The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Evil Reawakens

The Witch-King feels tremors of evil, reawakening.  Mercatur drags Jaabran out of retirement to train the mercenaries for the expedition into Rhudaur.  

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43) Carn Dûm - Lothron (May) 26^th, 1410

 

Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, also known as Tindomul, the Twilight Son, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl

At the same time as Chancellor Nimhir and Princess Nirnadel performed the closing ceremonies for the festival, doing the Royal Processional from the courtyard, a dark shape sat, brooding on his throne.  It was a structure that appeared to be a sea monster, one of the nameless things of Middle Earth, tentacles and teeth with eye stalks, glaring at any who stood before him.  The throne itself rose out of a pool of water, giving any viewer the idea that the creature was real, bursting from the sea to devour them.

The Witch-King of Angmar noticed his loyal servants kneeling before him.  How long had they been there?  To the Ring Wraith, time had little meaning.  His war on the north could take a thousand years for all he cared, but his master, the Necromancer’s will would be done.  In the forefront was his right hand, The Angûlion, a Númenórean sorcerer, who was the cousin to Akhôrahil, the Nazgûl Lord of Ny Chennacatt in Greater Harad of Middle Earth.  Behind were the Gulmathaur, three of his most proficient agents of domination: Camthalion, an Avar Moriquendi from the far east and scion of the Sauronic Religion; Ulduin, the horrific mutated man dog; and Ulgarin, the pretty Sindar of the eastern shores.

At this point, he would have taken a breath to speak when he was mortal, but air no longer had meaning for him, pleasant or odious scents meant nothing, warmth or cold were irrelevant.  He had been pondering distant sensations, attempting to interpret translucent tendrils of power.  He turned to his servants.

“Angûlion,” he said in a deep voice, that reverberated unnaturally in the room, “I have felt dark energy emanating from Rhudaur and I have at last deduced their meaning.  You recall the failed mage, Ethacali.  My trust in him was misplaced and he perished in the Yfelwood with the Blood-Wights that I had hoped to use in the war.”

The Angûlion nodded, his silver mask hiding a face so ancient that none would recognize it as human.  He had traded his soul for immortality as a man, heedless of the costs.  “I would have fed him to the wargs had he survived.  I regret that the Blood-Wights were lost to us,” he said in a croaking voice that flowed from ancient lungs through ancient lips.

“Perhaps not.  A message floating on the clouds, dim, weak, but persistent. It is the Blood-Wights…they have awakened again from death.  Four, they were, siblings, children of a Noldorin princess from the Elder Days.  Had Ethacali been successful, the four would have swept all of Rhudaur and much of Arthedain in fangs, claws and blood.  The eldest, Blogath, would give me pause.  It is she, who calls me, wishing to be freed.  They are crushed and bound in the vale of Yfelwood. You are here to help me send a message. Once that is complete, you will need to journey there to excavate her and the siblings.  In her ghostly voice she sends me images…visions.  She desires to raise her mother, the Beloved of Sauron…Thuringwethil.  Together, with the demon of Morgoth and the Blood-Wights, we will turn the north into a waste, the night sky into a void of terror.”

“Tell us what we must do, lord.”

The Witch-King raised a spectral finger, ghostly white but shimmering into fleshly hues and then dark like a void. “But first, Ulgarin, what of your visit to Cardolan?”

The elf raised her face, covered in a gauzy veil, distorting her fair features.  “My lord, I approached them in disguise as a Dúnadan and they are…amenable to a conversation.  I convinced them to…play nice, as they say.  And our agent in the Royal Court says that Cardolan is preparing an expedition to Rhudaur.  One of the men who defeated Ethacali is aware that the Blood-Wights stir.  But my agent has gone to ground in fear of the Chancellor’s search for a spy.”

“Hmmm…good.  You have done well.  We can remain patient.  Our agent will resurface when they desire more from us.  Come, let us send our message to Blogath of our support.  This time, I will send more reliable people.” He beckoned to them with a pull of his finger.  He stood from the throne and removed the hood of his aged, shabby gray robe.  The empty space where his head should be glimmered, a pale, weathered face appeared, cheeks sunken, lips like they had sucked on lemons for a thousand years.  He then shifted for a moment, appearing as a young Númenórean prince, handsome with coal black hair, a scowl written across his mouth.  The form then faded, leaving an empty robe that wavered, vanished, and then reappeared across the pool in front of his servants.

