sleepy. “I know…lop heads off of dwarves, put axes into robbers’ faces…that’s you.  None of this touchy feely shit, huh?”

He chuckled.  “You know me too well.  Now rest, Firiel.  I got this.” He forced a smile as she faded into slumber.  He walked over to check on Îuldis and saw that she wasn’t breathing, her eyes frozen open.  He balled his fists, slumped over her body and wept.

The Vale of Imladris

Nirnadel

The sun wavered on the western horizon as one of the Noldorin elves aimed his arrow at Alquanessë’s heart.  Nirnadel could see Finculion twitch, his hands raised above his head, but he was ready to fight.  Alquanessë made a motion and they both knelt down, supplicant before the guardians.  The one archer’s hand quivered.

Nirnadel dismounted, the other archer watching her. She moved slowly in between the arrow and the elf princess, raising her hands.  Galadel and Éanfled gasped and Baranor’s face filled with horror.  The Princess had done this once before and only hoped that it would turn out the same.  “Please hear me, good elves!  Please, we come in peace.  I would not allow harm to come to people who have risked much to help us.  We come to you, only with great need.  Please hear us out!”  Her heart pounded, full of fear and hope.  She needed to do this for Firiel…for Tharbad.

The elf without the arrow drawn became concerned, his eyes narrowed.  “You have the royal colors of Cardolan, meaning that you must be Princess Nirnadel. We do not wish to harm you, but please step aside.  It is the demons that we are concerned with.  You may depart after we deal with them.”

Nirnadel heard Alquanessë behind her.  “This is not your fight, dear Princess.  Please step aside,” she said and moved the young lady with her mind, clearing the path of the arrow again.  “I appreciate your kindness, but remember, I won’t die, but you will.”

On her knees, Alquanessë spoke to the elves.  “Before you kill me,” she said, “we are not entirely what we seem to be.  Yes, we are demons, but know also that I am the daughter of Irimë.  Our uncle was High King Nolofinwë and our grandfather was Finwë and our grandmother, Indis of the Vanyar.  We were corrupted against our will by the vampire, Thuringwethil.  After we escaped, we have hidden from the world and only come out to help our friends in their dire need,” she said, gesturing to the group on horseback.  “I would prefer that you not hurt my brother or I, but should you feel the need to do so, please help our friends.”

The two archers studied them closely, no one making a move. “That would make you kin,” one said, narrowing his eyes.  “We are descended from Fingolfin through Eärendil.  In spite of what I see, I sense that you are true,” he said, lowing his bow.  “I am Elladan and this is my brother, Elrohir.  We will take you to our father who will decide what should be done.  He should know of our kin who are also vampires.”

Nirnadel’s heart leapt.  They would actually see Rivendell and be able to plead their case before Elrond.  She glanced at Haedorial who was practically beaming.

Alquanessë made a wan smile at the elves.  “We’ve met…sort of.  He found our bodies after the War of Elves and Sauron and buried us with honor.  I’m sure he would remember.”

Elladan raised an eyebrow.  “Still, you must obey our custom regarding strangers.  We must blindfold all of you, but we guarantee your safety.”  He made a curt bow to Nirnadel.  “Princess of Cardolan, it is good to meet you.  It will be my father who determines what, if any help, to give you.”  He began to hand out blindfolds to the group. “I apologize, but this is a necessary precaution.  And to the vampires, we do not fully trust you yet so this must be done.”  He bound their hands behind them and put a black bag over their heads.  “We will provide you with clothing when we reach Imladris.”

Nirnadel felt a burst of mental power from Alquanessë, a feeling of shame, a feeling of fear.  An image formed in her mind of the elf, writhing on the ground, bound and chained, her body bare before Thuringwethil as the vampire toyed with her then burying her fangs into Alquanessë’s neck, lapping up blood.  The elf faded, weeping, begging to be spared but Thuringwethil tore her own wrist and poured blood back into Alquanessë’s mouth.  The elf screamed in agony but then opened her red eyes.  It was clear that she didn’t want to be bound and sightless, but she accepted this humiliation for the Princess.  Nirnadel would never forget this.  She looked at Haedorial who had seen the images as well.

She rushed over and took off her cloak and jacket.  She tied the jacket around Finculion’s waist and put the cloak around Alquanessë.  “Here, my gift to you,” she said, pinning the cloak with her royal pin, a hill and tree surrounded by an eight-pointed star.  “I would not have my friends so humiliated.”  She then went back to her horse and put the blindfold on. She slapped her arms in the chill and began to shiver.

Elladan and Elrohir led them for about an hour before they heard waterfalls and could smell the mist in the air and the scent of pines. It sounded like the horses were now on gravel.   A horn was blown, startling Nirnadel amid her teeth chattering.  She could see a little beneath the blindfold and saw a structure up ahead, surrounded by oak and pine trees.  She barely made out footsteps approaching.

“You may remove your blindfolds,” Elrohir said and they pulled them off to see a three-story building, constructed of stone: travertine and granite, with oak beams for a luxurious but earthy ambiance, an understated elegance.  The roofs were of gray slate tiles with chimneys poking out at various points.  A bell tower rose from the center of the structure, all of which nestled in the crook of an overhang of the Misty Mountains with waterfalls pouring around the house.

The Princess gasped, her hands over her mouth.  This was Rivendell, known as Imladris, home of many of the Eldar who remained in Middle Earth.  Elladan untied the vampires as three Noldor elves approached from the house.  One had short, black hair, wearing a red and gold robe.  The second had long, dark brown hair, wearing a green robe with a green cloak.  The last was taller than the others and had wavy golden hair, wearing a green and gold robe with the sigil of a golden flower.

Alquanessë tore her hood off and threw it to the ground in a huff, wrapping the cloak tightly around her body.  She shook in rage, her eyes tinged red.  She nodded to Nirnadel, her lower lip quivering.  “Thank you, Your Highness.  I shall not forget your kindness.”

The first elf bowed curtly.  “We apologize for the necessary precautions.  The spies and agents of the enemy are many and crafty. Our best defense is secrecy.  Allow me to introduce ourselves.  You’ve met Elrond’s sons.  I am Erestor, Chief Councilor of Imladris.  This is Gildor Inglorion and this is Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower of lost Gondolin.”

Haedorial and Dagar’s mouths fell open, and they just stared as Nirnadel dismounted and approached them.  She took a knee for a moment and then rose, trying her best to present herself as an equal.  But she knew otherwise.  “I am Nirnadel of Cardolan, heir to the throne.  This is my personal guard, led by Captain Baranor with Sir Valandil. This is Dagar, Lord Rhudainor of Rhudaur and his knights, led by Sir Oswy.  And they…are Alquanessë and Finculion, Noldor of the House of Fingolfin. We come to you to beg your help in curing a curse that has descended upon our fair city of Tharbad.  The people, who include a dear friend of mine, are running out of time.”  She fought to keep her voice steady.

Glorfindel escorted the vampires to change while Erestor continued.  “We are not in the habit of freely helping strangers, mannish ones at that.  Such are the times.”

The Princess held up her hand to stop him.  “Please, allow me to finish, good sir,” she said strongly, unaware of where she got the courage to challenge one of the Eldar.  “The friend of whom I speak is the daughter of Elanoriel of Rivendell.  We came to inform her and to seek help.”

Erestor’s eyes widened.  “Elanorial?  Yes, she is here.  Gildor, please summon her quickly.  Meet us at the council chambers.  Nirnadel, Princess of Cardolan, you are well spoken for one so young and you are bold beyond your years.  I will take you to meet Elrond.  I feel that your cause is good and just and I will advocate on your behalf.”

Nirnadel sighed in relief.  “Thank you, good Councilor.  Time is of the essence, please.”  

Erestor opened thick double doors, made of stout oak, that led into the foyer where a number of elves stood, gawking at the visitors. To the left was a lounge with multiple fireplaces of white stone that were crafted to appear as trees.  To the right was a library, vast and extensive. Nirnadel thought she saw one book, titled in Quenya, that was about the lost city of Ost-in-Edhil.  They went along a wooden walkway with a railing that overlooked a grassy courtyard that was ringed with flowering plants in pinks, yellows, reds and violets.  In the center was a three-layered fountain, spraying water into the air and then flowing into blue asymmetric ceramic bowls.

A blond elf came up to them, eyes locked on Valandil. “Valandil, it’s me, it’s me Ascarnil, from the Barrow Downs,” he said.  He was dressed in robes of dark forest green with his hair tied back. “And you too, Haedorial!  What brings you here?”

The knight’s eyes widened.  “Ascarnil!  I knew that you lived in Rivendell, but I didn’t put it together.  It’s good to see you,” he said as Haedorial clapped the elf on the shoulder.

Ascarnil looked around.  “Is Firiel or that Mercenary with you?  You guys always traveled together.”

“That is precisely why were are here, good Ascarnil,” Haedorial added.  “Lady Firiel has been afflicted with a curse, and we are here seeking aid.  Mercatur stayed to help.”

Ascarnil nodded solemnly.  “I see.  Yes, the council is gathering for something so I guess you are why.  I saw Lady Elanoriel heading that way with Gildor. Come, let’s not keep them waiting.”

They rushed into the council chambers, a large room, furnished only with a long oak table that was surrounded by comfortable chairs. The high ceiling was flat, covered in white plaster with dark wooden beams.  Numerous windows let in the fading sunlight with glass doors on the north and south, leading to a wide porch and on the east, leading to a roofed portico with a travertine tiled floor.

Erestor gestured and bowed, giving an approving nod to their leader.  “I present Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían, and Lord Aranto, the Housemaster.”  He then gestured back to the visitors.  “Lord Elrond, I present Nirnadel, Crown Princess of Cardolan and her entourage.  I have heard their plight and advocate for assistance.”

Nirnadel was shaking, trying to keep her body under control. She saw Haedorial and Dagar doing the same and it gave her some comfort.  She took a knee for a moment and then rose.  “M…m…my lord Elrond, I…I beg of you an audience so that I may humbly request the aid of your p…people,” she said rapidly in a wavering voice but then she dug deep and found courage.  She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.  “You have been allies of the northern kingdoms since the founding of Arnor.  I beg for your friendship once more.  My people, my friends have been afflicted by a curse, likely of the Witch-King and they will waste away to become wights if we cannot stop this.”  Her words were now strong and clear.

She looked at Elrond, who seemed both as young as she and ancient at the same time.  His bright eyes spoke of eons of life and wisdom.  He put his knuckle up to his lips, thinking, his black hair parted in the middle, flowing down his back.  On his finger was a ring of gold, set with a large, clear blue sapphire.  Vilya, the legendary Elven Ring of Air.  How was it even possible that she could dare to speak to one so powerful?  The Princess felt absolutely tiny.  She focused her mind back on Firiel and she would see this through.

Lady Elanoriel, Firiel’s mother, came to her and put her elven cloak around Nirnadel’s slender frame.  “Dear child, I heard that you came all of this way for my daughter.  Bless you.”  Her golden hair streamed down over jade green robes, held with a silver sash. She gave Valandil a warm nod.

Glorfindel then entered with the two siblings, now dressed in white robes.  He seemed to be keeping a close watch on them with his bright blue eyes.

Elrond took a breath, and all awaited his word.  “These are grave matters, but the path of wisdom is clear.  We will assist you and honor our friendship with the kingdoms of men.  You were all courageous to come here, not knowing what fate would befall you.  I offer you the hospitality of Imladris while we make preparations.  Time is of the essence so we will depart tonight.  We will have your mounts attended to and refreshed for the long journey ahead.”  He gestured to Lord Aranto, a tall Noldo.  “Please see to it.  Our friends will be heading home in a few hours.”

Valandil fell to his knees.  “Thank you, Lord Elrond.  A million thank yous.”

Nirnadel touched him on the shoulder as she wiped her cheeks.  A tidal wave of relief washed over her.  “Yes, thank you, Lord Elrond.  I and our kingdom are forever in your debt.  We stand as your allies in defiance of evil.”

Elrond grasped her hand, and she could feel the ring and its power.  The sensation was soft but permeated her entire body.  “You are very brave, young Princess,” he said.  “You will stop at nothing for your friends and those that you love.  You must temper that courage with wisdom.”  He looked deep into her eyes and she trembled.  “I see…I see the light of Elendil in your eyes.  You have the blood of my brother, Elros Tar-Minyatur, in your heart.  So, we are…relatives, if you will.  You may yet do great things if wisdom prevails.”

Nirnadel saw a flash of a mithril crown, a wedding and then a tomb in a barrow that read, “Her Majesty, Queen Nirnadel of Cardolan.  The essence of love and the embodiment of light. 1394-1412.  Reigned 1412.  Gone from us far too soon.  May she endure in the embrace of Eru, the One.”

She gasped, releasing his hand.  “What?  What was that vision?  I saw…”

He gazed down at her.  “Your life is both a blessing to the good and a curse to the evil.  You are a beacon to many, but people plot your downfall.  This is just a possible future, one among many.  You will be a queen soon and will become the head, heart and soul of everything that your realm stands for.  You are trusting and kind.  But you must also be wary.”  He then gestured to the vampires.  “We should now get to the bottom of this new mystery, shall we?”  They walked over to Alquanessë and Finculion, who, though powerful, were no match for Glorfindel, a warrior who had slain a balrog during the sack of Gondolin and paid with his life.

They stood with Dagar and Haedorial, awaiting Elrond’s judgment.  Elrond approached and nodded.  “Lord Glorfindel, I feel…I feel that we can trust these two.  Please be at ease.”  He looked the two of them over.  “Yes, I remember you.  Slain in the temple of Sauron, having rebelled and fought against his dominion. And, you reported to me many times of his troop movements, which was instrumental in our victory against the Dark Lord.”  He extended a conciliatory hand.  “It was a necessary precaution, but I deeply apologize for the way in which you were first treated.”

Finculion took the hand and Alquanessë knelt.  She then rose and took a breath.  “I was so angry at first.  I am no longer ashamed of my body, but I was so humiliated.  It felt…it felt as when Thuringwethil had me in her grasp.  I was helpless…her…plaything.  You cannot imagine what she had me do.  I slew our people.  I drank their blood.  I later became a tool for Sauron and my sister.”  She began to shake and bit the back of her hand.  “What they did…they made me kill children.  I…I,” she began and then straightened her back, shuddering. Her eyes became clear.  “I pledge myself to rid the world of Morgoth’s lingering evil.  That is…if you will accept me…nephew,” she added with a wink.

Finculion nodded.  “And I am shamed for just watching and allowing it to happen.  I was…afraid, but I am no longer.”

Elrond gave them a sad smile.  He knew of the evils of this complex world.  He let out a shuddering breath.  “I…I understand, you who are my kin.  As a child, my brother and I were at the sack of the Havens of Sirion when Maedhros, full of the fury of the cursed Oath of Fëanor, burned the city and murdered its people, all to find the Silmaril that my mother, Elwing, bore.”

Haedorial whispered into Nirnadel’s ear.  “I have read this…but to hear it from someone who was actually there…”

“Many of the Fëanoreans turned against them, so evil were their deeds,” Elrond continued.  “But it was not enough.  Maedhros, in his might, slew many of them and my mother cast herself into the sea rather than be captured and lose the Silmaril to darkness.  She was raised up by great Ulmo, who transformed her into a swan or seagull, depending on who tells the tale, and guided to Aman with my father.  During the battle, the brothers, Amrod and Amras were slain, leaving on Maedhros and Maglor as the last Sons of Fëanor.”  He nodded slowly, remembering.  “My brother and I became prisoners of Maedhros.  We were still very young but knew the tale of Eluréd and Elurín, my uncles. After the Sons of Fëanor destroyed Doriath, Celegorm took the young boys into the forest to starve and perish, so evil was he.  We feared the same fate, having been left in a cave to die, but Maglor took pity on us and raised us.”  His hand trembled for a moment.  “I still have difficulty reconciling Maglor’s evil with his kindness.”

Alquanessë smiled, her face beaming, her perfect teeth showing.  “So, you know what it is to be helpless and afraid.  We are not this by choice.  But we chose to fight those who made us this way.  And, it is alleged that Maglor is our father but that is only a rumor.”

Elrond took the hands of his kin.  “And we will stand with you.  I sense in you, a fear of your other siblings, whom we found and sealed in the tomb all of those centuries ago.”

Dagar stepped forward and tentatively raised his hand. “Good sir, if I may.  Good Alquanessë and I experienced the horror of Blogath first hand.  She and good Finculion were able to stop her, but it is only temporary.  Her Highness is funding an expedition to end them for good. We will set off towards the end of summer if all goes well.”

“I see,” Elrond answered.  “This requires a response for we cannot let them free.  The devastation of the countryside would rival that of the last war.  Come, Lord Rhudainor and my kin.  Let us discuss what you know with Erestor and Aranto.  I will send word to Curumo and Olorin for advice…Saruman and Gandalf in your tongue.”  He then gestured to Lady Elanoriel.  “Princess Nirnadel, if you and your party wish to clean up before the journey, I bid you to follow Elanoriel to the guest suites.  We will provide you with towels and refreshment.  Then, please join our people out on the portico for music.  It will soothe your heart and mind.  Think not, overmuch, about your vision, but be ever wary.”  He put his hand on Dagar’s shoulder.  “Come, we have much to discuss in a short time.”

Haedorial was besides himself with wonder.  “Your Highness, I wish to thank you for allowing me to be part of your journey.  I could never have imagined this as part of the Guild of Nightsingers.  I have met and sung with an elf of the old world.  I have met the Herald of Gil-Galad and stood in his home.  And, they agreed to help good Firiel.  We will make it back in time, I know this,” he said with the utmost conviction.

She grasped his hand as Elanoriel guided them up the stairs to the guest suites.  “My good bard, Lord Elrond showed me something in a vision, something both comforting and disturbing.  I saw my crown, mithril with the jewels of Cardolan.  I saw my wedding to King Araphor…then…then I saw my tomb in the barrows,” she said, shaking.  “It…it said that I die in Fourteen Twelve…two years from now.  He told me that it was only one possible future and that I needed to be wary.  But I can’t unsee that, Haedorial.”

“Lord Elrond is wise beyond what we can imagine.  I would see it as a friendly warning, Your Highness. We know that Hir Girithlin has designs on your throne.  With an alliance with Arthedain and Gondor and with the elves in support, Girithlin would be a fool to test you.  And…you have so many who would stop that from happening.”

On the third floor, Lady Elanorial opened a door to a room that was plushly decorated, carpeted in deep blues and earthy browns with beds, desks and a large washroom.  “For you and your ladies, my dear.”  She then pointed to an adjacent room.  “And for you men.  I will await you downstairs in the council chambers.  Relax…be free.  We will depart in about two hours.”

Nirnadel tried to put it out of her mind, focusing and accepting Haedorial’s word for she trusted him completely.  They saw a set of bathtubs and a type of spigot.  “Where do we get the water?” she asked as she touched the spigot and hot water shot out of it into the tub.  “What?” she cried out, stepping back.  “How is this…how is this possible?”  Hot water quickly filled the white porcelain tub that was shaped like a dolphin.  The other ladies did the same with their tubs, wonder filling their eyes.  The Princess made an amused face.  “Well, I don’t have to be invited in,” she said as she removed the elven cloak that Elanorial gave her.  Galadel and Éanfled rushed to assist her, but she waved them off.  “No, please, attend to yourselves this evening. Tonight, we are just three girls taking a bath.”  She removed the rest of her clothes and slid into the tub, sighing in contentment amid the steam.  She glanced at the other two, whom had ample bosoms and then looked down at her own childlike body.  She put her hands on her chest and closed her eyes.  “It will come.  It will come.”

Galadel pranced over and smiled at the Princess.  Nirnadel looked up, about to speak when the lady flicked her nipple with a finger and giggled.  Nirnadel’s mouth went open wide and she splashed water at Galadel.  “Oh, you wicked woman!  What was that for?”

Lady Tinarë skipped back to her tub and slid in.  “I didn’t fill out until a year ago.  It will happen,” she said with a wink.

Éanfled soaked her red hair and scrubbed herself. “She’s right.  I was still a stick at Seventeen.  We Dúnedain mature just a bit later than other women.  And you forget that I was Twenty when I attended you, already a woman so I already had these,” she said with an evil grin, cupping her breasts above the lip of the tub.

Nirnadel took comfort in that.  It seemed to her that she would be a child forever.  So much was changing so fast and she was growing up more quickly than her uncle Nimhir wanted.  She slid down, letting her whole head dip beneath the water.  Then, she sat up and began scrubbing the dirt and sweat away from their long ride.  It felt good. The heat soaked her skin and cleared her pores.  The sweet scent of lavender permeated the water and the room and she inhaled deeply, just enjoying the bath and the company.

The main door opened and shut and Alquanessë entered. “I have to say that this is pretty nice. No offense, Lady Éanfled, but Imladris has better accommodations than House Rhudainor.  Still, I would not trade what I have been given by Dagar.  I do miss my own kind though.”  She touched another tub, and it began to fill.  “Ah, the magic of the elves.  We had this in Barad Eithel and in our…cave.”  She shed her robes.  Her skin was smooth and creamy and, though slender, she was perfectly formed, a picture of womanhood.  She pushed her black hair behind her pointed ears and slid into the tub, sighing contentedly.  “Oh, Lady Éanfled, we need to put this into our home.”

Nirnadel felt herself admiring the ancient elf, wanting to emulate her manner and humor.  She felt the vast wisdom and the deep pain that radiated from Alquanessë.  “What did you discuss with Lord Elrond?” she asked.

The elf cupped water onto her face and then over her hair, letting it pour down upon her broad smile.  Her beautiful silver eyes were stunning but disconcerting.  “We will be part of your expedition.  In fact, my brother and I will help retake Castle Amrodan. It would be nice to see Mercatur again so long as he no longer wishes to put his silly axe in my head.  Lord Elrond will also provide support against my siblings.  And he also mentioned the ability to create a cure.”  She paused and her expression became thoughtful.  “I both want one and fear one.  As you have seen, my powers are awesome and addictive.  I have been a demon for…about Five-Thousand Years…give or take.  What would it be to become a woman again…to be able to love and receive love?  Other than my brother and mother, I have never known it,” she said sadly.

Alquanessë climbed out of her tub and strode over. She cupped Nirnadel’s face. “Trust me,” she said and then kissed the Princess.  She pulled back and then exhaled into her face, translucent tendrils of power flowing into her nostrils.

“What was that?” Nirnadel asked, feeling her whole being tingle.

The elf walked to pick up a towel, wrung out her hair and wiped her body down.  “You’ll have to find out,” she said, donning her robe.  “I’ll be in the portico, listening to music.”

It was good to feel clean.  They wiped themselves and put their riding clothes back on, heading downstairs.  Music already permeated the halls, strings and woodwinds, playing a serene instrumental tune.  As they passed the council chambers, they could see Lord Elrond speaking intently with Erestor, Aranto, Celebrían and Elanoriel.  Firiel’s mother was already dressed in riding clothes.  On the portico, Dagar and the others reclined on soft chairs, eyes closed, just listening.  The cool night air flowed through the pillars, rustling the leaves of the potted plants.  Nirnadel wished that she could stay here forever.  She could just be a page or some other staff member, learning at the feet of Elrond or even Alquanessë.  It would be a good life.

She settled into a plush chair, and the world seemed to stop.  She closed her eyes for what only seemed a moment when Elrond gently shook her.  She awoke with a start.  She felt refreshed, wonderful even.  All sense of doubt had vanished.  She did notice that her chest felt a little tender.

“It is time to depart,” Elrond told her.  “Lady Elanoriel and Gildor will accompany you back to Tharbad.  The lady is one of our finest healers.  It was she that taught your Firiel.  Gildor is our finest ranger.  He will ensure the swiftest ride.”

Elanoriel bowed.  “I will cure my daughter and your people, Your Highness.”  She produced a sack full of medicines.  “Elendil’s Basket, to brew the cure.  Menelar for the infected skin.  And,” she said of a number of flasks, “Miruvor, the Cordial of Imladris.  It will keep us fresh for the hard ride.  Come, we must not waste any more time,” she said in a stern, motherly way.  They rushed to the entryway where Gildor was already mounted with the knights and the Royal Guard.

Elanoriel reached out to Valandil.  “I was initially…skeptical of you, but you have proven yourself to me this day…son.  Take heart. We will cure her.”

With that, they thundered back down the path for home.

Chapter End Notes

Plot ideas courtesy of Gianna Aurora.  

I wanted to reintroduce characters from the Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  This will set up the finale of the Blood-Wight arc.  I'm trying to showcase Mercatur and Nirnadel's character arcs too.  Mercatur has to come to grips with his past and his stoicism.  Nirnadel continues to grow and find her way but it is revealed that she may die soon.  

Leave a Comment

41) The Houses of Healing - Lothron (May) 11^th, 1410

Mercatur

Things had gone from bad to worse over the last two days. He had Îuldis’ body taken by Kaile and Pel who were covered in thick leather suits with some kind of cloth mask that was soaked in a Kelventari solution.  “You have to burn it,” he told them, not wanting to acknowledge that she was a person.  It made it easier.  Jellek had also passed, but Remodoc was hanging on by a thread, mostly delirious now. Jellek’s body went out next, the two nurses wrapping him up in old sheets and taking him outside.  Mercatur could then smell the burning body, a sickly sweet stench.  The exam room had become a den of misery, people rolling weakly on the ground, groaning in agony.

He looked down and both of his arms were now black with the curse.  The crossbow bolt that he had taken to the back when he was fighting the harbor master paled in comparison to this pain.  It consumed his thoughts.  He frequently felt lightheaded and thought he was seeing things.  He saw a flash of Îuldis, standing there, distraught, searching for something in piles of rubble.  Then, her fleeing Tyrn Gorthad as the snows fell, then sitting in the shanty town in rags, shivering…starving.  Her apparition reached out to him, silently pleading.  He blinked hard and the vision went away. Was he now seeing ghosts?  In desperation, he thought about cutting his arms off but then just sat down, exhausted and demoralized.  He couldn’t remember the last time he slept well.

Firiel was slumped on the ground against a wall, weeping quietly, the curse working its way up her neck and down her body.  Her voice began to sound ghostly too, hollow and warbling.

He sucked down another vial of Gort and the numbness spread throughout his body.  It was welcome relief.  If it wasn’t for the Kelventari solution he figured they’d all be undead by now. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad compared to this.  He studied the remaining Gort vials…more than enough for a fatal amount if it came down to it.  Dizzy and cloudy, he staggered over to Firiel.  “You need another dose, hon.  Come on, drink up.”  He held her by the back of the neck, tilting her head backwards.  “I only say this selfishly, but I need you alive to cure me,” he lied.

Her eyes opened, slowly turning red.  She coughed and then laughed weakly.  “I…know you…too well now, Merc.  You…you’re full of shit.  You care about me.”

He smirked.  “Mmm, secret’s out.  Don’t you dare tell Valandil now.  I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Your…your secret’s…safe…with me.”  She drank the Kelventari and choked for a moment before swallowing.  “Ohh…oh it burns,” she said in an eerie tone.  She stood slowly, wincing but feeling better.  “We have to…have to give the other patients their doses.”  They gave Remodoc a double.  He was losing the battle.  They then moved on to other eleven patients.  Any more and they would have to create a new quarantine room.  But thankfully no new cases had come in the last two days.  After Remodoc, the next sickest patient was another woman from Artan’s, a tall, lean girl named Neldis.  He actually bothered to learn her name.

“We’re not losing them,” Mercatur growled as he put the Gort mixture on Remodoc’s face.  “Help is near, buddy.  I need you to hang in there.”  The merchant was still a strong man after years in the army before he retired.  “I’m going to take care of your family while you recover, you hear?  And then, you’re going home to them.”  He was finding a world of respect for the nurses now.  Firiel had shown him how to measure and mix the solutions for maximum potency but minimum risk.  Too much Gort and you risked coma or death.  It had to be precise.  She taught him how to prepare a poultice with a thicker mixture combined with a gel and how to apply it.  To thin and it would just run down the skin and have little effect.

Firiel looked haggard, her blonde hair stringy and matted. “You’re doing good.  I might just hire you as a nurse, Mercatur,” she said in her ghostly voice.

“Too dangerous for me.  I’m safer in a pack of orcs and wargs.”  He said with a snicker.  “But I’ll think about it.”

They moved onto Neldis and he held her down as Firiel brought out the vials and the poultice.  The Healer blinked.  “Is it me, or does she look like Nel…you know, when she was coming around here…without all of the royal finery?”  The girl had silky black hair and light gray eyes with a soft, heart-shaped face.  Her eyes were starting to shade red, and the curse had spread down her legs.  Firiel poured the Kelventari into her mouth, followed by a couple of drops of Gort.  She then rubbed the poultice on the girl’s legs.

Mercatur shrugged.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear Neldis’ story.  Îuldis’ tale broke his heart.  “I dunno.  I suppose. I try not to look at the Princess too much or I get my hopes up,” he joked.

Firiel snorted.  “Oh yeah, you totally have a shot with her.  I dunno, young King of Arthedain or old busted up mercenary…tough choice.”

He had to laugh in spite of the pain, and he was glad that she was keeping her sense of humor.  “You never know.  Nirnadel could just go crazy one day and I’m the King Consort of Cardolan.”

The Healer started to laugh and then winced. “Mercatur, I don’t know how much longer we have…maybe a couple of days at most.  I have to ask…why did you burst in here that day?  It’s so out of character.  It makes no sense.”

He bit his lip, hoping to have avoided that question for the rest of his life.  He put his head down and sucked his teeth.  “I can’t lie to you, Firiel.  I kept some of the shit from the barrow and I sold it to Remodoc.  I’m responsible for this mess.  If I die fixing it, then so be it.”

She nodded slowly, digesting his words, then she shook her head.  “You big, dumb mercenary,” she began and he recoiled at her words.  “But you couldn’t have known.  They were just things.  The Witch-King is to blame, not you.  I know I should be, but I can’t be mad at you now.  We’ve been through too much.  But be damned sure you are going to help me fix this.”

He nodded, a flood of relief flowing through him.  He had too much respect for her and he dreaded her losing respect for him.  “You can count on it.”

There was a bang on the door and Mercatur wobbled over there.  “Yes?”

“It’s me, Kaile.  I have some new medicines for you,” she said with some excitement.  “We came across it in one of the old tomes.  Pel and I spent all morning picking Feduilas south of the gate. We brewed it with Reglan moss. It’s more potent than the Kelventari alone.  Drink it like a tea.  Open the door and we’ll pass it through.  There’s enough for everyone and I’ll keep brewing more.”

Mercatur snorted.  “It’s good that you stepped up your game, Kaile.  Firiel was about to replace all of you with me.”  He opened the door and took the tray.  Kaile still had her thick leather gear on with the mask.

“Oh, that’ll be the day that I grab an axe and crush some orcs.”

“You don’t crush with an axe, you chop,” he said, chuckling.  “I tell you what, you stick to nursing, and I’ll stick to chopping orcs.”

“Deal.”

It was a small thing, but he felt so much relief.  It was easy to feel forgotten being couped up in this room.  He could see her eyes and knew the question that she was going to ask.  “We’re hanging in there, but Remodoc and Neldis are fading.  Thank you. You’ve become one of my favorite persons.”  If he could cut his own throat to save them all right now, he would.  But Firiel needed him.  When she lost the ability to function, he would be all that they had. And he knew that Kaile would do something stupid like he did and he wasn’t going to let that happen.  She was going to get married and be happy regardless of whether he was here or not.

He started to tell Firiel, but she took the tray.  “I heard.  Come, Remodoc and Neldis get it first.  Kaile and Pel did good…so good.”  She gave the merchant a sip of the tea and it didn’t burn.  She nodded to Mercatur who had Neldis drink.  They both relaxed and their skin seemed brighter.  She handed the mercenary a full cup.  “You next.  When I go down, it will be all you.  I need you at your best.”

He shook his head as he handed her a cup.  “I don’t like drinking alone, so bottoms up, Missus Valandil.”

He linked arms with her at the elbow and they drank together. “What is this?  Some manly ritual?” she asked, her voice sounding more human.

He nodded.  “It’s a sign of respect among mercenaries in Rhudaur.  Don’t let it get to your head though,” he said.  Firiel had this down to earth quality that he could identify with. The Princess and the bard were nice and all, but the devotion to protocol was understandable but tiring.  He respected them in spite of that flaw though. The bard had saved his ass with nothing in it for him.  And Nirnadel was not someone that you would meet in hard Rhudaur…maybe Dagar being the exception, but she had a good heart and wasn’t afraid of arrows pointed at her. That counted for a lot.

After they drank the tea, it felt good.  The pain subsided and the itching vanished.  Firiel sighed with a smile.  “Kaile’s a damn genius.  I knew she’d find something.  I told her I’d find a way to bring her back here, but I won’t rob her of her new life.  She deserves it.”  She pointed to Mercatur’s arms.  “You know this only slows it, right?”

“I know.  I know. They’re on their way.  I feel it.”  He had no confidence at all, but it was something that they both needed to hear. Sometimes, sweet lies were more helpful than the truth.

Hours went by into late night, and the tea wore off.  It had to be early morning now.  Like Gort, too much Feduilas was highly toxic.  Mercatur groaned but he had to admire the precision of the healing arts.  He always thought it was, a pinch of this and a pint of that and poof, you’re healed.  It took years of learning to be as proficient as Firiel and Kaile.  The curse was up past his elbows now, working its way to his shoulders.  He winced.  He wanted more of the tea.

He stood and walked past Neldis, who was just whimpering now.  Remodoc was in a daze, his eyes red.  Firiel was crumpled on the ground, her red eyes open and unseeing.  “No, no!” he ran to her and shook her.  “Wake up, wake up dammit!”

She wheezed weakly and began coughing.  He brought her a cup of tea.  “Just a sip…just a sip now,” he said as he put a small amount past her blue lips.  Her breathing eased and her eyes focused.

“So weak…please.  Put me out…of my misery.  Please.  I don’t…won’t become…one of those things.”  Her hand reached out, grasping at something unseen.  “I…hear…the Witch-King…calling me.  He sounds…beautiful.”

He began to shake his head.  “No, no, you don’t leave me.  You don’t leave Valandil.  Uh uh.” He noticed that his voice sounded ghostly now.

“You…you tell Valandil…that I will…always be in his heart,” she whispered and her eyes began to roll back and her breath became a rattle as she shook with some seizure.

Mercatur gave a feral shout and shook her again.  “No, no, no!” he cried and looked up.  “Take me!  Take me, please!”

There was a hard bang on the door.  “It’s me, Kaile!  They’re here, they’re here!  Let us in!”

The Dunnish Track – Lothron 11^th, 1410

Nirnadel

With Gildor Inglorion leading the way on an elven steed, their progress was nothing short of incredible.  All of the horses were fed something that gave them unbelievable stamina and a sip of Miruvor gave the riders the same.  Nirnadel felt that she could fly with the vampires.  They made the briefest of stops at Lord Rhudainor’s manor where Ecegar took the lancers home.  Oswy, Éanfled and Dagar would remain and ride to Tharbad.  Finculion would stay, but Alquanessë would trade her wings in for a horse and keep traveling.  She pulled her robes on over her bare body as her wings folded into her and then leapt into the saddle.  “Might look weird flying into Tharbad, don’t you think?” she said with a wink as they thundered back down the road.  “And besides, no more wolves or trolls from here on in.”  She started to hand Nirnadel’s cloak back to her, but the Princess waved her off.

“Keep it as a reminder of me,” she said.

The elf put her hand over her heart.  “What you did for me back in Imladris was so kind.  There has been little kindness in my long life. I won’t forget it.”

As the horses continued to speed along beyond normal endurance, Elanorial rode near.  “And you keep our cloak, my dear!  You saw how well it worked for Elrond’s sons.”

These were two women that the Princess had absolute admiration for.  She found herself mimicking Alquanessë’s gestures and body movements.  She wanted to learn everything from them and everything about them.

Haedorial rode beside her.  “What a magnificent gift, Your Highness!  We will have to invite her to sing in the Bar Aran!”

They barely slowed through Fennas Drúinen, the small border town that had fought savagely against the Rhudauran invaders.  Mayor Eston turned out the townspeople to wave flags and cheer.  Dagar waved back, touching hands as they went by.  Nirnadel was surprised to hear that word of her deeds on the bridge had permeated the countryside and that her name had become legend.

“Bless you, Your Highness,” Mayor Eston called.  She stopped for a moment and touched his hand, whereupon he kissed it.  “Your courage at the bridge has given the people hope.  We see how you care for us!  Bless you and ride safely!”

She smiled at him, her emotions running high.  “And bless you, good mayor!  We shall return later this year and dine with you.”  They moved on and she blew the people a kiss, eliciting a roar of approval.

Everyone took a quick sip of Miruvor as Gildor fed the horses again.  There was no pain or fatigue as they cantered out of town along the road next to the Bruinen River.  “We’ll get there right past midnight,” Gildor called out.  “No stops, no breaks, just hard riding.  Come on!”  This was normally a two-day ride, compressed into less than a day.

The sun continued to lower on the western horizon as they tore through small hamlets and villages.  This would be her kingdom.  These would be her people.  Shepherds, fishermen, ranchers, farmers, musicians, artisans and mayors.  Other than Lond Daer, she had seen only a little of Cardolan beyond Tharbad and Thalion.  As the people came out to see the troop of knights, elves and the Princess pass, they waved and blew kisses, and she did the same to them.  She resolved to make a grand tour of the kingdom soon.  She needed to meet the people and learn their hopes and fears.  She needed to see the land and learn its workings.

“We were fortunate that the forces of Angmar were stopped at Tyrn Gorthad,” Baranor told her.  “It took elves from Lindon and Rivendell to destroy them, but I credit your father’s sacrifice in making that happen.  The armies of the Witch-King never penetrated this far south, sparing this region.  And Mayor Eston, that man deserves our praise.  He stopped the Rhudaurans cold at the border.  He personally trained every able-bodied man, woman and teen to use a spear and eket.  It made the difference.”

Gildor nodded.  “We knew the dire situation and marched forth.  We only regret that we were too late to save King Ostoher and his sons.”

Nirnadel felt a twinge of inner pain.  Could the reclusive elves have come sooner?  It no longer mattered.  They did come and saved her kingdom, and they were coming to save it again.  “I thank you and your people from the bottom of my heart.  My home is always open to you, and I pledge my assistance to any from Rivendell or Lindon.  And yes, good Baranor.  We will see good Mayor Eston duly recognized.  I promise this.”

“You know that he was a Ragger in his younger days,” the captain said, referring to the elite force of pikemen in Cardolan’s army.  “They were cut off from the King due to the surprise attack by Rogrog, the Olog-Hai warlord and forced to retreat by overwhelming attacks, but they never bent and they never broke.  I daresay that the Raggers are the finest heavy infantry in any kingdom.”

Gildor nodded.  “This is true.  They are a steel wall and a forest of pikes.  You should have seen them in Dagorlad under Elendil and Isildur.  It was a sight to behold in so foul a land.”

Haedorial spoke up.  “My Lord Gildor, what was it like?  What happened?”

“There was a king named Oropher, a Sindar over a realm of Silvan elves in Greenwood the Great, upon Amon Lanc.  He and his son, Thranduil heeded the call of Gil-Galad to march upon Sauron in the War of the Last Alliance along with Amdír of Lórien. I was there.  Oropher was a fiery soul, impetuous and proud.  On the Plains of Dagorlad, he called for his people to charge before Gil-Galad’s lines had been set.  The Silvan elves are quiet and stealthy, best in forests, ambushing the enemy and fading away.  They are lightly armed and armored for speed.  They were slaughtered by the orcs and the Easterlings, and Oropher and Amdír slain in the rout.  Thranduil and his son, though wounded, stabilized the retreat but it seemed that Gil-Galad’s left flank would crumble.  It was Elendil and Isildur who plugged the gaps and pushed Mordor back.  The Raggers were their steel spine, chanting as they thrust their pikes into the enemy.”

Nirnadel knew of the reputation of the Raggers, who were now led by Captain Tardegil, but she had little idea of their long history or their lineage from lost Númenor.

By nightfall they entered the larger town of Alanora, the first of three before Tharbad.  Curious onlookers turned out to see the banners of Cardolan riding by, waving as they passed.  Then came Nilrenhil and Morvalen, the towns growing even larger as they neared the city. By then, most inhabitants had turned in for the night, only a few looking out of windows and waving.  Nirnadel could see sheep, goats and then cattle in the fields under the rising moon.  Still, the troop thundered on.

Elanoriel rode up to the Princess.  “My dear, are we nearing the city?”

“Indeed!  We are under an hour from the Annon Forn, the North Gate.  Well, less at this speed.  We will continue down the Thraden Forn, the North Road, through the gates and down the Menetar to the South Bank.  Baranor will clear the way.  I hope we can reach the Houses of Healing no later than one past midnight.”  Her heart swelled with both hope and dread.  What would they find there?  How many would still be alive?  For a moment, she imagined a charnel house full of corpses that would rise as wights.  Her friends. She couldn’t lose them.

Alquanessë looked over.  “Don’t think that way, Your Highness.  We must trust in hope and strength.”

They continued down the now paved road, picking up even more speed, hooves clattering on the stone tiles.  Soon, the shanty town came into view, mostly taken down now and replaced by a growing fleet of wagons for Lamril’s resettlement.  Baranor spurred his horse, along with Valandil and they surged ahead to alert the gate.

Minutes later, Nirnadel could see the massive wooden gates being opened and the portcullis being raised.  She saw Captain Guilrod of the Garrison leaning over the battlements, waving.  “Your Highness!  Your Highness, we are clearing the way for you.  Traffic is light at this late hour!  Valar be praised you have returned to us!”

It was good to see home again.  She just prayed that they were still in time.  The clatter of hooves filled the night air as they pounded down the Menetar and over the Iant Formen.  She pointed to the Bar Aran on the left.  “That is my home!  I beg you to stay with me when this is over.”

Elanoriel nodded.  “I would be my pleasure, dear girl.  And now that Sir Valandil is a Royal Knight, I can visit all of you in one trip.  But come, we have more important things right now.  How far?”

“Fifteen minutes if the Ryncaras Tharbad gates are open!”  They accelerated as horns sounded in the city.  The guards at the great gate looked over and saw the banners of the Princess approaching and the men scrambled to open them and raise the massive portcullis.  They tore through without slowing and then down the Rath Lammen, a wider street that would lead to the Houses.  She could see the three-story structure now and the lights were on.  A good sign.

She spurred her horse forward, followed by Galadel and Éanfled, and practically leapt from the saddle onto the porch and pounded on the door. “Firiel, Kaile, Pel, Jonu it’s me, Nirnadel!”  There were hurried footsteps and the door flung open.  It was Kaile.  The Princess rushed into her arms.  “Oh, thank the Valar!  How are Firiel and the others?”

Kaile looked worried.  “Come, come, hurry.  I think she’s fading.  Mercatur is in there too.”

Nirnadel motioned for the others to follow.  “I brought some reinforcements from Imladris. Firiel’s mother is here.”

Kaile’s mouth made an ‘O’ and she put the mask back on her face.  “You can’t go in there, Your Highness.  I’ll show them.”

“Nonsense.  Give me a mask or something,” Nirnadel demanded as Kaile pounded on the exam room door.

“It’s me, Kaile!  They’re here, they’re here!  Let us in!” Elanoriel and Alquanessë stepped up, followed by Gildor and Valandil.  Kaile’s eyes went huge.  “You…you weren’t kidding about reinforcements,” she said, looking up at the elves who towered over her.  The door creaked open and they saw Mercatur’s haggard face, his eyes turning red and bleary, his brown beard tangled in knots.

He motioned them in.  “Hurry, hurry, it’s Firiel, I don’t think she’s breathing.  Hurry, please!  You have to…I can’t…please!”  He broke down sobbing, pounding his fists into his head.

Nirnadel rushed and knelt in front of him as Elanoriel rushed to her daughter.  She embraced the mercenary.  “We rode hard and came as quickly as we could, dear Mercatur.  We will do everything that we can, I assure you,” she said calmly, but felt as if her head would explode from the pressure and fear.  He pounded on her back weakly, trembling.

Elanorial was already standing over Firiel, her fingers on the Healer’s neck.  “Oh no, on no.  Hurry, brew the Athelas.  It has to be fresh.  Hurry!” she handed a pouch of leaves to Kaile, and the nurse ran right out the door to the steamer that they had set up for this emergency.  The elf then poured more of the Feduilas tea into Firiel’s mouth. Kaile pulled out a book of matches to light the steamer, but Alquanessë snapped her fingers, and a small fire started.

Kaile’s eyes went huge again.  “Uh, thank you,” she said as she poured the leaves into the pot full of water.  She looked back into the exam room.  “How long?” she called.

“I’ll be right there!” Elanorial called back.

Nirnadel went to her friend, Firiel.  The Healer’s breath was raspy and weak, her eyes entirely red.  Her skin was darkened, though almost translucent and blood vessels and muscles could even be seen.  She shuddered, some seizure taking her body and she began to make sounds that were not human.  Valandil rushed in, his eyes full of horror.  “Do something!” he called.

Elanoriel walked out to inspect the pot.  “I am, good son, I am.  We must brew the Athelas at the right temperature.  Then, I have to add the Elendil’s Basket…right…now,” she said, dropping in the ground up root.  Then, she handed Kaile a bag of gray powder.  “Be a dear and stir this into a fine paste.  Add just a little water, we want it thick.  You must be Kaile,” she said as she began to drain the water from the pot into a large pitcher.  “My daughter speaks well of you and trusts you implicitly.  We will see,” she added in a matronly tone.

The elf then looked back into the exam room.  “Dear Princess, I need you,” she called and Nirnadel rushed over.  “I’m going to take the tea in.  Crush the leftover Athelas leaves into a paste, nice and thick, and bring them to me, be quick about it.”

Elanoriel reminded her so much of her dear mother: a commanding presence.  The elf rushed back in and knelt beside Firiel, taking her pulse.  “We cannot wait.  Dear daughter, please open your mouth for me.”

Alquanessë stood beside them.  “She’s almost gone.  Should I change her?”

“I appreciate the thought my dear, but we will try this first,” she said, pouring the green liquid down Firiel’s throat.  She then handed the pitcher to Alquanessë.  “Give this to the others.  Be quick about it.”

Nirnadel and Kaile ran in together.  Elanorial took the Athelas paste and put some of it on a piece of cloth.  “Alquanessë-” she started when the other elf pointed a finger at the poultice, without looking, and it began to glow, giving off fumes.  “You read my mind.”

Alquanessë nodded as she poured the Athelas brew into Neldis’s mouth and then Remodoc’s.  “I did.”

Elanoriel fanned the fumes into Firiel’s face, and she gasped and then coughed.  “That’s it! That’s it, dear daughter. Breathe…breathe.  Here, dear Princess, go to the others and do the same thing,” she said, handing her the smoldering poultice.  Nirnadel wondered, why her, when there were many more qualified nurses.  “Kaile, the Menelar Root paste,” the elf continued, holding her hand out without looking.  The nurse put the bowl in her hand instantly.  I was just like working with Firiel.  Elanoriel began to apply it to Firiel’s body, but Valandil stepped up.

“I can finish that…mother.  You can move on.”  It was not a request and the elf nodded.

“She is my daughter, but she will be your wife.  I expect an invitation,” she said without expression.

He was already applying the paste.  “Of course.”

Nirnadel went to the young prostitute and fanned the fumes into her face.  She blanched for a moment and then looked at Galadel.  They could all be cousins.  Neldis inhaled deeply and then began coughing.  The Princess pounded her on the back as ropey phlegm flew from her mouth.  Nirnadel made a face, but wiped it up with a cloth. “I have to go to the next patient, good lady,” she told Neldis, moving to Remodoc as Elanoriel slid in and began applying a new bowl of paste on the young lady.  It was like a well-maintained clock, Alquanessë giving the tea, Nirnadel pushing the fumes and Elanoriel applying the poultice.  They moved to each patient, one by one with maximum efficiency.

“I can see where Firiel gets her skills and organization,” the Princess said as they finished with the last patient.  She looked over to Firiel, where Valandil was continuing to apply the paste.  But Firiel’s eyes were no longer red.

“She learned under me in Lindon.  I wanted her to stay and wed one of the sea captains there.  I wished for her to choose immortality.  But…I can see that her time and skills are not wasted here.”

Nirnadel knew that half elves could make a choice to become immortal or live a limited life as a human.  “I will support Firiel in whatever choice she makes.”

Elanorial nodded and gave an uncommon smile.  “I thank you for coming to us.  Your arrival was a blessing.  With the help of you and your people, we made it on time.  You are wondering why I asked you to deliver the Athelas fumes,” she said and Nirnadel nodded.  “The Athelas will only have the desired effect in the hands of a very experienced practitioner such as myself or…one of Elendil’s blood.  The hands of a king…or, in this case, a future queen are the hands of a healer.”  She then raised her hand into the air.  “Everyone, make sure you breathe in the Athelas fumes.  We end this curse, here and now.”

Nirnadel could tell that the Miruvor was wearing off on her and everyone and faces and eyes looked tired.  Aches began to creep into her muscles and joints after such a hard ride. She was surprised that the horses didn’t collapse.

Firiel stood up, her body covered in gray goo.  She would have looked ridiculous if it weren’t for the situation.  Others began to come around, blinking hard, eyes searching.  “I…I…mother?  What?”

Elanoriel took her usual imperious posture and Nirnadel recognized that from her youth and from her mother.  “Oh, dear child, I came at the request of Valandil and dear Princess Nirnadel.  You didn’t think that I would let my daughter become a wight, did you?  It would sully the family tree, wouldn’t it?” she said with a wink.  “Son, son, daughter, sister, wight.  I couldn’t bear the hazing,” she added with a smile.

At first, Firiel was horrified, then, when it struck her, she started laughing, hands over her mouth.  “Oh, dear mother, I do not have any recollection of you ever telling a joke.”

Elanoriel looked up, fingers tapping on her lips. “Hmmm, I believe that it was at the end of the last century…Thirteen…something.”  She then beckoned to Valandil and Nirnadel.  “Stand here, daughter.  Son, stand here.  Dear Princess, stand there.”  She turned to face them.

“Now, dear daughter, you will be down for a couple of weeks as will all of you,” she told the patients.  “We will make you comfortable, but do not try to leave or I will boil you along with the cure, am I understood?  Good.  Now, dear Valandil, you failed to get my permission for your nuptials.  I have half a mind to demand a Silmaril as Thingol did to Beren.  But…you are not so strong as he so I will just give you my blessings as your mother,” she told them, a mischievous smile creeping onto her lips.  Valandil shook his head while laughing.  His face radiated relief.  The elf then put Valandil and Firiel’s hand together.  She put her hand on theirs and gestured to the Princess.  “Now, dear Nirnadel, place your hand on mine and let us bless this engagement, me representing the elves and you, representing your kingdom.”  Nirnadel did so and a golden light shimmered where their hands met.  “There, my daughter and my son, you cannot go wrong.”

Elanorial then clapped her hands above her head.  “Now, dear nurses, my dear Alquanessë, attend me.  I am running the Houses of Healing for now. We will get this room cleaned up and the patients in proper beds.  Everyone else, out!” she said with a push of her hand towards the door.  “The people need their rest.  Out!  Out! Go on!”

Nirnadel stood before her.  “I choose to stay and be of help, my lady.  I have training as a nurse.”

The elf nodded with a twinkle in her eyes.  “Of course you do, my dear.  Fetch an apron and then attend me.  We have much work to do.  Oh, and be a dear and fetch the Miruvor.”

Nirnadel grinned as she rushed to the bag as Kaile and the other nurses poured in, standing around the elf.  The Princess ran back with the Miruvor.

Elanoriel clapped her hands again.  “Dear people, I thank you for your care of my daughter.  However, this area needs to be sanitized and properly cleaned.  We will work well into the coming morning.  Drink this Miruvor and be refreshed.  And do not worry.  The curse here has been contained.  You may work freely.  Come now,” she said, clapping again.  “Let us begin.”

Nirnadel picked up a rag and looked around, trying to see what others did.  She had literally never cleaned anything in her life.  Kaile came around and put her hand behind her neck, and they put their foreheads together.  “I knew you would come, I knew it,” Kaile said, sniffling.  “My life and my service are yours for all of my days.”

Nirnadel wiped her nose.  “Nonsense.  We’re all just girls talking about things like this,” she said, pointing her finger up and they both giggled.  “Now, how do I…?”

Kaile laughed.  “Oh, that’s right!  You don’t even know what a rag is!”

The Princess cocked her head with a quizzical look. “Of course I…it’s…it’s this, correct?”

The nurse cackled louder.  “Oh, my sweet summer child,” she said, using a Northron idiom about someone being born yesterday.  “Here, you spray this onto the rag and then start wiping.”

Nirnadel felt a short flush of embarrassment.  While at the Houses, she had mixed potions, crushed pastes and given doses.  She never once cleaned.  Firiel wouldn’t allow it.  At best, she kind of watched while someone else did it.  She sprayed a mist of something that smelled strong and then began wiping one of the tables.  “Like…like this?”

“Ummm, well, bigger…more muscle.”

The Princess made an awkward face.  “Like this?”

“Eh, better.  More muscle though.  You know I’m enjoying this, right?  This was my whole upbringing and you look just adorable being me.”

Nirnadel let out a belly laugh and then held her hand over her mouth, tittering more like a good royal lady.  “Well then, you shall be our royal self and We shall have to have you in the Council Chambers, putting Hir Girithlin back in his place, shall We?” she said, rising and putting a gloved finger to her cheek and tilting her nose up as a royal lady should when addressing one of lower station.

“I’m much safer wading in curses and diseases, thank you very much.  Give me a potion to mix or a root to grind, I’m good.  And Mercatur there, he’s safer in a pack of orcs than in a room of sick people, right?”

He waved sleepily, sitting on the floor.  “That’s right and remember, an axe is made for chopping…”

“Not crushing,” they both finished in unison, Kaile rolling her eyes.

Nirnadel walked over to the mercenary and began to wipe down a chair for him.  “Here, good sir, I praythee, have a seat.  You’ll be more comfortable.”  Here, she was not a princess, but just another nurse.

He looked at her sideways and grunted, but sat in the chair. She knew that he felt ashamed for weeping on her.  Men could be so complex.

She reached over and straightened his shirt and put a fresh blanket over him.  “Good Mercatur, I sense your tough exterior reappearing.  But rest assured that your reputation is safe with me.  And I see right through you now,” she added with a wink. “We’ll have a bed for you soon.” She cupped his cheek with a caring hand. “Be well and heal.  I will visit you all daily.”

Elanorial approached them, putting her hand on Kaile. “I want you to know…your Feduilas tea mixed with the Reglan moss made the difference.  Without that, my daughter would be gone.  You gave her critical hours.  You are a true healer, Lady Kaile.”

Kaile put one hand over her mouth and one over her heart and tears streamed down.  “You…you don’t know how happy that makes me feel.  I was so worried.  I was so afraid.  Thank you for coming.”

Elanoriel looked down and made an approving face. “And I will be at your wedding, I can assure you.  You will most certainly need help with the décor.”

Nirnadel wrapped her arms around Kaile from the back. “Good lady Elanoriel, the wedding will be hosted by the Royal Family of Arthedain in Fornost.  I mean no offense, but I believe that they will have it covered.”

The elf shook her head.  “Nonsense.  My statement stands.”

Chapter End Notes

I really want to work on Mercatur and Nirnadel's character arc.  I want to add in interesting personalities for the elves.  I honestly have not decided how to end this story.  I have a terribly tragic, a relatively neutral and a happy one.  I am trying to put layers of emotional depth to the tale and hope it comes out.

Leave a Comment

42) The Bar Aran - Lothron (May) 26^th, 1410

Nimhir

It had been a horrifying yet exciting time this past year.  So much happened, so much had changed.  The Regent could not even recognize the realm from a year ago.  One year ago, King Ostoher was preparing to march with his sons and his army to join forces with King Arveleg of Arthedain.  He was glad that Hir Girithlin was marching with the King for the man had been a thorn in his side for years.  Nimhir had been left in charge of the affairs of the King until the army returned, victorious.  Taxes had to be increased to support the hiring of mercenaries and the overall war effort. He and his wife had been trying to have a child.  The King’s youngest child and only daughter was left in his charge.  She was a precocious girl, who loved to read and learn. She knew the history of Arnor and Númenor before she was ten.  She could read and speak Sindarin, Adûnaic, Quenya and Westron by twelve.  She could ride like a knight and was a passable swordsman, necessary training in the Royal Family since the death of King Calimendil.  The Queen had passed a little more than a year ago, a deep sadness coming over the King and the Princess.  She ate little and slept less, becoming dangerously thin.  The King became rash and Nimhir began to doubt his judgement, especially with the coming war.

Yes, the world had much changed. He looked into the mirror and saw that his once, shiny black hair and goatee were streaked with gray.  The stress had been unbearable, and his stomach often churned.  He ran a brush through his hair and then straightened his forest green robe of office. It was of comfortable silk and trimmed with gold thread with a red sash that represented the red dirt of Cardolan’s hills.  He then placed his mithril circlet on his brow, the symbol of the Regent, with a hill and a tree encircled by an eight-pointed star and a diamond.

He mused at the recent events and was glad for a decent outcome.  The royal bureaucracy molded and left by Ostoher was a gift.  Nearly everything functioned the way it should have in a crisis. Signals were passed and areas quarantined rapidly, Minister Eärdil’s agents performing critical tasks that saved time and lives.  The arrival of the elves was huge and would bolster their position against Hir Girithlin.

Was everything political calculus to him? For years, he had juggled opponents and played mental chess against rivals to keep the realm whole.  He wracked his brains daily for solutions and advantages.  The kingdom-wide celebration of the end of the curse was a careful design on his part to show the Hiri that he had the support of the elves and Arthedain, no small thing in the maneuvering to ensure that Nirnadel took the throne when the time was right.

And Nirnadel…she would be the death of him.  She didn’t seem to realize or didn’t seem to care that she was the last hope for Cardolan. If she should pass, the gateway would be open for Girithlin to claim the throne, being partially of royal blood, the way that Tarcil the Mariner was voted to become King.  He would likely be challenged by Duin Tinarë, whose claim was equally strong…civil war.  Nirnadel’s line, though Dúnadain, became even more diluted with King Tarastor, a nephew of Tarcil.  Girithlin could potentially challenge Nirnadel in court.  He would lose but the drama would damage the kingdom.  He could even claim trial by combat, but Baranor would defeat any challenger from Girithlin.  Still, the damage would be done.

He worried constantly about Nirnadel’s forays, and he lost much sleep.  But her work had brought much renown back to the throne.  Tales of her courage at the bridge, the recovery of the mithril panels, her return with healing for the people spread like wildfire through the countryside and she became a sensation in the towns and villages. The breakneck ride to Rivendell and back was being called, ‘Nirnadel’s Mercy Ride.’  It was immense political capital.  Still, he wished that she would govern the realm quietly with him, the way that a good Queen should.  But were his views merely because she would be the Queen?  Prince Braegil went on frequent forays of exploration, into life-threatening danger.  Crown Prince Thôrdaer fancied himself a knight errant after his father, leading numerous cavalry raids into Rhudaur and Angmar, and no one batted an eyelash.  But back then, there were three royal children, not one.  Nimhir couldn’t decide which way he wanted or needed more, a quiet Queen or an impetuous Princess.  He knew that she was rapidly growing beyond his ability or desire to control.

His wife, Teliadis, put his formal coat on his shoulders, also of forest green and gold, and pinned his cloak on with symbol of his station.  He was the representative of the people, and he would always look the part, professional, imposing and impeccably dressed.  He turned back and kissed her.  It was a sad thing that they still had no children this long into the marriage and she would stay in their chambers for she suffered deep anxiety in large social gatherings.

He walked down one of the encircling stairs into the large foyer, where the herald stood with his thick wooden staff. The herald pounded on the floor twice. “Announcing, His Excellency, Chancellor and Regent of Cardolan, Nimhir.”

He loved the pageantry and ostentatious displays of the court as they had been under Ostoher.  It was truly a magical time, a time of long tradition.  He worried that Nirnadel’s ‘woman of the people’ phase would sully the court, but her energy was literally shifting the culture of the realm.  Garish dances and music from Gondor were sweeping the nobility, young ladies now leaping and twirling in the ‘Nirnadel Style.’  Even commoners were beginning to imitate the movements, young daughters of merchants and farmers playing at being ‘The Princess.’  He now saw more daring dress, originating from Minas Anor or Pelargir, cut tight with plunging necklines and shorter skirts.  Simply scandalous, the older generation complained. He had thought to tell Legate Ciramir to ‘put a cap on it,’ but there were far more pressing matters at hand.

He turned back towards the stairs as the herald pounded thrice.  “Announcing, Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel and her royal entourage of the Lady Galadel Tinarë, Lady Éanfled Amrodan, Lady Anariel Calantir and Lady Kaile,” he called, naming the ladies in descending order of nobility, “along with bard and scribe of the Royal House, Sir Haedorial.”

Nirnadel was dressed in an elegant gown of emerald green with red and gold accents and a silver sash.  As Nimhir had suspected, the robe was decidedly in the Pelargir Style, a plunging neckline and form fitting around her chest with a wasp waist and a short, tight skirt that flared out with taffeta pleats. She wore short boots in emerald green leather with silver snaps, surely a product of Ibal’s.  Her raven hair was done up in an imperial braid with elaborate twists, flowing down her back.  She also wore a mithril circlet of a child of the Royal Family, simple but expertly crafted by Lothiriel the Jeweler.  He gave her a double look.  She seemed to be filling out as a woman.  Her maids were similarly dressed but in far less elegant designs and the bard wore a crimson doublet with slashed sleeves in gold along with his red flatcap with a jaunty hawk’s feather.

They stood before Nimhir and performed deep curtseys, backs straight, knees slightly bent outwards with a modest downward tilt of the head, while Haedorial performed a bow and flourish. The Chancellor had to admit that Kaile was truly becoming a lady of the Royal Court, less and less a rough commoner and more and more a noblewoman.  While something like this, commoners being elevated so freely, would never have happened under Ostoher and Queen Lossien, the fact remained that so many of the nobility, the flower of Cardolan, had perished at Tyrn Gorthad.  Bastard children were now Hirs, merchants were now sirs and ladies, and princesses were nurses.

When he tried to discuss this with Nirnadel, her response was that she wanted people for their merit and their hard work, not for their blood.  Hir Girithlin would have had a cow if he had heard that and he would surely raise a vote of the Hiri to have her declared as incompetent.

The herald pounded twice to announce Ciramir, who now seemed smug with his newfound influence over the Court.  The support of Gondor was critical, but it had to be balanced by Cardolan’s interests first.  Then came the Hiri, which included Girithlin.  He would not dare to miss this for fear of losing influence. He was still flush with his legal victory and wore his most ostentatious scarlet robe and a grin to match.  He would have to be shown what real power was, but Nimhir still had to tread a fine line.  A desperate Girithlin would be a dangerous Girithlin.

The Chancellor held his three aces for the finale.  The herald pounded twice.  “Announcing Lady Elanoriel of Lindon and Rivendell, acting head of the Houses of Healing, her daughter, Lady Firiel Halatani and Sir Valandil, lieutenant of the Royal Guard.”  Next, three pounds.  “Announcing Lord Gildor Inglorion of Rivendell and Captain of their Rangers along with Princess Alquanessë of the House of Fingolfin, daughter of Irimë and granddaughter of High King Finwë.”  The crowd went hush, eyes wide and mouths open, staring at the tall, ethereal elves. Nimhir relished Girithlin’s stunned expression.  The elves were dressed in simple but elegant robes, befitting their houses, Elanoriel in light sea blue, Gildor in forest green and Alquanessë in cobalt blue and silver with a mithril pin of a swan on her shoulder.

Next, Nimhir walked over to the Hiri and extended his hand to old Hir Celeph Calantir, whom Elanoriel had healed, a special request that he had made.  His recovery brought the balance of the Hiri back to three-three and Girithlin no longer held the high ground.

He then stepped forward to deliver his final ace.  “Good people! I am also announcing the receipt of a dispatch from the Royal House of Arthedain, announcing the marriage of His Highness, King Araphor to our good Princess, Nirnadel.  Plans for the wedding will soon begin and we delightedly await the ceremony for the New Year of Fourteen Twelve!”  This was the dagger that he would twist in Girithlin.  While he was overjoyed for the Princess’ happiness, the fact that it played a dual role was more than satisfying.  He thought Girithlin would explode for as red of a face that he had.  He had taken the advantage back after Girithlin won the election as emergency Chancellor and Regent, and his recent legal win.  He just hoped that he had not crossed into ‘dangerous Girithlin.’

They moved into the courtyard where many of the town mayors, guildsmen and village headman stood in attendance with their families, the highly esteemed Mayor Eston of Fennas Drúinen amongst them.  The man was another legend in the kingdom, and it was good to have him on their side. Like Captains Tardegil and Guilrod, they would die for Nirnadel with no regrets.

Nimhir made it a point now to mingle with the elves and to be sure that Girithlin saw it.  He had met them only briefly when he asked Firiel’s mother to attend to old Celeph.  Elanoriel was bold and flamboyant while Gildor was professionally polite and Alquanessë reserved and introverted, a deep sadness in her being.  He had met few elves over the years, some envoys from Lindon and some from Rivendell.  The dwarves of Moria and the Blue Mountains were more his specialty.  Dwarves tended to be straightforward, coin for service. Elves were…mysterious.

“Lady Elanoriel, I wish to thank you officially for your aid.  You and your kin have saved this city, and for that, I am eternally grateful,” he said with a curt bow.  He felt a little awkward, not fully knowing elven customs or protocol, so deep was he into the culture of the northern kingdoms.

“Oh, nonsense, dear Chancellor,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “My daughter’s life was at stake, but I was glad to help with the rest.”  Her blonde hair was pulled back into a waterfall braid that wrapped tightly around her long, flowing hair.  She was nearly the spitting image of Firiel only with pointed ears and a sterner, matronly demeanor.

Lord Gildor stood with Alquanessë, discussing something in Quenya, a language that he was proficient with but not fluent.  They nodded and switched to Sindarin.  “Good Regent,” Gildor said with a tilt of his head.  “We thank you for your invitation and the friendship of your kingdom. Cardolan is a vital part of the defense of the north.”

“And your arrival in Tyrn Gorthad saved Tharbad for which we are ever grateful.”

Alquanessë made a simple curtsey.  “I learned this from Nirnadel,” she said mischievously.  “Does it adhere to your court standards?”

He nodded, silently awed by the elves. Gildor was tall, noble of bearing, a true Eldar.  He was a being that was so ancient that he had seen the Two Trees of Valinor, and he had an inner light that was undeniable.  Alquanessë was beyond stunning, perfect of face and form, every movement graceful, silky ebony hair tied in an elaborate waterfall braid done by Nirnadel and her ladies.  He had been told that her moniker was, ‘the fairest of Irimë’s children.’  He simply could not believe that she was also a vampire, a demon of the ancient world.

She winked at him, baring sharp fangs that suddenly grew from her teeth and held up a clawed hand with razor talons. He gasped, stepping back.  “Do you believe now?” she asked and he realized that she had read his thoughts.  She pointed to Hir Girithlin.  “Your rival is afraid.  You have done well and now hold the advantage, but be wary, he is dangerous when cornered.” The woman was horrifying and enchanting all at the same time.  If only he could convince her to remain, she would be incredibly valuable.  She shook her head.  “City life is not for me.  You would not want my kind among your people.  However, I will not be too far away.  In fact, Lord Rhudainor has a proposal for you.”  She then looked down, seemingly embarrassed.  “I apologize, Chancellor Nimhir, this ability as a vampire is so natural to me now.  Oddly, only my sister and I have it among the siblings.  Perhaps it is a female thing.  I didn’t bother to ask Thurinwethil.  She was a little busy torturing me.  And that Sauron, he was simply no help at all, rest his evil soul for all time,” she quipped.  “But my brothers gained great physical powers to hunt and kill prey…meaning people,” she added.  “But I shall…let you ask your questions rather than answering your thoughts.”

“I would…appreciate that. It’s…disconcerting,” he said, trying to conceal his mind.

She smiled, a devastating look that was electrifying.  “I shall later tell you of the Dark Mage, Ethacali, who was the Witch-King’s tool for the conquest of Rhudaur.  He bound me with a rune of power, but I eventually…bent him to my will for my freedom.” There was an almost wicked look in her eyes.  “And if you’ll indulge me one final answer to your thoughts to set your mind at ease, yes, what you heard is correct.  I do spend much of my time unclothed.  The blood and the flying just ruins anything that I wear.  There were old fictional novels that I read that spoke of my kind in white, gossamer robes, fluttering about.  Utterly ridiculous.  That would have just…flown off of me past a certain speed,” she added, making a flinging motion with her hand.  “I hope that answers your questions.”

He gulped.  Yes, he had been told that, and it was literally running through his head and he had imagined her as such for a moment.  He shook his head vigorously to dispel the image.  “I…I apologize, Princess Alquanessë,” he said, blushing.  The sensuality surrounding her was magnetic.  It was rare for him to be this embarrassed and put off guard.

She waved her hand.  “Not to worry, my good Chancellor.  You are a man.  I take no offense.  Just know that I was once called a ‘demon of the night’ and a ‘corrupter of men’s souls,’ a succubus.”  She put her thumb to her lips.  “I understand my…allure and I try to temper it, but I do find it…difficult.  It is my apology to make.”

In many ways, the elf seemed so reasonable, so normal, someone you would have tea with at the high-class Sword and Shield Tavern.  Yet, he knew that she was a demon, someone with the power to tear his head off and drink his blood.  This had truly been an interesting and productive night, and he believed that every one of his goals had been achieved.  He smiled at the elves and then glanced at Hir Girithlin who was now staring daggers at him.  Yes, it was a good evening.

Nirnadel

She watched how the elves carried themselves, their gestures, their speech, practicing it in her mind as they spoke to Nimhir.  Then, she walked over there with her ladies, along with Haedorial and Dagar, trying her best to show confidence, which she did not feel.  She did a curtsey to the elves and then rose.  “Good people, thank you so much for your blessed work and for accepting our invitation.  My father so loved to entertain and hosted the most magnificent gatherings.”

Elanorial immediately directed attention to herself and Gildor seemed happy to let her do so.  “Oh dear girl, this is fabulous, simply fabulous.  I do so love a party.  The Festival of Lanterns in Lindon is a sight to behold. You simply have to join us one day. I could help with your décor here though.  It needs more of a touch of elegance,” she said, looking around and pointing at things.

Nimhir looked a little taken aback, but Nirnadel loved the idea.  Exciting and new was her guiding star.  “I would love that, Lady Elanoriel!  You are most welcome to give your ideas.”  She then looked at Nimhir and smiled.  “My new friend, Lord Rhudainor has a proposal for you.  And no, it’s not to wed me.  He is already happily married.”

Dagar performed a bow and flourish, worthy of the Royal Court.  “Good Chancellor Nimhir, Her Highness has told me that you have read my letters to Haedorial and that you know our situation.  I believe that our interests align.  I would propose an alliance with Cardolan.  There is very little left of Rhudaur that is not controlled by Cameth Brin,” he said of the Rhudauran capitol, the puppet kingdom under Angmar.

Nimhir grinned broadly.  “I would be delighted to offer Cardolan’s friendship to you, Lord Rhudainor.  I have heard that you are already friendly with our good Mayor of Fennas Drúinen. We shall meet tomorrow to begin drafting the alliance with good Minister Eärdil.  I will introduce you.”

Dagar tapped his lips, looking a little embarrassed.  “Ummm, I’ve met the good minister.  He…uhhh, let me out of jail here three years ago.”

Haedorial gestured, getting everyone’s attention.  “Well, in the lad’s defense, he was an apprentice in Tharbad and fell afoul of unsavory characters.  I hired him on at the Nightsingers and he has never, ever done me wrong.  I saw him off to Rhudaur that year and he has done incredible things, incredible.”

“So I’ve read,” Nimhir responded. “And I agree.”

Nirnadel smiled.  “Good Dagar has gone from apprentice bard to Lord Rhudainor. This is the kingdom that I envision, one where a person can make their own destiny and rise to the level of their ability and effort.”

“A noble idea, Your Highness,” Nimhir said, “but perhaps unrealistic.”

She scoffed, politely.  “Oh, nonsense, good Regent, Dagar is living proof of that as is Haedorial and Mercatur.”

He nodded slowly.  “Hmmm, perhaps…perhaps.”

Nirnadel heard the musicians setting up and Haedorial excused himself to organize them.  “The dancing will begin shortly,” she gushed and then took Nimhir’s hand.  “We always have the first dance, my dear uncle.”  They, alone went to the floor as the opening dance was always with the Royal Family.

Haedorial glanced over and nodded with a smile as he raised his baton.  With a wave of his hand the musicians played, strings, woodwinds and percussion beginning a slow, measured rhythm.  The Basse Danse, an elegant dance of precision that exemplified royal courts in the north.  Nirnadel had done this many times with Nimhir, but it would always be after the King and Queen had performed.  Now, she was the lead performer.  She gulped and blinked hard, taking a deep breath and then the movements came naturally, smoothly.  Everything was slow and controlled, down to the expressions and glances of the dancers. One, two, three, turn towards, turn away.  One, two, three, dip, look at your partner, then away…

The music came to a close and Nimhir bowed with a flourish and Nirnadel did a deep curtsey.  Then, she ran and hugged him, memories of her childhood flooding back to her, of all of the dances that they did together.  The room thundered with applause.

He beamed down at her.  “I never tire of this, and I will remember this night for all of my days.  Now, I shall yield the floor to you, Your Highness.”  As he walked off, Nirnadel waved to Dagar.

“Lord Rhudainor, I beg a dance of you!”

His mouth fell open, and he held his hands over his heart.  He trotted out to the dance floor and bowed deeply.  “I…Your…Your Highness, this is a dream!  I…I had so wanted just to visit the Bar Aran, but to dance with you?  I…I…don’t know what to say?”

“Say nothing, for the music is about to begin.”  She turned to Haedorial.  “Play the Sogenne, if you please,” she called, asking him to play the new Gondorian music. The musicians leapt into a faster pace, higher highs and lower lows, a horn blowing out a strong beat.  “Follow my lead, good Dagar,” she said with a wide smile and a curtsey.  She began a series of tapping steps, kicking and hopping in place, then she became still, bowing her head and gesturing for Dagar to begin.  As a trained bard, he moved with sureness and precision, performing the moves, then became still and bowed his head, seemingly nervous.

A smaller horn sounded, faster, more intense with a higher pitch, the two began to tap step around each other and then rushed towards the center, leaping and spinning around.  They began alternating again, as strings joined the ensemble.  “Eyes on me, good Dagar, eyes on me,” Nirnadel said, getting him to raise his head.  They moved together and joined arms, circling one way and then the other.  They then joined hands.  “You’re going to throw me into the air and then catch me!” she called over the music. The instruments and the circle accelerated and she nodded, where he lifted her up by her thighs and tossed her upwards.  She spun completely around, and he caught her on the way down to gasps in the room.  They turned in the opposite direction and did it again.

The tempo then relaxed, and they skipped with a stutter step, hand in hand until the music accelerated again and they spun with a throw and again the other way.  They finished as the instruments softened and faded where, still holding hands, Dagar knelt and Nirnadel curtseyed.  The applause was thunderous.  Dagar stood and wiped his eyes.  “Your Highness…Nirnadel, I never dreamed that this would ever be possible for a man like me.  Who could imagine that the son of a merchant and a serving woman…a wastrel…could dance with a princess?  You gave us hope when all seemed lost…hope that a man of my station could become something more than he was.  I thank you,” he said with another bow and flourish and kissed her silk gloved hand. “I wish you a wonderful night and you will always have my support.”

“I thank you, good Dagar.  Your life is an inspiration for our people, and I hold your story dear to my heart.”

He stepped back three paces and then bowed again before returning to the crowd as people flooded the dance floor. It was a modest room for a modest kingdom, unlike those of Arthedain or the grand ballrooms of Minas Anor, Minas Ithil and the capitol of Osgiliath.  People in the courtyard also took up song and dance, toasting with beer, mead and ale.

Nirnadel looked around the crowd and began mingling with people, seeing how Firiel was doing and congratulating Valandil on their engagement.  Under the care of her mother, the Healer had fully recovered, her healthy pallor returning to her skin and her blonde hair done up in a fishtail braid.

“You know,” Firiel said, “I resented my mother for a long time, with her elven superiority.  She always pressured me to marry one of Círdan’s ship captains and choose immortality.  She and my father…they had friction and it didn’t work out.  So, I went with my father who was Hir Tinarë’s younger brother and was raised as a Dúnadan.  I haven’t spoken to her since the turn of the century.  But you don’t know how glad I am to have reconnected,” she said with a nod.

“Other than the ears, I could not distinguish the two of you,” Nirnadel answered.  “I dearly wish that I had more time with my own parents.  We have so much to learn from them, you know.  I struggle, not having a role model anymore for what I am supposed to become.  I beg of you, dear Firiel, to keep that connection.”

“I intend to,” the Healer said with a nod.

“And you know, if you so desire, we will hold our weddings together in Fornost Erain along with Kaile and Jonu.”

“We would like that very much, Your Highness,” Valandil said enthusiastically.

Firiel smirked.  “Mother already has ideas for the décor.  I’m sure King Araphor would absolutely love an overbearing Sindar, instructing him about drapery or carpeting.”

Nirnadel giggled.  “Well, I for one, am happy to entertain her ideas.  We could use some new and fresh thoughts for our land.”  She looked over at a group of people and then turned back.  “There is someone I simply must speak with, if you’ll excuse me.  I shall be back, and I am ever so glad for your recovery, good healer.  You are not just critical to the welfare of the realm…but you are my dear friend and mentor.”  She gave Firiel a tight embrace and then rushed off to the other group.

She scurried up to Mercatur, who was standing with Remodoc, his family and Neldis, the young lady from Artan’s. She took the mercenary by the hands. “Good Captain Mercatur, I am ever so glad that you came!  I was so truly worried about you, good Remodoc and good Neldis,” she said, taking each of their hands and shaking them.  She made an effort to remember the names of everyone that she interacted with. It was something that her father excelled at.

The merchant stood, slack jawed, eyes wide and then bowed.  He had a simple, but neat tunic and breeches with suspenders.  “Your…Your Highness.  I…I cannot…I have no words for your kindness.”

Neldis made an awkward curtsey, bent forward with one knee stiff, skirts of her simple village dress askew. Still, it was a wonderful gesture. She looked positively anxious.  “I…I’m sorry, I don’t belong here.  I don’t deserve to be here.  I’m sorry.”  She turned to flee and Nirnadel grasped her hand tightly.

“Nonsense, my dear Neldis.  You are my people and I am yours.  I praythee, please stay for me.  Consider it…a royal command, if you please.”  She nodded reassuringly and the woman stopped and turned back.  She might have been a year or so older than the Princess.  “I checked on you and the others daily so you mean something to me.”

She put her head down and stifled a sob. “I…I know, Your Highness.  T…th…thank you.”

Nirnadel then grasped Mercatur’s hand. “Come, all of you, dance with me!” She pulled on his hand, but he resisted.

“Errrr, I don’t dance, Highness. Especially that highborn stuff.  I don’t have the feet for it.”

The Princess furrowed her brows. “Well…we will have to do something about that, shall we.  Do one of you have a more…rustic dance?”

Neldis put her hand up.  “Umm, Your Highness.  I know the Nîr a Rûn.  It’s fairly easy…a…peasant dance.  Not fit for this ballroom.”

Nirnadel gave a look of pleasant surprise.  “What? How wonderful.  The Swaying Dance!  You will show us!”  She waved to Haedorial.  “Can you play the Nîr a Rûn?”

The bard looked over.  “Which one?”

“Celeg i Nîr a Rûn,” Neldis said softly and Haedorial nodded and raised his baton.  “It’s a group dance,” she told Nirnadel.  “We perform this at the harvest festivals, the Autumn Faire, the Harvest Home and the Spring Faire.”

The Princess yanked harder on Mercatur’s hand.  “No excuses now.  If you can’t sway, you have no business swinging an axe, good mercenary,” she said as a challenge.

He grunted sourly, but followed.  “Don’t blame me if I fall on you.”

“Not if I fall on your first,” she quipped, sticking her tongue out.  “I might have to crush you with an axe,” she added, laughing and looking back at him.

“Maces crush, axes chop,” he said in exasperation, shaking his head and chuckling.  Remodoc stood opposite his wife and Nirnadel paired off with Mercatur and Neldis.

“Haedorial!  Join us!” she called to him, and he leapt down off of the podium and rushed over.  “It would not be a dance without a lesson from my master musician.”  She beckoned the elves, Nimhir and Dagar.  “Join us!  It’s a group dance!”  People flooded the floor, clothing of all colors blending and mixing.

“We need to hold hands,” Neldis said in a voice full of anxiety.  Nirnadel grasped Mercatur and Haedorial’s hands and Neldis did the same to form a group of four.

Just before the music started, the Princess heard some of the older noblewomen scoffing.  Many of them were widows of the fallen from Tyrn Gorthad, the old guard from when King Ostoher and Queen Lossien held balls in the very traditional style, honoring the culture of lost Númenor.  One woman snorted.  “Just look at that short dress.  Who does she think she is?  Her mother would be ashamed.”

Another responded, “And a peasants’ dance?  What has become of us?  And a prostitute daring to associate with the Princess?  Bah!  Scandalous!”

Neldis began to shake and Mercatur turned a shade redder under his thick beard.

“Do not listen to them,” Nirnadel said. “I refuse to let them spoil our evening.”  She turned back to the crowd.  “Listen everyone, I beg you to listen!  Everyone here are my guests and guests of the Royal House.  We will all be treated with respect!  I shall not have any sour apples spoil the night!”

Haedorial whispered into her ear. “Sour grapes…it’s sour grapes.”

“I meant sour grapes!  No sour grapes tonight!  So, I beg you to join me in this joyous occasion!”  The flood gates opened and young noblewomen poured onto the floor, pointing at Nirnadel’s dress with admiration.  “So, what do we do, Neldis?”

“Ummm, follow me.  It’s very easy.”  The recorders began a high pitched tune that lilted up and down. “It’s supposed to be like a horse.” They began.  Left, two, three, hop.  Right, two, three, hop.  Spin right, clap.  Spin left, clap.  One step left.  Repeat. Then, brushing each foot backwards like a horse’s hooves while moving their hand as if on the reins on a ride. The men spun, clap.  The women spun, clap.  The music got faster and faster as did the steps, skirts and hair whirling around. People laughed joyously, some tripping, some stumbling, but all having a good time.  The music climaxed in a fast beat as all hopped and spun on their toes.

There were murmurs of approval and, still laughing, Nirnadel poked Haedorian and Mercatur in the stomachs.  She took Neldis by the hands.  “Good Neldis, I thank you for showing this dance to us. I will always remember this moment that you shared with me and please know that you are a part of the realm,” she said and then clapped her hands like Elanoriel would.  “Good people!  Hear me please!  I honor my royal parents and the learning and foundation that they instilled in me. But we stand upon new and untrod ground and we…we as a people will forge the future of Cardolan!”  The crowd roared, shaking the ballroom.  The night was intoxicating to Nirnadel.  She felt invincible.  But often, within the wall of invincibility grow the seeds of destruction.

She kissed Haedorial and Mercatur on the cheek and then pulled Neldis away.  “Good Neldis…forgive any offense for I cannot understand your situation, but are you happy? Do you not desire more?  Please, help me to understand.”

The young lady took on a grave expression.  “You cannot offend me but why are you doing this, Your Highness?  I am no one.  And you are…I don’t deserve your attention.”

“You do indeed.  Good Neldis, I held you while you drank the cure…while you coughed up things…I can’t describe and I joyfully cleaned you up.  I care about all of the good people of the realm,” Nirnadel said, trying to soothe her.  “And if I could clean that up, I can care about you.  I visited all of you every day.  What can I do to convince you?”

She nodded, still trembling like a leaf. “I remember.  And I still don’t understand it, Your Highness.  You are…you are the heir to the throne.  You live in this palace.  Your childhood was riding, learning, dancing…royal balls at Yüle. I cannot comprehend such a life.  I don’t belong in your world.”

“I have indeed had many advantages. Still, my entire family is gone as a result of disease and war.  I am the last,” the Princess sad sadly.  “The weight of what they left me threatens to drown me.  I was little more than a girl when this fate became mine.  I cannot comprehend your life either, but I understand loss.  I understand regret.  I understand care and hope too.  That is the gift I wish to impart upon you, care and hope.  You can share with me, everything or nothing and I still wish to give you that.”

Neldis put her hand over her mouth in a heartfelt gesture.  “You don’t know what that means…I am so ashamed,” she said, her voice wavering.  “I had no hope.  Every night, I would smile and delight customers and…do things, and I was dying inside.  I saw my friend, Îuldis, die of the curse and it tore me up.  We spoke about finding a new life together.  Now she’s gone.”  Her hand began to shake.  “You don’t know what this means.”

Nirnadel embraced her and then pulled her over to Firiel and her mother.  “Good Firiel, Lady Elanoriel, would you be willing to apprentice a new healer?”

Firiel smiled, while the elf raised an eyebrow.  “Of course I would,” Firiel said and gently elbowed her mother.  “We are at eighteen and I really need twenty.  The Houses have expanded of late, and we need depth for emergencies such as we had.  I also wish to begin a traveling service where we can go to where we are needed.”

Elanoriel snorted, but nodded. “Yes, yes, I agree.  Welcome, young lady.”

Firiel took her hand.  “Your things are still at the Houses.  If you wish, you may collect them or move them into your room.”

Neldis kissed her hand.  “Thank you…I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll start tomorrow,” Firiel answered.

“And be prepared for some hard, but rewarding work, dear girl,” Elanoriel added.

Nirnadel was flush with the feeling of another victory.  But a tap on the shoulder changed that.  It was Hir Mablung Girithlin.  Her blood ran cold.

“Your Highness,” he said with a bow and elaborate flourish.  “I wish to apologize for my rudeness in the past.  It was unforgivable.  I wish to make amends and help you to grow the kingdom.”  Firiel and Neldis made a curtsey to him while Elanoriel narrowed one eye.

