The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

| | |

Siege

Thuringwethil takes over the north, but does she truly control it?  Blogath's faith is shaken.  The siege of Castle Amrodan begins and Nirnadel sees her first battle.

46) Carn Dûm - Urui (August) 3rd, 1410

 

Blogath

 

Blogath’s mother, the ‘new’ Queen of Angmar, sat upon the kraken throne, musing at her servants as moonlight streamed into the chamber.  The Witch-King stood, immobile as the Angûlion and the three Gulmathaur knelt, subdued.  Thuringwethil ran her finger along her cheek, musing.  “I imagine myself back in Tol-in-Gaurhoth once more, commanding werewolves and flying messages between Angband and Sauron,” she said as if to no one in particular.  “This is a weaker age though, an age that needs to be dominated.”  She then looked at her two children.  “Few would be able to stand against us as we are demons of the true Dark Lord.”  She sniffed the air and narrowed her eyes.  “Something unusual is stirring.”  The vampire stood, sprouting black bat wings and, in a blur, flew to the balcony, landing as a woman again.  She raised her nose and smelled the night air.  Something was happening.  She turned to her children.

“The army from the human kingdom has surrounded an insignificant castle and they mean to march on our vale.  Much of my power is tied to our altar now from your ceremony.  They cannot be allowed to destroy it.  We shall return and prepare a proper greeting for them,” she said with an evil grin, her eyes blazing red.  “My other children are amongst them.  Blogath, Balisimur, are you prepared to bring them back into the fold?”

They both nodded enthusiastically. “We will be whole again, mother,” Blogath said proudly.  The world was coming together now.  The eons of waiting, of agony and disappointment would end and the family would brought back under the mother.  If only her two rebellious siblings had listened.  If only they had obeyed.  She then pointed to the Angmarim.  “What do we do with them?”

Thuringwethil put her finger to her lips as if thinking.  “I wanted them alive for a reason.  We need to put them to work.”  She raised her hand and the four stood up like puppets.  “Come here, Angûlion…and bring the others with you.”  They began walking towards her like the undead, shambling, staggering as if trying to resist.  Blogath could tell that her mother was straining to keep them under her thumb, the muscles on her face twitching.  The servants of Angmar were also powerful beings.

The vampire queen held out her hand, and they stopped in front of her.  She lowered her palm and they knelt.  “Good, you are learning, my children.  Obey me well and you may, one day, partake in my power.  You would like that, I am sure.  Just look at my Blood-Wights.  That strength can be yours.  You will be reborn with new names that I give you as my children.”

Blogath narrowed her eyes.  The family was just to be the four siblings under the care of the mother.  No one had spoken about a larger family.  She had a flash of memory.  The caress of Annatar, his care and devotion…his gifts.  Then, a flash of red hot jealousy.  The family in the steam baths of Ost-in-Edhil, his arm around Alquanessë, pulling her close.  Then, her hand around her sister’s throat, screaming at her to stay away.  Blogath never believed her mewling protests of not wanting him.  That was all a deception to cover her lust for the Lord of Gifts.  She saw the signs everywhere.  Alquanessë’s glances, the tone of her voice, all designed to steal her love away.  Her breath shuddered as she focused back on the present.

The Angûlion struggled, his withered face straining.  “We…serve…the Dark Lord.  Why…why are you…doing this?”

Thuringwethil growled, a shockwave of power coming from her mouth that seemed warp time.  “I do this,” she said in a huff, “I do this because you are weak and need to be shown true power.  I came here first because you can be taught the true way.  With your…with my armies and my priests, we can create something new…something incredible.”  She raised her hands up and the four flew off of the ground, struggling, squirming.  “Do you not understand what I am trying to create here?” she cried, her voice straining.  She was breathing hard.

Blogath saw the Nazgûl twitch.  Mother was starting to lose control.  Thuringwethil seemed oblivious, continuing her rant.  She closed her fist and the four began screaming in pain.  “And you, dog man, you will have the honor of breeding a new generation of werewolves. Your seed will become the new Draugluin, the Blue Wolf, and he will breed the new Carcharoth, the Red Maw. This pathetic keep will become my new Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”  She then pointed to the Sindarin elf, Ulgarin.  “And you will be their mother, and my werewolves will suckle on you.  Then, you will all become my true children of blood.”

