The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Queen of Angmar

The Witch-King meets a challenger.  The army marches into Rhudaur to retake Castle Amrodan.  Some old friends join Mercatur.

 

45) Carn Dûm - Cerveth (July) 27th, 1410

 

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

 

The short summer months in Angmar were always a flurry of activity.  The growing season in this land went by quickly and crops had to be planted and harvested before the snows began to fall again in this cold and barren place. The military priests of the dark religion would whip the slaves into the fields so that they could provide sustenance to the armies.  The 1409 War devasted the ranks of Angmar’s forces, but the planting and harvesting would go on as planned.  Allowing slaves to sit around and plot would be folly and new armies of orcs would need to be bred and trained.

Streams and rivers now flowed swiftly in the Valley of Nan Angmar from the runoff of snow and glacial ice from the Misty Mountains.  Coarse grasses, mosses, lichens, ferns and heathers now dominated the northern tundra. The rivers would then turn into underground caverns that would empty into the icy Bay of Forochel.  While temperatures in Arthedain, Rhudaur and Gundalok would be downright balmy, it was still cool in Carn Dûm, being able to see your breath on a clear night.

While crops were always in shorter supply here, game was plentiful in the summer in a land filled with red deer, moose, elk and reindeer that were hunted by wolves and trolls.  Across the land, scattered packs of tribes hunted and paid tribute to the Lord of Angmar.  One could see men of nearly all races and nations here, Sagath, Asdriag, Dunlendings, Hillmen, Northmen and even Dúnedain, Khandians and Haradrim.  The tribute of slaves and the influx of mercenaries often filled the valley to the brim.  But since the war last year, the number of hunters fell by more than half.

In the great throne room of the fortress of Carn Dûm, the Witch-King of Angmar stood at the balcony, overlooking the massive fortress.  Night had just descended on the land, and the stars were beginning to twinkle.  His general and also the head of the priesthood of Angmar, the Angûlion, was overdue to report.  The Iron Sorcerer had never failed him before and his dark, immortal mind stirred with concern.  The high priests of the Angûlion stood nearby, awaiting his word, clad in black hooded robes, carrying the unholy books of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur.  The Witch-King mused that not even they knew the true nature of their god, a secret that only a few in Angmar knew.  He heard their chanting in the Black Speech as it was ritual day in worship of the Necromancer.

Normally, the Angûlion would lead the service, wearing a suit of black eog set with a silver gem that gleamed with an unearthly light.  It was a performative act that had brought many an uncivilized tribe into his fold. The Nazgûl chortled at the thought of barbaric peoples gathered to see the ceremony of friendly Angmar as acolytes burned mentally intoxicating incense.  When the chanting and music had reached a fever pitch, the Angûlion would create a wall of smoke and the Witch-King would appear as the Necromancer, praising the barbarians, promising riches and power and playing upon their greed and fear.  It was a tried-and-true method on weak-minded people, and a veritable cult had evolved around the Necromancer, their benevolent god.

The Witch-King then saw two riders speeding towards the gates of the fortress.  He sniffed upon the wind and knew that these were his servants.  But something was wrong.  He strode back to his priests.  “Enough for now,” he said in his ghostly voice and the priests bowed to him, ceasing their chanting.  A short time later, the Angûlion, Ulduin and soldiers of the elite Hoerk bodyguard and one of the Hoerk-Tereg, an Olog-Hai troll, entered the throne room.  The Angûlion and Ulduin were out of breath, rushing to stand before the Nazgûl.  “What is the reason for your delay?” he asked without emotion.

They bent the knee.  “My lord, we rescued and revived Blogath and Balisimur, but they turned against us.  It is their intention to dominate the north in the name of Morgoth,” the Angûlion said, huffing.

“And why are they not here in chains, begging for mercy?”

“My lord, Thuringwethil…she is…beyond our power.  She is a demon of Morgoth.  We need…we need to-” he began when a darkness passed overhead, blotting out the moon and stars.