She gave him a skeptical look, her heart full of doubt.  “My lord…I am quite uncertain as to your intentions.”

He made a conciliatory gesture, his palms out with an embarrassed expression.  “All I ask if for the opportunity to show you and to repair the relationship that I so callously damaged.  I would ask for this dance to show my sincerity and to begin to prove to you my good intentions.”  He gestured to the dance floor.

She could not wantonly refuse him without very good cause.  It would also make him look like the good guy and her as the villain.  She was finding respect for Nimhir’s skill and experience at diplomacy.  It was a complex thing.  Nirnadel did not do well dealing with people who had angered her, and she had been known to bear grudges.  She forced a smile with a nod and walked with him to the floor.

Girithlin clapped, getting the minstrels’ attention.  “Good master Haedorial.  I bid you to play the Ilúvë Naid Bain na Melme a Rîw.  You do know that one, I trust?”

The bard raised an eyebrow.  “Of course…my lord.”  His expression was worried, concern floating in the air.  He sighed heavily and then held his baton up.

Girithlin made a shooing motion. “Everyone clear the floor for Her Highness!” he called and the floor emptied except for them, all eyes on them. 

He took her hand and bowed low, and she curtseyed in return.  She fixed him with an untrusting stare.  “My lord…we are dancing, All’s Fair in Love and War?”  It was a song and dance of passion and betrayal, joy and murder.

The music began and he pulled her in tight with a spin.  “It is indeed.  But that is not my intention.”  They walked slowly in rhythm with the recorder, lute and harp.

“What is your intention, then, if I may ask?”

“It is to make amends.  I was wrong about you and the Chancellor,” he said as she spun outwards and they linked arms facing the opposite direction, heads turned towards each other with forced smiles.  “I can freely admit to my fault.”

“That is good to know.  How then, praythee, do you hope to do that?”  They walked slowly in a circle and then he moved in behind her, holding her waist and she looked back at him.

“I will release the grain that I was withholding as well as the amber and silver that I had neglected to pay taxes on after the war.”  He moved her in a slow circle one way and then the other.  “I wish to earn your trust and forgiveness.  Consider that a token of my intentions.”

She turned and faced him again, holding hands in the middle.  “That is a start.  I have been known to hold grudges, but I also wish to mend fences.”

“That is wise, Your Highness.  I applaud you for being such.”

She still remained skeptical but deep down, wanted to believe him.  “I do wish to believe your words, my lord, but let me ask, what would you do in my stead?” She spun in a twirl on her toes and grasped his hand again.

He pulled her in tight once more, standing behind her, holding her waist.  “Well first, if I were you, I would marry Falathar and keep the realm Cardolan.  I fear that your trust of the Arthedanians is misplaced.  You would cede much authority to Araphor and I fear losing our unique cultural identity.  Second, I would honor the traditions of your parents rather than this…youthful display of willfulness.  Your dear father and I…we were close friends and we enjoyed each other’s trust.  We fought in many campaigns against Angmar and Rhudaur and even Arthedain.”  They skipped together in a circle and then reversed.  “I rode often with your brother, Thôrdaer, on his raids into enemy lands.  I daresay that we saved each other’s lives more than once.”

This was not something that she knew beyond her father’s praise for the man.  “I see and I thank you for your service to the Crown.  I will keep your thoughts in mind, my lord but I must do what I feel is right for the future of our land.  Though wise and noble, my family is no longer with us.”  She spun in his arms and caught his hand.  “I must forge my own way now.”

He nodded as they skipped together, hand in hand.  “I understand.  I am saddened, but I must trust to your royal judgement.  I would like to make you an offer though, to show my loyalty to the Crown. It would be my honor to host you and the wedding party at Balost, my great hold.  I wish to show the Crown my good intentions, and this would be a small step forward in our new relationship, Your Highness.”

The music came to a close and, holding her hand, he stepped back and bowed deeply, his eyes lowered in respect.  She dipped, her back straight, head tilted slightly down, her knees bent slightly, feet turned outwards, pulling her short skirt out with her free hand in a move practiced thousands of times under her mother and Anariel.  In another world, it would be her father holding the realm together, negotiating treaties and enforcing the law.  The dance floor and the riding ring would have been her world.  Her mind raced for an answer, but in a gush of youthful impetuosity she nodded.  “I accept, good Hir Girithlin.  Please let me know of the details and I do so hope for your friendship as you had with my father and brother.”

It was indeed a new dawn for the kingdom, but what kind of dawn it would prove to be remained to be seen.

Chapter End Notes

I haven't decided on whether there will be a "Red Wedding" or Massacre of Glencoe scenario yet.  The swaying dance is based on a French medieval and Renaissance dance, the Branle des Chevaux.

Leave a Comment

43) Carn Dûm - Lothron (May) 26^th, 1410

Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, also known as Tindomul, the Twilight Son, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl

At the same time as Chancellor Nimhir and Princess Nirnadel performed the closing ceremonies for the festival, doing the Royal Processional from the courtyard, a dark shape sat, brooding on his throne.  It was a structure that appeared to be a sea monster, one of the nameless things of Middle Earth, tentacles and teeth with eye stalks, glaring at any who stood before him.  The throne itself rose out of a pool of water, giving any viewer the idea that the creature was real, bursting from the sea to devour them.

The Witch-King of Angmar noticed his loyal servants kneeling before him.  How long had they been there?  To the Ring Wraith, time had little meaning.  His war on the north could take a thousand years for all he cared, but his master, the Necromancer’s will would be done.  In the forefront was his right hand, The Angûlion, a Númenórean sorcerer, who was the cousin to Akhôrahil, the Nazgûl Lord of Ny Chennacatt in Greater Harad of Middle Earth.  Behind were the Gulmathaur, three of his most proficient agents of domination: Camthalion, an Avar Moriquendi from the far east and scion of the Sauronic Religion; Ulduin, the horrific mutated man dog; and Ulgarin, the pretty Sindar of the eastern shores.

At this point, he would have taken a breath to speak when he was mortal, but air no longer had meaning for him, pleasant or odious scents meant nothing, warmth or cold were irrelevant.  He had been pondering distant sensations, attempting to interpret translucent tendrils of power.  He turned to his servants.

“Angûlion,” he said in a deep voice, that reverberated unnaturally in the room, “I have felt dark energy emanating from Rhudaur and I have at last deduced their meaning.  You recall the failed mage, Ethacali.  My trust in him was misplaced and he perished in the Yfelwood with the Blood-Wights that I had hoped to use in the war.”

The Angûlion nodded, his silver mask hiding a face so ancient that none would recognize it as human.  He had traded his soul for immortality as a man, heedless of the costs.  “I would have fed him to the wargs had he survived.  I regret that the Blood-Wights were lost to us,” he said in a croaking voice that flowed from ancient lungs through ancient lips.

“Perhaps not.  A message floating on the clouds, dim, weak, but persistent. It is the Blood-Wights…they have awakened again from death.  Four, they were, siblings, children of a Noldorin princess from the Elder Days.  Had Ethacali been successful, the four would have swept all of Rhudaur and much of Arthedain in fangs, claws and blood.  The eldest, Blogath, would give me pause.  It is she, who calls me, wishing to be freed.  They are crushed and bound in the vale of Yfelwood. You are here to help me send a message. Once that is complete, you will need to journey there to excavate her and the siblings.  In her ghostly voice she sends me images…visions.  She desires to raise her mother, the Beloved of Sauron…Thuringwethil.  Together, with the demon of Morgoth and the Blood-Wights, we will turn the north into a waste, the night sky into a void of terror.”

“Tell us what we must do, lord.”

The Witch-King raised a spectral finger, ghostly white but shimmering into fleshly hues and then dark like a void. “But first, Ulgarin, what of your visit to Cardolan?”

The elf raised her face, covered in a gauzy veil, distorting her fair features.  “My lord, I approached them in disguise as a Dúnadan and they are…amenable to a conversation.  I convinced them to…play nice, as they say.  And our agent in the Royal Court says that Cardolan is preparing an expedition to Rhudaur.  One of the men who defeated Ethacali is aware that the Blood-Wights stir.  But my agent has gone to ground in fear of the Chancellor’s search for a spy.”

“Hmmm…good.  You have done well.  We can remain patient.  Our agent will resurface when they desire more from us.  Come, let us send our message to Blogath of our support.  This time, I will send more reliable people.” He beckoned to them with a pull of his finger.  He stood from the throne and removed the hood of his aged, shabby gray robe.  The empty space where his head should be glimmered, a pale, weathered face appeared, cheeks sunken, lips like they had sucked on lemons for a thousand years.  He then shifted for a moment, appearing as a young Númenórean prince, handsome with coal black hair, a scowl written across his mouth.  The form then faded, leaving an empty robe that wavered, vanished, and then reappeared across the pool in front of his servants.

He raised his spectral arms up, hands open, beckoning as the four knelt before him, chanting in the Black Speech. All five figures glowed brightly, a swirling vortex of power forming around them.  Er-Mûrazôr closed his fists and unleashed an inhuman shriek that shook the halls.  Orcs and trolls quailed in fear and fell upon their faces throughout the fortress and men held their ears, crying in terror.  The vortex shot upwards through the roof and then exploded outwards in a burst of energy, tendrils wafting into the night sky.

Deep within the Yfelwood, where gnarled trees twisted and writhed under the agony of evil reborn, the crushed bodies of Blogath and Balisimur stirred under tons of rock, red eyes opening, fangs bared.  A message had reached them.  The vampire could move her head now and saw the smashed skeletons of the mage, Ethacali and his orc shamans.  She snarled, struggling against a massive stone that had crushed her body nearly to pulp. Managing to turn her head, she looked at her brother.  “We awaken. The Lord of Angmar has heard my plea, weakened though it was.  He comes for us, Balisimur.  We will be reborn again along with our mother and we will sit at the side of the Lord of Gifts once more.  Thuringwethil will haunt the night again as she did in lost Beleriand.”

The Drill Fields of Tharbad – Norúi (June) 16^th, 1410

Mercatur

Summer had arrived.  The mercenary stood on a grassy mound, overlooking the drill field with one of the cohorts of men that he had hired, tilting his head up and closing his eyes in the rays of the sun.  The warmth was a nice change to the damp, rainy, foggy spring of Tharbad. The sound of wooden swords and spears clashing in practice brought him back.  One hundred men stood, facing one another, sparring and drilling.

A familiar voice shouted orders in slightly accented Westron.  “You there! Shield higher!  Do you want your face smashed in?  It’s ugly enough as it is!  And you!  It’s a spear meant for killing, not for tickling!” the Haradan mercenary, Jaabran yelled.  His hair was wrapped tightly in a long, white cloth and his black beard was slicked to a point like a spear.  “Mercatur, you dog, what have you given me to work with?  The Princess and her maids would make short work of them.  You pull me out of retirement for this?”

Mercatur rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “Aww, stow it, Jaabran!  We have four more cohorts to train today.  I’m not in the mood.”  A few showed promise, but the majority of the cohort could barely hold a spear correctly, mostly just farm boys, shepherds and fishermen who needed money for their families.  “We have just under six weeks to get them ready!”  Thank the stars they were just going up against Dunnish tribesmen at Castle Amrodan.  Those buggers knew very little about siege warfare.  And they would have the assistance of Lord Rhudainor with Sir Oswy leading them and Oswy knew his shit.  It would be nice if Hirgrim and Cagh chose to join them too, but he wasn’t counting on it. The Cultirith Rangers normally swore fealty to Cameth Brin, but with the destruction of the Rhudauran army, they went freelance.  Cagh was a decent one, fighting for honor.  He had already been a good ally to Cardolan in the recent war.

Jaabran was yelling at another man who couldn’t seem to look in the right direction.  “That’s the north!  That’s the south!  I’m not even from here and I’m telling you that you’re lost!  Tayee, Master of Sands, take you!  And may the fleas of a Sîrayn camel infest your privates!”

Mercatur laughed, tilting his head back. He had trimmed his beard down for the summer heat.  It would help too if he were ever infested with Sîrayn camel fleas.  He circled his arm over his head.  “Form up, cohort!  Column of march!”

The men struggled to line up, bumping into each other, some dropping weapons as Jaabran walked up the mound.  “Blessed Tayee, what have you gotten me into, Mercatur? I didn’t survive the Tirthon and those…creatures to die on the wall of some Rhudauran castle because our men don’t know left from right.  I was comfortably nestled between the breasts of my Northron woman when your stupid message arrived.”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head. It was like old times.  Their mercenary company had once numbered over twenty.  Now, it was just he and Jaabran.  “I missed your bitching, you know that, don’t you?”

“Well, someone has to bitch.  All your time in the city makes you just want to have tea with them.”  He held his hand up daintily as if holding a teacup with his pinky out.  “Oh, dear Princess, may I have another lump of sugar please?” he said in a mock falsetto.

Mercatur playfully pushed him on the head.  “As opposed to your Northron milk farm, huh?”

Jaabran’s face lit up.  “Oh, you don’t understand, not at all!” he said, holding his cupped hands out in front of his chest.  “She’s got these!  Masterful Tayee, she’s got these!  Not many have them in Greater Harad.  They’re all skinny and bony…much like your beloved Princess.  And my Northron woman has blonde hair, Mercatur, blonde hair! You don’t even see hair where I’m from. It’s all wrapped up and shit.”

“Well, I’m going to send you back home a rich man and you can drink as much milk as you want.  We just have to get these slugs in shape before mid Cerveth. We need to march before it begins to cool for the fall.”  He looked out at the ragged column, spears pointed at all angles.  “I never bothered to ask you, but who the heck is Tayee, Master of Sands?”

“He is Tarkarun-i-Másra, the Master of Sands, the giver of the Tarat, our holy writings.  You infidels call him Manwë.  We also call him Tayee, which is also the name of the faith.”  He put his hand out, index finger up, making a serious face.  “There was Tarkarun, Lord and Master of all.  It was he who brought order out of the void and created all that exists.” Then he relaxed and laughed.  “You know, I was studying to become a priest. The training is long and arduous, and you cannot indulge in base desires until you are anointed after seven years. Then, you can marry and screw like bunnies.  I just couldn’t wait,” he said, swishing his hand in front of his face dismissively.  “And now we’re stuck together…again.”

Mercatur gazed down on the field, the cohort beginning to sweat as they tried to stand in formation.  “Eh, I think they’ve had enough standing,” he said gruffly.  He yelled down to them, “Line of battle!  Line of battle!  Now!”

The men staggered about, moving from a column meant for marching to a line of spears meant for fighting.  Jaabran threw his hands up in the air.  “I swear, I’m going to stick a Juthjuth on the dick of the next man who screws up,” he told his friend in an exasperated tone.

“A Juthjuth?”

“Ehh, what do you infidels call it in your heathen tongue?  Oh yes, a scorpion!” He marched back down the mound, waving his arms.  “The next man who screws this up will have a scorpion stuck on his dick!  Now, back into column of march.  Do it right this time!”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head. If anyone could whip this group of country boys into shape it was Jaabran.  The Haradan made a pinching motion at the groins of a couple of men, and they scrambled into formation, spears held straight up.  He had lost count of the number of campaigns and waenhoshes that they had survived together.  They alone had beat the odds.  He lowered his head for a moment in memory of Gamrid.  He was almost startled by the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the Gondorian barracks where the Consular Guard were quartered.  They were the protectors and the mailed fist of the Legate, Ciramir, should they be needed.  He turned to see Neldis walking towards him, a sack over her shoulder. She really was similar in appearance to Nirnadel, black hair and a slender body, a pure Dúnadan.  He gave her a curious look.

“I thought you and your friend might be hungry,” she said, offering the sack.  Her light nurse’s uniform fluttered in the breeze under a white apron. “I haven’t seen you in a while.  I thought I’d check up on a former patient.”

He looked inside to see several apples and two sandwiches made from sliced turkey and bread.  “Thank you.  I’m…I’m fine,” he said and then pointed to the cohort on the field.  “We’re trying to whip this lot into shape before we depart for Rhudaur.  It’s going to come up quickly.”  He preferred not to speak about being a patient at the Houses.  He felt embarrassed any time that he spoke to Nirnadel. And the dance…was there something there? Was he just imagining it?  

Neldis scrunched up her face. “They look…disorganized, if you don’t mind my saying.” 

“Eh, you have a good eye.  They’re shit right now, but it’s only been a few days since they hired on.  Jaabran’ll whip them into shape.”  He turned to look her over.  “And how are you?  You were in a bad way with the curse though you seemed to dance pretty well at the festival.”

The nurse chuckled, holding her hand over her mouth.  “That was fun, actually.  And, thank you for asking.  I am well…physically.  Mind if I watch.  We’re on break at the Houses and it’s been quiet.”

“Oh, not at all.  You learning anything good?”

She nodded.  “I’ve learned to mix potions already and apply bandages and poultices.  It’s hard to imagine now how sick we were.  I had to clean up after a man who had a bad breathing illness.  Yeah…I don’t know how Her Highness wiped up my mess. That was nasty.”

He took a bite of his sandwich and then made a face.  “Hey, a guy’s trying to eat over here,” he complained with a laugh.

Her face registered horror.  “Oh, I am so sorry.  I didn’t mean to spoil your appetite.”

He waved her off.  “I was only kidding.  I’ve seen much worse and still ate.”  They both sat on the grass of the mound.  He handed her an apple, and she took a bite.

“Is it true what those Blood-Wights are?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.  “I still shudder when I think of the eldest one, Blogath. She can come to you in visions or in your dreams and deceive you or drive you mad.  You’ve seen Alquanessë…Blogath is her older sister, more powerful and more sinister.  With a wave of her finger, she took control of my body…all of us, just puppets.”

Neldis looked concerned, her eyes narrowed.  “And you’re going to face her?”

Mercatur blew out a long breath. “I have to.  If she and her brother get loose, they will lay waste to Rhudaur.  We’ll have a lot of allies though.”  He took another bite, not wanting to think too hard about Blogath at the moment.  “I’m glad you decided to take the job at the Houses. I think it was the right choice.”

“The pay was good at Artan’s, but some of the clients…what they had me do…”  A dark look came over her face for a moment, but then she smiled.  “Yes, it was the right choice.  I make people healthy and give them hope, like Her Highness gave me hope.  I would…I would follow her to the ends of Middle Earth.  And I’ve learned so much from Lady Firiel and Lady Elanoriel.”  She pointed down at the field.  “Oh, it looks like they’ve finally stood in a straight line.”

He snorted out a chuckle.  “You’re right.  They finally have.”  He gave a sign to Jaabran to dismiss them.  The next cohort would be out in half an hour.

“That wasn’t piss poor horrible this time!” Jaabran yelled.  “But even the ladies of the court still look meaner, more formidable and more battle ready than you lot!  Dismissed!” The men jogged off of the field, faces a little more determined, shoulders a little prouder than yesterday. The Haradan strode back up the mound and then bowed deeply to Neldis.  “Your Royal Highness, I am honored to have you observe our training.”

Neldis and Mercatur looked at each other and then burst out laughing.  Mercatur smirked.  “You got the wrong lady.”

Jaabran narrowed his eyes.  “Eh, what?”

The woman stood and made a curtsey, better than before but not nearly ready for the Royal Court.  “I’m Neldis, a nurse at the Houses and a former prostitute…at your service, good Jaabran,” she said in an attempt to imitate the Princess.

Mercatur snickered.  “Hey, that’s not bad.  The voice is almost the same.”

The Haradan laughed, a deep belly laugh. “Oh, you had me!  Good one, Your Highness!  You have a great sense of humor for a royal!”

She shook her head.  “Uh, no, I’m serious.  My name is Neldis.  I ran away from my adoptive parents in Feotar and came to Tharbad.  I wanted to be a bard and actress with the troop here but…life took a different turn.”

His face went blank, eyes wide and mouth open.  “Oh, you are serious.  I…wow. Shit, what are you, sisters?”

She shook her head.  “Not even remotely.  I had seen a bard, Moradan Songmaster, in my town and he has a traveling troop…singers, dancers, jugglers, firebreathers.  They were so exciting.  That’s what I wanted.  When I arrived in Tharbad, I had little money.  Like my friend, Îuldis, I soon had nothing and I begged, I became addicted to Kirtir and Tartiella, I squatted in flop houses…I sold myself.  Artan’s was a step up.  It was clean and the bouncers prevented the worst abuses.”

Jaabran nodded sadly.  “I see.  Well, Neldis the nurse and future minstrel, it is so good to meet you.”  He then put his palm out, index finger raised, his face serious.  “And the Master created the sun and moon to rule in his stead.  Thus the faithful would not be left to fend for themselves in the dark of the eternal night.  This is a reading from the Tarat Baluzayn, the word of Tarkarun-i-Másra, Tayee, Master of Sands.”

She looked impressed even though she had no idea what he was talking about.  Mercatur smirked and rolled his eyes.  “I liked you better when you were a non-religious heathen.  He’s talking about Manwë in his Haradan mumbo jumbo,” he told Neldis.

Jaabran took on a mock look of offense. “Mumbo jumbo?  Hah, don’t come crying to me when Tayee sticks a Juthjuth…I mean scorpion on your dick!”

The three laughed and drank the ale that was in the sack, watching the clouds go by on this fine summer day.

The Yfelwood – Cerveth (July) 16^th, 1410

Blogath

Her slumber was fitful, a psychic scream for years, her body crushed beneath tons of rubble and debris.  As her mind became more aware, she could sense, she could feel with her powers, weak though they were.  Flashes and snippets of memories came flooding back into her undead spirit.  The Tower of Barad Eithel, her mother, her family.  A feeling of warmth that quickly passed, replaced by terror.  The vampire, Thuringwethil, ripping her from her horse and carrying her to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, there to be forever changed into a demon. Then, feeding, blood, sacrifice, but then freedom.  Led by her sister…what was her name?  Skrykalian…that was it.  They came to this place in Eriador.  Yes, there was a cavern and they cleaned it…made it their own.

Then, she was approached by the Lord of Gifts, a Maia named Annatar.  He cared for her…loved her, but his eye was always upon Skrykalian.  The bitch had to pay.  They gave Skrykalian to mannish chiefs as tribute to entice them to join the Lord of Gifts.  Then, the sister and the brother…Naranantur…rebelled, dared to defy Blogath and Sauron and the siblings all perished, sealed in this tomb.

Until a mage, yes, the Easterling, Ethacali, woke them.  Yes, that’s what happened.  The mage set out to conquer this new land, a land called Rhudaur.  They were defeated and scurried back to the vale, hoping to leash Blogath, use her as a tool.  With a thought she reduced them to puppets, such was her power.  It was time to feed, time to make new children for the memory of her true mother, Thuringwethil.

Then, treacherous Skrykalian rebelled again, declaring that her true name was Alquanessë, a Noldorin Elf and not a vampire.  She tore her wrist, letting her blood flow into the mage whose surging power collapsed the temple.  And so, Blogath lay, her body demolished, her power broken.

Not even conscious, the Blood-Wight released a plea for help, a weak radiance that floated upon the wind and clouds, returning to earth where it may.  She begged for freedom, offered to resurrect her vampire mother to bring might to her saviors.  Her power was so depleted that only one of supreme sense and intuition would have even heard her distant cry.  But the message was received.  Thoughts, ideas, pain and then fury reformed in her mind as she became aware.  There was also panic.  She couldn’t move and the world was black.  Her eyes had long since rotted away.

Tendrils of energy snaked through the ruins of the temple to Sauron, probing, searching for a way out.  One of her fingers wriggled, bones protruding from blackened flesh.  She winced, grimaced.  The agony was real.  As she heard her sister say while fleeing, they could not be killed by any normal means, but it would still hurt.  The pain would fuel her.  She let some of her weakened power flow into the hand and the bone settled back into dried flesh, fusing together.  The skin knit back over the bone and shimmered, pale, ghostly.  Her whole hand quivered.

“Balisimur?” she croaked through a smashed throat.

There was the sound of a gasp and then ragged breathing.  Only a grunt sounded out.  More power flowed into her face, and she felt even weaker.  Eyes reformed and she could see, lids blinking.  “I live…”  And the hunger was intense and consuming.  She needed blood.  They needed blood.  Only that could grant them the power to fully reform.

Fury and then despair filled her being, trapped as they were.  They very well could spend centuries, maybe even millennia trapped, crushed, aware of their prison, forever starving.  It would surely drive her insane.

Then, a shimmering light filled the room, and Blogath shut her eyes.  For a moment, she thought it was Mandos, come to judge them and hurl them into the void with Morgoth but the light changed, glowing red.  She could feel the evil and the presence of another undead…a wraith…a Nazgûl.  He had heard her plea.  This was a message…a response.  Help would come and they would be released.  A ritual would be performed to respawn her mother, infuse her vile spirit into a form.  The light bathed them in power, not much, but enough.  A massive slab on her body cracked and began to crumble.  She sent power into her body and air filled her lungs again.  And now her whole arm was free.  She looked to see blackened, rotting, mummified flesh over bone and she shrieked. What had happened to her beautiful form?

More power flowed, permeating her face, her shoulder, her arm.  She felt lips again.  The skin on her arm pulsated and changed to translucent white, ghostly, sickly but whole. “Balisimur?” she gasped, her voice clearer.

“My sister.  What?  Who?”

She smiled, her new lips still dried and cracking.  She felt a small surge of power that energized her rage.  “The Lord of the Nazgûl has answered.  He is coming to free us.  Together, we will raise mother.  The three of us will overthrow the Lord of Angmar and establish a new kingdom of terror and blood, and the fury of our vengeance will lay waste to the land.  I will personally find our recalcitrant sister and drag she and her mewling friends, screaming to our lair for sacrifice to the Dark Lord.”

Leave a Comment

44) The Bar Aran - Cerveth (July) 23^rd, 1410

Nirnadel

It had been a good Cerveth.  So much had been accomplished since the curse was contained and eliminated.  Minister Eärdil completed the treaty with the Beffraen and passed the law that eliminated the nobles as a law unto themselves.  Every person in the realm, high and low, would now be held to the same standard.  The Princess was ever so proud of the people and the kingdom.  She felt that a new era was upon them.  Even Hir Girithlin and his political allies were surprisingly quiet about this, and the Hir appeared to be true to his word.

Gathered around the grant table of the Council Chambers, Mercatur reported the training of the mercenaries had progressed well and that the five cohorts would be ready to march shortly. Waning sunlight blazed through the windows of the Bar Aran, lighting up the room with golden hues.  Mercatur wanted to get underway before the end of the month, just slightly behind schedule.  Nirnadel, the mercenary, his friend and Nimhir frequently met with Dagar, Alquanessë, Oswy and Éanfled as well as the elves to plan the campaign.  They laid out the safest roads and pathways, helping to create detailed maps of the land.  Lady Amrodan knew the location of a secret entrance to her ancestral castle, a waterway under the walls and into the keep.  Haedorial’s quill scrolled over the pages of his book, keeping track of the important events of the kingdom.  They estimated that about three hundred Dunnish warriors manned the castle as a fief of Cameth Brin.

On this day’s session of planning, Mercatur outlined the approach of his mercenary army on the map of the area around Castle Amrodan.  “We can’t say for sure if they know of the secret entrance, so I propose that the bulk of the force approach from the front on the western side to draw their attention away from the waterway.  Me and Jaabran have seven catapults and five ballistae ready for transport and assembly on site.  I’m also happy to report that Cagh of the Siol Nûnaw Tribe will join us though we’ve heard nothing from Hirgrim.  Cagh can put a hundred warriors on the field.  But what’s the status of the wagons?”

Nimhir gestured to the map.  “Lamril can provide twenty wagons and drivers and we have enough stores for you to last three months in the field.  Beyond that, we’ll need to caravan new supplies.”

“We can give the caravans some protection,” Oswy offered.  “My cavalry knows the routes well.  And we are well stocked at Thuin Boid.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Good, I was hoping for that.  Rhudaur is a land rich in game and water and poor in crops.  We can always hunt for more as well.  We have to credit Jaabran here on whipping those sheep into a fighting force.”

The Haradan chuckled.  “I just had to threaten to stick a Juthjuth on their…” he started and then looked at Nirnadel, his eyes opening wide.  “Their noses, yes, and they shaped right up.”

Nirnadel raised an eyebrow in amusement. “My good Jaabran, it was reported to me that your direct quote was to stick a scorpion on their dicks,” she said in her most prim Royal Accent.  “At least, so I have heard.”  She smiled as he squirmed.

“Ummm, Your Highness…I have to admit that your report was correct,” he said with embarrassment, bowing low, an awkward smile beaming through his slick black beard that ended in a point.  “I did not wish to offend your royal presence,” he added eloquently.  Like Mercatur, the Princess surmised that he was more than a mere mercenary.  He was well-spoken and highly educated.  She always wanted to learn more about the world beyond Cardolan. Harad sounded exciting and a little dangerous.

“No offense at all, my dear Jaabran. I have to admit that would have been amusing to see.”  She couldn’t quite believe that she had that exchange and she blushed a little, knowing that Anariel glowered behind her.  She extended her hand back towards the map.  “I praythee, please continue.”

The Haradan cleared his throat and snickered.  “Thank you, Your Highness.”  He then covered his mouth.  “Juthjuth on their dicks…I crack myself up sometimes,” he said softly.  Then he looked back up with confidence.  “You know, Your Highness, I was once in training to be a priest of Tayee, Master of Sands and you would never have heard an unkind word from these lips.  But anyhow, the cohorts are ready to march.  We are armed and armored, and they now fight with energy.  We have been training to scale walls and to use the siege weapons.  We cannot underestimate the Dunnish tribe in the castle, but I say that we now at least match their fighting skill.”

Mercatur nodded with satisfaction. “Every cohort now has a sergeant to lead them and five corporals to assist.  How soon until Lamril arrives with the wagons?”

Nimhir held up two fingers.  “He said, two days.  And I once again cannot believe that I have agreed to this, Your Highness, but Baranor will protect you throughout the campaign and you now have sixteen personal guards.  Remember, we cannot lose you.  I had to think back on Crown Prince Thôrdaer’s raids into Angmar and Rhudaur and Prince Braegil’s expeditions to dangerous and unknown lands and I could not hold you back, but I wish to temper you.”

She always felt a little guilty putting him in this position and she very well knew the stakes.  But the draw of excitement and the desire to lead her people from the front was greater.  “I do so appreciate your trust in me and Captain Baranor.  I swear that I shall not recklessly abuse that trust.”

Mercatur spoke up unexpectedly. “And I would give my life to protect the Princess, Your Excellency.  You have my word.”

Nirnadel put her hand on his shoulder, and he gave her a look that she couldn’t quite interpret.  “I am deeply touched, good Mercatur.  But let it not come to such a thing, I beg you.”

Nimhir nodded and smiled solemnly. “I agree.  Now, we have the first part of the campaign outlined.  Once Castle Amrodan is taken, what happens next?”

Jaabran put his finger on the map where the castle was.  “We clear the grounds of any traps and accept any prisoners.  The castle is also on the western edge of the Pinnath Tereg…the Trollshaws, but most of the trolls were wiped out by Rivendell, so they should not be a problem, but never discount them,” he said, gesturing to Gildor. “Many thanks.  Then, we have three cohorts remain as a garrison and transfer leadership to Sir Oswy and Lady Éanfled.  These men have agreed to remain there and will bring their families. They will become Amrodan soldiers and allies of Cardolan and stand as a bulwark against Cameth Brin and Carn Dûm.”

Lady Éanfled put her hands over her heart and sniffled.  “It has been a dream of mine to return the castle to House Amrodan.  It was lost under my grandparents, and it was my parents’ dying wish to see our family in our ancestral home.  It was originally built as an outpost of Isildur’s in Arnor and given to my family, who followed him from Númenor.  I…I cannot thank you enough for fulfilling King Ostoher’s promise.”

Nirnadel grasped her hands.  “It is my honor to deliver this to you.  And I will not see men die for me and my promises while I sit back in Tharbad.  I will share their trials and hardships.”

Nimhir shook his head with a grin. “I both hate that and love that about you, Your Highness.  You will be the Queen that this land deserves.”  There were nods and murmurs through the room.

Dagar bowed deeply.  “I do so agree, my lord.  And the castle is within three days ride of Rhudainor mansion and Thuin Boid and we can begin to supply them and the army.  Our harvest is looking to be the best in half a decade so it will be no problem.  And I have offered to release Sir Oswy from his obligation to House Rhudainor so that he may become Lord Amrodan and lead his own house.”

Mercatur stood and traced his finger from Castle Amrodan.  “Once the castle is secure, we proceed to the Yfelwood,” he said and a shudder washed over him.  We will have two cohorts remaining.  There, we will join with the elves,” he said, looking at Gildor, who nodded.

“Elladan, Elrohir and I will lead a force of rangers to help scout the Yfelwood and we will fight as needed. The world must be rid of this evil,” he said and then looked at Alquanessë.  “I did not mean you, good lady…or your brother, Finculion.”

She gave him a smile that Nirnadel saw something in.  “I know, Gildor,” the elven princess said.  Alquanessë then looked around the room.  “Make no mistake, my friends, this will be the most dangerous part of the campaign, perhaps the most dangerous thing some of you will ever face.  You know what I am.  Alone, I have no chance against my sister.  I was barely more than a girl for an elf when I was turned, a singer, a dancer, a poet.  I am no fighter.  Even with Finculion, she would crush us.  Blogath…or Sercë, using her original name, was a hardened warrior in the time of Beleriand, a rider of High King Fingon’s in the Telepta Company.  She is an exceptional archer with proven leadership abilities.”

Nimhir took on a grave look.  “I am liking my allowing Her Highness to go, less and less.”

Elanoriel clapped her hands, drawing attention to herself.  “My daughter and I will accompany the force as healers as will some of the nurses. We will keep Her Highness safe.”

Nirnadel gave her a warm smile. She idolized the elves.

Alquanessë gestured to the Princess. “We will all do our utmost to protect Nirnadel, I can assure you.  Now, as you have experienced with me, she will be able to glean your thoughts and feelings, but she will turn them against you.  You will see illusions, you will have dreams, both seductive and horrifying.  But I will train you to resist and to conceal your mind.  For me, it will be disconcerting,” she said, looking at Nimhir, “for it is as natural as breathing now.  I often feel the jealousy of women and the lust of men.  It will become like a blank void in my world.  Perhaps a quiet mind is what I need though.”  She gestured to the Yfelwood on the map, her face serious.  “I will also do my best to see through her deceptions and warn you.  Trust me…she will tempt you, she will threaten you in your sleep, she will show you yourself being dragged into the abyss, screaming. No one faces Blogath and comes out the same.”

Dagar nodded.  “I can attest to that.  I still have chills thinking about the vale.”  His face darkened and he looked down.

Mercatur gave him a reassuring grip on his shoulder.  Neither of them looked like they were relishing the thought of confronting Blogath again. The two had survived certain death at the hands of the Blood-Wight.  With the help of the elves, though, it would be possible to end her for good.  “The temple will be too small to fit the cohorts so they will remain outside to guard.  The elves and I will lead a small group inside and finish it.”

“My Lord Elrond believes that he has the means of destroying them permanently,” Gildor offered.

“Then, we have a plan,” said Nimhir, stroking his goatee.  “I thank you all for coming.  I suggest that we continue to prepare for the march, four days hence.  You went and returned from Rivendell quickly, but this will be an army on the move, much slower.  Do not get caught in the snow like King Calimendil.  It nearly ruined the army and the kingdom.  I bid you all a good evening.”

The words of the Blood-Wight put a sense of dread in the Princess’ heart.  In her experience, Alquanessë was an intelligent woman with a wicked sense of humor.  She had difficulty picturing her sister, a horrific and evil demon.  If so many were afraid of Blogath, she should be too.  But still, they would have the backing of the elves, no small thing.  And just how powerful could Blogath be?

The Princess stood from her council chair and Galadel placed the royal cloak on her shoulders, securing the mithril pin.  As they walked out of the chambers, Alquanessë caught them.  “Nirnadel, if you have a moment, I will show you and your ladies the mind shrouding techniques.”

The Princess gestured to the royal suite. She had only moved in recently, having left it empty since her father’s death out of both fear and respect.  She had this irrational belief that, if the suite remained empty, it meant that he was not truly dead.  Nimhir finally convinced her to occupy it as the future sovereign.  “I would love that,” she said, wanting to spend as much time as possible with the elves.

They walked into an elegant and luxurious chamber that was still decorated with the belongings of her parents. She refused to change anything just yet…maybe never.  Plush and finely crafted seats and coffee tables filled the lounge while thick green drapes flanked the open windows to let a warm breeze flow through.  Tapestries of Cardolan’s history adorned the walls along with paintings of the Royal Family as it existed two years ago.  Nirnadel looked at the paintings of a world and a family that no longer existed: Merry King Ostoher, a happy, jolly monarch in his robes of state with his crown; Queen Lossien, elegant, refined with a smile that was almost cold in robes of ocean blue; Crown Prince Thôrdaer, proud, brave and strong, his chin tilted upwards, wearing his plate armor with a crimson sash; Prince Braegil the Scholar in his rich green and red robes, a wise and serene expression on his face, holding an ancient tome; and then 15 year old Nirnadel, a precocious princess with a mischievous upward tilt of her lips, holding a cat.

Nirnadel and her ladies sat on an emerald green sofa while Alquanessë took a chaise lounge, reclining back with her lap harp.  The elf look at each of the ladies.  “We elves value music.  It is often a manifestation of our power and magic.”  She raised her hand and then swept it above her head.  “In the Ainulindalë, Ilúvatar and the Ainur create the world with song.  Music raised the mountains and let flow the seas,” she said as her audience sat, enraptured.  “This was the music of the Ainur.  Eons afterwards, our great King Finrod dueled Sauron with songs of power.  The spoken and sung word is dear to the hearts of elves. What I am about to teach you are songs of power to conceal your minds and hearts from the likes of my sister and I. Now, I need you to clear yourselves of any thoughts or feelings.  Focus on your inner light.”  She began to pluck the strings of the harp, rising in three chord progressions. “Close your eyes.  Breathe deeply.  Let no darkness cloud you.”

Nirnadel closed her eyes and held the hands of her ladies.  She felt herself lighter, freer as the chords of the harp resonated.  “Like you knew when I was in your mind, you will feel Blogath forcing her way in like a tide,” the elf continued.  “You will think that she is ripping your whole being apart like wet paper or you will be so deceived that you will welcome it.  She will show you things that you deeply desire and promise to give it to you.  You may be drawn to beg her to sink her fangs into your neck.”

The Princess shuddered as a cold chill ran down her spine.  She began to envision these things, and she squeezed her eyelids tighter, focusing on her breathing and the harp.  Alquanessë began to vocalize, clear, melodious tones in her strong soprano. Another chill ran down Nirnadel’s body, but this was comforting, soothing, loving.  “Join me,” the elf said and the ladies let forth their voices. “Imagine the song of the Ainur, the voice of the Heavens, your voices.  You are now the Ainur, creating the world.”

Power coursed through the Princess’ being and she trembled as golden tendrils of magic flowed around them.  In her mind, she could see holy Varda, casting the stars into the dark sky, Yavanna walking over dry earth, plants and flowers springing to life in her path and Estë’s touch healing all pain and sorrow.  It was overwhelming as if she existed in all of time for all of eternity.  The song faded and she gasped, opening her eyes.  Galadel, Éanfled, Kaile and Anariel shook, their eyes and mouths open in wonder.  “Wha…what did we see?” Nirnadel asked.

“You saw the birth of the world, something so few of your kind will ever see,” Alquanessë told them in a warm, comforting voice.  “This vision was revealed to me by my mother, who lived in the light of the Two Trees and it was revealed to her by Vairë, the Weaver, the Valier who knows and records the stories of all of the Children of Ilúvatar in the Tapestry of Time.  My grandfather’s first wife, Míriel Sirendë, passed after the birth of her son, mighty Fëanor, but she now lives again with Vairë, weaving the story of my family.  I can only imagine the darkness of my part of the tapestry.”

Nirnadel felt a deep sense of honor at hearing this.  As Haedorial said, it was a window into a time long forgotten, a world long past.  Then, she focused back on the task.  “What do we do when we confront Blogath?”

The elf raised her hand, palm out and magic swirled at her fingertips.  “Recreate this song and vision in your heart and mind and no Blood-Wight can glean them.  This vision alone will recoil her.  This will frighten and enrage her, and her fury will come forth.  But in that, she may err and allow us an opportunity to exploit. I will be meeting with the others as well to share this.  You have been a good audience and good students, and I will bid you goodnight.” She stood and then knelt before the Princess and kissed her hand.  “From one princess to another,” she said with a twinkle in her silver eyes.  She smiled at the others and then left.

After a moment, Nirnadel rushed to the door, wanting to ask something else, but Alquanessë was at her own door where Gildor waited.  The elf took Gildor by the hand and entered her room, shutting the door.  The Princess ran back and sat with her ladies, her face beaming.  “I…I think that she’s with Gildor.  They seem so right for each other.  Alquanessë was always so sad that she could never find love, feeling that she was forever soiled.”

Anariel was already preparing her bed as Galadel and Kaile drew a bath.  She soaked for a time, seeing that she was more of a woman now.  How did this happen so quickly since she returned from Rhudaur?  Did the elf have something to do with it?  It had to just be her time, like Galadel told her.  “I’ll be fine,” she told her ladies.  “You may retire for the night.  I would just like to bathe on my own for a little, if you please.”

Kaile looked a little disappointed. The younger ladies had been staying up, chatting and gossiping about events.  This was a change, but they excused themselves.

With her heightened senses she could hear murmurs coming from Alquanessë’s room, quiet conversation and giggles.  She felt a little bad about listening in, but her curiosity was piqued.  The sound of conversation faded away, replaced by other sounds.  She gasped. They were…they were being intimate.

She could hear the elves breathing, rhythmically, soft moans from Alquanessë with occasional giggles.  She imagined them intertwined, legs and arms together as one.  She felt a tingling along her skin.  She imagined Araphor in the large tub with her, his eyes full of love and desire and her hands moved along her skin.  She had filled out since the ride for Rivendell and she explored her new curves. The sounds from the other room intensified, faster, more passionate.  She felt things that she had never felt before.  Was this wrong?  She wanted to stop but she couldn’t help herself.  The water splashed as she whispered Araphor’s name.  Alquanessë’s vocalizations were louder and faster, her voice rising.  Nirnadel followed the pace, biting her lower lip, her body quivering.  Was this what it would be like on their first night?  All went quiet for a moment before the elves moaned together in rhythm, breathing hard.  Nirnadel bit the back of her hand, not wanting to make any noise above the splashing of the water.  All she made were little squeaking sounds with her eyes shut tightly.  She trembled, her whole world coming to a stop, her breath in ragged gasps. 

What had happened to her?  It was something that she didn’t understand and was a little afraid.  As her breathing slowed, she could hear quiet conversation.  Embarrassment took hold of her, and she scurried into bed, holding her pillow over her chest.  She wanted to ask Kaile, but what would her nurse think of her?  Was she now someone of low moral character?  No one had ever told her.  Still, the feeling, the sensation was incredible.  She wanted company again…someone to talk to…to get her mind off of this.

She shot out of bed and went into the next room where the younger ladies had gathered.  Anariel snored so she was in the room beyond.  Nirnadel stood there, water dripping down her bare body, eyeing them nervously.  The ladies leapt up in their night slips and ran over with a towel and robe and began drying her.  “Your Highness,” Galadel said, her eyes and voice filled with concern, “you’re all wet. Here, let us help you.”

Kaile looked her over.  “Are you hurt?  Are you alright?”  She was into nurse mode, checking for injuries.

Éanfled put a robe on her as Galadel finished drying.  “Please, come sit down, Your Highness.  We are worried.”

Nirnadel sat, still unable to speak coherently.  “I…I…just…I just wanted some company.”

The nurse put her hand on the Princess’ forehead.  “You’re flush…are you feeling sick?  Your cheeks are all red.”

She put her knuckle to her lip and bit it.  Then, she looked up.  “I…it was the hot water, dear Kaile, nothing more.  I am ever so sorry to have distressed you all,” she said, gathering her composure.  “Please, may I sleep here tonight?”

Galadel narrowed her eyes, a surprised look on her face.  “Your Highness, you are the Princess.  You may sleep wherever you please and we are more than delighted to have you.”  

Éanfled cleared a space on their large bed.  “Of course! Here is a spot between us so that you may feel safe.”

They went to the bed and lay down, chatting for a while before they drifted off to sleep.  Nirnadel’s mind still raced though.  She still had no understanding of what happened to her and she felt ashamed.  Why did she give in?  She tossed and turned to face Kaile and saw that the nurse was still awake.

Kaile reached out and touched Nirnadel’s face.  “My Princess, you are my idol.  You are good, kind and noble…everything a queen should be.  I can see it in your face and in your eyes that you feel ashamed. You have nothing to feel ashamed of. We are young women, and it is natural, something good and healthy.”

Nirnadel smiled awkwardly. “Really?  How…how did you know?”

Kaile winked.  “I know.  I’m a nurse and I do it too.  So does Galadel.  I know. She thinks I can’t hear her.”

“I…I don’t know what I felt.  I didn’t understand it and I was afraid.  Thank you…I was ashamed.  I thought I had become something debased, something horrid.”

Kaile rose up on her elbow and shook her head.  “Never, Nirnadel.  If I may be so bold, you are like a sister I never had.  I know that I am a lowly commoner, but you have filled my soul with your spirit.”

The Princess wiped her nose.  “I am so relieved, ever so relieved.  You have settled my raging mind.”  Then, a mischievous smile came over her.  “My dear Kaile, you are sounding more and more a noblewoman.  You really are ready to sit on the throne and give commands.”

The nurse looked horrified. “What?  No?  That’s ridiculous.  I’d pee my skirt.”

“Oi darlin’, iffn we’re gonna change places, we’re just gonna have to fix tha’ up right quick now, won’t we, you dodgy bugger, you,” Nirnadel said in a distinctly bad and exaggerated Common Quarter accent.  “I’ve go’ to get me fish to market, afore you nick me wallet, and then clean this…” she added before giggling uncontrollably, “this devastatingly…nasty room of peoples’ nasty bodily ejections,” she finished in her Royal Accent.

Kaile was in tears, trying to stifle her laughter.  “Oh, blessed Valar, that was bad.  Really bad. Oh, you are much better suited to the throne.”

“Eh wha’, love.  You mean I can’t use me mince pies, eh?

Kaile tweaked her nose.  “I shall endeavor to pie you, my dear Nirnadel. I praythee, have a pie on me, if you please.”

The two laughed so loud that Galadel poked her head up.  “Wha…what are you two on about?”

The princess rolled over and tweaked Galadel’s nose.  “Oi, love, I’m bein’ learned ‘ow to fit in amongst the Common Quar’ers now.  Wha’ do you think of me minced pie, eh?”

Kaile did a cutting motion across her throat and shook her head.  “Bad…really bad.  She sounds like a drunk washerwoman.”

Nirnadel looked shocked and smote Kaile with a whack of a pillow and got hit in return by Galadel.  “Oh, you fiends!  Ganging up on your Princess.  I see how this is.  I shall order a flanking maneuver!”  Éanfled was up now and the three ladies wailed on Nirnadel with pillows until she fell backwards, laughing.  “Oh, I yield, I yield!  Spare me!”

Anariel poked her head in and they all stopped, eyes wide, mouths open.  The old nurse looked positively displeased.  “What.  Is. Going on, young ladies?  This is not a dormitory for seamstresses, this is the quarters of the ladies of the Royal House!  Oh?  Your Highness.  I did not see you.  Hrmph,” she then scoffed.  “Still, it is time for bed.  You all have a long day tomorrow, so I advise closing your mouths and eyes…you too, Your Highness.  Do not make me come in and make all of you recite the ceremony of Eruhantalë, which you all should know, by the way.”

“Yes, Mistress Anariel,” they all said in unison and lay down.  The door closed again, and the ladies looked at each other, bigger and bigger smiles infiltrating their faces until they all covered their mouths and giggled uncontrollably, Nirnadel kicking her feet she was laughing so hard.  She settled into sleep, happy and content in the knowledge that she was not a freak and that she was deeply loved.  This was a time that she would always remember, moments of simple joy with her friends, unburdened by duty and responsibility.

The Yfelwood - Cerveth (July) 23^rd, 1410

Blogath

The waiting was agony for the Blood-Wights.  Slowly, day by day, Blogath healed her physical body, clearing small bits of rubble with her mind.  Still, she was shattered, broken bones and rotting flesh.  Balisimur was much worse off, having lesser magical powers.  At this rate it would take another century to reform completely and she wanted vengeance now.  Blogath could crawl, ever so slowly, inch by agonizing inch to grasp her brother’s blackened hand and he whimpered, so crippled was he with pain. She poured the small amount of energy that she had for the moment into him, the flesh of his fingers knitting back over setting bones.

Then, Blogath felt it more than heard it, picks and shovels digging at the entrance to the temple.  “They are coming for us, Balisimur,” she said, her voice still sounding more dead than alive.  “I can feel their power…servants of the Witch-King.  We will feed again and be whole.”  She began to crawl again, one arm whole, one arm smashed and decayed, bones protruding from her rotten, mummified legs.  It took an hour for her to reach the near skeletal remains of Ethacali, patches of leathery skin still stuck to his face and body, his kinky white hair and beard covered in dust.  She reached up with her good hand, grasped his skull and shattered it into pieces. “Rot in the void, little mage.” It was a useless gesture, but it made her feel better.

Exhausted, she rolled onto her back, gasping and panting.  How weak she was…pathetic.  She looked down to see bare ribs on her chest and raw muscle on her abdomen.  Every nerve on her corpse-like frame screamed in agony and she winced, tears flowing down her face.  She banged her head backwards on the ground, the impact dulling all other pain.  She focused on the picks and shovels, trying to force all other sensations from her mind. Louder and louder they grew, day by endless day until a pick struck through the rubble into the temple.

Blogath let out a gurgling laugh. She could see Balisimur more clearly now, his face blackened and mummified, nose and eyes rotted away, only a hand that was fully alive.  Her brother…what was his old name?  Yes, Tindómeno the Strong, a bear of a man, one of the great lancers of Prince Fingon. There was a moment of vision where she saw herself, an elven princess atop the Tower of Barad Eithel.  She was with her family…her mother, Irimë the Fair…Lalwen, the laughing maiden, a woman of great joy and a wonderful, devoted mother.

Along with Tindómeno, they walked to join her other siblings…who?  Yes, Finculion and Alquanessë.  Finculion was fast and deadly like a hawk and his wife was with child.  Alquanessë was graceful like swan, a singer, dancer and poet who was counting the stars.  She could picture Irimë’s ethereally beautiful form and face and she started rocking back and forth.  “No, no, you’re not my mother!  You’re not my mother!”  The image faded, replaced by the face of a monster, red eyes, fangs, a bat-like nose that morphed into one of dark beauty, black eyes over pale skin and shimmering ruby lips.  The snarl changed into a sinister grin.

“I am your true mother.  The one known as Sercë is gone, rotten, decayed. You are now Blogath, my eldest daughter. I grant you the greatest of my powers. You will be my salvation.” Another image flashed. Thuringwethil shrieking, pinned down by a massive hound, fangs ripping her throat out as she had done to countless others.  Then, the vision went black.

Blogath began to chant:

"Thuringwethil I am, who cast
a shadow o'er the face aghast
of the sallow moon in the doomed land
of shivering Beleriand."

She felt a spirit stir, drawn to her, as the debris blocking the entrance to the temple crashed down and men and orcs came through, clearly afraid.  A tall man followed, wearing black robes with stiffened leather plates flaring up at the shoulders.  An expressionless silver mask covered his face under a black hood.  He strode forward and knelt beside Blogath’s crippled form.

“Oh, my dear,” he croaked in a gravelly voice, ancient beyond measure.  “How weak you are.  I could merely step on you and crush your head like an egg.  How long would it take you to reform again, I wonder?”

For a moment, Blogath felt fear again. “Would you have dug all of this way just for that?  I think not,” she uttered, her voice wavering.

He ran his hand down her skeletal body, his fingers lingering.  “Hmmm, I like you like this.  Helpless, begging…afraid.  However,” he said, standing back up.  “The Lord of Angmar requires your service, and you will serve.  I am the Angûlion and you will answer to me.”  He turned to see the pulverized skull of Ethacali. “An impotent gesture, but so fitting,” he told her.

“I will serve you and the Witch-King,” she lied.  “Heal us with blood and we will carry out your desires.”  She reached up to him, beckoning.

He turned back and snapped his fingers. Orcs brought in another of their kind, bound and gagged.  They snarled as they saw the Blood-Wight and hurled the prisoner towards her.  With her good hand, she reached out and seized the creature by the face, claws replacing fingers and pulled him to her mouth, which now filled with razor teeth and tore his throat out.  Black blood poured onto her face and body as she drank the pulsing liquid.  Her eyes glowed red and skin began knitting over the rest of her face and torso, broken bones fusing back together.  “More…I need more,” she begged.  “And for my brother too.”

The Angûlion sighed.  “And what do we say when we want something?”

Blogath wiped blood from her face and gave a seductive smile.  “Please…”

He knelt back down again and caressed her cheek.  “Good girl. You will learn to say that often to me.”

“Whatever you want, my lord.  More please.”

More prisoners were brought in and the Blood-Wights were fed.  Sated, Blogath’s body quivered, skin forming over rotted flesh, her legs straightening, her womanly body whole.  She stood and licked her lips of black and red blood and then popped her hands outward from her bare body that was coated in the fluid.  The blood evaporated into fine droplets which she inhaled through her mouth.  “Ah, much better,” she cooed, sidling up to the Angûlion and wrapping her arm around his waist, her head in the crook of his shoulder.  She stroked his mask.  “Thank you, my lord.  You are most kind.”  She looked down at the drained husks on the ground, twisted, contorted corpses of men and orcs.  Balisimur stood and his muscles rippled, his body stretching unnaturally as an inhuman groan came from his lips.

“Now, you promised one more thing,” the Angûlion added.  “How will we bring your mother, Thuringwethil, back?  We will bind her as well in service to Angmar.”

She began rubbing her thigh on him. “Ah yes.  About that.  I will need a woman for you to sacrifice…preferably a young, healthy, good looking one.”

“I think that can be arranged.”  He looked back at a man, more of a dog than a human with a fierce snout, red hair and hazel eyes.  His hair was braided in copper beads in some barbarian style.  “Ulduin, you heard the lady.  Bring her some entertainment.”

Ulduin gurgled out a response and then left.  The Angûlion lowered his head to her neck, a sniffing sound coming from under his mask. His hand ran all the way down her back. “It will be a little before he returns with the right ingredients.  I think we should get comfortable, don’t you think?”

She knew what he was thinking.  She knew what he would say.  “You read my mind,” she said as she reclined on the ruined table of the Temple to Sauron, one leg draped over Ethacali’s skeleton.

Ulduin returned in a day, dragging a young Dúnadan woman, wrapped in chains, a hood over her face.  Blogath sprung up from a chair and skipped over, her body young and whole again.  She pulled the hood from the woman’s face and took the gag out.  Tears streamed down the woman’s face, and she turned her head, but Blogath grabbed her by the jaw and turned it back, examining her features, running her fingers through her dark brown hair.  She was a pretty thing.

“She was tribute from the lords of Cameth Brin,” the Angûlion stated.  “You know, many of the High Men still reside there, now vassals of Angmar.”

Blogath swished her hand dismissively. “High Men, Low Men, it makes no difference to a vampire who was once a Noldorin princess.  But she will do.”

The woman trembled.  “Please, please.  My name…my name is Faeleth, please don’t do this.  Let me go.  I’ll vanish. I won’t cause any trouble, please.” She struggled, her chains rattling.

The Angûlion, ran his finger down her cheek, along her body.  “This is a woman who knows how to say please.  Well, shall we begin?”

Blogath picked her up and carried her to the broken altar.  Shattering the chains, she forced Faeleth onto the flat, crumbling slab of black marble, retying her limbs onto the altar.  Then, with a claw, she tore the woman’s ragged dress off and began sniffing her body.  Faeleth shrieked.

“Bring me more prisoners,” Blogath demanded and then softened.  “Please.”

Ulduin forced more orcs and men into the temple.  There seemed to be a perverse smile running along his snout.  Blogath and Balisimur took them and dragged them before Faeleth’s squirming form.  The Blood-Wights then tore the captives, neck to groin, coating the woman in blood while she screamed, yanking against the leather straps.  “Join me!” the Blood-Wight called to the Angûlion and the three held hands, looking upwards and began chanting.    

"Thuringwethil I am, who cast
a shadow o'er the face aghast
of the sallow moon in the doomed land
of shivering Beleriand."

The temple grew cold and a dark, smoky form flitted about the room, hissing and snarling.  Blogath shrieked, “Come to me, mother!  Return to me!  Guide me! The night sky is yours to terrorize once more!”

There was an inhuman moan and the smoky form hovered over Faeleth, who went quiet, whimpering.  Blogath forced open the woman’s mouth and the darkness flowed into it.  Faeleth spasmed, her body arching back, limbs flailing against the straps.  She screamed again, but the voice was no longer human.  The woman’s eyes glowed red and fangs sprouted.  She bucked once more and then tore the restraints out of the altar. She sat up, now serene, and ran a finger along her bare chest, coating it with blood and then inserted it into her mouth.

“Mmmm, it’s been too long, my dear daughter, my strong son.”  The blood on her body was then instantly absorbed into her skin.  She looked around.  “Where are we?”

Blogath smiled.  Her plan was coming to fruition.  Just a little longer now.  “We are now in the Third Age of Middle Earth, an age of weaker men.  This is a temple to my lord, Sauron.”

“Sauron?” Thuringwethil asked.  “What of our lord, Morgoth?”

“Defeated by the Valar in the War of Wrath.  Cast into the void.  Beleriand is no more.”

“Ah, so my beloved reigns now?”

Blogath shook her head.  “He is…diminished.  Made formless by the men and elves.  We still carry out his will though.”

Thuringwethil’s face showed disappointment.  “I see. And what of my other children, Naranantur and Skrykalian?”

Blogath sneered.  “Traitors.  We will teach them the error of their ways.”

The mother pointed at the others in the temple.  “And who are they?”

The Angûlion stepped forward.  “I am he, whom you will serve.  And we will, in turn, serve the Lord of the Nazgûl,” he said slyly as he brought out the runes of binding that he had received.

Blogath grinned.  “Mother, they are tools for us.  It is we who will rule the north now.  Thank you, good Angûlion, you have been most helpful.”

Thuringwethil raised her finger and the parchment that held the runes burst into flames and ash.  With a wave of her hand, she flung the Angȗlion across the room, smashing him into a wall.  He rose, stunned and then raised his arm, summoning his power.  He glimmered with dark energy and a shroud of magic descended from the ruined ceiling to contain the vampires.  Ulduin snarled and drew a flail, a single spiked ball on a chain. He rushed at them, howling.

Blogath waved her hand and the dog-man’s arm snapped and he let out a shriek of pain, staggering back.  Thuringwethil held out her palm and the Angûlion’s power dissipated.  The Númenórean sorcerer paused and then he hurled panicked orcs at her as he and Ulduin fled for all they were worth.

When the slaughter was complete, Thuringwethil licked her lips.  “Let them flee.  Now, we will bind their lord to our will, and I will return to Sauron’s side with you, my children.  And I do not wish poor, poor Naranantur or Skrykalian harmed just yet.  They will grovel at my feet once more and beg us to be a family again.”   

Leave a Comment

45) Carn Dûm - Cerveth (July) 27^th, 1410

Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, also known as Tindomul, the Twilight Son, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl

The short summer months in Angmar were always a flurry of activity.  The growing season in this land went by quickly and crops had to be planted and harvested before the snows began to fall again in this cold and barren place. The military priests of the dark religion would whip the slaves into the fields so that they could provide sustenance to the armies.  The 1409 War devasted the ranks of Angmar’s forces, but the planting and harvesting would go on as planned.  Allowing slaves to sit around and plot would be folly and new armies of orcs would need to be bred and trained.

Streams and rivers now flowed swiftly in the Valley of Nan Angmar from the runoff of snow and glacial ice from the Misty Mountains.  Coarse grasses, mosses, lichens, ferns and heathers now dominated the northern tundra. The rivers would then turn into underground caverns that would empty into the icy Bay of Forochel.  While temperatures in Arthedain, Rhudaur and Gundalok would be downright balmy, it was still cool in Carn Dûm, being able to see your breath on a clear night.

While crops were always in shorter supply here, game was plentiful in the summer in a land filled with red deer, moose, elk and reindeer that were hunted by wolves and trolls.  Across the land, scattered packs of tribes hunted and paid tribute to the Lord of Angmar.  One could see men of nearly all races and nations here, Sagath, Asdriag, Dunlendings, Hillmen, Northmen and even Dúnedain, Khandians and Haradrim.  The tribute of slaves and the influx of mercenaries often filled the valley to the brim.  But since the war last year, the number of hunters fell by more than half.

In the great throne room of the fortress of Carn Dûm, the Witch-King of Angmar stood at the balcony, overlooking the massive fortress.  Night had just descended on the land, and the stars were beginning to twinkle.  His general and also the head of the priesthood of Angmar, the Angûlion, was overdue to report.  The Iron Sorcerer had never failed him before and his dark, immortal mind stirred with concern.  The high priests of the Angûlion stood nearby, awaiting his word, clad in black hooded robes, carrying the unholy books of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur.  The Witch-King mused that not even they knew the true nature of their god, a secret that only a few in Angmar knew.  He heard their chanting in the Black Speech as it was ritual day in worship of the Necromancer.

Normally, the Angûlion would lead the service, wearing a suit of black eog set with a silver gem that gleamed with an unearthly light.  It was a performative act that had brought many an uncivilized tribe into his fold. The Nazgûl chortled at the thought of barbaric peoples gathered to see the ceremony of friendly Angmar as acolytes burned mentally intoxicating incense.  When the chanting and music had reached a fever pitch, the Angûlion would create a wall of smoke and the Witch-King would appear as the Necromancer, praising the barbarians, promising riches and power and playing upon their greed and fear.  It was a tried-and-true method on weak-minded people, and a veritable cult had evolved around the Necromancer, their benevolent god.

The Witch-King then saw two riders speeding towards the gates of the fortress.  He sniffed upon the wind and knew that these were his servants.  But something was wrong.  He strode back to his priests.  “Enough for now,” he said in his ghostly voice and the priests bowed to him, ceasing their chanting.  A short time later, the Angûlion, Ulduin and soldiers of the elite Hoerk bodyguard and one of the Hoerk-Tereg, an Olog-Hai troll, entered the throne room.  The Angûlion and Ulduin were out of breath, rushing to stand before the Nazgûl.  “What is the reason for your delay?” he asked without emotion.

They bent the knee.  “My lord, we rescued and revived Blogath and Balisimur, but they turned against us.  It is their intention to dominate the north in the name of Morgoth,” the Angûlion said, huffing.

“And why are they not here in chains, begging for mercy?”

“My lord, Thuringwethil…she is…beyond our power.  She is a demon of Morgoth.  We need…we need to-” he began when a darkness passed overhead, blotting out the moon and stars.

The Witch-King looked up and saw no cloud.  He paused for a moment before turning back to see black, inky smoke filling the throne room. “What?” he began when the smoky form coalesced into a female form.  It shrieked, a sound that shook the halls and men held their ears, screaming.  In a blur of motion, it flew by the soldiers of the Hoerk, and they grasped their throats, blood spraying through their fingers. On instinct, he stretched his hands out and a massive flail flew to one hand and a flaming sword to the other.  The Angûlion uttered an incantation and began to glow.  As he moved to confront the woman, the priests began to chant again, channeling power to stop the attack, fueling the Nazgûl with energy.

He swung his flail, a massive metal club with vicious spikes on a chain and the woman darted under it, slashing at him with a clawed hand.  The claws raked across the pauldron of his sea drake armor, leaving slashes on its surface. The priests’ chants suddenly went silent, and he looked back to see a giant eagle and falcon ripping them to pieces. They then let loose bird-like cries and reformed into man and woman, red blood soaking their bodies.  These had to be the Blood-Wights and their mother.  He raised his sword and uttered a word of power, a shockwave that threw his enemies backwards into the walls.  With another word, blood flowed from their eyes, noses and mouths.  He would rob them of their strength.

With a snarl, Thuringwethil leapt into the air, bat-like wings sprouting from her bare body and she flew at the troll in a blur of motion.  Before the troll could react, a mouthful of razor-sharp fangs tore its throat away and she crouched on its shoulder, drinking as the beast collapsed.  Infused with new power she glimmered, her face flitting between that of a beautiful woman and a bat and she grinned as she leapt away from the corpse, dodging a strike from Ulduin’s flail.

Balisimur shot forward on eagle wings and grabbed Ulduin from behind, hurling him to the ground in a loud crash. He stepped on the dog-man’s arm and seized his weapon.  His fingers changed into claws and his mouth filled with fangs.  “Stay!” he commanded.

Blogath flew by the Angûlion, tearing his silver mask away to reveal a withered, face that was nearly bone white. He uttered another incantation, and she arched her back in pain, the sound of bones snapping.  She winced and her body contorted in inhuman positions.  She managed to raise a finger and point it at him and his robes burst into flames and he danced about, slapping them with his hands.  As a falcon, she flew at him, a blur of claws and feathers, wrapping her legs around his neck and flipped him on his head into the floor.  He writhed in pain, holding his face and the Blood-Wight straddled him, her sharp beak pointed right at his eye.  “It will be a little while…I think we should get comfortable, don’t you think?”

The Witch-King was stunned.  His greatest servants were slain or neutralized in minutes.  Still, he was the Lord of Angmar.  He began to let out a shriek, but no sound came.  Thuringwethil strode forward seductively on bare feet, the troll’s blood covering her form, black footprints left in her wake.  She appeared to only be a Dúnadan girl, barely more than a teen. She smiled and something felt as if a snake were slithering into his undead mind.  He tried to move but his limbs were frozen.  She truly was a demon of Morgoth.  “I can take you to my master,” he said, trying to project confidence. “He will be pleased to see you, who was once his beloved.”  For the first time since he put on the ring, he was afraid.

She walked by him, running a clawed finger along his breastplate, making an eerie scratching sound.  Bat wings sprouted again from her back, and she flew across the water to Angmar’s throne, the blood on her skin absorbed.  As she sat upon the seat of Angmar, she picked at her now human nails.  “I know you will, and I know that he will.”  She raised her hands, and his weapons flew to her grasp.  “Welcome now, the Queen of Angmar.”

Fennas Drúinen, the Border of Rhudaur - Cerveth (July) 29^th, 1410

Valandil

It had been two days of marching and riding from Tharbad with the mercenary army.  Dust kicked up along the warm dirt road behind them as they moved. It looked to be a fairly dry summer in Cardolan, the plains and rolling hills covered in grass as birds flew overhead, hoping for leftover scraps from the men.

The five cohorts marched in precision, spears held on the shoulders, the tromp of boots filling the air.  Mercatur and Jaabran had done an excellent job in getting this troop battle ready in just under two months.  They wore chainmail hauberks or scale armor, under forest green surcoats, that glistened in the sunlight, the sigil on the fabric being a mix of the Royal Cardolan Army, House Rhudainor and House Amrodan.  Many wore steel kettle helmets or Northron Spangenhelms with a fixed metal visor that looked like a bandit’s mask, covering the upper portion of the face, with a flexible metal plate covering the ears and cheeks.  The sergeants and corporals wore additional plate armor for the elbows and knees with open faced bacinets with chainmail aventails to protect the neck.

Sir Valandil adjusted in the saddle, his spear resting on a brace near the stirrups, designed to make long rides more comfortable, holding the weapon.  He had received his new Royal Guard armor, glistening full plate with a helm known as a barbute with a ‘T’ shaped opening for vision and breathing. He was surprised that the armor weighed essentially the same and that he moved almost as easily as he did in his chainmail.  He rode with the Royal Guard in double file, Captain Baranor at the head of the column and Sergeant Cedhron holding the colors, a green and red banner with a hill and the White Tree within an eight-pointed star.  He looked back to see the wagons rolling along in the middle of the force, protected against any attack from any side.

Firiel, her mother and six of the nurses rode in one of the lead wagons, wheels creaking along behind the oxen that pulled them.  Sir Oswy’s lancers met them that morning on the march, a dozen Northron riders guarding the northern flank with others as pickets up ahead, scouting.  Princess Nirnadel rode amongst the Guard with her ladies and her four male stewards on swift palfreys along with Haedorial and Dagar along with Gildor and Alquanessë.

Mercatur and Jaabran rode up to him. “We’re making good progress,” Mercatur said as he raised the visor on his bacinet.  “We’ve done forty-eight miles in two days on these good roads. It’ll be a bit slower once we hit the Dunnish Track, but we’ve factored that in.  I think we’ll make Castle Amrodan in four, maybe five days.”  He wore a coat of riveted leather over a thick mail hauberk with plates of steel covering his elbows and knees.  Jaabran wore red and gold lamellar armor with an unusual conical helm wrapped in a cloth turban around the base with a chainmail aventail dangling down around his face and neck.  Mercatur stood up in his stirrups and scanned ahead.  “I can see Fennas Drúinen up ahead.  Oswy’s scouts should have already made contact there.”   

Valandil mused that his friend seemed more somber, more serious since the curse nearly killed him.  The man was no longer just the rough mercenary from Rhudaur, but a captain of men, responsible for so much more.  And he seemed up to the challenge.

They rode into town a short time later as the sun lowered in the western horizon.  Mayor Eston and the townspeople had turned out for a royal greeting, banners waving and the folk cheering.  The mayor waved them down.  “I have the inn reserved for you and many of the townsfolk will take you in for the night. The army can bivouac just on the field yonder.  It has good ground and good water.  I want to extend the hospitality of Fennas Drúinen to the Royal Party.  Welcome to our town!”

The horses were stabled and the wagons secured and the army began setting up tents under the supervision of Mercatur and Jaabran.  Valandil walked over to the camp with Firiel and the Princess to see how the men were doing, with Captain Baranor surveying the area.  Everything seemed to be going well, the experiences of the Rhudauran and the Haradan playing well in the setup.  Cantinas were organized for each cohort along with trenches and latrines for waste, well away from the camp.  Camp followers and families were already cooking, the aroma of thick stew flowing from pots over hearty fires as people chopped carrots, onions, potatoes and meat.

“Looking good,” the knight said to Mercatur.  “I didn’t know you could lead an army.”

The mercenary snorted.  “I can’t.  I’m just making this up as I go,” he said with a wink.

Valandil smirked.  “I had a feeling.  Still, well done.”  

Jaabran chimed in.  “Of course it’s well done, sir.  Good camps are common knowledge in Harad.  How would we survive in the desert otherwise, especially against the Mal’azaud?”

“The what?” the knight asked, furrowing his brows.  Jaabran was always lively and entertaining, but half the things that he said were just gibberish to any Cardolani.

Jaabran put his palm out, index finger raised and his face became serious.  “You people require a reading from the Kat Polozaj, one of our holy manuscripts. And so, Tayee, Master of Sands, organized the Mal’alak, the Holy Ones.  These are they that bent to his will and obeyed his word.  Those of the Mal’alak who refused to be ruled were cast into the abyss and became the Mal’azaud, demons of the night.  Ever have the Mal’azaud striven to foil the plans of the Master.  So sayeth the word of Tayee.”  He relaxed and smiled again.  “You don’t want any Mal’azaud in your tent, trust me.”

Valandil nodded in ignorant agreement. “No, I suppose not.”   

Jaabran shook his head vigorously. “Very bad for your digestion.  I know this.”

Firiel and the nurses walked around the cantina and the latrines, inspecting for cleanliness.  She held a high standard in the Houses of Healing and her success in curing people was undeniable.  She pointed to two soldiers digging a pit.  “You there!  Move the latrines back fifty paces away from the camp or you’ll smell them all night!”

Mercatur gave her a salute, fist on his chest.  “You make a fine captain,” he said with a grin.  “And Lady Kaile here, she was like a commander at the Houses.  I’d follow her into Carn Dûm any day.  She just needs to know what an axe is for,” he added and the nurse blushed red.

She rolled her eyes.  “I know, I know, chop chop chop.”

Firiel summoned her nurses over to the cantina.  “We’ll help with the food preparation.  We can’t have anyone getting sick here.”  She went over to the table and began washing the cutting board and her hands.  She then sprinkled some herbs into the pots. “Boosts the immune system,” she said as Jonu, Omah, Coru and Neldis picked up knives.  “Wash first, please,” Firiel chided and everyone rinsed their hands and tools in a large tub.  “Vicri, Sissi, make sure you change the water often in the stream.”

Kaile made a move to join them out of instinct and then stopped.  She looked back at the Princess, who smiled and then nodded.  Nirnadel began giggling.  “Oi, love, looks like fun.  Best I get me ‘ands washed and join in.”  The two began laughing and rinsed their hands as Anariel shook her head and Galadel joined in.

Valandil narrowed one eye and pointed with his thumb.  “What’s gotten into her?”

Mercatur shrugged.  “Beats me.  It’s kind of funny though.  That accent is terrible.”

Soon, the whole gang was peeling, washing, chopping and tossing things into the stew.  The head cook, a sultry part Dúnadan woman nearing middle age, began pouring stew into wooden bowls and rang a brass bell.  “Dinner’s up, lads!  Come and get it!  Orderly now, orderly or I’ll put me boot up your arses!”

Men began pouring out of the tent and grabbing bowls, lining up to be served.  The ruckus and joking sounded out over the cantina, a sign of good morale. They’d need it.  The nurses lined up behind the table, filling bowls from several pots.  Nirnadel and her ladies were right there, pitching in, handing out cloth napkins and wooden utensils.  No one seemed to recognize the Princess but all of the young men nodded in appreciation. One man commented, “They’re really well dressed for cooks.”

The cook looked over.  “Oi, love, you’re doin’ fine.  You lasses can work in me kitchen anytime.  My name’s Maelil.  Tharbad docktown, born and bred.”

Nirnadel tilted her head.  “Back atcha, Maelil.  Ima l’il more uptown, you see.”  She gave Kaile this, ‘see, I fit in,’ look.  The nurse just shook her head and kept pouring stew.

Valandil took a bowl from Neldis and nodded thanks.  Mercatur stopped to talk to her for a moment before joining him at a table.  The knight smelled the contents and nodded, taking a bite.  It had a spicy aroma and taste, with bits of beef and soft carrots, onions and potatoes. “Hey, this is pretty good.”  He looked at the mercenary captain.  “Better than that sawdust you ate in Rhudaur, huh?”

Mercatur guffawed, holding his belly. “Aww, we’ve been doing this together for too long!”  He took a bite.  “Definitely better.”

As the army took seats and began eating, Firiel came over with the nurses and the Princess and sat down.  Valandil felt the urge to stand and bow, but she had long since dispensed with protocol amongst friends.  Mayor Eston walked up with a bowl and sat down with friendly greeting.  “I have roused the militia, and we are ready to guard your flanks,” he said and then took a bite.

“We’re grateful for your hospitality, mayor,” the knight said.  “And I cannot thank you enough for what you did when the curse was raging in Tharbad.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, it was nothing.  I am just honored to do my part for Cardolan.  Your men are good.  Not experienced yet, but good.  I see discipline and motivation.  The Raggers, now that was an elite unit.  Cardolan’s wall of wood and steel.  We’ve never been broken since the days of Númenor.  You give my best to Captain Tardegil now.  He was my captain back when.”

Maelil walked by and tapped Nirnadel on the shoulder.  “Well, darlin’, ‘ow’s the stew?”

The Princess swished it around in her mouth and swallowed slowly.  “Oh, it’s…it’s warm and thick, yes,” she said, nodding.

The cook smiled.  “Very good then, I’ll get back to me cookin’.  Enjoy, everyone!”

Valandil had a sense of déjà vu. Everything felt so familiar and then he placed it.  Early summer, 1409…the evening before the first contact with the armies of Angmar. He was sitting in the camp cantina, eating a stew that tasted pretty much the same.  He recalled seeing the Royal tent with King Ostoher dining with his sons on fine tablecloths and silver platters as a chef lifted the top off of a silver serving dish.  The King inhaled the aroma of the roast game hen and the baked salmon.  The King then drank wine from fine crystal, blown by Meneldir Calimiri, the most talented glass blower in any kingdom.  He just remembered the way in which the light reflected off of the glass, refracting into many colors.  He distinctly recalled seeing Firiel at a nearby table, attending to the needs of the King and his sons.  He glanced at Nirnadel.  He respected her father, but he adored her, someone willing to sit at a cantina and eat with the troops.

Then, his mind went to the final rout, a week later after multiple battles.  The screams, the howls, the shrieks and the clash of steel all came back to him.  Finally, there was the creak of wagon wheels in the night as he drove wounded back to Tharbad, Firiel and Mercatur sitting in the back.  That was just over a year ago, but it felt like a century.

He leaned over to Firiel and Mercatur. “I’m getting this weird feeling.”

She nodded.  “I know.  Me too.”

The mercenary pursed his lips through his trimmed beard, and his eyes held a faraway look.  “Yeah…same here.  I was going to say that it’s bad luck to remember that, but we’re not going to let the same thing happen here.  Not if I can help it.”

Valandil was flooded with a bittersweet feeling.  “By the Valar, so much has changed since them.  I don’t even recognize ourselves…for the better though.”

Firiel took his hand. “Indeed.  This whole mad adventure started with the three of us.”

They picked up their wooden cups of ale and clacked them together.

The Fields Before Castle Amrodan – Urui (August) 2^nd, 1410

Mercatur

Sitting atop his horse, Mercatur scanned the area around the castle.  “Shit, this feels too much like the Tirthon in reverse,” he told Jaabran and Dagar.  “We were the idiots inside last time.”

Dagar nodded.  “Indeed, good captain.  I don’t think we can be too careful here.”

“Yeah, too many things can go wrong on this side of a siege,” Mercatur said.  “We still have a lot of time before the temperatures drop so I suggest we take our time and do it right.  No mistakes.  We’re not ending up like Ethacali.”

The army was setting camp and moving to surround the castle.  The sound of hammers and saws filled the air as defensive fortifications were being raised, trenches being dug and the siege engines being assembled.  He could see Dunlending tribesmen poking their heads up over the battlements.  Not powerful foes but still dangerous.  He had one of the cohorts face in the opposite direction to prevent any relief of the castle.

Alquanessë and Finculion landed nearby and their wings folded into their bodies.  Finculion put on a robe, but she walked right up to them, unashamed.  That never got old for Mercatur.  She was tall, lithe and fit, a dream for any who would fancy her.  “We scouted above and I would say there are just over Two-Hundred warriors.  When the attack begins, will you hold us back like Ethacali did?” she asked.

He shook his head.  “We’re using every tool in our kit,” he told her. “We’re not ending up like that mage and his damned orcs.  And we’re not taking any chances.  No magic rings, no poisoned grain, none of that shit.”

Walking by his horse, she let her fingers brush along the unarmored portion of his thigh.  “Well, just tell me what you want and when you want it.” He inhaled sharply and felt a stirring. She then pulled her hand away.  “My apologies, old habit.  This is how I…got what I wanted from the mage.  This feels…all to familiar.”  She looked up at him and furrowed her brows.  “You’ve learned what I taught you.  Good.  I can sense no thoughts or feelings from you.”

Jaabran slapped him on the chest with the back of his hand.  “That’s because he doesn’t have any thoughts or feelings in that rock brain and heart of his.”

Mercatur snorted as Alquanessë smiled and winked.  As she walked away, his eyes were glued to her behind.

“I felt that,” she said without looking back, raising an obscene gesture with her hand and laughing.

Jaabran held his hands together and looked up to the sky.  “Oh, Tayee, Master of Sands, take me for I am filled with thoughts.”  He looked at Dagar and then pointed at Alquanessë as she glided away.  “How do you ever get used to that?  I have a blonde Northron woman with these,” he said, cupping his hands in front of his chest, “and yet I can only see that woman’s behind!” he exclaimed as he put his hands out at her, fingers splayed.  He shook his head as if to clear it.  “I will have to get back to Hilda soon or I will go mad here.”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head. He tried to clear the image of the elf from his mind, but he saw Nirnadel instead, holding his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor, looking back at him over her shoulder and laughing playfully.  He bit his lip and told himself to stop with the bullshit.  He heard a snapping sound and looked to see Dagar, snapping his fingers.

“You alright, Mercatur?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah…women.”

Dagar looked over to Jaabran.  “You never quite get used to that, good Jaabran. But Mirthi is good to me.  She is everything that I need or want.”

The Haradan patted him on the shoulder. “Good man, Tayee bless you, you’re a good man.”

Lord Rhudainor truly had a satisfied look on his face.  Jaabran seemed happy.  Maybe there was something to this settling down bullshit.  He grunted.  Too many strings.  Too many headaches.

The sergeant of the picket cohort approached on foot, looking up.  “Captain! Sergeant Fendir, reporting, sir. There is a man at the perimeter, calling himself Cagh Monûnaw of the Siol Nûnaw Tribe.  He says he has an agreement to help us.”

“He does, let him through.”

“Aye, sir.”

A few minutes later, Cagh came marching up ahead of a hundred warriors.  A sly grin was across his face.  Mercatur and the others dismounted and shook hands.  “Damn, it’s been a while,” Mercatur said, slapping him on the back of his rigid leather breastplate.  “Shit, last time I saw you, you were hightailing it away from the Tirthon, tail between your legs.”

Cagh chuckled.  “I was the smart one.  Ole Lumban got chucked over the tower, didn’t he?  And you Haradan heathen, how are you?”

Jaabran guffawed, holding his belly. He gestured to Dagar.  “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve either fought for or against this infidel.  Well, I’m glad to be on your side this time.”

“Me too,” Cagh answered.  “This must be Lord Rhudainor?” he asked Dagar.  “I’m sorry about Marendil.  He was an honorable man.  No one should die like that.”

Dagar waved his hand back and forth. “No, no, Dagar is fine.  Thank you for joining us, good Cagh.”

Mercatur gripped the Dunlender’s shoulder.  “Cagh, you’re going to shit yourself, but those damn creatures are on our side now…well, the two that we fought.”

He looked stunned.  “What?  Those monsters?  You can’t be serious?  How did you do that?”

The mercenary did a couple of forward bumps with his hips and snickered lasciviously.  “Nah, I wish I could claim credit, but that goes to this man, Dagar. Shit, if it weren’t for him, we’d all be trophies on Lumban’s coat,” he said of the barbarian who collected ears and noses on his clothing, trophies of his kills.  “I was going to keep Lumban’s nose, but…nah.”

Dagar blushed with an ‘aw shucks’ look. “It was a team effort, my good Mercatur.”

“Well, I don’t miss that barbarian freak,” Cagh said.  “You know I really did not want to fight in that battle.  My father said we had to show up…to appease the Lord of Angmar.”

 

“Yeah, I kind of noticed when you came at us before the Tirthon.  You pansies fired one weak volley and then fell back.”

Cagh shrugged.  “Hey, it had to look good.  If I really wanted to, you’d have been pincushions.”

Mercatur knew he was truthful.  The skirmish had him perplexed until after the Battle of the Tirthon.  “How is your dad, by the way?  Garon always treated us well.”  If Dagar hadn’t have hired them it was likely that they would have fought for Cagh on the other side.

Cagh turned his face down.  “He passed last year.  He had a good life though.  He saw that our tribe had survived the last war, and I think he knew it was time.”

“I get that, I really do.  So, if you don’t mind doing some real work, could you pitch in with the siege line.  We need trenches dug and barricades up and if you detail some of your scouts to watch our flanks and rear.  I don’t want to get caught by surprise.”

“I’ll get it done.  You know, I was really surprised that those creatures didn’t suck your blood,” he said slyly.  “You know, I was kind of hoping.”

Mercatur laughed hard, his head tilting back.  “Eh, go on, get out of here.  Sergeant Fendir has the tools.  And she’s much better at sucking something else!”

For a moment, he was flooded with nostalgia.  One thing amongst the Dunlending tribes was that you had to play up your prowess with women.  It was like a badge of honor with them.  All talk, but you had to strut around like a rooster.  He felt as if he were a bargeman on the Gwathló again, hauling goods up and down the river, his muscles the only means of movement.  Then a mercenary for ten years, alienating his parents.  He was home and it felt…weird, different.  It would never go back to the way that it was and he knew it.  “Shit boys, we’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?”

Jaabran pulled out a flask and some wooden cups and poured drinks into them, handing them out.  “Here, have some Golden Raj.  You would say, Golden Oasis.  It is distilled from the Dragul Flower and the Curaco Berry, a delicate, but powerful taste.  I don’t have much left, so I only share with friends now.  We drink to our friendship.”

The three raised cups and then drank. Dagar started coughing with a smile on his face, but it went down smoothly for Mercatur.  It tasted like…like an oasis in the desert, cool and alluring with hints of fruit.  “Mmmm, I missed this,” Mercatur said, savoring the flavor.  “One of these days we need to roll down to Harad and have some fun, get more of this stuff.”

Jaabran nodded.  “Oh yes, the money is good here, but it’s nothing but rain and snow, snow and rain.  Give me a nice warm port like Tûl Harar or Umbar with the wind in your hair and seagull shit in your face.”                                                 

Mercatur was about to say something else when someone tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned to see a tall, blonde woman, wearing purple robes with the sigil of a bronze wyvern on her cap.  His mouth fell open.  “Silmarien?”

She nodded.  “Hello cousin.  We’ve never met officially,” she said in a melodious alto.  “I was with you on the expedition to Annúminas…as an old lady. I heard you were coming home.”

Dagar bowed.  “Lady Rhudainor?  I…I am honored.”

Mercatur sucked his teeth and shook his head.  “Damn, I knew there was something up with that old lady.  Shit.  What do you want?” he asked with a suspicious edge.

She bowed in return.  “I have a feeling that you will need some help.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to work on the character arcs for Valandil and Mercatur.  I thought this was an appropriate point to reintroduce Silmarien as Mercatur's cousin, who would be Marendil Rhudainor's sister from the Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  I'm working on the inner voice of the characters after a couple of online writing classes.