The two Gulmathaur cried out in horror and agony as Thuringwethil laughed, the way that she laughed with the Noldorin siblings writhing on the floor of her prison, two ages ago.  That sparked something in Blogath.  In her mind, eons past, she was bound in chains, stripped of all belongings, crawling like a worm towards her mother.  She flopped around like a boned fish, trying to stand, but she kept falling over. “Mother!  Alquanessë!  Talk to me!  What happened to you?” she cried out in her memory.

Her mother, Irimë just continued to weep, rocking back and forth.

Her sister looked at her, no recognition in her eyes.  “There is no one here by that name,” she said in a bland monotone.

“Alquanessë!  It’s me!  It’s your sister!  What is wrong with you?”

“There is no one here by that name.”

As the memory faded, the Blood-Wight felt like she might vomit the blood in her belly and she trembled.  The Witch-King was moving his hand now, slowly and his leg twitched.  She should say something.  She should warn her mother, but she did nothing.  Balisimur looked at her and remained still.  Why did the family need to grow?  Were they not happy as they were?  She noticed her own hands trembling.

The Nazgûl’s arm was moving, fingers stretching back and forth.  Even with their mother being a Maia, the Lord of the Nine was not to be trifled with. His eyes began to blaze red as Thuringwethil continued her rant.  Blogath was torn between inaction and warning.  She had waited, maybe too long.  “Mother!”

Thuringwethil swung her other hand at her children, flinging them back onto the floor.  “Silence!  I am trying to create something for us!”  She let out a shriek that shook the halls and sent chills down Blogath’s spine.  “Do you not understand what I am doing for us, you ungrateful curs!”

How was this the mother who professed her undying love for them?  The Witch-King took a step, and she said no more.  He stretched his hands out and his weapons flew to his grasp.  He held out his palm and a shockwave burst forth, striking Thuringwethil full on and she tumbled to the ground, skidding on the floor. The four fell back down, no longer held by her power.  The vampire skittered back up in a crouch, feral, fangs bared, but she was weakened in might from her torture of the four.  The Angûlion staggered back up, raising his hands to summon magic.  Claws sprang from the hands of the dog man and Ulgarin drew a poisoned dagger from her boot.  The other member of the Gulmathaur was nowhere to be seen.

Blogath’s eyes went wide. Everything had changed in a few seconds. Balisimur flew at the Witch-King to protect his mother, shifting into an eagle in a blur of movement.  This time, the Nazgûl was ready.  The spiked flail came around, striking the Blood-Wight full in the chest, hurling him into a granite wall that cracked from the impact, scattering flakes of stone.

Blogath was seized by indecision and couldn’t move, just watching in horror as the Angmarim took the initiative. Her mother darted at the Angûlion, his magical shield slowing her enough for Ulduin to crash into the vampire and hurl her to the floor.  He fell upon Thuringwethil, claws rending and blood spattering.  The vampire howled but ripped his chest open with a single sweep of her hand.  He fell back, writhing and she scrambled at him on all fours like an insect finishing its prey.  A dagger flashed twice, and deep wounds opened up on Thuringwethil’s back as Ulgarin rolled away.  The vampire shrieked, a blood curdling sound and reached her hand out, closing her fist. At first, it looked as if the elf were being held in an invisible box, unable to move.  Then, blood flowed from her eyes, nose and ears and she screamed. Thuringwethil snarled, but she staggered and then stumbled weakly.

Blogath shook her head vigorously, clearing the doubt from her mind.  She crouched to fly at the Witch-King, but a dagger sunk deep into her back and twisted. It was Camthalion, the elf leader of the Gulmathaur, a supreme assassin.  Blood flowed down her back, much needed blood and she felt dim, weak and slow.  She turned and raked her claws across his cheek, blood spraying to the floor.  She reached to grab his neck and finish it, but he kicked her in the chest, somersaulting away as she crashed backwards to the ground.

The wound in her back was agony, her skin and muscles on fire.  It was poison.  She struggled to rise, falling back to one knee.  Camthalion held a cloth over his shredded cheek, dagger in one hand, moving to circle her.  They could not win this one and Blogath knew it.  With fading strength, she let out a shriek like a wounded falcon and the elf cried out, holding his ears.  “We must retreat, mother!  We must get back to the vale!”

With great pain, she unfurled her wings and dashed to Balisimur, helping him up.  “We must go, brother!  Come!”

They bolted into the sky followed by their mother, shrouding the moon and stars.  As a giant bat, Thuringwethil flew past them.  “How did you allow this to happen?” she screamed.  “We will return to the vale where I will teach you about loyalty.”

