The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

The Bard's Tale

The party arrives in Bree to meet Firiel's Sindarin mother while Haedoriel sings for the inhabitants at the King's Rest Inn.

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.”