Leave a Comment

46) Carn Dûm - Urui (August) 3^rd, 1410

Blogath

Blogath’s mother, the ‘new’ Queen of Angmar, sat upon the kraken throne, musing at her servants as moonlight streamed into the chamber.  The Witch-King stood, immobile as the Angûlion and the three Gulmathaur knelt, subdued.  Thuringwethil ran her finger along her cheek, musing.  “I imagine myself back in Tol-in-Gaurhoth once more, commanding werewolves and flying messages between Angband and Sauron,” she said as if to no one in particular.  “This is a weaker age though, an age that needs to be dominated.”  She then looked at her two children.  “Few would be able to stand against us as we are demons of the true Dark Lord.”  She sniffed the air and narrowed her eyes.  “Something unusual is stirring.”  The vampire stood, sprouting black bat wings and, in a blur, flew to the balcony, landing as a woman again.  She raised her nose and smelled the night air.  Something was happening.  She turned to her children.

“The army from the human kingdom has surrounded an insignificant castle and they mean to march on our vale.  Much of my power is tied to our altar now from your ceremony.  They cannot be allowed to destroy it.  We shall return and prepare a proper greeting for them,” she said with an evil grin, her eyes blazing red.  “My other children are amongst them.  Blogath, Balisimur, are you prepared to bring them back into the fold?”

They both nodded enthusiastically. “We will be whole again, mother,” Blogath said proudly.  The world was coming together now.  The eons of waiting, of agony and disappointment would end and the family would brought back under the mother.  If only her two rebellious siblings had listened.  If only they had obeyed.  She then pointed to the Angmarim.  “What do we do with them?”

Thuringwethil put her finger to her lips as if thinking.  “I wanted them alive for a reason.  We need to put them to work.”  She raised her hand and the four stood up like puppets.  “Come here, Angûlion…and bring the others with you.”  They began walking towards her like the undead, shambling, staggering as if trying to resist.  Blogath could tell that her mother was straining to keep them under her thumb, the muscles on her face twitching.  The servants of Angmar were also powerful beings.

The vampire queen held out her hand, and they stopped in front of her.  She lowered her palm and they knelt.  “Good, you are learning, my children.  Obey me well and you may, one day, partake in my power.  You would like that, I am sure.  Just look at my Blood-Wights.  That strength can be yours.  You will be reborn with new names that I give you as my children.”

Blogath narrowed her eyes.  The family was just to be the four siblings under the care of the mother.  No one had spoken about a larger family.  She had a flash of memory.  The caress of Annatar, his care and devotion…his gifts.  Then, a flash of red hot jealousy.  The family in the steam baths of Ost-in-Edhil, his arm around Alquanessë, pulling her close.  Then, her hand around her sister’s throat, screaming at her to stay away.  Blogath never believed her mewling protests of not wanting him.  That was all a deception to cover her lust for the Lord of Gifts.  She saw the signs everywhere.  Alquanessë’s glances, the tone of her voice, all designed to steal her love away.  Her breath shuddered as she focused back on the present.

The Angûlion struggled, his withered face straining.  “We…serve…the Dark Lord.  Why…why are you…doing this?”

Thuringwethil growled, a shockwave of power coming from her mouth that seemed warp time.  “I do this,” she said in a huff, “I do this because you are weak and need to be shown true power.  I came here first because you can be taught the true way.  With your…with my armies and my priests, we can create something new…something incredible.”  She raised her hands up and the four flew off of the ground, struggling, squirming.  “Do you not understand what I am trying to create here?” she cried, her voice straining.  She was breathing hard.

Blogath saw the Nazgûl twitch.  Mother was starting to lose control.  Thuringwethil seemed oblivious, continuing her rant.  She closed her fist and the four began screaming in pain.  “And you, dog man, you will have the honor of breeding a new generation of werewolves. Your seed will become the new Draugluin, the Blue Wolf, and he will breed the new Carcharoth, the Red Maw. This pathetic keep will become my new Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”  She then pointed to the Sindarin elf, Ulgarin.  “And you will be their mother, and my werewolves will suckle on you.  Then, you will all become my true children of blood.”

The two Gulmathaur cried out in horror and agony as Thuringwethil laughed, the way that she laughed with the Noldorin siblings writhing on the floor of her prison, two ages ago.  That sparked something in Blogath.  In her mind, eons past, she was bound in chains, stripped of all belongings, crawling like a worm towards her mother.  She flopped around like a boned fish, trying to stand, but she kept falling over. “Mother!  Alquanessë!  Talk to me!  What happened to you?” she cried out in her memory.

Her mother, Irimë just continued to weep, rocking back and forth.

Her sister looked at her, no recognition in her eyes.  “There is no one here by that name,” she said in a bland monotone.

“Alquanessë!  It’s me!  It’s your sister!  What is wrong with you?”

“There is no one here by that name.”

As the memory faded, the Blood-Wight felt like she might vomit the blood in her belly and she trembled.  The Witch-King was moving his hand now, slowly and his leg twitched.  She should say something.  She should warn her mother, but she did nothing.  Balisimur looked at her and remained still.  Why did the family need to grow?  Were they not happy as they were?  She noticed her own hands trembling.

The Nazgûl’s arm was moving, fingers stretching back and forth.  Even with their mother being a Maia, the Lord of the Nine was not to be trifled with. His eyes began to blaze red as Thuringwethil continued her rant.  Blogath was torn between inaction and warning.  She had waited, maybe too long.  “Mother!”

Thuringwethil swung her other hand at her children, flinging them back onto the floor.  “Silence!  I am trying to create something for us!”  She let out a shriek that shook the halls and sent chills down Blogath’s spine.  “Do you not understand what I am doing for us, you ungrateful curs!”

How was this the mother who professed her undying love for them?  The Witch-King took a step, and she said no more.  He stretched his hands out and his weapons flew to his grasp.  He held out his palm and a shockwave burst forth, striking Thuringwethil full on and she tumbled to the ground, skidding on the floor. The four fell back down, no longer held by her power.  The vampire skittered back up in a crouch, feral, fangs bared, but she was weakened in might from her torture of the four.  The Angûlion staggered back up, raising his hands to summon magic.  Claws sprang from the hands of the dog man and Ulgarin drew a poisoned dagger from her boot.  The other member of the Gulmathaur was nowhere to be seen.

Blogath’s eyes went wide. Everything had changed in a few seconds. Balisimur flew at the Witch-King to protect his mother, shifting into an eagle in a blur of movement.  This time, the Nazgûl was ready.  The spiked flail came around, striking the Blood-Wight full in the chest, hurling him into a granite wall that cracked from the impact, scattering flakes of stone.

Blogath was seized by indecision and couldn’t move, just watching in horror as the Angmarim took the initiative. Her mother darted at the Angûlion, his magical shield slowing her enough for Ulduin to crash into the vampire and hurl her to the floor.  He fell upon Thuringwethil, claws rending and blood spattering.  The vampire howled but ripped his chest open with a single sweep of her hand.  He fell back, writhing and she scrambled at him on all fours like an insect finishing its prey.  A dagger flashed twice, and deep wounds opened up on Thuringwethil’s back as Ulgarin rolled away.  The vampire shrieked, a blood curdling sound and reached her hand out, closing her fist. At first, it looked as if the elf were being held in an invisible box, unable to move.  Then, blood flowed from her eyes, nose and ears and she screamed. Thuringwethil snarled, but she staggered and then stumbled weakly.

Blogath shook her head vigorously, clearing the doubt from her mind.  She crouched to fly at the Witch-King, but a dagger sunk deep into her back and twisted. It was Camthalion, the elf leader of the Gulmathaur, a supreme assassin.  Blood flowed down her back, much needed blood and she felt dim, weak and slow.  She turned and raked her claws across his cheek, blood spraying to the floor.  She reached to grab his neck and finish it, but he kicked her in the chest, somersaulting away as she crashed backwards to the ground.

The wound in her back was agony, her skin and muscles on fire.  It was poison.  She struggled to rise, falling back to one knee.  Camthalion held a cloth over his shredded cheek, dagger in one hand, moving to circle her.  They could not win this one and Blogath knew it.  With fading strength, she let out a shriek like a wounded falcon and the elf cried out, holding his ears.  “We must retreat, mother!  We must get back to the vale!”

With great pain, she unfurled her wings and dashed to Balisimur, helping him up.  “We must go, brother!  Come!”

They bolted into the sky followed by their mother, shrouding the moon and stars.  As a giant bat, Thuringwethil flew past them.  “How did you allow this to happen?” she screamed.  “We will return to the vale where I will teach you about loyalty.”

Blogath’s stomach roiled and her back felt as if it were on fire.  She gulped hard, tasting blood in her mouth.  What had just happened?  Dreams of a kingdom, a land of their own to worship Morgoth had evaporated and the world suddenly seemed small.  They flew back to the vale in a tense silence.

Castle Amrodan - Urui (August) 9^th, 1410

Mercatur

The siege lines were set a couple of days ago and the siege engines had been assembled.  Even a mobile tower was built.  It was time to press the advantage.  A horn sounded sunrise and Mercatur rolled his feet out of his cot, groaning with a few aches and pains.  He was no longer a kid.  There was even a touch of gray in the hair at his temples and in his beard.  Jaabran was just waking up too, stretching his arms out.  The Haradan rolled out of the cot and placed a rug on the floor of the tent, kneeling down and offering prayers to Tayee as sandalwood incense burned in a brass cup.

There was a rap on the tent flap. “Come in,” Mercatur called.  

“Captain, Sergeant Fendir reporting. Some of the Dunlenders attempted to probe our defenses last night, but they were ridden down by Sir Oswy.  One rider was killed, but none of them escaped.”

“Good, thank you, sergeant,” he said, twisting a kink out of his neck as he pulled on his boots.  “Are the catapults ready?”

Fendir nodded.  “Yes, sir.  We have them all aimed at the gate like you ordered.”

He rose, walking over to the basin of water and the mirror.  “Very good. Have the cohorts muster in an hour and we will begin.  If all goes well, we can finish this in a couple of days and then be on the march to the vale.”

“We’ll get it done, sir,” the sergeant said as he departed.

Jaabran had finished his morning ritual and leaned back against his cot, a big grin on his face.  “Well, look at you, all leaderlike and shit, Captain Mercatur, sir.”

Mercatur had been around, seen too many scraps, but he had never commanded an army.  His father had been a good leader, won many battles against Angmar, but not him.  He only knew what his father tried to teach him before he went rogue.  There was a lingering doubt that he tried to suppress. So many lives were riding on him now and it was…uncomfortable.  “Pssshaaa, I’m still the same old scrapper on the barges of the Gwathló.  Hey, remember our first job together?  Bodyguards for that fat ass and his caravan?  You showed me a thing or two.  That was my first mercenary gig.”

“Ah yes, wet behind the ears,” Jaabran said, rubbing his own ears.  “I remember that.  You were pretty tough already though; I’ll give you that.  I fought my way all the way up from Harad.  When I left the priesthood, I served on a cog out of Tûl Harar, sailing up and down from Umbar, fighting off those idiot pirates.  Then, I was on a ship out of Umbar to Pelargir. Then, I heard about this heathen place called Rhudaur with trees and snow and I just had to see it, idiot that I am,” he said, using his hands to illustrate his travels.  “Hah,” he said, laughing, “I remember that fat ass.  When he fell off of the wagon and started rolling around like an orange…I never laughed that hard, Tayee forgive me.”

Mercatur chuckled as he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick and a brushed stick.  He splashed water on his face and blinked his eyes.  “I could really go for a cup of coffee about now.”

As if on cue, there was another rap on the tent flap.  “Come in. Have we identified the secret entrance with Éanfled yet?”  He turned, but it was Neldis, carrying a tray of cups filled with coffee.

“We brewed some up and I thought you boys could use a drink.”

Jaabran got back on his knees, lifting his hands as if in prayer.  “Oh, Nurse Neldis, future minstrel, you are a vision of holiness, a true lifesaver.”

She giggled as she handed both of them cups and sat down with a cup of her own.  She put her hand out, index finger up with a serious look.  “Praise Tayee, Master of Sands, for his benevolence.”

Jaabran looked stunned.  “Oh Merciful Tayee, you are a true adherent of the faith!  If I did not already have my Northron woman I would sweep you off of your feet to eternal bliss!”  They all laughed heartily.  “You would do well in my homeland.  Not many Dúnedain so you would be a tall, pale goddess, lovely to behold!”

She blushed and looked down.  “Harad sounds like an interesting adventure.”

Mercatur drained his cup in several big gulps.  “Call me an idiot, but when things settle down, I think I’d like to see what’s down there.”

Jaabran swept his hand through the air. “Ah, a land of sun and sand, wonderful beaches and smelly camels.  But do not become a priest of Tayee.  They are most wise and powerful, but you’ll have to muzzle your cock for seven years. Bad for your health, trust me.”

Mercatur nodded slowly.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Neldis laughed.  “I think that you’ll need a nurse on the trip.”

The Haradan chuckled.  “That would be most wise, tall pale goddess of loveliness. Now, I am most curious, Nurse Neldis, what were your plans of minstrelhood?  We have some time before morning muster, and I am most intrigued, most intrigued.”

Her face lit up.  “It was a dream of mine,” she said, with her hand over her heart.  “Trust me, I’m happy where I am at now, but the first time I saw Moradan Songmaster, I was enthralled.  I was a kid, but I remember the music and how excited everyone was.  I sat on my mother’s shoulders, watching jugglers and fire dancers.  And Moradan was just so…just so intense.  I started making up dances on my own and learned all of the village dances to prepare for the day.”

“So that’s how you knew the swaying dance,” Mercatur said as she poured him another cup.  “I was impressed.”

She gave him a smile and then looked down.  “My good mother passed though.  It was the fever.  No one could save her.  That’s why I cherish what I do now.  Now I can save people.  I can make a difference.”  She put her hand to her nose for a moment.  “I was taken in by…by…I don’t know why I’m saying this.  I’m sorry to waste your time.  You have more important things to do, like fight a battle.”

Mercatur put his hand on her shoulder. “No, we have time.  I’d like to hear it.”  He wasn’t sure why he did that.  It had been his policy not to give a shit about other peoples’ issues.

She looked at him.  “Really?  I…uh, thank you.  I’ve kept this in for a long time.  I…I was taken in by a blacksmith and his family.  He was a good man, but…but his son…he did things.”  She started to shake and Mercatur gripped her shoulder gently. “I was a teen by then, so I ran away, dreaming about joining Moradan’s troop.  I would be a traveling minstrel, entertaining people, making them happy,” she said, laughing with tears in her eyes.  “And then I came to Tharbad to seek him out, but I found myself begging for food or coin or any scraps and I couldn’t find him.”  She drank the rest of her coffee.  “You know, I never knew my father.  Mother would only speak of him rarely.  She told me that he was some great warrior who traveled the kingdom. I know it was all bullshit to make me happy, and she did.  Some lord in golden armor atop a white horse, tall, with black hair and a noble face,” she said with a faraway look in an exaggerated voice.  “Hah.  My father was probably some drunk at the inn who ran off.  That’s my luck.”

Mercatur furrowed his brows.  “You said, golden armor?”

“Yeah, that’s what she told me. She had a handkerchief of his, pure silk and a crystal glass that she treasured.  I dunno, maybe it was his, maybe not.”

He thought for a moment as a memory flooded back to him.  The camp before the great battle of 1409.  The King of Cardolan, toasting to the coming victory with a crystal glass of wine.  Then, the finale of the Battle of Tyrn Gorthad, King Ostoher in his golden breastplate, slicing through orcs as the troll warlord, Rogrog, closed in on him.  No, it couldn’t be.  He looked closely at her.  Straight black hair, framing a heart shaped face with gray eyes, full lips and a delicate nose, slightly upturned.  No, it couldn’t be.  She blushed under his gaze and looked down again.

The horn sounded the muster and he blinked.  “I…I’m glad you shared that with us, Neldis.  We have to attend the muster.  Please be ready.  There will be casualties today.”

She stood and straightened out her nurse’s apron.  “Yes, yes of course.  I feel better now, having told someone other than my friend, Îuldis.  I will be ready.  Firiel and Elanoriel trained me well.  I cannot thank the Princess enough for giving me this opportunity.”

The men finished strapping on their armor with her help and they strode out to the field.  He looked back at Neldis.  “Hey, I’m going to introduce you to Haedorial.  He’s big on songs and music like you saw.  He’s a friend of mine, trains the Royal Court on shit like that. He owes me some favors.”

She beamed and clapped her hands, bouncing on her feet as she waved.  “Be safe! I’ll be ready.”

Four cohorts stood ready for battle, spears held high, the fifth in the rear to guard any approaches.  Oswy and his lances sat atop their mounts as Captain Baranor rode up with the Guard, the Princess and her entourage.  Pennants of Cardolan, House Rhudainor and House Amrodan fluttered in the breeze.  He could see Firiel, her mother and the nurses gathered at the infirmary tent, the herbs and tools of their trade ready.  He didn’t anticipate too difficult of a fight, but he was ready for anything.  This was not going to be another Tyrn Gorthad or an Ethacali debacle.

He nodded his head while Jaabran took a knee.  “Morning, Highness.  We’re ready to begin the attack on your word.”

She was dressed in her mithril chain shirt and a silver barbute helm with her short sword, an eket at her belt.  An emerald green surcoat was over her armor, trimmed in scarlet.  She dismounted and scanned the field, removing her helm and shaking out her hair. “I was told of how Sir Oswy repelled the probe last night.  What is your plan of attack for the day, good Mercatur.  Have there been any changes from our last session?”

He gazed at her for a moment, straight black hair framing a heart shaped face with gray eyes, full lips and a delicate nose, slightly upturned.  Nah, he was seeing things.  She narrowed her eyes.  “Is something amiss, good captain?”

“Huh?  No, no, it’s nothing.”  The personalities were completely different, Nirnadel more confident and outgoing, her royal upbringing showing.  Neldis soft, sad and demure, but with a funny edge, her commoner upbringing showing.  Yeah, he was seeing things.  “Well, Highness, we’ll start with a bombardment of the front gate, draw them forward.  Do you know if Lady Éanfled has located the culvert yet?  We’ve been searching for days.  I’d like to try that secret entrance this evening.”

Nirnadel smiled.  “Yes, we did.  With good Captain Baranor and Sir Valandil, we found it earlier this morning. In our scouting session, we found that it does indeed go to the castle.  Rather smelly, if I do say so, but oh, so exciting.”

“Umm, Highness, remember, not too much risk,” he said, concerned.

She patted him on the rigid leather over his chainmail.  “Oh course, I am most careful, am I not, good Captain Baranor?”

He grunted and rolled his eyes.  “I wish you would listen more, Your Highness.”

“He’s right, Highness,” Mercatur said. He knew that she would always be willful, but they needed to temper it.  “Please listen to us.  We will keep you safe.  And war is not meant to be ex…never mind.  Just…please.”

She took on a serious look.  “I understand and you are correct, my dear captains.  I shall endeavor to be careful and I do apologize.  War is what took my father and brothers from me, and I shall not make light of it again.”  She did a polite curtsey.

The mercenary smiled.  “Thank you.  I would see it as a personal favor if you were to remain in the command tent or help at the infirmary during the battle.”

She nodded solemnly.  “I shall, I swear it, sir.”

Baranor patted him on the back. “Thank you.”  The look in his eyes was one of absolute relief.

Mercatur bowed to her.  “Highness, we await your word for action.”

“The word is given.  You may commence the attack and may the Valar bless us.”

He raised his hand and made a chopping motion and, one by one, the catapults threw their stones into the main gate, splintering wood and denting iron with a crash.  “Baranor, can you spare a few guards?  We go in through the culvert near dark and wait.  The main gate should be down by then and we hit them from both sides, Jaabran, Oswy and Gildor leading the main attack.  I think it should do the trick.”

“I’ll lead half the men with you. Lieutenant Valandil will come with us.”

“Good, since you’ve seen the culvert. Good.  We’ll gather at about five bells in the afternoon.”

A stone came flying back towards them but fell a hundred yards short, throwing up some dirt and grass.  Jaabran whooped.  “Those fools have shoddy catapults!  We’ll just have to watch our approach but we’re out of their range.”

There was the sound of flapping wings and the Blood-Wights landed nearby, blood coating their bodies.  Alquanessë held one live tribesman.  They walked up and she tossed the man to the ground in front of Mercatur, making a salute, fist on her chest.  “Reporting, captain!” she said in an exaggerated martial voice with a grin.  They turned and bowed to Nirnadel.  “Your Highness.  Uhh, one moment please,” she added as they extended their arms and the blood turned into droplets to be inhaled.  “Ah, much better.  I hope your breakfast was as fulfilling.”

The prisoner shook on the ground in terror, having soiled himself.  “He says that they have enough food to last months and that they were able to get a few runners out before we surrounded the castle,” the elf said.  “They are quite terrified of us as we fly around.  We should definitely make use of that.”

“Well done and thank you.” Mercatur gestured to the prisoner. “Get him cleaned up at the infirmary and put him in the stockade.  Give him some food and water.”

The man groveled.  “Thank you, thank you.  Get me away from them!” he cried, pointing at the Blood-Wights as soldiers led him away.

Mercatur tilted his head towards Alquanessë.  “Baranor and I will go in through the culvert this evening once the gate is down. Gildor and Jaabran will attack from the front.  Can you take out those catapults when the time comes and keep their heads down?”

They both nodded.  “We can do that,” she said.  “For what it’s worth, you’re a much better commander than Ethacali. He was a mage, who wanted to play at being a soldier.”

“Thanks…that actually means a lot to me. In the meantime, if anyone tries to break out, if you could deal with it?”

“We would be delighted,” she answered as someone handed them their robes.

He gestured to Haedorial.  “Hey, when this if over, if you could do me a personal favor.  Would you be willing to train Neldis?”

The bard bowed courteously.  “The nurse?  I would be honored to do so.  She showed a lot of talent that night at the celebration.”

Mercatur clapped him on the back. “I won’t forget this.  Thank you.”

Another salvo of stones struck the gate, splintering more wood.  The mercenary watched as the engineers reloaded.  “Well, all we have to do is wait now.”

Castle Amrodan - Urui (August) 9^th, 1410

Nirnadel

The sun made its way down to the west, birds flocking on the edge of the forest that surrounded the castle, loud chirps as the played and danced in the sky.  The Princess brooded, wanting to be part of the action, but she realized that Mercatur and Baranor were right.  She did need to temper herself.  From a cloistered childhood of reading, study, dancing, singing, horsemanship and sword play, she was now in the field with an army.  Her time in Lond Daer was a wonderful memory for her, being free and adventurous.  She thought of her older brothers, Thôrdaer and Braegil and the amazing stories that they would tell her of cavalry raids into Angmar and Rhudaur and expeditions to ruins and lost cities.  She wanted all of that and to make her own stories now.

She had paced around the command tent with Dagar and Haedorial for hours before deciding to join Firiel and the nurses, followed by Sergeant Cedhron, Corporal Riston and six guards.  As she approached the infirmary, she waved them off before they could bow.  “No, my friends, do not waste such valuable time on me when I am here to help.”

“That is very good of you, dear Nirnadel,” Elanoriel said.  “Everything has been prepared to my satisfaction so now we wait.  That is the worst part, my dear.”

The nurses donned aprons and scrubbed their hands, nervous looks on their faces as tarps were laid down to care for the wounded.  Kaile held Jonu’s hand, nervous expressions on both.  Nirnadel put her apron on over her armor.  Galadel also had an eket strapped to her belt.  “I know how to fight too,” Lady Tinarë said, almost as if just reassuring herself.

“Good Lady Firiel,” the Princess began, “is this how it was before Tyrn Gorthad?”

“Yes, but it was much worse then,” the Healer answered.  “It was much larger, thousands of troops and a sea of orcs.  The screaming and howling of the Angmarim Army was terrifying. They were whipped into a frenzy by their masters, heedless of their own deaths.”

“That sounds terrifying,” she said. “I will trust in the people like you who have experienced it.”

“When Rogrog, the hideous Olog-Hai troll struck, Valandil and I ran.  I was screaming the whole way to the wagon.  It was he, who killed your father.”

Nirnadel put her head down.  “I…I thank you for sharing that.  When time permits, I want to know everything.”  She always believed that her father was brave and noble, but she knew deep down that he had made a fatal mistake in the campaign.  Growing up, he was perfect but now, on the cusp of adulthood, simple views of black and white were no longer a luxury for her.  The brutal truth was more important than comforting lies.  She glanced around to see the nurses and her ladies, shaking, their eyes huge.  She understood.  Fear was beginning to creep into her heart.

The main gate collapsed with a crash, stones smashing what was left of the wood and iron.  Jaabran raised his razor-sharp scimitar, it glinting in the fading sunlight. “The first cohort will prepare to advance!  Second cohort on the left flank.  Third cohort on the right!  Fourth with the tower!”  Oswy’s lancers waited, their horses stomping and ready and the Blood-Wights took flight. The fight was about to commence and all at the infirmary began to fidget.

“Mercatur and Baranor should be in the culvert now,” Nirnadel said nervously as a horn sounded and the first cohort began to move in a dense column, spears bristling, shields held overhead to protect against arrows.  The second and third moved in a line at their flanks to protect against any counterattack. The fourth cohort moved forward with a tall siege tower, prepared to scale the outer wall of the castle.

One stone was launched and crashed short of the formation.  Before they could reload, the Blood-Wights dove down and tore the men away from the catapult, flinging them into the air to crash down to their deaths.  It was horrifying to watch, and everyone was glad that they were on their side.  Arrows then rained down on the cohorts, most deflecting off of the shields, but a few, finding flesh.  There were shrill screams as men fell, others moving forward to take their place.  Still, the mercenaries advanced.  The army’s ballistae fired long, thick bolts, impaling defenders on the wall.  The Blood-Wights darted about in the sky, tearing unfortunate archers from the battlements. Shrieks and moans rose from the field and Nirnadel felt her gut churn.  She grit her teeth, determined to do her best.  “Friends…I would not be here with anyone else.”  Kaile and Galadel took her hands and squeezed.

Another horn sounded.  “Enemy attacking from a sally port!” Sir Oswy yelled. “Lancers, prepare to advance!”  A group of Dunlenders poured out of a hidden door in the outer wall and hurled javelins and rocks at the second cohort. They could hear the thunk of steel and stone on the wooden shields.  Nirnadel thought she saw a man on the battlements struck in the face by a ballista bolt, blood spraying into the air.

Oswy’s voice then sounded, loud and clear over the sounds of battle, reciting an ancient Northron poem.

“Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?”

Next came the rattle of spears as the Dunlenders charged into the line of the second cohort.  Oswy raised his lance.  “Ride now!”  The cavalry put spur to horse and the lancers moved forward in the trot and then the canter, circling around to strike the enemy in the flank.  Éanfled looked positively terrified, watching her husband ride into battle.  Lances lowered and the steeds charged into the enemy.

Sharp lance points drove into flesh under the thunder of hooves.  Horses reared and cried out as men screamed.  The sound was nearly deafening.  Then, the ring of swords being drawn or axes splitting skulls wafted over the field.

One of the lancers rode up, his mount rearing, and the Princess blinked hard, her presence of mind coming back.  “Prepare to receive wounded!” he called and then spun about and rode back to the fray.  Injured men walked, limped or were carried to the infirmary.

Elanoriel clapped her hands above her head.  “Nurses, stand ready.  Coru, Jonu, attend me!” she ordered as the two rushed to the elf’s side.

Firiel directed the wounded to the tarps. “Put them here!  Yes, lie down here, please.  We will get to you.”

Nirnadel saw bloody men stagger or even fall onto the tarps.  She gulped hard.  She was not prepared for this.  Some were missing arms or legs or an eye.  Elanoriel dove right in, the two nurses handing her tools and herbs.  Firiel touched her on the shoulder.  “I will need help, come.”  The Princess nodded silently, and they rushed to a man whose leg was sliced to the bone.  Kaile led Galadel to another tarp with men, rolling in agony or crying out.

Firiel knelt down by the man, who was screaming, holding his leg.  She pointed to the table nearby.  “Get me the saw, Nirnadel.  It has to come off,” she said urgently.  She stroked the man’s cheek.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, we have to take it.  Drink this.  It will dull the pain,” she said, pouring a vial of fluid into his mouth.  Nirnadel handed her the saw, eyes glued to the gaping wound and blood spurting.  “Nirnadel, you need to hold him down.  Grab him and put all of your weight on him.  I can’t have him moving around.”

She moved around to his head and held him from behind with all of her strength as he thrashed about.  “No, no!  Stop!” he shrieked.  “No, please stop!”  She buried her head into his back to the sound of sawing.  “No more!  Please stop!” The Princess began to sob, her tears soaking his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating to him.  He let out a feral cry as the sawing ended.  The man went limp and Firiel dressed the stump, applying a healing poultice.

The Healer nodded to her as she released him.  “I know that this wasn’t easy, but we’re not nearly done.”  Nirnadel had helped after the battle on the bridge, but that was after and Firiel kept her away from the worst parts.  This was different.  This was horrible.  The Princess wiped her face, shaking like a leaf as they went onto another after rinsing their hands.

The next man rolled around on the tarp, an arrow in his eye.  “I need you to hold him again,” Firiel said as she took a pair of surgical pliers. She gave him a dose from a vial and Nirnadel held him from behind, wrapping her arms around his chest.  There was a quick squelching sound and blood poured onto her arm.  The man shrieked and then went limp.

When would this end?

A horn sounded urgently behind them and there was the ruckus of battle.  A cry rang out, “Enemy to the rear!  They’re getting through!”  The fifth cohort was being attacked by a new threat.

Nirnadel stood and could see Dunlending warriors battling the mercenaries, some leaking through the line, howling in a mad rage.  Sergeant Cedhron drew his longsword, facing to the rear.  “Guards!  Thangail now! Defend the Princess!” he ordered, and they formed a shield wall.  She drew her own eket as her guard raised their shields in front of her.

She felt a rush of adrenaline and fear as the tribesmen raged at them.  “Defend the whole infirmary!” she commanded.  Javelins were thrown at them and the guards raised shields to the thunk of steel on wood.  Sissi cried out as a javelin pierced her leg.

Firiel rose and fired an arrow into the chest of one warrior and he fell backwards.  Swords and clubs then rained down on the shield wall and the guards thrust their swords forward in coordinated timing, one man moving his shield and the other stabbing through the opening.  Bodies quickly began to pile up in front of them.  Two warriors rushed up the corpses of their dead brethren and leapt over the shield wall, landing in front of Nirnadel and Galadel. She gasped, eyes huge and mouth open. This would be no fencing match with Baranor, this was real.

One swung at her head, and she deflected it away, the blade just scratching her helm.  She maneuvered to stand between them and Galadel, who was unarmored.  Another cut came and she struck the blade away, bringing the point of her eket forward, stabbing into his gut through his leather armor, the tip sinking in half a foot. As she was trained, she twisted the blade and the man shrieked, falling back.  Before she could pull her sword out, the second man cut her full on the side and she cried out, staggering back.  Pain rippled up her body and she saw stars.  She brought her guard back up to parry another blow and Galadel moved from behind her to stab him in the throat.

Tribesmen were turning and fleeing now as the fifth cohort plugged the gap and the guard made short work of the remaining attackers.  They were the martial elite of the realm.  Nirnadel went down to one knee, holding her side.  Galadel was shaking.  “Nirnadel!  Talk to me!” she shouted in panic.

Breathing was hard and moving brought a sharp pain.  She looked down to see that there was no blood, her mithril chainmail stopping the blow, but her whole side ached.  She huffed several times and then nodded.  “I’m fine…I’m fine.  Who was hurt? I saw Sissi go down,” she said, straining and lightheaded.

Galadel practically dragged her to a tarp.  “Nirnadel, we’re going to check you out.  I don’t care what you say.”

The Princess looked around.  Sissi was on a tarp, Firiel cutting the shaft of the javelin.  Wounded soldiers of the fifth cohort were coming in now as tribesmen shrieked, cried or crawled away weakly.  The guard had slaughtered those who attacked them, such was their skill and the quality of their armor and weapons.  But a cry of panic drifted in from the front.  “The Princess has fallen!  Fall back! Retreat!”

Cedhron had a slight gash on his arm, but he waved off any care.  The sergeant looked down.  “Highness, we need to get you to safety!  Remove to the command tent, please.  Nurses, attend Her Highness!”

She stood painfully.  “No sir,” she said, shaking her head vigorously.  “I will not hide, nor will I be moved until the outcome of the battle is decided.  And I will not be treated until my men are.  Am I clear?”  She took a couple more deep breaths, feeling a little dizzy.

Cedhron let out a frustrated sigh, but it was clear that he respected what she was saying.  “I knew you were going to say that, Highness.  What are your orders then?”

She pointed to her ladies.  “Remain here and help.  Good Sergeant Cedhron, you know me.  Bring my horse and follow.  We need to inspire the troops.  We need to show them that I am alive.”

He shook his head.  “Dammit, bring Her Highness’ mount!  If I say no further, it’s no further, I don’t care who you are.  And one nurse!  I need one nurse who can ride!”

Grooms ran up with several horses and Nirnadel climbed into the saddle of her palfrey as Neldis raised her hand. “I can ride!  I’ll come.”  Cedhron nodded.

Galadel took another horse.  “I don’t care what you say, Nirnadel, I’m coming.”

It would be sunset soon as they rode out onto the field in front of the castle.  The battle was still raging, the first cohort now at the gate, thrusting spears into the enemy as arrows and stones flew down at them, but they were giving ground.  There were cries of dismay, “The Princess has fallen!”  Some men were in full retreat, and the line was becoming jumbled.  Panic was on their faces.

Nirnadel waved her mithril sword over her head, painful though it was.  “No, my friends!  I am here! Rally, my brave men, rally!”

Men falling back stopped and looked. When they saw her ride by, they turned and marched back to the gate.  Jaabran was at the entrance now, slicing with his scimitar, urging men forward. Nirnadel spun her horse about, waving her sword in a circle.  “We have them!  Don’t let up! Forward my brave men!”

Then, there was the sound of battle coming from inside the castle and a Cardolan banner could be seen through the shattered gate.  Cries of dismay went up, but this time, they came from the Dunlenders.  Baranor and Mercatur had attacked the enemy from behind.

Chapter End Notes

I did a bunch of research on medieval sieges, and I wrote one for a Dragon Age story.  I'm expanding the Blogath character arc along with Jaabran and Neldis.    

Leave a Comment

47) The Culvert of Castle Amrodan - Urui (August) 9^th, 1410

Mercatur

Just as Nirnadel said, it was dank and musty in the culvert.  The stagnant drainage water flowed down the way that they came, about ankle high.  Mercatur led the way with his cousin, Silmarien, right behind him.  A light at the tip of her staff shone the way forward.  Baranor and seven of the Royal Guard came behind him along with Cagh Monûnaw. The culvert was high enough for a man to stand up in, ancient Númenórean construction from long ago.  Castle Amrodan had been an outpost of the sea lords for trade with the Dunlenders an age ago with more modern renovations made during the Kingdom of Arnor and later Rhudaur.

They reached the end where there was a ladder up, somewhat rusted.  At the top was a trapdoor into the courtyard according to Nirnadel.  He didn’t like her taking such risks, but the information was good.  If they could get out undetected, they could catch the defenders from behind.

Mercatur snorted as they waited at the bottom of the ladder for the right moment to spring up through the culvert. “I always knew that you existed, Silmarien.  I should be angry but I’m glad you’re here.”  He huffed. He started to say something else, but shook his head.  “Eh, never mind.”

“No, what were you thinking?” she asked seriously.

He grunted.  “Fine.  I really disliked that magical trick you pulled in Arthedain, appearing as an old lady. And so, you knew I was in Tharbad and what?  Why didn't you reach out to me?”  He was both glad that she was here now and disgusted at the same time.

She looked down.  “There was too much risk, but you have every right to be upset.  I was afraid of getting involved.  I wanted to, really.  My husband…dissuaded me.”

He rolled his eyes.  “See, I didn’t even know you were married.  You’re just a stranger to me.  So, who is he?”

“Dirhavel the Alchemist.”

He knew the name.  “Oh, that stingy…uh sorry, never mind.”

She snorted.  “No, you’re right.  He needs the money to fund our project, something that I believe will help you with the Blood-Wights.”

He pulled his chin in and looked at her sideways.  “Really? So, what is it?”

“Have you ever heard of Silima?” He shook his head and she continued, “It’s the substance that created the Silmarils.  My mentor, Gandalf the Gray, provided us with an ancient tome, written by the great smith, Celebrimbor, grandson to mighty Fëanor. Dirhavel thinks he has recreated it from the smith’s writings.  I have a sample that I can use on the Blood-Wights.”

The names sounded only vaguely familiar to him, meaningless legends and fairy tales.  But he was curious.  “Will it work?”

Silmarien shrugged.  “I really have no idea, but it performed well in testing.”

“That doesn’t instill me with a lot of confidence,” he said with one eye narrowed.

She was about to respond when Cagh shuffled his way up to them.  “Hey Merc,” he said, using the nickname many gave the captain.  “You’re going to need me up front.  I’m a whole lot quieter and quicker than you folks in your heavy armor. I can get the jump on those guys.”

He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Very good.  You’re up front.”  He tilted his head up, listening.  “You hear that?  Sounds like we’re hitting the front gate.  Time to go.”

Cagh scrambled up the ladder, his leather armor barely making a sound.  He popped the grate up and scanned around.  “We’re good.  Come on.” He beckoned them up as he slunk through the opening.  Mercatur came up next and crouched down next to Cagh.  He was really glad that he didn’t have to fight the Dunlender chief at the Tirthon a few years ago.  The man was a professional, unlike the barbaric Lumban, whose greatest weapons were fear and murder.  They looked around as the rest of the raiding party came up.

The defending tribesmen were rushing to the main gate, which had been smashed.  Beyond, one of the cohorts was advancing up a causeway, spears bristling. Arrows and stones rained down upon their shields, loud thunks and regular screams and shrieks.  Mercatur, Cagh and Baranor had seen more than their fair share of that.

Staying low in the fading sunlight they moved across the yard towards the gate.  Men on the battlements of the central keep appeared to be occupied watching the fray.  Silmarien raised her staff, and a weblike spell spread from the tip and covered them. “Just in case,” she said.  “They won’t see us from above.”

Over the din of battle, cries of dismay came from the cohorts, “The Princess has fallen!  Retreat, fall back!”

Mercatur’s stomach fell through the ground and Baranor raised his visor.  “No, no!” the knight cried.  “I have failed you, my Princess!  No!” He drew his sword, and a feral look came over the armored knights.  The eight guardsmen let out a shout of rage and despair and charged at the rear of the tribesmen.  Mercatur was stunned.  How did this happen?  How did he let Nirnadel down?  He had planned everything down to the finest detail.  He looked up for a moment.  “Please, don’t let it be.  Take my life instead, I’m begging you.”  He hefted his axe, determined to kill every last one of the defenders.  His life meant nothing now.  With a howl he chased after the Guard with Cagh.

They smashed into the rear of the tribesmen, the Guard’s swords rising and falling, sinking into flesh and bone. There was no defense, just an insane bloodlust for revenge.  The cohorts were in retreat, some men fleeing.  It was all falling apart.  They would soon be alone in the castle, hopelessly outnumbered.  Silmarien pounded her staff on the ground and arcs of electricity shot into three tribesmen and they howled in pain, sizzling as they collapsed.  Nearly blind with rage, Mercatur hewed about, bellowing his fury.  He was heedless of his own safety, berserk.  There were hard blows on his armor, but he felt nothing, only tasting blood.  Cagh was right beside him, dodging, parrying and thrusting, more controlled.

There were shrieks from the darkening sky and the Blood-Wights dove on the archers on the keep, ripping them apart with their bare hands, limbs and heads falling to the ground at the base of the keep.

Clubs and iron swords bounced off of the full plate armor of the Guard, merely denting or scratching the metal as the knights sliced and stabbed their way forward.  Mercatur tore his axe from a man’s neck, blood spraying onto his face, tears running down his cheeks.  “Kill me!” he challenged the enemy.  “Kill me!” All of this had been for nothing with Nirnadel dead.  He looked like a demon now, his bloody face twisted in mindless fury.  And now, they would soon be surrounded as tribesmen began to turn on them.  It would just be a matter of time.  He was ready to meet his end.

Then he saw something and thought it was a star at first.  A rider atop a white horse, clad in mithril, sword raised, circling overhead.  It was like a dream moving in slow motion.  He could just make out the words, “No, my friends! I am here!  Rally, my brave men, rally!”

It was her.

Just as it was during the Battle on the Iant Formen, he couldn’t believe it.  Was it a trick of his mind, wishing her back into existence?

She spun her horse about, waving her sword in a circle.  “We have them!  Don’t let up! Forward, my brave men!”  The retreating men stopped and cheered, turning and advancing again, spears thrusting.

He yelled to the Guard, “She’s alive! She’s alive!” he cried as he raised the banner of Cardolan and waved it like he was in a parade.

Baranor looked back, eyes wide through the slits of his visor.  He nodded and shouted to the Guard, “Dirnaith!  Dirnaith!” and they formed a wedge, driving into the enemy.  The rage and despair were replaced by the cold precision of endless training.

Attacked from both sides with such skill and fury, the tribesmen began to break.  The siege tower had docked on one wall, and a cohort was pouring over the battlements.  Mercatur continued to wave the flag, laughing and crying at the same time.

Jaabran was coming in through the shattered gate, his scimitar slashing, creating an opening for Gildor to rush through, the elf driving the enemy back with a push of his shield.  Spearmen followed, stabbing and grunting in rhythm, just like they were trained to do.  Mercatur chuckled.  He guessed that the Juthjuth threat did its job.

He looked back to see the Blood-Wights waving from the keep.  This was it. The day was nearly won.  They just had to be careful now.  No stupid risks.  The first cohort was through the gate and the fourth had taken the battlements. Oswy’s lancers poured through, riding down any who resisted, followed by Nirnadel, Galadel and Neldis, surrounded by the other Guards.  The Princess and Galadel’s swords were bloody and Mercatur let out a frustrated, but proud sigh.  They had proven themselves to be warriors this evening.  Tribesmen started throwing down their weapons.  It was over.  The cohorts and the lancers began rounding up prisoners.

Mercatur and Baranor stomped over to the mounted Guards, hands on their hips.  The mercenary was furious and overjoyed at the same time.  “What happened?” Baranor demanded.

Sergeant Cedhron dismounted and put his fist to his chest, facing the captain.  He looked absolutely defeated.  “My apologies sir.  More than two hundred tribesmen from the Macha Mur hit us from the rear, nearly overwhelming the fifth cohort.  Sergeant Fendir held as many as they could but a group of them leaked through.  I ordered a shield wall but two leapt over us. Before I could turn around they had attacked Her Highness and Lady Galadel.  The ladies acquitted themselves with valor, slaying the enemy, but the Princess was struck in the side.  Our troops must have seen it and mistook her for dead.”

Nirnadel dismounted and winced, holding her side.  “I praythee, good Captain Baranor, lay no blame at the feet of good Sergeant Cedhron or Sergeant Fendir.  There were too many for the fifth cohort, and Sergeant Cedhron was fully occupied defending Firiel and the nurses upon my command.  Had it not been for them and their brilliant defense, the infirmary would have been slaughtered, me along with them.  They are to be commended.”  She winced again and coughed, blood on her hand.  “I…I feel…” she began and then wobbled, going down to one knee.

Mercatur leapt in and grabbed her, lifting her up.  “Neldis! Come here!  The Princess needs you!”  He carried her, limp in his arms, blood trickling down from her lips.  He brought her close to the wall and laid her down, leaning her against the gatehouse.  Again, he was consumed by fear.

Neldis and Galadel leapt off of their horses and ran to them.  “Help me get her armor off!” Neldis cried, panic creeping into her voice.  Galadel pulled off the Princess’ helm and then her chainmail shirt.  “Lift her tunic!  I need to see!”  Galadel tore it off, revealing a deep purple bruise just below her armpit.  Neldis leaned down and placed her palms on Nirnadel’s side.

Baranor shouted to the mounted Guards, “Get Firiel up here now!” and four sped away at a gallop.  He turned back to Neldis.  “What’s happening?  Tell me.”

With one hand, she gave Mercatur a vial. “You know what to do,” she told him and he emptied it into Nirnadel’s mouth.  “And captain, I need you to be quiet.  I have to listen,” she said, putting her ear onto the Princess’ chest. A desperate minute went by until Neldis breathed a sigh of relief.  “Her lungs are clear…heartbeat strong.  I don’t think that she’s bleeding inside although I need Lady Firiel or Elanoriel to confirm.  I am merely an apprentice.”

The nurse pulled a small clay jar from her pack and uncorked it, releasing a pungent fragrance.  She handed it to Mercatur, and he held it under the Princess’ nose.  He was so glad that he paid attention when Firiel was teaching him the healing arts.

Nirnadel’s eyes fluttered open and she looked around.  “Wha…what happened.  Why are you all…?” she asked, bewildered.

Neldis kept her palms on Nirnadel’s side as Mercatur rubbed her arm to stimulate blood flow.  “I think you just passed out from pain and exhaustion, but the real healers will see,” the nurse told her.

The pounding of hooves sounded the approach of the healers.  Kaile practically flew off of a horse and dove next to them as Firiel and Elanoriel rushed up.  Neldis stepped back and Firiel took her place.  “I don’t sense any bleeding inside, but please, don’t trust my word,” the young nurse said.

Firiel closed her eyes, focusing energy through her hands as Kaile prepared a gooey paste, mixing water into gray powder.  Firiel’s eyes opened and she nodded.  “You are correct, Neldis, you are correct.”  She blew out a long breath.  “Good work, Neldis.  It’s a deep bruise and it really rattled her.”  She pointed to Mercatur, who still held the clay pot in a death grip.  “And you.  You’re hired.”

He held up his bloody axe with his other hand, blood smeared all over his face, arms and armor.  “What?  And give all of this up?”  He wiped the tears and blood from his eyes.  “When can I start?”

Firiel chuckled.  “You already did.”  She moved back as Kaile began to apply the gray paste over the bruise as Galadel put a towel over Nirnadel’s bare chest.  The healer pointed at the Princess.  “And you…you fought like a demon.  You and the Guard saved us but you’re going to get some rest, or my mother will have some words with you.”

A smile crept over Nirnadel’s lips, and she wiped the blood away.  “Very well, good Firiel.  I could never defy you or Lady Elanoriel.  That would be most foolhardy as I have seen.”  She held the towel over her chest.  “And now that everyone has seen how I have filled out, I will just politely die of shame here,” she said as she blushed.

Mercatur snorted.  “Alquanessë better watch out.  Before we know it, Highness’ll be strapping on fake wings and strutting around with nothing else.”

Galadel smacked him on the arm and put a finger in his face.  “Do not give her any ideas!  I’m serious!”

Nirnadel giggled, a hand over her mouth. “But in all seriousness, I thank you. A million times, I thank you.  We have won the day at great cost, and we will honor those who gave their lives.  How is Sissi though?  Last that I saw, you were helping her.”

Firiel smiled.  “She’s fine.  She’ll be off of her feet for a bit, but I saved the leg.”

Nirnadel put her hands over her heart. “Oh, that is a blessing.”

Éanfled rode up next with Sir Oswy and they rushed over.  “Oh, thank the Valar!” Lady Amrodan cried.

“Good Captain Mercatur,” the Princess said to him.  “The victory is yours.  I praythee, please plant the banner of House Amrodan as soon as possible.”  She reached up to Éanfled and Oswy.  “Lord and Lady Amrodan, Captain Mercatur wishes to present your ancestral home to its rightful owners.”

Éanfled buried her face onto Nirnadel’s chest, weeping for joy.  “Your Highness!  I…I am…I am so grateful.”

The Princess embraced her but winced. “Ow!  Big bruise.  Ow,” she said, a smile beaming on her face.  “I may have to stick to dancing for now.  No more fights against tribesmen for a while.”

Elanoriel clapped her hands above her head.  “That is all, everyone.  Nurses and maids remain, but everyone else, shoo!  Go on, shoo!  The Princess needs her rest.”  The Guard reluctantly withdrew but Mercatur remained.  “What did I just say?” the elf told him sternly.

He smirked.  “Hey, what did Firiel just say?  I’m a nurse.”

Elanoriel shook her head and rolled her eyes.  “Yes, yes you are,” she said, nodding.  “Fine. We need to find a bed.”

He smiled and his heart soared.  He walked over to Neldis.  “Damn, you did good.  You did so good,” he said as he wrapped her up in a bear hug, spinning her around.  She squealed and laughed as he set her down.  He realized that the Mercatur of a year ago would not even recognize the Mercatur of today.  For a warrior who swore that he’d never feel, never get invested in people, he felt a lot and was very invested.  He walked over and playfully tapped Nirnadel’s boot with his own as she sat. “Like I told Dagar, I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.”

“Well, since good Firiel has made a nurse out of you, I just might take you up on that bet.  But I highly doubt that I will ever be a knight errant as Thôrdaer was or a great explorer as Braegil was.  I am, however, a far better dancer,” she said with a wink.

Elanoriel stepped between them, clapping her hands.  “Enough of that.  We have found a bed and will move you to it, dear girl.  Nurses, daughter, attend me.  We will move the wounded inside for further care.  Prepare the wagons.  And you, Nurse Mercatur, come, make yourself useful.  And for the love of Manwë, clean yourself up.  You look positively frightful.”

He nodded his head with a chuckle. “Of course, mistress.”

Castle Amrodan – Ivanneth (September) 1^st, 1410

Nirnadel

After three days in bed, she was itching to move around and do something.  Protests of, “I’m feeling better,” were met with stern glances from Elanoriel or her own ladies.  Kaile, Neldis and Dagar never left her side, beds set up nearby and Mercatur visited daily.

“I’m just paying you back for annoying me every day in the Houses,” he would say with a smirk.

The banners of House Amrodan flew once more over the castle after decades of occupation.  The land fell to the Rhudauran usurper during the great 1356 War and then passed into the hands of a Dunnish tribe.  Lord and Lady Amrodan had moved back into the keep and the sound of hammers and saws was nonstop, repairs being made to the gate.  Three hundred mercenaries swore fealty to House Amrodan and would now move their families in and man the castle.  With the casualties from the battle, that left one effective cohort to march to the vale.

Mercatur met daily with those who would join the expedition to the Yfelwood and Elrond’s sons arrived to assist. Alquanessë and Finculion provided crucial information about their siblings and how to defeat them.  But the battle of Castle Amrodan would be child’s play compared to what would come.

By day seven, Nirnadel was ready to gnaw her arm off to escape.  She rolled out of bed, wearing only a night slip, feeling a slight ache in her side. She pulled the slip up and saw a faint greenish color on her skin where she was struck.  The mithril chainmail had no doubt saved her life.  Kaile handed her a glass of water, and she drank thirstily with a thankful nod.  Neldis put her hand on the Princess’ forehead, taking her temperature.  “My dear friends, I do not recognize myself from even a year ago,” the Princess said thoughtfully.  “Two years ago, I was a spoiled, pretentious child who was given everything.  I was surrounded by glittering gems, showered in gifts, wore the finest clothes.  A year ago, I was a devasted, demoralized wastrel, my whole family dead, the weight of the realm upon my and Nimhir’s shoulders.  I could scarce think clearly.”

Kaile smiled warmly.  “I have seen you grow and I am so glad to be part of this. I’ve always wondered though…why did you start coming to the Houses with food and money?”

She thought for a moment, brows furrowed. “It was…complex.  I wanted to help, truly, and I found value in being a part of saving lives.  Seeing how the patients improved and the happiness I brought made me who I am now. But…I wanted to die as well.  Why did I live when my brave father and brothers had perished?” she asked, almost pleading.  “When my mother passed from the fever, why wasn’t it me?  It would have been better for Cardolan.  My father was devastated, and he was never the same. I know, deep down, that he made foolish decisions in the war because of it and it cost them their lives.  If it had been me instead of mother, maybe they would be here.  If maybe I were killed, it would be my penance,” she said sadly.

Kaile nodded solemnly.  “So, that’s why you went onto the bridge?”

“Yes, precisely if not entirely. If I gave my life for the kingdom, it would be my way of honoring my family.”  She could see Neldis trembling and tears ran down her cheek.  “My dear Neldis, what is wrong.  Please, speak freely.”

The nurse paused, composing herself. “M…my mother passed from the same fever that year.  I was left alone for I have never met my father.  I…Your Highness, I feel that we share…no, it is too presumptuous of me. Please forgive me.”

Nirnadel took her hand.  “No, please, I wish to hear you.  You saved me.  I am eternally grateful.”

“No, you were fine, just dazed.  I merely found that out.  And it was you who saved me.  I am the one who is eternally grateful.  I will never forget how you sat with me as I was coughing and terrified…me, a nobody.  And you…Your Highness, you gave me a life that I can be proud of.  I will never…I will never…” she said, trailing off and shaking.

The Princess pulled her in and embraced her, rubbing her back.  “Good Neldis, we have all endured such deep pain.  Please, share yours with me as I have shared with you.  And I am Nirnadel to you.  We have no need for formalities between us.  Anariel would glower at me, but such is my wish.”

Neldis steadied herself with a long inhale.  “Thank you…Nirnadel.  I…I feel that we share much in common though I am a nobody.  I look up to you.  Forgive my presumptiveness, but I feel and understand what you say.  I understand your loss.  I told Mercatur and Jaabran this, but I had no one after my mother passed. A blacksmith took me in with his family. They were good to me, but his son…his son used me.  I…I ran away, hoping to find Moradan Songmaster the bard and join his troop of traveling minstrels but I could not find them in Tharbad.”

Nirnadel put her finger on her lips. “Moradan?  Yes, I know him.  He lives in the King’s Quarter and performs at the Bar Aran.  He is a good man, formerly of Gondor.  Now, I have heard that Haedorial has agreed to give you lessons. I will make sure of it, and you will be most welcome to join myself and the ladies of the court in our sessions. We will have you dancing the Sogenne in no time at all.”

Neldis put her hands over her heart. “Why…why are you so good to me?  I am a soiled woman.  I sold my body for coin or even food and drugs.  I did things…horrid, horrid things to survive. I smiled as I died inside.”

The Princess shook her head vehemently. “No, you are a nurse of the Houses of Healing.  A proud profession.  You save lives and heal the sick and injured.  You will be a dancer and a minstrel if you so desire.  None of what you were is who you are.”  

 

The nurse shook violently as Kaile and Nirnadel held her.  “You don’t know how much this means to me,” she said, sobbing.  “You don’t know.  I was so lost.  I was an empty shell.  I wanted to die too!  But…but I…I am alive and I have hope because of you both.”  Kaile smiled at the Princess.  They had just saved someone.

“Should I have Minister Eärdil look into Artan’s?” Nirnadel asked.

Neldis shook her head.  “No, they were…fine.  They cared for the girls although some of the clients…would beat me…degrade me…I…no, they were fine.  Those men were dealt with.”

Nirnadel wiped her eyes.  “Then, good Neldis, we will look forward to better things and brighter days.  I cannot imagine what you went through.  I would have died.  You are strong.  Stronger than I will ever be.  You are a fighter.  I am proud to call you a friend.”

The nurse put her hands over her mouth. “As am I.  Both of you.”  Then, she snorted.  “A fighter, huh?  Not me. When I saw you with your sword, fighting the tribesmen, I was terrified.  You stood your ground and would not let them attack us.  You will be the queen that we deserve.”

“That, dear Neldis, gives me strength,” she said as she rose and looked around in a conspiratorial way.  “Well, I don’t see Lady Elanoriel nearby, so I think that I am safe to sneak off and visit the injured soldiers.  Come, you will be my cover.”  She slid on slippers and cautiously made her way to the ward.

With Dagar, they walked a short distance through the castle hospital where rows of beds held injured men and a good number of captured enemies, under guard.  Mercatur had issued an order to care for them and treat them well. The able-bodied prisoners were released on parole with promises to never fight them again.  A show of fangs from the Blood-Wights made sure that they would keep their promises.  The terror that Alquanessë and Finculion spread during the battle made tribesmen hurl down their weapons and weep on the ground.  Dagar said that he could empathize with them.  The battlements of the keep ran red with blood, taking days to clean.

Nirnadel saw men in agony, some who would likely die no matter what the healers did for them.  There were groans and whimpers.  She gulped hard.  “My brave men.  I am sorry, so sorry for what I have put you through.  Please, tell me what I can do for you.”

The man who lost his eye came to her and knelt, an eyepatch on his face.  “Your Highness, you held me when I was so afraid.  I thought I would die and never see my family again.  Your touch gave me courage.”  He kissed her hand.  “I am Echadrion.  I was a tailor in a small town before joining the cohort.”

The man who lost his leg hobbled up to her on crutches.  He took her hand and kissed it.  “I am Farion, Your Highness.  I kept the kennels in a small town near Tharbad.  You…you wept with me when I lost my leg.  I will…I will never forget your kindness.  Lady Amrodan has offered us positions of honor in her castle and we will proudly serve her, but our hearts are with you.”

Another man came up, his arm in a cast and bandages on his cheek and knelt, kissing her hand.  “Your Highness, I am Hwinnion.  I constructed windmills.  When we heard that you had fallen, I ran…terrified.  On your horse, you stopped in front of me, waving your sword, urging us to rally.  Seeing your face, your courage.  I could not run.  I returned to fight, and we won the day.”

She put her hands over her heart.  “My brave men.  You do me so much honor.  I am proud, ever so proud of all of you.  Are you well fed?  Are you well cared for?”

There was a resounding yes.  Men cried out, “Are you well, Your Highness? You fought on, even while hurt.”

She did a perfect curtsey, pulling the hem of her slip out just a bit.  “I am well, thanks to you all.  The courageous men of the fifth cohort saved my life.”

Lady Elanoriel must have heard the exchange, and she came rushing into the ward.  She fixed her eyes on Nirnadel.  “And what, praytell, are you doing out of bed, my dear?”  She eyed Kaile, Neldis and Dagar suspiciously.

Nirnadel made a surprised face.  “Well, Lady Elanoriel,” she said, looking back and forth between her friends.  “I was…we were…yes, ummm, looking for pickles.  Yes! That’s it.  I had a sudden craving, yes, for pickles,” she added, a little too quickly.

Kaile nodded emphatically.  “Yes, they are so big and long and thick and juicy, yes,” she stammered, opening her mouth wide and pointing down her throat.

The Princess blushed bright red, remembering the meeting where she tried to show Haedorial what Kaile had shown her with a pickle.  “Ummm, Kaile once showed me the value of pickles, yes.”

Neldis caught on and she was struggling not to laugh, her whole body shaking.

Lady Elanoriel rolled her eyes.  “Ummm, yes, pickles.  Of course,” she said blandly, nodding without a shred of belief. “Very well, carry on and I hope you find the pickle that you’re looking for.”  She walked past them and then looked back.  “Oh, and my dear girl, it would appear that you are healthy enough to move around now.  You may no longer consider yourself to be confined to the hospital.  Good day,” she said and then continued onto one of the patients.

The three girls’ eyes went wide, and they burst out in uncontrollable giggling.

Two more weeks went by as the castle was put in order and defenses made solid.  The cohorts drilled in the yard and Nirnadel and her ladies joined the Guard for weapons training with wooden swords.  Even the nurses joined in.  Baranor seemed to be especially stern with Nirnadel, striking harder and faster.  “After the last battle,” he told her, “You need to learn more and more quickly.  We cannot have what happened to you occur again.  Am I clear?”  There was an edge of anger in his voice.

Nirnadel was taken aback but raised her wooden sword back into a guard position.  “I understand, captain.”  This was very unlike him.

He delivered three powerful strikes at different angles, and she blocked the first two, but the third landed on her left arm, hard.  She yelped. He glared at her.  “You must do better.”

She grit her teeth and raised her sword again.  “I am ready.” What had gotten into him?

He came at her fast, feinting at first and then switching to another angle.  Her eyes went big, but she lowered the tip of her weapon to deflect it away.  She delivered a thrust, and he moved his head just in time as the weapon brushed his ear. He then bound her blade with his and flung her sword away.  He put the point on her throat.  “You’re dead again,” he said coldly.  “After King Calimendil was slain by orcs and a civil war ensued, Thalion was sacked by rebels with orders to put all to the sword and nearly every member of the Royal Family was cruelly butchered…the women raped and even the children slain. The bodies were burned and tossed into a pit.  Only a few escaped.”  His eyes were intense.  “I will not let that happen to you, but I need you to learn.  This is why every member of the Royal House must be able to fight.”

She trembled for a moment, and her mouth was dry.  What happened to Calimendil’s family was a horror story beyond measure.  Orcs were cruel enough by nature, but the cruelty of man was by choice and beyond evil.  She picked up her sword and raised it again, her eyes aflame this time.  “I am ready.”  This time, she took the initiative and stabbed at his midsection.  He parried it easily and struck downwards.  Instead of going sword to sword, she moved like a dancer, sidestepping and blading her body as the cut missed.  She sliced across his leg, making contact with his armor and then slid under another cut, stabbing him in the gut.  They paused and her eyes looked up to see his sword less than an inch above her head.

Baranor stepped back.  “We’re both dead.  Enough for today.  Get cleaned up,” he said with an almost scornful tilt of his head.

This was very much unlike the captain, cold, without any sense of formality.  She put the hilt of her sword to her lips in a salute and walked away. As she passed Valandil, he told her, “You know how afraid he is for you.  It’s nothing personal, Your Highness.”

She nodded silently, rubbing her left arm where he struck her.  She went to wash and then walked to the armory to inspect her weapons.  On a rack were her mithril eket and dagger, a thin poignard, designed to punch small holes in an enemy.  She had learned to use a longsword as well, but she was better with the shorter eket.

Baranor approached her and bowed low, his face softer.  “Forgive me, Your Highness.  I have not been myself since I believed that you had fallen.  It…” he started and then looked away.  “It tore me up.  I fought like a madman, determined to kill and die for I had failed you.  No one else, just me…my failure.  Then, I saw you, riding and rallying the troops.  I was both proud and angry that I thought you had disobeyed my request to not endanger yourself.  Seeing you though, my discipline came back, but only after I had lost it.”  He knelt and kissed her hand.  “What you did…was necessary for our victory.  I would have died had you not ridden out.  Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, good Baranor.  You are the greatest knight in the realm, and I am honored to learn under you.  Thank you.”

He stood and gestured to an armor rack. “I took the time to prepare a gift for you, which just arrived.  The dwarven smiths created it for me and it cost me six months’ pay,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.  On the rack stood a suit of mithril plate armor, made from some of the panels found in Lond Daer.  “It will serve you better than the chainmail shirt and it is my honor to present it to you.” It glistened silver, reflecting the light off of its surface.  Etched into the cuirass or breastplate was the hill and tree of Cardolan, surrounded by an eight-pointed star.  Silver chainmail filled in the gaps at the joints.  It was magnificent.

She gulped hard, her eyes misting and her hands over her mouth.  “I…I don’t know what to say, good Baranor.  This is a gift beyond price.  I am…so grateful, ever so grateful.  I do not know what to say.”

He smiled.  “Say that you will wear it and that you’ll listen to me.”

She put her hand on his chest.  “I can do that.”

On the day of the march to the Yfelwood, the cohorts had all formed up, standing in fine formation, banners rippling in the breeze.  Mercatur and Jaabran sat on horseback, carrying the pennant of the fifth cohort, Silmarien with them.  Nirnadel wore her new armor, glistening silver, light and comfortable, form fitting. She gave her chainmail shirt and bascinet helm to Galadel since they were the same size.  Her new helm was a sallet, squat like a crab with a flared guard over the neck and a visor with a throat guard.  It had a golden symbol of a crown with an emerald green feather at the very top.  The wagons were formed up at the rear, the healers and the nurses riding within. And last, the elves, Gildor, Elladan and Elrohir, mounted and ready.  Cagh Monûnaw would depart back home with his tribe, having fulfilled his oath to assist at the castle.

Oswy and Éanfled came out, he, dressed in a scarlet doublet with golden slashes in the sleeves, a Northron fur cap on his head over his wavy blond hair.  She, in a scarlet gown, trimmed in gold with poofed shoulders, a scarlet bonnet and scarlet silk gloves, matching her flaming red hair.  They stood before the Princess, Oswy taking a knee and Éanfled performing a curtsey.  Nirnadel attempted it, but it was not happening in her armor, so she bowed.

Dagar then joined them, also taking a knee.  He was dressed in a riding outfit, a light gray and black doublet with a cobalt blue flatcap and a jaunty black feather.  His brown hair was neatly styled in ringlets and his mustache waxed to a point.  Dagar looked up.  “Your Highness, Princess Nirnadel of Cardolan, we lords of Rhudaur have discussed our situation.  We have come to the decision that we wish to pledge our faith to you and swear our fealty to your crown.  Rhudaur is no more…a land of warlords and tribes.  We will become Cardolan and, when you wed, we will become Arnor.”

Nearby, Haedorial smiled and wrote down every word and then sketched the scene.

Nirnadel removed her helmet and her raven ponytail streamed down over her breastplate.  A look of surprise was on her face, her mouth open.  “I…I did not expect this.  I am so deeply touched, my friends.  I accept your oaths and promise friendship, loyalty and honor.”  She went to each and placed her hand on their heads, bidding them rise.  “And to you, Lady Éanfled Amrodan, my dear friend.  Your coming back to me was like a dream.  I have cherished these months that we have spent together again, and I will treasure these memories for all of my days.”  She sniffled and wiped her eyes, overwhelmed by emotions.  

Éanfled did the same, a bittersweet smile on her lips.  “Serving you again has been my dream as well.  You have given my family a gift beyond price.  This is goodbye, but it is not farewell, Your Highness, my Princess, my friend.”  She put her hand over her heart.

Nirnadel turned and mounted her horse, followed by Dagar and Haedorial.  She was deeply sad but also elated.  It was truly a bittersweet moment.  But now, the most difficult and dangerous part of the journey would happen. Before she could give the signal to march a horn blew.  The gate guards yelled back.  “There is a man, who insists upon seeing Captain Mercatur!  His name is Hirgrim of the Cultirith!”

Mercatur looked stunned.  “Let him in!”  The gate opened and the scarred ranger rode in alone, his gray hair wild and disheveled, his rigid leather breastplate battered and torn.

“Mercatur!  I come with urgent news of ill tidings!  You must hear this, my friend!” he yelled as he rode up.  The Princess and her entourage quickly joined them.

The captain put his thumb on his lips. “What is it, my friend?  You can speak plainly for we are among allies.”

Hirgrim’s face was twisted in fear, his eyes wide.  “Those foul creatures…the ones in the Yfelwood.  Somehow, they have gotten loose, I don’t know how but they are gathering forces, feeding on those who refuse.  This is why I could not join you.  I tell you, Mercatur…Jaabran, this is the end of the north.”

“Weren’t they still trapped within the temple?”

Hirgrim shook his head.  “No…a force from Angmar came and excavated the area. That must have set them free.  That’s all I know other than whole tribes are disappearing now.”

A shockwave rolled across the land, a force that pushed everyone back a step.  It was as if a volcano had erupted but it was psychic, a mental energy…a challenge.

Alquanessë and Finculion dove for the ground and landed amongst them.  Horror was etched on their faces as the elves came up to listen.  The elven princess shook her head.  “No, no, this cannot be.  This cannot be.  They sent us a message.  Thuringwethil has returned.”  That name came out like a dagger to everyone’s heart.  She trembled in fear.  “If we do not face her, she will destroy the northern kingdoms and lay waste to the land. We cannot hope to defeat her!”  she cried as she put her hands over her mouth, shaking in absolute terror.

Chapter End Notes

I'm looking to expand the character arcs of Mercatur, Nirnadel and Neldis.  Several characters will not survive this journey.

Leave a Comment

48) The Yfelwood - Ivanneth (September) 11^th, 1410

Haedorial

The bard now had three volumes of writings completed, documenting what had happened since he was in the Houses of Healing.  He imagined his work, housed on an elegant bookshelf in the great libraries of Minas Anor, Osgiliath or that of Rivendell, the wise reading and learning of the history of Cardolan from his hand.  His son, Mindolinor, had helped him catalog and organize his life’s work.  Mindolinor was also a talented artist, helping his father to sketch and then draw or paint the various scenes that they were writing about.  The book of sketches was also full with a new volume just beginning.  They were already planning to paint portraits of the Princess and the ladies of the Royal Court to add to the collection at Thalion.

The six stewards of the Royal House had pretty much been on the sidelines of the things, helping him and Lady Anariel for which he was grateful. Before the battle, the Command Tent was much safer, and he had the company of Dagar and his son to keep him occupied.  There were some rumblings amongst the stewards of the lack of action that they had when compared to the ladies of the Court.  “Why are Galadel or Kaile always so involved with the Princess when we sit idly by?” was a common question.

Haedorial patiently explained that the stewards of female royals were, for better or worse, paid much less attention to while the stewards and squires of Princes, such as Thôrdaer and Braegil were always at the forefront.  It’s just the way it was.  Still, there was jealousy over Galadel’s ride to Rivendell or Kaile’s work at the Houses. Harmless, he was sure.

The Battle of Castle Amrodan was fierce with many casualties on both sides.  He still recalled the sounds of the fighting, the stones from the catapults striking wood, the cries of the wounded, the fearsome shrieks of the Blood-Wights and the dismayed wails that the Princess had fallen.  Everyone in the tent leapt up in horror at those words.  He and Dagar rushed out with the stewards to see Galadel kneeling down over the Princess, Nirnadel holding her side in pain.  She then rose with Sergeant Cedhron and climbed onto her horse, her helm gleaming in the fading sunlight.  With her guard, she charged onto the field, sword circling overhead, calling to the retreating soldiers to rally.  He looked at his son to see him sketching the scene rapidly as men cheered and turned to fight.  The day would be theirs.  He patted his son on the back.  “You will be a fine bard, Mindolinor.  I look forward to seeing you serve the Royal Family in my retirement.”

His son showed him the sketch, a charcoal image of the Princess, sword raised, her horse rearing amidst rallying troops.  It would make for an incredible painting, perhaps even tapestries that would adorn the walls of the kingdom.

The other stewards watched, some with wonder: Brondon, Angion, Allion, Ethirdir and Madron, all sons of prominent merchants. Ethirdir and Madron merely snorted. “It’s that Galadel again, always claiming the glory that we should share in,” Ethirdir commented, jealousy in his tone.

Madron and Angion nodded.  “And that prostitute at the Princess’ side.  Shameful,” they said.

Haedorial turned sharply, stunned that he would have to chastise them over something so petty in the midst of a battle.  “Young men, you will stop that speech this instant. She is Lady Tinarë to you and Neldis is a nurse of the Houses of Healing.  Have some decorum,” he said coldly and they appeared repentant.  “Good, now attend to your duties or I will have to speak to Lady Anariel about this.”  That was merely a threat for, if he did, they were likely to be dismissed from the Royal House to the immense shame of their families.  And he would not do that to them for such a petty offense.

His annoyance evaporated when the banners of Cardolan and House Amrodan flew over the castle.  Cheers went up from the cohorts.  But then, there were cries of dismay and four of the Guard rode at a full gallop with Firiel, Kaile and Elanoriel to the castle.  “I must see what has happened!” he exclaimed and took a nearby horse, riding for all he was worth.  He slid off of the saddle to see Firiel kneeling over the Princess who held a towel over her chest but was smiling and talking.  He breathed a sigh of relief, writing down the event.  Another crisis had passed, and the victory was now complete.

The next three weeks were spent preparing for the expedition to the Yfelwood.  Haedorial could sense his friend, Dagar’s growing concern and even fear over this. He was not there when they fought the Blood-Wights so all he had were the words and writings of his friends to picture the horror of Blogath.  Seated at one supper, he listened to Dagar’s retelling of Nirnadel in the wards, comforting the wounded.  “You know, good Haedorial, when I had returned to Rhudaur to help with the waenhosh, I always remembered the Princess waving at me in the street as her carriage went by.  This was before I became one of the Nightsingers and met you.  Since then…” he said, thinking, “…you know how, sometimes, people that you admire don’t live up to your expectations?”

Haedorial nodded.  “We have seen that many times, my friend.”

“I can confidently say that has not happened in this case.  Her Highness has far exceeded my wildest dreams.  I have spoken with Sir Oswy…I mean Lord Oswy and Lady Éanfled, and we have come to an agreement to swear our fealty to Cardolan.  I may be foolish, but somehow, I envision the refounding of the Kingdom of Arnor.”

The bard’s face showed wonder, his eyes wide. “Astounding.  Simply astounding.”

Dagar nodded with a big smile, twirling his waxed mustache. “Together, we are stronger.  We are not so naïve as to think that Angmar will not rise again.  We must be ready.”

“That is most wise.  You have really grown, my friend,” he said, ever so proud.  “To see you now as you are from when we first met.  It makes my heart sing.  And my Faeliriel was ever so happy to host you when you were in Tharbad and little Istriel will miss you dearly.  Your tales of Rhudaur were most entertaining, I can tell you.  The Nightsingers were ever so interested and impressed.”  He showed Dagar the book of writings and pictures that he and his son had composed. “It is my fervent hope that, one day, the learned will read of this and be told of the life of my dear friend, Lord Rhudainor.”

On the day of departure, the cohorts stood proudly, the fifth ready to march with their captains to deal with the Blood-Wights. Then, the ranger, Hirgrim arrived with dire news and Alquanessë and Finculion revealed that the ancient vampire of Morgoth, Thuringwethil, had been reborn with designs to destroy the north. This was catastrophic.  The name of that horror sank in with him, his knowledge of lore crying out the terror that was the demon.  Also, his talks with the siblings about her were truly terrifying: a creature, likely a Maia that was beyond cruel, tormenting them physically and mentally, toying with her prey to break them in every way. Thuringwethil made Blogath look like a kitten.  How could they possible triumph?  How could they possibly survive?  He envisioned Tharbad, depopulated and crumbling, red eyed vampires filling the ruins and he shuddered.  He would die to prevent that.

The march to the Yfelwood was somber, morale on edge. He could literally feel the sense of evil growing steadily as they neared, like a dark cloud in the soul.  It was oppressive, like a toxic fog.  Faces were drawn, worried, afraid.  On horseback, he looked over to Dagar.  “I can feel it.  It is like the weight of a mountain on my soul.”

Dagar nodded, the ringlets in his hair hanging limp. The vampire siblings rode with them, choosing not to fly and expose themselves to their foes.  This would not be a fight against Dunnish tribesmen. What would they possibly face? Though it was morning it felt like twilight, the sun dim though gray clouds.  He looked back at the column where few people talked, a far cry from the elation after the battle.  Gildor had returned to Rivendell to report to Lord Elrond and seek his guidance.  This was a grave development.  Alquanessë moved her horse up to them, dressed in her cobalt blue robe.  “My confidence is shattered,” she said, her voice edged with worry.  “What we have here with us…we cannot hope to win, much less survive.  I am sorry, my good bard…Lord Rhudainor.  You should turn now and move south to Gondor.  That is your only hope to live.  I am deeply sorry.”

The pit in his stomach grew and he blew out a long breath. “I understand, good Alquanessë, but fight we must.  This is our home.  We must trust to hope and the strength of our people.”

She gave him a wan smile.  “Your courage gives me strength.  I will fight regardless, as will my brother.  This is our evil to resolve.  We will flee no longer.  We will hide no longer,” she said with increasing resolve.  “I have no illusions that I will survive this.  I just fear being made a slave again to that…that creature.”

She went on to tell them more about the history of Beleriand and the vileness that Thuringwethil spread, finally ended by Huan, the Hound of Valinor, the vampire’s skin torn off to form a disguise for fair Lúthien Tinúviel.  “The fairest of all of the children of Illuvatar,” she said, “Even me,” she added with a wink.  “And disguised as that foul demon, Lúthien cast a spell upon the beast, Carcharoth and she and Beren entered the halls of Angband that was full of fire and horror. Casting off her disguise, she danced before the Dark Lord, enchanting him and his vile court into slumber.”  Her eyes held the pain and wisdom of ages.  “And that is how they recovered a Silmaril.  I remember this happening as if it were yesterday, and I will fight to the death for the memory and soul of my people.”

Her determination inspired him.  Just hearing the story of Lúthien from one who was there was an honor beyond measure.  Until the ride to Rivendell, these names, these places, these events were just songs or words in a book.  Now, they were real.  “As I said before, good princess, I was never a bard until I met you.  I have received a gift that I can never repay.”  Then, something came to him, something that she had told him before.  “My lady…I am recalling something that you shared with me, something about your sister…Sercë was it, and your time in Ost-in-Edhil.  A…a friend our yours, Morelen was it?  Would she-”

Alquanessë’s eyes shot open wide.  “Morelen!  Yes! In my despair, I had not even thought of her.  You know, she is the daughter of Morgoth.  If only there was some way to get a message to her.  I shall think on this,” she said excitedly, putting her thumb on her lips.  “And you just repaid it, dear bard.”

He recalled the elf telling him of Morelen’s lineage, terrible as it was.  Morelen was the daughter of a Noldorin astrologer, one of the Eldar, and the Dark Lord himself, destined to be sacrificed for some evil ritual but fate intervened and her twin brother would have that ‘honor.’  “She would be a great ally here.”

Alquanessë nodded slowly.  “It was in Annatar’s home in Ost-in-Edhil that she revealed this dark secret to me, such was our trust and friendship.  I had told her of the fact that we were vampires, fearful that she would kill me at first.  She looked at me with that, ‘oh, that’s nothing, let me tell you my story’ look.” She chuckled.  “She was my sister’s dear friend when they were part of High King Fingon’s riders.  Perhaps I am just hopeful, but maybe she could influence Sercë.  If anything, she is fearsome.” She looked to the sky.  “I will find a way to send a message, and we can pray to the Valar.”

Mercatur rode up and pointed ahead.  “Look up there.  It’s the Tirthon…what’s left of it anyway.  We can make that our base of operations before we journey into the woods.” The battered tower still stood proudly, though two of the large bronze plates that shielded the roof had fallen, the remaining two stained green with corrosion.  Part of the wall had caved in since the battle, it having been already damaged by Ethacali’s siege engines in the battle three years ago.  Even the ruins of the siege tower lay scattered about near the bones of a dead troll that was crushed when he cut a bronze plate away at Dagar’s word.  The wooden palisade wall that surrounded the tower was down in many places from the fight, wooden posts laying askew.  Both Mercatur and Dagar shuddered.  It was a ghost before them.  The mercenary reached out and shook Lord Rhudainor’s hand.  “We’ve come full circle, old friend,” he said.

Dagar gave a faraway look and nodded.  “Indeed, we have, good Mercatur.  And we’ve come a long way since.  I cannot thank you for the life that you gave me.”  He chuckled, shaking his head.  “I was a dumb, wet behind the ears city boy, out here in unforgiving Rhudaur.”

Mercatur bellowed out a laugh that got birds to take flight.  “Hah, that you were.  I was sure you were going to bite it out here, but damn if you didn’t pull through…in a big way.”

Dagar joined in the laughter.  “I was dying to impress you, big tough mercenary.”

He slapped his friend on the back.  “And you did.  Hey, you still got that pigsticker, I see,” he said, pointing to the smallsword at Dagar’s hip.

“And you still got that fat axe, I see.  Well, a newer one.  Some things never change, do they, good sir?”

Mercatur took out his flask and took a long drink and then handed it to Dagar.  “You don’t know how I wish that were true,” he said in a voice full of nostalgia.  “Come, let’s make camp here and plan the way forward.” He looked over to the Blood-Wights. “Hey vampies, you hungry?  Mind clearing out the tower?  Last we checked, it was full of bandits.”

Alquanessë let out a snorting laugh.  “Vampies?  That’s a new one.  Three ages of life and I still hear new things.  Fine.  I was getting hungry anyway.”  She gestured to Finculion.  “Well brother, shall we convince them to leave?”

He nodded.  “We will need all of the power that we can consume before we meet our siblings.” They dismounted and began walking towards the tower.  Soon, arrows began flying at them and they flitted back and forth, blurs of movement, the projectiles poking into the ground.

As they watched, Mercatur asked, “Hey, is Ynarri still with you?  I miss his prized pigs.”

Dagar nodded.  “He sure is.  And his greatest pig, Mehitable is still up to her antics.”

“I guess some things never do change.”

The Blood-Wights climbed up the stone wall of the tower to the top.  Finculion grabbed an archer and flung him over the wall to the ground.  There was a thud and dust flew up.  Mercatur winced.  “Ow, that must’ve hurt.”  There were screams and shrieks and blood flowed down the side of the tower.  “I think we’re good!” he yelled to the column. He looked back at Haedorial.  “This is where it all began.  From this point on, guard your thoughts.  Use the crap that she taught us.  If something seems weird, it probably is.  They can come to us in our dreams and drive you mad.”  He then stood up in his stirrups and waved the column forward.

The bard made a quick sketch of the Tirthon, riding slowly onto the grounds of the Tirthon.  They dismounted at the base of the tower, the wagons parking nearby and unhitching the horses and oxen to graze.  The vampires emerged through the front gate that was still shattered from the siege, their mouths and robes covered in blood.

Alquanessë made an angry face while licking her lips.  “Blogath’s tits, this is my best robe.  We normally fly in to attack, and I forgot to take it off. We’re going to wash off in the pond,” she said, pointing to the small body of water and stream nearby that once supplied the garrison.  “You’re free to enter.  No one will bother you.”

Haedorial chuckled.  For such a macabre event, the vampires made it almost funny.  Maybe they could cut holes in their robes for their wings? He thought about suggesting it, but he figured that they must have tried it over three ages.

The vampires were dunking their robes in the water of the stream that led away from the pond and beat them on rocks.  “Yes, we thought about it, dear bard!  It doesn’t work.  When we spread our wings, it just flings the whole thing off!”

He pulled his chin in, realizing that he was too free in his thinking and imagined the music that she had taught them, but he couldn’t help gazing at her body as she slapped her clothes on the large stone.

She didn’t look up.  “See the music, not me!”

He chuckled and looked away, dismounting.  The fifth cohort was already marching in, led by Sergeant Fendir.  He was issuing orders to set up the camp and clean the tower.  The healers and their nurses were already heading in through the gate, followed by the stewards.  Madron, son of Gallion of the Potter’s Guild, was chatting with Ethirdir.  “We’re always following the women around.  Why can’t we follow the Guard or the captain?”

Ethirdir pointed back at Alquanessë.  “I’d rather follow her,” he said in a lascivious way.

Haedorial shook his head.  Young bucks, too big for their own britches without an ounce of sense. He had to be proud of Mindolinor. He was a young man with a good head on his shoulders and decorum.  As they entered the Tirthon, he was surprised to see that it was fairly well maintained by the bandits.  Past the main entry where the two portculli were melted there was a T intersection, the left to the barracks and the right to the kitchens where the walls were scorched by an old fire.

Dagar pointed to the right and blew out a long breath. “This is where the cook murdered the others and lit the fire.  I rushed in, mad with fear to rescue Mirthi.  Mercatur saved us with a wet blanket.”  He paused a moment.  “Old memories.  It’s like seeing a ghost.”

The mercenary was directing the Royal entourage upstairs and the nurses to the guestrooms.  “Dagar, Marendil’s quarters are yours if you wish,” he said.  “You are the lord, after all.”

He shook his head.  “No, sir, that needs to go to Her Highness.  I’ll stay in the camp.  It’ll be like old times, huh?”

Mercatur chuckled with a nod.  “I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.  I’ll see you out in the camp.  I can already hear Jaabran yelling at them out there.”

“I’ll take a walk around first…show Haedorial what happened.”

“It’s kind of eerie, huh?  I can’t stop seeing memories of being here,” Mercatur said, scratching his beard.  “And hey, Haedorial, when we get a chance, I want to see that book of yours.  I better be as good looking in your pictures as I am in real life.”

The bard nodded with a wide smile.  “I can assure you, good captain, that you look even better in our drawings.  I daresay that we will create a painting of you once we are safely back in Tharbad.”

He pointed at them with a smirk.  “That’s what I want to hear!  Alright, have fun.  I’ll be out here getting us ready for the march into the wood.”

They went through the kitchens where it was clear that Dagar’s mind was on so many things.  Much of the kitchen had been repaired in the ensuing years by the bandits. He knelt down near the stoves and touched the stone floor.  “The whole room was nearly aflame.  I didn’t care.  I ran in and found Mirthi, injured on the ground here.  We barely escaped.  The cook had been ensorcelled by a magical ring and driven insane.  It was way too close…one of too many narrow escapes that day. Come, let’s continue upstairs.”

They ascended to see the Princess and her ladies, waiting in the hallway for the stewards to clean the lord’s chambers.  The two bowed and pointed ahead to a steep stairway to the roof.  “Dagar is giving me the grand tour,” the bard told them.

Nirnadel dropped all of her belongings on the floor and smiled.  She clapped overhead like Elanoriel would do and said, “Well, good sirs, what are we waiting for?  Lead on!” It was clear that she was bored and wanted to alleviate the growing worry that they all felt.  The ladies did the same except for Anariel, who sighed and continued to wait patiently for Marendil’s Quarters to be cleaned out.

Dagar led them to the stairway, and they took the high steps up onto the third level where the large bronze plates were mounted.  The two that faced towards the south were the ones that had fallen off during the siege.  Great pots that once held boiling oil were still standing here, now long empty.  “This is where I poured the oil on the enemy who were climbing the walls on ladders,” he said solemnly.  “I will never forget the screaming.  Then, Mirthi and I, along with Baga and some of the women, hurled stones at them and I stood…I stood against Lumban with my sword.  I…I couldn’t run and leave them.”

Nirnadel touched him on the shoulder.  “I now think I understand, good Dagar.  At Castle Amrodan, I was terrified, but I stood because I would not let harm come to those I loved while I could still stand.”

He nodded, a faraway look still in his eyes and then chuckled.  “Exactly. And you, good Haedorial, you taught me the one dueling move that I could learn and it worked,” he said, simulating the deflecting move that put Lumban off balance so he could wound the barbarian. “Mercatur came in and put an end to it.”