Blogath’s stomach roiled and her back felt as if it were on fire.  She gulped hard, tasting blood in her mouth.  What had just happened?  Dreams of a kingdom, a land of their own to worship Morgoth had evaporated and the world suddenly seemed small.  They flew back to the vale in a tense silence.

Castle Amrodan - Urui (August) 9th, 1410

Mercatur

The siege lines were set a couple of days ago and the siege engines had been assembled.  Even a mobile tower was built.  It was time to press the advantage.  A horn sounded sunrise and Mercatur rolled his feet out of his cot, groaning with a few aches and pains.  He was no longer a kid.  There was even a touch of gray in the hair at his temples and in his beard.  Jaabran was just waking up too, stretching his arms out.  The Haradan rolled out of the cot and placed a rug on the floor of the tent, kneeling down and offering prayers to Tayee as sandalwood incense burned in a brass cup.

There was a rap on the tent flap. “Come in,” Mercatur called.  

“Captain, Sergeant Fendir reporting. Some of the Dunlenders attempted to probe our defenses last night, but they were ridden down by Sir Oswy.  One rider was killed, but none of them escaped.”

“Good, thank you, sergeant,” he said, twisting a kink out of his neck as he pulled on his boots.  “Are the catapults ready?”

Fendir nodded.  “Yes, sir.  We have them all aimed at the gate like you ordered.”

He rose, walking over to the basin of water and the mirror.  “Very good. Have the cohorts muster in an hour and we will begin.  If all goes well, we can finish this in a couple of days and then be on the march to the vale.”

“We’ll get it done, sir,” the sergeant said as he departed.

Jaabran had finished his morning ritual and leaned back against his cot, a big grin on his face.  “Well, look at you, all leaderlike and shit, Captain Mercatur, sir.”

Mercatur had been around, seen too many scraps, but he had never commanded an army.  His father had been a good leader, won many battles against Angmar, but not him.  He only knew what his father tried to teach him before he went rogue.  There was a lingering doubt that he tried to suppress. So many lives were riding on him now and it was…uncomfortable.  “Pssshaaa, I’m still the same old scrapper on the barges of the Gwathló.  Hey, remember our first job together?  Bodyguards for that fat ass and his caravan?  You showed me a thing or two.  That was my first mercenary gig.”

“Ah yes, wet behind the ears,” Jaabran said, rubbing his own ears.  “I remember that.  You were pretty tough already though; I’ll give you that.  I fought my way all the way up from Harad.  When I left the priesthood, I served on a cog out of Tûl Harar, sailing up and down from Umbar, fighting off those idiot pirates.  Then, I was on a ship out of Umbar to Pelargir. Then, I heard about this heathen place called Rhudaur with trees and snow and I just had to see it, idiot that I am,” he said, using his hands to illustrate his travels.  “Hah,” he said, laughing, “I remember that fat ass.  When he fell off of the wagon and started rolling around like an orange…I never laughed that hard, Tayee forgive me.”

Mercatur chuckled as he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick and a brushed stick.  He splashed water on his face and blinked his eyes.  “I could really go for a cup of coffee about now.”

As if on cue, there was another rap on the tent flap.  “Come in. Have we identified the secret entrance with Éanfled yet?”  He turned, but it was Neldis, carrying a tray of cups filled with coffee.

“We brewed some up and I thought you boys could use a drink.”

Jaabran got back on his knees, lifting his hands as if in prayer.  “Oh, Nurse Neldis, future minstrel, you are a vision of holiness, a true lifesaver.”

She giggled as she handed both of them cups and sat down with a cup of her own.  She put her hand out, index finger up with a serious look.  “Praise Tayee, Master of Sands, for his benevolence.”

Jaabran looked stunned.  “Oh Merciful Tayee, you are a true adherent of the faith!  If I did not already have my Northron woman I would sweep you off of your feet to eternal bliss!”  They all laughed heartily.  “You would do well in my homeland.  Not many Dúnedain so you would be a tall, pale goddess, lovely to behold!”

She blushed and looked down.  “Harad sounds like an interesting adventure.”

Mercatur drained his cup in several big gulps.  “Call me an idiot, but when things settle down, I think I’d like to see what’s down there.”

Jaabran swept his hand through the air. “Ah, a land of sun and sand, wonderful beaches and smelly camels.  But do not become a priest of Tayee.  They are most wise and powerful, but you’ll have to muzzle your cock for seven years. Bad for your health, trust me.”

Mercatur nodded slowly.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Neldis laughed.  “I think that you’ll need a nurse on the trip.”

