The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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End of the North

Mercatur and Baranor lead an attack from the culvert.  Nirnadel recovers from her injuries, reflecting on how much has changed in the north.  Castle Amrodan is given back to Éanfled and the expedition prepares to march to the Yfelwood.  Thuringwethil issues her challenge.

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47) The Culvert of Castle Amrodan - Urui (August) 9^th, 1410

Mercatur

Just as Nirnadel said, it was dank and musty in the culvert.  The stagnant drainage water flowed down the way that they came, about ankle high.  Mercatur led the way with his cousin, Silmarien, right behind him.  A light at the tip of her staff shone the way forward.  Baranor and seven of the Royal Guard came behind him along with Cagh Monûnaw. The culvert was high enough for a man to stand up in, ancient Númenórean construction from long ago.  Castle Amrodan had been an outpost of the sea lords for trade with the Dunlenders an age ago with more modern renovations made during the Kingdom of Arnor and later Rhudaur.

They reached the end where there was a ladder up, somewhat rusted.  At the top was a trapdoor into the courtyard according to Nirnadel.  He didn’t like her taking such risks, but the information was good.  If they could get out undetected, they could catch the defenders from behind.

Mercatur snorted as they waited at the bottom of the ladder for the right moment to spring up through the culvert. “I always knew that you existed, Silmarien.  I should be angry but I’m glad you’re here.”  He huffed. He started to say something else, but shook his head.  “Eh, never mind.”

“No, what were you thinking?” she asked seriously.

He grunted.  “Fine.  I really disliked that magical trick you pulled in Arthedain, appearing as an old lady. And so, you knew I was in Tharbad and what?  Why didn't you reach out to me?”  He was both glad that she was here now and disgusted at the same time.

She looked down.  “There was too much risk, but you have every right to be upset.  I was afraid of getting involved.  I wanted to, really.  My husband…dissuaded me.”

He rolled his eyes.  “See, I didn’t even know you were married.  You’re just a stranger to me.  So, who is he?”

“Dirhavel the Alchemist.”

He knew the name.  “Oh, that stingy…uh sorry, never mind.”

She snorted.  “No, you’re right.  He needs the money to fund our project, something that I believe will help you with the Blood-Wights.”

He pulled his chin in and looked at her sideways.  “Really? So, what is it?”

“Have you ever heard of Silima?” He shook his head and she continued, “It’s the substance that created the Silmarils.  My mentor, Gandalf the Gray, provided us with an ancient tome, written by the great smith, Celebrimbor, grandson to mighty Fëanor. Dirhavel thinks he has recreated it from the smith’s writings.  I have a sample that I can use on the Blood-Wights.”

The names sounded only vaguely familiar to him, meaningless legends and fairy tales.  But he was curious.  “Will it work?”

Silmarien shrugged.  “I really have no idea, but it performed well in testing.”

“That doesn’t instill me with a lot of confidence,” he said with one eye narrowed.

She was about to respond when Cagh shuffled his way up to them.  “Hey Merc,” he said, using the nickname many gave the captain.  “You’re going to need me up front.  I’m a whole lot quieter and quicker than you folks in your heavy armor. I can get the jump on those guys.”

He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Very good.  You’re up front.”  He tilted his head up, listening.  “You hear that?  Sounds like we’re hitting the front gate.  Time to go.”

Cagh scrambled up the ladder, his leather armor barely making a sound.  He popped the grate up and scanned around.  “We’re good.  Come on.” He beckoned them up as he slunk through the opening.  Mercatur came up next and crouched down next to Cagh.  He was really glad that he didn’t have to fight the Dunlender chief at the Tirthon a few years ago.  The man was a professional, unlike the barbaric Lumban, whose greatest weapons were fear and murder.  They looked around as the rest of the raiding party came up.

The defending tribesmen were rushing to the main gate, which had been smashed.  Beyond, one of the cohorts was advancing up a causeway, spears bristling. Arrows and stones rained down upon their shields, loud thunks and regular screams and shrieks.  Mercatur, Cagh and Baranor had seen more than their fair share of that.

Staying low in the fading sunlight they moved across the yard towards the gate.  Men on the battlements of the central keep appeared to be occupied watching the fray.  Silmarien raised her staff, and a weblike spell spread from the tip and covered them. “Just in case,” she said.  “They won’t see us from above.”

Over the din of battle, cries of dismay came from the cohorts, “The Princess has fallen!  Retreat, fall back!”