The bard laughed.  “I knew that move would come in handy one day, good sir.  Come, please sit.  May I show you the artwork that my son and I created?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” a voice boomed from the top of the stairs.  It was Mercatur, Jaabran and Neldis, carrying trays of food.  “Maelil gave us some snacks to bring up.  Camp setup is underway, and we will have a planning meeting after, but it’s time to break for lunch.  I’ve been dying to see this.  Hey, Highness, he says I’ll look even better in the painting.”

She giggled, her hand over her mouth.  “Well, I daresay that is an impossible task for one already so handsome.”

He walked over to the space where one of the bronze plates was and struck a pose with his axe.  “Right here, the siege tower up against the Tirthon, Lumban’s freaks storming up, Dagar ordering me to cut it loose and it falling to smash those shits below.  What a picture, don’t you think?”  The ladies all clapped as Haedorial was already putting charcoal to parchment.

Neldis set out some trays of food and drink and they gathered around, partaking in the snacks, small sandwiches, cuts of meat and cheese with a vegetable dip and pitchers of water and fruit juices.  Haedorial lifted up the parchment to show the rough sketch of the mercenary with his axe, chopping at the wires that held the plate and Dagar pointing at it, giving the order.  Mercatur nodded.  “That’s pretty damn good for a couple of minutes.”  He pulled out his flask and took a long drink.  He then handed it around.  “It’s a harsh Rhudauran ale, like the land itself.  I got it from Hirgrim.  Put hair on your chest.”

The ladies gasped, Nirnadel taking a sniff and passing it along.  “I daresay, good Mercatur, that, now that you’ve seen my chest, that we all prefer it without hair.”

The group laughed and he nodded. “Yeah, you win that one.”

Haedorial thought he would hazard a sip. He poured a little into his mouth, and it burned like dragon fire and kicked like a mule.  He swallowed with a grimace.  “Manwë’s breath, what is this?”

Mercatur bellowed out a laugh.  “I told you, it’s Hirgrim’s secret Rhudauran recipe.  Untamed, like me!”

Nirnadel made a face and took the flask back.  “Well, dear friends, I promised to lead from the front.”  She then made a mock glare at Mercatur.  “I shall hold you personally responsible should any hair appear on me where it should not.”  She pointed to her larger bosom.  “I shall not risk these for they make me happy now.”  She put the flask up to her mouth and gagged.  “Urk…I…here goes.  Urk.”  After a couple more tries, she took a sip and winced like she had been struck by a Dunnish tribesman.  She began to shake as everyone watched and then swallowed with a grimace.  She lay back, panting.  “It would have been better if that man had killed me,” she said in a strained voice.  “Oh, my stars…this was wonderfully awful.  I feel…I feel…am I floating?  I’m floating.”

Haedorial extended his hand and pulled her up as they cackled.  Mercatur slapped her on the back as he took the flask.  “Welcome to Rhudaur.  You’re now a mercenary.  Shit, him too,” he said, gesturing to the bard.

Neldis took the flask and took a chug. “I’ve had worse.”

Mercatur grabbed the flask and gulped another drink.  “And another mercenary!”

“Merciful Tayee, Master of Sands! We are rebuilding our company!” Jaabran exclaimed.

“Mercatur’s Maulers!” the captain declared, clearly intoxicated now.

“No, no, no, my friend.  Surely, Jaabran’s Jesters is in order,” the Haradan answered, waving his red turban around, letting his long, black hair flow down. “I say Dagar is our captain!” he shouted, bowing low.

Mercatur eyed Lord Rhudainor closely. “He doesn’t have the fierce beard or the muscles, but he’s a steely eyed killer.  He’ll do.”

The group laughed, a much-needed laugh in the face of darkness.  The Blood-Wights came up with Silmarien and sat with the group.  “What’s all of the laughter?” the blonde mage asked.  “Sounds like too much fun.”

“Most definitely, Lady Rhudainor,” the bard said, gesturing to the food.  “I was about to show everyone the art book that my son and I created to document the history of Cardolan.

Silmarien looked over to Dagar with a wink.  “Don’t worry, Lord Rhudainor, I relinquish any and all claim to the lands and titles. It may have been on your mind but I have my own life in Tharbad.”  They shook hands.

The Blood-Wights pointed at the book. They were dressed in white cotton underclothes, still damp from their bathing.  “Eh, our robes are still wet.  Can we look?” Alquanessë asked.  “Finculion, I don’t think there were ever pictures drawn of us.”

Haedorial opened the book with pride. “You will love these, I think,” he said, showing a watercolor of the Houses of Healing, Firiel, Kaile and Jonu when he told them who Nirnadel really was.  Kaile nodded approval and he turned the page to show the battle on the Iant Formen and Nirnadel atop the barricade in her armor.  “I drew this from Lady Firiel’s description.  Now, Yüle at the Houses,” he said showing the painting in bright colors of green and red.  “The Winter Ball…  Now, Fornost with King Araphor’s Court.”

The Princess reached out and took hold of it, gazing at the inked image of the young King and then held it to her heart.  She smiled and gave it back.  Next came the Library of Annúminas and the fierce battle with trolls and the dog sorcerer. Then came the Barrow Downs and the wargs with red eyes.  Mercatur shook his head.  “Not my best moment,” he said somberly and Neldis touched his arm.  Then came the ruins of Minas Mellon and the Nurga, the rat demon.  “Not my best either,” the captain added.  “Nearly got turned into a rat demon myself…but for this guy, the bard, saving my ass.”

Haedorial looked over and smiled. “It was my pleasure, dear captain,” he said.  The respect of the mercenary always meant something to him.  He then flipped the page to images of the Beffraen and then the mithril panels.  Next came the new dance with Ciramir, the Council meetings to draft the new laws and the ride to Rivendell with elaborate drawings of Elrond’s home.  “I omitted the part about the pickles, Your Highness.”

Nirnadel picked one up and put it in her mouth in a rather seductive way and then took it out.  “Nonsense.  I demand one to be created now that I understand what my dear nurse was describing,” she said with a hint of awkwardness.  She winked at the crowd, still a little tipsy.  “Oh, what did I just say?  Um, never mind.”

Next came the song that Alquanessë sang at the manor house.  The elf smiled.  “Oh, I do look good.  You’ve done me justice, dear bard.”  Next came the celebratory ball where everyone had a picture of themselves.  The crowd ooh and aahh’d, satisfied with the depictions that Haedorial and his son had created.

“Mindolinor and I will turn many of these into oil paintings when we return.  And we wish to have new royal portraits done of the Princess and her ladies. I daresay that we should update the ones that hang in the Bar Aran and at Thalion,” Haedorial said as he flipped the pictures of the Battle of Castle Amrodan.  “And I will surely draw one of our gathering here when time permits.”

Silmarien pulled out a purple felt sack and put it on the floor.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I do have something of importance to the expedition, which is why I joined,” she said and all eyes went on her.  “For those who don’t know me, I am Mercatur’s cousin, sister to the late Marendil Rhudainor, daughter of Lord Berion Rhudainor.  I was originally to be a hostage in Cameth Brin to ensure the loyalty of House Rhudainor to them and ultimately to Angmar. A wizard by the name of Gandalf the Gray, rescued me and brought me to Tharbad.  I have trained under him for many years now.”  She was a pure Dúnadan and looked no older than Firiel, golden hair and all.  “I told Mercatur that, with Gandalf’s help, my husband, Dirhavel and I developed a substance that we believe may be Silima, the essence of the blessed Silmarils.”

Haedorial gasped.  “What?  This is remarkable.  How did you…?”

Nirnadel was about to speak up when Silmarien continued, “Yes, Your Highness, I remember seeing you that night when you purchased the herbs for the Houses.  We thought you mad and Dirhavel thought you some spoiled noblewoman, looking for party drugs, but I recognized you.”  She then opened the sack and brought out three metal containers.  She opened one and a light burst forth like a sun. “I honestly have no idea if this is Silima or not for only the Eldar can truly answer that.  But, I can tell you this.  It will have devastating effects on the undead, such as the Blood-Wights.”  It was clear that Alquanessë and Finculion were uncomfortable with the container open, so she shut it.

“I can feel it from here and it makes my skin crawl,” Alquanessë said, wincing.  “I cannot say if it is Silima or not, and I have my doubts, but it will do as the mage says.”

Silmarien put the containers back in her sack.  “Dirhavel and I produced this at great cost and effort, so this is all that we have. So, yes, we were greedy as many called us, but it was all for this.  You may coat weapons with the substance and they will have the effect for a limited time. There is only so much so I suggest that you use it wisely.”

Mercatur leaned over and held her shoulder.  “I was…I was pissed off that you hid from me all of this time.  But your coming could not have happened at a better moment. You kept us all alive at Castle Amrodan. You and your stinking magic,” he said with a wink.  “So why now? Why’d you reveal yourself to me now?”

“This is the most dire threat to the north since the coming of the Witch-King.  Dirhavel wished to use this against him to save Cardolan, but we have to act now.  Here. We couldn’t wait.”

Nirnadel also reached out and put her hand on Silmarien’s other shoulder.  “And I thank you for what you and your husband have done.  Cardolan owes you a great debt, good mage.”

She waved her hand.  “Don’t thank me yet, Your Highness.  If…when we defeat Thuringwethil, I’ll gladly take the thanks then.”

Alquanessë pointed to the sack.  “I can tell you that I hate whatever is in there, but this is the best I have felt since Thuringwethil revealed herself to us.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Agreed.  Well, we best inspect the camp.  As much as I’m dreading it, I’d like to set off in a few days.”  He pointed at Nirnadel.  “And as much as you want to, you are not going.  You will stay here where we will have an escape plan if this all goes bad.”

She made a sour face but nodded.

“I would like to wait until Gildor’s return,” Alquanessë offered.  “He will have important information from Lord Elrond about how to…to end my siblings permanently.”  It was clear that she was conflicted.  The bard could empathize.  Killing family would never be an easy thing to contemplate.

“I had hoped that he would’ve returned by now,” Mercatur countered.  “If we wait much longer, it’ll begin to cool here, and snow is likely to follow soon thereafter. We do not want to be caught in the snow of Rhudaur, even if friendly territory is nearby.”  He thought for a moment.  “I’ll keep it in mind, but I want to have a plan for either way.  We need to have a path of escape if this goes bad or if we get caught in the snow.”

“If it comes down to it, we will draw attention to ourselves to allow your escape,” she said seriously.  “This has always been our battle, but I am grateful to have allies.  And we will stand watch at night and sound the alert of any attack.  The night sky will no longer be safe.  Thuringwethil’s greatest weapon is terror.  Even the kingdoms of the Noldor quailed at rumor of her flight.”

Haedorial gulped hard.  Would this be their end?  He prayed that Gildor would return soon with the wisdom of Lord Elrond.  Anything to bolster their chances.  “I have read the lore, good lady.  I wish I could offer something other than my words of encouragement.”

She nodded.  “Should we remain here long, horror and despair will infect us. We are…caught between a rock and a hard place.  We will need you, sir, to keep our spirits up.  Anything to not give in to that.  It may very well be the difference.  And remember the vision of the Ainur that I shared with you.  She knows that we are here and will issue challenges to us shortly,” the elf continued, pointing to the sky.  “She will attempt to drive us mad first, weaken us.  Do not give in.”

Mercatur and Jaabran stood, the Haradan even seeming subdued.  “Alright, I want to march in four days, but we wait for Gildor as long as we can.  When we roll the dice on this, it’s for good. There’ll be no redos so we need to get it right.  We almost had disaster at Castle Amrodan because I didn’t see all angles.  If anyone has other ideas, I’m all ears.” He gave a wan smile before heading back down to the camp.

The bard took a drink of fruit juice and a bite from a pear.  “He puts too much pressure on himself.  One cannot see everything.  But I do empathize with him.  So much is at stake.  We cannot fail.”

“We have to do all we can to help him,” Neldis added.  “I feel so useless.”

Nirnadel shook her head.  “No, dear nurse.  You were invaluable at Castle Amrodan.  You have more than earned your keep.  Our time will come again, make no mistake.  I know that I will chafe at being left behind when I should be with them, helping to inspire and keep the faith,” she added with a tinge of regret.

Alquanessë chuckled.  “Don’t feel so bad, Your Highness.  We will all play our part, and every part will be important. And…I see that you have filled out a little.  Good.  And, maybe later, I’ll show you some ways to handle that pickle,” she said with a sly look.

Neldis put her hand up with a snicker. “I think I can add a thing or two. Don’t worry, you’ll be ready for your wedding night.”

Nirnadel lay back again, putting her hand on her forehead.  “Ohh, that…whatever it is, was…it is strong.  And, whatever you do, do not start calling me the Pickle Princess.  Perish the thought.”

The Tirthon - Ivanneth (September) 12^th, 1410

Mercatur

The camp setup went smoothly under their watchful eye.  Maelil had the kitchen up and running yesterday and a cartload of supplies came in from Rhudainor Manor.  The men drilled in the field, marching and sparring, keeping ready for anything.  Still, he knew that they would be a hill of ants before Thuringwethil.  Blogath had dominated them with a wave of her finger and her ‘mother’ was even more ancient and powerful, very likely a Maia, for whatever that was.  These names and places were essentially meaningless to him. He could barely comprehend what Alquanessë was, other than a stunning woman who liked to fly around bare.  All of this had been just fairy tales to him growing up, his mother reading to him of dragons.  All hogwash until now.

The sun was setting, and he looked out along the road to the east for any sign of Gildor.  He wanted to set out in three days if the elf didn’t return.  Was he resolved?  Not even close.  So many things could go wrong.  So many ways that they could all die.  And it would all be on his shoulders.  He was never meant to lead.  His father called him a wastrel, a shadow of a man, unfit to assume the mantel of the cadet branch of House Rhudainor.  Even when his parents died of the fever a few years ago, his father’s only words were in a letter.  ‘It’s yours. Don’t disgrace the name.’  And Mercatur felt nothing at reading the man’s last message to him.  Lord Berion Rhudainor, brother to Lord Tondor Rhudainor, the father of Marendil, was just a name to him.  Just words on a piece of paper…not a father.

Part of him wanted to shout out his success in defiance of his father, but it wasn’t worth it.  Why waste his breath?  He did remember his mother with fondness.  She was kind but cold, living in her husband’s shadow.  Why couldn’t he feel anything when she passed?  He didn’t even bother attending the service.  It was the hard heart of Rhudaur, he told himself. Standing atop the Tirthon, he found himself pensive, consumed with bothersome thoughts that he would not have had a year ago.  As the sun set, he shook his head.  Gildor wouldn’t be arriving today, most likely.

He headed down, back to the camp where he belonged, passing through the kitchens.  Maelil and the cooks were hard at work, putting food into pots and platters, the clang of utensils ringing out and the smell of thick stew filling the room. Loaves of bread were being cut and portioned out with Firiel and the nurses helping.  They made it a point to pitch in with other duties when their services were not needed in the infirmary, something that he was grateful for. No one was shirking here.  They all knew the stakes.  Win or die.

The cook, in her white apron, covered in stains, looked over to him.  “Oi, Cap’n, supper’ll be up in just a bi’.  You go on now, get yerself comfy.  You’ll ‘ave a full belly soon.”

“I’m in no rush, Mae.  Feed the troops first.  I’ll be by.”  He went into the yard to see the men gathered, sentries still stationed at key points.  They could not be too careful from here on in.  The mood was somber as the light faded in the west.  Morale was going to be an issue if this went on.  While he would wait as long as he could for the elves, things would start to fall apart if they delayed too much.  It might be better to just face them with what he had. Roll the dice.  He had always been a good gambler, and he never put much trust in…magic.

He walked the perimeter, talking with the sentries, making sure that they were looked after.  “Nobody goes anywhere alone, you hear?” he would say as he patted them on the back.

He was joined shortly by Nirnadel and her ladies.  “Good Captain, we thought we would join you on your inspection.”

He narrowed an eye.  “We?  I thought you put the Royal ‘We’ behind you?”

She gestured to Galadel and Kaile. “We…I mean the three of us.  I would like to observe and learn your method. I am making it a point to learn all aspects of ruling a kingdom, from the mundane to the extraordinary.”

Mercatur grunted an approval.  He figured she was mature enough to hear the truth of things so he wouldn’t hold back with false pleasantries.  “Hah, you got me.  I suppose that makes sense.  Sure, come on.  I want to make contact with all of the sentries to make sure that they’re paying attention and alert.  I remember when I was just a butt mercenary on my first gig.  I worked the barges on the Gwathló beforehand so I was a young, strong buck,” he said, flexing his bicep.  “I’d been in enough bar fights, but this was different.  We had a company of twenty back then…rest most of their souls. I figured it would be every man for himself, but Jaabran and Captain Telchanar…they looked out for everyone.”

He ushered them to the next sentry post, past the stables where the wagons and mounts were kept, stable hands cleaning out the stalls and spreading hay.  The number of people supporting the expedition almost outnumbered the cohort, all necessary to keep things running smoothly.  “See that?  Everyone matters here.  Everyone works.”  The company had sixty followers to cook, clean, mend clothing and armor, plus smiths to repair weapons.  “You cannot overlook a single thing that makes the whole company run, from the food to the wagons to the people who fix things...keep it all in mind.”

They approached the four sentries near the pond, the water source.  “Definitely something that we have to guard,” he said as the men saluted with their fists on their chests.

They saw the Princess and began to kneel, but she waved them off.  “No, my good men.  There is a time for such things, but I am not here to interfere with your duty.  Be at ease.  How are you doing out here?  I’m sure you’ll be relieved for supper soon.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” they said. “We stand ready to do our duty.”

She took each of their hands and smiled. “When we return, you will remain under Captain Mercatur and serve him and Cardolan proudly.  I cannot thank you enough for standing and fighting when the Macha Mur stuck the rear of the camp.  I am here today because of you.”

The young men gave each other sly grins. “It was our honor, Your Highness. We still remember you serving us supper at camp.  You…you’re alright.”

Nirnadel made a curtsey.  “I try my best, my dear soldiers.  Have a good evening.”

Mercatur led them towards the palisade wall where larger groups of sentries stood, their spears stacked nearby. “You have the personal touch, if you don’t mind my saying, Highness.  You don’t know how much that means to some young kid with a spear, ready to give his life for some cause that he barely understands.  Whether it be just gold or the Kingdom of Cardolan, it’s just words to the kid from the farm or the fields or the river.  He fights for you.  I fight for you.  That’s something that we can understand.”

He could see that she was touched, nodding slowly, taking it all in.  He wasn’t even sure why he said that.  Fight for gold was all that he knew.  “Your father, he knew that.  Even before the battle, he made the rounds to the different units, him and his sons, greeting, talking, joking,” he added.

“I know and thank you for saying that. He was a man with such a big heart. And you don’t have to hold back, good Mercatur for I know that he made devastating mistakes in the battle,” she said sadly. “I’ve read the reports and spoken to many who survived.  He failed to properly assess just how much of a threat the Angmarim Army was because of inadequate scouting, he moved the army slowly, plodding towards destruction, and did not set a proper guard before the final confrontation.  He was…lax.”

He could see that this was difficult for her.  She idolized the man.  “I apologize, Highness, but you are correct.  I saw it.”

She then looked up at him.  “But if I could say one thing in his defense, he was crushed by the passing of my mother, Queen Lossien.  He was never the same and if affected everything that he did.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, not sure why he did it.  “I didn’t know that.  It…it sheds a light on things.”

She then took him by the hand and pulled him along, looking back over her shoulder with a smile like she did on the dance floor.  His heart skipped a beat.  “Come, good sir, let us continue and then we shall dine on that…that hot stew.  Mmmm, I can’t wait,” she added sarcastically.

When they had finished, they walked back to the camp where men were swapping out the sentries and people were talking quietly, some playing cards or dice.  Lady Galadel tapped him on the arm and then curtseyed.  “Good captain, there is something that I have been playing with in my mind and I wish to consult you.”

He swished his hand.  “Of course, Galadel, what’s on your mind?”

They sat at a table and she continued, “You have, no doubt, seen the similarities in our appearance, Nirnadel and I, for we are cousins.”

Mercatur shrugged.  “Uh, I hadn’t noticed,” he lied.

Galadel looked down for a moment and then back.  “Well, in any case, what do you think of using me as a body double for Her Highness? She has encountered more than her fair share of danger lately and I would be remiss in not helping to alleviate that risk.  What do you think?  After all, we are not only similar in appearance, but similar in manner and speech.”

He nodded slowly.  “I agree.  I will keep that in mind, and we’ll chat more about that.”  It was actually a good idea.  He’d seen it done many times in his days in Rhudaur.  Even the fat merchant on his first gig had a cook’s son who looked similar from a distance and was just as fat.  The kid was dumb as a bag of rocks, but no one was going to speak to him.  Galadel was smart, witty and had all of the social graces to fool all but the closest observers.  Nirnadel’s eyes were a little bigger, a little lighter and her lips had a natural smile.  Why did he even notice this?  He grunted as he dipped his spoon into the stew.

There was another planning session and then he did one last tour of the grounds before turning in as the horn sounded nightfall.  He felt much better knowing that the Blood-Wights were up top, keeping watch. Their tales of Thuringwethil, gliding amongst the night clouds, choosing her prey were terrifying, something that he would no doubt lose sleep over.  He’d feel a lot better if that damn elf would show too.  What was keeping that guy?

In his wool underwear he slid into the sleeping bag on a cot in his tent.  At least he and Jaabran finally merited their own tent now, not like that mass canopy of mercenaries back in the day, belching and farting all night. He kind of missed that though, Captain Telchanar, that old salt from Pelargir, telling stupid and bawdy jokes well past dark.  Shit, he missed the old man.  He could use that wisdom and experience now.

Something felt like it was crawling around inside his head.  Soft at first, like a puff of smoke but growing like an inky cloud.  He shook his head, feeling drowsy but the sensation wouldn’t go away.  He felt himself drifting, floating.  Was he already asleep, that time between consciousness and dreams?  He shivered, feeling cold.  Then, he was on the dance floor of the Bar Aran, Nirnadel pulling him along, looking back over her shoulder, laughing, the sound like the tinkle of bells.  The look in her eyes.  His heart stopped.  What was this?

Then again on the field, inspecting the camp.  Her pulling him along by the hand, looking back over her shoulder.  The image of her was forever captured in a mental painting like that of the bard’s artwork.  Her lips parted in a joyous smile, her eyes twinkling.  A voice sounded in his ear, soft, alluring, no more than a whisper.  You want her.  You can’t deny it.

His breathing shuddered.  She was pulling him into the stable now, into an empty stall full of hay.  She removed her cloak, the one Elanoriel gave her and laid it over the pile.  She came back to him, running her soft hand down his tunic.  She then undid the tie in her hair, her long black tresses streaming down her face and neck. His breathing quickened.  I want you.  You want me too.  I’ve seen it in your eyes, the voice whispered, more forceful now.

He put his hands around her waist and she spun away, giggling, unlacing her bodice, letting it fall away and then the gown and kirtle, leaving her in only a close-fitting white chemise to cover her.  She slid behind him, unlacing his tunic and then his breeches.  He reached for her, but she spun away again, laughing, teasing. She pulled the chemise slowly off of her shoulder and then let it slide down to her ankles, standing there in only white lace stockings and a sly grin.  He gasped. She was everything that he had imagined, soft, demure but with a fire in her eyes.  She knelt down and held him, cradled him and he groaned.  Then, her ruby lips parted, and he thought he saw fangs at first, but they faded.  I have waited so long for you, Mercatur.  I have watched you.  You will be mine.  The voice was stronger, ghostly, inhuman.

His breathing came in ragged gulps as she laid him down on the cloak, her black hair tumbling down onto his chest. She climbed onto him, throwing her head back and he held her, feeling every movement, every moment.  It was ecstasy.  He never dared to dream of being with her.  She looked down at him as he cried out and shivered.  Welcome, Mercatur.  Welcome to my family.  I hope you enjoyed this.  We will be one soon.  Her eyes flashed red and he awoke with a start.

Jaabran was already up, throwing on his armor to the sound of horns.  It was still night, torchlight illuminating the camp.  “Get up!  We’ve been attacked!” the Haradan called and he leapt out of bed, pulling on his chainmail. The horn was sounding from the top of the Tirthon.  They rushed up there as the camp came to life, men scrambling for weapons.  As they crested the top of the steep stairs, Alquanessë and Finculion nursed wounds and one of the sentries lay against the wall, his head missing.

The two stood, painfully, gashes on their faces and chests, their robes torn.  Alquanessë groaned and then stretched her arms out and the wounds faded into nothing as her brother did the same.  “She was sitting there the whole time, staring down at the camp,” the elf said, pointing to a perch at the edge of the wall.  “I only noticed her when I felt something…something off.  The sentry was already dead.  I saw…I saw that she has taken the body of some poor woman for her own.  We attacked but…she was too strong.  Mercatur, we have to wait for Gildor and Elrond.  We cannot win this as we are now, not even with Elrond’s sons.”

He knew that he had let her into his mind.  He had been lax.  Mercatur looked at the body of the soldier and shuddered, this time in horror.

Chapter End Notes

I want to play up more of the angle of the stewards and of using a body double for the Princess as well as Mercatur's repressed feelings.  

Leave a Comment

49) The Tirthon - Ivanneth (September) 15^th, 1410

Nirnadel

It had been a terrifying three days since the first sentry was butchered like a lamb.  Every night, no matter what they did, someone else would die horribly.  The Blood-Wights became increasingly frustrated. “She’s toying with us,” Alquanessë said flatly though a subdued rage could easily be felt.  One bloody, mutilated body was left with a note, ‘come back to me, my children.  You will have many siblings now to welcome you.’

Nirnadel’s heart cried at the suffering of her people. The only bright spot was that she had befriended a colony of cats that had taken up in the Tirthon under the bandits, feeding them scraps a few times a day.  A particular gray tabby kitten had followed her around for a couple of days now, a little ball of fuzz always at her feet.

Four graves had been dug near the edge of the compound, and the leaders were meeting frequently to discuss methods of countering the threat. A crack of thunder sounded in the distance beneath gray skies, something common in the fall of this part of Rhudaur when cold air from the Misty Mountains hit the warm air coming up the Gwathló.  The temperature was even cooler than it had been last week.  In the conference room of the late Lord Marendil, they met to plan the way forward for they all felt powerless against the evil of Morgoth’s demon.  The room was mostly bare now, the majority of the items taken to Lord Rhudainor’s manor, the curtains and rugs long pilfered by bandits since the Tirthon was abandoned.

It was suggested to use the Silima already. “But we can’t even see them coming,” Silmarien argued.  “We would waste it, sitting and waiting for something that could happen anywhere, any time. That is, unless we have a better way of detecting them before they strike.”

Alquanessë shook her head.  “I could sense if Blogath were coming, but Thuringwethil…all I get are vague feelings.”  Her beautiful blue robes were shredded, but she kept the rags on.  “It’s not enough if we’re going to use the substance.  I kept hoping and waiting for Gildor, but I’ve changed my mind.  I think we need to move with what we have, slim though our chances are.”

Mercatur nodded gravely, twirling the curly hair of his trimmed beard.  “Yes, I agree.  I had held out for hope, but time is running out.  I say that we move just after midday.”

Sergeant Fendir agreed, stroking his thick, ginger muttonchop sideburns with his thumb.  “There are rumblings in the ranks of desertion and nullifying the contract given this overwhelming threat.  I can only keep them in line for so long.  What we face is unprecedented.  Whatever we plan to do, we need to act soon.”  He wasn’t a particularly attractive man with a pug nose that had previously been broken, but he had an aura of toughness, rugged, weathered features with a deep tan.

The captain looked at Elladan and Elrohir. “Anything?  I’d love to wait, but I don’t think that we can without some sure word.”

Elladan shook his head.  “I must apologize as we sense nothing.  It may be Thuringwethil’s oppressive evil, but we have no positive word for you.”

“I vote to depart on the timeline stated,” Elrohir added.  “The longer we wait, the more dire our situation.  We have pledged to support this expedition, and we will do so.”

Nirnadel sat on a plain chair, petting the kitten in her lap, feeling it purr.  “I will help the good sergeant to manage things here and pray for your safe return.”  She was disappointed, but such was the fate of the last royal of House Aranyónorë, the ancient family that sailed from Númenor with Elendil to found the Kingdom of Arnor.  She could not be risked against such a powerful foe.  The blood of Elendil, even that of Elros Tar-Minyatur, flowed in her veins, diffused though it was.  The kitten meowed at her and she looked down, thinking that she heard it actually speak to her.  She snorted. She was tired.  The lack of good sleep was wearing everyone down.

Mercatur avoided her eye contact as he had done for a few days now.  “It is decided then.  Those who journey will be all volunteers.  I won’t force anyone to go with us for we know the peril.  I’d like the sons of Elrond to screen the advance. I will go in the next group with Dagar, who has agreed to come despite my protests.  We’ll have Jaabran, Hirgrim and Silmarien with us.  Baranor, can you spare a few?”

He nodded reluctantly.  “This has been a difficult decision, but I will not be away from Her Highness this time.  I’ll put it to any four volunteers when we are done here.”

Valandil raised his hand.  “I’ll be coming with you although I have…pressured Firiel to remain,” he said, looking at the Healer.  “Neldis and Coru have volunteered to join, brave as they are.”

“We have a dozen from the cohort who have also volunteered,” Fendir said.

“That gives us twenty-seven, including the Blood-Wights,” Mercatur said slowly, thinking.  “That’s enough.  It’ll be enough,” he said, more to convince himself.  “The fifth cohort will remain with Baranor and Her Highness.”  He looked at the Guard Captain.  “You have the escape plan?”

“I do,” he nodded.  “Our nearest safe haven is Castle Amrodan.  If we are attacked here, we fall back to the east. We can make it in three days, two if we’re lucky.  Oswy has agreed to patrol the roads, so we won’t be far from help.  Lord Rhudainor’s manor is a day farther and it lacks the defenses of the castle, so east is our best bet.  We’ll give you one week, Mercatur.  If you haven’t returned by then, we’ll fall back to the castle.”  He reached out to the mercenary, and they shook hands and then embraced.  “I wish you the blessings of the Valar.  I wish I were coming with you, but my duty is here.”

“I know.  As it should be.”

Baranor moved to embrace Valandil. “Lieutenant.  Lead your knights well and with honor.  Go with the Valar.  May the light of Elbereth guide you.”

“This is not the last that we will see of each other, captain.  We’ll be back soon.”

Firiel stood and went to Valandil, looking angry at first.  “I want to be cross with you for volunteering, but I know this is you.  And I cannot forget when I shoved you out the door when I had the curse.  You saved me once.  You’ll do it again.  Come back to me.  Please.” They embraced.  Hard.

Nirnadel had difficulty watching this. Part of her felt as if they were heading to their doom and she should be with them, damn the line of succession.  She stood and set the kitten down, moving to the people who would go.  “Lord Rhudainor…Dagar…your courage inspires me.  Go with the Valar, my friend and return to us, I beg of you.”

He wiped his eyes.  “You’ll tell Mirthi…you’ll tell her…” he kept nodding and she wrapped him up tightly, Haedorial joining in.

“You’ll tell her yourself and I will be there,” she said, biting her knuckles to keep from shaking.  She separated and then unbuckled her mithril eket and handed it to him in the scabbard.  “I present this to you, my brave lord.  The metal in this weapon will do greater damage to the enemy. True silver is a bane to the vampires.”

Alquanessë nodded.  “It’s true.  While it still won’t destroy us permanently, it causes great pain.  It may be all the edge that you’ll need, pardon the pun.”

Dagar nodded and accepted the weapon. “I thank you, Nirnadel…my friend. But what will you have for your defense?”

“I am also trained in the longsword and Baranor has provided me with a brilliant weapon.  The eket will better suit your fencing style.  Wield it well and true.”

She then went and embraced the Blood-Wights, who felt a little cold, their skin more pale.  “I expect to see you again soon as well, my friends.  My life is so much richer with you in it.”

Finculion smiled.  “I had not expected to say this, but we are enrichened by you as well and that we fight for no greater cause now.  We will give our lives to keep you safe, young lady,” he said in his rich tenor.

Finally, she went to Mercatur and opened her arms to him, but he stepped back.  She gave him a quizzical look, hurt by his action.

He pursed his lips and turned to go. “Highness, I have things to look after. Be well.”  He never made eye contact.  He walked towards the bedchambers, the wrong way and then turned with a snort as she cornered him.  He was clearly distracted when near her.

She slapped her palms on his armored chest, her eyes full of hurt.  “What is wrong with you?  Why are you doing this?  I am trying…I am trying to wish you well.  Can’t you see that?”

He shuddered and took her hands off of his chest.  “I…I…you don’t understand.  I can’t do this.”

Her wrists in his grasp, she pleaded. “Why?  Please tell me why?  We are friends, are we not?”

He nodded, still not making eye contact. “Yes, we are.”  He looked around and then pulled her into the next room.  “She came to me, four nights ago when the first sentry was killed,” he said in a whisper.  “She came as you.”

Her face softened.  “I…I don’t understand.”

“The beast, Thuringwethil, she came to me in my dream as you.  She replayed moments when we interacted.  She…she seduced me…as you.  She knows…she knows,” he said in a pained voice.  He released her wrists and began to shake.

Nirnadel put her hands over her mouth. “What?  What does she know?”  What horrible secret did the vampire know about him?

He grunted, his breath huffing.  “I…” he started, then shook his head. “Eh!  Nirnadel, I have feelings for you, dammit.  Ever since the Houses.  There, I said it.  I never should have let it go on this long.  Forget it.  Forget I said anything.  I don’t even know if I’m coming back.  It can never be.”  He looked at her and then shut his eyes tight.

She inhaled sharply, stunned.  She quickly replayed their interactions in her head.  Yes, it made sense to her now.  She had played a part, flirtatious, and she couldn’t deny that something about him stirred her…powerful, masculine, dangerous.  She had no words at the moment.  She just embraced him tightly, kissed his cheek and nodded.  “Allow me this, and come back to me, my captain. Be safe,” she said and departed.

The whole interaction hit her like a ton of bricks.  How did this happen?  How did she feed it?  Did she want this?  It was not something that she had much experience with other than dodging suitors, like Falathar Girithlin, at Yüle.  She sighed heavily, her heart burdened as she rejoined her ladies and saw their concern. He was right.  It could never be.  She was destined for someone else.  Such a thing would be a scandal that would destroy Cardolan.  She picked up her kitten and stroked her head, feeling the purring.  “I think I’ll name you Gîlien,” she said kindly, trying to distract herself.  The kitten meowed at her, and she thought she heard, “Thank you.”

As those on the expedition departed the room, Kaile gave her a worried look.  “What was that all about?” she asked.

Nirnadel took several deep breaths to calm herself.  “He…he said…that he has feelings for me.  And that Thuringwethil came to him as me to entice him…that she knows his thoughts and desires.”

Anariel pursed her weathered lips. “I was afraid of something like this. You are too friendly with men who are not of your station, Your Highness.  I tried to warn you.  Ever since you had that ceremony with the Beffraen, you have been flirtatious.”

She cast her eyes downwards, thinking. “I shall…think on your words, dear Anariel, but for now, we have greater worries than my feelings and flirtations.”

The stewards brought them drinks and then moved to stand behind the ladies of the court.  Nirnadel drank her pear juice from a crystal goblet as her kitten jumped down and looked back up at her.  “Come…come,” it meowed and then trotted towards the stairway down.

She looked at Haedorial.  “Good bard…did you hear that?”

“Hear what, Your Highness?”

She narrowed her eyes.  “The…the kitten.  It said, ‘come’ to me.”  She followed as it scurried down the steps into the kitchen where Maelil was preparing lunch and supplies for the expedition.  Several more cats were there and they gathered at her feet.  They bumped into her ankles as she took some chicken scraps and fed them.

After, they began licking their paws and looked up at her.  “Thank you,” they meowed.

Her eyes popped open wide.  “There, they just did it again!  They said, thank you.”

Haedorial looked stunned. “This…this is extraordinary!  By my lore there was…there was a Queen of Gondor…five hundred years ago.  Her name was…was…yes, Berúthiel.  She was described as nefarious, solitary and loveless…certainly not you, Your Highness. But she could speak with cats. She used them as spies against her enemies and she became hated.”

“What became of her?”

The bard developed a faraway look. “She came from a city inland of Umbar to marry Gondorian King Tarannon Falastur, a great ship king.  It was an alliance between kingdoms but alas, it did not work.  She detested the sea and chose to remain in Osgiliath.  Berúthiel hated all colors and elaborate adornments and wore only black and silver clothing.  She lived in bare chambers in the house in Osgiliath, but decorated its gardens with tormented sculptures beneath cypresses and yews.”

Nirnadel gasped.  “What a dreadful woman.”

“Indeed,” he said intently.  His lore had been invaluable for about a year now, always providing insight into a matter at hand.  “The Queen kept nine black cats and one white one to spy on the others.  It is said that Berúthiel was able to converse with them or read their memories.  Eventually, King Tarannon exiled Berúthiel from Gondor and her name was erased from the Book of the Kings.  He had her set adrift at sea before a north wind, alone on a ship that was last seen flying past Umbar under a sickle moon, with the white cat at the masthead and another as a figure-head on the prow.  Berúthiel is said to have went back to live in the inland city and no word of what became of her is known in the west.”

Nirnadel looked down at the group of cats, musing.  “Would you like more, my dears?” she asked, putting more chicken bits into a bowl which they gobbled down.  They then ran to the entrance of the Tirthon, and she followed as they hopped around the yard in the camp.

They began leaping up into the air. “Bad…bad…night,” they meowed.

She knelt down and scratched one behind the ear.  “Yes, they come at night and they’re bad.”

One orange tabby tapped her on the hand. “Warn…warn,” he told her.  “Bad.  Warn.”

“You’ll warn us?  You can warn us?  You mean you can sense them?” she asked as the others looked on in amazement.

“Yes, yes.  See, smell, warn,” he said and then bumped her hand with his head, then shaking it back and forth.

She rubbed his chin and he purred. “They can see and smell Thuringwethil. He said that they’ll warn us.  I think I’ll name him, Carvion, the talker.” She stood to see that those on the expedition were gathering to depart as Maelil and the cooks brought them sacks of bread, cured meats and cheeses, flasks of water and ale filled.  It had just begun to drizzle, a cool, light rain. She thought to tell them about the cats but Mercatur had already given the order to set out, the leaders on horseback while the twelve mercenaries of the cohort marched on foot.  She rose up on her toes and gave them one final wave, Neldis and Coru waving back to everyone.  Cries and wails rose up from the camp followers, their husbands, brothers, fathers and sons marching to what felt like their end.

If, by will alone, Nirnadel could bring them home safely, she would.  So, how could the cats be useful?  How could the cats help them?  She bent down again and gave them all pets.  She would not be a Queen Berúthiel, dark and evil, but would fight evil to its core.  How did she have this ability?  She had discovered many odd abilities in her life now: hearing whispers, casting her voice, healing.  “Good Haedorial, how is it that you think I might have this…power?  You have taught me so many things about what I can do.”

He thought for a moment and put his finger to his lips.  “I recall…I recall that King Tarcil the Mariner, your great, great grandfather, sailed with the Gondorian Navy two hundred years ago.  He was elected after the disaster at Cameth Brin that claimed King Calimendil’s life.  His wife…was a Black Númenórean from an inland city near Umbar and he brought her back to Cardolan.  Her name was…was Aerondes, the Sea Lady from the royal family there.  It is entirely possible that you are descended from Queen Berúthiel.  Now, Berúthiel would have been long dead by then and Tarcil’s marriage was full of love and tenderness, but I daresay that the coincidence bears consideration.”   

Her curiosity was piqued.  “Aerondes?  …extraordinary.  Please, if you know more, I beg of you to tell me.”

“She was fair as you are, a young queen from a foreign land.  Black hair with a deep tan from the sunny skies of the region, mocha colored skin. She had a bright smile and full lips.  Like you, she introduced new life and culture to the Royal Court, which was, unfortunately erased by their son, King Tarastor, who married an Arthedanian Princess…Amarthel, who returned the Court to its traditional roots.”

Nirnadel felt for this queen, Aerondes. They seemed to share much.  She liked being on the cutting edge of fashion and culture and was pleased at her impact on court life.  “Thank you for sharing that, my good bard.”  She saw Captain Baranor approach.  “My good captain, what may I do for you?”

He gestured them over to a dining table. “I want to go over the escape plan. You need to know it down cold.  If we are attacked, it will be chaos at first and we cannot trust that we will be able to speak to one another easily.”  He unrolled a scroll that he had been working on.

“I understand.  Please, tell us.”  She motioned the ladies and the stewards around the table.

He had drawn a rough map of the area and pointed to the Tirthon.  “You and the ladies will be in quarters at night on the Second Floor, the stewards in the next room.  They have a little training, and I’ll have them armed.  The healers and nurses are down the hall, here.  Maelil and the cooks on the First Floor, here,” he said and then pointed at each of the locations.  “Like the first attack, there will be confusion.  Stay put at first and Sergeant Cedhron, Corporal Riston or myself will come to get you.  Stewards,” he said to the young men, “Until we arrive, you will be responsible for defending the Princess and helping her to arm.  Do you understand this important task?”

Angion and Allion, the two biggest boys, nodded.  They were the sons of a weapons smith and a carpenter and had done physical labor. Mindolinor joined them, patting the smallsword at his hip.  He had some dueling practice under his father.  “We’ll defend Her Highness with our lives,” he said proudly.

Baranor smiled.  “Good, I’m counting on you lads,” he said, tousling Mindolinor’s hair.  “Now, when one of the Guard reaches you, we will determine whether to remain and defend the tower or to evacuate.  If we evacuate, we will move into the yard and gather with the fifth cohort and the camp followers and do a roll call.  Her Highness and Lady Galadel should be armored by that time.  We will then move south to join the East-West Road and make our way east to Castle Amrodan.  We stay together from then on.  No one goes off alone.  No one.” His finger traced the way south to the road.  “Is all of this clear?”  Everyone nodded.  “At that point, the only priority is the safety of the Princess.  We are all expendable for that one priority.”

Those words sunk in hard and all faces were serious.  Nirnadel understood it but did not like the implications.  It was she who sacrificed for the realm, not the other way around. “We understand, good captain.  Let it not come to that.  I, too, will fight for our people.”

He took her by the shoulders, his eyes intense.  “Your Highness, I need you to understand and listen to me.  This is the most dire thing that our kingdom has faced since the war. You are the priority.  You are the realm.  There are no brothers or sisters who can succeed you.  I need you to promise me that you will obey my commands in an emergency.”

“I promise.”

“Good,” he said.  “Now, Angion, Allion, Mindolinor, head to the camp weapon smith and secure arms for yourselves and the stewards to your taste. Be ready at all times and remember the elf’s mental exercises.  Thuringwethil has already infiltrated the minds of people here.”

Nirnadel wanted to tell him about the cats, but it did not seem like the right time, and he would probably think her mad.  The stewards rushed off to the smiths, somewhat more excited than they should be, commenting that they would finally get a chance to work with the Guard and see some action.  The cohort was already drilling in the yard, sparring with sticks as spears and wooden swords.  Once the stewards were armed, Baranor had them all gather for training.  He laid out wooden ekets and longswords on the grass and people went to pick them up.  As members of the aristocracy, Nirnadel and Galadel had used weapons since childhood.  The Princess picked up a longsword and Galadel an eket.

The stewards, dressed in their black uniforms with the appropriate cockade on their chest that signified their guild, took the training weapons and stood around in the light, cool drizzle. Baranor ushered them into lines, pairing off.  “Easy now, go at half speed and strength.  Not many of you stewards have had much formal training.  Angion, you’ve had some under your father, Halfred, the Weaponsmith. Mindolinor, I know you’ve fenced with your father.  Make no mistake, the enemy that we face is savage, merciless and cruel.  While none of you should have to face Thuringwethil, she has other minions.  If you fight, it will be for your lives.  Expect no mercy and give none.”

“But sir, it’s raining,” Gallion said in protest.

Baranor stifled a laugh.  “Are you going to tell Blogath that?”

The steward looked defeated.  “Uh, I suppose not.”

“If it’s not raining, you’re not training,” the captain said.  “In the Royal Guard, we train in rain, snow, heat, forests and on mountains.  A Guardsman must be prepared for anything.” This seemed to liven up many of the boys.  Even commoners could become a Guardsman and be knighted.  It was the dream and aspiration of many young men.  Sergeant Cedhron was a shepherd as a boy and joined the army, working and fighting his way up to become one of the elite.

The group sparred easily for a few minutes.  Nirnadel and Galadel traded cuts and parries, both reasonably skilled and more advanced. They tried techniques like beats, binds and grapples as well as feints.  Kaile struggled with her eket, but Mindolinor was a patient opponent.  The captain called a halt and had everyone shift position for a new partner.  As they passed each other, Kaile quipped, “I told you to give me a potion or a powder any day.”

As they started again, Galadel easily disarmed Gallion of the Potter’s Guild and Nirnadel made a feint and disengage to put the tip of her wooden longsword on the throat of Brondon of the Vintner’s Guild.  Ethirdir of the Mason’s Guild had a white cockade with a gray center, signifying his affiliation.  His black hair was parted in the middle, and he had a cocky face with a perpetual scowl. He made a smirk at Kaile as they began, swinging wildly and then pushing her over and she fell with a yelp.  He stepped on her hand and put the point of his longsword at her eye.

Baranor halted the group.  “Not so hard at first, son.  We’ll build up to it.”

“But you said this was for real,” he protested with a sneer.  “Give no mercy.”

“I meant to the enemy.  We are here to learn.”

Ethirdir’s scowl deepened.  “But she is the enemy right now!”  He was practically shrieking.

Baranor sighed.  “Your Highness, would you step in and take Lady Kaile’s place.”

She could feel the heat rising up her neck at what was happening.  “Gladly, good captain.”

He put his hands on her shoulders from behind.  “I know how you feel,” he whispered.  “But this is about control.  When the battle is for real as you have experienced, emotions will run high.  I lost it when I thought you had fallen…never again.  Remember, control.”

She nodded as a group of cats gathered to watch.  At the age of 17, she had trained for more than a decade and would be more than a match for any in the cohort.  She wiped rainwater from her eyes and bladed her body, raising the longsword above her head on one side, tip angled down and forward, the Ox Guard, like the horn of an ox, ready to attack.  Ethirdir jumped at her, chuckling in an attempt to scare her but she didn’t flinch. He stepped back, a little more cautious. He slapped at her sword to knock it away and she pulled the blade back and low, out of his reach to the Tail Guard. He laughed dismissively.  “You don’t even have your sword out front,” he said of the weapon that was now hidden behind her legs.  He casually reached in to grab her, and she brought the blade out, swatting his hand with the flat of the wooden sword.  He yelped, shaking his hand.  “Ow, that hurt,” he said with a sneer.

She held the sword in front of her now, low, tip to the ground, the Fool’s Guard.  She just glared at him, daring him to move as it made her head look wide open.  He raised his blade and rushed in clumsily and she flicked her weapon upwards between his legs, swatting him in the groin.  Ethirdir gave a high-pitched squeal, one hand on his crotch, staggering around.  Kaile snickered.  Nirnadel swung her blade up over her right shoulder, hilt next to her ear in the High Side Guard.  Ethirdir snarled and charged at her, but Baranor stepped in between them, holding him back.

“Enough for now,” he commanded.  “Get some rest and drink and we’ll regroup again soon.”  He put his finger in the young man’s face.  “You, go cool down.  You have a lot to learn.”  He patted the Princess on the shoulder.  “You would have crushed his skull had he taken another step.”  The High Side Guard made a head cut quick and easy.

The Princess just smiled at him, wiping rain from her face again as her hair hung down, damp and limp.  “Shall we, good captain?”  She moved to the Longpoint Guard, sword held straight out, controlling the center.  Baranor nodded and went to the High Guard, sword all the way above his head, pointed slightly back.  She aimed the tip right at his throat as they maneuvered slowly, cautiously, professionally. He made a body feint, but she didn’t react and he lowered his weapon to the Closed Left Guard, handle at stomach height, tip raised, body bladed.  He was considered to be the greatest swordsman in Cardolan, all of his movements, smooth and precise.  She took the initiative, trading cuts, thrusts and parries until he spun his blade overhead for a strike, using the momentum of her attack against her.  She shifted to the Hanging Guard and his blade glanced off of hers, deflecting downwards.

Nirnadel thrust the tip at him and he sidestepped, letting it blaze past his chest.  He moved to grab her hand, but she spun away, putting her tip at his throat again.  Baranor smiled.  They were moving at full speed and strength.  No holds barred.  They traded a few more blows, more gauging for any weakness than real attacks.  He beat her tip away and moved in with a diagonal cut and she dodged beneath, sending an upward cut to his armpit but he lowered his blade to the Hanging Guard, deflecting it away.  He stepped back and raised his blade, hilt to his lips in a salute.  “Enough for now, Your Highness.  Your improvement is noticeable.”

Her heart soared.  This was the first time that she held her own against him though she knew deep down that he was holding back.  She stood no chance against him at full skill.  But still, it was a great victory for her.  As they went to go wash up, Kaile hugged her. “You’re my hero, you know that.”

The cats followed her to the washroom, rolling in the water and drinking as Kaile and Galadel pour buckets of water on the Princess.  Gîliel, the kitten made funny noises as she lapped water from Nirnadel’s hand.  “Wiwiwi!” she cried as Carvion and the others splashed around.

As the light rain stopped, dinner was a somber affair, so many gone now.  Worried murmurs filled the dining area.  Nirnadel found it difficult to hang onto the hope that her friends would succeed, much less survive.  Their absence had her on edge.  She could see it in Firiel’s eyes too: her love and two of her dear nurses were well on their way into the darkest of evil.  The setting sun, through gray clouds, felt like the weight of a mountain coming down on them.  Everyone knew what had happened the past four nights.  Faces grew grim, people looking up at the sky, expecting death to fall on someone at any time.  Sergeant Fendir walked over and sat with them, his ginger muttonchop sideburns poking out like an orange porcupine.  “Your Highness, I was a cattle man before this.  I could handle a weapon and ride, but I was no soldier, not like the captain or the Guard.  Most of these boys were villagers, never having held a weapon before they signed the contract.  We’re all scared.  We’re all worried.”

There was little that she could say to set him at ease.  No one here had ever faced an ancient demon of Morgoth before.  The two Blood-Wights had revealed all that they could before departing and their influence and presence was missed now.  They felt downright exposed in the camp.  “Captain Baranor has a good plan.  We will follow his lead and we will survive,” was all that she could manage to say.  Her recent confidence had turned to ash.  How could she expect these good men to die for her?  Then, something came to her, a snippet of memory from Yüle.

“Good Haedorial.  Do you recall the Yüle that you and your lovely wife performed the Lay of Leithian?”

He scoffed.  “Why, of course I do, Your Highness.  I recall it as if it were yesterday.  Are you thinking…?”

She smiled broadly, slapping her hand on the table.  “Please have your son join us.  And Sergeant, set your mind at ease for a time.”  She stood, the skirt of her simple dress twirling as she spun.  She clapped her hands above her head.  “Lady Galadel, if you would kindly join me? Lady Kaile, observe for you will be performing with us this Yüle,” she said with confidence in their future.  She clapped again.  “My friends, your attention please.  We wish to bring you an ancient tale of love and triumph over impossible odds.”  The Princess was as nervous as could be, but she was determined to raise the flagging spirits of her people.  Like Alquanessë taught her, the power of music could dampen the terror of Thuringwethil.

Haedorial grinned as Mindolinor joined them, lute and recorder ready as darkness fell and torches were lit.  The two ladies flitted about, hands and faces miming the fearful approach to Angband, the instruments beginning an ethereal melody, soft and dreamlike.  Nirnadel and Galadel began vocalizing, their voices in harmony, two strong sopranos blending in an ageless tale.

Nirnadel began with Galadel joining in at the end of each verse, slow, heavenly.

“Oh stars, your light I send,

Oh dark heart, I will weave your rest,

Remain shadow, your breath shall fade,

The star shines in the land at night,”

“Dooo do do do dooo,” They vocalized again, gliding ever so slowly about and twirling to the lute and recorder, moving as if they were seeing Morgoth himself and his horrid creatures.

“Flame of thy house burn against thyself,

I keep no pain, I bear no fear,

“Now the cold

Fire of thy wrath shall fall and the

Steadfast light I see,”

“Sleep,” they sang and then vocalized again, dreamy, almost a lullaby to children.

“Fear, thy shadow is gone,

Sleep, in peace, in thy hollow doom,

For the ghosts, the webs of mist doth part,

And let day rise again,”

They moved again, crossing slowly, miming walking past all manner of slumbering horrors.

“May light now shine and bless the dark flame,

Awake the brightness, unwake the gloom,

Flame to light where sorcery coils,

Sleep now,

And thy pain be broken,”

They vocalized again, miming cutting the Silmaril from Morgoth’s iron crown.  They then made as if they were fleeing the infernal halls of Angband.

“For Lúthien…the fair maiden…sings…unto…the west.”

They trailed off into silence, the recorder and the lute trailing away too.  There was a hush in the camp as soldiers sat, mouths agape, the kitchen staff gathered at the tower entrance.  Elanoriel was the first on her feet.  “That, dear girls, was magnificent.  This was as if it were performed by the Eldar.  I truly had a chill down my spine.”

Haedorial set his lute down.  “I…I have no words.  In just a few months, I have been made a bard, truly.  My ladies, I am moved to tears,” he said, choking up. 

Sergeant Fendir nodded slowly.  “I do not know the tale of which you sang, but I saw it in my head.  Everything. Every horror.  Every hope.”  The people around him nodded.  “I feel…I feel lighter.”

Maelil came out and stood before them, her apron stained with food.  “Oi love, I first thought you just a well-dressed camp follower, I did.  But mercy me, you are the Princess.  This was…this was a dream made real.  I count meself so lucky to have been here.”

Nirnadel picked up a tray of food and held it like a tavern wench.  “Well, my dearest cook, you have trained me to perfection, and I would work in your kitchens anytime,” she said to laughter.  The mood had certainly lightened.

Haedorial patted his son on the back. “The things that you will see, my son. You are part of the history of our people.”

The camp wound down and the sentries were posted.  Nirnadel spoke to the cats.  “Can you please patrol the grounds and up in the tower too?  Warn anyone if you see or smell our enemies.”

Carvion sat on his haunches. “Yes…warn…bad,” he told her and then looked at other cats who scattered away, some running into the tower.  He licked his paws as Nirnadel scratched behind his ear and fed him a piece of chicken.  They went up to their quarters and began to draw a bath, the Princess cradling Gîliel in her arms.  The ladies took turns dunking into the hot tub, a far cry from the luxury of Rivendell or even the Bar Aran.  As they dried off with towels, she thought she saw the door to the stewards’ quarters cracked a bit and she could have sworn that she saw an eye, watching them. When she focused there, it was gone and she went and shut the door completely.  The Princess thought to say something, but she did not want to make a false accusation, and the older nurse would certainly overreact.  Anariel then climbed in and soaked her old bones, sighing contentedly in the hot water.  She might have been too old for this venture, but she insisted on coming, needing to keep an eye on the youngsters.  

Nirnadel put on her padded undergarments that would go beneath her armor, for it was best to be prepared.  And, perhaps it was nothing, but the feeling that some of the stewards might be spying on them unnerved her.  Did she actually see that?  Anariel might dismiss the whole cadre if she spoke up.  It wouldn’t be fair to destroy so many lives and families on ‘might have happened.’  Each boy would be disgraced and their family likely run out of Tharbad.  Anariel was known to have done that when she served Queen Lossien.  But if it did happen, who was it?

Galadel and Kaile set her plate armor up on a stand, ready to don at a moment’s notice.  They slid into bed, the giggling revelry of past days gone.  The kitten and her mother leapt up onto the mattress and snuggled in with them, soft purrs lulling them to sleep.

In the space between consciousness and dreams, Nirnadel felt as if a spider were crawling into her head.  She then saw her mother in her den at Thalion. She was weaving something, a quilt? The Princess couldn’t tell, the scene was blurry, her eyes unfocused.  Was this a dream?  It felt real. She moved closer.  “Mother?  What are you doing?  How are you here?”

She looked into a mirror on the wall and saw that she was her current age.  How was that possible?  Her mother passed a couple of years ago.  She would have been 15 then, shorter, younger.  “Mother?” she called, but there was no response.  She moved even closer and saw that it was a spider’s web being woven. A spider’s web?  How strange.  Her mother looked up but it was another woman’s face for a moment.  She blinked and it was her mother again.  She sighed, feeling safe and relieved and went to sit with Queen Lossien to see what she was weaving.

Then, she felt something furry bumping her face and a paw tapping insistently on her cheek.  “Warn…warn…bad.”  The meows were urgent.

She then knew.  She was being warned.  “No, this is a dream.  You are invading my dream,” she said forcefully.  She turned, but her mother tossed the spider web onto her.  It stuck and she was held fast.  The web grew, engulfing one arm and then the next.  She cried out, struggling as the web covered her legs and she fell to her knees.  “No!  I know who you are!”  The web began to cover her face and she screamed.

Her mother stood and cradled her cheek. “Welcome to my family, little one. You will become my favorite plaything,” she said as her eyes glowed red and fangs sprouted from her mouth.  “Your name is now Lindarë, the girl who sings and you will sing for me, that beautiful voice of yours will sing in pain.”

Nirnadel shrieked, bucking her body and her eyes opened to the sound of a cat hissing.  There she was, Thuringwethil, crouched over her, pushing her head back to expose her neck, the vampire’s fangs bared.  “No!” she screamed as the cat leapt at the vampire, scratching and clawing.  The other women were up in an instant, eyes wide in terror but holding daggers at the demon.

Thuringwethil shrieked in fear and leapt back to the window, snarling as the other ladies pulled Nirnadel behind them. Claw marks were on the demon’s arm, and the mother cat arched her back, her own teeth bared.  How did a mere cat frighten off the most horrid vampire of all time?  The demon went back through the window and flew into the night.  “You will sing for me, little one, one way or another!”

Alarms were sounding all over the compound now.  “There’s movement in the woods!  Hundreds of them!” someone yelled from atop the Tirthon.  Still shaking, Nirnadel rushed to the window to see ensorcelled men and corpses shambling towards the palisade wall, climbing over.  Galadel, Kaile and Anariel were instantly grabbing her armor and strapping it onto her body as the stewards came in, weapons drawn.

“Defend the Princess,” Mindolinor called to the others, and they faced the door as he drew his smallsword. Angion jumped in to help with the armor, strapping the faulds and tassets around her waist and then the cuisses onto her thighs and the greaves onto her shins.  The others had no experience with armor.  Galadel handed her the sallet helm and then attached the bevor around her neck.

There was a loud banging on the door. “It’s Corporal Riston, I’m coming in,” he said and then rushed inside, his eyes huge.  “Captain Baranor has ordered the evacuation.  Follow me!”

CODEX:

Eket – a shortsword, akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Fauld – armored plates that go around the waist.

Tasset – an armored plate, attached to the faulds that cover the upper thigh.

Cuisse – an armored plate over the thigh.

Greaves – an armored plate over the shin.

Sallet – a squat looking helmet that has a tail to protect the neck and a movable visor over the face.

Bevor – a plate neck guard.

Line of Cardolan Rulers:

Thorondur – 861-936;

Turambar – 936-1001;

Ciryon – 1001-1079;

Tarandil – 1079-1153;

Calimendil – 1153-1235;

Civil War – 1235-1248;

Tarcil – 1248-1287;

Tarastor – 1287-1332;

Minalcar – 1332-1381;

Ostoher – 1381-1409;

Nimhir (Regent) – 1409-

Chapter End Notes

I got some inspiration from content creators on Queen Beruthiel which I thought would be interesting to add.  Some characters will not make it but I haven't quite decided who.

Leave a Comment

50) The Yfelwood - Ivanneth (September) 15^th, 1410

Mercatur

They moved along the old path towards Blogath’s Vale as the sun dipped down beneath gray clouds, a few beams of light cast upon the group.  This was the very path that they took after the Battle of the Tirthon in 1407.  Memories came flooding back to Mercatur after seeing the skeleton of one of Nasen’s men alongside the road, the lower jaw entirely torn away by Finculion when they tried to attack he and Alquanessë.  The bones of the hand that she had bitten off of another also lay there with the rusty dagger that the man had tried to stab her with.

Alquanessë pointed down at the hand from the saddle.  “I told him that he’d need that dagger.  Did he listen?”

Mercatur snorted.  He was in no mood to laugh, but that was pretty funny. “Shit, Dagar, you remember how it was snowing in summer when we came here?”

“Absolutely unnatural, good sir,” Dagar answered as he swished the reins of his horse to keep it from eating leaves from a nearby tree.

The elf looked up into the darkening gray sky.  “I have it on good authority that it was the Witch-King’s doing.  At least that is what I tore from Ethacali’s mind.”

The captain nodded.  “Heh, I figured.  Hey, Dagar, you even hear what happened to Nasen and his last stooge?”

Dagar shrugged.  “Last I heard they were running to Gondor to try and make a new life.  I lost track after that.  Don’t care either.”

Finculion pointed back at the skeleton. “Well, one of them is there. You’ll never lose track of him.”

Mercatur chuckled.  “Shit, you both are kind of funny.  You’re growing on me, you know that?”

Alquanessë looked back and bared her fangs for a moment in fun.  “Like a fungus, I’m sure.”

It was getting more and more difficult to see as it grew darker and a fog seemed to be forming in the vale.  “Damn, just what we need.  Fog,” the captain complained.  “I really want to press on, but I think we need to make camp.”

Hirgrim nodded.  “I really had hoped to finish this all by sunset, but we’d end up stumbling around in the night fog.  You guys start setting up.  I’ll set out some traps and warning devices,” he said, dismounting.

Mercatur dismounted too, patting the ranger on the back.  “Good man. I still remember running into you up ahead and I’m damn glad we didn’t fight.”

The ranger smirked, a scar above his lip stretching.  “I had you down cold.  I had an arrow drawn on your filthy beard.  But I’m not an idiot.  I wasn’t going down with Ethacali.”

The captain snickered.  “Ah, life in Rhudaur.  An enemy one day is a friend the next.  Hey, uh, what about the Cultirith?  Why are you alone?”

A dark look came over Hirgrim’s face, and he pointed up ahead.  “Them…they took them all.  I’m the last.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.  We’re going to get revenge for a lot of people.”  He knew that Hirgrim would’ve fought to the last moment of hope for his rangers.

The twelve members of the cohort began setting up tents and building fires as the four Guardsmen surveyed the ground for defensibility.  Silmarien placed glyphs and wards around with her staff as Hirgrim set up simple traps and natural devices to give warning if anyone passed.  “Won’t help against anyone coming from above, but if anyone walks by, pow!”

The fog began to float over them, a cool, moist feeling.  Jaabran waved his hand around as if it would dispel the fog.  “Bah, give me the clear, cold night of the Sîrayn Desert.  At least you can see the Mal’azaud coming. Here, they could be in your tent, snuggling with you and you’d never know.  Well, some of them are quite comely so, I guess that would be alright.”

“But they were all guys, though, right?” Mercatur quipped, getting a few laughs.

Jaabran had to chuckle.  “Eh, when they look that good, it doesn't matter.”

Elladan and Elrohir then rode up from the vale and dismounted.  “We scouted ahead and it’s quiet, but we can feel a malevolent presence.  They’re here,” Elladan told them.

Neldis and Coru had already brought out some of the rations and were preparing them and Silmarien started a cooking fire with a touch of her staff.  Alquanessë walked by.  “I think we might need some of that Silima tonight.  I can feel Blogath stirring.  We’ll be attacked in the early morning, I’m sure of it.”

The mage nodded and tapped her pouch. “I’ll have it ready.”

Valandil of the Guard was speaking with Corporal Parven of the cohort, giving him pointers on fighting in formation. Mercatur walked the small perimeter, seeing hidden spikes and caltrops that Hirgrim had left.  The fog would better hide those against their enemies. He wanted to do something, anything to keep his mind occupied as it kept wandering back to his interaction with Nirnadel.  What foolish things he said.  He should have kept it to himself.  Now, he made himself weak and likely caused her to be the same.  No feelings, he told himself.  And of all places to have it happen, the hard heart of Rhudaur.  Shit.  He took a swig of Hirgrim’s firewater and passed the flask to the ranger.  He really wanted to press on into the vale and hit the temple now, get the damn thing done and over with but that would be stupid.  Just a waste of lives.  “Looks good. Thanks, Hirgrim,” he muttered as they went back to the camp.

The ranger pointed off to the east. “I left us an escape route if things go bad.  We head east, hit the forest and then we can either turn south, back to the Tirthon or continue to Castle Amrodan.  If we have to retreat, I’ll throw traps in their faces…buy us time.”

“Yeah, they’re likely to hit from the north, closest to the vale.”

Alquanessë joined them.  “I asked Silmarien to keep the Silima ready tonight.  I know that Blogath will come before dawn.  I can feel it.  When we’re in the temple we need to destroy the altar.  You remember it, don’t you?  It was the focal point of Sauron’s power here.  It’s where we performed the blood sacrifices to him.  I’m sure that was how they brought Thuringwethil back. It will rob them of much of their power. It might even destroy the great vampire.”

“Will it hurt you and Finculion?” the captain asked, concerned for their welfare.

She put a hand over her heart. “I’m touched, but no.  We rejected Sauron.  It’s the reason that Blogath is so much more powerful than we are.”

He smiled.  “That’s good to know.”

“As of now, though, only we Blood-Wights and Silmarien have the magic to destroy it.  You can’t just take an axe to it like you were hoping.”

Mercatur snorted a cynical chuckle. “There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”

“Always.”  The elf motioned back to the cooking fire that already had a pot over it.  “Shall we? I will bring about some music to soothe us and shield our minds from Blogath.”  They went back to sit as soldiers took their sentry posts.

The captain went to them briefly, telling the sentries that he would relieve them shortly and stand first and last watch through the night.  Alquanessë brought out her lap harp and began plucking notes that were visible as a golden mist, rising from the instrument.  A vision of stars forming in the sky appeared as Arda was formed, two massive lamps rising from the earth.  She paused for a moment and looked at Neldis.  “Come here, dear girl,” she said and the nurse came to her. The elf touched her face and blew a puff of air onto her.  “So much pain.  So much sorrow.  I feel your heart.”

The nurse gave a bittersweet smile. “Nirnadel told me your story when she was in the infirmary.  You’ve had your share too.”

“I have.  Like you, I was used.  My body was a mere tool for Sauron.  I know your pain.  I know that you desire to be a minstrel.  Search your mind now for the seed that I planted and let it blossom,” the elf said and then went back to plucking the strings of her harp.

A single tear ran down Neldis’ cheek. “I feel it.  I can feel it.”

Alquanessë played a melodious chord. “Let your voice be the music of the Ainur for tonight,” she said and Neldis began to vocalize in a soothing, mystical soprano.  There were no words as she blended in harmony with the harp, just highs and lows like a flowing stream that built into a powerful ocean.  The elf smiled.  “Let your heart be free.  Let evil know that we cannot be conquered.”

The people sat or stood, enthralled, absorbing the music into their souls.  Mercatur breathed deeply, feeling his pain, his doubt, his worry evaporate into mist.  Whatever happened between he and Nirnadel happened.  What might come, might come.  Right now, he was part of the cosmic stream, embraced by the vision of Illuvatar.

The voice and the harp died away and Alquanessë smiled warmly.  “Everyone, find your strength and spirit tonight for we will need them.  Our music will weaken our enemies and grant us power. But know that they are still dangerous and deadly.  I sense that Nirnadel knows this for I can feel her song unfolding now.  It will lessen Thuringwethil should she attack them tonight.  Perhaps that just might be the edge that they need.”

Neldis embraced her.  “I have received so many gifts recently.  I am truly blessed.  Never would have imagined bring friends with a princess and one of the Noldor.”

Alquanessë grinned.  “We’re not friends,” she said and Neldis looked shocked and hurt.  “We are sisters, you and I.  Though millennia separate us, we are of the same heart.  I was a whore for Sauron’s evil.  They called me a succubus, a corruptor of men’s souls and a demon of the night.  I did vile things and was degraded too many times to count…as were you.”  Neldis blew out a sigh of relief and they embraced again.

“I am so sorry…so sorry,” the nurse said. “Thank you…my sister.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Hrmph, I had a soft spot for Dagar.  Cast off, disinherited, called a wastrel.  I always wanted to both please my dad and reject him at the same time, always chasing something that I couldn’t have or couldn’t be. We were one in the same.”

Dagar chuckled.  “Good Mercatur, while on the waenhosh, I could never figure out why you were so good to me.”

“Eh, I got a soft spot for hopeless cases.”

Alquanessë reached out and touched the captain’s cheek.  “You know, I think that this is the first time that you’ve been honest with yourself. And for your heart, what will be will be.  If it’s right, it will happen.  I may have found someone recently.  My life has been full of pain, loneliness and regret.  I just hope that I will be happy and loved.”

It never really sank in with him before, but she was right.  How was it that a being so ancient and so wise appeared to be so young and innocent? If anything, she appeared to be Neldis’ age.  It was impossible to fully comprehend their immortality.  He nodded silently, forcing a smile that he really didn’t feel.  He always thought that he was honest with himself: fighting, drinking, screwing and then getting up and doing it all over again.  But tonight, it felt like a weight had been lifted off of him.

He took a moment to look at the two women, comparing.  Like Nirnadel, Neldis was gorgeous.  If they wore the same clothes and didn’t speak or move, he could scarcely tell them apart.  At least with Galadel, he saw small differences.  And Neldis was smart and edgy.  Alquanessë was on a whole other plane, ethereally beautiful, otherworldly, standing a full head taller than Neldis and a touch taller than he.  She was one of the Firstborn and he had heard that her mother was one of the most fair of that race.  What was her mother’s name again?  Those damn Quenya names were all tongue twisters.  It even took him a while to pronounce Alquanessë’s name right. He grunted and took another swig.  Useless musings of an idle mind.

He ate some of the meat and cheese that Maelil gave them, stuffing them between two slices of bread for a makeshift sandwich.  He thought about another swig of firewater, but he would need his wits tonight.  He had learned when to quit.  Coru had just finished brewing up coffee.  Just in time.  She was a plump Eriadoran girl that been with the Houses for years now. Her hair was light brown and cut short, down the neck and she wore the gray nurse’s uniform with a white apron. She was quiet, mousy, always in the background but he had to admire her courage today.  When he said, hey, let’s go off into the woods and fight an ancient demon that drinks blood and rips people to shreds, she said ‘fine.’  Coru began passing out mugs full of the dark liquid. The smell alone was pure ecstasy. He chomped his meal down quickly and chased it with the coffee, then getting up to relieve the sentries.  “You guys go eat.  I got this for a while.”

He stood there, scanning out beyond the range of the lanterns, looking up and down for any sign of attack.  He figured that they would come from above but just how much warning would he even have.  The best hope was that the Blood-Wights could feel their siblings and sound an alarm.  But what about Thuringwethil?  Too many unknowns.

People were settling into the tents after, the cooking fire dying down to red embers, popping and crackling.  Valandil and another Guard stood at the other end of the camp, which was small enough to be able to stay in visual contact and the Blood-Wights took another corner with Elrond’s sons at the last.  At a larger tent, the cohort stacked their spears just outside for easy access.  He wished that he had a group of elite Raggers with him, but he had to make do, and these men here were brave, no doubt about it.  Either that or they were all fools for joining up.  Neldis walked up to him with a refill of coffee and had one for herself.  She handed it to him with a smile.  “What do you think our chances are?” she asked seriously.

“Honestly?” he said with a deep sigh, scratching his beard.  “Well, I want to tell you good, but I’m thinking slim.  You know, you never should have come on this.  You’ve just found a good life and…and we may never return. Or, I suppose that we could end up becoming more of that nut case vampire’s children.  How bad could that be?” he joked.  “Live forever, fly around naked.  What’s not to like?”

She giggled.  “No, I’m where I need to be.  So many people have given me so much.  How could I just shit on them and run away?  Trust me, I’m scared to death.  I want nothing more than to curl up in my bed in the Houses and have this all be a bad dream…well, a lot good and some bad.  But the bad is really bad.”

“You can say that again,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and then inhaling the aroma and warming his hands on the mug.

She drank a few sips, warming her hands as well and then wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders.  “You see, while much of me is filled with fear, it’s not fear of death.  A year ago, I would’ve welcomed it.  You don’t know how many times I wanted to jump off of the Iant Formen…have my body wash out to sea, never to be seen or heard from again.  People would think, hey, she escaped that life and is living high on the hog in Gondor,” she said with a sad chuckle.  “So, it was fear of living.”

“Well, the world would be poorer without you in it.”

She smiled.  “That is kind of you to say.  It was Îuldis who kept me from jumping…well, and I kept her from jumping too. I really miss her.  You know, I like that elf lady,” she said, changing the subject.  “She gets me. Nirnadel told me about how Sauron and her sister forced her to kill children and prostitute herself to grow Sauron’s minions.  I had it bad, but that…that is…I don’t even have the words.  If she can survive that, shit, I can survive anything.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to have you all out here with me,” he said, making eye contact.  He paused for a moment and then looked away to take another drink.

She took a breath, continuing, “When I had finally made it into Tharbad from the Shanty Town, which cost me just about all of the money that I had, I was squatting in an abandoned house on the North Bank.  Just a bunch of teens there like me.  Snow was falling in through a hole in the roof, and we all huddled together for warmth.  My dress was rags by that time.  I…ummm…got together with guy named Thang, just for warmth, really.  But he had a girlfriend, Sulwen, nasty bitch.  Threw me out on my ass in the snow.  Yeah, she never blamed him.  Well, they ran with a gang in the Shanty Town that would ambush travelers.  Never saw them again though.  I heard half of them were slaughtered by some soldiers returning from the war.  Nial and Eudail-”

“Did you say, Nial and Eudail?” he asked, thinking.  She nodded. He could have sworn he heard the names before.  Oh yeah. “Aww, shit, Valandil and I killed them. We were the soldiers returning from the war.  Firiel was with us.”

She put her hand over her mouth. “Well, I’ll be.  Small world.  Well, I went from abandoned house to abandoned house, spent my last coin on drugs. I just wanted to not think of how bad things were and they made me numb.  I thought about running back to the blacksmith but his son…oh, his breath and he…he…did things…I,” she shook, but this time it was in rage, not sorrow.

Mercatur put his hand on her shoulder and wrapped his cloak around her.  “When we’re done here, you give me his name and location.  I’ll do things.”

She nodded.  “I’ll do just that.”  She took a long drink of coffee.  “And by then, I was hooked on the drugs.  Hey, you know, those are the very drugs we use at the Houses.  They’re all illegal except for medicinal use.  Funny how something so dangerous can also be helpful. So, with no money…I used my body to get more.  Leave this world mentally…pretend it was all fine while I walked around like the undead, drooling on myself.  Funny thing, this one guy does me in a back alley for Gort and then he tells me he can get me cleaned up, work at Artan’s, I’m so beautiful and all that.  Well, the rest is history.”

He rubbed her back.  “Well, you’ve heard my tale.  Bargeman on the Gwathló.  Hauling cargo and barfights were my life until I came across Captain Telchanar and he said I would make for a good mercenary.  Dad had dispossessed me so I figured, why the hell not?  I spent ten years running up and down the Dunnish Track, escorting caravans, raiding caravans, defending towns, sacking towns. Yeah.  You know Hirgrim?  He and I have fought together and against each other a dozen times.  In Rhudaur, your enemy of today is your friend tomorrow…and the other way around.  It’s almost nothing personal.  We see each other on the opposing side and try not to kill each other.”

“That sounds…absolutely crazy.  I’m a Cardolan girl through and through.  I don’t get this Rhudauran shit.”

“Once the kingdom fell apart, it’s mostly tribes and mercenaries out here.  So that’s me.  Just a jumped up bargeman in a uniform that’s too big for him.”

Corporal Parven and another mercenary came up to them and saluted, fists on their chests.  “We’re here to relieve you, captain.  You get some rest and have a good night, both of you,” the corporal said. He was a stocky, swarthy kid, likely in his early 20s with a brown beard that was little more than peach fuzz.  The other kid looked like he was barely into his teens.

He patted them on the back.  “Stay frosty, lads.  Alquanessë thinks that they’ll hit us early morning.  I’ll be back up by then.”

They headed to the tents, him tossing what little coffee he had left.  “Thank you, Neldis.  I enjoyed our talk.  Just a pair of poor, lost souls, making their way.”  He turned to go.

She stopped him, pulling his hand. She pulled his head down to her and kissed him.

“What was that for?” he asked, narrowing one eye.

She paused a moment.  “I haven’t been with a man since I left Artan’s.  I just want it to be my choice now.  I know that you’re in love with Nirnadel…I mean, who isn’t?  Dammit, I love her too.  I don’t know. Maybe I’m stupid.”

He cocked his head.  “Uh, how did you know?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “Shit, Merc, I see the way that you look at her, the way that your voice softens when you speak to her.  We ladies see this, you know.”

He shorted out a soft chuckle. “Damn, I thought you were a mind reader like Alquanessë.  Well, it’ll never be,” he said with a shrug.  “She’ll become Queen of Cardolan and marry King Araphor of Arthedain and reunite the two kingdoms and I’m just a former bargeman, sweating for a living.”

She tugged his hand again.  “No, not just a former bargeman but a captain of mercenaries, a man who risks all for his friends and wins battles.  You held me by the shoulders and burst into the quarantine room, knowing that you couldn’t leave and would get the curse because you had to help Firiel and make it right.  I saw you with Îuldis, the way you helped her, the way that you wept when she passed.  The way that you reacted, when you thought Firiel was gone…Nirnadel holding you.  I saw it all,” she said in a soft voice full of empathy.

“I was just being kind, that’s all,” he lied.  “You don’t know what I am, deep down.”

Well…just give me this one night to feel something because we may not get another,” she gazed up into his eyes, hers full of pain and sadness, but also longing and hope.  She straightened her back and performed a well-practiced curtsey, almost ready for the Cardolan Royal Court.  “Tomorrow, we go into Blogath’s lair.  Only one side will leave.  So, you can pretend that I’m her.  I praythee, good sir, if you would kindly indulge a lady one small favor, I would be most appreciative,” she said in a decent royal accent.

He gave her a sly grin.  Did he even see this coming?  It didn’t matter.  “You don’t have to pretend, Neldis.  I like you just the way you are,” he said, letting her pull him to the tent.  “You’re smart, a wisecracker, edgy…I like that.  We mesh.  I could talk to you for hours and never run out of things to say.  Nirnadel…she’s out there.  It’s like…it’s like trying to get to the moon,” he said, pointing upwards. “Alquanessë would be like trying to get to the sun, it’d be hot, but you’d end up fried, or like screwing that Varda woman or whatever her name is.  Neldis, you’re down to Middle Earth like me.”

They went inside the tent where Jaabran was snoring.  She pushed him down on the cot.  “Oh, shut up, you big dumb mercenary,” she said as she pulled off her stained nurse’s apron.  She slid on the cot next to him and hiked up her simple dress and then undid his belt.

He pointed his thumb at Jaabran and gave her a quizzical look.  “Umm?”

“Merc, I’ve umm, been in a room full of people when customers asked for that.  One sleeping almost priest doesn’t bother me.”  She yanked his breeches down.  “Your still having armor on isn’t a big deal either.  Had that before.  Full plate, even.  Tough to reach.  And I know you have to get up and fight at any minute.”  She held him for a moment and then bent over him.  “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

He tried to laugh, but stifled it, groaning instead.  “Go gentle on me,” he said with a smirk.  “It’s been a while.”

Neldis giggled.  “I never thought I would ever say the same thing.”

How strange was this…being with someone he actually cared about without money changing hands.  His thoughts quickly dissolved as she climbed onto him. Now, he was worried about waking Jaabran.  Oh screw it. He wouldn’t care.  Mercatur opened his eyes and thought he’d see Nirnadel, but he only saw Neldis.  She leaned down on his chest, her black hair brushing on him, tickling his face, the sweet smell of lilac mixed with a little sweat and dirt from the day’s travel.  He grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her back a bit.  “Let me see you.”

She made a faraway smile, eyes closed as he grabbed her waist and pulled her tight.  How did he miss this?  He was looking at the stars when something was right in front of him.  She pulled her dress down from her shoulders and he gazed at her as she rocked back and forth.  Time seemed to stand still.  It was like the music, floating in his head, building, intense.  He dug his nails into her waist, and she moaned in satisfaction, still looking up, eyes dreamy.  She threw herself onto his chest again, panting, quivering as he shook, squeezing her body with his hands.  Their breathing merged, becoming one.

She pushed hair out of her face, gazing at him through dangling tresses.  “Thank you,” she said, breathlessly, just above a whisper.

He snorted, gasping for air.  “Why are you thanking me?  I think you owe me a gold crown.  I’m cheap.”

She snickered, still rocking on him. “Nah, you’re only worth five silver.”

“Make it five silver and five bronze and you have a deal.  I think I should’ve negotiated price first.”

She slapped him playfully.  She sucked her teeth and gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, I did all of the work. But eh, I’m rolling in gold so done. Delivery comes in two weeks.”

He rolled her to the side and slid his arm under her neck and pulled her close.  Her warmth, her scent, he was…happy.  At least, right now he was.  He could hear Jaabran still snoring.  Thank Manwë for small favors.  “Can we stop time right here?” he asked.

“I don’t know, I was hoping for back fifteen minutes.  Oh, wait a minute,” she began with a sly grin.  “You’re the Mal’azaud, that Jaabran was warning us about?  I should have listened.  Too foggy, I never saw you coming.”

A sleepy voice sounded from the other cot.  “That’s why we want to be in the Sîrayn Desert.  Now please, go Mal’azaud someplace else or keep it down.  The mercenary needs some sleep.  You’re giving him nightmares.”

Neldis’ mouth opened wide and then she covered it with both hands.  They both burst into uncontrollable laughter.  He felt like a kid again, safe, cared for.  It felt…weird.

Jaabran raised his hand in what Mercatur thought would be an obscene gesture, but he only raised his index finger. “Blessed Tayee, Master of Sands, dreamed and from his slumbering thoughts the world was created.  Now Tayee can’t make shit if he’s not slumbering so please let Tayee make shit.”

Mercatur and Neldis snuggled on the cot as Jaabran went back to snoring.  Maybe there was something to this settling down nonsense.  He knew that he shouldn’t get his hopes up though.  Life had a way of knocking you down when you were standing high.  Eh, it was time to get some shut eye.  The Blood-Wights would make sure he was up for last shift.  Then, tomorrow, they would dare to challenge a Maia.

As he dreamed, he could sense something pushing along the edge of his consciousness, like fingers probing his memories.  He shuddered and his mind went to the golden mist that floated above the lap harp.  He sighed and the probe lessened and faded into nothing.  Someone shook him awake.  It was Finculion.  “Get ready,” the elf said.  “They’ll be coming soon.  We can feel it.”

He extricated himself from Neldis and rocked her awake.  “Hey, it’s time.  Get with Coru and prep for casualties.”  It was still dark with the sound of crickets.  The air was moist, likely ready to rain.  By the time he was a teen, he could tell the upcoming weather just by feel.  It was always something that served him well in Rhudaur.  In Cardolan, the air was screwed up, but here.  This was his home and nobody messed up his home.  He went to pick up his axe, but something held him back.  “Neldis, you gotta let me go get ready.”  He looked back at her, and she shook her head.

“Not me.  You gotta pull your pants up, tough mercenary.”

He looked down and groaned, rolling his eyes and yanking his breeches up.  “What you do to me,” he said with a sigh.  He turned back and kissed her and then picked up his barbute helmet.  “I’ll be right out here.  Be ready.  I don’t know what they’re gonna do.  If we have to retreat, go east, remember.”  He had a million other things to say, but now was not the time.

He walked out to the smoldering cooking fire, where Alquanessë and Silmarien stood, eyes searching the night. The elf gestured to the north.  “I feel them.  Not just Blogath and Balisimur…others…a lot.  I don’t…I don’t feel Thuringwethil though,” she said softly, eyes never moving from the night sky.

Silmarien held up her staff slowly. “When they attack, I’m going to clear the fog and light up every torch and lantern in the camp.  It’s only temporary but it’ll give us an edge up front.”

He looked back to see the men of the cohort coming out of their tent, grabbing spears.  The sons of Elrond were already at the flanks, ready to fight and Valandil had the Guard up and armored in their silver plate.  Jaabran came out in his red and gold lamellar coat, gold-colored scales, interlaced together for better protection.  He put his turbaned helmet on with the chainmail aventail rolled up over his eyes.  Dagar was with Neldis and Coru, holding the crossbow that Mercatur gave him back on the waenhosh.

Alquanessë tapped him on the chest. “I suggest that you deploy your men to the northeast.  They’re coming.  Two in the air and many on the ground.  If need be, we’ll take to the sky to keep them off of you."

Mercatur raised his hand.  “Cohort to the northeast!  Line of battle!  Lock shields! Guard, protect their flanks!”  Corporal Parven rushed ahead and put the tip of his sword on the ground and the dozen men ran up along the imaginary line and held their spears at the ready with a shout.  Everyone peered out into the foggy night, waiting for battle.

“Here they come!” Parven called out as crazed tribesmen climbed over the wooden palisade, followed by shambling corpses, pale and drained of blood.  Dagar and Mercatur fired crossbow bolts, striking tribesmen, knocking them back over the wall. The Guard followed with four bolts, unable to miss with the mass of enemy coming over and arrows struck true from the sons of Elrond.  Some tribesmen fell over screaming and holding their feet as they stepped on caltrops left by Hirgrim.  Others fell into shallow pits, filled with spikes.  Parven made a downward chop and spears stabbed into bodies with a battle cry. The tribesmen beat on the shield wall, but spears pulled back and thrust again with a shout.  Bodies began to pile up in front.  Even the crazed attackers paused.  This would be no easy win for them.  The fog hurt and helped both sides.  It was hard to know who was who and where anyone was.  You had to be careful.