He raised his spectral arms up, hands open, beckoning as the four knelt before him, chanting in the Black Speech. All five figures glowed brightly, a swirling vortex of power forming around them.  Er-Mûrazôr closed his fists and unleashed an inhuman shriek that shook the halls.  Orcs and trolls quailed in fear and fell upon their faces throughout the fortress and men held their ears, crying in terror.  The vortex shot upwards through the roof and then exploded outwards in a burst of energy, tendrils wafting into the night sky.

Deep within the Yfelwood, where gnarled trees twisted and writhed under the agony of evil reborn, the crushed bodies of Blogath and Balisimur stirred under tons of rock, red eyes opening, fangs bared.  A message had reached them.  The vampire could move her head now and saw the smashed skeletons of the mage, Ethacali and his orc shamans.  She snarled, struggling against a massive stone that had crushed her body nearly to pulp. Managing to turn her head, she looked at her brother.  “We awaken. The Lord of Angmar has heard my plea, weakened though it was.  He comes for us, Balisimur.  We will be reborn again along with our mother and we will sit at the side of the Lord of Gifts once more.  Thuringwethil will haunt the night again as she did in lost Beleriand.”

The Drill Fields of Tharbad – Norúi (June) 16^th, 1410

Mercatur

Summer had arrived.  The mercenary stood on a grassy mound, overlooking the drill field with one of the cohorts of men that he had hired, tilting his head up and closing his eyes in the rays of the sun.  The warmth was a nice change to the damp, rainy, foggy spring of Tharbad. The sound of wooden swords and spears clashing in practice brought him back.  One hundred men stood, facing one another, sparring and drilling.

A familiar voice shouted orders in slightly accented Westron.  “You there! Shield higher!  Do you want your face smashed in?  It’s ugly enough as it is!  And you!  It’s a spear meant for killing, not for tickling!” the Haradan mercenary, Jaabran yelled.  His hair was wrapped tightly in a long, white cloth and his black beard was slicked to a point like a spear.  “Mercatur, you dog, what have you given me to work with?  The Princess and her maids would make short work of them.  You pull me out of retirement for this?”

Mercatur rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “Aww, stow it, Jaabran!  We have four more cohorts to train today.  I’m not in the mood.”  A few showed promise, but the majority of the cohort could barely hold a spear correctly, mostly just farm boys, shepherds and fishermen who needed money for their families.  “We have just under six weeks to get them ready!”  Thank the stars they were just going up against Dunnish tribesmen at Castle Amrodan.  Those buggers knew very little about siege warfare.  And they would have the assistance of Lord Rhudainor with Sir Oswy leading them and Oswy knew his shit.  It would be nice if Hirgrim and Cagh chose to join them too, but he wasn’t counting on it. The Cultirith Rangers normally swore fealty to Cameth Brin, but with the destruction of the Rhudauran army, they went freelance.  Cagh was a decent one, fighting for honor.  He had already been a good ally to Cardolan in the recent war.

Jaabran was yelling at another man who couldn’t seem to look in the right direction.  “That’s the north!  That’s the south!  I’m not even from here and I’m telling you that you’re lost!  Tayee, Master of Sands, take you!  And may the fleas of a Sîrayn camel infest your privates!”

Mercatur laughed, tilting his head back. He had trimmed his beard down for the summer heat.  It would help too if he were ever infested with Sîrayn camel fleas.  He circled his arm over his head.  “Form up, cohort!  Column of march!”

The men struggled to line up, bumping into each other, some dropping weapons as Jaabran walked up the mound.  “Blessed Tayee, what have you gotten me into, Mercatur? I didn’t survive the Tirthon and those…creatures to die on the wall of some Rhudauran castle because our men don’t know left from right.  I was comfortably nestled between the breasts of my Northron woman when your stupid message arrived.”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head. It was like old times.  Their mercenary company had once numbered over twenty.  Now, it was just he and Jaabran.  “I missed your bitching, you know that, don’t you?”

“Well, someone has to bitch.  All your time in the city makes you just want to have tea with them.”  He held his hand up daintily as if holding a teacup with his pinky out.  “Oh, dear Princess, may I have another lump of sugar please?” he said in a mock falsetto.

Mercatur playfully pushed him on the head.  “As opposed to your Northron milk farm, huh?”