The Witch-King looked up and saw no cloud.  He paused for a moment before turning back to see black, inky smoke filling the throne room. “What?” he began when the smoky form coalesced into a female form.  It shrieked, a sound that shook the halls and men held their ears, screaming.  In a blur of motion, it flew by the soldiers of the Hoerk, and they grasped their throats, blood spraying through their fingers. On instinct, he stretched his hands out and a massive flail flew to one hand and a flaming sword to the other.  The Angûlion uttered an incantation and began to glow.  As he moved to confront the woman, the priests began to chant again, channeling power to stop the attack, fueling the Nazgûl with energy.

He swung his flail, a massive metal club with vicious spikes on a chain and the woman darted under it, slashing at him with a clawed hand.  The claws raked across the pauldron of his sea drake armor, leaving slashes on its surface. The priests’ chants suddenly went silent, and he looked back to see a giant eagle and falcon ripping them to pieces. They then let loose bird-like cries and reformed into man and woman, red blood soaking their bodies.  These had to be the Blood-Wights and their mother.  He raised his sword and uttered a word of power, a shockwave that threw his enemies backwards into the walls.  With another word, blood flowed from their eyes, noses and mouths.  He would rob them of their strength.

With a snarl, Thuringwethil leapt into the air, bat-like wings sprouting from her bare body and she flew at the troll in a blur of motion.  Before the troll could react, a mouthful of razor-sharp fangs tore its throat away and she crouched on its shoulder, drinking as the beast collapsed.  Infused with new power she glimmered, her face flitting between that of a beautiful woman and a bat and she grinned as she leapt away from the corpse, dodging a strike from Ulduin’s flail.

Balisimur shot forward on eagle wings and grabbed Ulduin from behind, hurling him to the ground in a loud crash. He stepped on the dog-man’s arm and seized his weapon.  His fingers changed into claws and his mouth filled with fangs.  “Stay!” he commanded.

Blogath flew by the Angûlion, tearing his silver mask away to reveal a withered, face that was nearly bone white. He uttered another incantation, and she arched her back in pain, the sound of bones snapping.  She winced and her body contorted in inhuman positions.  She managed to raise a finger and point it at him and his robes burst into flames and he danced about, slapping them with his hands.  As a falcon, she flew at him, a blur of claws and feathers, wrapping her legs around his neck and flipped him on his head into the floor.  He writhed in pain, holding his face and the Blood-Wight straddled him, her sharp beak pointed right at his eye.  “It will be a little while…I think we should get comfortable, don’t you think?”

The Witch-King was stunned.  His greatest servants were slain or neutralized in minutes.  Still, he was the Lord of Angmar.  He began to let out a shriek, but no sound came.  Thuringwethil strode forward seductively on bare feet, the troll’s blood covering her form, black footprints left in her wake.  She appeared to only be a Dúnadan girl, barely more than a teen. She smiled and something felt as if a snake were slithering into his undead mind.  He tried to move but his limbs were frozen.  She truly was a demon of Morgoth.  “I can take you to my master,” he said, trying to project confidence. “He will be pleased to see you, who was once his beloved.”  For the first time since he put on the ring, he was afraid.

She walked by him, running a clawed finger along his breastplate, making an eerie scratching sound.  Bat wings sprouted again from her back, and she flew across the water to Angmar’s throne, the blood on her skin absorbed.  As she sat upon the seat of Angmar, she picked at her now human nails.  “I know you will, and I know that he will.”  She raised her hands, and his weapons flew to her grasp.  “Welcome now, the Queen of Angmar.”

Fennas Drúinen, the Border of Rhudaur - Cerveth (July) 29th, 1410

Valandil

It had been two days of marching and riding from Tharbad with the mercenary army.  Dust kicked up along the warm dirt road behind them as they moved. It looked to be a fairly dry summer in Cardolan, the plains and rolling hills covered in grass as birds flew overhead, hoping for leftover scraps from the men.