Mercatur reloaded his crossbow, scanning the sky which was mostly just damn fog.  He wanted to wade in with his axe, but he knew what was up front was just a distraction.  He heard shrieks overhead.  Alquanessë and Finculion cast off their robes and leapt into the sky.  He could just make out the two slamming into Blogath and Balisimur, four bodies tumbling through the air.  Alquanessë raked her claws down her sister’s side and they screeched at each other like angry birds.  Blogath pushed her palm out and a shockwave threw her sister spinning away, but Alquanessë unfurled her wings, stabilized and then charged right back.  Blogath knocked her away and then dove at the ground, ripping one of the cohort into the air, blood streaming down from the limp body. This was like when Gamrid was killed. This was the Tirthon all over again. Mercatur felt his nerves wavering as he fired another bolt.

Finculion and Balisimur faced off, a black hand and a half sword in Finculion’s hands and a great two-handed maul held by his brother.  This was like a battle of the gods.  Flying, they circled for advantage, probing cuts and strikes to see any weakness. Finculion was fast, almost a blur, but one hit from Balisimur’s maul and it would be over.

The cohort was stunned by the attack from Blogath, and another man was seized and pulled away from the shield wall, daggers rising and falling on his chest as tribesmen tore him apart.  Hirgrim rushed in, eket and dagger, slicing and stabbing in a futile attempt to save the soldier.  Someone grabbed the ranger from behind and a dagger rose, but Mercatur shot a bolt into the attacker’s eye.

Silmarien came by with one of the metal cannisters.  “Show me your axe!” she called.

He took it from his belt and held it out. “Hey, we just met.  You think I’m that easy?”  Weapons had been drawn.  This was his element now.

The mage put a few drops of the silver paste on the cutting edge.  “I know you’re that easy.  Now, go fight!”  She ran over to the Guard and the others, putting a few drops on each weapon.  “Glȃncala!” she called, invoking an incantation, and pounded her staff into the ground.  With a snap, the fog evaporated and all of the torches and lanterns flared up, casting the whole camp into light.  The defenders were ready and covered their eyes while the tribesmen winced and even some of the corpses collapsed, twitching.  Spears and swords struck the blinded enemy.

Blogath dove on the mage, snarling. Silmarien was too powerful to leave alive.  But a gull-feathered arrow sank into the vampire’s chest, and she howled in pain, spinning away as Silmarien put her staff out, a beam of light engulfing the Blood-Wight, who writhed in agony.  “Fagwaer!” she called out and Blogath’s skin sizzled, smoking.  Alquanessë then slammed into her sister, and they spun to the ground, hitting a tree and then falling into the grass, swan and falcon wings flapping wildly.

Finculion and Balisimur tumbled to earth, crashing into the ground with a thud!  Raven and eagle wings were tangled up together as the two rose, brandishing weapons.  Wings folded in as the older brother swung his maul into a tree, shattering the trunk. Finculion darted around as the tree began to fall and cut Balisimur deeply down the arm.  Blood sprayed down but with a howl, the older brother held his arm out and the wound faded into nothing.  Finculion spun around to the other side of the falling tree, but Balisimur was ready and struck him in the face with the butt of the maul, knocking him back into the trunk as the branches collapsed on him.

Mercatur charged into the horde of undead, likely slaves created by Thuringwethil for her bidding, poor people kept barely alive and forever in need of blood to keep their horrid existence going.  With the Silima, his weapon clove through them like butter, the blade sizzling as it passed through undead flesh.  Mithril longswords from the Guard stabbed and sliced in a coordinated effort, piling up bodies in front of them.  These tribesmen and the undead were Macha Mur, from Lumban’s people.  They were here for vengeance too.  Mercatur slew their leader at the Tirthon.

Alquanessë flew up and landed beside him, tearing the head off of an attacker.  “The Tirthon is under attack!  Thuringwethil is after Nirnadel!  The Princess is her prize, I have to go!”

How did he not see that coming?  “Go!  Go!  We’ll hold here,” he commanded and then landed his axe into a tribesman’s face as she flew off.  Blood sprayed onto him, and he snarled as he saw Balisimur moving to finish Finculion off.  There was nothing that he could do for Nirnadel except focus here and finish the job. He swept up his crossbow and put a bolt square in the enemy Blood-Wight’s back.  It groaned, arching its back, eagle feathers forming and fading as it turned and growled at him, rows of razor teeth flashing.

Balisimur stomped towards him, crushing a mercenary with his maul, one blow leaving a bloody paste on the ground. Sergeant Cedhron moved in and sliced the Blood-Wight on the flank with his longsword.  The vampire shrieked, looking skyward in agony.  The sergeant pulled his sword back for a thrust, but Blogath flew by and ripped him off of the ground, sinking her fangs into his neck, shredding his helmet.

“No!” Mercatur cried and put a crossbow bolt into Blogath’s gut, and she tumbled to the ground, Cedhron’s body slamming down nearby.  He was gone. Finculion tackled Balisimur, claws tearing each other to pieces.

Hirgrim grabbed him by the arm.  “Mercatur, we need to fall back east!  We’ll head back to the Tirthon!”

He shook his head and pointed to the vale.  “No, this ends now!  I’m going into the temple.  Follow me or don’t!”

Hirgrim groaned but nodded.  He already had a good gash down one cheek, just another scar for his collection.  “Fine, let’s go.”

Mercatur circled his axe over his head. “This way, follow me!” he yelled. “Dagar, this way, bring them this way!” His friend slung his crossbow and ushered the two nurses to him.  The three remaining Guard didn’t miss a beat.  Valandil had them tighten the line, slicing and stabbing between their shields in a controlled manner.  Though their friend and sergeant was gone, they continued to move slowly back to screen the retreat of the cohort, who was beginning to waver.  “Stay behind us!” Valandil ordered Corporal Parven.  “We’ll cover you!”

Mercatur and Jaabran then hit the attackers from the flank, slicing off arms and cutting flesh, any undead sizzling from the Silima.  The Macha Mur fled back and there was a break in the fighting as Elladan and Elrohir jogged up to them, trying to pick up any arrows that may have fallen.  They made the enemy pay dearly, but none of that mattered while the three vampires still flew.

They moved slowly east, Hirgrim tossing caltrops behind them as the fog rolled back in and the torches faded.  A light rain started and then intensified. The ranger made a hand signal for south and put his hand over his mouth as if he were yelling, then he moved his hand to the north and nodded.  Mercatur understood.  He and Hirgrim played this game many times in the woods when they fought with and against each other.  Jaabran smiled as Mercatur waved everyone deeper into the line of trees.

“Fall back to the Tirthon!  Fall back to the Tirthon,” Jaabran commanded. “Good order now!”

Mercatur and Hirgrim kept herding people east and then north, away from the Tirthon, Elladan and Elrohir guarding the back of the line.  “Finculion’s drawing them away too,” the elves whispered and took a knee, bows trained back at the enemy, rainwater pouring down their faces.  Angry howls sounded from the camp as the tribesmen headed south after phantom prey.  The captain slapped the ranger in the chest with the back of his hand.  “Good call.  I remember I had you running in circles last time we met though,” he whispered.

Hirgrim scoffed.  “Come on.  A mercenary outsmarting a ranger in the woods?  Give me a break.  I keep telling you Cagh and I had to make it look good.  If I took you out, who’d I have left to fight every other year?”

Neldis huddled down next to them.  “What is it with this, fight you one year, hug you the next thing in Rhudaur?  I don’t get you rock heads.”

They both snickered.  “Looks like they all headed south.  Time to make for the vale,” the captain said.  “We finish this tonight.  I just hope Alquanessë makes it in time to help Nirnadel.  If we can get to that altar before they find out, maybe…”

Silmarien came up next, having put a few wards on the ground in their wake.  “Well, unless our Blood-Wights rejoin us, I’m the only one who can destroy it so I’m going to need a good escort.  And I think they’re going to know the moment we enter the sanctuary.  I know I would set glyphs there.”  She peered through the trees to the north.  “Yeah, there’s the vale.  Come on.  Nobody goes rushing in until I’ve looked at the entrance.”  She wiped her face of water and then beckoned with her hand.  “This ends tonight.”

Chapter End Notes

I thought I'd throw a new direction into the romance angle.  But who knows where any of this will lead?

Leave a Comment

51) The Tirthon - Ivanneth (September) 16^th, 1410

Nirnadel

Corporal Riston went out into the hall of the Tirthon and banged on the door to the healer’s quarters.  “Firiel!  Elanoriel! We need to move.  Captain Baranor is mustering with the cohort and the cooks. Hurry please!”  The door flew open and Firiel came out, slinging her robe over her night slip.

“Hurry, people, hurry,” she said as Omah, Vicri and Jonu led the way out, carrying as much of the supplies as they could hold.  Kaile led the ladies over there to help, slinging packs over their shoulders.  The stewards looked at each other and then jumped in, hauling both the royal items and the healers’ kits.  Everyone pitched in.

“Is everyone here?” Riston called out.  “I need a head count before we move.”

It took less than three seconds before Firiel answered, “All here!”  She knew her staff.

Nirnadel searched amongst her people as she put little Gîliel into her saddle pouch, followed by the mother cat.  “Six stewards, Galadel, Kaile…Anariel.”  She almost looked for Éanfled, the other woman having been back for so long and was part of the household again.  “All here, good corporal.  Let us move.”  He led them down the steps where they could already hear fighting and stomachs tightened. They rushed into the rainy yard of wet grass where the cohort was split into four maniples, spears out and stabbing into a wave of enemy.  The Guard held their flank, the Thangail shield wall stopping the tribesmen cold.  Baranor stood in the center with his poleaxe, wielding it with deadly effect.  Bodies were already piling up in front of them.  By the pond, Maelil was having the cooks and other camp followers hook wagons to oxen, much of it being prepared last night.

Baranor shouted to Sergeant Fendir, “Prepare to fall back! Keep them away from the royal party!” He thrust the tip of his poleaxe into an attacker’s mouth and then chopped another in the neck with the axe blade. The stewards held the horses for the royal ladies, and they mounted while Nirnadel drew her anket, or longsword and looked around, the visor of her sallet helm raised.  The stewards mounted, weapons drawn, many of them looking terrified.  For all of the descriptions that she had heard of the event, this was feeling a lot like Tyrn Gorthad of 1409.

The left flank of the cohort was under heavy pressure, shields being torn down and the enemy trying to leap over to attack from behind. Sergeant Fendir rushed over there and charged into five tribesmen, swinging his thick falchion and smashing with his shield.  His weapon was like a meat cleaver and a machete put together.  Nirnadel looked back.  “Galadel, Angion, Mindolinor, the flank may break if we do nothing.  Follow me!” she yelled and slammed her visor down over her face and she spurred her palfrey forward.  Fendir had dropped two of his attackers, but a spiked club landed on his spangenhelm, knocking the visor away and putting a dent in his helmet.  He dropped to one knee, one hand holding his head.  The three tribesmen moved to finish him, but Nirnadel rode by, lopping the hand off of one.  Galadel thrust the point of her eket into another man’s chest and Angion slammed a mace into the head of the third.  They barely slowed down as Fendir rose to his feet, waving his thanks.

The Princess wheeled her horse about, facing right into the rear of the enemy attacking the cohort.  Fendir was trying to have that maniple disengage to keep up with the retreat, but the tribesmen were savage, not letting go.  Pale corpses shambled up now, drained of blood, but howling in pain and hunger.  There was no time to think.  Nirnadel pointed her sword forward and put spurs to horse.  “Charge!”  Her palfrey bolted ahead, followed by the others.  They slammed into the enemy line from the rear, bodies being thrown about by the impact.  Nirnadel looked down and saw a man who was ghostly white, fang marks on his neck where blood dribbled down.  He looked surprised and then seemingly pleaded for her to kill him.  Her sword came down.  The others crashed into the enemy, scattering them about, giving time for the maniple to disengage.  A spear came up, and she deflected it away, slicing the attacker from neck to cheek.

Angion smote one of the undead on top of the skull with his mace, splattering it.  Then, his horse reared and he fell to the ground, rolling away before the horse collapsed on him.  Nirnadel and Mindolinor hacked around themselves, keeping them off of Angion.  Madron of the Tanner’s Guild charged up and leapt off of his horse, swinging wildly to save his friend.  Two of the pale undead seized the boy and pulled him down, sinking their fangs into his neck.  Mindolinor stabbed one in the face as Nirnadel cut into the other’s neck.  Galadel pulled Angion onto her own horse and they rode away as the young steward yelled back, “No, Madron!  No!” his arm stretched back in a futile gesture.

The tanner lay there, eyes open, blood trickling down his lips.  But the maniple had separated from the attack, marching backwards while the enemy regrouped.  The Guard mounted up and Baranor rode up to the Princess.  He raised his finger to chastise her but just shook his head. “You know what I was about to say, but you have too much of Prince Thôrdaer’s bravery and too much of Prince Braegil’s curiosity.  And it damn well saved the left flank.  I’m sorry you lost a man.  Leadership is sacrifice,” he said, knowing her pain and ushering the group together. “I’ll help you mourn later but we need to be focused now.”

Nirnadel looked over to Angion as Mindolinor held him back. The big weapon smith struggled to break free to rescue his dead friend.  Nirnadel rode over and put her hand on his shoulder from above.  “I’m so sorry, Angion.  Let us honor his sacrifice.  He died so that we will survive.”  Her words felt hollow to her, but she meant them sincerely.  Haedorial rode up from behind and touched her arm, his face full of empathy.

Fendir came up as they continued down the south road.  “Highness…Lady Galadel…lads, you saved my life and my men. I won’t forget it.  I’m sorry about your friend.  We’ll avenge him.”  He had a gash across the bridge of his nose from the hit he took on the helm.

This one hurt.  People had died around her and for her and that was horrid enough.  But this one…Madron of the Tanner’s Guild was because of her.  She led the charge, reckless, poorly thought out and he died.  She grabbed the pommel of her saddle, squeezing it hard, hiding her pain beneath the visor of her helm.  Here youthful naiveite had her thinking that this would be easy, but it was anything but.  

Well, any other worries that she had would have to wait. The enemy had reformed and were closing in again.  The Guard drew crossbows while on horseback.  “Fendir!” Baranor shouted.  “Pin them here!  We’ll be nearby.  Watch your flanks, they outnumber us!”

The sergeant nodded, raising his falchion.  “Back into line!  Three ranks, three ranks!  I want some depth!  Form an arc to protect our people!”  They formed a semi-circle to guard the healers and camp followers.  Life would be pretty meaningless if they let their families be killed here.  Firiel lobbed arrows with her shortbow as the nurses kept a watch over the wounded.

Nirnadel and those on horseback rode after the Guard as they appeared to retreat to keep the Princess safe, but they maneuvered around the enemy again.  She searched the group, seeing Galadel right behind her, Angion, Mindolinor and Ethirdir was mounted last, sitting awkwardly on his horse.  Why did he come along?  He could barely ride or fight.  Kaile had stayed with the nurses to keep assisting there.

Javelins and slingstones flew at the cohort’s shields, thunking sounds ringing out from the impact on the wooden wall.  Fendir cursed at the tribesmen, giving them an obscene gesture as the cohort rattled spears in defiance.  The enemy charged and Baranor gave the order to fire. Crossbow strings sang and bolts shot into the backs of the enemy.  The captain raised his laen sword and called, “Charge!”  Heavy warhorses sprang from the treeline and thundered ahead.  More enemy, previously unseen, rushed from the woods at them.  They would have to meet this new threat or be sandwiched between two forces.  “Oblique right!” the captain ordered and the horses angled straight into the new foe.

The charge of heavy warhorses was devastating, smashing into lightly armored tribesmen or weakened undead.  Bodies flew, some falling under the pounding of hooves. They sliced deep into the enemy horde, swords, axes and maces raining down from saddles.  Baranor’s laen sword easily cut through the leather armor or iron helmets that stood before him.  Several of the enemy had billhooks, a polearm that was originally a farming implement but had snags to pull down riders.  One hooked Corporal Riston and yanked him from the saddle.  Guardsmen leapt down to protect him and pull him away, but the momentum was lost against a numerous foe.

Nirnadel was cutting downwards, almost blindly. Anyone below her had to be an enemy. She drove her sword into a man’s head, the blade slicing through skin and bone.  Through her visor she saw the man’s face, one eye destroyed, one wide open in horror as he sank down.  She stared for a second until someone grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly from the saddle. She felt herself fall into mud as rain poured down and her horse started kicking.  She punched someone in the face with her gauntleted left hand, hearing a groan and then thrust her sword into another man’s gut.  This wasn’t fencing, it wasn’t even fighting, it was just savage survival.

One man swung a mace down and she raised her left arm to block it, the spiked ball impacting on the mithril vambrace over her forearm.  PANG!  She grunted from the blow and tried to rise, slipping in the mud.  Galadel’s eket struck the man’s head and he keeled over. Nirnadel looked up and gave a fist pump of thanks.  She looked around, seeing Mindolinor and Ethirdir dismounted, fighting off multiple attackers trying to get to her.  The bard was holding his own, parrying and riposting furiously, maneuvering to keep them at bay, but Ethirdir was swinging wildly, tiring himself out.  The Princess moved slowly, trying to keep her footing.

One pale undead dove and took Ethirdir’s legs out from under him as another piled on, dagger raised.  Nirnadel drove the point of her sword through the attacker’s neck and then slashed the one at Ethirdir’s legs.  She pulled him up by the collar, “Get behind me!  Galadel, where are you?”  Seeing through the visor was not the easiest thing.

Tribesmen pushed forward, hissing and snarling and Nirnadel held her sword out in the Longpoint Guard to keep them back.  Just one line of men and she could get to Baranor, but it was more than she could handle.  She no longer felt fear though, just fury.  She let out a bloodcurdling cry and inched forward through the mud when something flew into the line of attackers and two were gone.  She could have sworn that she saw Alquanessë streak by. A shriek sounded from above as the vampire dropped two corpses whose throats were torn out, her body covered in blood mixed with rain.  She pointed east and let out a honking sound like a swan.

Gull feathered arrows fell amongst the tribesmen and the undead and they fell in piles.  Galadel rode by with her horse and Nirnadel vaulted back into the saddle.  She scanned the road to the east and saw Lord Oswy, leading a troop of lancers with bows.  Gildor rode with them, firing a bow while standing in the saddle, three others riding behind him.  One of the riders was an old man clad in gray robes with a strange gray pointed hat, raising a staff as light shot forth, stunning the enemy and the undead ones shrieked in fear and ran.

Nirnadel breathed out a deep breath and raised her visor, looking around.  She made eye contact with Galadel and smiled, seeing how much blood coated the lady’s blade and that she was unharmed in her mithril shirt.  The hooves of Oswy’s lancers thundered by in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. She sheathed her longsword and then began to shake as the adrenaline wore off.  Her left arm ached now where she was hit.  This was getting to be a habit.

Baranor and Gildor rode up to her along with the others as Alquanessë landed nearby and walked up.  Gildor put his hand over his heart, a regretful look on his face.  “Your Highness, I apologize for my tardiness.  Thuringwethil had blocked the roads and had her minions slow us down.  She has been gathering forces in the area.”  He gestured back to the others.  “You already know my Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel.  This is Gandalf the Gray.”

The old man had a long white beard and white, prickly eyebrows, his eyes deep and intense.  He bowed curtly at the waist from the saddle.  “Your Highness, it is good to make your acquaintance,” he said in a rich baritone.  “I am pleased that you have survived the night.  We are here to assist you for this threat is a vast danger to all in the north.  Thuringwethil is a creature of immense power, and it will take all of our effort to destroy her.”

She put her fist over her chest in a knightly salute. “I have heard of you by reputation, good sir, and I welcome your assistance.  We have a party in the vale now and I hope that we can ride to their aid. I have many friends amongst them.”

He pursed his lips and nodded.  “Indeed, young lady.  I might suggest that your noncombatants return to the Tirthon for that will now be their best defense while we go forth.  But I must ask, how did you keep Thuringwethil from attacking you.  I don’t mean to be macabre, but all of you should be dead against her power.”

Nirnadel opened her saddle pouch and showed him the gray tabby mother and kitten, huddled in the fabric.  “She’s afraid of them for some reason, I don’t know why and…and I can talk to them.”

Gandalf pulled his chin in and gave her a second look. “Hmmm, extraordinary.  We shall have to speak after, Your Highness.  Now, come, let’s escort your people to shelter and then proceed to the vale.  We can water our horses and catch our breath for a few minutes.  I firmly suspect that we will need your cats though,” he added with just an edge of amusement.

The Princess couldn’t place it, but just hearing the old man’s voice was a comfort.  It was as if everything would be fine wherever he was.  She stood up in the saddle and waved to the camp followers. “All healers and camp followers, we will escort you back to the Tirthon where you will now be safe.  We have reinforcements who will help us to defeat this terrible threat!  Come with me, my people!”  The Guard and the cohort marched proudly alongside the noncombatants, getting them settled again.

Baranor rode up to her.  “Your Highness, I suggest that we leave the cohort and Oswy’s lancers here to guard them.  I don’t like you going one bit, but the guard will go with you.  We have powerful allies now and we need to end this.”  He reached out and they grasped hands. “You’ll be the death of me, Princess, but I cannot say just how proud I am of you.  Your family is surely looking down upon us with their blessings.”

She put a hand over her armored heart and gave him a misty smile.  “You don’t know how much that means to me,” she said and then held up her left arm. “And you saved me again.  I might not have this arm if not for your armor.”

He sighed and shook his head.  “Yeah, I saw.  About gave me a heart attack.”

Kaile tugged on her arm from below.  “Yeah, I saw too.  Now, you’re going to get down off of that horse and let me have a look, if you know what is good for you, young lady.”

Nirnadel swung her leg over the horse and hopped down.  “Oi love, you go’ a problem wi’ me minced pies, do you?  Ole Maelil’ll ‘ave a thing or two to say, methinks.”  She unstrapped her helm and sat on a bench.

Kaile snorted and shook her head as she pulled off the left gauntlet and undid the straps of the vambrace over the arm.  The cook came up with some drinks on a tray.  She put her cooking hat in the crook of her arm with a satisfied smile.  “Ole Maelil can tell you that ‘er ‘ighness’ minced pies’r just fine iffn you ask me. So, you just take me word for it now, love,” she said as she patted Kaile on the head with a confident nod.

Nirnadel winced as she giggled and Kaile examined the arm. “Oh, you have another good bruise.” She rubbed a poultice on it and handed her a vial of Mirenna Berry juice, which the Princess poured into her mouth. “I’ll bandage it up and tell you to rest, but I know you won’t.”  She then pointed to Maelil.  “And you, don’t encourage her.  I’m trying to get her to be more royal, and her accent is terrible.”

The cook gave a mock look of hurt.  “Awww love, I dunno, the lady sounds docktown born and bred to me. ‘er minced pies are just fine, right love,” she finished, holding a fist out to Nirnadel who bumped it back. “I’ll share me table wi’ you any days.”

Kaile strapped the armor back on and rolled her eyes. “You two are impossible!  Errrgh.”

The Princess pulled her gauntlet over her hand and nodded, raising her nose and putting her finger on her cheek.  “We do say, good Squire Kaile, that you attend your knight with care and understanding.  We praythee, do continue to serve her whilst We are away,” she said in a distinct Royal Accent.

Kaile shook her head.  “Oh no, Firiel, Elanoriel and I are coming with.  That’s all there is to it,” she blurted out with determination. “Jonu too.  There’ll be three nurses here with the wounded.”

Nirnadel became serious, her face somber as she remembered Madron’s last moments.  “Now I know how Baranor feels,” she said, feeling Madron’s death again.  “You will need to listen to the captain and he will keep you safe.  I’ve already lost one person of our house today.  I shan’t lose any more.”

She saw Baranor and wanted to speak with him, walking over as an arc of lighting shot through the sky to the north.  That was where Blogath’s vale was.  Thunder rumbled for a while after, and she felt squirming in her pouch.  The two poor cats were terrified.  “My friends, I am so sorry.  I’ll keep you safe.  You saved me, you know.  If you want, I will take you home with me after.”

The mother cat sniffed the damp air and then shook her head back and forth, shedding rain drops.  “Yes…friend…we save.”

She rubbed their heads.  “I will call you Calarmë, the Lamp.  You were my lamp.”  She closed the pouch again and waved to Baranor.  “Good captain, a moment of your time, if you please.”

He turned and nodded.  “The people are settled here.  Best we prepare to depart soon.  How’s your arm?”  He was speaking to her less as the Princess and more as one knight to another.  She remembered that this is how the Guard spoke with Thôrdaer.  It made her feel…needed.  She had always looked up to her brothers and, somehow, this connected her with them.

She shook her arm out.  “It has been well tended to.  I am ready but I wanted you to know that I understand you now.  When I lost Madron and my people were imperiled…it tore me apart.  I know why you worry.  I…I have been reckless.  I just wanted to let you know.”

He pursed his lips.  “I appreciate you saying that.  It hasn’t been easy.”  She put her hand on his and he smiled at her.  “I have to weigh my protectiveness with the fact that what you did was necessary. We might not be here if you hadn’t led that charge.  Fendir and those men…they’re alive because of you.  Now, shall we?”

Galadel brought her horse, and she swung up into the saddle, locking her feet into the stirrups.  The healers were ready to go, along with three of the stewards, Mindolinor, Angion and Ethirdir.  Haedorial was amongst them.  She looked at the young men and her bard.  “My friends, you do not need to make this journey.  The peril that we face is unlike any other.  I will think nothing less of you should you choose to remain.”

Haedorial reached out to her.  “My Princess, we do not need to, but we want to. Having seen you fight for our people, we cannot stand by and not support you.”

She was truly touched.  With such faith and devotion, how could they fail?  “Stay with me and always be near to Captain Baranor.  We will have great allies with us as well.  Find courage in your hearts.”  She walked her horse up to Ethirdir, giving him a curious look.  “Are you positive, my steward?  There will be no turning back.”

He blushed furiously, his ears turning red.  He looked down in shame.  “I…Your Highness, I have been a poor member of your household. I wanted to show you what a big man I was and I disgraced myself.  You risked your life for me in spite of that.  I am here…I am here to show you that I am not that boy anymore.”

She extended her hand and he took it.  “Then ride with me and help us to save Cardolan.”

He gulped hard and gave her a wan smile, wiping his nose. His face was red and determined.  “My sword is yours, my Princess.”

She looked to see that everyone in the party was mounted and ready.  Maelil handed Baranor a sack of biscuits and other rations.  Elrond, Gildor and Glorfindel led the way with Gandalf right behind them.  Baranor and the Guard followed with the Royal Household and the healers.  She looked back to see Sergeant Fendir with the cohort, standing tall with swords held in a salute.  She raised her gauntlet in a wave as Carvion, the orange cat leapt up into the saddle in front of her.  “Come…help,” he meowed.

Gandalf looked back and slowed his horse to let them catch up. “I see that they are talking to you, young lady,” he said, reaching out and rubbing Carvion behind the ear.  “Extraordinary,” he added, narrowing his eyes.  “Did you know that there was once a Queen of Gondor-”

“Berúthiel, yes.  Good Haedorial told me of the lore.”

“Hrmph,” the wizard snorted.  “Thunder stealer, I see,” he said to the bard with a wink. 

Haedorial laughed awkwardly.  “Well, good sir, we were able to determine that King Tarcil the Mariner’s wife was a Black Númenórean, Queen Aerondes who we believe came from the same city as Berúthiel.”

As they rode along, Gandalf took out a pipe and began filling it with weed, covering the opening with his hand to block the rain. “Hmmmm, I see.  And you would be correct.  You see, when I arrived here in Middle Earth, I came north with Saruman and Radagast, but our two associates went south and east.  Allatar?  Pallando? I forget which one went where now. Anyhow, he sent a lengthy report about Umbar and some of the surrounding lands.  There is a city, Rudhon, inland and south of Umbar.  That is the city in question.”  He touched the pipe and the weed glowed orange, a pungent smoke wafting up. “Now this may surprise you, but Berúthiel thrived back home.  The marriage was purely political, but I suppose that she could have been better to her hosts.  She behaved…poorly in Gondor.  However, she married again and Aerondes was a descendant of hers.  So, young lady, you are of her line, so it does not surprise me of your ability.  Good work, master bard.  I shall be sure to note your learning to Saruman.”  

Haedorial beamed with pride.  Nirnadel stroked Carvion as he pushed his cheek into her hand. “You hear that,” she said.  “Looks like we are meant to be together.”

Gandalf smiled, his eyes twinkling.  “And I would add that I knew Tarcil and Aerondes.  I was one of those who intervened and brought about an end to the civil war.  We facilitated the election that brought Tarcil to the throne.  I knew him when he was a sailor and knew that he was the right man.  He was wise beyond his years and reluctant to take the crown.  He was never meant to rule, but he accepted that role with grace as did his wife.  I suspect that you may be familiar with that feeling, young lady.”  He took a long puff and then handed the pipe to Haedorial. “And Aerondes, she was a light…a ball of fire from a hot land.  While Tarcil ruled and brought the Hiri to heel, she defined the culture of the realm, bringing high and low alike together.”  He gave her a wink.  “I suspect that you may be familiar with that as well.”

She nodded in agreement.  “I am indeed.  And I would invite your wisdom, dear wizard.”

He chuckled and then threw an acorn at Elron.  “My Lord Elrond, here is one amongst us that would welcome my wisdom,” he said seriously.

“Only when it is, indeed, wise, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf scoffed and rolled his eyes, his brows bristling under his wide-brimmed hat.  “Hrmph, how rude.  You don’t ignore advice, do you now, young lady?”

She put a hand over her mouth.  “I shall…decline to answer that, my dear Gandalf.”

He chuckled joyfully.  “Well, let me give you one piece of advice.  Do not interrupt an old man who is telling a story, even if you know the tale.  It hurts their feelings.”

She nodded, pursing her lips.  “I shall take your advice,” she said with a broad smile. His odd humor just had a way of dispelling the horror that awaited them.

Baranor pointed his thumb at her and made a slashing motion across his neck.  “What’s your secret?  Because I have nothing.”

Nirnadel made a pinching motion moving down from her chin to her chest.  “It’s the long white beard.  It just has this…this…thing, this wisdom,” she said, justifying it.  “I just want to listen.”

“Well, if that’s the secret, I’m buying one when we get home.”

What Gandalf said about Berúthiel gave her pause.  Everything that she heard about the woman was evil. The idea that she changed, or maybe that Gondor changed her, meant that some people could be redeemed…that there was hope for people.

They traveled through the night, probably half a day behind Mercatur’s expedition.  The pace that Gildor set was aggressive though and they would gain much ground, but it was still a large gap of time.  She thought about the peril that her friends were in, but it was unimaginable to her. She focused on seeing them again, a positive image in her mind.  She saw an inner glow coming from Gandalf, Glorfindel and Gildor, two of whom were Eldar, having seen the light of the Two Trees.  As horrifying as this venture was, their presence blanketed the troop with a sense of peace and safety.

She thought for just a moment about her interaction with Mercatur but it seemed irrelevant right now.  If there was a drug for this wholesome feeling, it was easy to see how someone could become addicted.  That led her mind to Neldis and the nurse’s story of poverty, addiction and degradation. How would she have fared if their lives were exchanged?  Nirnadel would not have survived.  This she was certain of.  She would have been a frozen body in the snow of the Shanty Town.  But how could she reduce such poverty and desperation in Cardolan so that these stories would be rare?  And she couldn’t ignore the comments about how alike they looked.  She could easily tell Galadel and herself apart for as well as she knew the lady.  But with Neldis, one really had to examine them closely.  A small mole on the back of the neck, one with slightly bigger earlobes, the Princess being a little more muscular, a tiny variation in the color of their eyes was about all that set them apart.  The differences were all in their behavior and mannerisms. Did her father…?  He did travel the kingdom frequently before she and her brothers were born.  And he did fancy himself a knight errant, much like Thôrdaer did and her brother made no secret of his dalliances in the countryside.  No, there was no chance.  But what if it were true, it would really change nothing except maybe her view of the late King.

At the front of the line, Gildor called a halt as Carvion meowed a warning.  The elf moved his hands, telling everyone to get off of the path and prepare.  Horses moved quietly into the treeline and the group dismounted.  Bows and swords were drawn, and the word was passed down that an enemy was approaching. There was a shriek that sent chills down spines and Finculion half ran, half flew down the path, turning to slice at his brother, Balisimur.  His black sword met the bigger vampire’s maul, sparks flying from the weapons where they clashed.  Blogath dove from overhead while their minions rushed down the path, trying to surround Finculion.  Blogath froze, mid dive, realizing that they had been ambushed.  Arrows and crossbow bolts shot from the woods, sinking into Dunnish tribesmen and undead, bodies falling where they had been struck.

Several arrows and bolts sank into Balisimur, and he howled in pain, hurling his maul at those in the woods.  It shattered the trunk of a large tree, throwing splinters of wood all around as Glorfindel and Elrond dodged away from the falling tree.  As tribesmen scattered, the male Blood-Wight seized one and slit the man’s throat, lapping up blood for power.  Blogath flitted about overhead, dodging anything that was shot at her.  She flapped her falcon wings hard, and the forest swayed at the vortex, leaves and dirt flying, blinding those below.

Gandalf thrust his staff upwards, and a light shone on Blogath, dissipating the howling wind.  She swatted away two arrows with her wings and then rolled downwards into a nosedive, veering away at the last second as people covered their faces. Alquanessë leapt up in pursuit, unfurling her swan wings.  Everything had happened so fast that Nirnadel could only watch, mouth open.

Gildor signaled an all clear and he crouched down, scanning the path and the woods ahead.  “The tribesmen are falling back after the Blood-Wights.  I’ll scout the path,” he announced and scampered along the treeline towards the vale.  Everyone else mounted and followed along at a distance, trusting the ranger to clear the way. Every so often, he would kneel, draw his bow and fire, and then continue on.  They would always pass a body wherever he had stopped.

The group came upon the damaged camp that was left by Mercatur’s expedition.  Gildor navigated a path around the traps where several dead men lay in spiked pits. It was pretty gruesome.  The ranger pointed off to the east.  “They retreated that way in good order.”  He then searched the ground, examining the bodies of friend and foe alike.  “Captain Baranor, come here please.”

Baranor rushed over and knelt down beside a body that was clad in silver plate armor.  He let out a groan and Nirnadel and Corporal Riston ran to him.  It was Sergeant Cedhron, his throat slit and his face white, his neck and chest covered in blood.  The Princess placed her hands on his chest, rocking back and forth.  He had guarded her for a long time.  “No, not him.  He was with me when I went out on the streets of Tharbad.”  She looked at the faces around her, her eyes wide in horror.  “He and Baranor are the reason that I am alive,” she cried, her voice cracking.  She was feeling the deaths of too many.

The captain let out a shuddering breath.  “I have known this brave knight since before I was married and my children were born.”  He closed the man’s eyes and folded his arms over his chest.  “Go with Eru my friend.  We will be back to guide you to your rest.”  He gestured to Riston and Nirnadel.  There was still duty to perform amongst the elite Guard, the Tirrim Aran, and it could not be ignored.  “Your Highness, if you would do the honors.  The position must be filled.”

Gildor and the others bowed their heads as Nirnadel held her sword up.  Though this would be the first time for her, she knew the ceremony.  She was there when her father and brothers had performed it. All Cardolani royals knew it.  The words were simple, but it was a tradition that dated back to the time of Arnor, one of dignity and gravitas, a pact among warriors.  “Sir Riston, corporal and Arequain of the Tirrim Aran, I promote you to the rank of sergeant within the esteemed membership.  May you hold the rank with honor, valor and integrity.”  She held her hand out and he kissed her gauntlet. “Do you have one who can fill your position?”

He nodded and pointed to another knight, the man removing his helm and kneeling.  “I am Sir Lanchanar, Your Highness.  I served under your father.”

She looked at Baranor and he nodded his approval.  “Sir Lanchanar, Arequain of the Tirrim Aran, I promote you to the rank of corporal within the esteemed membership.  May you hold the rank with honor, valor and integrity.”

He kissed her gauntlet.  “I shall, my Princess.  You have my word and my honor.”

Every day, Nirnadel was learning more and more about how to be a queen, and she would be the first ruling queen in the history of Cardolan or Arnor.  Even the law stated clearly that, only in the absence of a legitimate male heir could a woman rule the land.  The weight of over 1400 years of this Dúnedain realm was falling upon her shoulders.

Gildor waved them over to the east as Alquanessë landed nearby and limped over.  She had a black eye, nearly swollen shut and claw marks on her shoulder.  She cradled her left arm and groaned as Gildor steadied her, a concerned look in his eyes.  “You…you should have seen the other vampire,” she said in a voice full of pain but trying to make light.  “The bitch ran into the sanctuary.”  She extended her arms and the injuries faded into nothing to the sound of bones creaking and tendons snapping back into place.  She stretched her back and neck at impossible angles and then smiled.  “Oh, much better but that takes so much energy.” Her skin looked pale again, more ghostly than before.  Finculion came and braced her from the other side.  He too, was pale and looked diminished.  Nirnadel couldn’t help but look at his body, lean and muscular and he was well endowed.  She gasped and looked away, invoking the music of the Ainur in her mind.

“They went east,” Gildor continued, “hiding from pursuit as they chased Finculion.  Well done,” he told the Blood-Wight.  “That allowed them to turn north to the vale without being detected.  We are more than an hour behind and we must hurry.”  He led them towards the sanctuary, the land going downwards into an excavation and they could see discarded digging equipment near the path much like that at Lond Daer.  Burned trees could be seen through the dim moonlight that peeked around the clouds from time to time amidst the rain.  Another arc of lightning flew across the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.  Rain came down hard now, pelting them with heavy drops.

Elrond wiped his face as water poured from his hair. “Those trees were Huorns, living creatures that, in ancient times, the elves taught to speak.  These are two excavations, one from before the Fourteen O Nine War and one more recently.”

Gildor touched the ground where there were some footprints that were now being erased in mud.  “Our friends walked this way under an hour ago.  They’ve gone inside.”  The moon went back behind a cloud as another bolt of lightning crossed the sky.

Gandalf strode forward, his wooden staff held out, light shooting out like a lantern.  Everyone gathered at the entrance to Blogath’s Sanctuary.  Alquanessë moved next to him.  “Blogath and Balisimur are already inside, waiting for us with allies. Thuringwethil must be in there too for she will want to guard the altar.  If we can destroy it, we can cripple them.”

The wizard nodded.  “Then that is what we will do,” he said as he took a step into the sanctuary. 

Though Nirnadel had yet to wear it, the weight of the crown felt heavy with the lives of so many, and perhaps even the fate of the north on the line.  How would she be able to learn how to lead in the time before her coronation?  She could barely cope with the pain of losing people here.  How did her father and brothers deal with it?  Would she ever come close to measuring up?

CODEX:

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axe blade and a spike just below, facing in opposite directions.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a cleaver and a machete.  Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Arequain – Royal Knight.

Tirrim Aran – Royal Guard.

Chapter End Notes

The sword guard positions here and in previous chapters come from actual longsword guards from HEMA.  A little more world building and character development.  I want to expand on the Royal Guard, the Tirrim Aran.  I got some of the basic ideas and terms from the MERP module, Arnor.

Leave a Comment

52) Blogath’s Sanctuary - Ivanneth (September) 16^th, 1410

Mercatur

The air was definitely growing colder and the rain harder as they neared the entrance to the sanctuary.  There was an old, uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu as he stepped up on the landing that would lead down into the depths.  There was an old wooden walkway down that had long since rotted out, replaced by newer repairs done by Ethacali’s crew back in 1407. The last time he, Jaabran and Dagar came this way, they almost didn’t make it out alive.  While he had Valandil, Silmarien and her Silima with him, it would have been nice to have the friendly Blood-Wights to back them up.  At least they could feel when Blogath and Balisimur were near.  No one could tell when Thuringwethil would attack.  Having the sons of Elrond with them was a definite boon.  He wiped his face with an already damp rag and got a chill down his spine as he took the first step.

Silmarien was right beside him, shining the light from her staff down the stairs.  She recoated the weapons of the group with the silver substance after they wiped blood off of them.  “That’s one whole container down.  From this point on, use what you need because it won’t get any safer.”

At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a foyer that was crafted of black marble with silver veins that reflected Silmarien’s light. Hirgrim bent down and scanned the floor. “The dust was disturbed recently. We may have a reception waiting for us ahead.  I’m sure glad I didn’t come with you the last time.”

“Well, you’re here now so that makes us all idiots,” Mercatur quipped.

Dagar tapped the floor with the tip of his mithril eket. “It’s twice now for good Mercatur, Jaabran and I so we’re all double idiots.”

“Let’s just make sure that we’re living idiots when we’re done,” Silmarien added, her breath now steaming in the chill.  She rubbed her weapon arm with the other to ward off the cold.  “We’re going to be alright.  We’ll be alright,” she said with very little confidence.  She walked over to a set of black double doors with red flecks, bloodstone. “There was a ward here, placed by an Easterling mage, but it was defeated recently.”

“That would have been Ethacali,” Dagar told her.  “He died in the temple when he brought the roof down on himself, Blogath and Balisimur.  I don’t know who could have defeated the ward though.”

She pushed it open with Mercatur covering ahead with his crossbow and then stuck a wooden doorstop to keep the doors from closing behind them.  She then drew a rune on the stone with her staff.  This led to a central hall with high ceilings where the walls and floor were also a mix of black marble and bloodstone.  Everything of value here had long ago rotted into dust or been looted. The captain aimed his weapon to the right.  “This way. There’ll be a stairway going down to the temple,” he said, the memory of this place crashing into him.

They began to turn that way when shimmering shapes emerged from the left wall.  They appeared ghastly, ghosts with rotting flesh, eyes and noses missing, skeletal frames shambling towards them with rusted or broken weapons.  Mercatur fired a bolt, but it went right through one with just a whiff.  Valandil sliced at another with his Silima coated longsword and it burst into dust. Dagar and Jaabran followed by stabbing two others and they, too, burst dramatically.

“Get to the stairs!” Mercatur commanded as he chopped one with his axe.  Silmarien swept her staff around, shattering four more, bone dust gathering on the ground. Covered by the captain and the sons of Elrond, they retreated as more of these specters floated from the walls, pushing them to the stairway down.  There were just too many to fight hand to hand.  When they crossed the room, the ghosts ceased their attacks and faded back into the marble.  “We’re being herded,” the captain said with a sour grunt.

Elladan nodded.  “Indeed.  There are forces here, most foul.  I feel a power so immense that I cannot comprehend it.”

“They have been feeding, growing in strength,” Elrohir added. “If we cannot stop them here, there may be no stopping them but for all of might in Imladris.”

On the wall to the stairs golden runes appeared in the Tengwar script.  Mercatur couldn’t read it, so he looked at Silmarien.  “It’s in Quenya,” she said.  “She’s…she’s welcoming us as family.”  A shiver spread through the group.

“Well, the bitch better have a roast turkey ready because that’s how you greet family,” Mercatur said sarcastically.

“And all of the fixings,” Dagar added.  “I’m accepting nothing less than cranberry sauce and stuffing. That’s how I greet family.”

“But you simply must have Gariig pie, coated with Cashdir flower glaze,” Jaabran stated proudly, kissing his fingers.  “A delicacy in Greater Harad.”  There was a brief chuckle in the group before the feeling of darkness returned.

They began to creep down a long hallway as it grew more chill with every step.  Even Silmarien’s light and those of any lanterns seemed to gradually dim.  They could feel Blogath’s power growing with every foot, tendrils of mental energy searching for them, probing for weaknesses. It was like a mental fog.  Mercatur tried to play the music in his mind but was finding focusing difficult.  He shook his head vigorously and then looked back at the group, the men of the cohort now bringing up the rear.  “Corporal Parven, do a head count,” he said gruffly.

The corporal looked back, counting on his fingers.  “Uhh, we’re missing one, sir.  Only six.”

The captain grunted sourly.  “Dammit, you need to keep an eye on everyone!  Assign partners.  Nobody is left alone.  I don’t care if you need to hold someone’s dick when they pee.”

“Aye captain.  Sorry sir.”

The man was gone and there was no use agonizing about it now.  He knew that Blogath was distracting them, wearing them down.  “Don’t let it happen again.  Hey, Valandil, how are your guard holding up?”

The knight nodded slowly.  “Itching for revenge.  We have your back.”

That gave him comfort.  He wanted to leave the cohort outside.  They did well in the field on open ground, but they would probably be less than useless here, mere fodder for the vampires.  Still, once he started splitting up the force, the demon would just wipe them out, one smaller group at a time.  They were all alone.  No one was coming to the rescue.  There were no good answers here.  “Elladan, Elrohir, can you bring up the rear.  Keep them off of us.”  They nodded. Then, he pulled Neldis and Coru closer to him.  “You do not let me out of your sight.”

Neldis carried a steel eket and Coru, a dagger.  Neldis held hers in a death grip.  “A year ago, I would have sold this for drugs.  Today, it…it may be the only thing standing between me and fangs,” she said, shivering in fear and cold.  Mercatur paused for a moment to pull out two ratty cloaks from his sack and put them around the women.

“They’re going to have to get through me first,” he said, continuing down the hall with Silmarien and Hirgrim.  They approached an entryway to the right.  “Hey Dagar, wasn’t this the kitchen?”

“It was indeed.  You smell that?  It’s like we never left,” Lord Rhudainor said, his eyes darting around, searching for any threat in the gloom.

Mercatur and the others nodded.  “Yeah…roast chicken with herbs and garlic.”  The clinking of pots and pans sounded in the dark room where only an ancient, rusted oven and stove sat amid dust and debris.  The dust swirled in a tiny vortex and then vanished in a puff.  “The sanctuary is up ahead.  Silmarien, whatever you have to do, we’ll get you to the altar.  I don’t care what it takes.”  He turned to the nurses.  “I really want to leave you two here, but that’s what she wants.  So, stay close by.”

They inched up, step by step, to the threshold of Blogath’s Sanctuary.  Not only was the air cold here, but it was heavy, like breathing soup.  The door here was also crafted of bloodstone, black with red flecks.  Golden Tengwar runes flashed into existence on the door.  Silmarien read them carefully and then they faded and she blinked hard, shaking her head.  “She…she says…  Wait, did you all hear that?  It’s…my mother?  How are you here?  Why?  What are you saying?” she said to no one.

Mercatur was told by Alquanessë that she and Blogath could sound like anyone, make you think that they were anyone.  He shook his cousin.  “Hey, hey, no one is there.  She’s getting inside your head.  Hear the music.”  He tried, but it was like dark tendrils shooting into his mind.  It was like waves pounding onto rocks, powerful, unstoppable.

Silmarien blinked hard.  “I…didn’t you see her?  Your aunt.  Gandalf helped us escape from Cameth Brin.  She…she gave me to Gandalf and…and I was raised in Tharbad.  I was just a girl.  How?  You…?” She looked around and her face relaxed as realization spread through her.  “It was a trick of the mind, yes.”  She chuckled and breathed out a sigh of relief just as spectral hands reached out through the door and pulled her into an inky blackness.

How did that happen?  Mercatur stood, gawking at the door.  “Dammit, she’s the only one who can destroy the altar, and she has all of the Silima!”  He reached out and pushed onto the door, but his hand went right through into a dark void. He gritted his teeth and looked back. “An illusion!  I’m going in!  We have to get her back!”  He grabbed Neldis by the hand.  “Stay with me!  Let’s go!” he growled and stepped into the blackness.

Nirnadel

As they gathered behind the wizard at the entrance, Elrond beckoned to the Blood-Wights.  “We must be quick, but you are my kin, and I must let you know that I have discovered the cure to your…condition,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I consulted with Mithrandir and read the tome that you gave me, amongst my other research.  You are of two fëa or spirits, one elf and one vampiric, one in the physical realm and one beyond.  If we draw the vampiric spirt from your hröa or body and cast it into the void, you will be free.”

Others gathered under the eaves of the sanctuary entrance to escape the rain while they continued to speak.  “This is…unexpected, Lord Elrond,” Finculion responded.  “We had not thought of a cure since Ethacali.”

“And with Annatar before that, three thousand years before,” Alquanessë added darkly.  “He fooled us then, a ploy to enslave us.”

Elrond nodded in agreement.  “I am sorry for that, but I can tell that this will work. Mithrandir says that it will require some of the substance that Silmarien and her husband have concocted. If you so wish, I can remove this affliction from you when we are able.”

Alquanessë took on a pensive expression, her thumb to her lips. “It’s really possible.  I could be just an elf again, just a woman.  I…I will have to think about this.  I know no other way now.”

Finculion put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, embracing her.  He blew out a long breath.  “Thank you, Lord Elrond.  This gives us much to consider.  Please, let us continue.  Our friends are in danger.”

Gandalf took a step into the sanctuary and paused, his mouth opening slightly.  “This is a dark evil that lies before us.  We must be cautious.”  His staff hit the wooden step with an unnaturally loud thunk.  Voices seemed muffled while other sounds rang out. The light at the top of his staff also seemed to dim.  Glorfindel, Elrond and Gildor followed behind him.  Baranor detailed eight of the Tirrim Aran to post at the top.  “You keep anyone from getting to us, Sergeant Riston.”

“Understood, captain,” he replied, fist on his chest.  They took up positions under the eaves of the roof over the stairs to keep out of the rain.

Haedorial stopped the stewards from following.  “My son, Angion and Ethirdir, you have come far enough.  Please, please, should I not return, you will record what happened here.”  He handed the sack that contained his journal and the sketch books to Mindolinor.  It was an old leather container, given to him by his father, who still ran the Nightsingers’ Guild.  It was treated against the weather and showed signs of years of use, but it still had that new leather smell.  “You will take these and copy them and bring them to the Royal House.  You need to let people know what we did, all of us.  And tell…and tell your mother and Idhrendiel that I love them.”

They were reluctant, protesting, wanting to stay with the group.  The Princess approached them.  “My friends…good Mindolinor, please, please listen to your father.  He wishes for what is best for you.  I beg of you to please carry out his instructions.”

Ethirdir stood before her, his hands clasped together. “Your Highness, please, please let me accompany you.  I have much to atone for and I swore my sword to you.”  He knelt and held her hand.  She could see how much he had changed, from a callow boy to a devoted young man.

She thought for a moment and then shook her head.  It was not easy to deny him.  “My dear steward.  Your safety is also of great importance to me.  You have come this far and showed me your courage and your heart. This was no small thing.  We will all laugh and drink on this upon our return.” She raised him up and then embraced each one of them.  “Go with the grace of the Valar and obey Sergeant Riston.  I honor each of you.”

Nirnadel then passed by the Tirrim Aran who would guard their rear, touching each guardsman on the hand.  “Stay safe, my dear Guard.  We will…we will see you soon.”

Sergeant Riston squeezed her gauntleted hand.  “Thank you, Your Highness.  We will keep you safe at this end.  No one will get through to harm you.  Your courage gives us strength.”

His words and the human touch made her feel better, stronger. Even with Gandalf’s calming influence, the terror was beginning to build.  Nothing that she had ever faced came even close.  A creeping feeling stole into her heart.  Would they all perish here?  Would she be enslaved to become Thuringwethil’s plaything? Visions of what happened to Alquanessë played in her mind.  She imagined herself bound, the vampire toying with her body, her friends slowly going mad nearby.  Then, her slaughtering innocents to sacrifice to the Dark Lord for his pleasure and his power.  Finally, the Dark Lord giving her to tribesmen to sate their lust and join his cause.  She fought to keep from shaking and shut her eyes tight to hold in tears.

Alquanessë grasped her shoulder.  “Nirnadel, you let your mind wander.  None of that now, please.  What you imagined was my story not yours.  Your story is brighter and full of hope.  I will get you out of this.  This is a fight for Finculion and I.”

Nirnadel shuddered.  “I…I…thank you.  Though you all, with all of your power, surround me, I am terrified,” she said, her mouth dry.

The elf gave her a sad smile.  “As am I.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Gildor put his fingers on the black marble floor.  “Mercatur’s group passed through here not half an hour ago.  We must keep the pace without becoming reckless.”  The bloodstone double doors were already open, propped that way with wooden doorstops.

As they approached, Gandalf placed his staff on the door and drew a rune that began to glow silver.  “No one will close this but me.”  He examined another rune inscribed on the stone.  “Oh good.  Silmarien is here.  She left a message for us that they’ve proceeded further in.”

In the next chamber, they stopped for a moment to examine the black marble and bloodstone.  Specters emerged from the wall, grasping and brandishing ancient, tarnished weapons.  The wizard smote his staff on the floor.  “Begone! Spirits of darkness, begone!” he shouted, his voice like a crack of thunder.  A shockwave burst from his staff and ancient bones burst into dust, adding to the piles on the floor.  He poked his staff in the bone shards, digging around, examining.  “Silmarien has the substance with her.  Other than her magic, it is all that they have to fight the undead.”  He pointed his staff to the right.  “Come! Down the stairs!” he commanded and strode quickly to the steps.

Firiel touched the Princess on the pauldron covering her shoulder.  “Nirnadel, do you think?  Is he?” she asked in a shaky voice, full of worry as they descended the stairs, asking about Valandil.

“He is alive, good healer.  I know this in my heart,” she said as she slid her hand into her saddle pouch, feeling the soft fur of the cats who squirmed in the bag. Carvion was still at her feet, seemingly unperturbed.  “At least that makes one of us,” she told him.

“Bad not here…not here,” he meowed back at her.

At the base of the stairs there was another set of double doors, propped open.  They passed through and saw the body of one of the cohort soldiers.  His throat was torn open and his face frozen in terror, the skin white as paper.  Gildor moved him to the side and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as Gandalf placed another rune on the doors.

They looked at the body as they passed, eyes wide. Kaile grasped Nirnadel’s arm, her hand shaking.  “I’m so…I’m so afraid.  Not even…Annúminas was like this.  You…you shouldn’t be here, Nirnadel.  We can’t lose you.  Please go back.”

The Princess touched Kaile’s hand with her own.  “I am so afraid too.  But…but if we lose today, all of the north will fall.  We must fight.  While it is our Blood-Wights’ battle, it is our kingdom at stake.”  She raised her visor and looked at the nurse. “Just having you here gives me strength.”  Jonu stood behind them, clinging to Kaile.

The landing flowed into a long hall where they continued to move with determination.  On the right was an opening that led to an ancient kitchen.  Elrond poked his head in.  “I remember this.  The kitchen was still working when we were here.  We were told where the temple to Sauron was by our scouts, which included Finculion and Alquanessë.”  He looked back at them.  “You and your siblings were already dead when we arrived.  I had you laid to rest in the other room, and we sealed the temple with glyphs.”

Alquanessë nodded.  “I saw you when I was a spirit.  You treated us with respect, and I will not forget that.”  Gildor took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze that warmed Nirnadel’s heart.  Her friend seemed to have found love.

They continued down the hall past other openings to empty rooms and up to a black door made of bloodstone.  Gandalf scoffed.  “Hrmph…a clever illusion.”  He waved his hand in front of it, and it vanished to show a waiting room with tracks through the dust.  There were signs of an ancient battle here, gouges on the marble walls, rotted armor and rusted weapons with a smattering of bone fragments.  There was an opening to the left and light seemed to come from it, a warm, magical light along with the sound of laughter and dining.  The hall continued on straight and there was another opening to the right, but all was dark on both of those paths.  The group peered into the lit chamber and saw a lively dining room, four elves seated at an elegant table, talking and drinking from crystal goblets.  They were dressed in luxurious silver and sky-blue robes, smiles on all of their faces.

The illusory Alquanessë stood, turned and looked in their direction as if she saw or heard someone at the door.  She wore a silver brooch shaped like a swan on her chest and each of the siblings had a similar brooch or pin, a raven, a falcon and an eagle. The illusion narrowed her eyes, still searching.  She was radiant, elegant and noble in bearing, a true princess of the Noldor, her black hair styled in a refined waterfall braid.  Nirnadel was stunned at her ethereal beauty.

“This was before Annatar broke me,” the real woman said in a voice heavy with sorrow and she involuntarily covered herself with her hands.  “This was a time when we were all happy, having broken free of Thuringwethil, living out our own lives beyond the world.”  She took a step inside and pointed at the table, her face brightening. “Look, there’s my flute, Finculion. After all of these years.  It was a gift from mother.”  She walked to the instrument, followed by her brother.  Gildor tried to reach out to her, but he seemed to slow, caught in an unseen web.  Finculion sat on his illusion, and they merged into one, talking and laughing with his brother and sisters.  Alquanessë picked up the flute and played a few notes and her illusion smiled back at her. Each held out a hand and then grasped in the middle, the two identical but for one being clothed and one not.  In a flash, they became one and she looked at the group, smiling as if she were in a pleasant dream, and began playing her flute.

Gandalf pounded his staff on the floor, sending out a wave of energy and then he walked quickly towards the siblings.  Time and space seemed to warp here now, things moving in slow motion.  There was a loud pop, and the entire scene vanished along with the siblings and the wizard, leaving a dark room with rotted wood and scattered, tarnished utensils.  Everyone’s mouth fell open, and Elrond took a step in. He held up his hand with the Elven Ring and focused his power.  He looked back, stunned.  “I don’t know where they went.  They’re gone…they’re just gone.”  He drew his curved elven sword, scanning the room.  “We must continue on.  This demon that we face is a Maia of fearsome power.  We must be ready.”

Gildor’s face twisted in fear and horror, and he searched the dining room, turning over every scrap of wood.  He marched back into the hall, sword in hand.  “We’re going to get them back.”

Nirnadel trembled.  It was beginning to fall apart.  Confusion, chaos and fear took over and some of their most powerful members were gone…just gone.  Seeing Lord Elrond’s face, full of doubt and concern shook her to the core.  Her breath trembled and she gripped Kaile’s hand tight.  She looked back to her ladies and Jonu.  “If…if we…it has been an honor,” she huffed out.

Kaile squeezed back.  “Don’t talk like that, please don’t.”  Her voice was higher, terrified.

Carvion hissed.  “Bad…warn…bad!”

Firiel strode forward ahead of the group.  “No, no, he’s gone, isn’t he?  No.”  She held her mithril eket out.  “Valandil!” she called.  “Please, please answer me!”

They all heard it, a voice that sounded like his. Firiel looked back, her face brighter. “It’s him!  Valandil, I’m coming!”  She charged straight down the corridor into the dark and vanished.  Her voice continued to echo down the hall along with the voices of the Blood-Wights and Alquanessë’s flute, now eerie and distant.

Nirnadel summoned all of her courage and ran after Firiel with Baranor and Carvion right behind her.  “Stop, Your Highness!  Stop!” the captain yelled.

She got to the point where Firiel had vanished and she felt as if she were held in a spider’s web, stuck, everything moving in slow motion. Baranor was reaching out to her, his motions merely creeping along.  Voices sounded slow and distorted.  Kaile and Galadel were right behind him, their faces twisted in fear and horror, unmoving as if frozen in place.  There was a flash of light, and then she stood in a study lit by warm magical lanterns. There was a desk carved of rich dark wood and polished to a shine which was surrounded by bookshelves full of tomes and novels.  There was another door at the far end, opened.  She gasped and then looked around frantically, but she was alone.  She could still hear Baranor’s voice though, calling out to her desperately.  Someone flitted behind the desk, and she thought it was Kaile by the dress.  She rushed over there but it was no one. There seemed to be movement everywhere, just at the edge of her vision.

There was a giggle, a titter, like a girl’s laugh.  “Come play with me,” she heard just behind her and she spun, brandishing her sword but she was still alone.  Her skin crawled and she began to tremble, her breath coming in rapid gulps.  If she could take back what she did, she would.  It was stupid, so stupid.  “Please blessed Valar, please.  Please watch over me,” she begged, terrified.

The voice whispered again, an older girl now.  “No one is watching over you.  You are mine now.  I’ve waited patiently for my toy and now I want it.”

Nirnadel spun again.  “C…come…come out!  L…Let me…let me see you!”

“That would be too easy, my dear,” the voice said, now an early teen.  It was her voice, and a chill ran down her spine.  “There’s no fun in that.  Now, you’re going to put your sack of cats down and tie the opening.  I don’t want anything to interrupt our fun.”

It was like a fist punching through her mind, fingers spreading and seizing the strings that moved her body.  She groaned, fighting it, trying to imagine the music but it was like a ballista bolt had gone through her head.  Her hand shook as she set the sack down and tied the cover tight, the cats meowing in protest.  “No…bad…warn…bad!”  Calarmë began scratching and clawing at the flap.

“Ah, much better,” the voice said, now her age, now her own.  “You’ve admired my child, Skrykalian, for some time now…wanted to emulate her, be her. I will give you that opportunity, Lindarë.  That is your new name.  That is who you are now.  I will give you more power than you can imagine, my daughter.”  A figure glided around the open door of the far opening.  It was her. Everything about her was an exact match. The face, the hair, the eyes, everything except that she was nude with a sinister grin.  She was staring at herself.  The simulacrum beckoned her with a finger pull and she staggered forward, her resistance futile.  “You were embarrassed by your childlike body,” the demon said and then held her arms out, its breasts and hips growing.  “I can give this to you.  I will give you many things.  And you will have love…my love, and I will find you a suitable mate.  You, Blogath and Skrykalian will help me lead an army of vampires, wights and werewolves and we will destroy your old enemy, the Witch-King,” she said, her grin changing to a snarl with fangs.  “And then we will conquer Eriador and you will rule your own kingdom, wise and powerful…immortal.”

Nirnadel walked around the corner, fighting every step of the way, her body like a marionette in those children’s plays that she loved so much.  She grunted and groaned, trying to take control of her body back.  “Let me free!  Release me!” she cried and then looked up.  “Please, blessed Manwë, blessed Varda, save me!”

The demon chuckled, looking up and placing her index finger on her cheek.  “My dear Princess, We have been trying to get you alone for some time now, difficult as it was,” she said, using the exact mannerisms and inflection that Nirnadel would use.  “I praythee, please sit with us and let us talk as girls are wont to do,” she added, sitting on the bed and patting the comforter beside her.

Nirnadel sat next to her double.  “What…what do you want.  Please.”  Terror consumed her now, her own body becoming her enemy.

“Why, good Lindarë, We want to be friends.  We want to be family.  After all, we are now one and the same, are we not?”  Thuringwethil loved to rename her victims as she turned them, to break them, to erase their identities.  Sercë became Blogath, Tindómeno became Balisimur, Finculion became Naranantur and Alquanessë became Skrykalian.  She held out her hand and an apple appeared.  She took a bite and then held it in front of the Princess’ face. “Open wide now.  You will love it, I daresay.”

The Princess opened her mouth, and her double gave her a bite through the visor of her helm.  It tasted like blood.  She tried to spit it out but could not control her own face.  She felt dizzy, the world spinning slowly.  A sensation of power began to flow into her veins. “What…what did you give me?” she asked, her voice wavering.  “What did you give me?”

The demon giggled.  “Merely a taste, my dear.  Merely a taste.  No, you’re not a vampire yet.  Not until I wish it to be.  I will have to drink your blood and feed it to you.  Then, and only then, will we truly be family.”  She patted the top of her thighs and leaned forward.  “Oh, isn’t your King Araphor dreamy?  So strong.  So handsome.  I could make him your husband if you wish.  You two would rule the north under me, the royal vampire couple.  How romantic.”  Then her face shifted, perplexed.  “But then…then there’s Mercatur.  Rough, powerful, dark.  You want him, don’t you?  He wants you.”

The Princess struggled, unable to move, unable to even twitch.

The double put her finger to her chin.  “How would it be…to have him inside you?  Savage…barbaric…intense.  You would squirm and cry out, a real woman then.  I can give you all of that.”  She patted Nirnadel on her armored chest.  “Oh, I do so love spending time with you like this.  I feel so young again.  Just like two girls.”  She stood and beckoned the Princess to rise.  “Now it is time.”

Nirnadel stood, tears streaming down her face.  She felt so helpless.  What would happen?  “W…what will you do to me?”

The double wiped the tears away with her fingers.  “I am going to give you my gift.  Come, let us hold hands,” she said and they did. They both began to glow.

There was a snapping sound and the Princess winced, closing her eyes.  Then, her vision cleared and she saw herself…no, the demon, wearing her armor.  She looked down to see her bare body…they had switched somehow.  Was she still Nirnadel?  Her mind reeled.  “What did you do?  What did you do?” she shrieked.  She could move now and tried to strike her double, but her arm was easily caught.

The demon smiled.  “Ah, there we go.  One step closer.  I will need to go and rally my forces shortly, my dear.  They are so lost and scattered…so afraid that their dear Princess has fallen.  What will they do?  They will be ever so glad to find you, and you will lead them to victory.”  She turned to go but then stopped.  “Oh, forgive me, my dear.  I almost forgot in all of my excitement.  You have for so long now wished to be Skrykalian…be like her. You even contemplated what it would be like to be a vampire.”  She held up her hand and dark tendrils of energy appeared and began to wrap around Nirnadel, pulling her arms behind her and then around her legs.  “Ah, so helpless…just like my Skrykalian was so long ago.”  She pushed Nirnadel to her knees.

“Please, please let me go!  Please!” she begged.

The demon snickered and shook her head.  “Oh, my dear, the fun is just beginning.  And Skrykalian begged just like you do now. You two are peas in a pod,” she said as she grasped her victim’s face.  “Now, Skrykalian was disloyal.  I will have to retrain her for a while, and you shall take her place.  Hmmm, and I tire of Blogath’s questioning me.  She only wants our tiny family.  So small minded.  My family will be huge.  If you’re a good girl, I will bring your friends into my family.  Defy me and they will be rotting corpses, drained of blood for my power.  If you’re a good girl, I will make you my right hand.  Now, I will enjoy hearing you sing for me, singing in pain and ecstasy.”

The Princess shrieked and felt warm fluid flow down her legs, she was so terrified.  “No! Please don’t do this!” she wailed and began to sob, falling over on her side.

“Oh my,” the demon said in mock sadness.  “You’ve gone and made a mess.  Well, I will help you.”  She raised her hand and the fluid evaporated into nothing.  “What do you say when someone helps you?”

Nirnadel whimpered and struggled against the bindings. “Th…th…thank you.”

“Ah, I think we are getting somewhere,” Thuringwethil said in a singsong voice.  “And you are very good at begging too.  The beggar princess.”  She walked over to a sink and dipped a sponge in it.  “Well, we still have to clean you up.  I very much want to hear you sing.”  She came back with a bowl of water and began to wash Nirnadel’s body with the sponge, wiping her face and then her thighs and her belly.  She moved the sponge lower and Nirnadel bucked her hips up with a shriek.  “Oh, just like Skrykalian.  I know you want to feel it, my virgin princess.  Now, don’t fight.  Just enjoy.”

Alquanessë

The moment was bliss.  She played her flute for her family, a lively, jaunty tune that raised spirits.  Gone was the darkness of Thuringwethil, now an age ago.  They had hidden in the vale for more than fifteen hundred years into what was now the Second Age.  A great city had been built close to them by the Noldor, Ost-in-Edhil, led by Celebrimbor, the grandson of mighty Fëanor.  Her eldest sister, Sercë, would occasionally venture into the city to trade but never stayed long lest they discover that the siblings were vampires. For short periods, their brethren would just see them as one of their own for they had once been Noldorin royalty. They could count aunts with names like Findis, uncles with names like Fingolfin and Finarfin and cousins with names like Fingon, Turgon, Finrod Felagund, Galadriel and Orodreth.

Finculion ate a chicken leg, dipping it in a garlic sauce with rosemary.  “Play the Twilight Kingdom,” he said with a mouth full of food, waving the half-eaten chicken leg at her.

She looked at the wooden flute, a gift from her mother, Irimë, when she came of age in Tirith Aeluin in lost Beleriand.  It was beautifully crafted by her mother’s hands with etchings of elven life in Ard Galen, Lothlann and Hithlum and painted in bright, blending colors.  This simple item would be priceless now.  Then, she rolled her eyes at her brother.  “Manners, please,” she chided and he put the food down.  “And that garlic does wonders for your breath, dear brother.”

He splayed his hands.  “Well, you cooked it.  You’re the only one here with any talent at that.”

Their older brother, Tindómeno, laughed.  “Yes, your roast chicken with rosemary is divine.  I vote that she does all of the cooking,” he said in his deep bass.

The brothers and Sercë raised their hands.  “Well, it’s decided then,” the eldest sister said.  “We fight, you cook and sing.”

“No fair,” Alquanessë pouted.  “And you haven’t fought anyone in almost fifteen hundred years!”

“Well, we could,” Finculion countered.  “And you’re so much better at cooking than we are.”

She rolled her eyes again and smiled.  “Fine…fine, but that means no cleaning.  I am going to kick my feet up and read after dinner.” This was a magical time, the siblings all working together and enjoyed being with each other.  Still, she longed for love.  She longed to be with someone.  Her life thus far had been abuse by the demon and isolation with her family.  No one had heard from their mother since they parted ways at Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  She took a bite from a slice of chicken breast, chewing it, savoring the strong taste of the garlic sauce and the texture of the carrots and peas.  She washed it down with wine that her sister had procured in Ost-in-Edhil, a smooth, slightly fruity white.

Alquanessë began to play the Twilight Kingdom, a slower, more heartfelt melody.  She looked towards the entrance of the dining room, seeing a shimmer of light.  She thought that she saw an old human in gray robes with a strange gray hat, moving ever so slowly, pointing at her.  How strange.  She stopped, musing on the odd vision.  “I think that I shall play the Ainulindalë,” she said of the mystical song about the forming of the world.  “It better fits the mood.”  She blinked but the old man was still there.

The bard shook it off and took a deep breath before blowing into the flute, letting her music and soul flow through the instrument.  Only through their mother’s eyes had any of them seen Aman, the Blessed Realm.  But the visions were clear.  Powerful notes sounded, some sharp, some long and magical.  Golden tendrils floated from the flute, dancing with her melody.

The old man made eye contact with her and she sensed a reservoir of power in him along with compassion and wisdom.  She looked away.  This wasn’t real.  Could it be a trick of Thuringwethil’s?  The vampire was a master of illusion and deception.

Sercë clapped to get everyone’s attention.  “I think I have good news,” she said cheerfully.  “I just met with a messenger from the Lord of Gifts.  He offers us a cure.”

Finculion looked at her sideways, his lips pursed with concern.  “Sister, no disrespect, but how did this messenger find us?  No one has bothered us in over a thousand years.”

“I’ve been putting out feelers about a cure.  I sent messages to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their masters of lore and they brought it to the attention of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts.”

Alquanessë narrowed her eyes.  “You did this without consulting the family?”  The mood shifted, more tense.

Sercë splayed her hands out and flared her nostrils as if irritated. “Yes.  I am the leader of this family, and I would like to know if there is a cure for us.”

The younger sister sighed, unconvinced.  “I would like to know too, but we should have all known what you had planned.”  A cure?  It was something that passed through her mind, but she never held out any hope.  She could barely remember being “only” an elf.  And the strength, speed and ability to fly was addictive…as was the blood.

Tindómeno waved his hands to get their attention.  “Listen to our older sister.  She actually has a plan.  It’s better than sitting here in this cave for centuries.”

Finculion shook his head.  “Didn't we make a pact to remain secluded from the world?”

Sercë put her palms on the table and leaned forward, eyes intense.  “But we already trade with the elves and the dwarves.  Look at the fine things that we have.  Are you not ready to enjoy life again after so long?  Have we not earned a place back with our people?  Are you not lonely?”

Finculion put his head down and trembled for a moment.  “Yes. I miss my family. The one Thuringwethil destroyed.”

Alquanessë put her hand on her brother’s shoulder.  She understood.  A deep loneliness ate away at her heart, and she longed to feel someone’s touch other than her own.  It was a hunger that Thuringwethil had planted within her.  She nodded.  “Yes, I am lonely.  I would like to search for mother.  I know that she is alive somewhere and did not go into the West.  And I would like to have a family of my own someday.”

Sercë smiled again.  “While we can pass as normal elves for a short time, anyone with any insight will know that we are vampires.  And if we are as we are now, would our people not kill us?  Would we kill our own mother?  That monster, Thuringwethil, implanted that thought in our minds.”  She pointed at each of the siblings, her face full of confidence.  “I propose a new pact.  We find the cure.  We find our mother.  Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, offers this to us.  He has access to ancient lore from the time of Morgoth.  It was Morgoth’s creature that did this to us.  It will be Morgoth's knowledge that sets us free.”

Alquanessë now liked what she was hearing and nodded her consent.  “As always, you are our leader, my sister. I will follow you.”

“Wonderful!  I have already invited Annatar to meet with us here.  He works tirelessly within the halls of the Mírdaithrond, teaching the Noldor his craft.  He plans to forge rings of power for the betterment of all people.”

“Uhh, so when is this meeting?” asked Finculion.

Sercë gave an embarrassed expression, one eye narrowed and her lip curled up. “Umm, now.  He’s on his way here already.”

Finculion blew out a long breath and shook his head.  There was still an air of skepticism around him.  “Just who is this…this Lord of Gifts?  Do we know anything about Annatar?”

“According to my contacts in the Mírdaithrond, Annatar is a Maia who studied under Aulë.  He now brings his knowledge and his gifts to the world.  You have to trust me on this one.  He will bring us everything that we want.”

Alquanessë found a rare bit a fight against her sister. “This sounds too good to be true.”  Then, she put her head down as the sibling hierarchy took hold again. “But I trust you, sister.  We will see what Annatar offers us.”  She played her flute again to lighten the mood, the notes of the Ainur flowed again and she looked at the old man.  Her mind felt fuzzy, distracted but the man pointed at her, his mouth moving in slow motion, his words distorted.  She pulled the flute from her lips.  “What?” she asked him.

“Alquanessë,” he said so slowly that it took more than ten seconds for him to say.  “It’s…not real.  Wake! Focus!” he shouted.  Time seemed to speed up and the lights in the dining room blinked off and on.  Something was fighting the old man.  Who was he? Why was he trying to speak to her? Could this be Annatar?  Then, the room grew dimmer and Sercë and Tindómeno were frozen in place, only Finculion moving slowly.

“It is real, Skrykalian,” a voice whispered into her ear. “You are home.  We will be a family again.”  There was a soft giggle.  “Play for me.  Sing for me like you used to.  You will be glad to hear that you will have a new sister soon.  Lindarë is her name.”

“Wha…?  Skrykalian? Yes…yes, that’s me.  That’s my name,” she said softly and began to play her flute, ignoring the old man.

CODEX

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to find balance in writing for powerful characters.  I really want to play up the horror and illusion angle here.  Picture of the Yfelwood, courtesy of the RPG module.

Leave a Comment

53) Blogath’s Sanctuary - Ivanneth (September) 16^th, 1410

Alquanessë

Comfortable and safe in the dining room with her sibling, the elf continued to play her flute, unleashing the dreamy notes of the Ainulindalë, the song of the creation of the world.  The melody floated in the air, a golden mist engulfing the four Blood-Wights who were laughing and dining on her roasted rosemary chicken.  She put the distraction of the odd old man from her mind and returned to the bliss of the moment.  They had almost fifteen hundred years of peace and serenity since the War of Wrath until this Lord of Gifts offered them a cure and a new life.

She thought about how this Annatar could help them.  What would it be to receive the cure from vampirism? She would lose the ability to fly, to read minds and emotions, to heal in an instant, to never truly die.  She would lose the incredible strength and speed given to her by the affliction.  But what would she gain?  She could be among her own people again.  She could find someone to be with who wouldn’t try to kill her when he found out…someone whom she wouldn’t someday try to kill, tearing his throat out and devouring his blood.  It would not be an easy choice, but she wanted to know if it could be done.  And she wanted to find their mother…be a family again.  

Sercë waved to get her attention.  “Change the song, sister,” she said, almost as a demand, her face perturbed.

Alquanessë paused but shook her head.  “But I like this one, sister.  It resonates with me.”  She did not often find the will to defy Sercë but she felt that she needed to here.  Call it…intuition.  She put her lips back to the flute.

As the notes of the Ainulindalë danced in her mind and started to clear it, she thought that they had already met Annatar. Yes…yes, they did.  Why did she think that they had not?  She searched her memory.  What happened?  That’s right. He turned Sercë against her, splitting the family.  He dangled the cure to enslave them, turning her sister into a monster.  He used her love and loyalty to degrade her for his power and pleasure.  She shook, gulping hard, pausing the music as a cold shiver went down her spine.  She balled a fist and saw the old man again near the entrance.  Another snippet of memory came to her.  Didn’t she find someone?  Yes, he was one of the Eldar, a kind and noble elf.  What was his name?  Where was she?  What was happening?  Everything was still foggy in her mind, and she couldn’t shake it.

Suddenly, Sercë turned on her, taking the flute from her hands. “You ungrateful cur!  We bring you back here.  We give you back your family, and you still doubt us?  I will drag you before mother and we will teach you a lesson that you will never forget,” she said with a snarl, fangs forming in her mouth as she wrapped a hand around Alquanessë’s throat.  Where did this come from?  The vision shot through her mind of Sercë choking her in the hot tub of Fountain Baths of Ost-in-Edhil, screaming that she dared to steal Annatar from her.  Was this some false memory?  Nothing made sense.

The younger sister choked, slapping futilely at the arms that held her.  “Sercë,” she croaked.  “Why?” She still didn’t understand, thinking that this was three thousand years ago.  Then, from the music, more of her memory came back to her.  Sercë forcing her to massacre women and children for Annatar’s power.  She began to realize that this was all a deception, an illusion, and she played right into it, now feeling the fool.  She shrieked, baring her own fangs but her sister’s power far exceeded her own, and her struggle was futile.  She was getting weaker, unable to breathe, beating pitifully at the arms that held her. Her eyes darted back and forth, seeing Finculion and Tindómeno frozen.

Sercë…no…Blogath hissed at her, eyes red and blazing.  “Skrykalian, you will crawl like an insect before mother and me, begging for forgiveness.  You will sate the lust of everyone that we wish, bringing them into the fold, you succubus…you whore.  You dared to try and steal Annatar from me.  You will pay for your disloyalty!”

Alquanessë’s vision was fading.  “Kill me,” she whispered pathetically.  “I’ll die before you can do that to me again.”  Finding a little fight, she jerked her head and bit into Blogath’s wrist, sucking the blood.  Power flowed into her veins, and she knocked the hands from her throat with newfound strength.  “You will have to destroy me for all time before I let you enslave me again,” she hissed, wiping the blood from her lips.  She knew that she was no match for her sister.  It was just a matter of how much pain she could inflict before the end.

Blogath shrieked, the cry of a falcon and feathers sprouted from her skin, her face elongating into a sharp beak, her feet now talons.  Her wings unfurled, flinging her elegant robes away as she circled her prey. “Defy me and I will merely tear you, limb from limb and leave you like a worm, rolling on the floor.”

The younger sister trembled, contemplating surrender but then bit her lip in resolve.  She would fight no matter the outcome.  She would never be used like that again, even if she were destroyed for all time.  She unfurled her swan wings, casting off her robes and crouched, ready to defend herself, fangs and claws out, a snarl on her face.  Then, an arrow flew by her ear and sank into Blogath’s chest.  Her sister staggered back, her falcon cry shaking the room. Alquanessë let out a gasp.

“You’ll do no such thing, Sercë!” a woman’s voice sounded from behind her. 

Alquanessë turned to see a woman in silver plate armor, a conical helm over her head that had intricate etchings from an age long past. She wore a cobalt blue and silver surcoat with a silver star on her chest, the colors of High King Fingon. “Morelen?” she said with a gasp. It was her friend from Ost-in-Edhil, the woman who was once one of Fingon’s riders who had been a dear friend of Sercë’s.

Time seemed to snap back with a popping sound and a warping sensation, the world no longer feeling dreamlike.  The old man reappeared, staff in hand as Finculion scrambled away and Balisimur shifted into a great eagle with a bloodcurdling cry.  Morelen nocked another arrow to her blue recurved bow. “Sercë…Tindómeno, we were friends. We rode together and fought together. Stand down!” she ordered.  Alquanessë ran behind her and Gandalf, seeking protection.

Blogath changed back into a woman and let out an evil, disdainful laugh as she ripped the arrow out, healing instantly.  “You!  Friend, huh? Always grasping for glory over everyone else, fawning over your precious captain.  I could see how you manipulated him for your own favor, always receiving the best things in the company,” she said with a sneer.  “And then, in Ost-in-Edhil, you and that worm behind you tried to take him from me!  From me! But we defeated you and destroyed that city.”

Morelen lowered her bow and shook her head.  “No Sercë, it was never like that.  We fought Morgoth together.  We tried to save Fingolfin but failed…us, together.  I searched for you when you vanished, sneaking into Tol-in-Gaurhoth to find you because we were sisters in the company.    And Annatar…Sauron, he used us all.  He was the one all over Alquanessë and I.  We didn’t want that.  He divided us, made you think that we were behind it.  We never wanted to be with him.  It was all in your mind.”

Blogath put her head down, thinking, her eyes searching for a memory.  “No…no, it was…he was…he wanted me.  You lie!” she cried, baring fangs again, her face twisted.  The Dark Lord’s cultlike hold over her was formidable.  Alquanessë remembered how he poisoned her mind, day by day, week by week, from loving sister to vicious monster.  Blogath sneered.  “Mother will drag you by the hair and the two of you will become our succubae!  Your screams will nourish us!”

Alquanessë put her hand out, feeling her sister’s mind, sending out tendrils of power to pierce her mental defenses and find some angle to use, some way to resolve this peacefully.  Something clicked.  Maybe this was a way in.  As horrible as her sister was, maybe she could be saved.  “Sercë, Sercë, please listen.  You don’t want a larger family, do you?  You want it to be just the five of us.  You don’t want anyone else, right?  We can be that.  No one else,” she said in a soft, soothing voice, her palms out in a sign of peace. “I want my sister back…our family back, please but not like this.”

Blogath shook, her eyes blinking.  “No…no one else,” she said sadly.  “Why?  Why does mother think that we need more?  I…I don’t understand.  I pleaded with her.”

Morelen stepped forward, offering her gauntleted hand. “Come back to us, Sercë.  Take my hand, my friend.  There is still time.”

Blogath took two steps forward, her face softening, her breathing shaky.  Then, her eyes narrowed and blazed red.  “There is no time, daughter of Morgoth!” she shrieked and then changed into a falcon.

Gandalf held out his staff and a beam of light blazed onto the Blood-Wight.  She cried in pain and flew by them out the door in a flash.  Balisimur threw a chair at the wizard who dodged deftly for an old man. Finculion grabbed Balisimur by the arm, his fangs bared, sinking into his brother’s wrist.  Balisimur cried out and then swatted him away as two arrows sank into his chest in rapid succession up to the fletchings.  Alquanessë had seen the power of Morelen’s archery before.

Balisimur howled and grabbed a massive two-handed sword from the wall and darted ahead, slicing at Morelen as Alquanessë dove out of the way.  She would just be a burden in this fight as her strength was as a child’s before her brother.  Morelen dodged and the sword smashed a chair into splinters.  Gandalf smote him with the staff in his face and the Blood-Wight staggered back, blood flying from his nose, allowing Morelen to draw her curved sword that was forged of some black metal, etched with runes.

Finculion leapt onto his brother’s back, sinking fangs into his neck.  Balisimur groaned in pain and then spun his sword rearward and shoved it through Finculion’s body.  The younger brother’s face registered shock as he slid down and slumped on the floor.

“No!” Alquanessë screamed and her wings carried her to her brother.  This couldn’t be happening.  Balisimur turned to strike her down, but Morelen darted in and cut his left arm to the bone. With one good arm, he swung back, striking the elf in the side on her silver armor with a clang!

Morelen staggered and cried out in pain but delivered two swift diagonal cuts down Balisimur’s chest as Gandalf cracked him on the head with his staff.  Blood flowed down the older brother’s chest and arm, and he tried to heal himself. “Not this time!” the wizard shouted and pushed his arm out, hurling the Blood-Wight into the wall, cracking stone.

Balisimur unfurled his eagle wings and flew at his sister.  “I will take you with me, you traitor!” he shouted in rage, his eyes blazing and fangs bared.  Alquanessë’s eyes grew big, knowing she could not get out of the way.  She winced just before he would crash into her.  Gandalf unleashed another shockwave and the Blood-Wight crashed to the floor, struggling, blood gurgling from his mouth. As he stood, Morelen rushed at him, shoving her blade through his chest up to the hilt.  Blood erupted from his mouth and gushed from the wound as he sank to his knees.  He blinked, his breathing coming in rapid gasps as she twisted the sword and he cried out in pain.  Then, on his knees, he trembled, his eyes focusing as if were coming out of a dream. “Morelen…it’s…it’s you.  How did you get here?  The riders?  Where…is Fingon?” he said in a near whisper as he collapsed to the ground.

Alquanessë shrieked in sorrow as she cradled Finculion, her two brothers mortally wounded, the family forever torn asunder.  “No, please stay with me!  You can’t leave me!” she cried, rocking as she held him. He would return, but it would be years.

Morelen wiped her blade and held her from behind, grasping her tightly.  Both women had seen so much death…so much pain.  Finculion’s eyes blinked slowly, painfully.  “Go, my sister…Morelen, my comrade.  Finish it.  Have…have Elrond take the vampire from my spirit.  I will go…I will go to the Halls of Mandos and face his judgment.  Maybe…maybe he will have mercy on me.  Maybe I can see my wife…Ectelissë and my daughter. It’s been so long. Go, go finish it…” he said as he touched her face with a bloody hand, a weak smile on his lips.

“No, no, no!” his sister cried.  “We will be together, you and I.  We are family.  Heal yourself!”

He shook his head, his breathing raspy, fading.  “I…I have not the…power of the blood.  And I will not take another life to save mine now.”

She bared her fangs and put them on her own wrist.  “Here, take mine!  Take my blood.  I’ll heal you,” she begged him, forcing a smile.  It would all be fine.  They could be together again.  She could remember no other life than that of a vampire with her brother at her side, protecting her.

Finculion weakly pulled her arm away from her mouth. “No, you will need all of your strength to…to fight.  No…it is my time.  I will…await you here.”  His breathing was shallow and rapid.  He wouldn’t die, but he was fading fast.