Jaabran’s face lit up.  “Oh, you don’t understand, not at all!” he said, holding his cupped hands out in front of his chest.  “She’s got these!  Masterful Tayee, she’s got these!  Not many have them in Greater Harad.  They’re all skinny and bony…much like your beloved Princess.  And my Northron woman has blonde hair, Mercatur, blonde hair! You don’t even see hair where I’m from. It’s all wrapped up and shit.”

“Well, I’m going to send you back home a rich man and you can drink as much milk as you want.  We just have to get these slugs in shape before mid Cerveth. We need to march before it begins to cool for the fall.”  He looked out at the ragged column, spears pointed at all angles.  “I never bothered to ask you, but who the heck is Tayee, Master of Sands?”

“He is Tarkarun-i-Másra, the Master of Sands, the giver of the Tarat, our holy writings.  You infidels call him Manwë.  We also call him Tayee, which is also the name of the faith.”  He put his hand out, index finger up, making a serious face.  “There was Tarkarun, Lord and Master of all.  It was he who brought order out of the void and created all that exists.” Then he relaxed and laughed.  “You know, I was studying to become a priest. The training is long and arduous, and you cannot indulge in base desires until you are anointed after seven years. Then, you can marry and screw like bunnies.  I just couldn’t wait,” he said, swishing his hand in front of his face dismissively.  “And now we’re stuck together…again.”

Mercatur gazed down on the field, the cohort beginning to sweat as they tried to stand in formation.  “Eh, I think they’ve had enough standing,” he said gruffly.  He yelled down to them, “Line of battle!  Line of battle!  Now!”

The men staggered about, moving from a column meant for marching to a line of spears meant for fighting.  Jaabran threw his hands up in the air.  “I swear, I’m going to stick a Juthjuth on the dick of the next man who screws up,” he told his friend in an exasperated tone.

“A Juthjuth?”

“Ehh, what do you infidels call it in your heathen tongue?  Oh yes, a scorpion!” He marched back down the mound, waving his arms.  “The next man who screws this up will have a scorpion stuck on his dick!  Now, back into column of march.  Do it right this time!”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head. If anyone could whip this group of country boys into shape it was Jaabran.  The Haradan made a pinching motion at the groins of a couple of men, and they scrambled into formation, spears held straight up.  He had lost count of the number of campaigns and waenhoshes that they had survived together.  They alone had beat the odds.  He lowered his head for a moment in memory of Gamrid.  He was almost startled by the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the Gondorian barracks where the Consular Guard were quartered.  They were the protectors and the mailed fist of the Legate, Ciramir, should they be needed.  He turned to see Neldis walking towards him, a sack over her shoulder. She really was similar in appearance to Nirnadel, black hair and a slender body, a pure Dúnadan.  He gave her a curious look.

“I thought you and your friend might be hungry,” she said, offering the sack.  Her light nurse’s uniform fluttered in the breeze under a white apron. “I haven’t seen you in a while.  I thought I’d check up on a former patient.”

He looked inside to see several apples and two sandwiches made from sliced turkey and bread.  “Thank you.  I’m…I’m fine,” he said and then pointed to the cohort on the field.  “We’re trying to whip this lot into shape before we depart for Rhudaur.  It’s going to come up quickly.”  He preferred not to speak about being a patient at the Houses.  He felt embarrassed any time that he spoke to Nirnadel. And the dance…was there something there? Was he just imagining it?  

Neldis scrunched up her face. “They look…disorganized, if you don’t mind my saying.” 

“Eh, you have a good eye.  They’re shit right now, but it’s only been a few days since they hired on.  Jaabran’ll whip them into shape.”  He turned to look her over.  “And how are you?  You were in a bad way with the curse though you seemed to dance pretty well at the festival.”

The nurse chuckled, holding her hand over her mouth.  “That was fun, actually.  And, thank you for asking.  I am well…physically.  Mind if I watch.  We’re on break at the Houses and it’s been quiet.”

“Oh, not at all.  You learning anything good?”

She nodded.  “I’ve learned to mix potions already and apply bandages and poultices.  It’s hard to imagine now how sick we were.  I had to clean up after a man who had a bad breathing illness.  Yeah…I don’t know how Her Highness wiped up my mess. That was nasty.”

He took a bite of his sandwich and then made a face.  “Hey, a guy’s trying to eat over here,” he complained with a laugh.

Her face registered horror.  “Oh, I am so sorry.  I didn’t mean to spoil your appetite.”