Mercatur’s stomach fell through the ground and Baranor raised his visor.  “No, no!” the knight cried.  “I have failed you, my Princess!  No!” He drew his sword, and a feral look came over the armored knights.  The eight guardsmen let out a shout of rage and despair and charged at the rear of the tribesmen.  Mercatur was stunned.  How did this happen?  How did he let Nirnadel down?  He had planned everything down to the finest detail.  He looked up for a moment.  “Please, don’t let it be.  Take my life instead, I’m begging you.”  He hefted his axe, determined to kill every last one of the defenders.  His life meant nothing now.  With a howl he chased after the Guard with Cagh.

They smashed into the rear of the tribesmen, the Guard’s swords rising and falling, sinking into flesh and bone. There was no defense, just an insane bloodlust for revenge.  The cohorts were in retreat, some men fleeing.  It was all falling apart.  They would soon be alone in the castle, hopelessly outnumbered.  Silmarien pounded her staff on the ground and arcs of electricity shot into three tribesmen and they howled in pain, sizzling as they collapsed.  Nearly blind with rage, Mercatur hewed about, bellowing his fury.  He was heedless of his own safety, berserk.  There were hard blows on his armor, but he felt nothing, only tasting blood.  Cagh was right beside him, dodging, parrying and thrusting, more controlled.

There were shrieks from the darkening sky and the Blood-Wights dove on the archers on the keep, ripping them apart with their bare hands, limbs and heads falling to the ground at the base of the keep.

Clubs and iron swords bounced off of the full plate armor of the Guard, merely denting or scratching the metal as the knights sliced and stabbed their way forward.  Mercatur tore his axe from a man’s neck, blood spraying onto his face, tears running down his cheeks.  “Kill me!” he challenged the enemy.  “Kill me!” All of this had been for nothing with Nirnadel dead.  He looked like a demon now, his bloody face twisted in mindless fury.  And now, they would soon be surrounded as tribesmen began to turn on them.  It would just be a matter of time.  He was ready to meet his end.

Then he saw something and thought it was a star at first.  A rider atop a white horse, clad in mithril, sword raised, circling overhead.  It was like a dream moving in slow motion.  He could just make out the words, “No, my friends! I am here!  Rally, my brave men, rally!”

It was her.

Just as it was during the Battle on the Iant Formen, he couldn’t believe it.  Was it a trick of his mind, wishing her back into existence?

She spun her horse about, waving her sword in a circle.  “We have them!  Don’t let up! Forward, my brave men!”  The retreating men stopped and cheered, turning and advancing again, spears thrusting.

He yelled to the Guard, “She’s alive! She’s alive!” he cried as he raised the banner of Cardolan and waved it like he was in a parade.

Baranor looked back, eyes wide through the slits of his visor.  He nodded and shouted to the Guard, “Dirnaith!  Dirnaith!” and they formed a wedge, driving into the enemy.  The rage and despair were replaced by the cold precision of endless training.

Attacked from both sides with such skill and fury, the tribesmen began to break.  The siege tower had docked on one wall, and a cohort was pouring over the battlements.  Mercatur continued to wave the flag, laughing and crying at the same time.

Jaabran was coming in through the shattered gate, his scimitar slashing, creating an opening for Gildor to rush through, the elf driving the enemy back with a push of his shield.  Spearmen followed, stabbing and grunting in rhythm, just like they were trained to do.  Mercatur chuckled.  He guessed that the Juthjuth threat did its job.

He looked back to see the Blood-Wights waving from the keep.  This was it. The day was nearly won.  They just had to be careful now.  No stupid risks.  The first cohort was through the gate and the fourth had taken the battlements. Oswy’s lancers poured through, riding down any who resisted, followed by Nirnadel, Galadel and Neldis, surrounded by the other Guards.  The Princess and Galadel’s swords were bloody and Mercatur let out a frustrated, but proud sigh.  They had proven themselves to be warriors this evening.  Tribesmen started throwing down their weapons.  It was over.  The cohorts and the lancers began rounding up prisoners.

Mercatur and Baranor stomped over to the mounted Guards, hands on their hips.  The mercenary was furious and overjoyed at the same time.  “What happened?” Baranor demanded.