Gandalf raised her up.  “Come, he is right.  We must finish it.  We will return with Master Elrond and grant Finculion the honor of the death he wishes.” He turned to Morelen.  “It is good that you arrived when you did. Welcome.  We must discuss your…lineage later.”  He turned and cast a web on Balisimur.  “That will keep him from moving until Elrond can cure him and allow him to pass.  Come, let us go.”

Alquanessë looked back at her two fallen brothers as they departed.  In a matter of minutes, she had gone from an illusion of her once happy family to it forever destroyed.  She trembled, wiping her eyes as Morelen put her arm around her waist.  “I’ve got you,” Morelen told her.  “I received your message.  Now I cannot understand how you feel.  They were my friends, but they are your family.  I am so sorry.”  The two women were the closest of friends until Sauron corrupted the family and destroyed Ost-in-Edhil.  She remembered flying above the fall of the city, watching Morelen ride with the knowledge of the Noldor that Celebrimbor had given her.  She remembered wanting to fly in and help Morelen or save the great smith, but she was too much of a coward.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I wanted to help you escape Ost-in-Edhil…I wanted to save Celebrimbor. I saw you from above, but I was terrified of Sauron.  I’ve failed everyone that I ever cared about!  And now my brother will die because I hid behind you!” she said, sobbing, ashamed of everything that she was.

Morelen pulled her tighter as they walked down the corridor. “I didn’t want to flee the city. I wanted to fight alongside of Celebrimbor, but I would then be dead too.  I was able to bring so much knowledge to Gil-Galad, and we crushed Sauron in the end,” she said with determination.  “And I never told you this, but I saw Fingolfin, Fingon, Orodreth and Turgon slain and I was helpless, afraid.  I saw the High King fight Morgoth and I sat on my horse and watched.  I wanted to charge the gates of Angband, but I slunk away like a coward.  We will win today, and we will avenge those that we love.”

The Blood-Wight nodded silently, weeping to herself.  Then, she tensed her muscles and balled her fists, turning her sorrow into rage.  “Thuringwethil will pay!  Even if it sends me to the Halls of Mandos or even to the endless void, she will pay!”

Nirnadel

Her mind screamed in horror as she struggled futilely against the magic that held her helpless as a babe.  How could she have been so stupid?  Now everything would be lost.  She imagined the north, overrun with vampires, werewolves and other undead creatures, over fifteen hundred years of civilization and culture obliterated, because of her stupidity and weakness.  In her mind, she begged the Valar to save her.  Please, please, please, her thoughts kept repeating. She would become a slave of the demon, killing at her whim, being an instrument of destruction for all that she held dear.

She bit her lip hard as Thuringwethil bathed her lovingly, almost motherly with the sponge.  Her mind raced.  Get a hold of yourself!  Tears and terror would not save her and she knew it.  But a thought might, an idea might.  Did it come from wise Manwë or powerful Varda?  She didn’t care at this point.  She willed her body to relax and imagined the sublime music that Alquanessë taught her.

“My name is Lindarë, mother.  How may I please you?” she said, her voice quivering.  If she said that she were not terrified, she would be lying.  But her mind was all that she had to survive…to fight.

Thuringwethil rinsed the sponge, her expression changing from motherly to that of a lover and put it back between the Princess’ legs. “What was that, Nirnadel?”

The Princess forced a dreamy smile.  “Who?  There is no one here by that name,” she said, remembering what Alquanessë told her about how the vampire had turned the elf, robbed her of her identity.  Nirnadel allowed herself to let out a contented sigh, spreading her knees.  She wanted to vomit but tightened her stomach to hold it all in.

The vampire looked surprised, her mouth open.  “Oh my.  I had not expected you to yield yourself to me so soon.  Humans bend to my will more quickly than elves, I have found.” She stroked Nirnadel’s face as she kept the sponge moving.  “This is a pleasant surprise.”  The princess began to quiver.

“Yes, mother,” Nirnadel answered as sweetly as she could. “I am young and weak, but you will…oh, you will give me…give me strength,” she said, her breathing more rapid, her body moving with the sponge.  She kept the music of the Ainur in her head, shifting her thoughts, trying to keep her soul hidden.  She blew out a quiet breath to the other room, a message, a cry for help.  Stay calm.  Stay in control.  Only your mind will save you.  “I…I will…oh, I will rule by your side, mother,” she whispered, putting on the expression of ecstasy that Kaile had shown her, eyes closed and mouth open. She pushed against the vampire’s hand.

Thuringwethil smiled.  “Oh, my daughter, you squirm so well.  Now sing for me.”

Something moved at the door.  It was time.  It was all or nothing.  The words came to her, and she sang them out in defiance,

“Oh stars, your light I send,
Oh dark heart, I will weave your rest,
Remain shadow, your breath shall fade,
The star shines in the land at night,”

It was part of the Lay of Leithian, the story of how Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel recovered a Silmaril from Morgoth’s iron crown, enchanting and defeating the Dark Lord.  It was a tale of hope and love and triumph over impossible odds. It was the conquest of light over darkness, good over evil.

Thuringwethil recoiled, her face twisted.  “What?  What is this? Stop that!  Stop singing that!”  Fangs sprouted and eyes blazed in anger.  “I will finish you right here, you miserable whelp!” she hissed, reaching out in rage as Calarmë pounced on the vampire, biting and clawing at her exposed face.  The vampire fell backwards, screeching, stumbling over her own feet, the cat leaping away, hissing, arching her back.

The enchanted bindings around Nirnadel evaporated, and she rolled up, taking her longsword from the scabbard at the vampire’s hip.  She didn’t care if she died here.  It was all or nothing.  She began striking Thuringwethil with all of her might, over and over, no technique, no method, just fury, screaming with every blow.  

Thuringwethil staggered back under the assault, shielding her head with her arm, the mithril anket hammering on the armor as Calarmë hissed and snarled.  “You treacherous bitch!” the vampire howled.  “You will watch as all of your friends die, slow, horrible deaths!” she shrieked and changed into a bat, fleeing as the empty armor fell to the ground.

Nirnadel paused, her breath coming in gulps.  Was she safe?  She frantically looked around, her eyes huge.  The room shimmered and faded to a gloomy empty chamber, ancient dust on the floor, except for where a bed once was.  She began to shake uncontrollably and sagged to her knees as Calarmë and Gîliel came up to her, purring and rubbing their faces into her leg. All of the fear and fury pent up in her came flowing out and she balled her fists around the handle or her weapon. She could see lanterns coming down the hall towards her now and she picked up the two cats, hugging them.

“Safe…gone…bad…gone,” Calarmë meowed.

“Yes, yes, I am safe because of you.  I love you so much, both of you.”  She could not believe that she was still alive and that her ruse worked. Only her mind had allowed her to survive.  She put her hands together in prayer to the Valar, thanking Alquanessë for her words and training that saved her life.  They had driven off a demon of unimaginable power, full of the blood of her victims.

Footsteps pounded into the ancient bedroom, lantern lights shining on her.  “Oh! Thank the Valar, thank the Valar,” Baranor cried out and ran to her, Kaile, Galadel and Haedorial right behind him along with Carvion the orange cat, who began licking her hand.  All four wrapped their arms around her, Kaile and Galadel weeping for joy.  “We thought we lost you!” they all said.

Kaile looked at her sideways, wiping tears from her eyes. “I can’t believe that we found you! I was so afraid!  But…but, why are you naked?  Why did you take your armor off?”

“It’s…it’s a long story,” Nirnadel said, her breathing calming and her stomach settling.  For a moment, she thought that this was another mental trick of the demon’s, but she trusted her gut.  “I met Thuringwethil…or rather, she met me.  She was going to enslave me, turn me into vampire like Alquanessë.  I was only saved by these brave and ferocious cats and the mercy of the Valar.  Good Baranor, perhaps we can make these courageous felines part of the Tirrim Aran.”

Galadel picked up Nirnadel’s clothes.  “Umm, perhaps you might want to get dressed?  And Captain Baranor, good Haedorial, could you turn around?”

The Princess snickered and waved her off.  “It’s nothing they haven’t seen, and I would prefer the good captain’s eyes were on us until we survive this.”  She touched him on the hand.  “I am sorry that I was reckless, my dear Baranor.  It nearly cost me my life and the fate of Cardolan. I put everyone at risk.”  She pulled on her tunic and breeches, and then they all helped with her armor which had a good number of dents and scratches from her mad attack.  “You do not know how terrified that I was.  She was going to make me her right hand, and I was to rule the north as her vampire slave.”  She turned her head down.  “I sobbed like a baby…I was so ashamed, but Alquanessë’s training and these wonderful cats saved me.”  The three women put their heads together in the middle, arms around each other’s necks in a show of solidarity.

Then, she turned to Baranor, her face red and sad. She had let them down, but she had to be honest.  She could not hide this.  “My good captain, I am not worthy of your faith,” she said sadly, her eyes down.  “In my fear…in my fear I wet myself…like a baby. I am…I am just a cowardly child.” She was so embarrassed.  How could anyone hold faith in her now?  How could such noble knights respect her, much less follow her?

He blew out a breath and then shook his head, taking a knee. “Your Highness, you were courageous in the face of the darkest evil to haunt this realm other than the Witch-King. I am going to tell you something that might surprise you.  In my first battle, I soiled my pants.  It was…awful. But any warrior who says that they haven’t done what we’ve done or thrown up is lying or mentally warped.  You survived.  You faced down that monster, and you are still with us.  My faith in you is unshakable,” he said, putting his hand on the pauldron over her shoulder in a warm gesture of assurance.  She nodded in relief and smiled up at him.  “Come, let us find Firiel for she is still missing, and we have to end Thuringwethil.  This is not over,” he told the group.

As they turned, Gandalf came through the door with Alquanessë and another elf, tall and regal, clad in silver plate armor and a blue and silver surcoat.  The elf removed her helm, letting her raven hair tumble down.  Like Alquanessë, she was a Noldor, ethereally beautiful like something out of a painting.

Alquanessë saw them and let out a sigh of relief.  Her eyes and nose were red from weeping, but she put her hands together in thanks.  “Praise Varda, you are all alive.  We feared the worst.”

Nirnadel ran into her arms.  “You saved me!  You saved me! Your music, your words saved me!  Thuringwethil had me in her grasp.  She did to me what she did to you, said that she would turn me in the same way, break me in the same way!”

Alquanessë held her tightly.  “Oh no…oh no, I’m so sorry.”  Then, her face showed surprise.  “How…how is it that you are here?  How did you escape?”

“Your music played in my mind, calmed me in my fear. She could not read me then.  And good Haedorial, the bardic skill that you taught me allowed me to call for our good cat, Calarmë and even little Gîliel.” She grasped his hand and held it tightly.

Haedorial held up the pouch, the flap and ties ripped apart by claws and teeth.  “They could not be kept from you, Your Highness, such is the power of their loyalty,” he said, stroking the cats and feeding them some chicken.

Alquanessë knelt and held the Princess’ hand.  “You did what I could not do.  You fought her!  You beat her!  I was…I was weak,” she said, her face turning down, tears running down her cheeks. “And my brothers…they are…they are going to die.  I could not save them much less myself.”

Nirnadel raised her up.  “I am so sorry.  I understand loss and we will honor your brothers, I promise this.  But you saved me.  I am alive and free because of you…and the cats.  It was by pure chance that we discovered Thuringwethil’s weakness.”

The wizard tapped his staff with an, “Ahem.”  I dislike having to ruin this beautiful moment, but we must go.  This is not over.  Come, follow me to the temple and be prepared.  Her rage at being driven away from her prize is bringing her to madness. I can feel it…she is draining the life from her followers to fuel her revenge.  We have no more time to waste.”

Nirnadel lowered the visor of her sallet helm with a snap of the metal, a sound that signified her resolve.  She grabbed Alquanessë’s hand and squeezed it, sisters not in blood or even race, but in soul.  Then, she drew her longsword and gritted her teeth.  If the demon wanted rage, she was damn well going to get rage.

Mercatur

He was enveloped in inky blackness like being drowned in a swamp at night.  Time had no meaning, and he seemed to exist in all times at once.  The only thing that grounded him was the feel of Neldis’ hand that he hung onto for dear life.  He looked back but could not see anything other than the void, feeling the chill of it. Weird images then passed by as if he were moving quickly.  There was an elven tower of white marble and granite, both a fortress and a symbol of elegance in the style of the High Elves.  It fell under siege as three massive volcanoes erupted, spewing orange magma onto a grassy plain.  The image had no meaning to him other than seeing Alquanessë and her mother fighting off orcs, only to have the vampire, Thuringwethil swoop down and drag them into the air, screaming.  The scene flowed by, passing behind him as a new one formed.

An island of horror coalesced, filled with werewolves and creatures beyond human imagining.  They haunted another white tower that was now stained and desecrated. In a dank and filthy cell, Thuringwethil tormented Alquanessë and her mother, draining the younger elf’s blood and feeding it back to her.  The vampire renamed her Skrykalian, stripping her of her very identity and soul and doing the same to all of her siblings right in front of their mother, who was nearly mad with grief, gibbering and sobbing.

Then, Thuringwethil was gone, summoned to perform some foul deed but the scene shifted to a massive hound, as big as a horse, ripping her throat out followed by an elf of unearthly beauty cutting the vampire’s skin away and wearing it as a disguise.  Was this event that Nirnadel sang of?  It was something so unreal to a Rhudauran mercenary that it might as well have been a fairy tale.

Then, whispers and giggles sounded all around him, like a child at play.  He tried to pull Neldis closer, but it was like moving through tar.  Then there was a loud pop, like a balloon bursting and they stood there in a well-lit hall of mirrors, their reflections on hundreds of panes.  He turned back to Neldis and Coru.  “What is this?  Are we seeing things?” he asked as he touched a mirror and it felt solid.

Neldis came up and touched the same pane.  “No, it’s…it’s real.  It feels real.”

Then they heard a pitiful wail.  It was Silmarien.  Other voices sounded in the distance, Hirgrim, Elladan and Elrohir, but they were nowhere to be seen.  Mercatur growled.  “I don’t know what this is, but we’re going to find my cousin and I’m going to put my axe in that bitch’s face.  Come, don’t get separated.”  He led them along what looked like a path through the mirrors, still hearing the voices, sometimes closer, sometimes farther.  It was impossible to tell direction with their reflections everywhere.

Some of the reflections began to move independently of them, some appearing happy, some terrified.  One mirror showed Neldis on top of Mercatur in the act of love.  He narrowed his eyes.  “This is bullshit,” he grunted and hurled one of his daggers at the mirror, shattering it.  “Fine, if that what it takes, we’re cutting through this,” he said, his voice barely containing his anger and frustration.  “Stand behind me!” he ordered and began chopping at panes with his axe, smashing them into shards.  “Silmarien!  Where are you!  Call to me!”

There was a scream of fear and pain, and it was close. He smashed several more mirrors, feeling the tiny shards bouncing off of his rigid leather overcoat and his heavy chainmail.  His ferocity grew until he heard a shriek behind him.  He turned to see the two nurses facing a mirror that was only blank. “What?  What happened?” he asked with his axe raised and ready.

Coru pointed at the mirror.  “It was in there!  I swear it was!” she cried, her face and voice full of fear.  “A monster with fangs and red eyes!”

“Not any more,” he growled and shattered the pane with a single stroke, but the creature appeared in another pane, now laughing.  It was a woman with a bat’s face, red eyes and fangs, her feet claws with black, bat’s wings sprouting from her back.  She pointed at them with a taloned finger, snickering.

“I have your beloved princess,” she said sweetly with a sinister grin.  “She is my plaything now and you know what I do with my playthings.”  Mercatur smashed that mirror, but the demon appeared in another one, laughing, toying with them.  “She sang for me.  Her voice is so beautiful when she sings in pain and ecstasy.  Can’t you see her face, brave mercenary,” Thuringwethil continued, her form changing into Nirnadel’s, nude but for black stockings, gloves and a bejeweled velvet choker.  Her face bore an expression in the throes of love, her hands on her own body.  “You like this, don’t you?  Come to me and I will give her to you.  The two of you will rule the north in my name.  King Consort?  Isn’t that what you told the healer?”

He smashed that mirror with a growl, but she appeared in another, still as Nirnadel, her hands caressing herself.  “Come to me, my good Mercatur.  Hold me in your strong arms and make me a woman,” she said in the Princess’ voice.  “I have never felt a man’s love,” she pleaded.  “Be my first.”  Her mouth formed a wide O.

He snarled.  “You’re not her!  I have someone,” he said, pointing back at Neldis and then immediately regretted it. He revealed something that he shouldn’t have.

“Ah, I would have found out anyway.  Your mind is as weak as your body is strong.”  The image changed as laughter filled the mirrored halls. It was the King, a little younger though, in rich robes of crimson, black and gold.  He held a dark-haired woman in his arms, pulling her robe off, letting it fall to the floor as his hands caressed her body.

“Mother!” Neldis called out, her face full of surprise and confusion.

“Yes, dear,” the image of her mother said, looking at her as the King kissed her breasts.  “This is the truth.  You are Nirnadel’s older sister…well, half-sister.  You should be Queen by rights.  I can give that to you.”  The King knelt down, kissing other parts.  “But your life was this instead,” the image said and the scene changed to Neldis besides her dying mother who was burning up from fever.  Then her in the blacksmith’s home in her room as the son came in and closed the door.  Then, she was in the shanty town, dressed in rags with no shoes as the snow fell, followed by a man giving her a handful of coins as he pulled her ratty dress up.

“But you could have the life that you have so longed for, finery, adoration, power.”  The image changed to Neldis in a silk royal gown, emerald green and scarlet in the colors of Cardolan, ladies dressing her in foresleeves of ermine, a golden bejeweled girdle about her waist and a necklace of pearls and rubies.  The ladies removed her stiff felt hood with golden trim and pearls with a black veil down the back of her neck and placed a mithril crown above her brow as she ate a candied plum dipped in chocolate.

The nurse gasped, one hand covering her mouth.  “I…I…,” she stammered, shaking.

Mercatur stood in front of her.  “She’s lying!  It’s not real!”

The Neldis reflection giggled.  “Oh, but it could be,” she said, the mirror showing people kneeling before her, adoring crowds waving as she sat on the throne with the ancient Sceptre of Thalion in her hand.  “How would that be?  A whore becoming a queen?  All of that could be forgotten, my dear.  Come to me and I will make it so.”

Neldis blinked hard, scrunching her face, thinking and Mercatur’s heart fell.  How could she even consider this lie?  He’d been a fool to let his guard down...to feel.  He balled his fists.  Then the nurse scowled, her face twisted.  “Keep your lie!” she shouted in anger.  “I will never betray Nirnadel!”

The image of the vampire returned, fangs bared.  “Then you will die!” Thuringwethil growled and the image flitted from pane to pane, almost too fast to track, appearing behind the nurse, a clawed hand reaching out from the mirror pane.  Coru saw this and pushed her friend out of the way, stepping between them.  “Neldis, look out!” she shouted and the claw tore her throat out as the Mercatur and Neldis turned around.

“No!” Neldis cried, drawing her eket.  Coru’s hands went up to her throat, blood pouring down her nurse’s apron as she gurgled blood.  The hand pulled her into the mirror and Thuringwethil drank.

Mercatur smashed the mirror but there was nothing but laughter as the shards flew away to reveal Coru’s body, her face white and twisted in terror.  Neldis sank down, cradling the nurse’s head.  “No!  Why did you do that?  It should have been me!  Why, Coru?”

Mercatur howled in rage.  “Enough of these games, demon!  Fight me or kill me!  Enough!”

All of the mirrors shattered as one, glass flying everywhere as the scene and the shards vanished and they now stood in the Temple of Sauron. Tengwar runes covered the walls and on the ceiling was a painting of a golden ring surrounded by fire.  Magical braziers sat at each corner, casting a hellish red glow in the room.  At the opposite end was a stone slab, the altar of sacrifice with metal bowls full of blood.  Bodies of tribesmen, drained, lay scattered about, eyes wide in horror. Thuringwethil and Blogath stood at the altar where Silmarien was bound, writhing about in pain and fear.  Firiel was chain next to her, unconscious.

Mercatur closed his eyes.  There was no way that he could defeat these two monsters, but he had to try. He pushed one hand behind him. “Stay back, Neldis,” he ordered but she stood beside him, eket held at guard.

“It won’t matter.  We win or die together,” she declared.  He felt proud and terrified at the same time.  He trust had been warranted.  The vampires turned towards them, and he knew that their time was short.  Thuringwethil raised her arms and the corpses of the drained men shambled up.

He sucked his teeth.  “And I thought that this was going to be easy.”  This was it.  No one else was going to save the north, just him and a former prostitute for whom he actually felt something for.  With a battle cry, he sank his axe into one of the undead, the Silima coated blade splitting its head.  He hewed about him as Neldis stabbed with her eket, shouting with every strike.  Mercatur felt a dagger plunge into his shoulder, the leather and chainmail blunting the stab, the point only sinking in a little.  He hooked the attacker with the beard of his axe, pulling the man’s face into his knee.  A sword struck his barbute helm with a loud clang, knocking him back. He drew his thick, nêl-i-fingel dagger, a wide bladed weapon meant to rip and tear flesh and drove it up under the attacker’s chin with his left hand.  Another sword struck his flank, the chainmail stopping the cut, but he felt it in his ribs.  He moved in front of another attack meant for Neldis and a mace struck his helm and he saw stars.  He shoved her back, taking up a guard again, shaking his head to clear it.

The two vampires began a chant,

“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.”

He had no idea what that meant so it was all demonic bullshit to him, but it had to be bad.  An inky cloud appeared above Silmarien and the mage screamed, turning her head away. With a battle cry, Mercatur bull rushed the mob, hacking and striking, now covered in gore, but little blood came out of his undead enemies.  As he felt his arms tiring and his breathing heavy, arrows flew into his attackers, and he heard the sons of Elrond shouting with Hirgrim, Valandil, Jaabran and Dagar. Some help had arrived.

“It’s about damn time!” he growled, splitting another skull.  This time a thin dagger plunged through his mail into his stomach and he winced, shoving the spike atop his axe into the man’s eye.  He took a step back, feeling lightheaded and Neldis steadied him and Hirgrim advanced, smashing a man in the head with his war hammer.  Valandil saw Firiel chained to the altar and let out a feral cry, hacking through the enemy.  Arrows continued to fly as the two vampires chanted and began to glow with an unholy light.  The undead howled in new strength and moved faster with more power.  Hirgrim fell back under the new onslaught as Elrond and Glorfindel entered.  How did these elves get here?  They should have been all alone, no one to back them up.  Well, he wasn’t going to complain.  The captain of the House of the Golden Flower charged in, lopping the head off of one and Mercatur stepped back in beside him.  “Neldis, get back, we have this!”  He could see Dagar, stabbing with his mithril eket and Jaabran’s razor scimitar slicing through the undead.  The tide might be turning, and he and Valandil were getting closer to the altar.

Then, after another verse of chanting, the fallen undead rose again with inhuman growls and moans, brutal wounds on their bodies.  Killing them had no real effect.  But it didn’t matter.  Mercatur turned his shoulder and rushed forward, oblivious to blows raining down on his armor.  He’d hurt later.  Hacking with his axe and stabbing with his dagger, he pushed forward towards the altar with Valandil and Glorfindel.  Another blade stabbed him in the back, sinking in an inch past the mail.  He didn’t even cry out.  He thought he could hear Elrond and some gray wizard shouting some heathen incantation, but he couldn’t worry about it now.  The pressure on him seemed to slacken as he heard Baranor and Nirnadel charge in as more arrows flew.  Thuringwethil turned and wrapped her bat wings around she and Blogath, arrows deflecting off of it.

He took a moment to glance to his right, and he saw the Princess, her armor battered and dented but hacking at the enemy with her longsword.  She waved him on.  “Get to the altar!  All of us are behind you!”

Blogath emerged from the winged shield and turned to put some spell on him, but she was tackled by Alquanessë, who flew past them.  Claws, wings and feathers flew as they tumbled to the ground away from the altar.  Thuringwethil was engaged in a battle of wills with Elrond and the wizard, their minds fighting, trying to gain advantage.  Flashes of power and energy sparked between them.  Valandil rushed around the side of the altar and smashed the chains holding Firiel with his mithril sword.  He turned and cut down two of the undead, keeping anyone from getting to the healer.  Nirnadel and Baranor fought to get beside him as Jaabran and Dagar ran up.

“Dagar, Jaabran, get Firiel to safety!” Nirnadel commanded and they carried her back.  The tied was turning.

With Thuringwethil distracted, Mercatur rushed to the altar and made eye contact with Silmarien, her bare body prepared for sacrifice or some other horror, the inky cloud above them, some demon waiting for a vessel…a body.  He cut the leather straps on her left side while Nirnadel cut the right.  The mage rolled off of the altar, pain on her face. “Get out of here!” Mercatur ordered her but she shook her head, grabbing her staff lying at the side of the altar with the shreds of her robes.

“We end this now!” she cried as she reached into her pack and coated the tip of her staff in Silima.  Thuringwethil turned, seeing this and shrieked, drawing her claws back at Silmarien as three arrows sank into the vampire, fired from Morelen and the sons of Elrond.  The demon staggered back, howling in pain and fury and Mercatur raised his axe.

“I’ve been itching to do this,” he snarled, driving his axe into her head.  He started to laugh, but she pulled his head to her and sank her fangs into his neck.

“Stand back!” Silmarien cried and slammed her staff down on the altar. A bright flash and a shockwave tore through the room, knocking nearly everyone off of their feet.

Mercatur spun, his world going dark for a moment.  Then, he saw the vampire staggering back, holding her burned face and then healing herself as Glorfindel and Gildor attacked her, their bodies seeming to glow with an inner light.  He collapsed to the ground, his vision blurry, unable to speak. There was a weird pain in his neck and he touched it, looking at his fingers to see blood.  Then, Neldis was kneeling down over him, saying something urgently but he couldn’t hear the words.  She shook him but he couldn’t feel it.  Numb was good.  Then, all went dark.

CODEX

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Chapter End Notes

More on the horror and temptation theme.  I want to show Thuringwethil and Blogath as master manipulators, powerful in illusion and deception.  And also how normal people can band together to fight.

(Some tie ins with The Court of Ardor and The Dark Mage of Rhudaur)  Pics courtesy the module of The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.

Leave a Comment

54) Blogath’s Sanctuary - Ivanneth (September) 16^th, 1410

Morelen

It took just over a week for Morelen to reach the vale after the messenger told her that Alquanessë was in danger and needed help. The message came as a complete surprise. She was actually in Pelargir, trading supplies and arms from the Guild of Elements in the south when a swan landed in the water and swam up to the dock where her ship, the Bregolaph, was berthed.  She had received only one previous correspondence from Alquanessë since her friend took up residence at Lord Rhudainor’s manor and Morelen was stunned that her friend was alive.  The last that she knew, the Blood-Wights were eradicated in the vale by tribesmen who turned on them and then laid to rest by Elrond at the end of the War of Elves and Sauron.  It had been about twenty-seven hundred years ago.  Needless to say, that when a swan flew up to her and delivered that first message in Alquanessë’s voice, she was shocked.

She signed the bill of lading for the Pelargir dock master and then bent down as the swan waddled up to her.  She had to give it to her friend for her unique and humorous message service.  The swan extended its neck and opened its beak, speaking in Quenya.  “Morelen, please come to the vale.  Our need is dire.  My siblings have awoken, and they intend to raise the vampire, Thuringwethil. All of the north is imperiled. Princess Nirnadel has launched an expedition to destroy them, but I fear that we are all just going to our deaths. I beg of you to come with all haste. You were Sercë’s best friend.  I pray that you can bring her to her senses to defeat this threat.  I bid you safe travels, my friend.”

This changed everything and her mouth fell open.  She turned to the ship captain.  “Captain Ferui, change of plans.  We need to unload the cargo quickly and then sail to Tharbad.  There is a threat that could engulf the entire north,” she told the Sindarin sea lord that had been her friend since the Elder Days.  He was a commander of part of the fleet under Lord Círdan and had supported the Guild since the fall of Brithombar and Eglarest after the Dagor Bragollach when they met on the Isle of Balar.

“Aye Morelen.  It’ll be done straightaway,” he said and turned to the sailors, Sindarin and human.  “Lively lads, lively!  Get a move on!  We sail for Tharbad after, and I want to cast off in thirty minutes!” he called as they both jumped in and carried boxes and crates off of the swan ship to the stevedores on the dock.  Ferui grabbed the sacks of Gondorian gold sovereigns and scrambled back on board.

As the Bregolaph cast off lines and was tugged away from the dock by rowboats, she thought about a demon of Morgoth returning to Middle Earth. This was a dire event indeed even with Sauron formless and the Ring lost forever.  Even in this Third Age, the darkness of her father would arise from time to time.  Her early life was in seclusion with The Three in the complex of Ty-Ar-Rana, away from the cares of the world, believing in justice and fairness and good.  Then, she went north to serve Prince and later High King Fingon as a rider in his company, becoming one of the strongest archers and leaders through training and battle.  It was there that she met and fought with so many good elves, including her husband and Sercë, who disappeared without a trace after the Bragollach, taken by Thuringwethil.

She thought about her husband, Notaldo, for a moment and a tear fell into the ocean…then to the Fall of Nargothrond and Gondolin and she gripped the railing of the ship so tightly that it might snap.  So many failures.  And then a time under endless torment in Angband when she thought she would break and join her father in evil.  It was millennia ago but, to her, it were as if it were yesterday.  News about Thuringwethil brought her right back to the time of the Noldor.  So much had been lost, including her belief in justice, fairness and good.  Life was all about survival and tending to your small corner of the world.

The gray ship unfurled sails and the vessel lurched ahead. She took it as a good omen that a swan had delivered the message to the swan ship from the Swan Maiden. Alquanessë always had a sense of irony and a sharp, edgy wit where her words and actions often had a deeper meaning. Ferui raised his hands to the air and called for a blessing from Ulmo, and the wind filled the sails, blowing and snapping as the Bregolaph accelerated.  Ferui held his yellow, floppy sea cap down as the wind lifted it from his head.  Dolphins began leaping out of the water, ahead of the prow as sailors hurled fish for them to eat.  This part never got old for Morelen, and the call of the sea became stronger every year. She held onto one of the lines to the mast and closed her eyes, letting the sea breeze whip through her raven hair.

The journey to Tharbad was swift under the blessings of Ulmo and the swan ship was soon within sight of the ancient city, the smell of briny water and fish blowing over them.  The harbor master and the stevedores stood on the docks, mouths agape as the Bregolaph slowed and cast off lines to them.  Morelen stood on the prow with her hands cupping beside her mouth.  “We are here to assist the crown on an important matter to the realm!” she called.  “We request permission to dock!”

The harbor master blinked hard and then closed his mouth, his red, curly hair whipping in the wind beneath a red sea cap.  “Yes, yes, you men, grab the lines!  Secure the ship!” he ordered and the swan ship was berthed.

In her cobalt blue and silver robes, Morelen came down the gangplank with the swan.  “Captain Ferui, please feel free to conduct any business here on behalf of the Guild and then you may sail to Lindon.  I will…find my own way home,” she said and then she and the swan approached the harbor master.  “Good sir, the kingdom is imperiled, and I have come to help your Princess.”

He looked her up and down and then raised his head to make eye contact as she was a full head taller.  “Umm, I’m Carandolon, the ‘arbor master ‘ere in Tharbad.  I don’ mean to question your word or anythin’ bu’ do you have any…ummm documents to back you up?  It’s no’ offen that we ge’ elven ships in, if you get me meaning.”

She gestured down to the swan that she named Alquendë. “Go ahead and tell him,” she said and the swan delivered the message, this time in Westron.  The harbor master and the dock workers stopped, stunned, listening to the talking swan.  “Well, ummm, when you pu’ it that way, I suppose we should let you enter, miss.”

She nodded thanks with a smile as Ferui brought her bags down, full of her armor and weapons.  They embraced and he boarded the ship again with Alquendë, yelling, “We must have something to trade here!  Get below and find me something!”

“Could you kindly point me to the stables,” she asked and he put his hand out, facing north across the Iant Formen Bridge up the Menetar, the main road through the city.

Carandolon pointed to a wagon.  “Oi miss, we provide ground transportation too, iffn you need it. The wagon’ll take you up to the stables, it will.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said pleasantly, giving him a gold sovereign for docking fees which was far in excess of the actual cost. Then, she loaded her bags in the back and then climbed onto the wooden seat next to the driver, a stout, middle aged man who stared at her, eyes wide.  As the wagon drove away, Carandolon raised an eyebrow.

“Well, cor blimey and fill me stomach wi ale.  I can’t say as that’s ever ‘appened ‘ere before. Been a lo’ of elves traipsing through ‘ere lately making consort with the good Princess.  Bu’ river traffic is up, and the gold is flowing in, so she must be doin’ somefing right.”

At the stables, Morelen tipped the driver with five gold crowns and bought a swift horse from the master.  The driver stared at the gold, thanking her profusely.  “You elves are a good lot,” he said, his hands together. “I ‘ear a lo’ of bad about you, snotty and superior, bu’ I’ll be sure to tell em the truth.”

She smiled back as she saddled the horse and slung her bags over the saddle.  “Thank you, good driver.  Unfortunately, some of what you heard is true.  We can be that.  But you will never experience that from me.  May I have your name, good sir, so that I may call upon you when I return?”

“Fastdan, me lady.  I will be at your beck and call when you ge’ back.  Thank you again and me family thanks you too!  This ‘ere’s ‘alf a year’s wages, it is.”

She nodded and then put heels to mount and sped off north. Her horse was a speedy palfrey, bred for swiftness and she fed him some of the elven supplement for strength and stamina and they pounded up the road, past Fennas Drúinen into Rhudaur.  She made only a brief stop in the town to rent a room and change into her armor and then set off again to murmurs from the townspeople about ‘strange folk’ these days.  It was another day of hard riding to get to the Tirthon where she got an update from Lord Oswy that two parties ventured into the Yfelwood, the second with Lord Elrond, the wizard Gandalf and Princess Nirnadel.  The crack of thunder caught their attention.  She would need to ride again quickly.

He gestured to the crumbling Tirthon.  “This used to be our home until the last war.  Lots of memories,” he said, walking with her to the stables.  “You’ll need a fresh horse, Lady Morelen.”  He snapped his fingers and stable boys rushed out with a new mount, saddling it up for her and moving her bags.  “I consider Alquanessë and Finculion to be close friends and my Lord Dagar is there too, so I wish you success.  They left a few hours ago so you are not too far behind.”

She nodded warmly.  “Thank you, Lord Oswy,” she said as she put her blue laen recurve bow, Luinë, into a sheath and attached three quivers of arrows to her saddle.

The cook, Maelil, came out and handed her a sack of biscuits and muffins.  “Oi love, please take this for the road, if you would.  Just a bi’ o freshness from ole Maelil’s bakery.”

Morelen opened the sack and took a bite from one of the biscuits and nodded with a smile.  It had a hint of sugar with cinnamon, spice and raisins.  “Thank you for your kindness, dear Maelil.  I’ve been riding hard for two days, and I haven’t eaten at all. This is much needed.”

The cook took her hand for a moment.  “You bring ‘er ‘ighness back safe, now.  We’re counting on you, lady elf.”

She swung into the saddle and put her hand over her armored heart.  “I will do my absolute best, I swear.  Please, Morelen is fine.  And I won’t forget your kindness, Lord Oswy, dear Maelil.  I will see you soon.”  She wondered for a moment if their confidence in her was misplaced.  So many had died under her protection.  A memory flashed in her head of High King Fingon, crushed under the attacks of Gothmog and Lungorthin, the balrogs of Angband.

Oswy rode with her to the trail north.  “I will start sending out patrols in the early morning. We’ll be on the lookout for all of you,” he said with a salute, his weapon hand empty and raised to his forehead. “I am guarding the route of retreat should you need it, but I will admit to not being upset by it, having been in Blogath’s Sanctuary once too many times.  My wife demanded that I…guard here.  I applaud you and the others for your courage.”

Morelen nodded back to him and then spurred her mount, speeding towards the vale in the dark as a drizzle turned into a steady downpour. She could smell the wet pines now and hear the birds settling in for the night, seeking shelter from the rain, squawking out loud.  She took out her bow, keeping it at the ready, her elven eyes seeing easily at night in spite of the stream of water that dribbled down her helm.  There was an oppressive darkness over the Yfelwood, like the darkness that settled over Ost-in-Edhil when Sauron laid siege to the city or when Thangorodrim erupted before the Bragollach.  She had a flash of memory, chained and helpless to a black altar, her real mother holding a black dagger over her under a sunless sky during a total eclipse.  She shuddered and shook her head.  She knew what it was like to be victimized, especially by one’s own family.  She blew out a long breath, pushing the images out of her mind.  She would need to focus now, and the past was the past.  At least that’s what she told herself.  For an elf, that was often a comforting lie.

She tapped her horse’s flank harder, urging him to move faster.  No mount had ever measured up to Lindarion, her mare through much of the First Age.  Another loss.  She grunted and rose in the saddle, firing an arrow into a tree as she rode by, the shaft sinking into the trunk up to the fletchings.  It was a meaningless gesture, but it made her feel better.

As she entered the vale and looked down the path, she saw Cardolani Royal Guardsmen with some young men, gathered under the eaves of the entryway to stay out of the rain.  She rode carefully down the winding path to keep her horse from slipping in the mud, expertly pushing her calves into it to guide him around pools and obstacles.  Nearly five thousand years of riding experience made this automatic.  She could feel what her mount was thinking and experiencing, knowing dangers and fears before even the horse knew.  As she approached, she raised an empty hand and called out, “Well met, Arequain of the Tirrim Aran!  I have ridden up from the Tirthon to assist the Princess and her party,” she said as she dismounted, sheathing her bow and removing the quivers. “I am Morelen of the Guild of Elements,” she declared proudly.

The Guard were arrayed in their full plate armor, polished silver but for the drops of rain that beaded and flowed down.  “I am Sergeant Riston of the Tirrim Aran.  Our Captain Baranor has gone in with Her Highness. We’re here to guard the entrance. They went down maybe twenty minutes ago.”

She removed her helm and shook out her hair of the rain and the men gasped.  One young man with now damp ringlets of brown hair, bowed his head.  “We have seen more elves this day than we have ever seen and another one of the High Elves too.  You are…breathtaking, my lady, much like Lady Alquanessë.  My name is Mindolinor, son of Haedorial…and my friends Angion and Ethirdir.”

“Alquanessë is my friend from an age ago,” she said with a faraway look.  “It was she who sent me a message to come with haste and I have come with all the speed that wind and hoof could give me.  My name is Morelen, daughter of…Fëatur and Yavëkamba.  I am pleased to make all of your acquaintances.  I must take my leave though as I fear that time is short.  Have faith and remain alert.”  She gave them all a curt smile and proceeded down the stairs, putting her helm back on.

She navigated through the Sanctuary, seeing the signs of passage, feeling the portents.  The pallor of evil was thick in the complex, like breathing soup.  She thought about how she had scoured Beleriand for Sercë, after she went missing, even penetrating the horror of Tol-in-Gaurhoth alone in her attempt to find her friend.  A number of werewolves perished that night to her dagger and her arrows, but Sercë was long gone, dead or removed.  Only Morelen’s incredible strength, speed and power, derived from her father Morgoth, gave her the ability to survive that foul lair.  It wasn’t until the four siblings came to Ost-in-Edhil did she know that they did not perish.

Down a set of stairs and a long hallway she jogged, past the body of a dead man, drained by a vampire.  Then, there were sounds up ahead, music at first, the Ainulindalë she thought, coming from a flute.  Then the sounds of conflict and she rushed into a dining room to see Sercë, partially in the form of a falcon, circling Alquanessë, talons and fangs bared. Finculion and Tindómeno stood, frozen in time and space along with an old man in gray robes, holding a wooden staff. Morelen nocked an arrow.

Sercë shrieked and took an aggressive step towards her sister and Morelen let fly, the arrow streaking into Sercë’s chest up to the fletchings.  She had shot the woman who had once been her closest friend.

Alquanessë

From the dining room, they ran to the nearby Temple of Sauron, where Alquanessë waited behind Gandalf and Morelen, willing herself to move, to fight, but she was still afraid.  Thuringwethil and Blogath performed a chant, a dark ritual of power, fueling their undead minions.  Attacking either one of them would be suicide.  She made a furtive movement and stopped, just like she did when flying over the fall of Ost-in-Edhil.  She let out a wailing moan.  Why couldn’t she move?  She wanted to huddle in a corner and mourn her brothers.  Manipulate and seduce had always been her way as a succubus.  But even Nirnadel fought, standing beside Baranor, hacking at the undead.  Her lover, Gildor, stood with Glorfindel, pushing towards the altar and Neldis stood behind Mercatur, stabbing at the monsters.  All the while a black, inky cloud floated above poor Silmarien, waiting to take control of her body and be reborn.  They were breeding and forming an army of demons and undead to conquer. She dug her nails into her arm, wanting to cause herself pain.  To feel alive.  To not feel like a frightened child.   

Then, Alquanessë saw her sister about to unleash some sorcery on Mercatur.  She couldn’t let someone else die for her cowardice.  She just couldn’t.  There was no turning back now.  With a feral howl, she unfurled her swan wings and darted over the melee to slam into Blogath, the two tumbling back from the altar, crashing to the black marble floor. It had flashed in her mind that she couldn’t win this.  Blogath could pluck her wings and limbs off of her as if she were an insect.  But it didn’t matter.  She had hidden in fear of her sister for so long.  Even when she finally confronted Blogath at the end of the War of Elves and Sauron, she planned to flee with Finculion and hide, not stand up to them.  For once in her sorry life, she would fight for what she believed in.

On top of Blogath she raked down with her claws, but her hand was caught and her sister rolled over on top of her.  Blogath pulled hard on her wrist, almost snapping it but Alquanessë kicked her in the face with a taloned foot, knocking her off. Her hand screamed at her in pain, but she slammed her shoulder into her sister and they both fell over again, crashing down with feathers flying.  The younger sister bit Blogath on the cheek, tearing with her fangs.  The older sister cried out, snarling as she grabbed one of Alquanessë’s wings and snapped the bone like a twig.

Alquanessë arched her back in agony, shrieking and fell backwards, rolling as Blogath leapt on top of her.  It all came down to how much pain could she inflict before her sister ripped her to pieces.  Blogath’s hand grasped her jaw and squeezed hard like Thuringwethil had done to her as blood dripped down the older sister’s cheek.  “I will take your eyes and your tongue too, you filthy whore!” Blogath screamed, her eyes red, her face twisted in absolute madness.  “We’ll leave you alive as a worm!”

The younger sister fought furiously, trying to move her head, to bite her sister’s wrist but the grip was too strong.  This was the end.  It was inevitable.  This was an insect trying to defeat a bird of prey.  All she had left was to try and convince Blogath to kill her.

“Wait, wait!” she shouted.  “Kill me!  We killed your beloved Balisimur and I was overjoyed!  Yes, I wanted Annatar!  I stole him from you!  Kill me!”

Blogath howled in rage, her face shifting back and forth between that of a woman and a falcon and even into a horrific demon, multiple eyes, and a skeletal visage that filled with sharklike teeth.  Alquanessë recoiled and closed her eyes.  “Killing is too good for you, you mewling sheep!” Blogath screeched and pulled her hand back, two talons pointed at her sister’s eyes. “I’ll rip your tongue out next! What’s between what’s left of your legs will be all that you have!”  The younger sister screamed in terror as a mithril longsword lopped Blogath’s hand off.

Blogath’s face went blank as she looked back to see Nirnadel and Baranor thrusting forward with their swords, driving them into the Blood-Wight’s chest.  A gull-feathered arrow from Morelen then pierced Blogath’s other cheek, knocking her back.  The wounded demon howled in pain and anger, pulling the swords from her body.  As she stretched her arms out to heal, Alquanessë brought her leg around her sister’s neck and slammed her head into the floor and rolled on top of her again.

Blogath’s eyes blinked weakly in surprise and fear and Alquanessë found that she enjoyed it.  She wanted to do the same to her as was threatened, have her dear sister survive and live as a worm for her own entertainment.  She drew her talons back but then realized that she would be as evil as her.  She had hoped and prayed that Sercë could be redeemed but she was too far gone.  It broke her heart.  “You are lucky that I am not you, my sister, so I will grant you this mercy,” she said, her eyes watering, her voice wavering.  Then she sank her fangs into Blogath’s neck, drinking of the blood and power, feeling them flood into her own body.

Blogath whimpered, struggling more and more weakly until Alquanessë pulled back, blood dripping down her mouth and her body.  The older sister reached out with her left hand, grasping the younger sister’s arm, her eyes watery and dreamy.  “Alqua…my…my sister,” she said in a raspy whisper.  “I…our family.  I know…they’re gone.  You will…be the last,” she said, her breathing rapid and shallow.  “We are…no more…my arrogance.”  She raised her hand, and a spirit seemed to float over her body, tethered to the altar, Thuringwethil and the dark cloud that groaned in a demonic voice, hungry for a new form, a young, healthy and beautiful form.

She saw Jaabran and Dagar carrying Firiel to safety as Mercatur dashed by Thuringwethil and cut the bindings on Silmarien’s left side while Nirnadel got the right.  The mage rolled off and grabbed her staff, not even bothering to dress.  Mercatur ordered her away, but she was filled with fury, just having been freed from being fused with some demonic spirit.  “We end this now!” she cried, coating her staff with the silver substance.  The vampire saw what was happening and reached out to seize the mage and was shot by three arrows from Morelen and the sons of Elrond.

The black cloud howled, denied its new vessel and moved towards the mage as the mercenary sank his axe into Thuringwethil’s head.  The vampire barely blinked and pulled Mercatur’s neck to her fangs and sank them into his flesh, devouring the blood.  Alquanessë stood, unable to move.  What was Blogath doing?  But a friend of hers would die if she didn’t move.  She had to act.

“Stand back!” Silmarien yelled, raising her staff above the altar, her long blonde hair flying behind her as Glorfindel and Gildor cut their way through the undead to rush Thuringwethil.  Blogath shrieked, unleashing what little power she had left, and the tether snapped with a thunderclap as Silmarien smote the altar with her Silima coated staff and a flash and shockwave ripped through the temple, knocking nearly everyone to the ground.  The inky cloud was torn asunder, blown away by the blast, no longer kept in this earthly realm by the magical tether.  

When the flash cleared, Alquanessë shook her head and staggered back up.  She looked down to see Blogath, barely conscious, her hand lying next to her. They had done it.  They had defeated Blogath.  But now, her entire family would be gone.  Her sister had done one good thing, powered by her actual love of her family.  It would never be enough to undo the horrors that she had perpetrated but it was something at their most dire moment.  

Nearby though, there was still one more battle being fought…the greatest battle of this war.

Nirnadel

Nirnadel and the Guard rushed from the bedroom down the hall towards the temple where she ordered Kaile and Haedorial to remain outside with the cats.  “It will be a bloodbath in there.  Await us here,” she commanded and then ran into the temple with the Tirrim Aran and Galadel.

The Princess felt a strange feeling of power which she sensed came from the apple that she was fed.  There was a tingling sensation throughout her body and along her skin and things seemed to be in clear focus, her mind sharp.  There was no time to worry about that now as the room was consumed by battle, Baranor and Guard surrounding her.

In seemingly slow motion, she saw Alquanessë slam into Blogath and tumble away from the altar as a black cloud hovered above Silmarien’s prostrate body.  The poor mage bucked and struggled to get free and away from the demonic essence that only saw her as a vessel.  Whatever this was, they had to stop it.  Thuringwethil and Blogath had been chanting, fueling their undead minions, calling out in the Black Speech, something she knew enough of to know that it was the verse of the One Ring.  But the ring was gone forever and Sauron destroyed.  With a battle cry, she and her guardsmen fought their way forward, her mithril anket alongside the captain’s blue laen weapon from lost Númenor.

The undead tribesmen were mere rabble, but energized by the chant, they fought with crazed fury, oblivious of their wounds or even their own lives.  Limbs and even heads lay on the floor with surprisingly little blood for they had all been drained to within an ounce of life to feed the vampires and fill the great black bowls with blood.

The fight between the two Blood-Wights was intensifying, claws and fangs flying along with feathers.  Alquanessë bit her sister on the face but had her wing snapped. She collapsed backwards with a scream, Blogath leaping onto her and seizing her jaw.  The two shouted at each other for a moment before the older sister howled in rage.  Nirnadel had to do something.  “Get me to her, Baranor!” she ordered and the Guard cut a path forward.  The Princess dodged under a spiked mace and cut her attacker through the side as Blogath pulled her hand back, two taloned fingers aimed at Alquanessë’s eyes.

With a war cry, Nirnadel sliced right through the Blood-Wight’s wrist with her mithril sword.  Blogath turned, her face full of shock and surprise.  She was so intent on maiming her sister that she never saw the Princess coming.  Baranor joined her and they thrust their swords through her chest and blood burst from her mouth.  Morelen shot an arrow into Blogath’s cheek and the demon’s head snapped back, her grip on Alquanessë gone.  The younger sister swung her leg around Blogath’s neck and slammed her head into the floor with cracking sound, rolling on top of her older sister with a feral cry.

Nirnadel knew that she couldn’t dwell on this now.  It looked as if Alquanessë had defeated her older sister, so she turned towards the altar to see Valandil smash the chains that held Firiel bound to the side of the black marble and then Jaabran and Dagar carried her to safety as the knight fought on.  Mercatur was at the altar now, slicing the leather bindings on the left side that held Silmarien and Nirnadel pushed to the right side, slicing those.  Freed, the mage rolled off of the black stone as the inky cloud howled in frustration, a demonic form writhing inside, snarling.  It wanted a new form.  It wanted a soul.  What horrid spirit could this be?

Silmarien coated her staff in Silima and raised it to strike the altar and Thuringwethil clawed at her but was struck with three arrows, knocking her back a couple of steps.  Defending his cousin, Mercatur sank his axe blade into the vampire’s head, but she barely flinched.  It all seemed to flow in slow motion as she seized his head and sank her fangs into his neck.  “No!” the Princess yelled, leading the way up the steps to the altar with the Guard right behind.  She was too slow.  She couldn’t let her mercenary captain and her friend fall to that monster.

Then, there was a loud snapping sound and the tendril of power that connected Blogath, Thuringwethil, the altar and the dark cloud was blown apart. Fear on her face, the vampire tossed Mercatur’s body aside as Silmarien cried, “Stand back!” and smote the altar with her staff.  A blinding flash of light and a shockwave rippled through the room, knocking nearly everyone to the floor and spilling the bowls of blood, the source of the vampires’ power.  

Nirnadel winced as she pulled herself back to her feet, blinking her eyes to clear the white spots.  She shook her head to see Glorfindel and Gildor swinging at the vampire, but her wings were deflecting the attacks.  Thuringwethil appeared weakened though, blood streaming down her nose and from her eyes.  This was a battle of titans, a war of the gods, two of the Eldar engaged with a demon of Morgoth.  The tide had turned though.  Elrond and Gandalf moved swiftly to flank the vampire as Morelen drew another arrow to her cheek.

Without thinking twice, the Princess rushed past the altar.  She needed some tiny form of vengeance and whatever that apple was gave her strength, power and courage.  Glorfindel saw her moving up and grabbed one of the vampire’s wings as Gildor seized the other and they pulled them apart as Nirnadel plunged her sword into the demon’s chest, driving it up to the hilt and then twisted the blade as she was taught. “Back to the void, demon!” she said with a snarl as an arrow sank into the vampire’s neck, the tip going all the way through and out the back.  Thuringwethil shrieked as blood flew from her mouth and then swatted them all away, Gildor crashing into the altar.  The vampire staggered, holding her chest and tried to heal herself as Elrond raised his hand and Gandalf his staff.

A golden beam of energy came from Elrond’s ring and the staff, encasing Thuringwethil and raising her off of the ground.  “Quickly Silmarien!” the wizard called, “use the Silima!  It will rob her of her powers for a time!  Quickly!”

The mage rapidly coated the tip of her staff with the silver goo and then, with a cry of fury, shoved it into the demon’s mouth. The substance burst from her lips and flowed down her throat.  Held in the magical binding, Thuringwethil thrashed and writhed in agony, her skin shifting to silver, then black and back again, her eyes glowing silver.  “Back to the void, you fiend!” Silmarien screamed in rage at the monster who had nearly turned her into another demon.

Thuringwethil struggled, trying to tear at the magical force that held her and the wizard lowered her just a little.  “Young lady, finish it!” he called to the Princess.

The vampire began shifting forms, Queen Lossien, Silmarien, even Nirnadel, finally settling on a young Dúnadan woman with dark hair and a lovely face, her eyes pleading.  “No, please. My name is Faeleth.  I’m a prisoner in Cameth Brin.  Please don’t hurt me!”

Nirnadel paused, her mouth falling open.  The woman was a prisoner too, used by the demon. She lowered the tip of her sword.

“Faeleth is dead, Nirnadel!  Finish it!” Gandalf called again, his voice full of urgency, straining from the use of magic that was draining him.

She glanced back to see Neldis kneeling over Mercatur, holding his pale face and shrieking.  Gildor was unconscious at the altar, Alquanessë wept over her sister and nearly everyone in the party was wounded.  Silmarien stepped up.  “Do it or I will!” she said with a sneer and Nirnadel realized that this was the hard heart of Rhudaur.  So many had paid the price.  So much pain and death.  The poor maiden, Faeleth, was gone and no one was bringing her back.

“Rot in the void, demon of Morgoth,” she said and swept the tip of her sword through Thuringwethil’s throat.  Blood poured down the front of her body as she gasped, trying to breathe and speak.  There was no mercy here.  There was no compassion, only ridding the world of this monstrous evil.  In a few seconds, the light in the vampire’s eyes went out and her head slumped forward as she gurgled blood for the final time. 

The magical bindings evaporated and Elrond rushed over, spreading another cannister of Silima onto the bloody body of Faeleth, the poor maiden who served as the vessel for the demon.  The Lord of Rivendell placed his hand on the corpse and the ring glowed. The body arched and twitched but an inky cloud emerged and rose up to where Elrond cried, “Begone and haunt this world no more!” and the ring flashed, its light consuming the demon’s spirit as one final horrid shriek filled the temple.

The undead collapsed, falling to ground like marionettes with their strings cut.  And then all went quiet but for groans of the wounded and sighs of relief.  Eyes darted around, still searching for enemies or threats but just an eerie silence in the Temple of Sauron.  The Princess huffed out a few deep breaths and raised her visor. The wizard approached her, a smile with a nod and put his hand on her shoulder.  “She is gone back to the void, young lady,” he said, leaning heavily on his staff, his eyes tired.

They turned to Silmarien, who stood there, eyes still wide, stunned, her mouth open as if in a trance.  Nirnadel put her elven cloak over the mage’s bare body and Gandalf touched her, imparting some of his fading power.  Silmarien blinked, wrapping the cloak around herself.  She made eye contact, half laughing, half crying. “I…I was trying to emulate Alquanessë’s fashion trend,” she said, forcing a joke.  “Mithrandir…it’s you.  You came.”

“You couldn’t keep me away from this party,” he said, narrowing an eye and then a wink and they chuckled in voices full of fatigue. He raised his finger into the air, feeling the residue of power.  “We were fortunate.  Thuringwethil was about to fuse a demon named Agrat into you.  She was a monster that plagued the ancient world in the east for Morgoth, a vampire and a succubus.  If they had succeeded, you would have been lost forever, trapped in your own body.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy at all,” Silmarien added, snickering and stifling a sob, still shaking from the horror.  She looked down to see Neldis trying to cover Mercatur’s neck, his eyes open and unblinking.  “Oh, no…cousin, is he…?”  He had numerous other wounds and blood coated his thick chainmail.

Neldis shook her head, never taking her eyes off of the mercenary.  “There’s a pulse and he’s breathing, but nothing I do will wake him.”

Silmarien and Nirnadel knelt down as Kaile and Galadel ran up.  Lady Tinarë’s eket was coated in gore and she wiped it quickly before sheathing it.  The Princess gave them both an appreciative nod, noticing Galadel’s limp and a wound on her leg.  Mercatur’s eyes were open and his breathing unsteady, two puncture marks on his neck.  His face was almost as white as paper, framed by his curly dark brown hair and beard.  Neldis touched Nirnadel’s hand.  “I can’t wake him, Your Highness, I can’t wake him,” she said, desperately trying to control her breathing.

Nirnadel thought she saw love in the nurse’s eyes beyond the fear.  She gave her a forced smile.  “Let me take over, dear Neldis.  I am a nurse too in case you forgot.  You need a short rest, please,” she said as she slid her gauntlets off and under the nurse’s hands, applying pressure as she was taught.  “Come on, dear captain, we need you.  Please fight.”  This was a man who had become dear to her.  Someone she looked up to and considered a friend.

There was a clap behind them, and they looked up to see Elanoriel.  “You did well, young nurse, young Princess.  I will take over from here.  Nirnadel, in one, two, three,” she said and they switched places.  “Good Neldis, attend me,” she said as the nurse took Elanoriel’s pack from her belt and opened it, setting out healing supplies in a well-practiced rhythm.  The elf tilted her head at Firiel.  “Good daughter, see to the other wounded, if you please.  There is no time to waste.  Nirnadel, you can make yourself useful elsewhere.  I shall call upon you if needed.”

If anyone could help Mercatur, it was Elanoriel.  Her presence in Tharbad was a blessing and she had healing skills like no one else in the city.  Nirnadel checked in on her Guard and the cohort as they tended to wounds and bruises, helped by Firiel, Jonu and Kaile.  The armor that the Tirrim Aran wore was first rate and it showed. All of them were still standing.  Even Jaabran was back to complaining to Dagar as they watched Elanorial work on their friend.

Alquanessë knelt beside Gildor, who had just come around. She smiled down at him, cradling his cheek.  “You’ll be fine, you big dumb ranger,” she said and then kissed him on the forehead and went to her sister were Elrond and Gandalf stood.  Nirnadel joined them, removing her sallet helm and handing it to Galadel, who put it and her own helm in a sack.  Wearing armor was just as hard as wearing a royal gown with a kirtle, placket, foresleeves, a long train and a hood.  Both were weapons and defenses.

Blogath lay, rolling weakly, her skin almost translucent and pale, her neck punctured and her blood drained.  Alquanessë knelt down, her wing still broken and her body coated in blood.  “You saved me again, Your Highness,” she said, her voice laden with sadness.  “Thank you.  I never truly lost hope that my family could be saved b…but it was a false hope.”  She looked up to Elrond and Gandalf.  “I know what has to be done.  May you grant me a moment with my sister?”

Elrond nodded.  He knew what it was like to lose family.  He stepped back, holding the last container of Silima that Silmarien gave him.

Alquanessë held her sister’s good hand.  “I don’t know why I’m sorry, Sercë.  I cannot forgive you for what you have done but you are my sister, and you did one good thing at the end.”

Sercë’s eyes searched and focused on her sister.  Her breathing was raspy and shallow, almost gulping for air.  “Alqua…my sister,” she said, gurgling blood.  “I…why did I do this?” she said, her face twisting into a sob, real tears flowing down her cheeks.  “Every…thing that I did…I was lost…consumed by evil.  What…happened to me?”

The younger sister cupped Sercë’s cheek and wiped her tears.  “Remember…remember Tirith Aeluin?  When we teased Finculion about his wife and daughter?  And mother…so proud of him and all of us?”  Her own face twisted in sorrow, and she shook as Nirnadel held her from behind.

Sercë chuckled weakly, nodding.  “And when mother…gave us…the mithril brooches…one bird for each of us.”  She coughed up some blood.  “Do you…still have yours?”

Alquanessë shook her head.  “No, but I made another.  I would love to show you.”

Sercë smiled, her long, angular face relaxing as Morelen knelt down and placed her hand on the top of the Blood-Wight’s head.  “Ah, my…my dear friend.  We fought so many battles together for our people.  You…you showed me how to ride and shoot.  I am…sorry…sorry for my evil.  None of you…deserved that.”  She looked back at Alquanessë.  “I know what…you have to do, Little Swan.  You are the fairest of Irimë’s children.  Please…please find mother.  Tell her…tell her,” she began and then coughed again.

“I will…I will find her and tell her,” the younger sister said softly.

Morelen stroked Sercë’s hair.  “You were my sister in the company, the only other woman who rode and fought.  We were…unique, you and I,” she said, wiping her nose.  “I will carry your memory, and I wish to tell you that your mother is in the south.  I have worked with her on occasion, and she is healthy and well, fighting against the Court of Ardor.”

Both sisters’ eyes widened.  “That…is…a blessing,” Sercë croaked out.  “Please take…Alquanessë there.  She…needs family.  Now, my dear sister, my friend, it is time.  You must…do it.”

Elrond knelt and spread a quantity of the Silima onto Sercë’s chest and touched his ring to her face.  She grimaced and arched her back as Nirnadel gently pulled Alquanessë away.  “Don’t get too close,” the Princess whispered.  “It will harm you.”  An inky cloud rose above the Blood-Wight’s body, trying to get back to its host, groaning in an inhuman voice.  Light emitted from the ring and the cloud evaporated, leaving an empty body on the floor, mouth and eyes frozen open.  Elrond stepped back and Alquanessë dove back in, holding her sister’s face with both hands.  Then, she grabbed Nirnadel’s hand and slumped over the corpse.

The Princess’ mind was filled with visions, Sercë’s spirit streaking west and coming to rest in the vast Halls of Mandos, beyond the confines of the world.  Her spirit rose as a High Elf, staring up at a great seat, where sat a being clad in black robes with a hood, eyes shimmering.  It was Námo, known as Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar.  With a grim expression, he pointed a pale finger at the elf and shook his head and her spirit screamed, vanishing into nothing, cast into the utter void.

Alquanessë screamed too, hugging her sister’s body as if it would spring back to life.  She sobbed, beating her fists on the lifeless chest.  “I knew this!  I knew it, but I had hoped…beyond hope that she would be forgiven.  I am so sorry, Sercë, I am so sorry.”  Then, she let out a pitiful moan, rocking back and forth. “What have I done?  What will happen to my brothers?  What will happen to me?”

Nirnadel shook from the vision.  This was where the Fëa of elves went to be judged, perhaps reincarnated as Glorfindel.  To see it happen through Alquanessë’s mind was incomprehensible.

Elrond raised them up.  “I am sorry, my kinswoman.  We are not done yet.  Your brothers still remain.”  The Blood-Wight resisted, shaking her head, her nose and eyes red but Nirnadel put her arm around her waist and guided her to the entrance of the temple.

“Come, I will be with you,” she said with compassion.  “You won’t be alone, and neither will your brothers. I could not be with my family when they passed, and it will haunt me all of my days.  You will be with them and give them comfort.  They will pass, knowing of your love.”  She pulled her friend along behind Elrond, his sons and the wizard. It felt as if she were going to see her family’s death.  The elf had seen so much of it that Nirnadel feared that her friend would break.  The raw grief that she showed with Sercë was almost too much to bear.

They went back to the dining room where Tindómeno was covered in the web and Finculion lay there, moving weakly.  They went to the older brother first, Gandalf breaking the spell and the web dissipated.  He rolled over, his face impassive, making eye contact with his sister.  “Is she…is she gone?” he asked weakly.

“She is,” Alquanessë said, her voice full of pain. “Mandos has…has judged her.”

He nodded.  “As it should be.  I am ready. Finish it,” he said without emotion.

She pushed him and he winced in pain.  “Say something.  Anything!  Thousands of years of agony and that’s all you have to say…finish it?”

He shrugged as she placed a blanket over him for warmth and dignity.  “What else is there to say?  It is time. Goodbye my sister.”

She held his hand as Elrond pulled the blanket up for a moment and applied the Silima.  “I want you to know,” she began, “that Morelen works with mother.  I will tell her of your passing.”

Tindómeno choked up.  “Mother?  What? What will you tell her of me?” he asked, sniffling.  “Will you tell her…what will you tell her?”

She touched his face lovingly.  “I will tell her of your strength and your courage.  That is all that she needs to know.”

He let out a sigh, his eyes softening.  “Thank you.  It would break her heart…it would break her heart if she knew,” he said, grasping her arm and biting his lip.  “Live in peace, my little swan.  Live your life in peace.”  He nodded to Elrond, wiping his nose.  “I am ready, my lord.  Do what you have to.”

The process repeated and Tindómeno’s spirit was whisked to the Halls of Mandos to be cast into the void.  Alquanessë clung to Nirnadel like a wet rag, beating on her friend’s back, shaking like a leaf, her face twisted in grief.  They stood, the elf’s knees wobbling, her walk unsteady as the Princess led her to Finculion.  He looked at them with a soft smile.

“Welcome back, sister.  I knew you’d be back.  And with our friend, Morelen too,” he said weakly, his breathing labored.  “Thank you for the time that we had together.  We did some good things,” he said with a faraway look.  “Remember flying and giving information to the armies of Gil-Galad?  We helped, didn’t we?”

She nodded and put her hand on his chest.  “I remember.  We did help and you were…you were my rock.  I…couldn’t have done this without you.”  She bit the back of her hand.  “Please, please, brother, will you not reconsider?  You are all that I have left.”

He shook his head with a sad smile.  “It is my time.  Let me be with my wife and daughter.  Even if Mandos obliterates me, maybe I can see them again one last time. Little Lónissë is just a toddler. I want to hold her again.”

Alquanessë shook with a sorrowful grunt.  “Please!  I…I can’t let you go,” she wailed.

Nirnadel tightened her grip as Gildor and Silmarien, now in her shredded violet robes, rushed in.  “You are with him,” the Princess cooed soothingly.  “He will go as he desires, in strength and dignity.  He will go with love and care.”  Gildor and Morelen sat and wrapped their arms around them both.

Finculion held his sister’s hand tightly.  “Nirnadel is right.  Just having you here is a blessing to me.  Whatever happens to me, I had your love.  We shook things up, didn’t we?”

Alquanessë nodded, letting out a slow moan. “Yes…yes we did,” she said, looking at him and then away.  “Finculion…we found mother…well Morelen did.  I will…I will tell her…I will tell her,” she tried to say and broke down. “Please don’t go,” she begged.

He held her hand but looked up at Elrond and nodded. “I am ready.”  He looked back at his sister.  “You are free, little swan.  You are free.  Live your life.  Give mother my best.  I hope one day to meet you and mother in the Blessed Realm.”

Elrond knelt and applied almost the last of the Silima onto Finculion.  “You were brave, my kinsman.  Our people will mourn you and know that your sister will have a place in Rivendell and that she will be cared for and protected.”

Finculion nodded.  “That is most kind, thank you,” he said and Elrond placed the ring on his chest where light engulfed them and his spirit was gone.

Again, Nirnadel could see his energy whisked to the West, settling in the vast Halls of Mandos.  He coalesced into a translucent form, kneeling down before the massive seat of the Doomsman.  Námo pushed his hood back, revealing a stern, pale face, raising his finger at the elf. “Finculion,” he said, his voice filling and reverberating through the corridors and pillars.  “Of your siblings, your life warrants mercy.”  Finculion’s mouth fell open, stunned at the forgiveness he received.  Mandos stood and guided the him to a massive tapestry where a female elf was weaving next to a woman of inhuman beauty, whose face was sad but focused. Tapestries lined the walls as far as the eye could see.

The woman looked to him as he approached.  “I am Vairë,” she said in a reverberating voice that filled his whole being.  “I am the Weaver of the story of Arda.  This is Míriel Sirindë, the first wife of High King Finwë, your grandfather.  You will meet him soon along with many of your relatives whom you have missed.  Míriel weaves the tale of your family in particular,” the Valier added and then went back to her work.

Míriel stopped and smiled at him, gesturing to the tapestry. He saw weavings of his entire life and the lives of his siblings.  “May I call you grandson?” she asked, touching his face.  He nodded, unable to speak.  The latest image of him was with a smile, surrounded by friends and family. Two women stood before him in the weaving, joy on their faces.

He put his hands over his heart.  “I…I am home,” he said, shaking before the majesty, power and mercy of Mandos.

The Valar nodded.  “Come Míriel, let us introduce him to his kin.  They will be glad to meet him.”

They walked a short way before elves, reimbodied in the Halls, walked quickly up to him, smiles on all faces.  His uncle, Fingolfin, his cousins, Fingon and Turgon and his grandfather, Finwë.  They embraced him, even his spirit having substance.  They laughed and welcomed him and then, he saw them, Ectelissë and his daughter, Lónissë, who was no more than a toddler when he last saw her, now a grown woman.  He fell to his knees, sobbing joyful tears.  “Thank you!  Thank you, merciful Námo!  I cannot…This is…,” he stammered until his wife pulled him up into an embrace.  After more than four-thousand seven hundred long years, they were together as family again.

The vision faded and Alquanessë wept, this time in joy. She grabbed Nirnadel and Gildor tightly. “They’re gone, they’re gone, but my brother will live.  Blessed, merciful Mandos, he will live.  I am torn apart but I am hopeful.”

The Princess held her friend’s face, a bittersweet smile on her lips.  “You have been an inspiration for me, helped to teach me who I am, what I am.  I idolize you and I am ever so glad…so proud that I can give back even a tiny amount of what you have given me.  Whatever I can do to help you heal, I am here for you as you were for them.”

Alquanessë snorted out a chuckle, wiping the snot from her nose.  “I am nearly forty-eight hundred years old, and you are not yet eighteen and I live in the shadow of your wisdom and inner strength.  I am…I am…forever…forever in your debt, my dear princess,” she said and then bit her knuckle hard as they rocked with her.

Nirnadel’s heart was full.  Something good had come from all of this evil.  “I was going to say that it would be impossible for me to outshine your wisdom and strength, but I will accept the compliment with grace and thank you.”  Her heart also cried out for all who were lost, even the tribesmen who were enticed and deceived into fighting for Thuringwethil.

Elrond turned to them.  “I grieve with you, and we will honor them and those who sacrificed to end this evil.  But there is one final matter, my ladies.  Alquanessë, there is enough Silima for one final dose.  Do you wish the cure?”

The Blood-Wight blew out a long breath, thinking.  “I…I wish to wait, Lord Elrond.  I feel that I still may do good as I am…a demon of Morgoth, able to fight the demons of Morgoth.”

He nodded.  “I believe…I believe that is a good decision.  Your powers made a difference today as did those of this young princess. The elves will not forget what happened here nor everyone who fought to end this darkness.”

They placed Finculion’s arms over his chest as Gandalf started to recite an incantation to cleanse the temple once and for all.  Nirnadel was exhausted as the adrenaline wore off but she went back to Galadel.  “Lady Tinarë, you are hurt,” she said, pointing to the gash on her leg below the mithril chain shirt.

Galadel smiled with a chuckle.  “I could dance right now.  I cannot believe that we survived this.”

They all moved back to the temple where Elanoriel and Firiel continued to work furiously on Mercatur, frustration on their faces.  Kaile came right over.  “That was…I don’t think that I’ll eat or sleep for a year after that,” she said and pointed Galadel over to a place on the floor as Gandalf continued the incantation.  Galadel hesitated, waving the other lady off until Nirnadel grabbed her by the arms and guided her to the spot.

“Eh eh ehhh, you are going to be looked at by good Lady Kaile.  You dragged me into treatment, so I am returning the favor,” the Princess said sternly and then leaned in to whisper into her ear.  “Otherwise, I will have to reveal your secret,” she said mischievously.

Galadel’s face went wide with horror, her mouth open. “Wha…?  What are you talking about?  What secret?” she asked as Kaile applied a numbing agent to the cut.

Nirnadel made a little rubbing motion between her legs. “We hear you, you know.”

Lady Tinarë’s face went red, her hands over her mouth. “Oh…I…oh…!”

Kaile snickered as she stitched up the wound and applied a poultice over it.  “Don’t worry, only Her Highness and I know…ummm and Lady Éanfled…and the cats.”

“What?” Galadel said in horror, covering her face.

Nirnadel put on a motherly expression, nodding with mock wisdom.  “Ah, don’t be embarrassed, my good lady, everyone does it.  You know, I caught Kaile-”

Kaile’s face twisted in shock and betrayal.  “What, you fiend!  I caught you!  And I told you that!”

The Princess let out a belly laugh.  “Details, details.  Fine, I cannot lie.  She caught me and told me what I told you.  That was when were giggling and woke you and Éanfled up.”

“And Anariel came in and scolded us,” Kaile added with a sour, skeptical expression.  “See how much trouble Her Highness gets us in?”

Galadel rolled her eyes.  “Yes, fine, fine, yes.  I will endeavor to be quieter.”

Nirnadel patted Galadel on the shoulder as Haedorial came up with the cats and handed them to her, little Gîliel climbing up onto her armored shoulder.  She looked around the room to see what was happening.  The Guard had already dressed their injuries and were ready.  Elrond was instructing Glorfindel to ride to the Tirthon and check on the people there, letting them know that the evil had been defeated and that they would stay here for the night and join him in the morning.

She then saw Mercatur, still comatose, his eyes wide open. She walked over to see how they were progressing.  Neldis’ worried expression had deepened.  She squatted down on the other side of his body next to Firiel.  “How may I be of help, Lady Elanoriel?”

The elf shook her head.  “I have him stabilized,” she said with a sigh, “but this is not a wound that is common or that many survive.  We will need to treat him in Imladris.  Even then, it’s fifty-fifty.”  She looked up.  “But you have my word that he will receive the best care that I have to offer.”  She gave the Princess a tired smile.  “And besides, it is time for me to return home. I will grudgingly admit that my time in your city was…exciting and…fulfilling.  Your mannish music is quite interesting, full of life.”

She was disappointed, but it was something to be expected.  “I will be sad to see you go, Lady Elanoriel.  You brought so much to our lives, and I will always honor that.  I do hope to see you again though.”

The elf scoffed.  “Oh, but of course, young lady.  I will have to see our fine mercenary home once he is healed,” she said hopefully.  “And I do expect an invitation to your grand wedding where my daughter will wed her brave knight and good nurse Kaile will wed as well to that fine young man.  I have many…suggestions for the décor and you will need them.”

“But of course,” the Princess answered.  “And you will have my support to enact them.”

Neldis moved over to Elanoriel, her expression defeated. “Please do what you can for him,” she said hopefully.  Then, she looked at the healers and Nirnadel.  “And…and Coru is dead.  Thuringwethil killed her.”

Shocked, the Princess shot up, looking around for the nurse as did Firiel, her face twisted in horror.  “Oh no!  Coru? What happened?”

Neldis bit her thumb at first, looking away.  “I was…was tempted by the demon.  She…offered me…nevermind.  I defied her and she said she would kill me.  Coru pushed me away and it…it killed her.  It should have-”

Firiel let out a low moan, her face showing deep anguish and then wrapped Neldis and Nirnadel up in a hug.  Elanoriel joined them.  “No, Neldis, no,” Firiel said.  “Dear Coru was brave.  She gave you gift.  Honor it. We will mourn her, but I am so glad that you are alive.  You are all like my children.”

“The cost has been high today,” Nirnadel said.  “Madron died because of my decision and my dear knight, Sergeant Cedhron as well.  Coru was under my care as I am the royal member of this expedition and I, too, worked beside her in the Houses.  The safety of each and every one of you is my responsibility.  It is…the weight of the crown,” she said solemnly.

Neldis tried to smile and Nirnadel saw an odd look about her as if she were holding something back.  Maybe she was just tired.  Elanoriel hugged the two tightly.  “Coru was a valued member of our team.  I know that my exterior may be a little…abrasive, but I cherish every one of you.  I know when you wake, what you like to eat, who likes whom, your friends and relatives. As with Firiel, you are my children too. I will be sure to add the names of the fallen to our memorial in Imladris.  They will be remembered, this I swear.”  She gestured to the mercenary.  “We will move him tomorrow.  For now, we should rest.”

Nirnadel was having trouble keeping her eyes open at this point.  She couldn’t recall the last time she had slept or eaten.  “That is an excellent idea,” she said as she tried to remove the leather straps holding her pauldron in place.  Galadel limped up with Kaile, and they began removing the Princess’ armor and laying it on the floor along with the gauntlets and helm.  The padded gambeson and breeches came off last, leaving her in just a linen chemise.  Baranor came up and laid blankets on the ground for them and Nirnadel plopped down. “I couldn’t wait to get out of that. It was getting a little tight up top,” she said, noticing that her chest was a little more filled out.  She raised an eyebrow but was too tired to say anything. Galadel and Kaile lay down beside her and she gestured to Neldis and Alquanessë.  “Please join us.  It will be warmer and more comfortable here,” she said and they came over and lay down in a pile, fast asleep in minutes.

CODEX

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Chapter End Notes

I'm doing a little flashbacking to bring the characters to the present and explain how Morelen arrived.  There's some overlap, looking at the different character POVs.  

Leave a Comment

55) The Tirthon - Ivanneth (September) 17^th, 1410

Haedorial

The cleanup and departure from the Temple of Sauron took about a day where Gandalf cleansed the evil from the sanctuary and collapsed the tunnels, sealing it as a tomb.  Hard work went into laying the fallen to rest within, all of the tribesmen and the six fallen mercenaries of the cohort, wrapping them in linen and placing them in the waiting room on the top floor.  “We treat these fallen tribesmen as honored enemies,” Nirnadel stated, helping to clean and wrap them as one of the nurses.  “They were tricked or forced into Thuringwethil’s service and deserve no less.”  Seeing the Princess doing the work that she asked of others was an inspiration to the bard. There was no way that Queen Lossien would have had anything to do with this.  However, the closure here was so needed by everyone and the sense of relief was truly felt.

Nearby, Baranor and the Guard sat with Sergeant Cedhron’s body, the nurses washing him and dressing him back in his clothes and armor before wrapping him in linen.  The Tirrim Aran were stone-faced but it was clear that they felt deeply for the Sergeant. Their eyes were focused, their bearing stoic and professional in vigil of their fallen comrade.  This was an elite service, the best of the best of Cardolan’s martial prowess.  They were nearly wiped out in the war but had not lost a man since…until now.  Only a ripple of tension along Baranor’s jaw belied his feelings.

They then moved onto Coru, washing her with the love and care that she showed to all patients who passed through the Houses.  Neldis wept openly as she dressed the body and wrapped it in the linen shroud, helped by Firiel and Kaile.  Firiel was beside herself, never having lost a nurse until now. This one hit hard.  She let out a painful moan as Kaile held her.  Alquanessë did the same for her siblings, occasionally stopping to regather herself, comforted and helped by Morelen and Dagar. Dagar and Finculion had been close, the elf teaching his family and helping to raise young Cicrid.  Haedorial felt every hurt here, every loss.  Many of these people he knew well.  He remembered Sergeant Cedhron from last Yüle when he was part of the Princess’ escort to the Houses.  He remembered Coru from when he was injured in the Houses and she was one of those who attended him with loving care and professional service.

Lord Oswy and a troop of lancers rode up to the entrance as Elrond placed a blessing on the room.  “We received Lord Glorfindel early this morning and I set out immediately.  We at the Tirthon are beyond relieved and I will escort you back to the tower when you are ready.”  It was all after the fact, but just seeing Oswy and the lancers approach was a huge comfort.  It represented some king of normalcy.

Haedorial stood beside his son, Mindolinor, both rapidly scribbling in their journals and sketching the scene.  This one expedition would encompass an entire volume by itself. “You don’t know how glad I was to see you safe, my son,” he said as he put the final touches on the image of Elrond blessing the dead.  “I do feel for good Neldis though.  She’s taking Mercatur’s condition and Coru’s death hard.  She’s lost so much in her life.”

Gandalf walked around and began to usher people out of the sanctuary.  “Everyone out now.  Come on, everyone out.  It’s time to put an end to Blogath’s Sanctuary.”  Neldis and Kaile touched their friend’s face one last time as Firiel tugged on them and they closed the linen flap over Coru’s face.  There was a painful sense of finality there.

They all scurried up the steps ahead of the wizard and Lord Elrond.  As they exited into the gray morning, Gandalf held up his staff and gave a shout, collapsing the entire entryway to rumbling and crunching sounds.  “There, it is finished.  There is nothing in there to draw any element of evil.  It is time to depart,” he said in his rich baritone. It was as if a storm had passed.

Haedorial glanced over at his son’s sketchbook to see a rough image of Gandalf already done and he nodded in satisfaction.  When they had a chance, they would complete the drawings with color and detail.  The rough sketches were just to capture the moment.

Nirnadel and the ladies approached, the Princess and Galadel dressed in their armor and Kaile in a healer’s robe with a leather apron. The Royal Party was somber, feeling the gravitas of the moment.  Kaile’s face was particularly red, her eyes wet.  She had served with Coru for years, the two starting as apprentices well before the war.  They made it through the war, the plague and the curse.

Nirnadel touched the bard on the arm.  “Good Haedorial, it is time to head home.  We have been gone far too long and have lost much.  The kingdom deserves our attention again.  But I wish to create a memorial for those who served here…something that, a thousand years from now, bards will look at and see the courage of our people and our allies,” she said, then giving him a sly smile.  “I can imagine the Night Singers in the Year Twenty-Four Ten, reciting the lore of Haedorial and his son, Mindolinor.  The wise will gather in Imladris and tell the tale of the destruction of Thuringwethil by the brave and the free.”

He nodded.  “I would like that very much.  We shall design a suitable monument.  And yes, it is time to return,” he said, feeling very homesick.  “I didn’t realize how much I missed my family and Tharbad until now.  There was a time where I was sure we weren’t coming home, and I am ever so glad to have been wrong.”

Nirnadel gave him a playful punch on the chest.  “Oh, ye of little faith.  I never had a doubt,” she said.  “Oh no, that’s a complete lie.  I was…umm…terrified.  Thuringwethil had me in her grasp, bound…helpless, screaming for mercy like a child,” she said, her jawline tightening.  “I realized that only my mind could save me.  I shrouded my thoughts with Alquanessë’s music and then used your bardic technique to call for Calarmë.  It is a miracle that I am alive.”  She reached down and stroked the mother cat behind the ear as little Gîliel sat on her shoulder.

He smiled.  “Not as terrified as I was, Your Highness.  And I do apologize in that I saw…ummm, I saw your body in the sanctuary when we entered.  That was untoward of me,” he said, turning a little red.

She snickered.  “I praythee, make no mention of it.  I have heard that my brother, Thôrdaer would bathe with his knights and, perhaps good Alquanessë is rubbing off on me.  She has no shame of her body…nor did Finculion,” she said, blowing out a long breath.  “He was…yes. I think I have a very clear picture of the male…anatomy now.”  It was her turn to shade a little red.

He laughed with her.  “Well, thank you.  But please, whatever you do, do not parade around like her with fake wings.  I would see that as a sign of madness.  And please, please, do not handle any pickles around me either.  I nearly had a heart attack.”  He had to chuckle inwardly at the level of comfort that he had around her now although he secretly hoped that his daughter wouldn’t become quite as precocious.

She belly laughed this time.  “I will leave the pickle handling to Kaile.  But, I would at least wear shoes and socks, my good bard. After all, my feet are quite a bit more tender than hers.”

He closed his eyes and groaned as she appeared in his thoughts clad only in shoes, socks and fake white wings.  “Oh, please don’t put that image in my head,” he said and then he tapped his son on the chest, whose eyes were wide.  “And you, young man, get that picture out of your mind.  This is the Princess that we are speaking to.” He simply had to get home to Faeliriel.

Nearby, Elanoriel and Hirgrim finished preparing a litter for Mercatur.  The sons of Elrond strapped his body to it, making sure that he would be comfortable. She mounted a horse as did Elladan and Elrohir and looked down at Firiel and they held hands.  “Good daughter, I return the Houses of Healing to your care. I daresay that I have learned as much as I have taught in my time with you.  It was…it was good to have you at my side once more.  We should endeavor not to make it so long in the future,” she said in her imperious manner but with a twinkle in her eye.  She clapped her hands over her head.  “Come, my good guardians, we should be off once I bid farewell to our friends.”

She guided her horse to the nurses.  “My good apprentice healers, Jonu, Neldis, you have shown me of your skill and caring and you can be the equal of any elf if you put your mind to it.  Please honor Coru and I will be sure to erect a monument to those who were here.  And please, attend Firiel as you would me and I shall see you all again soon, this I am sure of.”  She touched the heads of each of them and then rode to the Princess and her party.  “Good Kaile,” she said.  “Although you have downgraded to become a royal lady,” she added with a smirk, “you will always have the heart and hands of a healer.  I beseech you to continue to hone your skill and work with my daughter and I beg you to serve Nirnadel well.”

Kaile stifled a sniff.  “That is most kind of you, Lady Elanoriel.  You do not know how much I have learned from you.”

The elf cocked her head with a smile.  “Oh, I do know, dear girl.  And you, Lady Galadel, dear bard Haedorial, you may sing and dance in Imladris anytime and not feel ashamed.  And you, young Nirnadel.  I can assure you that songs of your courage here will be sung by the elves a thousand years from now.  I will be sure to have a copy of Haedorial’s journals and sketches within our libraries and those of Lindon.”  She reached out to touch each of them and then clapped her hands.  “Let us make for Imladris.  Poor Mercatur requires our care.”  They rode off as Neldis and Firiel waved and came over to the Royal Party.

“I can’t say as my mother has ever been this nice,” Firiel said.  “I like it.”

“You mean she wasn’t nice?” Haedorial asked.

Firiel made a face.  “Well, you’ve seen her sarcasm and the edge that she projects.  Multiply that.  And she was impossible to please when I was younger.  There was constant pressure for me to marry a sea captain and choose to be an elf.  She was…difficult with my father.  He could never live up to the sea lords and so he left and I went with him.”

He nodded.  “Hmmm, I can see that.  She is a force to be reckoned with.”

The Princess turned to Neldis.  “How are you doing, dear nurse?  Please tell me.”

“It hurts, Your Highness.  It hurts.  I am so worried for Mercatur too.”

“As am I,” Nirnadel answered.  “He is in the best care that we can imagine, and we have been so fortunate to have Elanoriel with us for this long.  And please, please, Nirnadel is fine.  We have been through fire and blood together and you are my sister in spirit,” she said grasping Neldis’ hand.