He waved her off.  “I was only kidding.  I’ve seen much worse and still ate.”  They both sat on the grass of the mound.  He handed her an apple, and she took a bite.

“Is it true what those Blood-Wights are?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.  “I still shudder when I think of the eldest one, Blogath. She can come to you in visions or in your dreams and deceive you or drive you mad.  You’ve seen Alquanessë…Blogath is her older sister, more powerful and more sinister.  With a wave of her finger, she took control of my body…all of us, just puppets.”

Neldis looked concerned, her eyes narrowed.  “And you’re going to face her?”

Mercatur blew out a long breath. “I have to.  If she and her brother get loose, they will lay waste to Rhudaur.  We’ll have a lot of allies though.”  He took another bite, not wanting to think too hard about Blogath at the moment.  “I’m glad you decided to take the job at the Houses. I think it was the right choice.”

“The pay was good at Artan’s, but some of the clients…what they had me do…”  A dark look came over her face for a moment, but then she smiled.  “Yes, it was the right choice.  I make people healthy and give them hope, like Her Highness gave me hope.  I would…I would follow her to the ends of Middle Earth.  And I’ve learned so much from Lady Firiel and Lady Elanoriel.”  She pointed down at the field.  “Oh, it looks like they’ve finally stood in a straight line.”

He snorted out a chuckle.  “You’re right.  They finally have.”  He gave a sign to Jaabran to dismiss them.  The next cohort would be out in half an hour.

“That wasn’t piss poor horrible this time!” Jaabran yelled.  “But even the ladies of the court still look meaner, more formidable and more battle ready than you lot!  Dismissed!” The men jogged off of the field, faces a little more determined, shoulders a little prouder than yesterday. The Haradan strode back up the mound and then bowed deeply to Neldis.  “Your Royal Highness, I am honored to have you observe our training.”

Neldis and Mercatur looked at each other and then burst out laughing.  Mercatur smirked.  “You got the wrong lady.”

Jaabran narrowed his eyes.  “Eh, what?”

The woman stood and made a curtsey, better than before but not nearly ready for the Royal Court.  “I’m Neldis, a nurse at the Houses and a former prostitute…at your service, good Jaabran,” she said in an attempt to imitate the Princess.

Mercatur snickered.  “Hey, that’s not bad.  The voice is almost the same.”

The Haradan laughed, a deep belly laugh. “Oh, you had me!  Good one, Your Highness!  You have a great sense of humor for a royal!”

She shook her head.  “Uh, no, I’m serious.  My name is Neldis.  I ran away from my adoptive parents in Feotar and came to Tharbad.  I wanted to be a bard and actress with the troop here but…life took a different turn.”

His face went blank, eyes wide and mouth open.  “Oh, you are serious.  I…wow. Shit, what are you, sisters?”

She shook her head.  “Not even remotely.  I had seen a bard, Moradan Songmaster, in my town and he has a traveling troop…singers, dancers, jugglers, firebreathers.  They were so exciting.  That’s what I wanted.  When I arrived in Tharbad, I had little money.  Like my friend, Îuldis, I soon had nothing and I begged, I became addicted to Kirtir and Tartiella, I squatted in flop houses…I sold myself.  Artan’s was a step up.  It was clean and the bouncers prevented the worst abuses.”

Jaabran nodded sadly.  “I see.  Well, Neldis the nurse and future minstrel, it is so good to meet you.”  He then put his palm out, index finger raised, his face serious.  “And the Master created the sun and moon to rule in his stead.  Thus the faithful would not be left to fend for themselves in the dark of the eternal night.  This is a reading from the Tarat Baluzayn, the word of Tarkarun-i-Másra, Tayee, Master of Sands.”

She looked impressed even though she had no idea what he was talking about.  Mercatur smirked and rolled his eyes.  “I liked you better when you were a non-religious heathen.  He’s talking about Manwë in his Haradan mumbo jumbo,” he told Neldis.

Jaabran took on a mock look of offense. “Mumbo jumbo?  Hah, don’t come crying to me when Tayee sticks a Juthjuth…I mean scorpion on your dick!”

The three laughed and drank the ale that was in the sack, watching the clouds go by on this fine summer day.