The five cohorts marched in precision, spears held on the shoulders, the tromp of boots filling the air.  Mercatur and Jaabran had done an excellent job in getting this troop battle ready in just under two months.  They wore chainmail hauberks or scale armor, under forest green surcoats, that glistened in the sunlight, the sigil on the fabric being a mix of the Royal Cardolan Army, House Rhudainor and House Amrodan.  Many wore steel kettle helmets or Northron Spangenhelms with a fixed metal visor that looked like a bandit’s mask, covering the upper portion of the face, with a flexible metal plate covering the ears and cheeks.  The sergeants and corporals wore additional plate armor for the elbows and knees with open faced bacinets with chainmail aventails to protect the neck.

Sir Valandil adjusted in the saddle, his spear resting on a brace near the stirrups, designed to make long rides more comfortable, holding the weapon.  He had received his new Royal Guard armor, glistening full plate with a helm known as a barbute with a ‘T’ shaped opening for vision and breathing. He was surprised that the armor weighed essentially the same and that he moved almost as easily as he did in his chainmail.  He rode with the Royal Guard in double file, Captain Baranor at the head of the column and Sergeant Cedhron holding the colors, a green and red banner with a hill and the White Tree within an eight-pointed star.  He looked back to see the wagons rolling along in the middle of the force, protected against any attack from any side.

Firiel, her mother and six of the nurses rode in one of the lead wagons, wheels creaking along behind the oxen that pulled them.  Sir Oswy’s lancers met them that morning on the march, a dozen Northron riders guarding the northern flank with others as pickets up ahead, scouting.  Princess Nirnadel rode amongst the Guard with her ladies and her four male stewards on swift palfreys along with Haedorial and Dagar along with Gildor and Alquanessë.

Mercatur and Jaabran rode up to him. “We’re making good progress,” Mercatur said as he raised the visor on his bacinet.  “We’ve done forty-eight miles in two days on these good roads. It’ll be a bit slower once we hit the Dunnish Track, but we’ve factored that in.  I think we’ll make Castle Amrodan in four, maybe five days.”  He wore a coat of riveted leather over a thick mail hauberk with plates of steel covering his elbows and knees.  Jaabran wore red and gold lamellar armor with an unusual conical helm wrapped in a cloth turban around the base with a chainmail aventail dangling down around his face and neck.  Mercatur stood up in his stirrups and scanned ahead.  “I can see Fennas Drúinen up ahead.  Oswy’s scouts should have already made contact there.”   

Valandil mused that his friend seemed more somber, more serious since the curse nearly killed him.  The man was no longer just the rough mercenary from Rhudaur, but a captain of men, responsible for so much more.  And he seemed up to the challenge.

They rode into town a short time later as the sun lowered in the western horizon.  Mayor Eston and the townspeople had turned out for a royal greeting, banners waving and the folk cheering.  The mayor waved them down.  “I have the inn reserved for you and many of the townsfolk will take you in for the night. The army can bivouac just on the field yonder.  It has good ground and good water.  I want to extend the hospitality of Fennas Drúinen to the Royal Party.  Welcome to our town!”

The horses were stabled and the wagons secured and the army began setting up tents under the supervision of Mercatur and Jaabran.  Valandil walked over to the camp with Firiel and the Princess to see how the men were doing, with Captain Baranor surveying the area.  Everything seemed to be going well, the experiences of the Rhudauran and the Haradan playing well in the setup.  Cantinas were organized for each cohort along with trenches and latrines for waste, well away from the camp.  Camp followers and families were already cooking, the aroma of thick stew flowing from pots over hearty fires as people chopped carrots, onions, potatoes and meat.

“Looking good,” the knight said to Mercatur.  “I didn’t know you could lead an army.”

The mercenary snorted.  “I can’t.  I’m just making this up as I go,” he said with a wink.

Valandil smirked.  “I had a feeling.  Still, well done.”  

Jaabran chimed in.  “Of course it’s well done, sir.  Good camps are common knowledge in Harad.  How would we survive in the desert otherwise, especially against the Mal’azaud?”