The blood seemed to drain from Neldis’ face, and her eyes went wide.  Nirnadel appeared to notice and was about to say something when Haedorial touched the Princess.  “How are you doing, Nirnadel.  You have been through a lot as well.  I worry for your wellbeing.”  She had been through so much lately and he was afraid that it would sneak up on her and hit her all at once.

She pursed her lips.  “Honestly…I have not had time to slow down and think.  I am ever so grateful for the mercy of the Valar.  I begged Manwë and Varda to save me and the idea came to me.  I have been in danger before, but never like that…so helpless.  She had me bound like a Yüle turkey, naked, completely at her whim. I was sure that this was the end of the north because of my stupidity.”  She trembled for a moment as Neldis held her.

Haedorial nodded slowly, digesting the Princess’ horror. Seeing the nurse with her, it was true that he could not tell the two women apart other than for their clothing and behavior.  Curious. “You do not know how relieved we were to find you.  Everything was coming apart when we lost you.  The horror of Thuringwethil and her Blood-Wights will not soon be forgotten, this I know.”

He looked over as the others were saddling horses and preparing to depart.  Angion and Ethirdir brought their mounts over and bowed to the Princess.  She swung her boot into the stirrup and climbed into the saddle of her swift palfrey, followed by the others.  Her cats leapt up onto the horse and took their posts at the front of the saddle.  The bard touched Ethirdir on the shoulder and smiled his approval of the young man’s growth. It took a life-or-death situation, but it worked wonders.  On horseback, they flowed in with Gandalf and the others where the wizard was deep in conversation with Morelen and Alquanessë.  “Ah, there’s the good bard,” Gandalf said.  “Please, join us.  This is a time for lore.”

He was ever so pleased to be invited, and by one of the Istari no less.  “It would be my pleasure, dear people.  I have learned that I have not been a bard until I met good Alquanessë.”

She reached out and touched him on the hand.  “You do me too much kindness, sir.  The natural talent was always within you,” she said warmly. She was dressed in what had once been her elegant robes, now just shreds and rags, strategically, but not entirely well placed.  She noticed his eyes glance at the rags and gestured down to it.  “Oh this?  This happened all of the time.  It was easier to just…you know.”  

“You could wear a loincloth, perhaps?” he suggested, just trying to be helpful.  The Blood-Wight radiated sensuality that was hard to ignore.

She nodded with a laugh.  “Everyone says that and I did try it…more than a few times,” she said, making a fluttering motion with her hand.  “Last time I dove for the ground, whoosh!” she said, looking back and waving. “Flew right off of me.  Anyhow, you can’t see anything right now, can you?” she asked looking down.  “Ooops, you can.  Oh well,” she added with a shrug.  He knew that she was just teasing him as was her nature.

Gandalf leaned in and narrowed his eyes.  “So, I want to understand this for this is incredible lore, don’t you think, Haedorial?” he asked and the bard nodded.  The wizard pursed his lips, thinking.  “Morelen, you are the daughter of Morgoth, so Sercë said?” he asked and Haedorial’s eyes flew open wide in surprise and horror. If he thought an ancient vampire demon was enough to keep his writing occupied for the next decade, this blew that idea out of the water.

Morelen was clad in her armor but without her visored helm. She nodded.  “I am indeed.  He…impregnated my true mother, Ardana, in the depths of Angband.  She was one of the Eldar, an astrologer who was seduced by Morgoth.  I was destined to be sacrificed in a dark ritual but by some quirk of fate, I was switched with my twin brother, Moran, and was rescued by my…adoptive mother, Yavëkamba and Fëatur.  Ardana went on to form the Court of Ardor in the south, an organization that we fight to this day.  After I was taken from Angband, I was raised in the south by a group called The Three in an ancient compound, Ty-Ar-Rana, which was built by the Vanyar on their journey west.”

Haedorial still couldn’t close his mouth.  “The Vanyar?  The legendary Fair Elves?”

She smiled at him.  “Yes.  And The Three are…were Noldor from the House of Fëanor, secluded and monk like.  They were linked with The Guild of Elements and the Starseer Enclave to form the Luingon Alliance.  I went north to serve Prince Fingon, becoming a horse archer in his company.  I went on to serve Orodreth of Nargothrond and then Turgon of Gondolin and then…,” she said as her eyes narrowed and she looked away.  “I’ll skip that part for now.”

The bard looked back and forth between Morelen and Alquanessë. “I am astonished, hearing names like these.  You. Knew Fingon?”

“Yes, very well.  He gave me this armor and my weapons.  We rode together, we ate together, we even played Coron Mittarion together.  He was very kind and a natural leader.  It was also I who witnessed the death of Fingolfin after the Dagor Bragollach.  What you read is my telling of his fall.”

“I…I…this is incredible!” Haedorial blurted out, scribbling down every word.  “You bring to life things that are just writing in a book for me.”

She gave him a sad look then, remembering the loss of so many. “I wanted to rush in…to try and save the High King, maybe convince him to retreat, but I was terrified once the Dark Lord emerged from the gates of Angband.  I couldn’t move.  I then rode with Rochallor to the gates of Barad Eithel where he passed.  During the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, I saw Fingon…,” she began, her voice cracking, “beaten into blood and dust by the balrogs.  I tried to get to him.  I tried.  Then, I was there on Tumhalad when Orodreth was slain.  I practically worshipped Túrin Turambar and his bridge and we were destroyed because of it.  We wandered and then fled to Gondolin, and I was in the White Tower when Turgon fell.”

She took a deep breath to steady herself.  “After the War of Wrath, I fled to the east in the Second Age, destroyed by the revelation that the Dark Lord was my father.  I became a conqueror, a tyrant, proclaiming myself Queen of the land of Helkanen, a land of Avari elves ruled by a matriarchy. You see me as an archer, but I am also a formidable mentalist, and conquest was easy as it often was for my father,” she said grimly and then gestured out into the distance, changing the subject. “You would be surprised that the remnants of Lake Cuiviénen are there in a smaller lake called Kelkeneni by the Avari. I swam and bathed in the lake of the birth of our people.”

Even Gandalf and Elrond seemed impressed.  “That is truly an amazing thing,” Elrond said.  “I will delight in reading Haedorial’s account of all of this.  What happened in Helkanen, if I may ask?”

She put her finger to her lips, remembering something both pleasant and painful.  “Someone there enlightened me as to my madness and grief and how I was becoming my father.  He was…influential,” she said, inferring something intimate.  “So, I repented and returned the land to its rightful rulers and returned to the west, becoming a smith in Ost-in-Edhil, working for Celebrimbor, a rather good one if I may say so.  It was there that I ran into Sercë and met Alquanessë.”

The Blood-Wight smiled, and they held hands for a moment. “She is a good smith indeed.  As a half Vala, she can master nearly any skill as I have seen.  Well, you know my story, good bard,” Alquanessë said, then narrowed her eyes, thinking.  “Oh, I nearly forget to put my pin back on,” she added, digging into a pocket and pulling out a mithril image of a swan.  She pinned it to a thin shred of fabric on her chest.  “There.  Not the original made by mother, but the one you crafted for me, Morelen.”

Haedorial was amazed.  He knew that Morelen was leaving something out after the fall of Gondolin, but he was too respectful to press.  It might come out in good time but, even if it didn’t, her story was astounding.  “I am in the presence of gods.  I may as well be in Valinor, speaking with Vairë, Nessa and Mandos.”

Morelen reached out and touched him on the shoulder.  “I can assure you that I am just a sad, broken woman who tries to do some good in this world.  At one point in my life, I lost everything…nearly everyone that I cared about, and it was my arrogance and naiveite that brought me there.  I am just glad that I could help my friend and you all.  It is a small part of my redemption, so to speak.  I believe that Alquanessë understands this.”  She embodied the sad, bittersweet soul of the elves.  

All of this was stunning.  In under half a year, Haedorial had journeyed to Rivendell, sang with a bard from the Elder Days and learned her story, recorded the tale of the future Queen of Cardolan, survived the terror of a demon of Morgoth and met a woman who had lived with and knew people who were legends, having been at events and places that were just fairy tales to most men.  He was a fortunate man.  In the brief span of his Dúnadan life he would do justice to these stories.

Near sunset, they arrived at the Tirthon where the cohort and the camp followers gathered with Glorfindel to greet them.  Haedorial noticed that it had cooled considerably since when they set out from Cardolan and the skies were grayer and darker.  He was thankful that the rain stopped last night though.  Maelil had prepared a feast and the stewards who remained behind stood in a line, prepared to receive the Princess.  Of the nurses, Omah, Vicri and Sissi stood, waving, Sissi having recovered from her leg wound.

Nirnadel rode in front with Gandalf and Elrond beside her, representing the Free Peoples and the crowd bowed to them, the stewards taking the reins of their horses.  A cheer rose up with Maelil shouting the loudest, “Bless you, Your ‘ighness! Bless you!  We ‘ave a right feast for our ‘eroes!”

The Princess rose up in her stirrups and waved. “Please, good people, please, this is the victory of the elves, the Istari and our great allies.  We supported them in cleansing the vale and the thanks goes to them!  And yes, good Maelil, I am ready for a feast!”

She dismounted with the others, picking up little Gîliel and the stewards led the mounts to the stables where the stable boys leapt in, cleaning, feeding and watering them.  Lord Oswy had ordered the camp like an Arthedan clock, everyone knowing their role and moving with haste.  They walked to the tables, under canvas covers and servers came out to bring roast turkeys with thick gravy, chicken breast in cranberry sauce, minced pies, steamed vegetables and salads.  Haedorial could not remember being this hungry and the aroma alone was killing him. Maelil had outdone herself.

Stewards had already placed glasses and carafes of wine, pitchers of ale and honey mead on the tables.  Chubby Brondon poured a white wine into the Princess’ goblet, and she thanked him rising to perform a toast and bless the feast.  “Good people!  We give thanks to the Valar who saved me and to our brave friends, all of whom sacrificed to end this evil.  We pray for, honor and mourn those who fell to defend our realms.  I cannot thank enough my Lord Elrond and his people and good Istari, Mithrandir, along with brave Lords Rhudainor and Oswy Amrodan, our loyal mercenaries, my Tirrim Aran and our good nurses.  And I cannot overlook good Maelil for this feast, who was kind enough to set out minced pies for me!” she declared to laughter and the raising of glasses and mugs.  “Docktown, born and bred!” she added to cheers from the cooks.  “Now drink, honor and praise the Valar!” she said, draining her goblet.

Alquanessë had gathered an informal band and began to play her flute to a lively mannish tune, one from the countryside, Lambë-i-pȃr, the Swaying Peas, full of edgy sharps and flats.  Recorders joined in along with a tambourine and tapping wooden sticks, sounding like peas, rolling around on a plate.  People began to rise and join hands, swaying back and forth and then hopping like bouncing peas.  

Nirnadel devoured a turkey leg, dipping it into the cranberry sauce.  She fed some of the tender, moist meat to the cats and then leaned towards Haedorial. “When we return, I wish to have a…reasonable festival to honor our brave and our fallen.  I shall endeavor to not be as extravagant as my dear mother was. But I wish to have you create new music and dance for our people.  I find that I like the lively, energetic dances from Gondor and I wish to infuse our culture with that.  I want to bring in music from the countryside and show that we are all Cardolani, high and low alike.  I fear that it may offend the older aristocracy who are wed to the old ways of Númenor, but we are Cardolani now.  I will never stop honoring the old ways, but I feel that we must grow and form our own identity.”

He was thrilled.  Since the reign of King Minalcar, Nirnadel’s grandfather, the King of Arthedain was informally considered to be the High King of Arnor with Cardolan as almost a vassal state under them.  King Arveleg of Arthedain had even been pushing for the King of Cardolan to be reclassified as Ernil or Prince.  Haedorial grinned broadly.  “I would absolutely love to create that along with my son.”

Nirnadel had been on the cutting edge of a cultural revolution in the realm.  He knew that young ladies throughout the kingdom practically worshipped her after she ended the conflict on the Bridge of the Iant Formen this past Yüle.  Every young man wanted to be in the Tirrim Aran to serve her and fight for the kingdom.  The land was broken after the war, coming apart at the seams but now the energy of recovery was palpable and the treasury full from the mithril panels. Perhaps this could even be another golden age like that of King Thorondur the Magnificent.  He would very much like that.  “And yes, I agree that the realm needs a collective sigh of relief after this.  I know that I do,” he said downing a glass of thick red wine in one long drink.  That felt amazing.  It was a time to rejoice and feel good about being alive.

The Princess smiled.  “Most excellent!  I look forward to learning the steps.  And I am sure that Lady Kaile will master it first,” she said, gently elbowing her in the ribs with her mithril couter over her arm.

“As soon as you master the brewing of potions,” the nurse shot right back to laughter.

Nirnadel grinned, slapping her hand on the table. “Challenge accepted, good lady! Haedorial, you are a witness.  I shall master the brewing of potions and good Kaile will lead the introduction to the festival!”  She summoned the cook over.  “Good Maelil, a moment of your time, if you please!” she called, bringing the cook over.  She held up a finger.  “First, I would like to invite you to prepare a feast for the festival that we are planning upon our return.  Second, I wish you to be the other witness to the challenge between Lady Kaile and I.  I shall learn the intricacies of potion brewing and she will learn the new dance for the festival.  And third, would you kindly affirm to the good lady the authenticity of my Docktown accent?”

Kaile facepalmed.  “What have I gotten myself into?”

Nirnadel took a bite of minced pie.  “Oi, this’s a righ’ lovely minced pie, iffn I say so meself. An’ this ‘ere feast is fi’ for a princess, innit?”

Maelil and the Princess did a fist bump.  “Docktown born and bred, she is.  She’s go’ me vote for Docktown festival queen, she does.”  They winked at each other.

Kaile shook her head.  “Oh, merciful Valar, slay me now.  Fine, fine, if Galadel can be quieter I can learn whatever dance Haedorial throws at me.”

Galadel shot up, hands over her mouth.  “I am not noisy!”

Haedorial could barely contain himself, slapping his thigh as he roared in laughter over the ladies’ prattling.  Maelil had staff bring over the dessert trays, pumpkin pie and raspberry trifles, pound cake soaked in brandy with layers of cream cheese, heavy whipping cream, chocolate, raspberries and jam, baked in a ceramic bowl to perfection.  The cook bowed low.  “We’ve been preparin’ all day since we ‘eard of your victory.  I would be right honored to accept your kind invitation, Your ‘ighness. Tha’ is most kind of you.  Please, please, sample the dessert.”

She took a clean spoon and scooped a portion of the trifle and slid it into her mouth, followed by a satisfied nod.  She chewed slowly, closing her eyes with a face full of ecstasy.  “Mmmm, divine!  This was surely baked in the ovens of Lórien.  I cannot imagine a greater pleasure, my good Maelil.”

Kaile and Galadel immediately made faces as if they were in the throes of ecstasy, letting out a little moan and pointed at the Princess and Nirnadel’s face turned red, but she burst out laughing.  She raised her hands in surrender.  “Well played, my ladies, well played!”

Haedorial pounded the table in mirth.  This was what they needed.  The darkness had infected them for so long.  Then, something coalesced in his mind, a flash of inspiration.  “My ladies, if you would indulge me,” he said and then jogged up to Alquanessë and her impromptu band.  “I need a verse-chorus structure in four verses, if you please,” he said, giving them instructions on the chords and the tempo.

He beckoned Nirnadel up, along with others.  “Your Highness, if I may have this dance.  Others, please observe.  We will do a step-hop, step-hop and then a step-step-hop, step-step-hop and repeat.  I will signal the spins.”  He pointed to Alquanessë and the players began, a lute, flute and drum, tapping out a lively, energetic beat.  In sync, the two began the step-hop, holding hands.  After the four verses, he spun and then her, finally lifting her off of the ground.  “Even for mithril, your armor is a little heavy,” he said with a groan and she giggled.

More instruments joined in, including a viol and a dulcimer, accelerating the tempo in circular set of chords.  They raised their arms and spun one way with a clap and shout, “Hey!” and then the other way.  They began the step-hop again as the music further accelerated.  Haedorial could feel his heart pounding with excitement. The Princess of Cardolan was dancing a creation of his.  He looked out to see Alquanessë, a look of joy on her face where she was in her element.  This was what it meant to be a bard.  It was all that she really wanted to do in her life.  What would her life have been like without Thuringwethil?

Nirnadel spun into him, and he held her from behind, circling to the climax of the music as he tossed her into the air one last time, grunting from the effort.  She spun in the air, and he caught her just under the arms, lowering her gently as the music faded away with a final trill.  They turned and made a deep bow to the audience to thunderous applause.  They bowed again, the bard’s heart full.

“Thank you, thank you!” he called.  “I have decided to name this piece, I-Rian, the Queen, for our future sovereign,” he declared to more applause.  “Now, please, please come up and join us!”

Nirnadel bowed to him and then kissed his hand.  “Thank you, thank you, good Haedorial.  I love it.  It’s lively, energetic, flashy and downright scandalous!  I was so right in selecting you to be the Royal Bard, Sir Haedorial.”

He held his hands together in pride.  “You do me much honor, Your Highness,” he replied with a bow and flourish with his red flatcap in hand.

She stretched her back and adjusted her cuirass over her chest.  “Oh, this is really tight now.  I simply have to get this off.  We will have it adjusted back home.  Thank you again.  This is the highlight of the expedition,” she said and walked to the tower with Galadel and Kaile.

He smiled, tapping his chest over his heart.  It had been too much to ask that they would come out of this alive and be able to celebrate a victory and not watch the destruction of the north.  It had been too close, simply too close.  He just hoped that their luck wouldn’t run out.  He turned back as the music began again and Morelen was standing in front of him and he popped his eyes open in surprise.  She was at least a head taller than he, with the blood of a Noldor and a Vala and she had changed out of her armor into a cobalt blue and silver robe, her raven hair free.  She wore a pin on her chest that bore the image of the Sun and the Moon, one gold and one silver, in a partial eclipse.  She pointed to his mithril cloak pin that Nirnadel had given him.  “That is quite beautiful, sir.  The sigil of Cardolan, if I am correct?”

“You are correct, my lady.  And yours is…?”

“The great and total eclipse…well, almost.  It is the time of the ritual that the Court of Ardor wishes to perform on my brother and once, almost on me.  One occurred in the Year Five Seventy of the First Age.”

He narrowed his eyes, immensely curious.  “What, praytell, happened then?”

She took a deep breath and then sighed.  She smiled at him, clearly a distraction from the topic. “Shall we dance, master bard?” she asked, extending her hand.  The I-Rian was going through its third iteration, and no one was slowing down.  Jaabran danced with Neldis, Dagar danced with Nurse Omah, Kaile with Jonu, while Valandil and Firiel were laughing and spinning.

Haedorial smiled back and took her hand and his heart skipped a beat.  “I would be delighted, my fair lady,” he said as they began to step-hop.  “My dear Faeliriel would be most jealous.  It is as though I am dancing with one of the Valier in the blessed realm.”  He had no untoward intentions with her, but it was truly a dream.  “I daresay, my lady,” he said as he spun her in the air and she was surprisingly light, “that you and Alquanessë are the most astounding women that I have ever seen.”

She giggled joyfully, spinning with a clap.  She seemed almost girlish for someone so ancient. “Hey!” she called with the other dancers.  “Well, you have not yet seen Lady Arwen or Lady Galadriel.  That would surely change your mind.  I first met Galadriel in Nargothrond in…Three Eleven?  First Age, that is.  Yes, I think that’s right,” she said spinning again with a clap. “Hey!  We were debating how to slay the dragon Glaurung for I had encountered him on the plains of Ard Galen.  They seemed to think that I was some kind of expert.  I was just happy to escape.”  Haedorial flung her into the air again and caught her by the waist, setting her down.  “Galadriel wasn’t fond of me at first.  She sensed who I was then.”

His eyes went wide.  “Glaurung?  Galadriel? Again, I am merely stumbling in the fog of your vast experience.  I really must sit with you and hear your tale some time.”

The music came to a close with one more great toss and spin, and everyone bowed to great applause.  Morelen made an elegant elven curtsey, her eyes lowered and her body poised with one hand held up like a flower.  “I would love that,” she said.  “Perhaps I shall visit your fair city.  I did tell good Captain Ferui that I would find my own way home and I am no longer in any sort of rush.”

“I am deeply grateful.  If I may beg a pair of questions?”

“Of course.”

He put his fingers to his lips, thinking how to ask. “You mentioned Coron Mittarion and your curtsey, please tell me of it.”

She gave a genuine smile that was electrifying.  She looked like what he thought a Valier should look like.  “It’s a sport,” she began.  “There are three teams, and each tries to put a ball into a basket in the center of the field.  It’s…very physical,” she said with a faraway look.  “And the players only wear a loincloth…women not excepted.  Besides, only Sercë and I were players in the company.”

Then, she performed the curtsey again.  “I was taught this particular one in Nargothrond, a city of light, beauty and culture.  My husband and I visited under the reign of Finrod Felagund.  After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, we lived there under his brother, King Orodreth.  Haedorial, you should have seen the caverns, docks from the River Narog, bringing in trade, a bazaar filled with the wares of the elves, dwarves and the Edain, the ceilings in the vast musical halls showing the sky above through magic.  These are memories that I will always treasure.”

Nirnadel and the ladies returned, now dressed in their royal gowns.  “Ah, much better,” the Princess said.  “Just a little let out from all of Maelil’s fine cooking that I ate.”  She was about to say something else when the ranger, Hirgrim approached and knelt.  He was dressed in his rigid leather armor and scars snaked along his exposed arms with a couple on his face beneath his salt and pepper hair.  Everything about this man was taut, serious and intense, a lifelong woodsman and tracker.  Like Mercatur, he exemplified Rhudaur.

“Your Highness,” he said curtly in his gravelly tenor and his harsh Rhudauran accent.  “I was once your enemy.  I served Cameth Brin which served Angmar.  My order is no more, destroyed by Thuringwethil.  Thank you for allowing me the chance for vengeance.  And, I have known, fought with and fought against Mercatur for many years now,” he let out a gruff chuckle.  “I would see it as a great boon if you would send word of his health.”

Nirnadel took his hand and raised him up.  “I will certainly do that, good Hirgrim.  I am proud to have fought alongside you.  May I now call you a friend, or at least an ally?”

He nodded.  “Aye, my lady, you may.  I have offered my services to Lord Rhudainor and will be residing in his manor.  I suppose that makes me a vassal of Cardolan now,” he said ironically.  “But I will take my leave of you now.  I have things to gather and a couple of scores to settle first so I will bid you goodbye for now.”  He gave a curt bow to everyone there and then strode off purposefully.

“Mercatur spoke often of him with great respect,” Haedorial said admiringly.  He looked about as it was getting late.  Maelil and the staff were eating and cleaning up.  It would be quite an effort to pack up and return to Tharbad.  He stretched his back, rubbing his belly.  It was a great feast, and everyone here needed it. Elrond was sipping the wine, speaking with Glorfindel and Gildor while Mithrandir leaned back in his chair, smoking a pipe and rubbing his belly.  The bard thought about what Nirnadel had said, a land where high and low alike could thrive and be counted as equal under the law.  It was inconceivable.  He had grown up in a world where the word of an aristocrat would always trump the word of a commoner, regardless of the truth.  Changing the culture like that would be a monumental undertaking with all of the old guard fighting every step of the way.  Mablung Girithlin would pitch a fit.  Maybe that was a good thing.

Nirnadel was already heading over to the basins to wash dishes.  “I think I am getting the hang of this cleaning thing, am I not, good Kaile?”

She ran a knife hand past her neck, shaking her head. “Worse than the accent.”

The Princess splashed some soapy water at her and then picked up a dishrag.  “Remind me, this is a…is what you call a rag, correct?”

Kaile rolled her eyes and put a handful of soap bubbles on Nirnadel’s nose, and they both started giggling like little girls.

Haedorial chuckled.  “This is simply delightful!” he said as he started to dry the dishes. Nirnadel was truly awful, and he picked off bits of food and handed the plates back to Galadel to be recleaned.  The entire camp joined in, scrubbing and washing, folding chairs and taking down tables and canopies.  He felt safe.  This was just a taste of home again, far from the terror and death that had been their lives for a while now.  This was just the sense of normalcy that he needed.  He wrapped his arm around his son and nodded.

When everyone had gone to bed, he, Mindolinor and Dagar wandered up to the roof to drink ale and watch the stars.  “Here I am again, my old friend,” Dagar said, carrying a flask full of the beverage.  “It’s eerie to be back on the Tirthon.  I can still hear the battle in my head.”

Haedorial nodded.  “I understand.  I will never get the scream of the Nurga out of my head nor this expedition.  We have seen much and survived.  Now, I do expect that you will keep us informed of the goings on in Rhudaur and we will do the same about Cardolan.”

“I will miss you all dearly,” Dagar answered and took a sip from the flask.  “Being back in Tharbad was like being home.  This has been a…grand adventure.”  He handed the flask to Mindolinor, who took a sip.

Haedorial snickered.  “I daresay that I no longer see the lost teen, fresh out of jail and seeking employment with the Nightsingers.  I see a brave lord, a caretaker of his house…a man with honor and compassion.”

Dagar put his hand over his heart.  “I am deeply touched.  Coming from my mentor and the man who pulled me from the gutter, I am moved. Thank you.”

Mindolinor made a shushing sound with his finger over his lips and then pointed to the far corner of the roof.  Behind one of the empty oil vats, two pairs of legs could be seen, intertwined.  Haedorial peered over.  “Oh my, it’s Alquanessë and Gildor,” he said softly.  “We should leave them in peace,” he said as they slowly went back down the stairs.

“Thank you!” Alquanessë yelled out.  She had read his mind and they all snickered.  It felt so good that their world had returned to food, friendship and love.

Nirnadel

She was absolutely stuffed.  The sense of normalcy was so needed.  Every moment since they set out was fraught with increasing fear and tension.  It was as if everyone had taken a collective sigh of relief.  They had just finished washing the dishes and she could see that her hands and fingers looked…weird, puffy and wrinkled.  She showed her hands to Kaile.  “My good nurse,” she said in a bit of a panic.  “What is wrong with my hands?  Is this…is this the curse or some disease?”

Kaile burst out laughing.  “My dear, Nirnadel, it’s like your feet when they are in the bath too long, only it’s your hands because you’ve been doing real work.”

The Princess gasped.  “Oh my.  Oh yes, like my toes.  I can see that now.  Carry on,” she said, examining her fingers closely and wriggling them.  Then she giggled.  “Real work, huh?  Just you wait until we are on the dance floor.  Hrmph, real work.”

Maelil came over to inspect the washing, examining the plates and dishes.  “Oi, this’s some righ’ fine werk ‘ere, it is.  I juss migh’ ‘ire you royal ladies for the festival, I might.”

Nirnadel laughed and did a deep curtsey, knees bent slightly outward, back straight, head tilted down at the proper angle, tugging out her skirts slightly, followed by Galadel and Kaile.  “I would be delighted, good Maelil.”  Then, she winked.  “No’ too bad a job now, innit?”

Maelil let out a belly laugh, holding her stomach and taking another swig from a mug of honey mead.  “Awright, off wi you good ladies.  We’ll finish up ‘ere.”  She attempted an awkward curtsey, stumbling over her own feet and spilling a little mead. “Cor blimey, methinks I’ll ‘ave to practice a bi’ before I can prance meself on the royal dance floor.”  Then she bowed deeply.  “Your ‘ighness, it ‘as truly been an honor.  When I first realized that it was you in camp, I though’ it was just an act, you know…that you’d just be another prissy royal.  But you are a good person, this I know.”

Nirnadel held her hands over her heart and then embraced the cook.  “Good Maelil, the honor has been mine.  You kept this army moving and kept its morale up.  You are the heart of this expedition, and I shall never forget that.”

Maelil snickered and sniffled.  “Aw, now you’ve gone and done it, young lady, made me sniffle like that.  Awright, off wi you now.  Out of my dining ‘all and you three lovelies ‘ave a wonderful night…you gentlemen too.”

The ladies skipped off, giggling and holding hands with Haedorial and Mindolinor trailing behind.  They approached Baranor, who was discussing matters with Lord Oswy, Valandil, Sergeant Riston, Jaabran and Sergeant Fendir of the cohort.  “How are you gentlemen doing?” she asked.  They seemed to be in a serious talk.

Baranor pointed out to the woods.  “Not to sound alarmist, Your Highness, but I have thought on our good King Calimendil,” he said, referring to the king who had won the war against Rhudaur, only to be massacred by orcs from Mount Gundabad in the aftermath.  Her blood ran cold for a moment.

“You don’t think…?” she began.

He shook his head.  “No, there are no signs of any enemy, but we are not about to let history repeat. We will have proper pickets and guards set tonight.”  He pointed out along the northern palisade, some of which had been repaired while they were away.  “Sergeant Fendir will set a guard with some of Lord Oswy’s lancers forming a mobile picket. The Tirrim Aran will set shifts throughout the night.  Alquanessë and Gildor have kindly offered to provide watch from the tower.  While we have the wizard and the elves, I won’t feel entirely safe until we reach Fennas Drúinen and the border of Cardolan.”

The story of King Calimendil was horrific, one every soldier, knight and royal knew.  Haedorial nodded.  “I have to agree.  Just when King Calimendil’s victory was complete over the Rhudauran usurper, Rhugga, the orcs of Gundabad arrived from Rhugga’s summons.  Calimendil, his two sons and half the army of Cardolan was slaughtered.  We all learned the story of the King and the Princes’ heads on orcish pikes.”

“It was the Raggers that covered the army’s flight through the snow,” Baranor added, “hounded all the way to the border by the orcs.”

“Calimendil’s widow, Queen Almariel, tried to assume the crown, given the absence of any male heirs,” Haedorial continued.  “The Hiri rose against her, since she was Arthedanian, each house trying to impose their sons as the new king.  They called her a usurper.  She tried to negotiate, offering to abdicate in favor of their eldest daughter, Princess Mirien, who would be seen as Cardolani.  But the Tirrim Aran was no more, and the guards were bought off by the rebellious Hiri.  Thalion was sacked and they were massacred, the women dragged out of their beds and violated,” he said grimly.  “I apologize. I did not mean to darken the mood.”

Nirnadel knew this horrific tale by heart.  “Calimendil was the Minstrel King,” she said with both pride and sadness, “a lover of music and poetry but was called to war when his distant cousin, Forodacil, King of Rhudaur, was overthrown in a coup by his warlord, Rhugga the Usurper.  This led to a twenty-year war in which both Rhugga and Calimendil suffered violent ends,” she stated grimly.  She could envision so many dead bodies and corpses being carried to the Barrow Downs. She remembered the vision that Elrond gave her of her barrow, dated 1412 and she put her hands over her mouth. “Well, let us not fall prey to that same end, good people.  I thank you for your wisdom and your vigilance.  Please, I praythee, good Baranor to allow me to stand guard with you.  I shall retrieve my armor.  This is my duty as the representative of the Royal Family.”

He chuckled but waved her off.  “Not tonight, it isn’t.  You get some rest, Your Highness.  You have done more than enough.  Let us support you now.”

Valandil nodded.  “Your Highness, it was your sword that ended Thuringwethil.  You have done more than enough.”

She accepted the offer graciously.  She was nearing exhaustion.  “Alright, thank you.  And I was just a little angry with the vampire,” she said slyly.

Sergeant Fendir laughed.  “I, for one, will not anger you, Your Highness.  And you saved my life.  I will not forget that.”

Jaabran took a swig of Hirgrim’s Firewater and coughed, closing one eye.  “I would not either, nor should anyone who is wise,” he said in his accented Westron. He bowed his head low to the Princess. “And it was she, companion to wise Tarkarun-i-Másra, stars in her eyes and sword in hand to quell the land and bring the Mal-alak together in peace.  So sayeth blessed Tayee from the Tarat Balazayn.”

Nirnadel cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “The what of the who?”

He chuckled and took another drink.  “Ah of course.  In your heathen tongue you would say Varda or Elbereth and Manwë.  The Haradan tongue is beautiful, able to evoke deep emotions and capture the essence of life.”

Valandil smirked.  “They have twenty words for sand.”

“Of course we do.  There is beach sand, desert sand, dirty sand…ah, why do I bother explaining it to you?” he scoffed, brushing his hand in front of his face.  “You have ten words for snow.  Who has ten words for snow?”

They all let out a laugh and then Baranor ushered them all to their stations.  “Everyone stay alert tonight.  And Your Highness, have a good rest.  We will rouse you in the morning to break camp.”

It had been an amazing and terrible day, one of deep loss and one of great joy.  But she was tired.  It would be nice to soak a little in a warm bath.  It had been too long, scrubbing with damp cloths and squatting over buckets in the field.  But if that is what her soldiers and nurses did, she would share their hardships.  They walked back to the tower where Haedorial and his son bid goodnight.  “I think we’ll roust Dagar up for a drink,” the bard said, bowing low with his son. “Have a blessed evening, good ladies, Your Highness.”

“Goodnight, dear bards.  I will see you on the morrow,” she said as they got off on the second floor, letting the men continue up the stairs.  As they came to their room, Anariel and Silmarien stood there as if waiting for them.  “Good ladies, how may I be of service?” the Princess asked.

The older maid stepped forward first, her face grave and sad but professional to a fault.  Her black and green gown was impeccable with a perfectly set Gondorian hood over her styled graying hair, a stiff piece of black felt laced with pearls.  “Your Highness,” she said, performing a perfect curtsey.  “I fear that my services are no longer needed and that you have grown past my ability to care for you.  When we return, I shall retire quietly to the Calantir fiefs, my home.”

Nirnadel was shocked.  It was true that she had been so focused on the culture and safety of the realm that she had ignored her oldest friend.  “Oh no, my dear Anariel.  My deepest apologies.  I have indeed bonded with the younger ladies of the Royal Court, but your guidance made me who I am, an intelligent and resourceful young lady who will try her best to be the Queen that Cardolan deserves.  You are the glue that has held us together for so many years.”  She took Anariel’s hands in hers.  “During the dark days after the war, I wanted to die…to join my family who had all passed.  You, my dear maid, you brought me out of that.  I would not be here had it not been for you.  Please, I beg you to reconsider.”

Anariel stifled a sob and then nodded.  “Thank you, Your Highness, thank you.  I feared that I was useless to you.  I feared that you had forgotten me.”

The Princess embraced her in relief.  Anariel had cared for her for years.  Queen Lossien was a power in the kingdom, attentive and generous, but she was not a very warm mother.  “I had forgotten you and I am deeply sorry.  I shall not make that mistake again.  I shall always treasure our time on the Royal Barge and the stories that you told me when I was a girl.  Please remain with me as a valued member of my house.”

The old maid smiled, wiping her eyes.  “I will indeed, my Princess.  You have set my heart at ease.  I have taken the liberty to prepare the large bath for us, but I believe that good Lady Rhudainor wishes to speak with you first.”

Nirnadel motioned for the ladies to continue on into the room.  “Please do not waste the hot water,” she said.  “And keep it hot, if you please,” she finished and her ladies moved on, leaving her with Silmarien.  “My good mage, what may I do for you?”

Silmarien tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, a seemingly nervous gesture.  Her purple robes were shredded when she was prepared for possession, but she had done some patching.  The bronze wyvern was still pinned to her chest, the sigil of House Rhudainor.  “Your Highness, I am deeply sorry for how I treated you when you slew Thuringwethil.  You were nothing but kind to me, loaning me your cloak.”

The Princess was perplexed and pulled her chin in, looking at her sideways.  “To what do you refer, my good lady?”

“I…yelled at you to finish it or I would.”  She smiled and then looked down.  “I was…enraged at the vampire.”

“Oh, I praythee, make no mention of that.  It was in the heat of the moment, and you had been badly abused as was I,” she said, touching the mage on the arm.  “The demon had a way of doing that.  I was so terrified under her thumb that I wet myself and I was so ashamed, consumed by dread and fury.  I was no longer a princess but a bawling child.  She was about to turn me into a succubus like Alquanessë and whore me out to draw powerful followers and rule the north under as her slave.  You were angry and ashamed too.  There is no need for apologies, my good lady and there is nothing to forgive.”

The mage trembled for a moment and then gathered herself.  “Then I thank you and understand what you went through.  It was…it was horrible.  I have always been strong and self-assured, confident in my power and learning.  I had never faced anything that subdued me so quickly and so thoroughly.  I was an insect before the power of the vampire.  Like you, she stripped me…humiliated me.  My confidence is broken now,” she said, biting the back of her hand.

“That is why we missed you at the banquet.  I understand.  We have endured much, we ladies of Cardolan.  We will come back together.  I fear that the consequences of what happened have not yet hit me,” she said and then gestured into the Lord’s Quarters of the Tirthon.  “Please, come and stay in our room.  There is more than enough space, and it is, after all, the quarters for a Rhudainor.  And there is a hot bath within that I have been dying for.”

Silmarien smiled.  “That is most kind of you and I accept.”

“Most excellent.  I will meet you in there.  And don’t allow good Kaile to stink it up since she indulged in the all of the fine foods.”  She went next door and snuck into the healers’ room, rousing Neldis.

“Good Neldis,” she whispered, not wanting to wake anyone else. “Come, come, I have a surprise for you.”

The nurse blinked.  “What?  Your Highness?  Why are you here?”

Nirnadel pulled her up in her linen shift.  “Yes, yes, come.”

“What is it?”

The Princess made a silly face.  “It’s a surprise,” she said, putting her finger over her lips, dragging Neldis next door along with the cats, who scrambled in.  Galadel and Kaile were already settled into a massive bronze tub full of steaming water.  She gestured to the tub.  “Please join us.”  Anariel was just lowering her old bones into the water as Silmarien pulled off her tattered purple robes.

Neldis blanched at first.  “What?  This is for the Royal Household and House Rhudainor.  I…I can’t.”

Nirnadel pulled at the pins that held the placket that covered her chest over the kirtle.  “Oh, this is worse than armor!  Ugh!” Neldis came over and unlaced her kirtle and skirt, letting it slide to the rug.  “Oh look, good Neldis, you are now part of the Royal Household for the night,” she said, slapping the nurse on the rear.  “Get in that tub!”  The Princess tore off her linen chemise, wearing only her silk stockings and leather shoes.  “All I need are fake wings now and I can fly,” she said, hopping around to the I-Rian.  The ladies laughed and she bowed, ripping the rest off and sliding into the tub with Silmarien and Neldis.  She felt a slight rumble in her stomach and bubbles came to the surface.  She put a hand over her mouth.  “Good mage, was that your magic?”

There was a laugh and the Princess looked around, looking at each person as the steam enveloped them, scented heavily with lavender. “Good Anariel, I believe your hair was all black, like mine, from when you were younger.”

She nodded.  We Calantirs have dark hair as a rule, why do you ask?”

“Hmm, quiet musings.  So, you, myself, Galadel and Neldis have raven hair while Silmarien is blonde and Kaile a ginger.  I don’t know, silly musings.”

Silmarien narrowed her eyes, looking back and forth between the Princess and the nurse.  “I had heard the rumblings, but it is true that the two of you could be twins,” she said, examining them more closely.  “Hmmm, with Galadel, I could not tell you apart from a distance but up close I can tell who is who.  But here…now with Neldis, Nirnadel has only slightly larger and lighter eyes.  I see a minute difference in the earlobes and the lips, but I have to look closely for those.  Creation is an odd thing, is it not?”

The Princess nodded.  “Well, life is odd.  I will say that, if by some quirk of fate, that we are related, I will have gained another relative in addition to my cousin, good Galadel.  They say that King Minalcar’s bloodline was very strong, and his traits could be seen in all of his offspring, legitimate or not.  Rumor has it that he was quite the playboy.  Well, his brother was Galadel’s grandfather, hence the resemblance.”

“Indeed,” Galadel answered.  “My brother Ostomir looks much like King Ostoher did and could be a twin to late Crown Prince Thôrdaer.  Our bloodline is strong with deep ties to Númenor.”

The Princess gestured to Silmarien.  “House Rhudainor is also an ancient family, being with the Faithful who fled the island with Elendil.  They were counted amongst the Lords of Andunië.”

The mage nodded.  “Mercatur and I are the last of the true bloodline although his mother was a Tergil, only part Dúnadan.  I fully accept Dagar as our successor though.  I told him that I relinquished any claim to the title and holdings.  He is truly the better person to carry the name, as it should be.  Titles mean nothing if the person holding them is weak or foolish.  My mother was the daughter of the first and last ruling Queen of Rhudaur, Elewen, and married into House Rhudainor.  Elewen was the daughter of Forodacil and seized the throne back after Rhugga and his sons fell to King Calimendil once the war was over. She was a wise and fair Queen but her son, Aldor the Addled, was an imbecile and her grandson, Elegost, became the final recognized King of Rhudaur.  So, could I claim the crown of a lost land?  Yes.  But there is nothing left to claim, and I don’t want it.” 

Nirnadel titled her head, curious.  “Why not?  You are effectively a Princess of Rhudaur.”

Silmarien sighed heavily.  “That is true, but I would make a terrible queen.  I am very introverted, preferring my magical studies to interacting with courtiers and ministers.  I have very little patience for politics, and I would no doubt say or do something that would offend everyone at some point.  Though I grieve for what Rhudaur has become, I have my small world in Tharbad, and I am happy with it.”

“Until I met Her Highness,” Kaile offered, “I could not be more boring.  My father is Erestol the Weaver of the Common Quarter, and my mother is a midwife under Almiel Vanatari.  Northron blood.  Don’t know my grandparents.”

“What about you, Neldis,” Nirnadel asked.  “I know a little of what you told us.  But please, speak only if you wish to.”

The nurse gulped hard.  “Well, my mother lived in the countryside…a town north of Tharbad called Squall’s End.”  Something inside seemed to be hurting her, and she bit her lip.  “I would poke through her things when I was a young teen, and I learned that she belonged to the household of Tyrn Gorthad.  She was…cast out for some reason.  I found items that I think belonged to the Hir of Tyrn Gorthad.  Maybe she was his mistress.  I don’t know.  According to her my father was…she never said.”

Nirnadel pursed her lips.  Hers was a sad story indeed.  “And there is no longer a House Tyrn Gorthad.  Even their mansion in Tharbad sits empty.  But I shall ask Calion Morvana the Scholar to allow us into the Archives.  King Tarcil the Mariner reformed the record keeping of the realm and our archives are second only to the ones in Fornost.  So, if there is a record of your mother, we will find it.  What was her name, praytell?”

“Iorleth,” she said with a faint smile.  “I would appreciate it if there were any information at all.  And do not worry about anything related to my father.  He is…gone and I would prefer not to know.”

Anariel shook out her hands.  “Well, I think that I am done here.  Bless you, Your Highness.  I shall continue to serve you with grace and charm.”  She climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a towel, followed by Silmarien.  “I will prepare the bed for you and the ladies.”

Neldis and Kaile hopped out too.  “Please, Lady Anariel,” Neldis offered, “allow me to assist. I am not a lady of the Royal Household, but I must earn my keep this evening.”  They wrapped towels and followed Anariel into the bedchamber, leaving Galadel and Nirnadel left in the tub.  Water sloshed around but it was still hot and soothing.  The lavender scent that Anariel put into the tub was invigorating, easing the aches and pains that the Princess felt after a day of battle and a day of riding.  They sat in comfortable silence, two friends, two cousins.  Galadel fought like a savage during the siege and in the sanctuary and had a wound to show for it.  They stepped out of the tub, holding hands and Lady Tinarë picked up a towel to wipe her down with.

Nirnadel took the towel from her with a smile.  “Allow me, my friend,” she said, rubbing the towel over her body, high and low, wiping her hair too.

“You are too kind, Your Highness.  It is I who must serve you so that you can lead.”

She smiled back.  “To lead is to serve, so my brother Braegil told me.  Allow me this in gratitude for your friendship.” Galadel then returned the favor, and they wrapped themselves up and went to the bedchambers.  Anariel and the others had stretched a sheet over the bed left by the bandits which was actually the bed that belonged to Marendil Rhudainor and his poor wife that died in childbirth.  They all slid into bed and Anariel tucked them in and slid in herself along with the three cats.

Soon, all fell asleep except Nirnadel who felt an odd sensation in her stomach.  She had been feeling a little off since she ate the apple.  It wasn’t unpleasant but she felt invigorated as if some power were working its way through her body.  It was as if her hearing, smell and taste and touch were focused…enhanced. She could hear through walls…or was she dreaming?  She couldn’t quite tell.  She could hear Alquanessë and Gildor making love on the roof and Valandil and Firiel in the next room.  Haedorial, Dagar and Mindolinor were talking about history and culture in the hall outside. And Galadel’s breathing quickened as she tried to remain quiet.

Nirnadel thought she might be asleep, that surreal time before dreaming.  Perhaps this was a dream?  She felt light, almost as if floating.  She moved her hands in front of her face, but they seemed ghostlike.  How odd.  She could feel bodies next to her, warm and soft so she hadn’t moved.  After the visions that she saw through Alquanessë of the Halls of Mandos, she was ready to believe anything.  Then, she felt a hand on her stomach.  It was Galadel.  The hand moved lower and Nirnadel gasped.  “G…good lady, what, praythee are you doing?”

She felt a face on her neck and then a tongue.  The fingers began to move.  “Ummm, Galadel…what are you doing?”

Lips touched her ear.  “Dream…sleep, my dear…my Lindarë.  I am part of you now.”

The Princess pushed the other body away to see the face of Faeleth, the poor Dúnadan maiden who was possessed by Thuringwethil.  She gasped and the dream faded as she fell into a deep slumber.

CODEX

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Couter – plate armor over the elbow.

Cuirass – solid breastplate

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Line of Cardolan Rulers:

Thorondur the Magnificent – 861-936;

Turambar – 936-1001;

Ciryon – 1001-1079;

Tarandil – 1079-1153;

Calimendil the Minstrel – 1153-1235, slain by Gundabad orcs;

Civil War – 1235-1248;

Tarcil the Mariner – 1248-1287, elected King;

Tarastor – 1287-1332;

Minalcar – 1332-1381;

Ostoher – 1381-1409, slain in the 1409 War;

Nimhir (Regent) – 1409-

Line of Rhudauran Rulers:

Aldarion – 861-951;

Orodreth – 951-988;

Eldathorn – 988-1031, slain in battle against Arthedain and Cardolan;

Eldarion – 1031-1107;

Forodacil – 1107-1176;

Rhugga the Usurper – 1176-1231, slain in battle against Cardolan and Elewen;

Various claimants – 1231-1235;

Elewen – 1235-1307;

Aldor the Addled – 1307-1347;

Elegost – 1347-1355, assassinated;

Various claimants – 1355-

Chapter End Notes

I've been playing with and researching accents to set apart the different regions and social classes.  Docktown is mostly Cockney with some Liverpool.  Rhudaur is sort of Northern England, Yorkshire esque.  The aristocracy is RP - received pronunciation, very posh and dramatic.  I'm American so hopefully it worked.  The armor is very Gothic, 1450s with sallet and barbute helms.  

Image of Hirgrim the Cultirith ranger courtesy of the Dark Mage of Rhudaur RPG.

Leave a Comment

56) Tharbad - Ivanneth (September) 22^nd, 1410

Haedorial

They stopped at Lord Rhudainor’s manor for a few days.  The three-story residence had such a calm, rustic ambiance with wooden walls painted in light colors with dark trim and wide, glass windows that allowed for much sunlight to enter the home.  Trees were interwoven into the structure thanks to the elves, giving it a natural look.  It was a little oasis in Rhudaur, a nod to a more stable time under the Kingdom of Arnor.

The sense of peace and safety grew with every mile they travelled away from the vale.  It was there that Dagar was reunited with Mirthi and Cicrid and their young son.  It had been a few months, so infant Arthor had grown a little.  The reunion was heartwarming with Dagar rocking the baby and carrying him around in a sling with pride.  It was clear how much he missed them.

Alquanessë remained at the manor as well, creating a memorial of plants to her siblings with Gildor’s help.  It was also there that Elrond and Glorfindel returned to Imladris and Gandalf headed north to Arthedain to counsel King Araphor.  It was bittersweet to see the great members of the expedition depart.  It was like a lively party where everyone finally had to head home.  Elrond promised to send any word of Mercatur’s health, and they rode east with much appreciation and little fanfare.  For the bard, it was a great honor to have worked beside such great persons with so much knowledge and lore.  But, life went on.  Still, it felt like holes opening up in their reality as the group grew ever smaller.

Gandalf went amongst the members of the expedition, offering praise and encouragement.  “My mission to Middle Earth was to provide inspiration and wisdom,” he said with deep seriousness. “While I provided the second, you all provided the first.  Your hearts gave us the victory.  Without your courage we would not be here.”

He touched Haedorial on the shoulder.  “I predict that your name and your lore will still be spoken hundreds of years from now.  Your work is something that the world needs.  I look forward to hearing more from you and your son,” he said. This was an amazing compliment from someone whose life spanned ages.

The bard put his hands together in thanks.  “Good Mithrandir, I don’t know what to say other than I am ever so grateful for the time that I have spent with you and for your patience with me.”  He had picked the wizard’s brain, knowing that this time would come.

Gandalf pursed his lips with a satisfied nod.  “I will be back in Tharbad soon after I meet with King Araphor.  You will see me again in the not too distant future,” he said reassuringly.

He moved onto Silmarien.  “My dear apprentice.  I know that your heart is troubled by what happened.  Your power and spirit are not broken.  It was you who gave the dose of Silima to Thuringwethil that allowed us to kill her.  Your formula allowed us to end the evil Blood-Wights.  I have my doubts that the formula will do what you ultimately hope that it will, but it was critical in our victory in the vale.  But I think that you and Dirhavel should keep the name. It’s a link to our past.  When I am done in Arthedain, I will stop in to see how you are doing.”

“I would like that very much, old man,” she said.

“Old man?” he groaned in mock insult and then started chuckling.  “Well, young lady, you will find that you are stronger than you know.”

He moved on to Nirnadel.  “And you, young lady…Your Highness,” he said with a polite bow.  “Silmarien kept me informed of your comings and goings, especially your nocturnal forays to the Houses.  And then, there was your insane performance at the Iant Formen to end the riot. Trust me, I’d heard all about you. I had feared that the destruction of Cardolan was at hand after the war.  The wise all thought, how could a Sixteen-Year-Old girl possibly survive this?  Now I know.  Not only survive but thrive.  You are supported by some of the best people that I can imagine.  Cherish them.  Now, I will stop in after my visit to Arthedain, and I will tell good Araphor of the events that have happened.  I’m sure that he will be amazed and proud.”  He took her hand and kissed it.  “Farewell everyone, but not goodbye.  I will be sure to bring proper fireworks and pipeweed for any celebrations that may or may not occur.”

The Princess performed a curtsey and then looked up into his eyes.  “Thank you, Mithrandir.  I look forward to our next meeting.  May I say when you will visit us?”

He chuckled again with a wink.  “Well, my dear, a wizard arrives at the proper time, not before and not after.”  He climbed into the saddle and held his staff up, releasing a burst of red sparkles, which the crowd all clapped to.  He spun his horse and sped off into the morning sun.

It was time for the Cardolan party to depart as well.  Lord Oswy and Lord Rhudainor formed an impromptu ceremony with their wives and family.  Lady Éanfled had joined them with Ecegar and a squad of lancers to reaffirm their oaths of fealty to the Princess, each taking her hand and kissing it. Technically, they were standing on Cardolan soil now.  The Princess promised military support should they need it and an invitation to the Yüle Festival.  The Royal Party embraced the lords and their families.  Lady Éanfled wore her signature scarlet gown with a matching bonnet bearing a white feather and a golden chain around her neck, made of pearls, rubies and a golden ‘A’ for House Amrodan.

“Lady Éanfled Amrodan,” Nirnadel began, “to see you again has been a dream of mine.  Your time back in the Royal Court will always be a cherished memory.  Be well, take care of Oswy and I shall expect to hear from you often as you shall hear from me.”

“Princess Nirnadel Aranyónorë, we pledge and affirm our faith to you,” Éanfled told her.  “You have established your place in history as one of the great people of Arnor.  I am sure that Elendil and Isildur smile down upon you as do the Lords of Andunië.  Serving you again has been my greatest honor,” she said with a sniffle and they embraced tightly.

The Princess went to Dagar, his family and Alquanessë. “My Lord Rhudainor, I shall miss your wit and humor.  I beg of you to care for your lovely family,” she said, framing them with her fingers like a painting.  “I shall keep this image of joy in my heart and always know you as a man who is good and true.  Your courage inspires me,” she said fiercely.  He knelt and kissed her hand.

“I swear that I am still in a dream.  The Good Princess Nirnadel staying in my home and dining at my table.  I hope that Haedorial will send me a painting of that so I will know that it was real,” he said, rising and holding his hands over his heart.

Haedorial chuckled.  “I already have a sketch made.  You will be the first to receive that painting.”

The Princess and the bard then held Alquanessë’s hand. The elf seemed conflicted.  “My good Alquanessë,” Nirnadel began, “does something trouble you?”

She nodded, pushing her hair behind her ear.  “I have grown fond of you all,” she said.  “And I am torn at this parting.  I still mourn Finculion and what my other siblings used to be.  Forgive me, but I have become attached to all of you. Gildor will stay for a while and promises to visit often but there will be a hole in my heart until I see you again.”

“There will be a hole in mine as well, good lady,” the bard said, squeezing her hand.  It went both ways.  Seeing her as a bard, dancing and playing, was an inspiration.  She was not a Blood-Wight then, not a vampire, not a demon, she was a masterful musician, bringing joy to people.  “Not to sound blasphemous, but I felt that I was watching Nessa when you danced.  It was…sublime.”

Morelen then approached and held her hand as the others stepped back.  “When I heard that the Blood-Wights had been slain, I thought I’d never see you again. Hearing that you were alive, I had hoped that we would again meet.  I am so sorry about your siblings, but I am so glad that you survived.  You’ll be hearing more from me and, when I return to the Guild, I will let your mother know everything that has transpired…well, the good parts.  I suspect that she may wish to visit you here or, you and Lord Rhudainor are always welcome in the south.”

Alquanessë hugged her.  “I would like that very much.  We will discuss it.”

“You could always send one of your messengers,” she said jokingly and they giggled about her swans.  “I would have Captain Ferui come and pick you up.  On the Bregolaph, the journey is very swift as she is the fastest vessel in Círdan’s fleet.”  She looked at the Princess and the bard.  “Well, it looks like I will be visiting Tharbad as your guest.  Please, lead on.”

Haedorial had been feeling a void in his heart at leaving his friends behind but having Morelen visit them was another gift.  And now, with the border and roads far more secure, the leisurely ride from Tharbad to Rhudainor Manor was less than a week and Castle Amrodan, nine days.  There was no excuse now not to visit.  The bard embraced Dagar and his family.  “I will see you all for the Yüle Festival.  You will have a front row seat at Thalion, my friends,” he told them. “And the courtesy of the Royal House.”

Sergeant Fendir had the cohort in column of march, led by Jaabran.  The Haradan looked back at the men.  “You are all heathen dogs, but you are my fighting heathen dogs!  Cohort, prepare to march!”  These were not the same green farm boys, shepherds, fisherman, cobblers and cattlemen who marched out of Tharbad back at the end of Cerveth in the heat of summer.  Now, the skies were mostly gray towards the end of Fall and the cohort stood, ramrod straight in orderly lines, spears held proudly.

The Tirrim Aran mounted next, along with the Royal Party, followed by the supply wagons and camp followers, all waving to the Rhudainor and Amrodan Families.  Dagar held his son’s hand, waving back to them.  Haedorial looked over his shoulder all the way down the road until he could no longer see his dear friends.

They stopped in Fennas Drúinen for a few days at the request of Mayor Eston.  Crossing the border was a great relief for everyone.  The inn and several houses were offered up to the returning party and they graciously accepted.  The mayor hosted the Royal Party at his home.  “I am delighted to have you here.  You do not know how proud we are of all of you,” the mayor told them at the dinner table.  “When you left, everyone here was on edge.  We had the militia ready for anything.  When word came of your victory, there was weeping in the streets for joy.  The last war was hard on us all so you cannot imagine the relief.”

Nirnadel stood and raised her brass goblet.  “I offer a toast to good Mayor Eston.  He and Fennas Drúinen are Cardolan!  I have seen the true heart of our people here, in the countryside.  Fennas Drúinen kept the Angmarim from crossing the river and made them pay dearly for trying to destroy us.  Cardolan is now strong because of you and your town.”

The next day they visited the graves of those who fell in the war, a somber moment.  These were the men and women who manned the walls of the town, throwing rocks, pouring flaming oil, beating back the orcs and forces of Cameth Brin.  And they sacrificed for it.  It was Dagar’s counterattacks on the enemy’s rear that kept the town from falling.

On the day of departure, the townspeople lined the road out of town, waving banners and cheering.  The teenaged villagers screamed in excitement, leaping up and down, awaiting a view of the Royal Party.  People danced the dances that they had brought into the culture of the realm as a band played.  Haedorial’s heart was full, seeing the people of Cardolan come together, throwing flowers on the road in front of them.  A teenaged girl ran from the crowd and handed him and the Princess posies of roses, tulips and orchids.  Then others ran up with flowers for the troop, one girl putting a flower in Sergeant Fendir’s spangenhelm.

Mayor Eston and his family awaited them at the edge of town, turned out in their best attire.  He wore a blue velvet doublet with his gold chain of office and a deep green bycocket hat with the brim turned up and folded in the back with a point at the front. His wife, Thurenil, stood in her blue silk kirtle with a white veil around her hair while the children danced around them.  They bowed low.  “To the heroes who saved the north, our town is forever open to you,” Eston declared. “We wish you a safe journey home and bless you all!”  He kissed the Princess’ hand as she stopped to bless them.

Next came the town of Alanora, then came Nilrenhil and Morvalen, with nightly stops at each where Haedorial and Mindolinor recorded the visits.  Every mayor came out with the people to wave banners and greet the returning party.  They had been told the stakes and were prepared for an onslaught of darkness should they have failed.  They were amazed to find that the Mayor of Morvalen, Theodwyn, was a woman, and a tough one at that.  She was elected while the expedition was away and she knew Valandil and Firiel from the Barrow Downs, having served as a cook in the King’s Army. She even knew Maelil.

Finally, the walls of Tharbad could be seen and soon, the soldiers of the Dagarim Aran or Royal Army could be seen lining the roads, spears and lances held high.  Captain Tardegil had brought out the Raggers and many of the Royal Rangers, including Amrith.  The pikemen were an imposing sight, shod in thick chainmail hauberks with steel breastplates and flat brimmed helms with a prominent crest running forward to back, called a pikeman’s pot.  Their sleeves and pantaloons were brightly colored and pleated in reds, blues, greens and yellows, speaking to their elite status and proud history.  Tardegil was dressed in his finest outfit, a brightly colored doublet with gaudy slashes in his sleeves and elaborate patterned pantaloons. He wore an ostentatious, many-colored muffin cap with a bright red feather.

Townspeople stood behind them, cheering and waving banners and the walls of the city hung banners of the realm while flags flew.  Standing next to Tardegil were Captains Guilrod of the garrison and Asgon of the Navy, along with Chancellor Nimhir, a broad smile on his face.  The Princess rode with her ladies with the Tirrim Aran beside her.  The wagons came next with the cohort marching proudly to cover the rear.  The Chancellor bowed low, along with the captains.  “Welcome home, Your Highness.  News of the victory preceded you.  You are all heroes in the eyes of Cardolan,” he said warmly and gestured towards the great main gate of the city.

They noticed that the Shanty Town was nearly gone, most of it having moved north with Lamril to rebuild a town that had been destroyed by the war.  As the procession moved south along the Thraden Forn, the North Road, the Raggers and the Rangers snapped to attention, long pikes held high and then lowered as one to form an arch over the party.  Men of the garrison stood on the battlements and on the great Annon Forn gate to the city, the massive wooden and steel doors open for the procession.  The city folk threw flowers on the road ahead of the procession.  They rode down the Menetar between white wooden buildings, framed in dark beams, the shops and homes of the people of Tharbad.  The horses were stabled at Beregond the Honest’s Livery, and the procession continued on foot over the Iant Formen where flowers continued to be thrown on the bridge.  While he always admired the ancient Númenórean road that still looked new, the bard kept searching the crowds, hoping to see someone.  He bit his lower lip, feeling increasingly anxious.

The granite outer walls of the Bar Aran came into view and Haedorial was never so happy to be home.  It was still an odd feeling to live in the King’s House rather than in the Nightsinger Guildhall.  He had been consumed by worry, but then he saw them…Faeliriel and Idhrendiel.  He put his hands together and ran to them, Mindolinor right behind.  The family practically slammed together in an embrace.  “Thank blessed Manwë we are together again,” he blurted out.  “Varda’s stars, we are so glad to see you.”  He tousled his daughter’s hair as they all wept for joy.

Nirnadel and her ladies were already heading inside, waving to the crowds and their departing friends as the healers continued south and the camp followers returned to the Common Quarter and Docktown.  The expedition to Rhudaur was officially over. Faeliriel took his bag of clothes and Mindolinor carried the sacred satchel of writings and drawing and they went upstairs to their rooms.  His wife opened the door for them.  “You do not know how worried we were, good husband,” she said.  “We received news of the siege and the victory there, but all went dark once you reached the Tirthon.  We know what was at stake and we know that you had to fight.  We are just so, so grateful that you are home.”

His writing den was just as he left it, his ink wells filled and his calligraphy pens in the blue ceramic jar that Idhrendiel made for him in class.  Parchment paper was stacked neatly on his desk just waiting for him to return.  Half-finished paintings stood on wooden easels, anxious to be completed.  Even his jars of paints and brushes were organized and cleaned while he was gone.  He sighed in contentment and then inhaled the scent of sandalwood and cedar.  As terrifying and exciting as this adventure was, it was good to be home.

Mindolinor put the satchel on his desk and Haedorial wrapped him up in a bear hug.  “I could not be prouder of you, my son.  I saw you fight, and I saw you volunteer to go to the vale.  I could not have asked more of you.”  He put him in a playful headlock.  “Good wife, this son of ours is a lion.  He is already a magnificent bard and a stunning artist, not to mention a swordsman.  We will show you our artwork come supper.”

Mindolinor blushed.  “I am following our good father’s example.  Please excuse me.  I will go and clean up and return my things to my room and then attend the Princess as a good steward.”  The duties of a steward of the Royal House never ended.  As he left, Idhrendiel was at the door, holding her stuffed Oliphant, a nearly legendary beast of the south that Jaabran and Morelen had confirmed existed. She had named it, Olly.

“Papa, I made something for you while you were away,” she said, holding up a vase that had been fired and painted in bright colors with flowers and stars.  It was actually quite professional for an 11-year-old.  “It’s to put flowers in your den.  I hope you like it.”

He held it to his heart.  “I love it.  I love it! We will put flowers in it for supper,” he said, holding up the posey that he was given in Fennas Drúinen.  “I will show it to the Princess, and I know that she will love it too.  You will be the finest artist in the family, this I know.”

She jumped and twirled with a squeal.  She was going to be a dancer too, also the best in the family. She hopped, holding Olly over her face, embarrassed and delighted.  “I best get ready for supper, Papa!  I want to dance for Her Highness one day,” she said, dancing the Sogenne, tapping her shoes on the wooden floor while swaying her arms and looking over her shoulder with narrowed eyes.  Nirnadel’s culture was truly sweeping the realm.

“You are simply magnificent, my dear.  You have learned so much.  I have a new dance to teach you later though.  I call it the I-Rian, the Queen.  Lots of jumping and leaping,” he said excitedly while tickling her side. “Now run along, we will come get you for supper,” he said and she scurried from the den, giggling all the way.

He turned back to his wife and sighed heavily.  “I would not have traded this expedition for the world, but I missed so much here,” he said, torn between duty and family.  This had been his life’s work but they needed him here as well.  He felt that would always be something he would have to contend with in the Royal Household.  His duty was to the Princess but his heart was with his family.

Faeliriel went and closed the door and then turned back to him with an evil smile.  “You did indeed miss so much, good husband,” she said as she undid the laces and let her kirtle slide to the ground.  Oh, he did miss this.  Alquanessë’s prancing about for months had him worked up.  He threw his flatcap onto the wooden rack, it landing perfectly on a peg, something that he had practiced for years as Faeliriel’s chemise slid down.

He wrapped her up around the waist and carried her to the plush seat that he used for his artwork.  He would keep this moment as a painting in his mind and his heart.

Before supper, he sat at his desk, contented, bathed and perfumed, the ringlets of his brown hair neatly styled again, his mustache waxed to a fine tip.  He placed the posey that the young lady had given him into Idhrendiel’s vase, full of water now.  He opened the book of notes that he and Mindolinor had compiled during the expedition. It was a lot.  It would require some time to put into a coherent narrative, one that would stand the test of time.

In his ongoing novel, he began writing with the training of the cohort and the preparations, ending with the march to Rhudaur.  Biting his thumb, he flipped back to the first page, wondering if he should modify it somehow.  It never seemed to be just right.  He held up the book, reading aloud.  “It is on this Day of Yüle in the Year Fourteen O Nine of the Third Age that, I Haedorial of the Nightsingers, wish to present to my dear readers the lore of the Realm of Cardolan.”  He would have to think more on this.  As Gandalf said, this book needed to stand the test of time.

Satisfied that he had done enough writing for the day, he turned to the easel and put his tray of paints on his lap.  He had been working on the one of Nirnadel stepping between the Sons of Elrond and the Blood-Wights to defend them.  He had much of the background done, the bridge and the woods finished and the people had been rough sketched.  This was a tricky one.  He wanted to capture the tension between the elves of Rivendell and the party. The looks of Elladan and Elrohir weren’t right.  More intensity…more distrust was needed.  He took an eraser to their faces and redrew the boxes and triangles that made up the features, eyes now narrowed with a scowl.  No, not a scowl, more apprehension.  Yes, that would do.

Alquanessë and Finculion were on their knees with hands behind their heads.  He quickly drew loincloths on them and put her hair down her front for modesty.  He would have to do something to honor Finculion. A portrait would do nicely, he thought. He redid Nirnadel’s face too, dissatisfied with the expression.  More determination…more intent to defend her friends.  Yes, it all looked perfect.  Now it was time to mix paint.  His good wife had cleaned his paint grid where he could set out all of the different colors that would create the pallet where he could mix and match tones.  She was so good to him.  He poured out a tiny bit of paints of various colors onto the grid, from light to dark, white, yellow, red, green, blue and violet, looking at the sketch to imagine the final product.

He began to mix on the pallet, stirring with his brush and then, using the thinnest, painted in the eyes.  He created a flesh color for the faces, blending the shades and tones and applying them to create a living image that looked like his subjects. Then came the hair and clothing. Armor was always tricky with the silver hues of Nirnadel’s mithril shirt.  Ah, this looked superb.  It was time to let the work dry, and he set it aside in the sunlight.  This was good progress.  With two more sessions, this piece would be complete and ready to frame.  His friend in the Merchant Quarter, Urthel, was also an artist and always helped to frame Haedorial’s work.  He did feel bad for the man, who fell on hard times in the aftermath of the war and resorted to painting houses to support his family.  No one was doing portraits for some time after, so he always had Urthel do the finishing touches.  Perhaps he could commission him to do some of the pieces.

He had three other paintings about Rivendell that he was working on, but he liked chronological order as a bard and historian. Each painting would receive attention in the sequence that it happened.  It was just something that kept his mind organized on his work.  But he did want to begin rough sketching recent events while they were still fresh.  He put another canvas up, picturing the siege at Castle Amrodan.  This would be his first work from the expedition.  He had never done a battle before or such a large scene.  This would be a challenge.  He thought he might need Urthel’s help on this, but he wanted to at least lay the groundwork.

He stared at the blank canvas for a few minutes, imagining the layout and the perspective.  He ascribed to the realism school of art where portraits were as close to reality as possible with embellishments for style and character.  What did he want to portray here?  The whole organization of the painting was jumbled in his mind. So many subjects.  So much volume to the image.  But he wanted to do something grand.  He would need the castle but how much of it should he show? The gate where Mercatur attacked from behind?  The foreground where Nirnadel rallied the troops?  He wanted to do both, but how?  He narrowed his eyes, still holding the charcoal pencil to his lips.  There was a little flash of inspiration, and he drew the gate of the castle along with the walls and battlements, the charcoal pencil flitting about the canvas.  Through the gate he sketched Mercatur’s force attacking the tribesmen from behind. They would be smaller for perspective, but he made sure that a viewer could recognize the mercenary’s barbute helm and Baranor’s sallet along with Hirgrim’s wild hair and Silmarien’s pointed mage cap.

He then sketched Nirnadel in her mithril chain, conical helm and eket held high, mounted on her palfrey, which was rearing, eyes wide as soldiers turned back to fight.  It was a good start, but he knew that he would need Urthel’s expertise on this. The man brought canvas to life for big scenes and landscapes.  He stepped back and gave the charcoal drawing a once over from a distance and noticed Faeliriel there.  “What do you think, dear wife?”

“Was that the siege?” she asked and he nodded.

“Indeed.  This was the final battle where Captain Mercatur led a force through a culvert that Lady Éanfled knew about.  Jaabran led the cohorts forward to assault the main gate.  Oh, I forgot the siege tower.  I’ll put that in next time.”

Faeliriel scanned the picture.  “Oh, yes, I see the good captain behind the open gate.  Has there been any news of his health?”

Haedorial shook his head.  “Unfortunately, no but he is in the best care available in the north,” he said sadly.  Then, he pointed to Nirnadel and Galadel rallying the fleeing mercenaries.  “This here.  I’d never seen anything like it.  The second cohort looked as if it might break and Lord Oswy led a staggering cavalry charge to save them.  I was at the command tent with Mindolinor, and a horde of tribesmen attacked us from behind.  They overwhelmed the fifth cohort, getting by them and it was feared that the camp would be overrun.  Brave Sergeant Cedhron turned the Tirrim Aran around and formed a Thangail or shield wall. That…that, my dear saved us. Tribesmen leapt over the Thangail and were going to attack the nurses when Her Highness and Lady Galadel stopped them cold,” he said intently, remembering the fight.  “Her Highness was struck in the side and the cohorts thought that she had fallen and began to flee.”  He pointed to Nirnadel and Galadel on horseback.  “This is where they rode out and turned the battle around. It was amazing.  I was so proud to be there.”

The clock on the mantel chimed.  “Ah, good husband, it is time for supper.  Shall we?” she asked and picked up his crimson doublet and laced it on him, fluffing his poufy shoulder pieces.  She then put his emerald green cloak around his shoulder, pinning it with his mithril Royal sigil device.  He grabbed his crimson flatcap from the stand and flipped it in the air, letting it land on his head perfectly.

“Yes, my dear wife, we shall.”

Valandil

It was a bit of a transition from the Army to the Ministry of Justice to the Tirrim Aran.  They were truly the elite.  There were rights of passage to mark moments in each knight’s progress, something that bonded every man to the order.  Mornings were filled with vigil before the shrine to the Valar, followed by training, which consisted of practice with different weapons, sparring, wrestling and riding.  Every knight was expected to be a master in sword, dagger, mace, hammer, poleaxe and lance, as well as bow and crossbow.  Tilting at the quintain was frequent where one had to be able to strike a small target with his lance at a full gallop.  Squires would then attend to the knight’s weapons, armor and horse, ensuring that everything was ready to protect the Royal Family.  Oaths were life for these men, and each had sworn to defend the Princess with all that they had.

The Guard was a far cry from the monotony of the regular army and the legal study of the Ministry.  Their sole purpose was to protect and fight.  In nearly any martial issue in the realm, the word of an Arequain of the Guard would take precedence.  Any matter regarding the safety of the Princess was of the utmost importance.  A Guardsman was given full authority to detain or even slay anyone threatening her. But the Guard was not merely a steel fist of the Cardolan Royal Family, it was an intelligent, professional and educated force.  Learning of strategy, tactics, sieges and battles happened daily.  These were knights who could function in nearly any setting or situation.

As Valandil walked to his horse on the training ground south of the city, he had to admire what Captain Baranor had forged.  The men were tight, willing to lay down their lives for each other and Nirnadel.  He was initially surprised that Baranor was an open man, always inviting suggestions and willing to make changes in the group if he felt it was warranted.  But on the field, his word was law.  Once he decided on a course of action, every knight moved swiftly.  He knew that Baranor was taking the loss of Sergeant Cedhron hard.  The two had been partners, guarding the Princess in the aftermath of the war.  It was a blow for every member, harkening back to the loss of every man who left Tharbad with King Ostoher.  At first, Valandil felt like an imposter, joining the Guard as a lieutenant, second only to Baranor.  But the knights welcomed him as a brother, and he never lost the feeling of having to grow into the role of a leader.  Setting the example was a touchstone value for the captain.

He mounted his warhorse, a magnificent beast, tall and proud and his squire handed him a lance.  His training on horseback only began in earnest when he became a Guardsman so his expertise with the lance was not quite there yet.  Still, his fellows showed great patience in teaching him and he felt comfortable if not exceptionally proficient yet.  Another squire set the quintain up with the target facing.  In the training code of the Tirrim Aran, if you missed three times in a row, you were on cleanup duty for the day, regardless of rank.  If you struck the target improperly, a sandbag on an attached pole swung around and slammed you on the back of the head to reinforce learning.  That also counted as a miss.

Valandil settled into the saddle that was made for war with a high cantle to keep the rider seated after striking the enemy.  The stirrups covered the feet as protection and the pommel was designed to grab to stabilize the knight for close combat when needed.  Everything in the Guard was crafted for victory.  And many of the knights here were born commoners.  Merit, skill, courage and loyalty were the main arbiters of success and advancement.  It was no wonder that so many young men aspired to join.

He lowered the visor of his sallet helm, snapping it in place. Through the eye slit he saw the target, focusing all of his energy.  “Prepare to advance!” Baranor yelled.  He personally oversaw all training and put his time and effort into improving each knight. “Charge!” came the order and Valandil put spurs to horse, and they flew forward at the gallop.  He lowered the lance, point at the target, trying to compensate for the bouncing and his tip went wide as he flew by.  He grunted, slowing and then turning the horse around. A red flag was raised on the stands. One miss.

He repositioned the horse, settling into the leather. Focus.  Patience.  “Charge!”

They bolted ahead, the pounding of hooves filling his ears. Dadadun, dadadun, dadadun, the sound throbbed as he lowered the lance, striking the quintain a little low and the sandbag swung around and slammed him in the back of the head.  He saw stars for a moment, nearly tumbling out the saddle, grabbing onto the pommel with his left hand to keep him steady.  Dammit.  A second red flag went up.  Only a true hit would count.  That was the quality of the Tirrim Aran.  There was no room for failure when protecting the Princess.  Every single Guardsman protecting King Ostoher and the Princes died on the field that day in the war.  There was not one survivor to live through the shame of defeat.

He swung around and took several deep breaths to steady his hands which were already sweaty beneath his gloves and gauntlets.  “Charge!” Baranor yelled and knight and mount galloped down the list.  Valandil could only see the target through his visor, the world passing by in slow motion. He lowered the lance and leaned in, the fist-shaped coronel on the tip sharp in his vision.  The fist punched dead center on the target, and he blazed by as the sandbag struck only air.  He let out a feral shout of satisfaction and raised his visor to see Baranor grin with a nod.  That man was inspirational…a true leader and teacher.  He blessed the Valar for how lucky he was.  And he was soon to be married with the most talented and beautiful woman in the kingdom.  How things had changed since he was a defeated man, riding away from the disaster on the Downs in a wagon full of wounded.

He trotted up to Baranor and dismounted while a squire took his horse.  “I was worried,” he said.  “I was getting tired of cleanup duty.”

“I see improvement every week, lieutenant.  I know it wasn’t easy joining the Guard like this, but you’ve proven yourself.  We all know your fighting record.  You have no shame here, I can tell you.  Still, you can always improve,” he said, tossing Valandil a poleaxe.  This was a knightly weapon, deadly and powerful. It had the length of a glaive, the spike of a spear, plus an axe and a hammer to pound armor.  The captain gestured to the melee training area as he took his own weapon.  “You’re used to swords and shields, but we must master as many weapons as we can.  You’ve been to war.  You know that your sword could be broken, taken or lost.  You must be able to use whatever you can get your hands on, fight and win.”

Sergeant Riston and Corporal Lanchanar were sparring, one with a glaive and one with a sword and shield.  Fighting those with different weapons was a knowledge that every knight here must know.  There was a time for fine dueling, but their oath was to protect and win.  Baranor held his weapon out aggressively, ready to strike.  “On guard, lieutenant.”

Valandil nodded and took a defensive stance as the captain thrust out with the blunted spike of his practice weapon.  No one needed to be injured in training.  Each knight was too valuable.  He hooked the attack with the axe blade and deflected it away, swinging with the butt of his poleaxe.  Baranor just nicked it upwards with the staff of his weapon, a perfect defense with barely any movement.  They went back and forth, swat and strike, thrust and counter with the captain not even breaking a sweat, tiny, controlled movements to defeat any attack. Valandil’s arms ached and sweat dripped down his face, his plate armor holding in all of his heat.  His chest heaved now with every attack, every defense. He had to end it now and swung the hammer side of his weapon at Baranor’s head.

The captain disappeared from his view under his visor, and he felt something hook his leg.  With a grunt, he hit the ground on his back, and the captain was on him before he could blink, a dagger at his throat.  Baranor rolled off of him and extended his hand, which Valandil accepted. “That was…better,” the captain said evenly.  “Your movements are still too wide, too forced.  You need to be tighter.  Block only enough to defeat the attack and no more.  You also need to learn to move better in plate.  You are used to chainmail, but this is different.  You will breathe differently…fight differently. Once you master that, you will be a force on the battlefield.”

He bowed professionally.  “Thank you, sir.”  Everything that was said about Baranor’s skill was true.

Morelen was standing at the edge of the field, watching intently, dressed in her blue and silver robes.  Seeing them, she approached with her blue bow and a quiver. “I enjoyed watching you,” she said, standing slightly taller than both of them.  “May I borrow a mount and use your archery course?”

Baranor nodded and gestured to a horse at the list.  She hiked up the skirts of her robe and tied them off, along with her sleeves.  They followed her over where she climbed into the saddle and secured her quiver, placing her thumb ring on.

“Horse archers draw more effectively with the thumb,” she told them.  “It’s faster and smoother.”  She guided the mount to the combat range, which, in this case was for men on foot, humanlike manikins set up to fight and shoot in different locations.

“May we watch, Lady Morelen?” the captain asked and she nodded.

She started out at a canter, pulling an arrow and nocking it to the right side of her recurved bow while holding a second arrow with her left hand on the weapon.  “Hiya!” she yelled and the horse powered into a gallop with the targets to the left.  Just before reaching the first target, she rose up on the stirrups, pulled back to her ear and released.  “Yai!” she called as the arrow hit the center, sinking into the fletchings, followed immediately by another, the two shafts touching.  That would have been a difficult and deadly shot for a trained archer on foot, standing still.  Each arrow was drawn and nocked with precision and expertise, smooth and fast.  Two more arrows flew into another manikin and then she reversed direction, firing to the right, twisting her body to aim the bow.  “Yai!”  The arrow flew into the center again as she passed and then leaned backwards to fire another arrow into the same target, both shafts touching.

She trotted back to the knights, back straight and dismounted.  “Thank you. I needed the practice.”

They both nodded.  “I cannot lie.  I am impressed,” the captain said.  “I understand that you served under High King Fingon as a horse archer.”

“I did.  My first battle was in the Year of the Sun, One Fifty-Five when Morgoth’s armies invaded Hithlum.  I had trained for more than three quarters of century by then, but I was excited and terrified.  This was about Fifty-Three Hundred years ago…give or take.  I was a skinny, rash elf maiden and it was my chance to prove myself.  Prince Fingon walked amongst us, checking our weapons and armor.  He shook my hand and told me to fight bravely to defend our lands and people,” she said, her nostrils flaring and her eyes misting as she remembered her leader.  “I fought another elf, who I later learned was my brother.  He…served Morgoth.”  Her expression hardened.  “I had defeated him, but I hesitated and he invoked power from the Dark Lord and nearly killed me but for my father.  We moved to capture him but were attacked by a balrog.”

Both men’s eyes widened.  “A balrog?” Valandil asked.  “You mean the demons of fire from the Elder Days?  Those are just legends…like dragons.  Fairy tales that we tell children to get them to behave.”

“Uh, yes and no,” she answered.  “No, they are real…or were.  You cannot imagine a demon of shadow and flame, twice my height or more, winged with a sword and whip like a raging inferno.  Many have the face and horns of a bull with fangs like daggers. During the Unnumbered Tears…I tried to save the High King…but I was too slow as he was murdered by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs.  He was five times my height and shrouded in flame like a volcano.  I can still…I can still feel his heat in my mind.”

Valandil gulped hard.  Orcs and Dunnish tribesmen were one thing.  If one of these things still existed and got loose…

“And dragons,” she said solemnly as she nocked an arrow and fired it into a target five yards away.  “This was the distance in which I saw Glaurung, the father of dragons.  It killed my captain, and I fled in terror.” She paused for a moment, trembling and then wiping her nose.  “The man who became my husband rallied me and we shot the beast in its nose, eyes and mouth and it ran.  I…I was consumed by shame, but my Prince Fingon held me and forgave me.  He told me that no one had faced such a horror before.”

“That is astounding, my lady,” Baranor said.  “We would be honored if you would train with us while you are here.  Our home is yours.”

“I would like that very much, good captain.  Your knights are well trained and well led.  I know that I will learn much while I am here.”

Valandil chuckled.  “I doubt that, my lady, but we wish to learn all that we can from you. Now were there many female troops among the elves?”

“Many of us train but it’s mostly for defense should our homes be attacked, which they often were in the Elder Days.  Some were quite formidable, such as Galadriel, but only Sercë and I served in the company.  She was exceptionally strong for a woman and I have…the blood of the Ainur. We were rare.  But the Silvan elves of the south have many women serving as scouts or archers and I hear that the Woodland Realm in Greenwood the Great have the same.  The woman who raised me, Lysa, was deadly in close combat.”

“We are proud of how well Nirnadel fought,” Baranor said. “She could outmatch the tribesmen that we fought, but I would not put her up against an experienced knight.  I wish she would stick to dancing but the sovereign must lead.  I trained with and fought with King Ostoher and Prince Thôrdaer, and they were excellent fighters…few better in the kingdom.”

Morelen smiled.  “I know that she trains with you daily, along with her ladies.  If you need help or inspiration, I am here for you.”

“We would appreciate that,” Valandil said.  “But if I may ask, what happened to your husband?” he asked, genuinely curious considering his own relationship.

The elf sighed and then looked across the field.  “Oh look, here comes the Princess now.”

If there was one thing that he learned about the woman during the journey home from the expedition, it was that she was a master of changing the subject.  They all waved to Nirnadel who approached in her armor with Kaile and Galadel.  She walked as if she had something stuck up her rear as her plates clinked along with her.  “We need to work on her moving in the harness,” Baranor said with a chuckle. “Welcome ladies!” he said gesturing them to the field with wooden weapons.

They drilled and sparred lightly, going over stances, guards, strikes and parries.  Nirnadel and Galadel were much more advanced than Kaile, who still struggled with her eket. Morelen stepped in, using a wooden longsword.  She moved fluidly, gracefully, keeping a masterful distance to let the women practice without too much stress, sparring with all three at once.  The elf took the time to show Kaile a better grip and how to balance her weight to move quickly.  “Don’t grip so hard,” she instructed.  “Light but firm…kind of like holding your man,” she said with a wink and the ladies began giggling.

“I wouldn’t know!” Nirnadel complained.  “Is it like a pickle, good Kaile?”

“Exactly like a pickle!”  Kaile took the new stance and grip and swung her eket smoothly, finishing with a nice thrust.

Morelen turned to the knights.  “A woman’s body is different…different balance.  Our center of weight is lower, and I’ve learned to use that.”

Valandil nodded.  “I see.  And we’ve already learned something,” he said, pursing his lips in approval.

The three ladies began to move more fluidly, and their cuts were cleaner.  “Ah, well done,” Morelen said in a compliment as she parried attacks from all three, her movements small, controlled and efficient.  “I think that is good for now,” she said.  “You all show promise.”

Kaile bowed.  “Oh, this felt so much better.  Thank you,” she said and then looked at Nirnadel and Galadel, licking the pommel of her weapon.  “Just like a pickle,” she added with a sly smile.

Morelen snickered.  “Ah, I’m starting to forget.  It’s been too long.”

Valandil opened his eyes wide.  It was difficult to imagine women as stunning as she and Alquanessë lacking companionship.  Mercatur once joked about a fantasy that he had with the Blood-Wight.  ‘It would be like screwing one of those imaginary Valier goddesses,’ he quipped.  ‘And I’d end up with my blood drained but it’d be worth it.’  It was interesting comparing the two elves.  Alquanessë was spritely, flirtatious while Morelen was more serious and controlled, even elusive.  Her humor was quiet, subdued.  He was raised in the Girithlin Estates with preconceptions of elves.  He had never met one until they fought alongside of Ascarnil in the Barrows and learned that his biases were wrong.  And when he went to Rivendell, he learned that many legends and fairy tales were real, both good and horrible.

Baranor gathered the practice weapons, helped by other knights.  “We have one more thing to take care of,” he said, gesturing back to the training house where the Guardsmen studied strategy, tactics and history.  Every Arequain was an educated warrior, intelligent, cunning and deadly.  They walked to the building, Nirnadel moving more naturally, walking with the armor instead of fighting it.  It would still take some work.

The Princess began hopping though.  “Ugh, I have this itch!  This is simply awful!”

“You’ll get used to it,” Baranor answered with a chuckle.

Galadel raised her chainmail shirt and scratched her back. “Oh look,” she said, teasing.

Nirnadel growled while still hopping.  “Errrgh, you noisy fiend!”

Lady Tinarë turned a shade redder and then swatted the Princess on the rear with her eket.  “I am not noisy!”

Baranor gave Valandil a curious look.  “What’s are those two on about?”

The lieutenant snorted out a laugh.  “Apparently, the young ladies are…exploring themselves,” he answered.  “At least that’s what Firiel tells me.”