The Yfelwood – Cerveth (July) 16^th, 1410

Blogath

Her slumber was fitful, a psychic scream for years, her body crushed beneath tons of rubble and debris.  As her mind became more aware, she could sense, she could feel with her powers, weak though they were.  Flashes and snippets of memories came flooding back into her undead spirit.  The Tower of Barad Eithel, her mother, her family.  A feeling of warmth that quickly passed, replaced by terror.  The vampire, Thuringwethil, ripping her from her horse and carrying her to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, there to be forever changed into a demon. Then, feeding, blood, sacrifice, but then freedom.  Led by her sister…what was her name?  Skrykalian…that was it.  They came to this place in Eriador.  Yes, there was a cavern and they cleaned it…made it their own.

Then, she was approached by the Lord of Gifts, a Maia named Annatar.  He cared for her…loved her, but his eye was always upon Skrykalian.  The bitch had to pay.  They gave Skrykalian to mannish chiefs as tribute to entice them to join the Lord of Gifts.  Then, the sister and the brother…Naranantur…rebelled, dared to defy Blogath and Sauron and the siblings all perished, sealed in this tomb.

Until a mage, yes, the Easterling, Ethacali, woke them.  Yes, that’s what happened.  The mage set out to conquer this new land, a land called Rhudaur.  They were defeated and scurried back to the vale, hoping to leash Blogath, use her as a tool.  With a thought she reduced them to puppets, such was her power.  It was time to feed, time to make new children for the memory of her true mother, Thuringwethil.

Then, treacherous Skrykalian rebelled again, declaring that her true name was Alquanessë, a Noldorin Elf and not a vampire.  She tore her wrist, letting her blood flow into the mage whose surging power collapsed the temple.  And so, Blogath lay, her body demolished, her power broken.

Not even conscious, the Blood-Wight released a plea for help, a weak radiance that floated upon the wind and clouds, returning to earth where it may.  She begged for freedom, offered to resurrect her vampire mother to bring might to her saviors.  Her power was so depleted that only one of supreme sense and intuition would have even heard her distant cry.  But the message was received.  Thoughts, ideas, pain and then fury reformed in her mind as she became aware.  There was also panic.  She couldn’t move and the world was black.  Her eyes had long since rotted away.

Tendrils of energy snaked through the ruins of the temple to Sauron, probing, searching for a way out.  One of her fingers wriggled, bones protruding from blackened flesh.  She winced, grimaced.  The agony was real.  As she heard her sister say while fleeing, they could not be killed by any normal means, but it would still hurt.  The pain would fuel her.  She let some of her weakened power flow into the hand and the bone settled back into dried flesh, fusing together.  The skin knit back over the bone and shimmered, pale, ghostly.  Her whole hand quivered.

“Balisimur?” she croaked through a smashed throat.

There was the sound of a gasp and then ragged breathing.  Only a grunt sounded out.  More power flowed into her face, and she felt even weaker.  Eyes reformed and she could see, lids blinking.  “I live…”  And the hunger was intense and consuming.  She needed blood.  They needed blood.  Only that could grant them the power to fully reform.

Fury and then despair filled her being, trapped as they were.  They very well could spend centuries, maybe even millennia trapped, crushed, aware of their prison, forever starving.  It would surely drive her insane.

Then, a shimmering light filled the room, and Blogath shut her eyes.  For a moment, she thought it was Mandos, come to judge them and hurl them into the void with Morgoth but the light changed, glowing red.  She could feel the evil and the presence of another undead…a wraith…a Nazgûl.  He had heard her plea.  This was a message…a response.  Help would come and they would be released.  A ritual would be performed to respawn her mother, infuse her vile spirit into a form.  The light bathed them in power, not much, but enough.  A massive slab on her body cracked and began to crumble.  She sent power into her body and air filled her lungs again.  And now her whole arm was free.  She looked to see blackened, rotting, mummified flesh over bone and she shrieked. What had happened to her beautiful form?

More power flowed, permeating her face, her shoulder, her arm.  She felt lips again.  The skin on her arm pulsated and changed to translucent white, ghostly, sickly but whole. “Balisimur?” she gasped, her voice clearer.

“My sister.  What?  Who?”

She smiled, her new lips still dried and cracking.  She felt a small surge of power that energized her rage.  “The Lord of the Nazgûl has answered.  He is coming to free us.  Together, we will raise mother.  The three of us will overthrow the Lord of Angmar and establish a new kingdom of terror and blood, and the fury of our vengeance will lay waste to the land.  I will personally find our recalcitrant sister and drag she and her mewling friends, screaming to our lair for sacrifice to the Dark Lord.”