Sergeant Cedhron dismounted and put his fist to his chest, facing the captain.  He looked absolutely defeated.  “My apologies sir.  More than two hundred tribesmen from the Macha Mur hit us from the rear, nearly overwhelming the fifth cohort.  Sergeant Fendir held as many as they could but a group of them leaked through.  I ordered a shield wall but two leapt over us. Before I could turn around they had attacked Her Highness and Lady Galadel.  The ladies acquitted themselves with valor, slaying the enemy, but the Princess was struck in the side.  Our troops must have seen it and mistook her for dead.”

Nirnadel dismounted and winced, holding her side.  “I praythee, good Captain Baranor, lay no blame at the feet of good Sergeant Cedhron or Sergeant Fendir.  There were too many for the fifth cohort, and Sergeant Cedhron was fully occupied defending Firiel and the nurses upon my command.  Had it not been for them and their brilliant defense, the infirmary would have been slaughtered, me along with them.  They are to be commended.”  She winced again and coughed, blood on her hand.  “I…I feel…” she began and then wobbled, going down to one knee.

Mercatur leapt in and grabbed her, lifting her up.  “Neldis! Come here!  The Princess needs you!”  He carried her, limp in his arms, blood trickling down from her lips.  He brought her close to the wall and laid her down, leaning her against the gatehouse.  Again, he was consumed by fear.

Neldis and Galadel leapt off of their horses and ran to them.  “Help me get her armor off!” Neldis cried, panic creeping into her voice.  Galadel pulled off the Princess’ helm and then her chainmail shirt.  “Lift her tunic!  I need to see!”  Galadel tore it off, revealing a deep purple bruise just below her armpit.  Neldis leaned down and placed her palms on Nirnadel’s side.

Baranor shouted to the mounted Guards, “Get Firiel up here now!” and four sped away at a gallop.  He turned back to Neldis.  “What’s happening?  Tell me.”

With one hand, she gave Mercatur a vial. “You know what to do,” she told him and he emptied it into Nirnadel’s mouth.  “And captain, I need you to be quiet.  I have to listen,” she said, putting her ear onto the Princess’ chest. A desperate minute went by until Neldis breathed a sigh of relief.  “Her lungs are clear…heartbeat strong.  I don’t think that she’s bleeding inside although I need Lady Firiel or Elanoriel to confirm.  I am merely an apprentice.”

The nurse pulled a small clay jar from her pack and uncorked it, releasing a pungent fragrance.  She handed it to Mercatur, and he held it under the Princess’ nose.  He was so glad that he paid attention when Firiel was teaching him the healing arts.

Nirnadel’s eyes fluttered open and she looked around.  “Wha…what happened.  Why are you all…?” she asked, bewildered.

Neldis kept her palms on Nirnadel’s side as Mercatur rubbed her arm to stimulate blood flow.  “I think you just passed out from pain and exhaustion, but the real healers will see,” the nurse told her.

The pounding of hooves sounded the approach of the healers.  Kaile practically flew off of a horse and dove next to them as Firiel and Elanoriel rushed up.  Neldis stepped back and Firiel took her place.  “I don’t sense any bleeding inside, but please, don’t trust my word,” the young nurse said.

Firiel closed her eyes, focusing energy through her hands as Kaile prepared a gooey paste, mixing water into gray powder.  Firiel’s eyes opened and she nodded.  “You are correct, Neldis, you are correct.”  She blew out a long breath.  “Good work, Neldis.  It’s a deep bruise and it really rattled her.”  She pointed to Mercatur, who still held the clay pot in a death grip.  “And you.  You’re hired.”

He held up his bloody axe with his other hand, blood smeared all over his face, arms and armor.  “What?  And give all of this up?”  He wiped the tears and blood from his eyes.  “When can I start?”

Firiel chuckled.  “You already did.”  She moved back as Kaile began to apply the gray paste over the bruise as Galadel put a towel over Nirnadel’s bare chest.  The healer pointed at the Princess.  “And you…you fought like a demon.  You and the Guard saved us but you’re going to get some rest, or my mother will have some words with you.”

A smile crept over Nirnadel’s lips, and she wiped the blood away.  “Very well, good Firiel.  I could never defy you or Lady Elanoriel.  That would be most foolhardy as I have seen.”  She held the towel over her chest.  “And now that everyone has seen how I have filled out, I will just politely die of shame here,” she said as she blushed.

Mercatur snorted.  “Alquanessë better watch out.  Before we know it, Highness’ll be strapping on fake wings and strutting around with nothing else.”