The Haradan chuckled.  “That would be most wise, tall pale goddess of loveliness. Now, I am most curious, Nurse Neldis, what were your plans of minstrelhood?  We have some time before morning muster, and I am most intrigued, most intrigued.”

Her face lit up.  “It was a dream of mine,” she said, with her hand over her heart.  “Trust me, I’m happy where I am at now, but the first time I saw Moradan Songmaster, I was enthralled.  I was a kid, but I remember the music and how excited everyone was.  I sat on my mother’s shoulders, watching jugglers and fire dancers.  And Moradan was just so…just so intense.  I started making up dances on my own and learned all of the village dances to prepare for the day.”

“So that’s how you knew the swaying dance,” Mercatur said as she poured him another cup.  “I was impressed.”

She gave him a smile and then looked down.  “My good mother passed though.  It was the fever.  No one could save her.  That’s why I cherish what I do now.  Now I can save people.  I can make a difference.”  She put her hand to her nose for a moment.  “I was taken in by…by…I don’t know why I’m saying this.  I’m sorry to waste your time.  You have more important things to do, like fight a battle.”

Mercatur put his hand on her shoulder. “No, we have time.  I’d like to hear it.”  He wasn’t sure why he did that.  It had been his policy not to give a shit about other peoples’ issues.

She looked at him.  “Really?  I…uh, thank you.  I’ve kept this in for a long time.  I…I was taken in by a blacksmith and his family.  He was a good man, but…but his son…he did things.”  She started to shake and Mercatur gripped her shoulder gently. “I was a teen by then, so I ran away, dreaming about joining Moradan’s troop.  I would be a traveling minstrel, entertaining people, making them happy,” she said, laughing with tears in her eyes.  “And then I came to Tharbad to seek him out, but I found myself begging for food or coin or any scraps and I couldn’t find him.”  She drank the rest of her coffee.  “You know, I never knew my father.  Mother would only speak of him rarely.  She told me that he was some great warrior who traveled the kingdom. I know it was all bullshit to make me happy, and she did.  Some lord in golden armor atop a white horse, tall, with black hair and a noble face,” she said with a faraway look in an exaggerated voice.  “Hah.  My father was probably some drunk at the inn who ran off.  That’s my luck.”

Mercatur furrowed his brows.  “You said, golden armor?”

“Yeah, that’s what she told me. She had a handkerchief of his, pure silk and a crystal glass that she treasured.  I dunno, maybe it was his, maybe not.”

He thought for a moment as a memory flooded back to him.  The camp before the great battle of 1409.  The King of Cardolan, toasting to the coming victory with a crystal glass of wine.  Then, the finale of the Battle of Tyrn Gorthad, King Ostoher in his golden breastplate, slicing through orcs as the troll warlord, Rogrog, closed in on him.  No, it couldn’t be.  He looked closely at her.  Straight black hair, framing a heart shaped face with gray eyes, full lips and a delicate nose, slightly upturned.  No, it couldn’t be.  She blushed under his gaze and looked down again.

The horn sounded the muster and he blinked.  “I…I’m glad you shared that with us, Neldis.  We have to attend the muster.  Please be ready.  There will be casualties today.”

She stood and straightened out her nurse’s apron.  “Yes, yes of course.  I feel better now, having told someone other than my friend, Îuldis.  I will be ready.  Firiel and Elanoriel trained me well.  I cannot thank the Princess enough for giving me this opportunity.”

The men finished strapping on their armor with her help and they strode out to the field.  He looked back at Neldis.  “Hey, I’m going to introduce you to Haedorial.  He’s big on songs and music like you saw.  He’s a friend of mine, trains the Royal Court on shit like that. He owes me some favors.”

She beamed and clapped her hands, bouncing on her feet as she waved.  “Be safe! I’ll be ready.”

Four cohorts stood ready for battle, spears held high, the fifth in the rear to guard any approaches.  Oswy and his lances sat atop their mounts as Captain Baranor rode up with the Guard, the Princess and her entourage.  Pennants of Cardolan, House Rhudainor and House Amrodan fluttered in the breeze.  He could see Firiel, her mother and the nurses gathered at the infirmary tent, the herbs and tools of their trade ready.  He didn’t anticipate too difficult of a fight, but he was ready for anything.  This was not going to be another Tyrn Gorthad or an Ethacali debacle.

He nodded his head while Jaabran took a knee.  “Morning, Highness.  We’re ready to begin the attack on your word.”