“The what?” the knight asked, furrowing his brows.  Jaabran was always lively and entertaining, but half the things that he said were just gibberish to any Cardolani.

Jaabran put his palm out, index finger raised and his face became serious.  “You people require a reading from the Kat Polozaj, one of our holy manuscripts. And so, Tayee, Master of Sands, organized the Mal’alak, the Holy Ones.  These are they that bent to his will and obeyed his word.  Those of the Mal’alak who refused to be ruled were cast into the abyss and became the Mal’azaud, demons of the night.  Ever have the Mal’azaud striven to foil the plans of the Master.  So sayeth the word of Tayee.”  He relaxed and smiled again.  “You don’t want any Mal’azaud in your tent, trust me.”

Valandil nodded in ignorant agreement. “No, I suppose not.”   

Jaabran shook his head vigorously. “Very bad for your digestion.  I know this.”

Firiel and the nurses walked around the cantina and the latrines, inspecting for cleanliness.  She held a high standard in the Houses of Healing and her success in curing people was undeniable.  She pointed to two soldiers digging a pit.  “You there!  Move the latrines back fifty paces away from the camp or you’ll smell them all night!”

Mercatur gave her a salute, fist on his chest.  “You make a fine captain,” he said with a grin.  “And Lady Kaile here, she was like a commander at the Houses.  I’d follow her into Carn Dûm any day.  She just needs to know what an axe is for,” he added and the nurse blushed red.

She rolled her eyes.  “I know, I know, chop chop chop.”

Firiel summoned her nurses over to the cantina.  “We’ll help with the food preparation.  We can’t have anyone getting sick here.”  She went over to the table and began washing the cutting board and her hands.  She then sprinkled some herbs into the pots. “Boosts the immune system,” she said as Jonu, Omah, Coru and Neldis picked up knives.  “Wash first, please,” Firiel chided and everyone rinsed their hands and tools in a large tub.  “Vicri, Sissi, make sure you change the water often in the stream.”

Kaile made a move to join them out of instinct and then stopped.  She looked back at the Princess, who smiled and then nodded.  Nirnadel began giggling.  “Oi, love, looks like fun.  Best I get me ‘ands washed and join in.”  The two began laughing and rinsed their hands as Anariel shook her head and Galadel joined in.

Valandil narrowed one eye and pointed with his thumb.  “What’s gotten into her?”

Mercatur shrugged.  “Beats me.  It’s kind of funny though.  That accent is terrible.”

Soon, the whole gang was peeling, washing, chopping and tossing things into the stew.  The head cook, a sultry part Dúnadan woman nearing middle age, began pouring stew into wooden bowls and rang a brass bell.  “Dinner’s up, lads!  Come and get it!  Orderly now, orderly or I’ll put me boot up your arses!”

Men began pouring out of the tent and grabbing bowls, lining up to be served.  The ruckus and joking sounded out over the cantina, a sign of good morale. They’d need it.  The nurses lined up behind the table, filling bowls from several pots.  Nirnadel and her ladies were right there, pitching in, handing out cloth napkins and wooden utensils.  No one seemed to recognize the Princess but all of the young men nodded in appreciation. One man commented, “They’re really well dressed for cooks.”

The cook looked over.  “Oi, love, you’re doin’ fine.  You lasses can work in me kitchen anytime.  My name’s Maelil.  Tharbad docktown, born and bred.”

Nirnadel tilted her head.  “Back atcha, Maelil.  Ima l’il more uptown, you see.”  She gave Kaile this, ‘see, I fit in,’ look.  The nurse just shook her head and kept pouring stew.

Valandil took a bowl from Neldis and nodded thanks.  Mercatur stopped to talk to her for a moment before joining him at a table.  The knight smelled the contents and nodded, taking a bite.  It had a spicy aroma and taste, with bits of beef and soft carrots, onions and potatoes. “Hey, this is pretty good.”  He looked at the mercenary captain.  “Better than that sawdust you ate in Rhudaur, huh?”

Mercatur guffawed, holding his belly. “Aww, we’ve been doing this together for too long!”  He took a bite.  “Definitely better.”