Galadel smacked him on the arm and put a finger in his face.  “Do not give her any ideas!  I’m serious!”

Nirnadel giggled, a hand over her mouth. “But in all seriousness, I thank you. A million times, I thank you.  We have won the day at great cost, and we will honor those who gave their lives.  How is Sissi though?  Last that I saw, you were helping her.”

Firiel smiled.  “She’s fine.  She’ll be off of her feet for a bit, but I saved the leg.”

Nirnadel put her hands over her heart. “Oh, that is a blessing.”

Éanfled rode up next with Sir Oswy and they rushed over.  “Oh, thank the Valar!” Lady Amrodan cried.

“Good Captain Mercatur,” the Princess said to him.  “The victory is yours.  I praythee, please plant the banner of House Amrodan as soon as possible.”  She reached up to Éanfled and Oswy.  “Lord and Lady Amrodan, Captain Mercatur wishes to present your ancestral home to its rightful owners.”

Éanfled buried her face onto Nirnadel’s chest, weeping for joy.  “Your Highness!  I…I am…I am so grateful.”

The Princess embraced her but winced. “Ow!  Big bruise.  Ow,” she said, a smile beaming on her face.  “I may have to stick to dancing for now.  No more fights against tribesmen for a while.”

Elanoriel clapped her hands above her head.  “That is all, everyone.  Nurses and maids remain, but everyone else, shoo!  Go on, shoo!  The Princess needs her rest.”  The Guard reluctantly withdrew but Mercatur remained.  “What did I just say?” the elf told him sternly.

He smirked.  “Hey, what did Firiel just say?  I’m a nurse.”

Elanoriel shook her head and rolled her eyes.  “Yes, yes you are,” she said, nodding.  “Fine. We need to find a bed.”

He smiled and his heart soared.  He walked over to Neldis.  “Damn, you did good.  You did so good,” he said as he wrapped her up in a bear hug, spinning her around.  She squealed and laughed as he set her down.  He realized that the Mercatur of a year ago would not even recognize the Mercatur of today.  For a warrior who swore that he’d never feel, never get invested in people, he felt a lot and was very invested.  He walked over and playfully tapped Nirnadel’s boot with his own as she sat. “Like I told Dagar, I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.”

“Well, since good Firiel has made a nurse out of you, I just might take you up on that bet.  But I highly doubt that I will ever be a knight errant as Thôrdaer was or a great explorer as Braegil was.  I am, however, a far better dancer,” she said with a wink.

Elanoriel stepped between them, clapping her hands.  “Enough of that.  We have found a bed and will move you to it, dear girl.  Nurses, daughter, attend me.  We will move the wounded inside for further care.  Prepare the wagons.  And you, Nurse Mercatur, come, make yourself useful.  And for the love of Manwë, clean yourself up.  You look positively frightful.”

He nodded his head with a chuckle. “Of course, mistress.”

Castle Amrodan – Ivanneth (September) 1^st, 1410

Nirnadel

After three days in bed, she was itching to move around and do something.  Protests of, “I’m feeling better,” were met with stern glances from Elanoriel or her own ladies.  Kaile, Neldis and Dagar never left her side, beds set up nearby and Mercatur visited daily.

“I’m just paying you back for annoying me every day in the Houses,” he would say with a smirk.

The banners of House Amrodan flew once more over the castle after decades of occupation.  The land fell to the Rhudauran usurper during the great 1356 War and then passed into the hands of a Dunnish tribe.  Lord and Lady Amrodan had moved back into the keep and the sound of hammers and saws was nonstop, repairs being made to the gate.  Three hundred mercenaries swore fealty to House Amrodan and would now move their families in and man the castle.  With the casualties from the battle, that left one effective cohort to march to the vale.

Mercatur met daily with those who would join the expedition to the Yfelwood and Elrond’s sons arrived to assist. Alquanessë and Finculion provided crucial information about their siblings and how to defeat them.  But the battle of Castle Amrodan would be child’s play compared to what would come.

By day seven, Nirnadel was ready to gnaw her arm off to escape.  She rolled out of bed, wearing only a night slip, feeling a slight ache in her side. She pulled the slip up and saw a faint greenish color on her skin where she was struck.  The mithril chainmail had no doubt saved her life.  Kaile handed her a glass of water, and she drank thirstily with a thankful nod.  Neldis put her hand on the Princess’ forehead, taking her temperature.  “My dear friends, I do not recognize myself from even a year ago,” the Princess said thoughtfully.  “Two years ago, I was a spoiled, pretentious child who was given everything.  I was surrounded by glittering gems, showered in gifts, wore the finest clothes.  A year ago, I was a devasted, demoralized wastrel, my whole family dead, the weight of the realm upon my and Nimhir’s shoulders.  I could scarce think clearly.”