She was dressed in her mithril chain shirt and a silver barbute helm with her short sword, an eket at her belt.  An emerald green surcoat was over her armor, trimmed in scarlet.  She dismounted and scanned the field, removing her helm and shaking out her hair. “I was told of how Sir Oswy repelled the probe last night.  What is your plan of attack for the day, good Mercatur.  Have there been any changes from our last session?”

He gazed at her for a moment, straight black hair framing a heart shaped face with gray eyes, full lips and a delicate nose, slightly upturned.  Nah, he was seeing things.  She narrowed her eyes.  “Is something amiss, good captain?”

“Huh?  No, no, it’s nothing.”  The personalities were completely different, Nirnadel more confident and outgoing, her royal upbringing showing.  Neldis soft, sad and demure, but with a funny edge, her commoner upbringing showing.  Yeah, he was seeing things.  “Well, Highness, we’ll start with a bombardment of the front gate, draw them forward.  Do you know if Lady Éanfled has located the culvert yet?  We’ve been searching for days.  I’d like to try that secret entrance this evening.”

Nirnadel smiled.  “Yes, we did.  With good Captain Baranor and Sir Valandil, we found it earlier this morning. In our scouting session, we found that it does indeed go to the castle.  Rather smelly, if I do say so, but oh, so exciting.”

“Umm, Highness, remember, not too much risk,” he said, concerned.

She patted him on the rigid leather over his chainmail.  “Oh course, I am most careful, am I not, good Captain Baranor?”

He grunted and rolled his eyes.  “I wish you would listen more, Your Highness.”

“He’s right, Highness,” Mercatur said. He knew that she would always be willful, but they needed to temper it.  “Please listen to us.  We will keep you safe.  And war is not meant to be ex…never mind.  Just…please.”

She took on a serious look.  “I understand and you are correct, my dear captains.  I shall endeavor to be careful and I do apologize.  War is what took my father and brothers from me, and I shall not make light of it again.”  She did a polite curtsey.

The mercenary smiled.  “Thank you.  I would see it as a personal favor if you were to remain in the command tent or help at the infirmary during the battle.”

She nodded solemnly.  “I shall, I swear it, sir.”

Baranor patted him on the back. “Thank you.”  The look in his eyes was one of absolute relief.

Mercatur bowed to her.  “Highness, we await your word for action.”

“The word is given.  You may commence the attack and may the Valar bless us.”

He raised his hand and made a chopping motion and, one by one, the catapults threw their stones into the main gate, splintering wood and denting iron with a crash.  “Baranor, can you spare a few guards?  We go in through the culvert near dark and wait.  The main gate should be down by then and we hit them from both sides, Jaabran, Oswy and Gildor leading the main attack.  I think it should do the trick.”

“I’ll lead half the men with you. Lieutenant Valandil will come with us.”

“Good, since you’ve seen the culvert. Good.  We’ll gather at about five bells in the afternoon.”

A stone came flying back towards them but fell a hundred yards short, throwing up some dirt and grass.  Jaabran whooped.  “Those fools have shoddy catapults!  We’ll just have to watch our approach but we’re out of their range.”

There was the sound of flapping wings and the Blood-Wights landed nearby, blood coating their bodies.  Alquanessë held one live tribesman.  They walked up and she tossed the man to the ground in front of Mercatur, making a salute, fist on her chest.  “Reporting, captain!” she said in an exaggerated martial voice with a grin.  They turned and bowed to Nirnadel.  “Your Highness.  Uhh, one moment please,” she added as they extended their arms and the blood turned into droplets to be inhaled.  “Ah, much better.  I hope your breakfast was as fulfilling.”

The prisoner shook on the ground in terror, having soiled himself.  “He says that they have enough food to last months and that they were able to get a few runners out before we surrounded the castle,” the elf said.  “They are quite terrified of us as we fly around.  We should definitely make use of that.”

“Well done and thank you.” Mercatur gestured to the prisoner. “Get him cleaned up at the infirmary and put him in the stockade.  Give him some food and water.”

The man groveled.  “Thank you, thank you.  Get me away from them!” he cried, pointing at the Blood-Wights as soldiers led him away.

Mercatur tilted his head towards Alquanessë.  “Baranor and I will go in through the culvert this evening once the gate is down. Gildor and Jaabran will attack from the front.  Can you take out those catapults when the time comes and keep their heads down?”

They both nodded.  “We can do that,” she said.  “For what it’s worth, you’re a much better commander than Ethacali. He was a mage, who wanted to play at being a soldier.”