As the army took seats and began eating, Firiel came over with the nurses and the Princess and sat down.  Valandil felt the urge to stand and bow, but she had long since dispensed with protocol amongst friends.  Mayor Eston walked up with a bowl and sat down with friendly greeting.  “I have roused the militia, and we are ready to guard your flanks,” he said and then took a bite.

“We’re grateful for your hospitality, mayor,” the knight said.  “And I cannot thank you enough for what you did when the curse was raging in Tharbad.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, it was nothing.  I am just honored to do my part for Cardolan.  Your men are good.  Not experienced yet, but good.  I see discipline and motivation.  The Raggers, now that was an elite unit.  Cardolan’s wall of wood and steel.  We’ve never been broken since the days of Númenor.  You give my best to Captain Tardegil now.  He was my captain back when.”

Maelil walked by and tapped Nirnadel on the shoulder.  “Well, darlin’, ‘ow’s the stew?”

The Princess swished it around in her mouth and swallowed slowly.  “Oh, it’s…it’s warm and thick, yes,” she said, nodding.

The cook smiled.  “Very good then, I’ll get back to me cookin’.  Enjoy, everyone!”

Valandil had a sense of déjà vu. Everything felt so familiar and then he placed it.  Early summer, 1409…the evening before the first contact with the armies of Angmar. He was sitting in the camp cantina, eating a stew that tasted pretty much the same.  He recalled seeing the Royal tent with King Ostoher dining with his sons on fine tablecloths and silver platters as a chef lifted the top off of a silver serving dish.  The King inhaled the aroma of the roast game hen and the baked salmon.  The King then drank wine from fine crystal, blown by Meneldir Calimiri, the most talented glass blower in any kingdom.  He just remembered the way in which the light reflected off of the glass, refracting into many colors.  He distinctly recalled seeing Firiel at a nearby table, attending to the needs of the King and his sons.  He glanced at Nirnadel.  He respected her father, but he adored her, someone willing to sit at a cantina and eat with the troops.

Then, his mind went to the final rout, a week later after multiple battles.  The screams, the howls, the shrieks and the clash of steel all came back to him.  Finally, there was the creak of wagon wheels in the night as he drove wounded back to Tharbad, Firiel and Mercatur sitting in the back.  That was just over a year ago, but it felt like a century.

He leaned over to Firiel and Mercatur. “I’m getting this weird feeling.”

She nodded.  “I know.  Me too.”

The mercenary pursed his lips through his trimmed beard, and his eyes held a faraway look.  “Yeah…same here.  I was going to say that it’s bad luck to remember that, but we’re not going to let the same thing happen here.  Not if I can help it.”

Valandil was flooded with a bittersweet feeling.  “By the Valar, so much has changed since them.  I don’t even recognize ourselves…for the better though.”

Firiel took his hand. “Indeed.  This whole mad adventure started with the three of us.”

They picked up their wooden cups of ale and clacked them together.

The Fields Before Castle Amrodan – Urui (August) 2nd, 1410

Mercatur

Sitting atop his horse, Mercatur scanned the area around the castle.  “Shit, this feels too much like the Tirthon in reverse,” he told Jaabran and Dagar.  “We were the idiots inside last time.”

Dagar nodded.  “Indeed, good captain.  I don’t think we can be too careful here.”

“Yeah, too many things can go wrong on this side of a siege,” Mercatur said.  “We still have a lot of time before the temperatures drop so I suggest we take our time and do it right.  No mistakes.  We’re not ending up like Ethacali.”

The army was setting camp and moving to surround the castle.  The sound of hammers and saws filled the air as defensive fortifications were being raised, trenches being dug and the siege engines being assembled.  He could see Dunlending tribesmen poking their heads up over the battlements.  Not powerful foes but still dangerous.  He had one of the cohorts face in the opposite direction to prevent any relief of the castle.