Kaile smiled warmly.  “I have seen you grow and I am so glad to be part of this. I’ve always wondered though…why did you start coming to the Houses with food and money?”

She thought for a moment, brows furrowed. “It was…complex.  I wanted to help, truly, and I found value in being a part of saving lives.  Seeing how the patients improved and the happiness I brought made me who I am now. But…I wanted to die as well.  Why did I live when my brave father and brothers had perished?” she asked, almost pleading.  “When my mother passed from the fever, why wasn’t it me?  It would have been better for Cardolan.  My father was devastated, and he was never the same. I know, deep down, that he made foolish decisions in the war because of it and it cost them their lives.  If it had been me instead of mother, maybe they would be here.  If maybe I were killed, it would be my penance,” she said sadly.

Kaile nodded solemnly.  “So, that’s why you went onto the bridge?”

“Yes, precisely if not entirely. If I gave my life for the kingdom, it would be my way of honoring my family.”  She could see Neldis trembling and tears ran down her cheek.  “My dear Neldis, what is wrong.  Please, speak freely.”

The nurse paused, composing herself. “M…my mother passed from the same fever that year.  I was left alone for I have never met my father.  I…Your Highness, I feel that we share…no, it is too presumptuous of me. Please forgive me.”

Nirnadel took her hand.  “No, please, I wish to hear you.  You saved me.  I am eternally grateful.”

“No, you were fine, just dazed.  I merely found that out.  And it was you who saved me.  I am the one who is eternally grateful.  I will never forget how you sat with me as I was coughing and terrified…me, a nobody.  And you…Your Highness, you gave me a life that I can be proud of.  I will never…I will never…” she said, trailing off and shaking.

The Princess pulled her in and embraced her, rubbing her back.  “Good Neldis, we have all endured such deep pain.  Please, share yours with me as I have shared with you.  And I am Nirnadel to you.  We have no need for formalities between us.  Anariel would glower at me, but such is my wish.”

 

Neldis steadied herself with a long inhale.  “Thank you…Nirnadel.  I…I feel that we share much in common though I am a nobody.  I look up to you.  Forgive my presumptiveness, but I feel and understand what you say.  I understand your loss.  I told Mercatur and Jaabran this, but I had no one after my mother passed. A blacksmith took me in with his family. They were good to me, but his son…his son used me.  I…I ran away, hoping to find Moradan Songmaster the bard and join his troop of traveling minstrels but I could not find them in Tharbad.”

Nirnadel put her finger on her lips. “Moradan?  Yes, I know him.  He lives in the King’s Quarter and performs at the Bar Aran.  He is a good man, formerly of Gondor.  Now, I have heard that Haedorial has agreed to give you lessons. I will make sure of it, and you will be most welcome to join myself and the ladies of the court in our sessions. We will have you dancing the Sogenne in no time at all.”

Neldis put her hands over her heart. “Why…why are you so good to me?  I am a soiled woman.  I sold my body for coin or even food and drugs.  I did things…horrid, horrid things to survive. I smiled as I died inside.”

The Princess shook her head vehemently. “No, you are a nurse of the Houses of Healing.  A proud profession.  You save lives and heal the sick and injured.  You will be a dancer and a minstrel if you so desire.  None of what you were is who you are.”  

 

The nurse shook violently as Kaile and Nirnadel held her.  “You don’t know how much this means to me,” she said, sobbing.  “You don’t know.  I was so lost.  I was an empty shell.  I wanted to die too!  But…but I…I am alive and I have hope because of you both.”  Kaile smiled at the Princess.  They had just saved someone.

“Should I have Minister Eärdil look into Artan’s?” Nirnadel asked.

Neldis shook her head.  “No, they were…fine.  They cared for the girls although some of the clients…would beat me…degrade me…I…no, they were fine.  Those men were dealt with.”

Nirnadel wiped her eyes.  “Then, good Neldis, we will look forward to better things and brighter days.  I cannot imagine what you went through.  I would have died.  You are strong.  Stronger than I will ever be.  You are a fighter.  I am proud to call you a friend.”