“Thanks…that actually means a lot to me. In the meantime, if anyone tries to break out, if you could deal with it?”

“We would be delighted,” she answered as someone handed them their robes.

He gestured to Haedorial.  “Hey, when this if over, if you could do me a personal favor.  Would you be willing to train Neldis?”

The bard bowed courteously.  “The nurse?  I would be honored to do so.  She showed a lot of talent that night at the celebration.”

Mercatur clapped him on the back. “I won’t forget this.  Thank you.”

Another salvo of stones struck the gate, splintering more wood.  The mercenary watched as the engineers reloaded.  “Well, all we have to do is wait now.”

Castle Amrodan - Urui (August) 9th, 1410

Nirnadel

The sun made its way down to the west, birds flocking on the edge of the forest that surrounded the castle, loud chirps as the played and danced in the sky.  The Princess brooded, wanting to be part of the action, but she realized that Mercatur and Baranor were right.  She did need to temper herself.  From a cloistered childhood of reading, study, dancing, singing, horsemanship and sword play, she was now in the field with an army.  Her time in Lond Daer was a wonderful memory for her, being free and adventurous.  She thought of her older brothers, Thôrdaer and Braegil and the amazing stories that they would tell her of cavalry raids into Angmar and Rhudaur and expeditions to ruins and lost cities.  She wanted all of that and to make her own stories now.

She had paced around the command tent with Dagar and Haedorial for hours before deciding to join Firiel and the nurses, followed by Sergeant Cedhron, Corporal Riston and six guards.  As she approached the infirmary, she waved them off before they could bow.  “No, my friends, do not waste such valuable time on me when I am here to help.”

“That is very good of you, dear Nirnadel,” Elanoriel said.  “Everything has been prepared to my satisfaction so now we wait.  That is the worst part, my dear.”

The nurses donned aprons and scrubbed their hands, nervous looks on their faces as tarps were laid down to care for the wounded.  Kaile held Jonu’s hand, nervous expressions on both.  Nirnadel put her apron on over her armor.  Galadel also had an eket strapped to her belt.  “I know how to fight too,” Lady Tinarë said, almost as if just reassuring herself.

“Good Lady Firiel,” the Princess began, “is this how it was before Tyrn Gorthad?”

“Yes, but it was much worse then,” the Healer answered.  “It was much larger, thousands of troops and a sea of orcs.  The screaming and howling of the Angmarim Army was terrifying. They were whipped into a frenzy by their masters, heedless of their own deaths.”

“That sounds terrifying,” she said. “I will trust in the people like you who have experienced it.”

“When Rogrog, the hideous Olog-Hai troll struck, Valandil and I ran.  I was screaming the whole way to the wagon.  It was he, who killed your father.”

Nirnadel put her head down.  “I…I thank you for sharing that.  When time permits, I want to know everything.”  She always believed that her father was brave and noble, but she knew deep down that he had made a fatal mistake in the campaign.  Growing up, he was perfect but now, on the cusp of adulthood, simple views of black and white were no longer a luxury for her.  The brutal truth was more important than comforting lies.  She glanced around to see the nurses and her ladies, shaking, their eyes huge.  She understood.  Fear was beginning to creep into her heart.

The main gate collapsed with a crash, stones smashing what was left of the wood and iron.  Jaabran raised his razor-sharp scimitar, it glinting in the fading sunlight. “The first cohort will prepare to advance!  Second cohort on the left flank.  Third cohort on the right!  Fourth with the tower!”  Oswy’s lancers waited, their horses stomping and ready and the Blood-Wights took flight. The fight was about to commence and all at the infirmary began to fidget.

“Mercatur and Baranor should be in the culvert now,” Nirnadel said nervously as a horn sounded and the first cohort began to move in a dense column, spears bristling, shields held overhead to protect against arrows.  The second and third moved in a line at their flanks to protect against any counterattack. The fourth cohort moved forward with a tall siege tower, prepared to scale the outer wall of the castle.

One stone was launched and crashed short of the formation.  Before they could reload, the Blood-Wights dove down and tore the men away from the catapult, flinging them into the air to crash down to their deaths.  It was horrifying to watch, and everyone was glad that they were on their side.  Arrows then rained down on the cohorts, most deflecting off of the shields, but a few, finding flesh.  There were shrill screams as men fell, others moving forward to take their place.  Still, the mercenaries advanced.  The army’s ballistae fired long, thick bolts, impaling defenders on the wall.  The Blood-Wights darted about in the sky, tearing unfortunate archers from the battlements. Shrieks and moans rose from the field and Nirnadel felt her gut churn.  She grit her teeth, determined to do her best.  “Friends…I would not be here with anyone else.”  Kaile and Galadel took her hands and squeezed.

