The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

| | |

Cleaning House

Valandil and Mercatur move their investigation of the drug smugglers along.  Anariel becomes too afraid and Nimhir has a confrontation.  Firiel and Kaile devise a plan with Haedorial the bard.

The Argond Tower – Hithui (November) 29th, 1409

Hir Duin Tinarë

The aged Hir Calantir sat in his massive green, padded chair unmoving while his family wept around him.  His bent form held the weight of despair.  He spoke quietly to himself, “My son, my son...Varek.” His withered face and wispy white hair gave him the look of death.  His eldest son and heir Varek was slain when bandits burned his castle and sacked the village.  There were too few soldiers of the Hirdom left after the war to guard everywhere at once and the castle was vastly undermanned.

Hir Duin Tinarë and his son Ostomir were visiting to pay their respects.  Seeing Calantir’s paralysis, Duin pulled his son aside.  “This bodes ill for us; Varek was a staunch supporter of the crown and old Celeph cannot have more than two winters left.  I smell Girithlin in this.”  Mablung’s naked quest for the Crown was of deep concern to the other Hirdoms. Duin’s claim was just as strong with his father being the uncle of the late King Ostoher.

Ostomir nodded sullenly.  “Father, I just hope that the grain we gave to Tardegil can bolster our position.”

“That is my hope.  We need Tardegil in a strong position.  He will always be loyal to the Crown and that Crown cannot go to Girithlin.”  Mablung had once been a great knight but his approach to everything was bluster and power.  That would not get them far against Arthedain or Gondor.  He lowered his head to put his palm on his chin. “And the girl…Nirnadel.  I just don’t know, son.  She’s a complete unknown.  I barely remember her from the balls at the Bar Aran when she was just a child.”  To him, she was a sullen, studious child who loved dolls and cats.  How could she rule a kingdom?

Ostomir took a glass of wine from a servant and took a long drink. “I believe we can always count Nimhir and Captain Guilrod as allies.  I think our position may be secure.”

Duin shook his head slowly.  “It’s politics in Cardolan.  The Royal Family was never a strong central government like in Arthedain or Gondor. The lords, us included, hold too much power.  We were actually Ernil, or princes a few centuries ago, all brothers of the king, but King Tarandil reduced us to Hiri.  Still, the King has very little power over us if we decide not to comply with him.  Civil wars are rampant in our history, and another one would destroy the realm.”

He then patted his son on the back.  He was proud of the young man who thought for himself and understood the intricacies of the realm.  “Come Ostomir, we best return to Tinarë before the weather worsens.  Let us say our farewells to the Calantirs.  We will need to find some way to strengthen this house.”  On the way out, he reached down to take Hir Calantir’s hand.  “We are here for you Celeph.  You have but to ask.”

Old Celeph nodded and tried to smile up at Duin, but his face turned back downward in sorrow.

“No father should have to bury his son.  We are truly sorry,” Hir Tinarë said with all sympathy.  “We will have to take our leave now.  Please be well.”

Father and son strode out into the courtyard of the grand Calantir manor where their carriage was waiting.  Ostomir entered, followed by Duin, who paused on the carriage steps.  He licked his finger and held it up.  He shivered and pulled his cloak tight.  “It will be a cold winter.”

The Bar Aran – Hithui 30th, 1409

Chancellor Nimhir

A messenger kneeled before Nimhir, delivering a sealed scroll in a sealed gold case.  “Your Grace, His Highness, King Araphor of Arthedain sends his compliments.” The knight wore a heavy chainmail hauberk under a black surcoat with the arms of Arthedain, a white tree topped with a star and surrounded by Tengwar script.  His helmet was replaced by a felt blue beret, befitting an Arequain, a Royal Knight.

Nimhir took the scroll and nodded to the knight, who then stood a respectful distance away.  The Chancellor wore his robes of state, velvet in green and gold with a golden flatcap sporting a gaudy feather.  “Cardolan thanks you for your long journey.  Please rest and refresh yourself in the main hall.” The knight bowed and withdrew.  Nimhir popped the lid off of the case and removed the scroll, breaking the wax seal of Arthedain and unrolling the parchment.  He read the document with a rare intensity and when done he set it aside gently.  He leaned back, closing his eyes and sighed.  “This could be our salvation, but the timing is all wrong...all wrong.”

Nimhir clenched his fists and then sat for several minutes in contemplation.  He then rolled up the parchment and placed it in his safe, turning the combination dial and locking it shut.  He turned down the lantern and left the room.