The nurse put her hands over her mouth. “As am I.  Both of you.”  Then, she snorted.  “A fighter, huh?  Not me. When I saw you with your sword, fighting the tribesmen, I was terrified.  You stood your ground and would not let them attack us.  You will be the queen that we deserve.”

“That, dear Neldis, gives me strength,” she said as she rose and looked around in a conspiratorial way.  “Well, I don’t see Lady Elanoriel nearby, so I think that I am safe to sneak off and visit the injured soldiers.  Come, you will be my cover.”  She slid on slippers and cautiously made her way to the ward.

With Dagar, they walked a short distance through the castle hospital where rows of beds held injured men and a good number of captured enemies, under guard.  Mercatur had issued an order to care for them and treat them well. The able-bodied prisoners were released on parole with promises to never fight them again.  A show of fangs from the Blood-Wights made sure that they would keep their promises.  The terror that Alquanessë and Finculion spread during the battle made tribesmen hurl down their weapons and weep on the ground.  Dagar said that he could empathize with them.  The battlements of the keep ran red with blood, taking days to clean.

Nirnadel saw men in agony, some who would likely die no matter what the healers did for them.  There were groans and whimpers.  She gulped hard.  “My brave men.  I am sorry, so sorry for what I have put you through.  Please, tell me what I can do for you.”

The man who lost his eye came to her and knelt, an eyepatch on his face.  “Your Highness, you held me when I was so afraid.  I thought I would die and never see my family again.  Your touch gave me courage.”  He kissed her hand.  “I am Echadrion.  I was a tailor in a small town before joining the cohort.”

The man who lost his leg hobbled up to her on crutches.  He took her hand and kissed it.  “I am Farion, Your Highness.  I kept the kennels in a small town near Tharbad.  You…you wept with me when I lost my leg.  I will…I will never forget your kindness.  Lady Amrodan has offered us positions of honor in her castle and we will proudly serve her, but our hearts are with you.”

Another man came up, his arm in a cast and bandages on his cheek and knelt, kissing her hand.  “Your Highness, I am Hwinnion.  I constructed windmills.  When we heard that you had fallen, I ran…terrified.  On your horse, you stopped in front of me, waving your sword, urging us to rally.  Seeing your face, your courage.  I could not run.  I returned to fight, and we won the day.”

She put her hands over her heart.  “My brave men.  You do me so much honor.  I am proud, ever so proud of all of you.  Are you well fed?  Are you well cared for?”

There was a resounding yes.  Men cried out, “Are you well, Your Highness? You fought on, even while hurt.”

She did a perfect curtsey, pulling the hem of her slip out just a bit.  “I am well, thanks to you all.  The courageous men of the fifth cohort saved my life.”

Lady Elanoriel must have heard the exchange, and she came rushing into the ward.  She fixed her eyes on Nirnadel.  “And what, praytell, are you doing out of bed, my dear?”  She eyed Kaile, Neldis and Dagar suspiciously.

Nirnadel made a surprised face.  “Well, Lady Elanoriel,” she said, looking back and forth between her friends.  “I was…we were…yes, ummm, looking for pickles.  Yes! That’s it.  I had a sudden craving, yes, for pickles,” she added, a little too quickly.

Kaile nodded emphatically.  “Yes, they are so big and long and thick and juicy, yes,” she stammered, opening her mouth wide and pointing down her throat.

The Princess blushed bright red, remembering the meeting where she tried to show Haedorial what Kaile had shown her with a pickle.  “Ummm, Kaile once showed me the value of pickles, yes.”

Neldis caught on and she was struggling not to laugh, her whole body shaking.

Lady Elanoriel rolled her eyes.  “Ummm, yes, pickles.  Of course,” she said blandly, nodding without a shred of belief. “Very well, carry on and I hope you find the pickle that you’re looking for.”  She walked past them and then looked back.  “Oh, and my dear girl, it would appear that you are healthy enough to move around now.  You may no longer consider yourself to be confined to the hospital.  Good day,” she said and then continued onto one of the patients.

The three girls’ eyes went wide, and they burst out in uncontrollable giggling.

Two more weeks went by as the castle was put in order and defenses made solid.  The cohorts drilled in the yard and Nirnadel and her ladies joined the Guard for weapons training with wooden swords.  Even the nurses joined in.  Baranor seemed to be especially stern with Nirnadel, striking harder and faster.  “After the last battle,” he told her, “You need to learn more and more quickly.  We cannot have what happened to you occur again.  Am I clear?”  There was an edge of anger in his voice.