Baranor blew out a breath.  “Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.  I can’t wait until my daughters grow up,” he said flatly.  “It’ll be nonstop fun, and I’ll be chasing young men away with a crossbow and poleaxe.”

“I don’t envy you, sir.”

“I’ve gained a new appreciation for Lady Anariel.  She probably needed ten arms and eyes in the back of her head when Her Highness was being courted.”

Valandil chuckled.  “I could imagine that it was like a swarm of bees.”

Baranor nodded as they entered the building.  It had a musty, sweaty smell, the place where fighting men learned their trade.  Otherwise, it was immaculate, training weapons and armor hung in neat, organized rows with paintings and drawings of the history of the Tirrim Aran adorning the walls.  He locked the door after everyone had entered and ushered them to the back.  A painting of every sovereign of the realm hung in a row down the hallway, starting with Thorondur the Magnificent, the First King, a man who radiated strength and honor, the most intelligent and gifted of the three brothers who formed Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur, almost six hundred years ago.  King Tarcil the Mariner was painted on the prow of a ship, while King Calimendil the Minstrel held a lute and King Ostoher the Merry held a carafe of wine.

Nirnadel stopped to touch the portrait of Chancellor Nimhir and then herself at 14, holding a cat.

“We’ll have to update that,” Baranor said.  “I hear that Haedorial is already painting new works.”

They entered a back room that was paneled in dark walnut wood that had the robust aroma of coffee and chocolate, a much more pleasant scent than the entryway and classrooms.  Sandalwood incense burned in the corners where Sergeant Fendir of the cohort sat, nervous and just a little confused.  His wild ginger hair had been combed out and his muttonchop sideburns waxed back.  The cut across the crooked bridge of his nose had settled into a faint scar.  He wore a simple but neat tunic and breeches of wool, befitting a plain spoken man of the countryside.

Baranor nodded to the lieutenant.  This would be his to perform.  “Sergeant Fendir of the cohort, please rise,” Valandil began clearly. “You fought with skill and valor on this expedition.  We, of the Tirrim Aran, wish to invite you to join our ranks,” he said with solemn intensity. “The choice is yours, but the offer comes but once.  You were selected amongst all others by vote of the Arequain.  If you wish this honor, say aye.”

Fendir’s eyes shot open wide and his mouth hung open.  He blew out several sharp breaths and then nodded. “Aye…aye.  I accept,” he said quickly, nervously.  “Thank you.  I never thought that a mere cattle man such as myself would ever…I am honored beyond words, my lords.”

Valandil took his hand and held it tightly.  “Not my lords…my brothers.”

Fendir shook for a moment and sniffled.  “I am…overcome…my brothers.”  All of the Arequain surrounded him and put their hands on his back and shoulders.

“Welcome, my brother,” Valandil said with warmth and strength.  “Now, please kneel to accept the oath,” he commanded and Fendir knelt down, his hands together in prayer.  “Your Highness, if you would,” he said and she drew her mithril anket, knowing what was to happen.

“My good Fendir,” Nirnadel began.  “Your first oath is to protect and defend the members of the Royal Family and Household with your life if necessary and to obey the commands of your sovereign.  Do you swear this?”

“I swear it.”

“You are to uphold the ideals of the realm with truth, honor, valor and dedication.  You are to defend the people and fight for justice.  Do you swear this?”

“I swear it.”

“And lastly, as an Arequain, you will be granted the power to mete justice fairly and properly.  You will do nothing that will dishonor the code, the order or the realm. Do you swear this?” she said with power in her voice.

“I swear it!” he answered with all of his heart.

“Then, be knighted, Sir Fendir,” she declared and tapped him on the shoulders and head with the flat of her sword.  “Rise, Arequain of the Tirrim Aran.  You are now a brother in the most noble and ancient martial order of Cardolan.”

He rose, still shaking.  “Your Highness…my life is yours.  I will serve with honor.  I will never forget this,” he said, his voice quivering, the rough cattle man filled with emotion.

Each knight then came and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome brother,” each one said and Nirnadel did the same.

“I am proud to have you with me,” she said warmly.

“We are indeed,” Valandil added.  This was his first ceremony, and he was relieved that it went off well.  “I’m sure that this was overwhelming.  It was for me.  When you’ve recovered, report to the quartermaster to be fitted for your armor. And the weapons of the Guard are now yours to use.  You will find them…superior.”  He gestured everyone to the bar of the training house.  “Now come, let us celebrate.”

They gathered as Baranor brought out leather flasks and brass cups, plain and simple ware for warriors.  He poured as Valandil handed them out.  Then, the lieutenant held his cup high, followed by the others.  “Let us drink to the newest member of our sacred brotherhood.  Welcome, Sir Fendir!”  The gathering downed their drinks, patting him on the back.  Valandil then began humming the tune for the new Gondorian dance that Ciramir and Nirnadel brought to Cardolani culture.  It was something that just fit with the knights of the Guard and Baranor approved it as part of the music of their order.  He was joined by the other knights, deep solemn, powerful voices that erupted into song.

When I drink red wine

My friend, everything turns, turns, turns, turns...

Now, I also drink

Tinarë or Feotar wine.

The Princess and her ladies began tapping their shoes on the floor in rhythm to the words and Morelen tried to join in, watching and stepping with them.

Let's sing and drink:

Let's declare war on that wine flask!

Let's sing and drink

My friends; let's drink, then!

Nirnadel spun and tripped over her sabaton, her armored boot, and fell into Valandil’s arms.  She looked up at him and smiled.  “Lady Firiel is a lucky woman, and I am quite drunk.”

CODEX

Weapons:

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Glaive – a polearm with an long chopping blade.

Flail – a spiked ball on a chain that attaches to a stick.  Also called a morning star.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Armor:

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Couter – plate armor over the elbow.

Cuirass – solid breastplate

Basinet – a conical helm with varying movable visors, some elegant, some grotesque.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Sallet – a squat helmet that may have a movable visor and a flange that protects the back of the neck.

Spangenhelm – A conical helm that has a fixed visor and sometimes ear protection.  Akin to a viking or Rohirric helm.

Bevor – the throat protector that goes with the sallet.

Pikeman’s Pot – a morion helmet.

Clothing:

Bycocket hat – Robin Hood hat.

Hood – pieces of stiff fabric that fits over a noblewoman’s head from ear to ear, often with gems, jewels and other decorations.

Kirtle – a gown.

Placket – a stiff piece of fabric that fits over the kirtle over the breasts.

Foresleeves – removable sleeves that are usually extravagant, made of fur, cloth of gold of brocade.

Battle Formations:

Thangail – shield wall formation.

Dírnaith – wedge formation.

Tûrtan – turtle formation with shields all around and held high.

Other terms:

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Line of Cardolan Rulers:

Thorondur the Magnificent – 861-936;

Turambar – 936-1001;

Ciryon – 1001-1079;

Tarandil – 1079-1153;

Calimendil the Minstrel – 1153-1235, slain by Gundabad orcs;

Civil War – 1235-1248;

Tarcil the Mariner – 1248-1287, elected King;

Tarastor – 1287-1332;

Minalcar – 1332-1381;

Ostoher – 1381-1409, slain in the 1409 War;

Nimhir (Regent) – 1409-

Line of Rhudauran Rulers:

Aldarion – 861-951;

Orodreth – 951-988;

Eldathorn – 988-1031, slain in battle against Arthedain and Cardolan;

Eldarion – 1031-1107;

Forodacil – 1107-1176;

Rhugga the Usurper – 1176-1231, slain in battle against Cardolan and Elewen;

Various claimants – 1231-1235;

Elewen – 1235-1307;

Aldor the Addled – 1307-1347;

Elegost – 1347-1355, assassinated;

Various claimants – 1355-

Chapter End Notes

After the expedition, this chapter is all world and character development.  I decided to keep the CODEX for terms and settings.  The song at the end is La Tourdion, a medieval song about getting drunk on wine and eating ham and I was inspired to write it into the story.  I've been taking writing lessons from some online writers so I hope that translates.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pelrp8bw38k

Leave a Comment

57) The Bar Aran - Narbeleth (October) 2^nd, 1410

Nirnadel

The Princess stood on the balcony of the chamber for the Council of the Sceptre, looking out at the city under gray skies.  It was noticeably cooler than when they set out on the grand expedition with light rain the whole week, creating a thin fog over the Gwathló River.  She wondered if this was a view that Tar-Aldarion saw when he met with Galadriel in Tharbad when it was still a small Númenórean town on the river in 883 of the Second Age.  She held her hand up, catching a few drops of rain before turning back to the chamber. This was the first council since Mablung Girithlin was elected to be the alternate regent.  It was something that Nirnadel had almost forgotten about between the curse and the horror of Thuringwethil.  She stepped back into the room with her ladies, awaiting the commencement of the session.

It had been an odd morning where she felt uneasy and her stomach was in knots.  She chocked it up to the upcoming Council, which would be her first, so it had to be nerves, she was sure.  She cupped her hands over her mouth, letting out some gas that she swore tasted like apples. But she hadn’t had an apple in a week.

In the Chambers, the fireplace on the far side was already lit, logs burning, with stewards Mindolinor and Brondon tending to the blaze, a sign of the oncoming winter.  Leaves on the trees in the city had begun to turn and fall onto the streets.  Another summer had passed, and fall was halfway over. On the opposite side of the room, two other braziers burned, casting an orange glow onto the oak table where the papers of the business of the realm were stacked.

Nirnadel spent part of the morning being dressed by her ladies, a time-consuming process for affairs of state.  Her emerald green and scarlet kirtle was of the finest silk brocade, a product of the excellent textile industry of Cardolan, with a long train, befitting a Princess of the realm.  Her placket was of matching brocade, woven with silver and cloth of gold lining with a golden girdle below, filled with emeralds and rubies set in gold quatrefoil mounts.  Her foresleeves were of reddish fox fur and her hood of stiff black fabric, laced with pearls.  The centerpiece of her outfit were the crown jewels of Queen Lossien, a necklace of mithril, also set with emeralds and rubies, the national colors of Cardolan with the letter ‘A’ set in platinum for her family name, Aranyónorë.  No knight could claim greater effort to dress for battle, be it on the field or the Council Chambers.

The ladies were dressed in similar, but far less ostentations gowns and jewels.  Kaile looked positively uncomfortable, fidgeting with the hood, pinned to her ginger hair as Anariel told her to stand still.  Members of the Tirrim Aran bowed to the ladies, standing ready to protect the Royal House.

Nimhir was in his emerald green robes of state, his mustache and goatee waxed to perfection above his Chancellor’s chain of office. “Your Highness,” he said evenly, “you will be of age in just under three months.  At that time, we will schedule your coronation where you will become the first ruling Queen of Cardolan.  Today, you will learn some of the duties of sovereign of the realm.  You will hold court today where petitioners will see you to make requests, air grievances or to seek justice beyond what could be provided by the ministry.  This is part of what it will be like to be the Queen.  You will be granted approval to hold the Sceptre of Thalion for this. Consider it…practice.  I will be here to assist as regent and Eärdil will assist on legal matters, but the session will be yours.”

The Minister of Royal Justice nodded.  “Your Highness, I will be here to ensure that you do not get into legal…hot water.  Otherwise, your word today is law.”  He was also dressed in fine silk robes of emerald green and scarlet with his golden chain of office around his neck along with a matching flatcap.  He had been instrumental in implementing her new ideas on law and diplomacy and was critical to the realm.

The Princess took a deep breath and then nodded.  She knew that a leader wasn’t just adventures, danger and expeditions.  This was the hard, but necessary parts of governing and she knew that this was her weak area. “I understand, good Nimhir.  I praythee, both of you, to please speak out should I err. I wish to do this properly.”

Nimhir smiled, but with an air of seriousness.  “Two points of order before we bring in the attendees and begin the session.  One, you are now very used to speaking less…formally.  For Court, you should return to Royal Mannerisms.  It is tradition.  Two, I have approved Lady Galadel to serve as your body double when needed and I have received the blessings of Hir Tinarë.  She is already an aristocrat so only a little training need be done to have her be a convincing double.”

Galadel curtseyed.  “I am honored, your grace…Your Highness.”

The Chancellor nodded.  “Very good,” he said, looking around the room.  “Haedorial, are you ready to scribe?”

“I am, your grace,” the bard answered.

Nimhir gestured to the Princess.  “The session is yours to call into order, Your Highness.”  He walked over and passed her the Sceptre of Thalion, a yard long silver rod capped with a bejeweled eight-pointed star with an eagle atop it that had tiny rubies for eyes.  It was a precise copy of the Sceptre of Annúminas in Arthedain, which was passed down through the Lords of Andunië in Númenor.  Eärendur, the Tenth and last King of Arnor had two identical sceptres crafted, one of each of his two younger sons.  One was here and the other, the Sceptre of Cameth Brin, was lost in Rhudaur upon the assassination of King Elegost, some fifty years ago.  Nimhir held the sacred symbol of Cardolani power out to her.  “This will soon be yours upon your coronation.  It is…on loan today.  Use it wisely.”

Nirnadel bit her thumb for a second and looked at her ladies, each of whom put a hand on her shoulder for support.  Even Anariel gave her a warm look.  “We are with you, Your Highness.”

The Princess gazed upon the silver Sceptre and then gestured to the herald who opened the door for the Hiri to enter.  The herald pounded his staff twice on the wooden floor. “Announcing the Hiri of the realm: Mablung, Hir Girithlin, alternate Chancellor; Maerion, Hir Ethir Gwathló; Annael, Hir Feotar; Thangar, Hir Eredoriath; Celeph, Hir Calantir and Duin, Hir Tinarë.  Absent is any representation from the Hirdom of Tyrn Gorthad!”  The highest nobles of the kingdom entered in single file and bowed their heads to Nirnadel, hands on hearts and took their appointed seats. 

Hir Girithlin even smiled.  “Your Highness, it is good to see you well.  I wish to extend my congratulations to you for your victory over the demon of Morgoth.  Your courage gives the land strength,” he said, extending his hand.  When she took it, he knelt and kissed it.  This was an interesting turn of events.  Perhaps her show of power convinced him that cooperation was superior to conflict.  At least she hoped so.

She raised him up, smiling at the crowd.  “Welcome to our loyal Hiri.  We are most glad to be back in your company,” she said, tilting her head up, finger to her cheek.  “Our expedition to Rhudaur has been successful but not without loss and sacrifice. We are most grateful to our brave allies and the strength of Cardolani arms.”

She then touched Hir Calantir on the shoulder.  He was thin and frail now, only a few whisps of snowy hair left on his head.  “We are ever so pleased to see you in good health, my dear Celeph.  You have always been a supporter to the realm, and our illustrious Royal father held you in high esteem.”  It was now more difficult to speak and interact with such formality, which had once been her ingrained custom.

The wizened old man smiled, his intelligent but cloudy and sunken eyes focused on her, and he kissed her hand.  “I am honored to continue to be of service.  And blessings to Lady Elanoriel for giving me a few more good years,” he said in his raspy, weathered voice.  Like Captain Targegil, Hir Calantir had been a rock for Cardolan for many decades.  Old Celeph had once been a lieutenant in the Tirrim Aran, one of the most renown knights in the kingdom.

The Princess went to the King’s seat and Baranor pulled it away from the table for her to sit.  She placed the Sceptre over her chest with her left hand and gestured to Haedorial.  “Dear Haedorial, please call the Council of the Sceptre to order.”

The bard stood and removed his flatcap, placing it in the crook of his arm.  Every movement, every gesture here had to be precise in a time-honored tradition that dated from the time of Elros Tar-Minyatur in the golden city of Armenelos in lost Númenor.  “Hear ye, hear ye, I, Haedorial, the Royal Scribe of Cardolan, hereby call the Council of the Sceptre to order.

The herald pounded his staff once for the first petitioner.  “Announcing Brethil the Old, who requests the blessings of the realm to open new trade routes.”

The aged Dúnadan strode in purposefully, head held high in an old naval captain’s uniform and performed a military salute to the room and then knelt for the Princess, his bones creaking.  “Your Highness…esteemed members of the Council, I wish to petition you to allow me to open new trade routes to Pelargir, Dol Amroth and Lindon.  With the boom in the economy, I plan to increase my merchant fleet to four,” he said in a creaky but strong voice, all business.  There was just a little twinkle in his eye and a faint grin through a thick white goatee.

Nirnadel gestured to him, trying her best to strike an imperious pose.  “My good Captain Brethil, We praythee, please explain to us how this will affect the realm,” she said and then held her finger up.  “However, before you do, please tell us a little about yourself.  We may have heard High Captain Asgon mention your name.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.  Many of your esteemed Council members know me or of me.  High Captain Asgon was my First Mate for some years when we sailed under High Captain Rossendir under King Minalcar.  I was just a midshipman when Tarcil the Mariner was King.  I retired to build my fortune and my experience on the sea has rewarded me handsomely.  I sail a fleet of three vessels now, the swift three-masters Tinmdomerel and Tolfalas, and the slower cog, Mindeb.  We trade with Arthedain and occasionally with Gondor.  What I seek today is the blessings of the Crown to proceed, along with the appropriate writs that I may sail with the protection of Cardolan,” he said and then laid a leather binder on the table.

“These are the trade agreements that I will finalize with local merchants.  Cardolan wool, lumber, barley, apples and honey are prime commodities in Arthedain with Tharbad glass, beer, ale and gems in high demand in Gondor.  In turn, we will import wax, silk, coffee and exotic fruit from the Southern Kingdom.  I feel that this is a golden opportunity to expand our routes and solidify our alliances with other lands,” he said and then leaned in, putting his open hand to one side of his mouth in a conspiratorial manner.  “And we get a lot of information about the goings on in the world that I have always provided to Chancellor Nimhir,” he added with a wink.

Nirnadel looked to Eärdil and Nimhir for guidance.  “My lords, is such a proposal legal and beneficial to the realm?”

Nimhir nodded and the Minister said, “There are no legal objections.  By law, let us put it to a vote.  All of our votes count as one with Her Highness’ counting as three.”  He and Nimhir raised their hands, followed by all of the Hiri and the Princess.  “All are in favor,” Eärdil announced.  “Captain Brethil, I will have the legal documents drawn up and delivered to you by the morrow.  Copies will be housed in the archives.”

He bowed low, his military awards bouncing on his chest.  “Many thanks to the Council and Her Highness.  I will have the trade agreements finalized and submitted to the Crown for the archives.”  He took three steps back and departed.

Nirnadel couldn’t help but do an eyebrow bump.  “Well, that was easy,” she said, pulling her chin back with a smile.  “Shall we see who is next?”  This might turn out to be easier that she anticipated.

The herald pounded the staff once more.  “Announcing Eithadis, petitioner against Olien of the Innkeeper’s Guild.”  Olien entered, wearing a burgundy-colored dress with the gold cockade of the Innkeepers on her chest with a white veil over her hair.  The innkeeper was a plain, mature woman whose looks and voice were all business.  She took three steps forward and performed a curtsey of the merchant class, less flamboyant than that of the aristocracy.  “Your Highness…esteemed members of the Council.  I apologize that your valuable time will be wasted here,” she said with barely concealed impatience which piqued the Princess’ curiosity.

Another woman followed in, dressed in an ostentatious gown of multiple colors who wore her blonde hair short with an odd, asymmetric cut.  She was attractive and slightly into middle-age and bore a deep scowl as she stomped to her station as petitioner.  “I demand to see Nirnadel!  Hah, there you are.  It’s about time that I was seen for this matter,” she harumphed, hands on her hips.

Eärdil sighed with a face palm.  “Your Highness, if I may sidebar with you?” he asked and she nodded as he whispered into her ear.  “This woman is what we call a chronic complainer.  She is never satisfied with the legal outcomes of her…issues.  Your father dealt with her many times.  He was far too patient in my opinion.”

Eithadis flared her nostrils.  “Are you going to pay attention to me or not?” she asked, shrilly.

The Princess closed her eyes for a moment and then looked to the ceiling.  “We praythee, good Eithadis, tell us of your matter so that we may judge the outcome.” She had a feeling that this wouldn’t be as easy as the last one.

“Well, I’ve brought this to the Mayor and the…so called Minister of Justice and nothing.  Nothing!”

“We see.  But what can you tell us of-”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Eithadis screeched and Eärdil shook his head.

So, this is what her father and poor Nimhir had to deal with and Nirnadel felt her patience strained.  Her stomach groaned and she burped up an apple taste.  She stood and held up her finger.  “Silence!” she said loudly to the surprise of those in the room.  “You forget yourself, Eithadis.  You enter this Council as a petitioner, not as a peer and you address the future sovereign of Cardolan.  Behave appropriately,” she scolded.  Ever since she ate that apple from Thuringwethil she felt more confident…sometimes even more aggressive.  Maybe that was a good thing.

Eithadis huffed again.  “Well, I never…your good father would never treat me like-”

“Must we repeat ourselves?” Nirnadel said coldly with her hand held up as her lady’s eyes widened.  “Now speak your petition but should We raise a hand again there will be consequences.  Have We made ourselves clear?”

The woman’s face went red, but she nodded.

“We did not hear you,” the Princess said, her voice dripping with disdain.

“You have,” the woman answered in a tremulous voice.

“And to whom do you speak?”

Eithadis began to shake.  “You have…Your Highness.”

Nirnadel stood and pointed the Sceptre of Thalion at her. “And what is appropriate when you address your betters?” she said with a distinct chill, her chin up imperiously.

Eithadis knelt, lowering her head.  The Princess waited a full minute before ordering her to rise. Kaile had a look of horror in her eyes but remained silent.  The woman looked shaken now, her hair disheveled.  “I…I want justice here.  That woman did not provide me with the services that were promised.  I was supposed to get a suite at their…abysmal inn but I was put in another room!”

Nirnadel gestured to the innkeeper.  “Olien, We praythee, present your side to this matter.”

The woman curtseyed again.  “Your Highness, she was never promised such a thing.  She showed up, claiming to have reserved a suite at the Traveler’s Rest but her reservation was for a standard room.  I have the record here,” she said, passing a parchment to Mindolinor.  “She then created a scene, claiming that I insulted her and that she deserved a suite for free.  We have already appeared before the good Minister…several times,” she added, gesturing to the Eärdil, who nodded.  Mindolinor brought the parchment to the Council, who read it over.  It clearly showed that Eithadis had reserved a standard room on a date months ago.

As Nirnadel read it, something gnawed at her gut, and she felt an unusual anger.  “Eithadis, do you have anything to refute this record?”

“What?  Of course I do!” she said, her voice becoming shrill again.  “That woman insulted me!  I deserved the suite.”

“Olien, what did you say?” the Princess asked, trying to regain her patience.

The innkeeper took a deep breath.  “I told her that she was not reserved for such and showed her the record.  She could pay for the larger room or keep what she had reserved.  That seemed fair.  I have witness statements,” she said, handing over additional papers. The Council read them over, with Eärdil merely glancing them over.  He’d already seen them several times.

Nirnadel sighed and handed the papers back to Mindolinor. “We do not even see why this needs a vote which would waste the Council’s time.”  She glared at Eithadis.  “We are offering you two choices,” she said, pointing the Sceptre at the woman.  “You may pay a two crown fine to the inn and an additional one to the Crown for your frivolity and bother the Council no more with this matter…or, you can spend the night in the company of Mardil the Jailer.  We are sure that you would find the accommodations there…less to your liking. We hear that the rats can be quite hungry.”  Hir Girithlin smiled and chuckled out loud in approval.

Eithadis’ jaw fell open.  “B b but…Your Highness?”

Nirnadel gestured to Baranor.  “Captain…Master at Arms, would you kindly escort this woman to Mardil for processing?”

The woman held her hands up, palms out.  “No, no…please.  I withdraw my petition.”

“Haedorial, please record this judgment into the record,” the Princess added.  “Now Eithadis, get thee from our sight or our next judgment will be less…lenient.”

Hir Girithlin blew out a sharp whistle.  “Here, here!  Well done, Your Highness.  I concur.”

As the woman scurried from the Chambers, the bard wrote it down, but his eyes were wide.  “Y…Your Highness…are you feeling well?” he asked in a voice full of concern.

“Never better, my good bard,” she answered.  “Good Olien, We bid you to have a wonderful day,” she said and the woman curtseyed before departing.

Kaile leaned in behind her.  “Nirnadel, this is most unlike you.  I know that she was difficult, but are you sure you’re feeling-” she began before the Princess waved her off.

“You must address us as, ‘Your Highness’ within the Council, my good lady,” she said coldly.  She wasn’t sure why she said that, but it felt right.  She gestured to the herald.  “Next.”  This whole thing was becoming tedious.

He pounded on the floor once again.  “Announcing petitioner Samnod of Docktown and Celmon of the Thieves Quarter.”  Nirnadel sighed and rolled her eyes as her stomach burbled, and the taste of apples grew stronger on her tongue, and she tapped her chest several times.

She leaned back and gestured to them offhandedly.  “Speak and explain to us why this was not resolved with the Ministry and why are you here before the Council?  Do not waste the Council’s precious time.”  Both men’s eyes widened from the verbal lashing but they bowed to her and the Hiri.  They were commoners, dressed in worn wool clothes of workmen.

Samnod pointed sharply at Celmon.  “Tha’ one there’s a thief!  ‘e stole me ma’s ring, ‘e did.”

“Liar!” Celmon shot back.  “’e’s a liar, that one.  Your ma lost it.  Quit blaming me.”

Eärdil shrugged.  “There was no proof, Your Highness.  We could not move without evidence.”

Nirnadel stood and set the Sceptre down on the table. “We understand,” she said as her senses became heightened.  She could smell the sea salt and sweat on the two men.  She could smell her ladies’ perfume.  It was as if she could hear the two men breathing, even hear their heartbeats. She could see Celmon twitch…hear something that he was thinking.  He was worried about someone, someone dear to him.  “We may have the solution to this,” she said and went to Samnod as if someone were pulling her to him.  She grasped his hand and looked into his eyes for a moment before he looked away.  He flinched as her mind invaded his.  “He believes his accusation to be true.  This We can see.  Now let us see what the other side says,” she said playfully with a sinister edge.  She reached out to grasp Celmon’s hand, but he pulled it away sharply and Baranor’s sword was out of the scabbard in a blink.

“Don’t try anything, lad.  Do what Her Highness demands,” the captain said in a deep, commanding voice.

Celmon began to tremble but held his hand out.  Nirnadel grasped it and her eyes bore into him as sweat trickled down his face.  He tried to fight her, but her mind became like a dagger and plunged into his mind, tearing thoughts and memories from him, peeling away layers like an onion.  He gasped and clenched his teeth and jaw, shaking. She began to enjoy his squirming. It fed her.  She pushed his hand away abruptly as if discarding trash. “He is guilty.  The ring is hidden at his home, and he will sell it for…it doesn’t matter.  He is guilty.”  She saw an image of a pale, sick daughter, coughing and empty cupboards, but it was irrelevant.

Eärdil narrowed his eyes.  “Your Highness, how do you know this?” he asked, clearly concerned by her revelation.

Celmon fell to his knees.  “Yes, yes, I am.  I did it, but please!  Please. We needed the money.  I’m sorry Samnod.  I am!  Mercy please! I’ll return it.  It was for my sick daughter, it was!  We cannot pay for ‘ealing or herb, much less food!”

Kaile raised her hand.  “Sir, the Houses are open to anyone who is ill at whatever you can afford. Bring her there.  Firiel will help.”

He looked at the lady.  “I didn’t know!  I didn’t. We live in the Thieves Quarter, we do. We don’t ‘ear things.  Please, I will take her there.”

Nirnadel gestured coldly to Baranor.  She’d had enough of the whining and mewling.  “Master at Arms, take him into custody,” she commanded. “We hereby pass sentence that he will be flogged with twenty lashes and that his hand will be removed tomorrow morning.”  It felt good. She felt powerful.  His fear fed her.

Celmon groveled on the floor.  “No, please!  Mercy, Highness, mercy!”

Kaile ran up behind the Princess and put a hand on her shoulder.  “Nirnadel? Your Highness, what are you doing? This man has a sick daughter.  They’re starving.  Please give him mercy.  I’m begging you.”

Nirnadel trembled.  There was something inside her mind along with the strong taste of apples in her mouth.  She turned and her eyes flashed red for a moment, and a snarl began to form on her lips. Kaile stepped back and covered her mouth.  Then, it was as if the Princess were struck by a tribesman’s sword and her breath left her. She blinked hard, biting her thumb. Something felt as if it were lodged in her throat and she coughed up a bit of apple.  “I…I…what was happening?  I feel…,” she said and then her eyes focused on her friend.  “Kaile, oh blessed Manwë, Kaile.  I…I am so sorry.  I don’t know what.  I feel so strange.”

She turned back to Celmon, appalled by her own actions. “Good Celmon…I hereby rescind my sentence.  You will return the ring and perform service on the city drainage for two weeks.  You are also to bring your daughter to the Houses for care.  The Crown will pay for the medication and lodgings there as well as for some food for your family.  You both are free to go.”

Celmon crawled to her feet, his hands held together. “Bless you, Highness, bless you. You will never see me ugly face ‘ere again, never.  Bless you!”

She reached down and raised him up.  “We were both not at our best.  Go in peace and health to your family,” she told him with a sincere smile.  “You will report to the constabulary for your sentence in two days and I will have the funds left at the Houses for you.”  As the two scrambled out, she turned to face Kaile, her cheeks red with shame.  She was horrified by what she had done.  “I am…I am so sorry, my dear friend.  I don’t know what happened to me.  It was as if I were in a dream, watching myself. You brought me back.  Can you forgive me, my dear lady?”

Kaile wiped her nose and nodded as they clung together. “I forgive you, my dear friend.  But we must get you to see Firiel,” she said quietly, not wanting the Hiri to overhear.

“Why?  I feel normal now.”

The nurse pointed at her face.  “Your eyes…they flashed red at me.  Did uhhh…did Thuringwethil do anything else to you?”

Nirnadel thought for a moment, the vision of the vampire touching her, stimulating her, seducing her to evil.  A tingly sensation shot through her body.  “She…she fed me an apple.”  

Kaile’s mouth hung open.  “Oh no.  Come, Nirnadel, we have to get you to Firiel quickly.”  She went to Nimhir and whispered to him, “Sir, something of the vampire, Thuringwethil, is inside of her.  We have to get her to the Houses now.”

Nimhir nodded slowly.  “Yes, yes, I saw her eyes flash red.  Oh no.”  He stood sharply and held up his hand.  “The Council will be in recess for an hour.  Her Highness ate something that didn’t agree with her.”  As the Hiri filed out, he turned back.  “Kaile, Valandil, get her to Firiel.  Go out the back.  We must keep this secret.  Lady Tinarë, are you ready to assume the role for the remainder of the Council.  You do not have to do anything.  We will handle the petitioners.”

Galadel curtseyed.  “I will do my duty for the realm.”  They rushed back to the Royal Chambers to change, Galadel donning the Royal Gown of state.  Lady Tinarë looked radiant in the kirtle and bejeweled hood, but her expression clearly showed worry as she returned to the Council with Anariel.  

Nirnadel felt giddy, almost drunk as Kaile and Valandil tugged her out the secret entrance to the Royal Chambers.  “I never knew that this was here,” the knight said, marveling at the construction.  “This blended right in with the wall.”  He ran his hand along the door as it shut, sliding back into place.

The Princess wobbled, giggling.  She felt that this was a dream.  And if it were a dream, nothing mattered.  She felt lightheaded and tingly and she let out a sensuous growl, grabbing Valandil between the legs.  She wanted that wonderful feeling again.  It had been too long, not since her bath.  “Kaile, you said it was good, didn’t you?”

The knight jumped back, eyes wide.  “Oh, Your Highness.  I…uhh…come, we need to go.”

Kaile took her hands and held them to her side.  “Ummm, not like that.  Let’s get you to Firiel and we can relax then.  Sound good?”

A wagon was waiting for them, and it was a short dash to the Houses where the nurse practically had to sit on the Princess who kept trying to reach for Valandil.  “He’s a man. I need a man,” she cooed.  “And it is time that we conquered the north.  I want our army to set out for Rhudaur! All of the north will become Cardolan and we will rule Arnor!” she added gleefully.  

Valandil ran up to the front door and opened it, Kaile dragging Nirnadel through.  “Firiel! We need you!” he called and she came running with Pelemeth, Neldis and Jonu.  Kaile held the Princess towards her.

The Healer grasped Nirnadel’s face, looking into her eyes. “What’s happened?  Fill me in,” she said as they moved her to a stateroom.

“Firiel, you have to keep this a secret,” Kaile urged. “The people and especially the Hiri cannot know.  It would be a crisis.  Galadel is filling in for her.  Listen now, Thuringwethil fed her an apple and she’s acting bizarre today.  Her eyes flashed red at me.  His Grace saw it too.”

Firiel narrowed her eyes.  “So…a curse?  Alright, let’s get her settled,” she said as they sat her down in a plush chair.  “Relax, Your Highness.  We’ll get to the bottom of this and fix you right up.”

The Princess pursed her lips.  “I am so sorry, good healer.  I don’t know what is happening to me.  I…I touched your man.  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

The Healer raised an eyebrow and looked at Valandil. “You’re not yourself.  No apologies needed,” she said, giving the Princess as sedative herb, popping it into her mouth.

“Oh, this is wonderful.  I feel so…,” she said as her eyes closed.  She felt as if she were floating in another world, seeing things through the eyes of another.  She flew high above the land, seeing cities as tiny dots, great rivers as mere blueish threads, mountains as small hills.  Was this what it was like to be a Vala?  She looked up to see stars, bright and clear, free from clouds.  This was the realm of Varda or Elbereth as she was also called.  She felt no cold or heat, just surges of power.

Someone whispered into her ear.  “I can give you this.  Your heart’s desire.  You can have any man that you want to keep you satisfied.  Wouldn’t you like that?”

She looked around but no one was there in the sky with her.  The sky exploded in a great flash of light without sound, and she flew low over the ocean, feeling the salt spray on her face.  It was exhilarating, skirting over waves and rocky cliffs.  “You could be immortal,” the voice told her.  “Give in to me and we will be together.  I will guide you better than any of your kin or friends.”

“Who…who are you?”

There was a faint giggle.  “Why, I’m your best friend.  I’m the part of you that’s strong, vibrant, powerful, alluring…  The other part of you is weak, helpless, whiny. If you give into me, you give into yourself…the better self.”

“This can’t be real.  I’m in the Houses of Healing.”

“Well, not really.  Not anymore.  But that’s besides the point,” the voice cooed.  “You said that you wanted a man.  I’m delivering.”

“What?  No, that’s not exactly what I meant.  I want to be with King Araphor, but…but I am curious.  I want to know what to expect.  I want to be the woman that he wants, not just a queen to him.”

“Yes, that is what I want too.  We are the same.  But let me show you what to expect,” the voice said with a snicker.  “Now awake,” it said.

Nirnadel’s eyes flickered open and she rubbed them, trying to focus.  The aromas hit her first, scented spicy oils mixed in with incense like jasmine and sandalwood with a hint of musky amber.  As her eyes cleared, they were filled with vibrant hues of red, scarlet, ruby, candy apple and vermillion.  The fact that she recognized these shades spoke to her education.  Sounds began to filter into her ears, low voices, giggles, whispers and other things.  Things like when she could hear Gildor and Alquanessë on the roof of the Tirthon.  Her eyes shot open wide along with her mouth.

She focused on a man in front of her who was…nude and…excited. “What?  Who are you?  What are you doing?” she blurted out.  He was young but not an adolescent with a mop of brown hair, clean shaven and rather attractive.

“Oh Neldis, I didn’t know you were back at Artan’s. Well, this makes my day.  You were my favorite, you know,” he said smoothly in a mercantile accent and stepped towards her.

Nirnadel looked down for a moment to see that she only wore black stockings, gloves with a velvet choker around her neck.  “I…ummm…you have the wrong person, good sir,” she blurted out, covering herself with her hands.

He touched her cheek and cupped her breast.  “You are just as beautiful as I remember.  I really missed you.”

CODEX

Weapons:

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Glaive – a polearm with an long chopping blade.

Flail – a spiked ball on a chain that attaches to a stick.  Also called a morning star.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Armor:

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Couter – plate armor over the elbow.

Cuirass – solid breastplate

Basinet – a conical helm with varying movable visors, some elegant, some grotesque.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Sallet – a squat helmet that may have a movable visor and a flange that protects the back of the neck.

Spangenhelm – A conical helm that has a fixed visor and sometimes ear protection.  Akin to a Viking or Rohirric helm.

Bevor – the throat protector that goes with the sallet.

Pikeman’s Pot – a morion helmet.

Clothing:

Bycocket hat – Robin Hood hat.

Hood – pieces of stiff fabric that fits over a noblewoman’s head from ear to ear, often with gems, jewels and other decorations.

Kirtle – a gown.

Placket – a stiff piece of fabric that fits over the kirtle over the breasts.

Foresleeves – removable sleeves that are usually extravagant, made of fur, cloth of gold of brocade.

Battle Formations:

Thangail – shield wall formation.

Dírnaith – wedge formation.

Tûrtan – turtle formation with shields all around and held high.

Other terms:

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Line of Cardolan Rulers:

Thorondur the Magnificent – 861-936;

Turambar – 936-1001;

Ciryon – 1001-1079;

Tarandil – 1079-1153;

Calimendil the Minstrel – 1153-1235, slain by Gundabad orcs;

Civil War – 1235-1248;

Tarcil the Mariner – 1248-1287, elected King;

Tarastor – 1287-1332;

Minalcar – 1332-1381;

Ostoher – 1381-1409, slain in the 1409 War;

Nimhir (Regent) – 1409-

Line of Rhudauran Rulers:

Aldarion – 861-951;

Orodreth – 951-988;

Eldathorn – 988-1031, slain in battle against Arthedain and Cardolan;

Eldarion – 1031-1107;

Forodacil – 1107-1176;

Rhugga the Usurper – 1176-1231, slain in battle against Cardolan and Elewen;

Various claimants – 1231-1235;

Elewen – 1235-1307;

Aldor the Addled – 1307-1347;

Elegost – 1347-1355, assassinated;

Various claimants – 1355-

Chapter End Notes

I couldn't resist throwing a Karen story in there.  

Leave a Comment

58) The Houses of Healing - Narbeleth (October) 2^nd, 1410

Kaile

It was a panicked wagon ride from the Bar Aran to the Houses of Healing.  The horror of the vampire, Thuringwethil, still haunted them in some fashion.  She clenched her fists, feeling foolish that she believed the terror was behind them.  This absolutely explained Nirnadel’s odd, aggressive and cruel behavior in the Council.  The idea that she would have a man flogged and cut off his hand because he did something stupid for his sick daughter was beyond reason.  Nirnadel had always been a beacon of courage, intelligence and compassion to her.

At least she was able to snap the Princess out of it for a time.  As the wagon bounced along the ancient Menetar Road past other wagons and pedestrians she racked her brains for a cause and solution.  It was definitely the apple that the vampire fed her, lying dormant for the right moment to cause chaos.  But what was it, exactly?  Was it actually Thuringwethil possessing Nirnadel’s body or was it just some spiritual residue that was influencing her?

And how would they cure it?  It felt similar to the recent curse that had nearly consumed the Houses and threatened people that she held dear.  But Nirnadel wasn’t being turned into a wight, she was being used. A list of herbs flowed through Kaile’s mind, trying to see what would be the best treatment.  Here she was, the daughter of a weaver who played in the streets of the Common Quarter of the city, who was teased mercilessly for her weight as a child, now holding the fate of Cardolan in her hands.  It was overwhelming.

Whatever she had to do to save her friend, she was going to do.  While holding the struggling Princess down in the wagon, her mind wandered back to helping her mother birth the children of noble and commoner alike and her father bringing home luxurious textiles to show his family before they would be sold to the Royal House.  Then, there was the day that her mother, Galrien, had her run to the Houses of Healing to bring Firiel for a woman who was fading fast because of a miscarriage. She and the Healer rushed back to the Midwife’s residence and saved the woman, restoring her to health.  Kaile felt enormous satisfaction at having helped. The Midwife, Almiel Vanatari, had worked for and trained under Firiel and it was suggested that the young lady be employed at the Houses where she learned as much as she could, rising to the level of chief nurse through skill, study and dedication.

Kaile thought about the war and Nel bringing critical supplies and money to the Houses, believing that the young woman was some crusading daughter of a nobleman until it was revealed that she was the future ruler of the kingdom.  Few things would rival the overwhelming sense of stunned surprise that she felt.  And then, to become a Lady of the Royal Court, granted an entry into the world of the nobility and finery.  She and her parents could not have been prouder, and she never neglected to send food and silver to them.  And they never failed to mention their noble daughter at social gatherings, calling her Lady Kaile.

The things that she had seen and experienced would never be believed by the few childhood friends that she had growing up.  How could they possibly understand the battle in the snow of Annúminas against a dog man sorcerer, trolls and orcs or the siege of Castle Amrodan or the terror of Thuringwethil, a demon of the Elder Days? She could barely believe it herself.

And Nirnadel had been kind and accepting, giving her everything that she could possibly dream of.  She was given free rein to help at the Houses, her fiancé, Jonu was brought into the Bar Aran and treated like an equal and her wedding would be held in the capital of Arthedain, alongside the Royal Wedding, admired and honored by the high and low alike.  At no time did the Princess or the Royal House make her feel like a commoner, an inferior.  She had to save her friend.  There was no other option.

The wagon pulled up to the Houses and Valandil flung open the door, calling for Firiel, who rushed out.  They whisked Nirnadel to a private stateroom where Kaile explained the malady.

“I don’t have much to go on,” Firiel said, “but I think we need to bring Silmarien here with her…concoction.  That seemed to do the trick with the Blood-Wights.  Valandil, you Jonu and Pelemeth go.  Kaile, Neldis and I will stay here.  It doesn’t seem as if she is being harmed in any physical way, so that’s a blessing.  As long as we keep her safe, we have time.  She seems almost…almost drunk if I had to say,” she surmised as Valandil led the others right back out the door.

Kaile immediately knew what to do and opened Firiel’s pack to pull out some paper strips, handing them to the Healer.  She still had the healer’s touch.  Firiel ran one along Nirnadel’s tongue and the strip glowed green.  “Yeah…she’s drunk.  Uh, Kaile, she didn’t consume any alcohol, did she?”

The lady shook her head.  “Absolutely not.  Galadel, Anariel and I were with her the whole morning.  She was complaining of indigestion and the taste of apples.  She coughed up an apple in the Council before we brought her here and she said that she hadn’t eaten one in a week.”

Neldis put another strip on the Princess’ forehead and then felt the skin with her hand.  “She’s running a bit of a fever,” she said, holding up the paper which was glowing orange.  “Her pupils are like pinpoints too.”

Firiel sighed with a nod.  “Whatever this is, it’s manifesting as if she is drunk…uncoordinated, lacking of inhibition, lacking of grounding in reality.  Let me try something,” she said as Neldis brought a cup of some concoction and poured it into Nirnadel’s mouth.  “This should address the symptoms and act as a sedative.” As the Princess nodded off, they all relaxed a little.  “Is there anything else going on in her life that would impact this?” Firiel asked Kaile.

The lady nodded.  “Well, first, we need to keep this whole thing secret for the good of the kingdom,” she said, feeling overwhelmed, trying poorly to sound official. “If someone like Hir Girithlin caught wind of this, he’d use it against her.  So, I’m sorry, but I have to swear you all to secrecy,” she added, feeling guilty for demanding something from the woman who showed her nothing but love and kindness.  But it had to be done.  Chancellor Nimhir would demand it.

“Easy,” Firiel answered.  “I swear my secrecy of this event.  You two were never here,” she said and Neldis did the same.

Kaile nodded.  Thank Varda that part was not hard.  It still didn’t make her feel any better though.  For the first time, she felt torn between two worlds, her love of healing and her duty as a lady of the Royal Court.  This was so much more difficult than she though.  She took a breath and put her healer hat back on, trying her best to be clinical and provide only useful information.  “If I had to say, Nirnadel has been feeling emotions that young women go through.  She’s been fertile since I’ve known her and she wants to…experience things. She’s been worried that King Araphor will not accept her as a woman because she doesn’t know what to do.  She was worried about her physical shape, but she filled out a bit since we returned from Rhudaur.  She felt like a child, anxious that the King would reject her or see her as less than a woman.”

“She shared some of that with me,” Neldis added.  “And she asked me questions about…sex.”

“I feel awful speaking about this, but I think that it could be part of what is happening,” Kaile continued.  “I told her about some…things to do with a guy and she’s had this sensual side ever since.  Then, there was this time in her bath where she…experienced her first…you know, and she was consumed with guilt.  It was like a war between what she wanted and who she felt she needed to be.  I just wonder if it’s a…a place where the demon could influence her, you know.”

Firiel pursed her lips.  “I understand,” she said with a smile.  “You two are still very young but I will tell you that I went through that too.  You two are what…Eighteen?  I’m sure you’re both going through it as well.  That’s why I’m here, to keep guiding you.”

“Wait, you were young once?” Kaile quipped with a wink.

Firiel snickered.  “Oh, you wound me, dear lady,” she said with a curtsey.  “I’m only Sixty-Four, young for a half elf.  And oh, trust me, I explored.  I dallied with a knight from the Tinarë fief…ummm before Valandil was even born,” she said with a fake cough.  “And, just so you know, I heard you and Jonu going at it on the fur rug in front of the fireplace,” she said, winking back.

Kaile turned red.  “What?  We…we tried to be quiet.  You…you heard us?”

“Uh, which time?” the Healer added.  “Well, that just meant that Valandil and I had to catch up. I couldn’t let you youngsters best me,” she said with a laugh.

Neldis seemed sad.  “I wish I knew romance…love.  For me, it was money…survival.  I find myself envious of you both, but there are few people more deserving of it than you two.  I am happy to be part of your lives.”

Kaile felt bad.  Neldis had a hard life.  She grasped her hand.  “You will find that when you are ready, I’m sure.  I will say that the Houses are a great place to meet men…good ones too.”

The nurse narrowed one eye.  “Well, I may have…umm, I don’t know.  I don’t hold out hope.  Mercatur…I like him.”

Firiel smiled.  “I had a feeling.  You spent a lot of time with him before the expedition.  I didn’t like him at first, all blustery and self-centered, but he’s grown. He’s a good man and I’m so sorry about what happened to him.  I do hope that we hear from Lord Elrond soon.”

Kaile gave the nurse a lookover.  “I know that you’ve heard this, but you are a dead ringer for Nirnadel,” she said and Neldis turned white.

“I…I don’t know if I should say this,” the nurse began. “It’s probably not even true.  When I was with Mercatur, pursuing the vampire, she tempted me…showed me a vision.  She showed me in Royal attire, ruling the kingdom, beloved by all.  She showed my mother with the King…she told me that Nirnadel and I are half-sisters.”  She shook her head.  “No, I know it was a lie.  It can’t be true.”

Firiel sighed.  “No, it’s true.  I’ve had a feeling about that for a while.  You see, I knew King Ostoher.  He could be…could be driven by urges.  I’ve served as the Royal Healer since before his coronation…twenty-eight years ago, serving King Minalcar before.  King Minalcar warned me about his son’s proclivities.  When Ostoher became King, he rarely missed an opportunity to express his interest in me.”  The two other women’s eyes opened in horror.

The Healer sat down, facing the door to wait for Valandil’s return.  “Now, don’t get me wrong, Ostoher loved Lossien, but he loved women.  He was a good King to be sure, and he was devastated when she passed in childbirth.  It is one of my greatest failures that we couldn’t save her, but she was too far gone…lost too much blood.”

Kaile remembered that.  They ran with all haste to the Bar Aran once then Lieutenant Baranor summoned them but she was beyond all care that the Houses could provide.  Maybe if they had saved her, the war wouldn’t have been so devastating.  Firiel shared how King Ostoher was so mentally weak by the war that his decisions were truly questionable.

Firiel wiped her nose.  It was not a pleasant memory.  She sighed and continued, “King Ostoher did care for the realm and was always looking after his people.  But I sometimes had to cover for his dalliances, frequently giving other mistresses herbs and providing him with potions to enhance his…virility and stamina. And the Crown Prince, Thôrdaer was cut from the same mold, always chasing the next pretty girl in his sights. They never forced anyone and were always good to me, but had I said yes, neither of them would have blinked.  Now Prince Braegil was a true gentleman.  He took after Lossien.”

Neldis’ mouth fell open and she staggered, being caught by Kaile.  “Oh my, oh my,” the nurse stuttered.  “I don’t want it to be true.  How could this be true?  Is everything about me a lie?”

Kaile held her.  “No…no, there is a better purpose to this,” she said and then gestured around the room.  “This is real.  Your life here is real.  You help people, you save people, your life matters here.”

Neldis’ eyes were watery.  “How will this change things?  What will happen to us?  I would give my life for any of you.  I don’t want things to change.”

The lady could feel her anxiety growing, and this could change many things.  She didn’t know enough about Cardolan Law to know how a bastard daughter would affect the line of succession.  What if she were a boy?  Cardolan Law favored a male heir.  And then Neldis was older by maybe half a year to a year.  Could she assert a claim for the throne?  This was heavy.  “Well, Neldis, if you choose to say nothing, I will not speak of this,” she said. “Then, nothing changes other than our knowledge of it.  But if you wish to let this be known, I honestly don’t know.  I suspect that it may place you in the line of succession to be Queen as there are no other known children of King Ostoher.”

Neldis shook her head emphatically.  “No, no, I don’t want to be a queen.  I don’t.  The Hiri wouldn’t accept an Arthedanian Queen after Calimendil was killed.  Who would accept a whore as a queen?  No one.  We would end up with another civil war and I won’t have that.  Please, we will not tell anyone, please.”

Firiel came and embraced them both.  “Neldis, you are not a whore.  You are a healer in the Houses.  You and Pelemeth will one day replace me or do whatever you wish to do, and you will be great at it.”  The nurse shook in their arms, sniffling.

The door opened and Valandil came in with the others, followed by Silmarien.  “We brought her and she has a dose of Silima.  We’re ready…but where is the Princess?” he asked, pointing to the empty bed.

Kaile jumped back to see that Nirnadel was not where they thought she’d be.  In a panic, she searched high and low and saw that the window was still closed and there was no way that she got out the door past them.  “Oh no!  Where is she? What happened?” she cried out, consumed by guilt.

Everyone began turning over the bed, opening closets and checking out the window.  “There are footprints in the dirt outside,” Neldis called out.  “They lead north.”  She looked back, a light in her eyes.  “Call it a feeling, but I think I may know where she’s headed.”  She rushed to the front entrance.  “Follow me and hurry.  We’ll need a couple of things.”

Galadel was at the door holding three of Nirnadel’s cats in a basket.  “Kaile! I had a feeling you’d need me…and them considering what you told me.”

Kaile pointed to the wagon.  “Get in!”  They hopped onto the back and Firiel snapped the reins, dashing up the Menetar towards the Merchant Quarter, directed by Neldis.  She pointed to Artan’s House and Baths of Delight, the famous brothel in Tharbad that catered to the high and low alike.

Kaile’s eyes went wide.  “Here?  Why do you think that she’s here?” she asked as they leapt out.  There was a panicked edge to her voice.  “Oh, no good could come from a place like this.”

Neldis shrugged.  “It was purely a hunch from my encounter with Thuringwethil.  She kept showing me visions of Her Highness and I trading places.”

“I just hope that nothing crazy has happened so far,” Kaile added as the ladies rushed into the reception area where they were greeted by the scents of perfume and spice along with the faint sounds of running water, singing and women giggling.  Her stomach churned, imagining all sorts of things happening to Nirnadel.

A bouncer at the desk held his hand out.  “Good afternoon, ladies.  How can we help you?” he asked politely but with a hard edge of warning not to make trouble.

A very attractive woman with auburn hair poked her head up from the desk.  “Yes, welcome to Artan’s House and Baths of Delight, I’m Ancalimë the pro- Neldis?  Wait…how are you…you’re back there?  And wait…two of you?” she asked, pointing to Galadel.

“It’s a long story, Ancalimë, but I’m not returning to work here and there’s been a mix up.  I just have to get my sister.”

Ancalimë was the owner and proprietress, having taken over for her mother, Artan, who retired to the countryside as a wealthy woman. She wore a gossamer black lace outfit that left little to the imagination with perfect makeup, ruby lips and dark, smoky eyes, the image of a seductress.  “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that.  You were one of my stars, Neldis.  I am sorry for some of the earlier clients.  I have added more security now…if you ever want to come back. And we screen more carefully, trust me. I intend to rival the Silken Veils one day.  But yes, let’s get your sister.  But perhaps she might need to be employed here.  We pay well as you know.”  She checked her logbook.  “She’ll be back in Room Eleven.”

They rushed down the hallway behind Neldis and flung open the door.

Artan’s House and Baths of Delight

Nirnadel

Her brain was working overtime.  How on Middle Earth did she get here like this?  Did she black out?  Wait, Kaile mentioned something about Thuringwethil and how she ate the apple.  Was that it? But wasn’t the vampire destroyed for good?  Still, whatever it was, it didn’t help her now.  “Oh…oh, kind sir, praythee, who are you?”  She couldn’t help but look down below his stomach and she inhaled deeply.

He looked hurt.  “Oh Neldis…you don’t remember me?  I’m hurt.  I’m your boyfriend, you said so.”  He paused for a moment and then smiled.  “Oh wait…your accent, how strange and delightful.  You’re doing a role play.  Oh, I love it.  I, the lowly merchant, seduces the lovely noblewoman.  You minx, I love it!  Well, Lady Neldis, I am humble merchant Aladil, the apothecary.  I fell on hard times before the war and had to close. But I just reopened Herbs of Quality,” he said with a far off look.  “And I am here to celebrate.  I know, I know, I drowned my sorrows in your arms, but today, we rejoice.”

Nirnadel made a smile that was almost more a grimace. How would she delay him?  How long could she put him off?  Would it be terrible if she just gave in?  “That is so wonderful, good Aladil.  We are pleased as a peach.”  She glided away from his touch, still covering herself as best as she could.

Aladil gasped in delight.  “Oh my, you’re playing a princess today!  Oh my, I am so excited.  I get to lie with royalty today.  You’ve made my whole week, pretending to be the wonderful Princess Nirnadel.  I’ve never even seen her but I’m sure you play her so well.”  He moved to hold her again and she spun away with a giggle.

“Now, good Aladil, We thought that Dirhavel the Alchemist was the only apothecary in the city,” she said, remembering her run to the man for herbs.  Keep him talking.  

“Well, he was…while we were closed down.  But the economy is on the rise, and I was able to reopen. We offer better prices and I hope to secure a contract with the Houses of Healing.  Now, didn’t you go there?  Why did you come back?  Oh, to be with me.  I get it now.”  He caught her and ran his hand down her side to her hips and she gasped.

“Yes, yes, We returned for you, good Aladil.  You know, We could help you secure that contract. We are good friends with Lady Firiel.” That was it.  Keep talking.  She had to admit that her body was feeling warm though.

His eyes opened wide.  “Really, you’d do that for me, Neld…I mean, Your Highness,” he said with a conspiratorial smile.  “That is so kind.”

Nirnadel almost laughed out loud.  Here she was, pretending to be Neldis, pretending to be her.  But she smiled as she looked around, seeing a bed with silk crimson sheets and a brass tub of steaming water.  “We would absolutely do that for you, dear merchant. You can count on our influence.  We are so glad that you are prospering under our reign,” she said, trying to play it up and it was actually a good thing for the Houses.  Still, she searched for a possible way out and kept calm, letting her brain figure a way out.  But even if she were able to get out with her honor intact, she had no idea where in the city Artan’s even was.  She would just be wandering the streets with nothing on.  She touched his face and then spun away again with a giggle.  An idea came to her.  “Uhh, shall I dance for you, good Aladil.  It would be my royal duty to entertain you.”

“That would be magnificent!” he gushed as he sat down on a plush cherry red seat.  He was still quite excited and Nirnadel couldn’t take her eyes off of it.  “What will you dance for me?” he asked, full of curiosity.

She racked her brain for something that would be tame but entertaining.  She remembered the dance that she had learned from Haedorial, the Lay of Leithian.  Maybe she could put Aladil to sleep.  She had never done that before but if Lúthien did it how hard could it be?  Reluctantly, she removed her hands from covering her body and raised them to begin as the man gasped again, watching her intently.  Oddly, the few items of clothing that she had on made her feel…she didn’t have the words for it.

“My Princess, you are a vision of loveliness that I have never seen,” he said as she slowly spun, motioning as if passing monsters to enter Angband.

"Oh stars, your light I send,
Oh dark heart, I will weave your rest,
Remain shadow, your breath shall fade,
The star shines in the land at night," she sang as she moved her hands slowly, pretending to enchant the Dark Lord himself.  Aladil was transfixed.

“This is the tale of Lúthien, is it not?” he asked.  “And so, I shall be Beren for you tonight,” he said as he rose and embraced her, holding her tightly.

She could feel him against her and she gulped.  “Oh, good sir, We had not yet finished.  Would…would you like us to continue?” she asked, her voice trembling.  As a Dúnadan with a fair amount of the blood of Elendil, she was as tall as he was.

“Please, please, just let me hold you.  It’s been so long.  I thought I’d lost you forever.  No one else is as good to me,” he said with sniffle.

“We could just talk if you like?” she asked hopefully.

“Mmmm yes, but let me hold you.  I was so worried about the future, but you made me feel safe.  I dreamed of having you in my arms again.”

Nirnadel began to tremble.  “Well…ummm, dream no more.  Hold me as long as you want,” she said, feeling him against her.  It felt good.  It was something that she wanted.  His skin was warm and he smelled fresh.  If it stayed like this, she would be content.

“I know others didn’t treat you well.  I wanted to hurt them back.  I wish that it could just be you and me, but I understand what you do.” He nuzzled her neck, his nose and lips brushing her skin.  “Could we lie down together?”

She nodded.  This poor man was lonely and she felt for him.  She took his hand and guided him to the bed.  She had no idea what she was doing or how it would turn out but her heart guided her.  But how long could she hold out?  Her resistance was rapidly fading.  They lay down together and he stroked her hair and her cheek, tracing patterns on her skin.  Her breathing quickened and she felt tingly.  He touched her lips lightly, then let his finger brush along her neck, tugging at the velvet choker.  Nirnadel was melting and she kissed him.  What was she doing?  This couldn’t go any farther.  She had to stop now.  She reached down and held him in her hand like a pickle.  He shuddered and gasped and his hand touched her too as she pushed her hips into his fingers.  She thought her body would explode as she scrunched her face in an almost pained expression.  “Oh, I missed this,” he whispered as the door flung open.  

It was Neldis, followed by Kaile, Firiel and Galadel, holding her cats.  The two both bolted up.  “What? Who are you?” Aladil asked frantically, trying to shield Nirnadel with his hands and body.  He shook his head, looking at the ladies.  “Uh…Neldis?” he asked, his head whipping back and forth between Neldis and Nirnadel and then adding in Galadel.  “I…I’m seeing triple.  What’s…what’s going on here?”

Neldis made an awkward smile.  “Hi…uh…Aladil, yeah…ummm, that,” she said, pointing at Nirnadel, “is my sister…Nel…Nelris.  Yes. Nelris.  We have to take her home, you see.  I swear, I will make it up to you,” she said as they went to get the Princess and wrapped her up in a robe.  “I’m really sorry, Aladil.  I will make it up to you.  Come Nelris, let’s get you home.”

Nirnadel held her hand up for a moment.  There was still some business to conduct, and she didn’t want to go back on her word.  “Good Firiel, this man is an apothecary and has reopened his shop.  He wishes to make a contract with you for herbs. Would you kindly approve it?”

Firiel pulled her chin in and narrowed one eye, unsure of what was happening now.  “Ummm, sure, Your Highness.”

Aladil nodded and then looked down, putting his hands over himself.  “Why thank you!  I was actually hoping we could make an agreement.  Neldis here said she would do that.”  Then, he also narrowed an eye.  “Your Highness?  Wait… No…it couldn’t be.”

Nirnadel gave an awkward smile.  She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at the interruption.  “Uhhh, yes, good Aladil.  I am actually Princess Nirnadel and this is actually Neldis of the Houses of Healing.  We just…look alike.  And my cousin, good Lady Galadel Tinarë along with good Lady Kaile of the Royal Court. We have had a bit of a…an unusual adventure today but I do have to go,” she said, kissing him again.

Firiel leaned in.  “Not a word of this to anyone and the contract will be at your shop today,” she said forcefully and he nodded.

He looked halfway between stunned and thinking that this was an elaborate prank.  “I…no, not a word.  Ummm, thank you?  This isn’t a joke, is it?”

Nirnadel shook her head as Galadel placed Queen Lossien’s necklace around her neck along with the Princess’ bejeweled hood and Aladil’s eyes got even bigger.  “Oh my, you…you…you weren’t joking.  How did you…no nevermind.  I will always treasure this day, Your Highness and remember how you kissed me. This was strange…but thank you.”

As they whisked her from the room, she looked back. “Consider yourself invited to the Yüle Festival.  Bye!”

Ancalimë waved as they rushed past the front desk. “Come back any time if you need a job, both of you…all of you!”

Kaile gave the Princess a stern look as she put the kitten in her arms.  “How did you get here?  How did you get past us?  Thank Varda that Neldis had an idea where you were.

Neldis shrugged.  “It was purely a hunch from my encounter with Thuringwethil.”

“Well, it was a good hunch,” Kaile continued.  “And were you about to…you know…with that guy?”

Nirnadel turned red and made an awkward smile. “Ummm.  Well, let me start from when I got the sedative herb,” she said as the wagon bounced along, Firiel snapping the reins.  “Someone took me from the room…as if in a dream so I thought it wasn’t real, but I remember it vividly.  We flew high above Middle Earth.  I could see the Hithaeglir and even the great rivers looked tiny.  Then we flew barely above the crashing waves of the coast.  Yes…yes, she tempted me.  She wanted me to experience love so I would know and then I…woke up in that room.” She took several deep breaths to calm herself.  “When I could focus, Aladil was standing there ready…ready for me and I was only wearing this,” she said, gesturing to her stockings.

“But you didn’t…?” Kaile asked again.

Nirnadel shook her head.  “No…but…but I wanted to.  He is just a poor, lonely man.  Most of it was just talk.”

Neldis agreed.  “He is really a good, lonely man.  We spent many of our sessions just talking.  He was devastated when he had to close shop and so I did my best to help him through it.  He’s desperately shy and can’t meet women on his own.  He would never hurt you, Your Highness.  He was…a gentle lover.”

Nirnadel had to agree with that.  “I just danced for him, let him hold me…and it was truly odd making him think that I was you, pretending to be me,” she told Neldis.  “That has to be one for Haedorial’s book.  But we laid down and he started…touching me and I did want it.  Had you not come when you did…I don’t know.”

Kaile put some smelling salts beneath her nose. “Breathe deeply.  Silmarien is waiting for us with a dose of Silima. I’m not sure how that works but we will get you straightened out.”  She sighed. “Normally, I would say that we just need to get you…a man for a bit, but you are not a normal person.  I don’t know.  We’ll figure it out.”

They rushed back into the stateroom where Firiel barred the door.  “Someone needs to keep an eye on her at all times.  We’re not letting this happen again.  I’m sorry, Your Highness, but we lost track of you while talking.  But in all fairness, we didn’t expect you to be whisked away into some dream world by spirit.  That’s not something that happens a lot.”

Silmarien came over to the bed, holding a vial of glowing, silver liquid.  “I’ll need to rub this on your skin.  It will draw any demonic or undead residue from you,” she said as she removed the robe and Valandil spun around to face away.  “Oh!  You were…nevermind.  Let’s begin,” the mage said, easing Nirnadel to lie down.  She poured the substance into her hands and rubbed them together before applying it on her chest, arms and stomach.  The Silima felt warm and soothing like an expensive lotion from Osgiliath.  It even had a very pleasant, arousing scent.  If it weren’t so costly to produce, they could market it and make a fortune.  Call it, demon be gone.  Little Gîliel sat by her head as Galadel put the other two cats on the table.  They paced, eyeing the Princess suspiciously, Calarmë even hissing.  They would help to draw out any darkness in her from the vampire.

The mage held her staff in front of her.  “Ladies, stand with me.  I need your energy.  You too, Valandil.”  They gathered around Silmarien, putting their hands on her body and Valandil tried to look up.  Her staff began to glow, a ball of light shining brightly at the tip.  “We know you’re in there.  Come out,” she said forcefully and Nirnadel grimaced, scrunching her face, bucking her hips up.  Something was caught in her throat, and she fought to bring it up and the Silima glowed furiously on her body.  Silmarien lifted her arms and a dark shape emerged from the Princess’ form as the cats yowled.  Kaile and Neldis gasped in horror.  “Stay with me, people,” Silmarien said, groaning from the strain.  Tendrils of energy poured into her from the others, giving her the power to fight this.  She focused her essence on the dark cloud and lifted it away from Nirnadel and it growled at her.  Silmarien growled right back, baring her teeth.  “I’m sick of you!  Begone!” she yelled and thrust her staff right into the mouth of the cloud and it shrieked as the cats hissed and arched their backs.

“Far less powerful than before, huh?  Just a shadow now, only able to cause mischief!  You’ve had your fun, now fly away, creature of no substance,” the mage continued with barely veiled hate.  Everyone in the room glowed fiercely with a golden aura and the mage closed her fist, making the cloud howl in pain.

The dark form coalesced into a that of a woman with fangs and then recoiled from the cats and shrieked at her.  “I will be back!  And you all will serve me!”

“Suffer, bitch and rot in the void!” Silmarien cried and a flash burst from her staff, shredding the dark cloud into nothingness. The mage dropped to one knee, panting and sweating from the spiritual battle.  

Firiel grabbed her, steadying her form.  “Are you alright?  Is it gone?”

Nirnadel sat up and began hacking, coughing up bits of apple as Neldis held a bowl under her mouth.  The Princess then vomited, filling the bowl with what looked like rotten, half-digested apple.  “Water…please,” she said between gags.  Neldis set the bowl down and ran to fill a cup, Nirnadel rinsing her mouth out and then swallowing gulps.  “Oh, that’s disgusting.  I’m so sorry everyone.  Thank you. Thank you, Silmarien…everyone. Looks like we’re even, dear Neldis.” What she threw up was far worse than the nurse’s phlegm.

Kaile and Neldis held her.  “Oh, thank you,” they said.  “You’re alright.  This was so stressful,” Kaile added.  “She was going to have this woman thrown in the dungeon and have a man’s hand cutoff in the Council,” she told the others of the Council.  “She was this cold tyrant.  I was like, this isn’t Nirnadel.  Well, the woman was a shrew, but still,” she said, now smiling.

Valandil looked up at the ceiling and pointed to the Princess. “Umm, can someone cover her already. I’m getting tired trying not to look.”

Neldis wrapped her back up in the robe.  “Sorry,” she said, “forgot that there was a man in here.”

Nirnadel touched the nurse on the arm, and she saw flashes of memory.  The power was still within her but was it just a residual thing?  Then she saw it, her father with another woman…it was Neldis’ mother.  She gasped and then forcibly calmed herself.  She always knew deep down.  There were too many coincidences to ignore.  She wasn’t sure what to feel at first: anger, sorrow, sympathy?  As she grew up, she was learning that her father was not the perfect man that she believed him to be.  Still, he was a good King and good father to her, imperfect though he was.  She grasped Neldis’ hand.  “Thank you for coming for me, good Neldis…my sister.  Yes, I know.  And we need not speak any further of it, should you wish.”

The nurse’s mouth fell open.  “How did you…  Oh no, please don’t let this change anything between us.  I don’t want this to be known outside of us.  Please.”

Nirnadel smiled reassuringly.  “The only thing that has changed is that I have gained an older sister. You will be in my life as much or as little as you choose,” she said, not caring about any political consequences.

Neldis squeezed her hand.  “I want you to know, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t want to be in the line of succession.  I don’t want to be recognized in any way.  You will be Queen.  I will be a nurse.  That will be that.”

The Princess nodded and then snickered.  “Oh, I was just about to hand you the Sceptre of Thalion and run back to Aladil,” she said with a wink.  “No, all mirth aside, I respect that.  But know that you have a younger sister who cares about you and will always support you.”  She then became serious.  “I want you to know that I went to the Archives as we discussed.  This was yesterday so I did not have time to speak to you before the Council.  I found your mother…or who she was.”

The nurse’s eyes shot open.  “What do you mean?  Like records of her?”

“Yes.  She was the daughter of Cannor, Hir Tyrn Gorthad, the lord of that land.  She was thrown out and dispossessed before the war, though I don’t know why.  It is said that she moved to Squall’s End and passed from the fever.  The dates and locations match.  Hir Tyrn Gorthad perished in the war with his entire family. My Lady Neldis, you are a noblewoman and just as royal as I am.  You are the heir to Tyrn Gorthad.  I wanted you to know.”

Neldis staggered for a moment before collapsing to the ground, holding her hands over her mouth.  Nirnadel dove down to catch her and sat with her.  The nurse tried to speak several times before she was able to. “What?  No, no…I don’t know what to say.  Thank you.  I…I appreciate this, I do, but I’m not you, Nirnadel.  I’m afraid of nearly everything.  I don’t have your courage or your inner strength.  I’m nobody…how can I be this?”

The Princess squeezed her hands.  Her old self was returning though she could still sense thoughts and emotions better than before.  “Nonsense, good nurse.  You have shown me the courage of a knight, the strength of a lioness and good sense of a wizard.  Who would have been brave and mad enough to walk into Blogath’s Sanctuary of her own free will and fight.  You refused the demon’s temptations, stuffing them right back in her face.  My good nurse, you are who you want to be.  In my…no, in our kingdom, your good works…your heart can determine who you will be.  If you wish to be a healer, you will be a healer.  If you wish to be a minstrel, it will happen.  If you wish to be Hir Tyrn Gorthad, I will stand beside you.”

“I…I don’t know,” Neldis said, trying to avoid eye contact though she grabbed the Princess’ hands tightly.  “You…you think that?  Really?”

“I don’t just think that, I believe that.  After all, no kin of mine is a sluggard,” she said jokingly with a smile.  “Do you trust me?”

“You raised me up from the gutter.  I would die for you.”

Nirnadel waved one hand dismissively.  “There is no need for that, believe me.  You have earned my respect.  I mean it,” she said, putting her fingers beneath the nurse’s chin and raising her head.  “You be who you want to be in our kingdom.  I don’t care who you were before.  That is my vision for our future.”

Neldis looked as she would burst into tears, but she held her hand over her nose and mouth.  “I will be strong…for you.  For us. I will be strong.”

“You already are.  I know that the old guard nobles will give me more resistance than I can handle, but this is the world that I want to create in Cardolan.  It will go against a lot of the tradition of the old Kingdom of Arnor, where birth was destiny, so I need everyone’s help.  I can already hear old Ladies Feotar and Eredoriath screeching at me about Isildur this and Isildur that.”

Galadel rolled her eyes.  “Blessed Eru, their screeching hurts my ears.  I am with you, my Princess.  Forward to a new world.”  Then, she knelt and bowed her head to Neldis.  “Lady Tyrn Gorthad.”

Neldis blushed but also knelt.  “Lady Tinarë.  I am here to serve the Crown with all of my strength and courage.”  There was a fire in her eyes and her body seemed straighter, filled with energy.

Nirnadel stood.  She felt no trace of the offending apple or spirit within her though her senses still felt heightened, like sparks of electricity along her skin. But more importantly, she was starving. “Well, it’s settled then.  Lady Neldis, I will have this recorded by Haedorial, but it changes nothing.  You will serve in the Houses for as long as you wish, guided by our good friends, Firiel and Kaile.  You will be named Hir Tyrn Gorthad only if you wish it.  And I expect to see you for dance practice on the morrow.  Now, if we are all content, I think that it is time to eat supper.  I am positively famished, but absolutely no apples, please.  Not for a while,” she said to laughter.  She held the nurse’s and Lady Galadel’s hands.  “You are the only blood family that I have left.  I cherish each of you.”  She then motioned everyone in the room to join, and they all placed their hands on hers.  “And this right here, you people right here are my family, and I shall never, never forget you or this moment.”

Firiel

It had been quite a day and she was exhausted. Still, she glanced around the common room after everyone had gone to bed and then sat down with Valandil as the fire crackled in the hearth.  “We’re going to need a bit of a break,” she told him.  “I’m still worn down from the expedition,” she said as she lay back on the fur rug, feeling the heat from the flame, inhaling the musky scent of the burning logs.  It was getting cooler as Fall progressed.  Damp fogs were notorious in Tharbad in Spring and Fall.  “We should visit my mother in Imladris and check in on Mercatur.  I hope he is recovering.  You know Neldis is kind of sweet on him.  I think that they would be good for each other.  He needs a calming influence and she needs some confidence.”

“Yeah, we need to see how he’s doing.  I’ve been a bit worried since we haven’t heard anything. He’s definitely calmed down a lot since we first met on Tyrn Gorthad.  I really saw him come together at the siege.  He took being a captain seriously.  But still, you’re right.  It would do them both good,” he said, putting the palms of his hands out towards the flame. He then stood and poured them each a cup of juice, which she drained in a couple of gulps.  There wasn’t much time to eat or drink the whole day.

“It’s settled then.  I’ll make sure Pelemeth is set up and she can take over as chief nurse again. We need to stay for a bit though as she ran the Houses the whole time we were on the expedition.  It wouldn’t be fair if we just up and left her so soon. She’s quiet but effective and I’ve been impressed by her.  You don’t really see or hear her, but everything gets done.  And we need to honor Coru too.  I still feel it.  She’s the first person I’ve lost here.”

“Baranor says that there will be a large ceremony for those who sacrificed themselves.  We still feel the loss of Sergeant Cedhron.”

Firiel sighed.  “Don’t get me wrong because this year has been far better than last year, but it seems like everything has changed.  The old Cardolan is gone…forever, I think.  Sometimes it feels unsettling.  Up until the war I knew what to expect.  My life changed little, day to day.  Now, I have almost no idea what will happen.”

Valandil wrapped his arm around her waist.  “Well, you have me.  That will never change.  I like to think that we live in a realm now where your deeds determine your worth.  I went from sergeant in the King’s Army to a knight of the Tirrim Aran.  Kaile is the daughter of a weaver in the Common Quarter, now a lady of the Royal House. Neldis…a desperate, starving girl who could be the next Hir of Tyrn Gorthad.  None of this would likely have happened under King Ostoher and Queen Lossien. She was from Arthedain and a stickler for tradition and protocol.”

Firiel chuckled.  “Yeah, Nirnadel is a force to be reckoned with.  There have been so many what ifs.  What if Lossien had lived?  I believe that King Ostoher would have been of much better mental capacity. Maybe then he would have lived.  Nirnadel would have just been married off to some noble or even a king somewhere to seal an alliance.  Would that have been better?  I really don’t know but I do like where we are now.”  She snuggled her head into the crook of his neck.  “Not to change the subject, but I saw you glancing at her.”

He blushed a little bit.  “Well, guilty as charged.  She’s gorgeous, you know that.  Ummm, I mean, not more than you, of course.”

“Smart man,” she said, tapping the point of her finger on his forehead.

“Yeah, I mean and she was just lying there, wearing only that…yeah, that was so…ummm, I’m just going to shut up now.”  He blew out a long breath.

Firiel snickered, poking him again.  “Smart man.”  She started to pull off her robe.  “Well, I have a treat for you then,” she said, showing that she was wearing only stockings and a velvet choker.

Nirnadel

She lay, quivering in her bed in the Bar Aran.  It had been an insane day.  Using the senses that she had gained, she knew that the darkness of Thuringwethil had completely passed and there was no angle that the vampire had to influence them now.  But she was left with a lot of pent-up feelings.  After the encounter with Aladil, she wanted to be held…wanted to be loved.  She could still feel his warmth, smell his skin.  It was this gnawing feeling in her.  Could she wait a year to be married?  This was almost as difficult as a Council meeting.

Before leaving the Houses, she talked with the other ladies. She told them about her encounter with Aladil and how badly she wanted to experience life…the fullness of life. It felt so unfair that she had to deprive herself when others could enjoy things.  Is this what it meant to be Royal?  Always putting the needs of the realm first?  Had her father or her brothers lived, no one would care who she dallied with.  It was so confusing.  She was closing in on her Eighteenth Birthday and still felt like a child much of the time. Even as a Dúnadan, 18 was still considered an adult but she would have a very long time as a young woman.  As they left the Houses, Firiel gave her an…object that looked like a pickle.  It had the shape and color of…well, she just had to giggle.

After the ladies bathed her and dressed her in her night clothes, she stared at it for a long time, torn between curiosity and guilt. She held it for a time, thinking of her vision of Araphor and how Aladil was ready for her and she felt a tingle along her body.  She thought about what Kaile and Neldis told her about men, and she needed to try it. She was hesitant at first.  Was she even doing it right?  Then, it just felt perfect.  Again, it was intense, her breath and rhythm fierce as she pounded her head into her pillow, losing all ability to think.  Her heightened senses were like a lightning bolt through her body, the smell of her own sweat, the ripple of breeze over her skin.  She lay there, quivering, her voice squeaking like a mouse, muscles taut, unable to move at her own will.

As her body relaxed, she smiled, knowing that she was not a freak.  But was it truly satisfying?  Her skin glistened with perspiration and there were still teeth marks on the back of her hand but she wanted to be held by a real person.  This was so confusing and an old pang of guilt floated through her heart.  Did she fail Araphor?  What would he think if he found out?  Did she inherit her father’s urges?  Why would she have these feelings if they were so bad?  For as confident as she tried to portray herself it was a façade, one that she had to portray for the people.

She bit her lower lip, thinking, how much had changed in little over a year?  She had never had these thoughts…these feelings then.  Life was all for her family and then all for the realm.  And now she had a sister, someone else with her bloodline.  If she had doubts about herself, she had none about Neldis.  Come what may, she would support her, help her to grow.  The nurse would need protection though.  If it were found out that they were sisters, there was no doubt that it would used against them.

But all of that could wait.  She could still feel Firiel’s gift on her body and her breathing caught in her throat as she moved her hips against it.  Could it be done more than once at a time?  She would have to find out.

Mablung Girithlin

The Hir sat in his luxurious carriage along with Thangar, Hir Eredoriath and Annael, Hir Feotar.  He stared out the window as they passed under the Annon Harn or South Gate of the city and continued down the Thraden Harn or Great South Road.  Rain came as a steady drizzle with fog floating up from the Gwathló.  Steady hoofbeats pounded as the horses of their escort cavalry accelerated along with the carriage.  He touched the inner walls of the cabin, running his fingers along the expensive gold foil.  Amber was his gold and the amber mines in Girithlin had made his ancestors rich.  Gems were another source of great income for the family, and the carriage was adorned with sapphires, emeralds and rubies, crafted by Nomrel the Cartwright some years ago.

He was pensive after the Council.  Something strange had happened and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It took a visit to the Silken Veils to sate his lust and focus his mind.  That wife of his was useless, always moping around, mumbling and crying. He had half a mind to send her packing back to Arthedain.  Still, the arrangement was beneficial.  He had gained some land and had an inside track into trade with Fornost.  Well, as long as she didn’t interfere with his life she would be safe.  He could barely remember the last time they spoke.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the woman in the Silken Veils.  She always left him with an article of her intimate clothing.  Nidiel had become his favorite; tall, lean, a Dúnadan with dark hair, just like he preferred.  None of the lesser folk for him.  Northrons were too rustic and Dunlendings disgusted him.  He thought about the woman at Artan’s, the tall Dúnadan who looked like she might have noble blood.  He’d only had her once and it was good, very good.  She took a punch well and didn’t whine too much when he did other things.  He was disappointed when Artan told him that she had left.  Still, the Silken Veils was more his style, classy, discreet, no riff raff.  He got what he paid for.

“You boys will have to join me next time,” he declared to the other Hiri, tossing the intimate item at them as a jape.  “Especially you, Annael.  No offense, but you have a face only a mother would love,” he said, slapping the other man on the back and laughing.  Annael gave a couple of chuckles and then stopped.  He was not an attractive man with a piglike nose and rough, meaty features with a wild mop of orange hair.  “Young man like you.  I’ll bet you’re still a virgin…both of you.  I saw you courting the Princess like two puppy dogs.”  He loved keeping people off balance and making himself feel superior.

Thangar nodded, clearly embarrassed.  “I…no, I’ve never been with a woman.”

Mablung cackled, his big belly jiggling under his luxurious robes.  “It’s settled then.  Next time in the city, I’m paying.  I still owe you all from that ridiculous charge that Nimhir made.  So, I’ll make men out of you two.  Oh, Nidiel will make you weak for days.  But we’ll see if I feel like sharing her.  Myldes is another one, pure Dúnadan.  We don’t want any lesser children if…you know what I mean. We don’t want half breed babies running around.  And that one girl…from Artan’s though.  Pure Dúnadan, likely with noble blood.  She was something.  Once I put a hood over her head…mmm.  She did everything that I wanted.  Never learned her name though.  Too bad. I’d keep her in a room at Barad Girithlin.”

Annael seemed interested.  “I will take you up on that, Mablung.”

The deeper into his world that he could draw these two in, the better it would be for him in the future.  He watched the two men and his son pine for Nirnadel, so pure, so beautiful and so innocent.  He would pay a lot for a night with her.  For as smart as the man was, Mablung knew that Annael was desperately lonely and insecure about his looks.  That was the hook.  “Excellent, my good man.  With a hood and rope, they don’t care what you look like.”

Then, something else came to him.  “Say, I thought Nirnadel was acting weird today, don’t you think?” he said.  “I guess she wasn’t feeling well.  Still, after the recess, she said almost nothing.  And did you notice that Lady Galadel was absent after?  Well, let’s get some answers, shall we?”

He banged on the wall, and the carriage came to a halt where he opened the door.  A man in a wet hooded cloak got in and the carriage continued on.  “My lord, I’ve had a change of heart,” he said.  “I don’t want to do this anymore.”  He was young, probably in his late teens.

“Oh no,” Girithlin said in mock sympathy.  “You’ve found a conscience, have you?”

“Her Highness has been good to me.  I don’t want to speak about her.”

“That’s terrible, my boy.  But let me tell you that I’ve had a change of heart too.  I want what’s best for the realm and that means what’s best for her.”  He patted the man on the knee.  “I was nothing but supportive of her in the Council, you know.  You can check with the other stewards who were there.  They will tell you the same thing.  I wished she would have jailed that shrew and cut that lowlife’s hand off, but she has a soft heart.  Still, she put the fear of Eru in them.  It’s a start,” he said and then put a sack of coins in his lap.  “This will help your father in the guild.  Take it, son.  I’m not asking for much.  Just tell me the truth.”

The young man sighed and pocketed the coins.  “Fine.  Only if this helps her.  So, that wasn’t Nirnadel who returned to the Council, that was Lady Galadel, wearing her clothing.  That’s all I know, my lord.”

Mablung smiled broadly through his goatee.  “Ah, see, was that so hard, son?  See, that doesn’t hurt Her Highness in any way, and you are far better off because of it.”  He banged on the wall again and the carriage stopped.  He opened the door.  “You’ll find your way back, won’t you?  Here, have a tart for the road,” he said as the man got back out into the light rain. “No wolves this close to the city, you’ll be fine.”  The carriage continued on.

He pointed to the two other Hiri.  “Dig…find out more.  I’m happy to pay.  You see, Nirnadel needs guidance…a steady hand.  She showed promise today, but she’ll need to stiffen her spine if she’s to rule well.  Jailing shrews and cutting off hands will just be the start.  Now, if we find something useful, we will have the ability to bring that guidance to her.  As Falathar’s Queen or…better still, my Queen, she will get just that,” he said with a snicker as he popped a raspberry tart into his mouth.  It would take some…problem solving at home but innocent Nirnadel as his wife would make him the most powerful man in Cardolan.

CODEX

Weapons:

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Glaive – a polearm with a long chopping blade.

Flail – a spiked ball on a chain that attaches to a stick.  Also called a morning star.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

Nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Armor:

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Couter – plate armor over the elbow.

Cuirass – solid breastplate

Basinet – a conical helm with varying movable visors, some elegant, some grotesque.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Sallet – a squat helmet that may have a movable visor and a flange that protects the back of the neck.

Spangenhelm – A conical helm that has a fixed visor and sometimes ear protection.  Akin to a Viking or Rohirric helm.

Bevor – the throat protector that goes with the sallet.

Pikeman’s Pot – a morion helmet.

Clothing:

Bycocket hat – Robin Hood hat.

Hood – pieces of stiff fabric that fits over a noblewoman’s head from ear to ear, often with gems, jewels and other decorations.

Kirtle – a gown.

Placket – a stiff piece of fabric that fits over the kirtle over the breasts.

Foresleeves – removable sleeves that are usually extravagant, made of fur, cloth of gold of brocade.

Battle Formations:

Thangail – shield wall formation.

Dírnaith – wedge formation.

Tûrtan – turtle formation with shields all around and held high.

Other terms:

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Ernil – prince

Hir - earl

Line of Cardolan Rulers:

Thorondur the Magnificent – 861-936;

Turambar – 936-1001;

Ciryon – 1001-1079;

Tarandil – 1079-1153;

Calimendil the Minstrel – 1153-1235, slain by Gundabad orcs;

Civil War – 1235-1248;

Tarcil the Mariner – 1248-1287, elected King;

Tarastor – 1287-1332;

Minalcar – 1332-1381;

Ostoher – 1381-1409, slain in the 1409 War;

Nimhir (Regent) – 1409-

Line of Rhudauran Rulers:

Aldarion – 861-951;

Orodreth – 951-988;

Eldathorn – 988-1031, slain in battle against Arthedain and Cardolan;

Eldarion – 1031-1107;

Forodacil – 1107-1176;

Rhugga the Usurper – 1176-1231, slain in battle against Cardolan and Elewen;

Various claimants – 1231-1235;

Elewen – 1235-1307;

Aldor the Addled – 1307-1347;

Elegost – 1347-1355, assassinated;

Various claimants – 1355-

Leave a Comment