The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Chaos in the City

The City of Tharbad begins to devolve in the wake of the war.  Refugees pour into the surrounding area and disease and famine begin to set in.  

The Houses of Healing – Ivanneth (September) 6th, 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) 12th, 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.

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