Nirnadel was taken aback but raised her wooden sword back into a guard position.  “I understand, captain.”  This was very unlike him.

He delivered three powerful strikes at different angles, and she blocked the first two, but the third landed on her left arm, hard.  She yelped. He glared at her.  “You must do better.”

She grit her teeth and raised her sword again.  “I am ready.” What had gotten into him?

He came at her fast, feinting at first and then switching to another angle.  Her eyes went big, but she lowered the tip of her weapon to deflect it away.  She delivered a thrust, and he moved his head just in time as the weapon brushed his ear. He then bound her blade with his and flung her sword away.  He put the point on her throat.  “You’re dead again,” he said coldly.  “After King Calimendil was slain by orcs and a civil war ensued, Thalion was sacked by rebels with orders to put all to the sword and nearly every member of the Royal Family was cruelly butchered…the women raped and even the children slain. The bodies were burned and tossed into a pit.  Only a few escaped.”  His eyes were intense.  “I will not let that happen to you, but I need you to learn.  This is why every member of the Royal House must be able to fight.”

She trembled for a moment, and her mouth was dry.  What happened to Calimendil’s family was a horror story beyond measure.  Orcs were cruel enough by nature, but the cruelty of man was by choice and beyond evil.  She picked up her sword and raised it again, her eyes aflame this time.  “I am ready.”  This time, she took the initiative and stabbed at his midsection.  He parried it easily and struck downwards.  Instead of going sword to sword, she moved like a dancer, sidestepping and blading her body as the cut missed.  She sliced across his leg, making contact with his armor and then slid under another cut, stabbing him in the gut.  They paused and her eyes looked up to see his sword less than an inch above her head.

Baranor stepped back.  “We’re both dead.  Enough for today.  Get cleaned up,” he said with an almost scornful tilt of his head.

This was very much unlike the captain, cold, without any sense of formality.  She put the hilt of her sword to her lips in a salute and walked away. As she passed Valandil, he told her, “You know how afraid he is for you.  It’s nothing personal, Your Highness.”

She nodded silently, rubbing her left arm where he struck her.  She went to wash and then walked to the armory to inspect her weapons.  On a rack were her mithril eket and dagger, a thin poignard, designed to punch small holes in an enemy.  She had learned to use a longsword as well, but she was better with the shorter eket.

Baranor approached her and bowed low, his face softer.  “Forgive me, Your Highness.  I have not been myself since I believed that you had fallen.  It…” he started and then looked away.  “It tore me up.  I fought like a madman, determined to kill and die for I had failed you.  No one else, just me…my failure.  Then, I saw you, riding and rallying the troops.  I was both proud and angry that I thought you had disobeyed my request to not endanger yourself.  Seeing you though, my discipline came back, but only after I had lost it.”  He knelt and kissed her hand.  “What you did…was necessary for our victory.  I would have died had you not ridden out.  Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, good Baranor.  You are the greatest knight in the realm, and I am honored to learn under you.  Thank you.”

He stood and gestured to an armor rack. “I took the time to prepare a gift for you, which just arrived.  The dwarven smiths created it for me and it cost me six months’ pay,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.  On the rack stood a suit of mithril plate armor, made from some of the panels found in Lond Daer.  “It will serve you better than the chainmail shirt and it is my honor to present it to you.” It glistened silver, reflecting the light off of its surface.  Etched into the cuirass or breastplate was the hill and tree of Cardolan, surrounded by an eight-pointed star.  Silver chainmail filled in the gaps at the joints.  It was magnificent.

She gulped hard, her eyes misting and her hands over her mouth.  “I…I don’t know what to say, good Baranor.  This is a gift beyond price.  I am…so grateful, ever so grateful.  I do not know what to say.”

He smiled.  “Say that you will wear it and that you’ll listen to me.”

She put her hand on his chest.  “I can do that.”