Alquanessë and Finculion landed nearby and their wings folded into their bodies.  Finculion put on a robe, but she walked right up to them, unashamed.  That never got old for Mercatur.  She was tall, lithe and fit, a dream for any who would fancy her.  “We scouted above and I would say there are just over Two-Hundred warriors.  When the attack begins, will you hold us back like Ethacali did?” she asked.

He shook his head.  “We’re using every tool in our kit,” he told her. “We’re not ending up like that mage and his damned orcs.  And we’re not taking any chances.  No magic rings, no poisoned grain, none of that shit.”

Walking by his horse, she let her fingers brush along the unarmored portion of his thigh.  “Well, just tell me what you want and when you want it.” He inhaled sharply and felt a stirring. She then pulled her hand away.  “My apologies, old habit.  This is how I…got what I wanted from the mage.  This feels…all to familiar.”  She looked up at him and furrowed her brows.  “You’ve learned what I taught you.  Good.  I can sense no thoughts or feelings from you.”

Jaabran slapped him on the chest with the back of his hand.  “That’s because he doesn’t have any thoughts or feelings in that rock brain and heart of his.”

Mercatur snorted as Alquanessë smiled and winked.  As she walked away, his eyes were glued to her behind.

“I felt that,” she said without looking back, raising an obscene gesture with her hand and laughing.

Jaabran held his hands together and looked up to the sky.  “Oh, Tayee, Master of Sands, take me for I am filled with thoughts.”  He looked at Dagar and then pointed at Alquanessë as she glided away.  “How do you ever get used to that?  I have a blonde Northron woman with these,” he said, cupping his hands in front of his chest, “and yet I can only see that woman’s behind!” he exclaimed as he put his hands out at her, fingers splayed.  He shook his head as if to clear it.  “I will have to get back to Hilda soon or I will go mad here.”

Mercatur chuckled and shook his head. He tried to clear the image of the elf from his mind, but he saw Nirnadel instead, holding his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor, looking back at him over her shoulder and laughing playfully.  He bit his lip and told himself to stop with the bullshit.  He heard a snapping sound and looked to see Dagar, snapping his fingers.

“You alright, Mercatur?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah…women.”

Dagar looked over to Jaabran.  “You never quite get used to that, good Jaabran. But Mirthi is good to me.  She is everything that I need or want.”

The Haradan patted him on the shoulder. “Good man, Tayee bless you, you’re a good man.”

Lord Rhudainor truly had a satisfied look on his face.  Jaabran seemed happy.  Maybe there was something to this settling down bullshit.  He grunted.  Too many strings.  Too many headaches.

The sergeant of the picket cohort approached on foot, looking up.  “Captain! Sergeant Fendir, reporting, sir. There is a man at the perimeter, calling himself Cagh Monûnaw of the Siol Nûnaw Tribe.  He says he has an agreement to help us.”

“He does, let him through.”

“Aye, sir.”

A few minutes later, Cagh came marching up ahead of a hundred warriors.  A sly grin was across his face.  Mercatur and the others dismounted and shook hands.  “Damn, it’s been a while,” Mercatur said, slapping him on the back of his rigid leather breastplate.  “Shit, last time I saw you, you were hightailing it away from the Tirthon, tail between your legs.”

Cagh chuckled.  “I was the smart one.  Ole Lumban got chucked over the tower, didn’t he?  And you Haradan heathen, how are you?”

Jaabran guffawed, holding his belly. He gestured to Dagar.  “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve either fought for or against this infidel.  Well, I’m glad to be on your side this time.”

“Me too,” Cagh answered.  “This must be Lord Rhudainor?” he asked Dagar.  “I’m sorry about Marendil.  He was an honorable man.  No one should die like that.”

Dagar waved his hand back and forth. “No, no, Dagar is fine.  Thank you for joining us, good Cagh.”

Mercatur gripped the Dunlender’s shoulder.  “Cagh, you’re going to shit yourself, but those damn creatures are on our side now…well, the two that we fought.”

He looked stunned.  “What?  Those monsters?  You can’t be serious?  How did you do that?”

