The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Make the Realm Whole

The investigation is finished with a final fight.  But whose influence caused it?  As the dust settles, desperate rioters from the shanty town stage an insurrection.

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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."

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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.