Another horn sounded.  “Enemy attacking from a sally port!” Sir Oswy yelled. “Lancers, prepare to advance!”  A group of Dunlenders poured out of a hidden door in the outer wall and hurled javelins and rocks at the second cohort. They could hear the thunk of steel and stone on the wooden shields.  Nirnadel thought she saw a man on the battlements struck in the face by a ballista bolt, blood spraying into the air.

Oswy’s voice then sounded, loud and clear over the sounds of battle, reciting an ancient Northron poem.

“Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?”

Next came the rattle of spears as the Dunlenders charged into the line of the second cohort.  Oswy raised his lance.  “Ride now!”  The cavalry put spur to horse and the lancers moved forward in the trot and then the canter, circling around to strike the enemy in the flank.  Éanfled looked positively terrified, watching her husband ride into battle.  Lances lowered and the steeds charged into the enemy.

Sharp lance points drove into flesh under the thunder of hooves.  Horses reared and cried out as men screamed.  The sound was nearly deafening.  Then, the ring of swords being drawn or axes splitting skulls wafted over the field.

One of the lancers rode up, his mount rearing, and the Princess blinked hard, her presence of mind coming back.  “Prepare to receive wounded!” he called and then spun about and rode back to the fray.  Injured men walked, limped or were carried to the infirmary.

Elanoriel clapped her hands above her head.  “Nurses, stand ready.  Coru, Jonu, attend me!” she ordered as the two rushed to the elf’s side.

Firiel directed the wounded to the tarps. “Put them here!  Yes, lie down here, please.  We will get to you.”

Nirnadel saw bloody men stagger or even fall onto the tarps.  She gulped hard.  She was not prepared for this.  Some were missing arms or legs or an eye.  Elanoriel dove right in, the two nurses handing her tools and herbs.  Firiel touched her on the shoulder.  “I will need help, come.”  The Princess nodded silently, and they rushed to a man whose leg was sliced to the bone.  Kaile led Galadel to another tarp with men, rolling in agony or crying out.

Firiel knelt down by the man, who was screaming, holding his leg.  She pointed to the table nearby.  “Get me the saw, Nirnadel.  It has to come off,” she said urgently.  She stroked the man’s cheek.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, we have to take it.  Drink this.  It will dull the pain,” she said, pouring a vial of fluid into his mouth.  Nirnadel handed her the saw, eyes glued to the gaping wound and blood spurting.  “Nirnadel, you need to hold him down.  Grab him and put all of your weight on him.  I can’t have him moving around.”

She moved around to his head and held him from behind with all of her strength as he thrashed about.  “No, no!  Stop!” he shrieked.  “No, please stop!”  She buried her head into his back to the sound of sawing.  “No more!  Please stop!” The Princess began to sob, her tears soaking his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating to him.  He let out a feral cry as the sawing ended.  The man went limp and Firiel dressed the stump, applying a healing poultice.

The Healer nodded to her as she released him.  “I know that this wasn’t easy, but we’re not nearly done.”  Nirnadel had helped after the battle on the bridge, but that was after and Firiel kept her away from the worst parts.  This was different.  This was horrible.  The Princess wiped her face, shaking like a leaf as they went onto another after rinsing their hands.

The next man rolled around on the tarp, an arrow in his eye.  “I need you to hold him again,” Firiel said as she took a pair of surgical pliers. She gave him a dose from a vial and Nirnadel held him from behind, wrapping her arms around his chest.  There was a quick squelching sound and blood poured onto her arm.  The man shrieked and then went limp.

When would this end?

A horn sounded urgently behind them and there was the ruckus of battle.  A cry rang out, “Enemy to the rear!  They’re getting through!”  The fifth cohort was being attacked by a new threat.

Nirnadel stood and could see Dunlending warriors battling the mercenaries, some leaking through the line, howling in a mad rage.  Sergeant Cedhron drew his longsword, facing to the rear.  “Guards!  Thangail now! Defend the Princess!” he ordered, and they formed a shield wall.  She drew her own eket as her guard raised their shields in front of her.

She felt a rush of adrenaline and fear as the tribesmen raged at them.  “Defend the whole infirmary!” she commanded.  Javelins were thrown at them and the guards raised shields to the thunk of steel on wood.  Sissi cried out as a javelin pierced her leg.