The mercenary did a couple of forward bumps with his hips and snickered lasciviously.  “Nah, I wish I could claim credit, but that goes to this man, Dagar. Shit, if it weren’t for him, we’d all be trophies on Lumban’s coat,” he said of the barbarian who collected ears and noses on his clothing, trophies of his kills.  “I was going to keep Lumban’s nose, but…nah.”

Dagar blushed with an ‘aw shucks’ look. “It was a team effort, my good Mercatur.”

“Well, I don’t miss that barbarian freak,” Cagh said.  “You know I really did not want to fight in that battle.  My father said we had to show up…to appease the Lord of Angmar.”

 

“Yeah, I kind of noticed when you came at us before the Tirthon.  You pansies fired one weak volley and then fell back.”

Cagh shrugged.  “Hey, it had to look good.  If I really wanted to, you’d have been pincushions.”

Mercatur knew he was truthful.  The skirmish had him perplexed until after the Battle of the Tirthon.  “How is your dad, by the way?  Garon always treated us well.”  If Dagar hadn’t have hired them it was likely that they would have fought for Cagh on the other side.

Cagh turned his face down.  “He passed last year.  He had a good life though.  He saw that our tribe had survived the last war, and I think he knew it was time.”

“I get that, I really do.  So, if you don’t mind doing some real work, could you pitch in with the siege line.  We need trenches dug and barricades up and if you detail some of your scouts to watch our flanks and rear.  I don’t want to get caught by surprise.”

“I’ll get it done.  You know, I was really surprised that those creatures didn’t suck your blood,” he said slyly.  “You know, I was kind of hoping.”

Mercatur laughed hard, his head tilting back.  “Eh, go on, get out of here.  Sergeant Fendir has the tools.  And she’s much better at sucking something else!”

For a moment, he was flooded with nostalgia.  One thing amongst the Dunlending tribes was that you had to play up your prowess with women.  It was like a badge of honor with them.  All talk, but you had to strut around like a rooster.  He felt as if he were a bargeman on the Gwathló again, hauling goods up and down the river, his muscles the only means of movement.  Then a mercenary for ten years, alienating his parents.  He was home and it felt…weird, different.  It would never go back to the way that it was and he knew it.  “Shit boys, we’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?”

Jaabran pulled out a flask and some wooden cups and poured drinks into them, handing them out.  “Here, have some Golden Raj.  You would say, Golden Oasis.  It is distilled from the Dragul Flower and the Curaco Berry, a delicate, but powerful taste.  I don’t have much left, so I only share with friends now.  We drink to our friendship.”

The three raised cups and then drank. Dagar started coughing with a smile on his face, but it went down smoothly for Mercatur.  It tasted like…like an oasis in the desert, cool and alluring with hints of fruit.  “Mmmm, I missed this,” Mercatur said, savoring the flavor.  “One of these days we need to roll down to Harad and have some fun, get more of this stuff.”

Jaabran nodded.  “Oh yes, the money is good here, but it’s nothing but rain and snow, snow and rain.  Give me a nice warm port like Tûl Harar or Umbar with the wind in your hair and seagull shit in your face.”                                                 

Mercatur was about to say something else when someone tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned to see a tall, blonde woman, wearing purple robes with the sigil of a bronze wyvern on her cap.  His mouth fell open.  “Silmarien?”

She nodded.  “Hello cousin.  We’ve never met officially,” she said in a melodious alto.  “I was with you on the expedition to Annúminas…as an old lady. I heard you were coming home.”

Dagar bowed.  “Lady Rhudainor?  I…I am honored.”

Mercatur sucked his teeth and shook his head.  “Damn, I knew there was something up with that old lady.  Shit.  What do you want?” he asked with a suspicious edge.

She bowed in return.  “I have a feeling that you will need some help.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to work on the character arcs for Valandil and Mercatur.  I thought this was an appropriate point to reintroduce Silmarien as Mercatur's cousin, who would be Marendil Rhudainor's sister from the Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  I'm working on the inner voice of the characters after a couple of online writing classes.

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