The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Tombs of the Edain

The party retreats towards the Old Forest but the snow and the pursuing warg riders force them into the barrows.

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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.