Firiel rose and fired an arrow into the chest of one warrior and he fell backwards.  Swords and clubs then rained down on the shield wall and the guards thrust their swords forward in coordinated timing, one man moving his shield and the other stabbing through the opening.  Bodies quickly began to pile up in front of them.  Two warriors rushed up the corpses of their dead brethren and leapt over the shield wall, landing in front of Nirnadel and Galadel. She gasped, eyes huge and mouth open. This would be no fencing match with Baranor, this was real.

One swung at her head, and she deflected it away, the blade just scratching her helm.  She maneuvered to stand between them and Galadel, who was unarmored.  Another cut came and she struck the blade away, bringing the point of her eket forward, stabbing into his gut through his leather armor, the tip sinking in half a foot. As she was trained, she twisted the blade and the man shrieked, falling back.  Before she could pull her sword out, the second man cut her full on the side and she cried out, staggering back.  Pain rippled up her body and she saw stars.  She brought her guard back up to parry another blow and Galadel moved from behind her to stab him in the throat.

Tribesmen were turning and fleeing now as the fifth cohort plugged the gap and the guard made short work of the remaining attackers.  They were the martial elite of the realm.  Nirnadel went down to one knee, holding her side.  Galadel was shaking.  “Nirnadel!  Talk to me!” she shouted in panic.

Breathing was hard and moving brought a sharp pain.  She looked down to see that there was no blood, her mithril chainmail stopping the blow, but her whole side ached.  She huffed several times and then nodded.  “I’m fine…I’m fine.  Who was hurt? I saw Sissi go down,” she said, straining and lightheaded.

Galadel practically dragged her to a tarp.  “Nirnadel, we’re going to check you out.  I don’t care what you say.”

The Princess looked around.  Sissi was on a tarp, Firiel cutting the shaft of the javelin.  Wounded soldiers of the fifth cohort were coming in now as tribesmen shrieked, cried or crawled away weakly.  The guard had slaughtered those who attacked them, such was their skill and the quality of their armor and weapons.  But a cry of panic drifted in from the front.  “The Princess has fallen!  Fall back! Retreat!”

Cedhron had a slight gash on his arm, but he waved off any care.  The sergeant looked down.  “Highness, we need to get you to safety!  Remove to the command tent, please.  Nurses, attend Her Highness!”

She stood painfully.  “No sir,” she said, shaking her head vigorously.  “I will not hide, nor will I be moved until the outcome of the battle is decided.  And I will not be treated until my men are.  Am I clear?”  She took a couple more deep breaths, feeling a little dizzy.

Cedhron let out a frustrated sigh, but it was clear that he respected what she was saying.  “I knew you were going to say that, Highness.  What are your orders then?”

She pointed to her ladies.  “Remain here and help.  Good Sergeant Cedhron, you know me.  Bring my horse and follow.  We need to inspire the troops.  We need to show them that I am alive.”

He shook his head.  “Dammit, bring Her Highness’ mount!  If I say no further, it’s no further, I don’t care who you are.  And one nurse!  I need one nurse who can ride!”

Grooms ran up with several horses and Nirnadel climbed into the saddle of her palfrey as Neldis raised her hand. “I can ride!  I’ll come.”  Cedhron nodded.

Galadel took another horse.  “I don’t care what you say, Nirnadel, I’m coming.”

It would be sunset soon as they rode out onto the field in front of the castle.  The battle was still raging, the first cohort now at the gate, thrusting spears into the enemy as arrows and stones flew down at them, but they were giving ground.  There were cries of dismay, “The Princess has fallen!”  Some men were in full retreat, and the line was becoming jumbled.  Panic was on their faces.

Nirnadel waved her mithril sword over her head, painful though it was.  “No, my friends!  I am here! Rally, my brave men, rally!”

Men falling back stopped and looked. When they saw her ride by, they turned and marched back to the gate.  Jaabran was at the entrance now, slicing with his scimitar, urging men forward. Nirnadel spun her horse about, waving her sword in a circle.  “We have them!  Don’t let up! Forward my brave men!”

Then, there was the sound of battle coming from inside the castle and a Cardolan banner could be seen through the shattered gate.  Cries of dismay went up, but this time, they came from the Dunlenders.  Baranor and Mercatur had attacked the enemy from behind.

Chapter End Notes

I did a bunch of research on medieval sieges, and I wrote one for a Dragon Age story.  I'm expanding the Blogath character arc along with Jaabran and Neldis.    

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment