The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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Oppression of the Mind

The bard, Haedorial shows his artwork of the events that they've endured.  Mercatur inspects the camp and makes final preparations for the expedition into the Yfelwood but he receives a visitor who peels through his thoughts and desires.

Warning - a scene of intimacy.

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48) The Yfelwood - Ivanneth (September) 11^th, 1410

Haedorial

The bard now had three volumes of writings completed, documenting what had happened since he was in the Houses of Healing.  He imagined his work, housed on an elegant bookshelf in the great libraries of Minas Anor, Osgiliath or that of Rivendell, the wise reading and learning of the history of Cardolan from his hand.  His son, Mindolinor, had helped him catalog and organize his life’s work.  Mindolinor was also a talented artist, helping his father to sketch and then draw or paint the various scenes that they were writing about.  The book of sketches was also full with a new volume just beginning.  They were already planning to paint portraits of the Princess and the ladies of the Royal Court to add to the collection at Thalion.

The six stewards of the Royal House had pretty much been on the sidelines of the things, helping him and Lady Anariel for which he was grateful. Before the battle, the Command Tent was much safer, and he had the company of Dagar and his son to keep him occupied.  There were some rumblings amongst the stewards of the lack of action that they had when compared to the ladies of the Court.  “Why are Galadel or Kaile always so involved with the Princess when we sit idly by?” was a common question.

Haedorial patiently explained that the stewards of female royals were, for better or worse, paid much less attention to while the stewards and squires of Princes, such as Thôrdaer and Braegil were always at the forefront.  It’s just the way it was.  Still, there was jealousy over Galadel’s ride to Rivendell or Kaile’s work at the Houses. Harmless, he was sure.

The Battle of Castle Amrodan was fierce with many casualties on both sides.  He still recalled the sounds of the fighting, the stones from the catapults striking wood, the cries of the wounded, the fearsome shrieks of the Blood-Wights and the dismayed wails that the Princess had fallen.  Everyone in the tent leapt up in horror at those words.  He and Dagar rushed out with the stewards to see Galadel kneeling down over the Princess, Nirnadel holding her side in pain.  She then rose with Sergeant Cedhron and climbed onto her horse, her helm gleaming in the fading sunlight.  With her guard, she charged onto the field, sword circling overhead, calling to the retreating soldiers to rally.  He looked at his son to see him sketching the scene rapidly as men cheered and turned to fight.  The day would be theirs.  He patted his son on the back.  “You will be a fine bard, Mindolinor.  I look forward to seeing you serve the Royal Family in my retirement.”

His son showed him the sketch, a charcoal image of the Princess, sword raised, her horse rearing amidst rallying troops.  It would make for an incredible painting, perhaps even tapestries that would adorn the walls of the kingdom.

The other stewards watched, some with wonder: Brondon, Angion, Allion, Ethirdir and Madron, all sons of prominent merchants. Ethirdir and Madron merely snorted. “It’s that Galadel again, always claiming the glory that we should share in,” Ethirdir commented, jealousy in his tone.

Madron and Angion nodded.  “And that prostitute at the Princess’ side.  Shameful,” they said.

Haedorial turned sharply, stunned that he would have to chastise them over something so petty in the midst of a battle.  “Young men, you will stop that speech this instant. She is Lady Tinarë to you and Neldis is a nurse of the Houses of Healing.  Have some decorum,” he said coldly and they appeared repentant.  “Good, now attend to your duties or I will have to speak to Lady Anariel about this.”  That was merely a threat for, if he did, they were likely to be dismissed from the Royal House to the immense shame of their families.  And he would not do that to them for such a petty offense.

His annoyance evaporated when the banners of Cardolan and House Amrodan flew over the castle.  Cheers went up from the cohorts.  But then, there were cries of dismay and four of the Guard rode at a full gallop with Firiel, Kaile and Elanoriel to the castle.  “I must see what has happened!” he exclaimed and took a nearby horse, riding for all he was worth.  He slid off of the saddle to see Firiel kneeling over the Princess who held a towel over her chest but was smiling and talking.  He breathed a sigh of relief, writing down the event.  Another crisis had passed, and the victory was now complete.

The next three weeks were spent preparing for the expedition to the Yfelwood.  Haedorial could sense his friend, Dagar’s growing concern and even fear over this. He was not there when they fought the Blood-Wights so all he had were the words and writings of his friends to picture the horror of Blogath.  Seated at one supper, he listened to Dagar’s retelling of Nirnadel in the wards, comforting the wounded.  “You know, good Haedorial, when I had returned to Rhudaur to help with the waenhosh, I always remembered the Princess waving at me in the street as her carriage went by.  This was before I became one of the Nightsingers and met you.  Since then…” he said, thinking, “…you know how, sometimes, people that you admire don’t live up to your expectations?”

Haedorial nodded.  “We have seen that many times, my friend.”

“I can confidently say that has not happened in this case.  Her Highness has far exceeded my wildest dreams.  I have spoken with Sir Oswy…I mean Lord Oswy and Lady Éanfled, and we have come to an agreement to swear our fealty to Cardolan.  I may be foolish, but somehow, I envision the refounding of the Kingdom of Arnor.”

The bard’s face showed wonder, his eyes wide. “Astounding.  Simply astounding.”

Dagar nodded with a big smile, twirling his waxed mustache. “Together, we are stronger.  We are not so naïve as to think that Angmar will not rise again.  We must be ready.”

“That is most wise.  You have really grown, my friend,” he said, ever so proud.  “To see you now as you are from when we first met.  It makes my heart sing.  And my Faeliriel was ever so happy to host you when you were in Tharbad and little Istriel will miss you dearly.  Your tales of Rhudaur were most entertaining, I can tell you.  The Nightsingers were ever so interested and impressed.”  He showed Dagar the book of writings and pictures that he and his son had composed. “It is my fervent hope that, one day, the learned will read of this and be told of the life of my dear friend, Lord Rhudainor.”

On the day of departure, the cohorts stood proudly, the fifth ready to march with their captains to deal with the Blood-Wights. Then, the ranger, Hirgrim arrived with dire news and Alquanessë and Finculion revealed that the ancient vampire of Morgoth, Thuringwethil, had been reborn with designs to destroy the north. This was catastrophic.  The name of that horror sank in with him, his knowledge of lore crying out the terror that was the demon.  Also, his talks with the siblings about her were truly terrifying: a creature, likely a Maia that was beyond cruel, tormenting them physically and mentally, toying with her prey to break them in every way. Thuringwethil made Blogath look like a kitten.  How could they possible triumph?  How could they possibly survive?  He envisioned Tharbad, depopulated and crumbling, red eyed vampires filling the ruins and he shuddered.  He would die to prevent that.

The march to the Yfelwood was somber, morale on edge. He could literally feel the sense of evil growing steadily as they neared, like a dark cloud in the soul.  It was oppressive, like a toxic fog.  Faces were drawn, worried, afraid.  On horseback, he looked over to Dagar.  “I can feel it.  It is like the weight of a mountain on my soul.”

Dagar nodded, the ringlets in his hair hanging limp. The vampire siblings rode with them, choosing not to fly and expose themselves to their foes.  This would not be a fight against Dunnish tribesmen. What would they possibly face? Though it was morning it felt like twilight, the sun dim though gray clouds.  He looked back at the column where few people talked, a far cry from the elation after the battle.  Gildor had returned to Rivendell to report to Lord Elrond and seek his guidance.  This was a grave development.  Alquanessë moved her horse up to them, dressed in her cobalt blue robe.  “My confidence is shattered,” she said, her voice edged with worry.  “What we have here with us…we cannot hope to win, much less survive.  I am sorry, my good bard…Lord Rhudainor.  You should turn now and move south to Gondor.  That is your only hope to live.  I am deeply sorry.”

The pit in his stomach grew and he blew out a long breath. “I understand, good Alquanessë, but fight we must.  This is our home.  We must trust to hope and the strength of our people.”

She gave him a wan smile.  “Your courage gives me strength.  I will fight regardless, as will my brother.  This is our evil to resolve.  We will flee no longer.  We will hide no longer,” she said with increasing resolve.  “I have no illusions that I will survive this.  I just fear being made a slave again to that…that creature.”

She went on to tell them more about the history of Beleriand and the vileness that Thuringwethil spread, finally ended by Huan, the Hound of Valinor, the vampire’s skin torn off to form a disguise for fair Lúthien Tinúviel.  “The fairest of all of the children of Illuvatar,” she said, “Even me,” she added with a wink.  “And disguised as that foul demon, Lúthien cast a spell upon the beast, Carcharoth and she and Beren entered the halls of Angband that was full of fire and horror. Casting off her disguise, she danced before the Dark Lord, enchanting him and his vile court into slumber.”  Her eyes held the pain and wisdom of ages.  “And that is how they recovered a Silmaril.  I remember this happening as if it were yesterday, and I will fight to the death for the memory and soul of my people.”

Her determination inspired him.  Just hearing the story of Lúthien from one who was there was an honor beyond measure.  Until the ride to Rivendell, these names, these places, these events were just songs or words in a book.  Now, they were real.  “As I said before, good princess, I was never a bard until I met you.  I have received a gift that I can never repay.”  Then, something came to him, something that she had told him before.  “My lady…I am recalling something that you shared with me, something about your sister…Sercë was it, and your time in Ost-in-Edhil.  A…a friend our yours, Morelen was it?  Would she-”

Alquanessë’s eyes shot open wide.  “Morelen!  Yes! In my despair, I had not even thought of her.  You know, she is the daughter of Morgoth.  If only there was some way to get a message to her.  I shall think on this,” she said excitedly, putting her thumb on her lips.  “And you just repaid it, dear bard.”

He recalled the elf telling him of Morelen’s lineage, terrible as it was.  Morelen was the daughter of a Noldorin astrologer, one of the Eldar, and the Dark Lord himself, destined to be sacrificed for some evil ritual but fate intervened and her twin brother would have that ‘honor.’  “She would be a great ally here.”

Alquanessë nodded slowly.  “It was in Annatar’s home in Ost-in-Edhil that she revealed this dark secret to me, such was our trust and friendship.  I had told her of the fact that we were vampires, fearful that she would kill me at first.  She looked at me with that, ‘oh, that’s nothing, let me tell you my story’ look.” She chuckled.  “She was my sister’s dear friend when they were part of High King Fingon’s riders.  Perhaps I am just hopeful, but maybe she could influence Sercë.  If anything, she is fearsome.” She looked to the sky.  “I will find a way to send a message, and we can pray to the Valar.”

Mercatur rode up and pointed ahead.  “Look up there.  It’s the Tirthon…what’s left of it anyway.  We can make that our base of operations before we journey into the woods.” The battered tower still stood proudly, though two of the large bronze plates that shielded the roof had fallen, the remaining two stained green with corrosion.  Part of the wall had caved in since the battle, it having been already damaged by Ethacali’s siege engines in the battle three years ago.  Even the ruins of the siege tower lay scattered about near the bones of a dead troll that was crushed when he cut a bronze plate away at Dagar’s word.  The wooden palisade wall that surrounded the tower was down in many places from the fight, wooden posts laying askew.  Both Mercatur and Dagar shuddered.  It was a ghost before them.  The mercenary reached out and shook Lord Rhudainor’s hand.  “We’ve come full circle, old friend,” he said.

Dagar gave a faraway look and nodded.  “Indeed, we have, good Mercatur.  And we’ve come a long way since.  I cannot thank you for the life that you gave me.”  He chuckled, shaking his head.  “I was a dumb, wet behind the ears city boy, out here in unforgiving Rhudaur.”

Mercatur bellowed out a laugh that got birds to take flight.  “Hah, that you were.  I was sure you were going to bite it out here, but damn if you didn’t pull through…in a big way.”

Dagar joined in the laughter.  “I was dying to impress you, big tough mercenary.”

He slapped his friend on the back.  “And you did.  Hey, you still got that pigsticker, I see,” he said, pointing to the smallsword at Dagar’s hip.

“And you still got that fat axe, I see.  Well, a newer one.  Some things never change, do they, good sir?”

Mercatur took out his flask and took a long drink and then handed it to Dagar.  “You don’t know how I wish that were true,” he said in a voice full of nostalgia.  “Come, let’s make camp here and plan the way forward.” He looked over to the Blood-Wights. “Hey vampies, you hungry?  Mind clearing out the tower?  Last we checked, it was full of bandits.”

Alquanessë let out a snorting laugh.  “Vampies?  That’s a new one.  Three ages of life and I still hear new things.  Fine.  I was getting hungry anyway.”  She gestured to Finculion.  “Well brother, shall we convince them to leave?”

He nodded.  “We will need all of the power that we can consume before we meet our siblings.” They dismounted and began walking towards the tower.  Soon, arrows began flying at them and they flitted back and forth, blurs of movement, the projectiles poking into the ground.

As they watched, Mercatur asked, “Hey, is Ynarri still with you?  I miss his prized pigs.”

Dagar nodded.  “He sure is.  And his greatest pig, Mehitable is still up to her antics.”

“I guess some things never do change.”

The Blood-Wights climbed up the stone wall of the tower to the top.  Finculion grabbed an archer and flung him over the wall to the ground.  There was a thud and dust flew up.  Mercatur winced.  “Ow, that must’ve hurt.”  There were screams and shrieks and blood flowed down the side of the tower.  “I think we’re good!” he yelled to the column. He looked back at Haedorial.  “This is where it all began.  From this point on, guard your thoughts.  Use the crap that she taught us.  If something seems weird, it probably is.  They can come to us in our dreams and drive you mad.”  He then stood up in his stirrups and waved the column forward.

The bard made a quick sketch of the Tirthon, riding slowly onto the grounds of the Tirthon.  They dismounted at the base of the tower, the wagons parking nearby and unhitching the horses and oxen to graze.  The vampires emerged through the front gate that was still shattered from the siege, their mouths and robes covered in blood.

Alquanessë made an angry face while licking her lips.  “Blogath’s tits, this is my best robe.  We normally fly in to attack, and I forgot to take it off. We’re going to wash off in the pond,” she said, pointing to the small body of water and stream nearby that once supplied the garrison.  “You’re free to enter.  No one will bother you.”

Haedorial chuckled.  For such a macabre event, the vampires made it almost funny.  Maybe they could cut holes in their robes for their wings? He thought about suggesting it, but he figured that they must have tried it over three ages.

The vampires were dunking their robes in the water of the stream that led away from the pond and beat them on rocks.  “Yes, we thought about it, dear bard!  It doesn’t work.  When we spread our wings, it just flings the whole thing off!”

He pulled his chin in, realizing that he was too free in his thinking and imagined the music that she had taught them, but he couldn’t help gazing at her body as she slapped her clothes on the large stone.

She didn’t look up.  “See the music, not me!”

He chuckled and looked away, dismounting.  The fifth cohort was already marching in, led by Sergeant Fendir.  He was issuing orders to set up the camp and clean the tower.  The healers and their nurses were already heading in through the gate, followed by the stewards.  Madron, son of Gallion of the Potter’s Guild, was chatting with Ethirdir.  “We’re always following the women around.  Why can’t we follow the Guard or the captain?”

Ethirdir pointed back at Alquanessë.  “I’d rather follow her,” he said in a lascivious way.

Haedorial shook his head.  Young bucks, too big for their own britches without an ounce of sense. He had to be proud of Mindolinor. He was a young man with a good head on his shoulders and decorum.  As they entered the Tirthon, he was surprised to see that it was fairly well maintained by the bandits.  Past the main entry where the two portculli were melted there was a T intersection, the left to the barracks and the right to the kitchens where the walls were scorched by an old fire.

Dagar pointed to the right and blew out a long breath. “This is where the cook murdered the others and lit the fire.  I rushed in, mad with fear to rescue Mirthi.  Mercatur saved us with a wet blanket.”  He paused a moment.  “Old memories.  It’s like seeing a ghost.”

The mercenary was directing the Royal entourage upstairs and the nurses to the guestrooms.  “Dagar, Marendil’s quarters are yours if you wish,” he said.  “You are the lord, after all.”

He shook his head.  “No, sir, that needs to go to Her Highness.  I’ll stay in the camp.  It’ll be like old times, huh?”

Mercatur chuckled with a nod.  “I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.  I’ll see you out in the camp.  I can already hear Jaabran yelling at them out there.”

“I’ll take a walk around first…show Haedorial what happened.”

“It’s kind of eerie, huh?  I can’t stop seeing memories of being here,” Mercatur said, scratching his beard.  “And hey, Haedorial, when we get a chance, I want to see that book of yours.  I better be as good looking in your pictures as I am in real life.”

The bard nodded with a wide smile.  “I can assure you, good captain, that you look even better in our drawings.  I daresay that we will create a painting of you once we are safely back in Tharbad.”

He pointed at them with a smirk.  “That’s what I want to hear!  Alright, have fun.  I’ll be out here getting us ready for the march into the wood.”

They went through the kitchens where it was clear that Dagar’s mind was on so many things.  Much of the kitchen had been repaired in the ensuing years by the bandits. He knelt down near the stoves and touched the stone floor.  “The whole room was nearly aflame.  I didn’t care.  I ran in and found Mirthi, injured on the ground here.  We barely escaped.  The cook had been ensorcelled by a magical ring and driven insane.  It was way too close…one of too many narrow escapes that day. Come, let’s continue upstairs.”

They ascended to see the Princess and her ladies, waiting in the hallway for the stewards to clean the lord’s chambers.  The two bowed and pointed ahead to a steep stairway to the roof.  “Dagar is giving me the grand tour,” the bard told them.

Nirnadel dropped all of her belongings on the floor and smiled.  She clapped overhead like Elanoriel would do and said, “Well, good sirs, what are we waiting for?  Lead on!” It was clear that she was bored and wanted to alleviate the growing worry that they all felt.  The ladies did the same except for Anariel, who sighed and continued to wait patiently for Marendil’s Quarters to be cleaned out.

Dagar led them to the stairway, and they took the high steps up onto the third level where the large bronze plates were mounted.  The two that faced towards the south were the ones that had fallen off during the siege.  Great pots that once held boiling oil were still standing here, now long empty.  “This is where I poured the oil on the enemy who were climbing the walls on ladders,” he said solemnly.  “I will never forget the screaming.  Then, Mirthi and I, along with Baga and some of the women, hurled stones at them and I stood…I stood against Lumban with my sword.  I…I couldn’t run and leave them.”

Nirnadel touched him on the shoulder.  “I now think I understand, good Dagar.  At Castle Amrodan, I was terrified, but I stood because I would not let harm come to those I loved while I could still stand.”

He nodded, a faraway look still in his eyes and then chuckled.  “Exactly. And you, good Haedorial, you taught me the one dueling move that I could learn and it worked,” he said, simulating the deflecting move that put Lumban off balance so he could wound the barbarian. “Mercatur came in and put an end to it.”

The bard laughed.  “I knew that move would come in handy one day, good sir.  Come, please sit.  May I show you the artwork that my son and I created?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” a voice boomed from the top of the stairs.  It was Mercatur, Jaabran and Neldis, carrying trays of food.  “Maelil gave us some snacks to bring up.  Camp setup is underway, and we will have a planning meeting after, but it’s time to break for lunch.  I’ve been dying to see this.  Hey, Highness, he says I’ll look even better in the painting.”

She giggled, her hand over her mouth.  “Well, I daresay that is an impossible task for one already so handsome.”

 

He walked over to the space where one of the bronze plates was and struck a pose with his axe.  “Right here, the siege tower up against the Tirthon, Lumban’s freaks storming up, Dagar ordering me to cut it loose and it falling to smash those shits below.  What a picture, don’t you think?”  The ladies all clapped as Haedorial was already putting charcoal to parchment.

Neldis set out some trays of food and drink and they gathered around, partaking in the snacks, small sandwiches, cuts of meat and cheese with a vegetable dip and pitchers of water and fruit juices.  Haedorial lifted up the parchment to show the rough sketch of the mercenary with his axe, chopping at the wires that held the plate and Dagar pointing at it, giving the order.  Mercatur nodded.  “That’s pretty damn good for a couple of minutes.”  He pulled out his flask and took a long drink.  He then handed it around.  “It’s a harsh Rhudauran ale, like the land itself.  I got it from Hirgrim.  Put hair on your chest.”

The ladies gasped, Nirnadel taking a sniff and passing it along.  “I daresay, good Mercatur, that, now that you’ve seen my chest, that we all prefer it without hair.”

The group laughed and he nodded. “Yeah, you win that one.”

Haedorial thought he would hazard a sip. He poured a little into his mouth, and it burned like dragon fire and kicked like a mule.  He swallowed with a grimace.  “Manwë’s breath, what is this?”

Mercatur bellowed out a laugh.  “I told you, it’s Hirgrim’s secret Rhudauran recipe.  Untamed, like me!”

Nirnadel made a face and took the flask back.  “Well, dear friends, I promised to lead from the front.”  She then made a mock glare at Mercatur.  “I shall hold you personally responsible should any hair appear on me where it should not.”  She pointed to her larger bosom.  “I shall not risk these for they make me happy now.”  She put the flask up to her mouth and gagged.  “Urk…I…here goes.  Urk.”  After a couple more tries, she took a sip and winced like she had been struck by a Dunnish tribesman.  She began to shake as everyone watched and then swallowed with a grimace.  She lay back, panting.  “It would have been better if that man had killed me,” she said in a strained voice.  “Oh, my stars…this was wonderfully awful.  I feel…I feel…am I floating?  I’m floating.”

Haedorial extended his hand and pulled her up as they cackled.  Mercatur slapped her on the back as he took the flask.  “Welcome to Rhudaur.  You’re now a mercenary.  Shit, him too,” he said, gesturing to the bard.

Neldis took the flask and took a chug. “I’ve had worse.”

Mercatur grabbed the flask and gulped another drink.  “And another mercenary!”

“Merciful Tayee, Master of Sands! We are rebuilding our company!” Jaabran exclaimed.

“Mercatur’s Maulers!” the captain declared, clearly intoxicated now.

“No, no, no, my friend.  Surely, Jaabran’s Jesters is in order,” the Haradan answered, waving his red turban around, letting his long, black hair flow down. “I say Dagar is our captain!” he shouted, bowing low.

Mercatur eyed Lord Rhudainor closely. “He doesn’t have the fierce beard or the muscles, but he’s a steely eyed killer.  He’ll do.”

The group laughed, a much-needed laugh in the face of darkness.  The Blood-Wights came up with Silmarien and sat with the group.  “What’s all of the laughter?” the blonde mage asked.  “Sounds like too much fun.”

“Most definitely, Lady Rhudainor,” the bard said, gesturing to the food.  “I was about to show everyone the art book that my son and I created to document the history of Cardolan.

Silmarien looked over to Dagar with a wink.  “Don’t worry, Lord Rhudainor, I relinquish any and all claim to the lands and titles. It may have been on your mind but I have my own life in Tharbad.”  They shook hands.

The Blood-Wights pointed at the book. They were dressed in white cotton underclothes, still damp from their bathing.  “Eh, our robes are still wet.  Can we look?” Alquanessë asked.  “Finculion, I don’t think there were ever pictures drawn of us.”

Haedorial opened the book with pride. “You will love these, I think,” he said, showing a watercolor of the Houses of Healing, Firiel, Kaile and Jonu when he told them who Nirnadel really was.  Kaile nodded approval and he turned the page to show the battle on the Iant Formen and Nirnadel atop the barricade in her armor.  “I drew this from Lady Firiel’s description.  Now, Yüle at the Houses,” he said showing the painting in bright colors of green and red.  “The Winter Ball…  Now, Fornost with King Araphor’s Court.”

The Princess reached out and took hold of it, gazing at the inked image of the young King and then held it to her heart.  She smiled and gave it back.  Next came the Library of Annúminas and the fierce battle with trolls and the dog sorcerer. Then came the Barrow Downs and the wargs with red eyes.  Mercatur shook his head.  “Not my best moment,” he said somberly and Neldis touched his arm.  Then came the ruins of Minas Mellon and the Nurga, the rat demon.  “Not my best either,” the captain added.  “Nearly got turned into a rat demon myself…but for this guy, the bard, saving my ass.”

Haedorial looked over and smiled. “It was my pleasure, dear captain,” he said.  The respect of the mercenary always meant something to him.  He then flipped the page to images of the Beffraen and then the mithril panels.  Next came the new dance with Ciramir, the Council meetings to draft the new laws and the ride to Rivendell with elaborate drawings of Elrond’s home.  “I omitted the part about the pickles, Your Highness.”

Nirnadel picked one up and put it in her mouth in a rather seductive way and then took it out.  “Nonsense.  I demand one to be created now that I understand what my dear nurse was describing,” she said with a hint of awkwardness.  She winked at the crowd, still a little tipsy.  “Oh, what did I just say?  Um, never mind.”

Next came the song that Alquanessë sang at the manor house.  The elf smiled.  “Oh, I do look good.  You’ve done me justice, dear bard.”  Next came the celebratory ball where everyone had a picture of themselves.  The crowd ooh and aahh’d, satisfied with the depictions that Haedorial and his son had created.

“Mindolinor and I will turn many of these into oil paintings when we return.  And we wish to have new royal portraits done of the Princess and her ladies. I daresay that we should update the ones that hang in the Bar Aran and at Thalion,” Haedorial said as he flipped the pictures of the Battle of Castle Amrodan.  “And I will surely draw one of our gathering here when time permits.”

Silmarien pulled out a purple felt sack and put it on the floor.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I do have something of importance to the expedition, which is why I joined,” she said and all eyes went on her.  “For those who don’t know me, I am Mercatur’s cousin, sister to the late Marendil Rhudainor, daughter of Lord Berion Rhudainor.  I was originally to be a hostage in Cameth Brin to ensure the loyalty of House Rhudainor to them and ultimately to Angmar. A wizard by the name of Gandalf the Gray, rescued me and brought me to Tharbad.  I have trained under him for many years now.”  She was a pure Dúnadan and looked no older than Firiel, golden hair and all.  “I told Mercatur that, with Gandalf’s help, my husband, Dirhavel and I developed a substance that we believe may be Silima, the essence of the blessed Silmarils.”

Haedorial gasped.  “What?  This is remarkable.  How did you…?”

Nirnadel was about to speak up when Silmarien continued, “Yes, Your Highness, I remember seeing you that night when you purchased the herbs for the Houses.  We thought you mad and Dirhavel thought you some spoiled noblewoman, looking for party drugs, but I recognized you.”  She then opened the sack and brought out three metal containers.  She opened one and a light burst forth like a sun. “I honestly have no idea if this is Silima or not for only the Eldar can truly answer that.  But, I can tell you this.  It will have devastating effects on the undead, such as the Blood-Wights.”  It was clear that Alquanessë and Finculion were uncomfortable with the container open, so she shut it.

“I can feel it from here and it makes my skin crawl,” Alquanessë said, wincing.  “I cannot say if it is Silima or not, and I have my doubts, but it will do as the mage says.”

Silmarien put the containers back in her sack.  “Dirhavel and I produced this at great cost and effort, so this is all that we have. So, yes, we were greedy as many called us, but it was all for this.  You may coat weapons with the substance and they will have the effect for a limited time. There is only so much so I suggest that you use it wisely.”

Mercatur leaned over and held her shoulder.  “I was…I was pissed off that you hid from me all of this time.  But your coming could not have happened at a better moment. You kept us all alive at Castle Amrodan. You and your stinking magic,” he said with a wink.  “So why now? Why’d you reveal yourself to me now?”

“This is the most dire threat to the north since the coming of the Witch-King.  Dirhavel wished to use this against him to save Cardolan, but we have to act now.  Here. We couldn’t wait.”

Nirnadel also reached out and put her hand on Silmarien’s other shoulder.  “And I thank you for what you and your husband have done.  Cardolan owes you a great debt, good mage.”

She waved her hand.  “Don’t thank me yet, Your Highness.  If…when we defeat Thuringwethil, I’ll gladly take the thanks then.”

Alquanessë pointed to the sack.  “I can tell you that I hate whatever is in there, but this is the best I have felt since Thuringwethil revealed herself to us.”

Mercatur nodded.  “Agreed.  Well, we best inspect the camp.  As much as I’m dreading it, I’d like to set off in a few days.”  He pointed at Nirnadel.  “And as much as you want to, you are not going.  You will stay here where we will have an escape plan if this all goes bad.”

She made a sour face but nodded.

“I would like to wait until Gildor’s return,” Alquanessë offered.  “He will have important information from Lord Elrond about how to…to end my siblings permanently.”  It was clear that she was conflicted.  The bard could empathize.  Killing family would never be an easy thing to contemplate.

“I had hoped that he would’ve returned by now,” Mercatur countered.  “If we wait much longer, it’ll begin to cool here, and snow is likely to follow soon thereafter. We do not want to be caught in the snow of Rhudaur, even if friendly territory is nearby.”  He thought for a moment.  “I’ll keep it in mind, but I want to have a plan for either way.  We need to have a path of escape if this goes bad or if we get caught in the snow.”

“If it comes down to it, we will draw attention to ourselves to allow your escape,” she said seriously.  “This has always been our battle, but I am grateful to have allies.  And we will stand watch at night and sound the alert of any attack.  The night sky will no longer be safe.  Thuringwethil’s greatest weapon is terror.  Even the kingdoms of the Noldor quailed at rumor of her flight.”

Haedorial gulped hard.  Would this be their end?  He prayed that Gildor would return soon with the wisdom of Lord Elrond.  Anything to bolster their chances.  “I have read the lore, good lady.  I wish I could offer something other than my words of encouragement.”

She nodded.  “Should we remain here long, horror and despair will infect us. We are…caught between a rock and a hard place.  We will need you, sir, to keep our spirits up.  Anything to not give in to that.  It may very well be the difference.  And remember the vision of the Ainur that I shared with you.  She knows that we are here and will issue challenges to us shortly,” the elf continued, pointing to the sky.  “She will attempt to drive us mad first, weaken us.  Do not give in.”

Mercatur and Jaabran stood, the Haradan even seeming subdued.  “Alright, I want to march in four days, but we wait for Gildor as long as we can.  When we roll the dice on this, it’s for good. There’ll be no redos so we need to get it right.  We almost had disaster at Castle Amrodan because I didn’t see all angles.  If anyone has other ideas, I’m all ears.” He gave a wan smile before heading back down to the camp.

The bard took a drink of fruit juice and a bite from a pear.  “He puts too much pressure on himself.  One cannot see everything.  But I do empathize with him.  So much is at stake.  We cannot fail.”

“We have to do all we can to help him,” Neldis added.  “I feel so useless.”

Nirnadel shook her head.  “No, dear nurse.  You were invaluable at Castle Amrodan.  You have more than earned your keep.  Our time will come again, make no mistake.  I know that I will chafe at being left behind when I should be with them, helping to inspire and keep the faith,” she added with a tinge of regret.

Alquanessë chuckled.  “Don’t feel so bad, Your Highness.  We will all play our part, and every part will be important. And…I see that you have filled out a little.  Good.  And, maybe later, I’ll show you some ways to handle that pickle,” she said with a sly look.

Neldis put her hand up with a snicker. “I think I can add a thing or two. Don’t worry, you’ll be ready for your wedding night.”

Nirnadel lay back again, putting her hand on her forehead.  “Ohh, that…whatever it is, was…it is strong.  And, whatever you do, do not start calling me the Pickle Princess.  Perish the thought.”

The Tirthon - Ivanneth (September) 12^th, 1410

Mercatur

The camp setup went smoothly under their watchful eye.  Maelil had the kitchen up and running yesterday and a cartload of supplies came in from Rhudainor Manor.  The men drilled in the field, marching and sparring, keeping ready for anything.  Still, he knew that they would be a hill of ants before Thuringwethil.  Blogath had dominated them with a wave of her finger and her ‘mother’ was even more ancient and powerful, very likely a Maia, for whatever that was.  These names and places were essentially meaningless to him. He could barely comprehend what Alquanessë was, other than a stunning woman who liked to fly around bare.  All of this had been just fairy tales to him growing up, his mother reading to him of dragons.  All hogwash until now.

The sun was setting, and he looked out along the road to the east for any sign of Gildor.  He wanted to set out in three days if the elf didn’t return.  Was he resolved?  Not even close.  So many things could go wrong.  So many ways that they could all die.  And it would all be on his shoulders.  He was never meant to lead.  His father called him a wastrel, a shadow of a man, unfit to assume the mantel of the cadet branch of House Rhudainor.  Even when his parents died of the fever a few years ago, his father’s only words were in a letter.  ‘It’s yours. Don’t disgrace the name.’  And Mercatur felt nothing at reading the man’s last message to him.  Lord Berion Rhudainor, brother to Lord Tondor Rhudainor, the father of Marendil, was just a name to him.  Just words on a piece of paper…not a father.

Part of him wanted to shout out his success in defiance of his father, but it wasn’t worth it.  Why waste his breath?  He did remember his mother with fondness.  She was kind but cold, living in her husband’s shadow.  Why couldn’t he feel anything when she passed?  He didn’t even bother attending the service.  It was the hard heart of Rhudaur, he told himself. Standing atop the Tirthon, he found himself pensive, consumed with bothersome thoughts that he would not have had a year ago.  As the sun set, he shook his head.  Gildor wouldn’t be arriving today, most likely.

He headed down, back to the camp where he belonged, passing through the kitchens.  Maelil and the cooks were hard at work, putting food into pots and platters, the clang of utensils ringing out and the smell of thick stew filling the room. Loaves of bread were being cut and portioned out with Firiel and the nurses helping.  They made it a point to pitch in with other duties when their services were not needed in the infirmary, something that he was grateful for. No one was shirking here.  They all knew the stakes.  Win or die.

The cook, in her white apron, covered in stains, looked over to him.  “Oi, Cap’n, supper’ll be up in just a bi’.  You go on now, get yerself comfy.  You’ll ‘ave a full belly soon.”

“I’m in no rush, Mae.  Feed the troops first.  I’ll be by.”  He went into the yard to see the men gathered, sentries still stationed at key points.  They could not be too careful from here on in.  The mood was somber as the light faded in the west.  Morale was going to be an issue if this went on.  While he would wait as long as he could for the elves, things would start to fall apart if they delayed too much.  It might be better to just face them with what he had. Roll the dice.  He had always been a good gambler, and he never put much trust in…magic.

He walked the perimeter, talking with the sentries, making sure that they were looked after.  “Nobody goes anywhere alone, you hear?” he would say as he patted them on the back.

He was joined shortly by Nirnadel and her ladies.  “Good Captain, we thought we would join you on your inspection.”

He narrowed an eye.  “We?  I thought you put the Royal ‘We’ behind you?”

She gestured to Galadel and Kaile. “We…I mean the three of us.  I would like to observe and learn your method. I am making it a point to learn all aspects of ruling a kingdom, from the mundane to the extraordinary.”

Mercatur grunted an approval.  He figured she was mature enough to hear the truth of things so he wouldn’t hold back with false pleasantries.  “Hah, you got me.  I suppose that makes sense.  Sure, come on.  I want to make contact with all of the sentries to make sure that they’re paying attention and alert.  I remember when I was just a butt mercenary on my first gig.  I worked the barges on the Gwathló beforehand so I was a young, strong buck,” he said, flexing his bicep.  “I’d been in enough bar fights, but this was different.  We had a company of twenty back then…rest most of their souls. I figured it would be every man for himself, but Jaabran and Captain Telchanar…they looked out for everyone.”

He ushered them to the next sentry post, past the stables where the wagons and mounts were kept, stable hands cleaning out the stalls and spreading hay.  The number of people supporting the expedition almost outnumbered the cohort, all necessary to keep things running smoothly.  “See that?  Everyone matters here.  Everyone works.”  The company had sixty followers to cook, clean, mend clothing and armor, plus smiths to repair weapons.  “You cannot overlook a single thing that makes the whole company run, from the food to the wagons to the people who fix things...keep it all in mind.”

They approached the four sentries near the pond, the water source.  “Definitely something that we have to guard,” he said as the men saluted with their fists on their chests.

They saw the Princess and began to kneel, but she waved them off.  “No, my good men.  There is a time for such things, but I am not here to interfere with your duty.  Be at ease.  How are you doing out here?  I’m sure you’ll be relieved for supper soon.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” they said. “We stand ready to do our duty.”

She took each of their hands and smiled. “When we return, you will remain under Captain Mercatur and serve him and Cardolan proudly.  I cannot thank you enough for standing and fighting when the Macha Mur stuck the rear of the camp.  I am here today because of you.”

The young men gave each other sly grins. “It was our honor, Your Highness. We still remember you serving us supper at camp.  You…you’re alright.”

Nirnadel made a curtsey.  “I try my best, my dear soldiers.  Have a good evening.”

Mercatur led them towards the palisade wall where larger groups of sentries stood, their spears stacked nearby. “You have the personal touch, if you don’t mind my saying, Highness.  You don’t know how much that means to some young kid with a spear, ready to give his life for some cause that he barely understands.  Whether it be just gold or the Kingdom of Cardolan, it’s just words to the kid from the farm or the fields or the river.  He fights for you.  I fight for you.  That’s something that we can understand.”

He could see that she was touched, nodding slowly, taking it all in.  He wasn’t even sure why he said that.  Fight for gold was all that he knew.  “Your father, he knew that.  Even before the battle, he made the rounds to the different units, him and his sons, greeting, talking, joking,” he added.

“I know and thank you for saying that. He was a man with such a big heart. And you don’t have to hold back, good Mercatur for I know that he made devastating mistakes in the battle,” she said sadly. “I’ve read the reports and spoken to many who survived.  He failed to properly assess just how much of a threat the Angmarim Army was because of inadequate scouting, he moved the army slowly, plodding towards destruction, and did not set a proper guard before the final confrontation.  He was…lax.”

He could see that this was difficult for her.  She idolized the man.  “I apologize, Highness, but you are correct.  I saw it.”

She then looked up at him.  “But if I could say one thing in his defense, he was crushed by the passing of my mother, Queen Lossien.  He was never the same and if affected everything that he did.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, not sure why he did it.  “I didn’t know that.  It…it sheds a light on things.”

She then took him by the hand and pulled him along, looking back over her shoulder with a smile like she did on the dance floor.  His heart skipped a beat.  “Come, good sir, let us continue and then we shall dine on that…that hot stew.  Mmmm, I can’t wait,” she added sarcastically.

When they had finished, they walked back to the camp where men were swapping out the sentries and people were talking quietly, some playing cards or dice.  Lady Galadel tapped him on the arm and then curtseyed.  “Good captain, there is something that I have been playing with in my mind and I wish to consult you.”

He swished his hand.  “Of course, Galadel, what’s on your mind?”

They sat at a table and she continued, “You have, no doubt, seen the similarities in our appearance, Nirnadel and I, for we are cousins.”

Mercatur shrugged.  “Uh, I hadn’t noticed,” he lied.

Galadel looked down for a moment and then back.  “Well, in any case, what do you think of using me as a body double for Her Highness? She has encountered more than her fair share of danger lately and I would be remiss in not helping to alleviate that risk.  What do you think?  After all, we are not only similar in appearance, but similar in manner and speech.”

He nodded slowly.  “I agree.  I will keep that in mind, and we’ll chat more about that.”  It was actually a good idea.  He’d seen it done many times in his days in Rhudaur.  Even the fat merchant on his first gig had a cook’s son who looked similar from a distance and was just as fat.  The kid was dumb as a bag of rocks, but no one was going to speak to him.  Galadel was smart, witty and had all of the social graces to fool all but the closest observers.  Nirnadel’s eyes were a little bigger, a little lighter and her lips had a natural smile.  Why did he even notice this?  He grunted as he dipped his spoon into the stew.

There was another planning session and then he did one last tour of the grounds before turning in as the horn sounded nightfall.  He felt much better knowing that the Blood-Wights were up top, keeping watch. Their tales of Thuringwethil, gliding amongst the night clouds, choosing her prey were terrifying, something that he would no doubt lose sleep over.  He’d feel a lot better if that damn elf would show too.  What was keeping that guy?

In his wool underwear he slid into the sleeping bag on a cot in his tent.  At least he and Jaabran finally merited their own tent now, not like that mass canopy of mercenaries back in the day, belching and farting all night. He kind of missed that though, Captain Telchanar, that old salt from Pelargir, telling stupid and bawdy jokes well past dark.  Shit, he missed the old man.  He could use that wisdom and experience now.

Something felt like it was crawling around inside his head.  Soft at first, like a puff of smoke but growing like an inky cloud.  He shook his head, feeling drowsy but the sensation wouldn’t go away.  He felt himself drifting, floating.  Was he already asleep, that time between consciousness and dreams?  He shivered, feeling cold.  Then, he was on the dance floor of the Bar Aran, Nirnadel pulling him along, looking back over her shoulder, laughing, the sound like the tinkle of bells.  The look in her eyes.  His heart stopped.  What was this?

Then again on the field, inspecting the camp.  Her pulling him along by the hand, looking back over her shoulder.  The image of her was forever captured in a mental painting like that of the bard’s artwork.  Her lips parted in a joyous smile, her eyes twinkling.  A voice sounded in his ear, soft, alluring, no more than a whisper.  You want her.  You can’t deny it.

His breathing shuddered.  She was pulling him into the stable now, into an empty stall full of hay.  She removed her cloak, the one Elanoriel gave her and laid it over the pile.  She came back to him, running her soft hand down his tunic.  She then undid the tie in her hair, her long black tresses streaming down her face and neck. His breathing quickened.  I want you.  You want me too.  I’ve seen it in your eyes, the voice whispered, more forceful now.

He put his hands around her waist and she spun away, giggling, unlacing her bodice, letting it fall away and then the gown and kirtle, leaving her in only a close-fitting white chemise to cover her.  She slid behind him, unlacing his tunic and then his breeches.  He reached for her, but she spun away again, laughing, teasing. She pulled the chemise slowly off of her shoulder and then let it slide down to her ankles, standing there in only white lace stockings and a sly grin.  He gasped. She was everything that he had imagined, soft, demure but with a fire in her eyes.  She knelt down and held him, cradled him and he groaned.  Then, her ruby lips parted, and he thought he saw fangs at first, but they faded.  I have waited so long for you, Mercatur.  I have watched you.  You will be mine.  The voice was stronger, ghostly, inhuman.

His breathing came in ragged gulps as she laid him down on the cloak, her black hair tumbling down onto his chest. She climbed onto him, throwing her head back and he held her, feeling every movement, every moment.  It was ecstasy.  He never dared to dream of being with her.  She looked down at him as he cried out and shivered.  Welcome, Mercatur.  Welcome to my family.  I hope you enjoyed this.  We will be one soon.  Her eyes flashed red and he awoke with a start.

Jaabran was already up, throwing on his armor to the sound of horns.  It was still night, torchlight illuminating the camp.  “Get up!  We’ve been attacked!” the Haradan called and he leapt out of bed, pulling on his chainmail. The horn was sounding from the top of the Tirthon.  They rushed up there as the camp came to life, men scrambling for weapons.  As they crested the top of the steep stairs, Alquanessë and Finculion nursed wounds and one of the sentries lay against the wall, his head missing.

The two stood, painfully, gashes on their faces and chests, their robes torn.  Alquanessë groaned and then stretched her arms out and the wounds faded into nothing as her brother did the same.  “She was sitting there the whole time, staring down at the camp,” the elf said, pointing to a perch at the edge of the wall.  “I only noticed her when I felt something…something off.  The sentry was already dead.  I saw…I saw that she has taken the body of some poor woman for her own.  We attacked but…she was too strong.  Mercatur, we have to wait for Gildor and Elrond.  We cannot win this as we are now, not even with Elrond’s sons.”

He knew that he had let her into his mind.  He had been lax.  Mercatur looked at the body of the soldier and shuddered, this time in horror.

---

Chapter End Notes

I want to play up more of the angle of the stewards and of using a body double for the Princess as well as Mercatur's repressed feelings.