On the day of the march to the Yfelwood, the cohorts had all formed up, standing in fine formation, banners rippling in the breeze.  Mercatur and Jaabran sat on horseback, carrying the pennant of the fifth cohort, Silmarien with them.  Nirnadel wore her new armor, glistening silver, light and comfortable, form fitting. She gave her chainmail shirt and bascinet helm to Galadel since they were the same size.  Her new helm was a sallet, squat like a crab with a flared guard over the neck and a visor with a throat guard.  It had a golden symbol of a crown with an emerald green feather at the very top.  The wagons were formed up at the rear, the healers and the nurses riding within. And last, the elves, Gildor, Elladan and Elrohir, mounted and ready.  Cagh Monûnaw would depart back home with his tribe, having fulfilled his oath to assist at the castle.

Oswy and Éanfled came out, he, dressed in a scarlet doublet with golden slashes in the sleeves, a Northron fur cap on his head over his wavy blond hair.  She, in a scarlet gown, trimmed in gold with poofed shoulders, a scarlet bonnet and scarlet silk gloves, matching her flaming red hair.  They stood before the Princess, Oswy taking a knee and Éanfled performing a curtsey.  Nirnadel attempted it, but it was not happening in her armor, so she bowed.

Dagar then joined them, also taking a knee.  He was dressed in a riding outfit, a light gray and black doublet with a cobalt blue flatcap and a jaunty black feather.  His brown hair was neatly styled in ringlets and his mustache waxed to a point.  Dagar looked up.  “Your Highness, Princess Nirnadel of Cardolan, we lords of Rhudaur have discussed our situation.  We have come to the decision that we wish to pledge our faith to you and swear our fealty to your crown.  Rhudaur is no more…a land of warlords and tribes.  We will become Cardolan and, when you wed, we will become Arnor.”

Nearby, Haedorial smiled and wrote down every word and then sketched the scene.

Nirnadel removed her helmet and her raven ponytail streamed down over her breastplate.  A look of surprise was on her face, her mouth open.  “I…I did not expect this.  I am so deeply touched, my friends.  I accept your oaths and promise friendship, loyalty and honor.”  She went to each and placed her hand on their heads, bidding them rise.  “And to you, Lady Éanfled Amrodan, my dear friend.  Your coming back to me was like a dream.  I have cherished these months that we have spent together again, and I will treasure these memories for all of my days.”  She sniffled and wiped her eyes, overwhelmed by emotions.  

Éanfled did the same, a bittersweet smile on her lips.  “Serving you again has been my dream as well.  You have given my family a gift beyond price.  This is goodbye, but it is not farewell, Your Highness, my Princess, my friend.”  She put her hand over her heart.

Nirnadel turned and mounted her horse, followed by Dagar and Haedorial.  She was deeply sad but also elated.  It was truly a bittersweet moment.  But now, the most difficult and dangerous part of the journey would happen. Before she could give the signal to march a horn blew.  The gate guards yelled back.  “There is a man, who insists upon seeing Captain Mercatur!  His name is Hirgrim of the Cultirith!”

Mercatur looked stunned.  “Let him in!”  The gate opened and the scarred ranger rode in alone, his gray hair wild and disheveled, his rigid leather breastplate battered and torn.

“Mercatur!  I come with urgent news of ill tidings!  You must hear this, my friend!” he yelled as he rode up.  The Princess and her entourage quickly joined them.

The captain put his thumb on his lips. “What is it, my friend?  You can speak plainly for we are among allies.”

Hirgrim’s face was twisted in fear, his eyes wide.  “Those foul creatures…the ones in the Yfelwood.  Somehow, they have gotten loose, I don’t know how but they are gathering forces, feeding on those who refuse.  This is why I could not join you.  I tell you, Mercatur…Jaabran, this is the end of the north.”

“Weren’t they still trapped within the temple?”

Hirgrim shook his head.  “No…a force from Angmar came and excavated the area. That must have set them free.  That’s all I know other than whole tribes are disappearing now.”

A shockwave rolled across the land, a force that pushed everyone back a step.  It was as if a volcano had erupted but it was psychic, a mental energy…a challenge.

Alquanessë and Finculion dove for the ground and landed amongst them.  Horror was etched on their faces as the elves came up to listen.  The elven princess shook her head.  “No, no, this cannot be.  This cannot be.  They sent us a message.  Thuringwethil has returned.”  That name came out like a dagger to everyone’s heart.  She trembled in fear.  “If we do not face her, she will destroy the northern kingdoms and lay waste to the land. We cannot hope to defeat her!”  she cried as she put her hands over her mouth, shaking in absolute terror.

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Chapter End Notes

I'm looking to expand the character arcs of Mercatur, Nirnadel and Neldis.  Several characters will not survive this journey.