In the hallway he was approached by Anariel, who was all out of breath, red faced and her eyes bulging.  The old woman always seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy.  “Your Grace, you must come with me.  I have something very important to tell you. The Princess...  She has been behaving very recklessly, very recklessly indeed.”

This got the Chancellor’s attention and the conversation continued as they walked down the hall.  “Recklessly?  What do you mean, nursemaid?  Tell me.”

Anariel blanched, stepping back, putting her hand over her mouth. “Oh, your Grace, I hate to say this…hate to speak against her.  She has been dragging me around town to help the Houses of Healing.  We were nearly assaulted last night!”

Nimhir stopped, his mouth open and he grabbed Anariel by the arm. “Wait, what?  Tell me everything.”

The nursemaid recounted how they had been going to the Houses of Healing several nights a week for more than a month now to deliver food and medicine and how three thugs nearly attacked them before being killed by arrows.

The Chancellor felt as if he had been gut punched.  The heir to the realm had been putting her life in danger. Sure, it was for a good cause, but her loss would ensure Mablung Girithlin’s ascension to the throne and likely another civil war.  “This…this cannot continue.  I must put a stop to this.  Thank you for coming to me, Anariel.  I will set this right.”

The nursemaid took his hand in hers.  “Thank you, Your Grace.  Thank you.  I cannot endure this any longer.”

The Bar Aran

Baranor

In front of the Princess’ ornate wooden door, two soldiers stood talking.  “Baranor, we can’t keep letting her go out on these forays.  If anyone finds out, we’re dead,” one warrior with a silver breastplate pleaded with his partner outside the Princess’ bedchamber.  His eyes were intense and focused, concerned with some great matter.

Baranor shook his head.  His face showed disgust, his nose wrinkled and his mouth pursed.  “Cedhron, you know that the Royal Guard has protected the Sovereigns of Cardolan for more than half a millennium wherever and whenever they would go.  If that brat Princess goes out, we follow.”  He pointed down to his surcoat, a green field with a red hill in front of a white tree, surrounded by stars.  “This symbol means that we guard the realm and the King or heir that comes with it.  And that we gladly lay down our lives for that person.”

Cedhron struck his mailed fist against the stone wall in frustration, letting out a pained sigh.  “Are you willing to be executed for that little...”  His words were interrupted by the opening of the great bedchamber door.

The guards came to attention, saying in unison, “Good morning, Your Highness.”  The Princess passed without acknowledging them and continued into the garden for her morning walk and devotion to the Valar.

A bead of cold sweat rolled down Baranor’s face, and he shot his comrade a sharp look, whispering, “We will speak no more of this.”

Cedhron shook his head.  “Most certainly if we hang.”

The captain pursed his lips.  It was true that she had not treated them very well. At least since the passing of her mother, Queen Lossien, earlier this year.  And it had only gotten worse since the war.  But he really couldn’t fault her for that.  And her journeys to the Houses were not for her own glory.  The fact that she put herself at risk for the betterment of the sick and for Cardolan had to mean something.  Perhaps there was more to her than he realized.  He resolved to keep an open mind about her now.

The Royal Chambers

Nirnadel

It had been a good day so far.  In the cool Fall morning, Nirnadel strolled the Royal Gardens, listening to the birds sing and smelling the flowers.  She particularly loved the roses and the gardens had ones of all colors, from red to white to pink and indigo.  She knelt before the icons of Manwë and Varda, that flanked an icon of Eru, the One.  She quietly contemplated the majesty of these great powers that she barely understood and said aloud the prayers that she learned from Anariel and her late father. She lowered her head to grassy floor and raised her hands to the icons.  “Please help us bring peace to the realm.  Please bless our people and keep them safe.  Please help us to become the leader that can heal the land.”

Her afternoon was consumed by physical exercise which included swordsmanship, dancing and riding.  Captains Guilrod and Baranor trained her over obstacle courses and with sword work.  She was more than a beginner with an eket or shortsword and was improving, her night with the thugs giving her incentive to learn.  She was already an excellent rider and never turned down a chance to come out to the stable and saddle a horse.  Every royal in Cardolan was expected to be able to use weapons and ride and she intended to perform her duty.  This was a standard since the dark days of civil war after the fall of King Calimendil when his surviving family was massacred in the snow outside of the Palace of Thalion.   

Having completed her daily training, she returned to her room to wash and prepare for dinner.  Clothed only in a linen chemise, she took a wet, soapy cloth and wiped herself down, followed by a dry cloth, scented with oils and herbs.  She inhaled the sweet aromas with a sense of satisfaction. She had been doing good and helping the realm to heal.  There was a knock on the door.

The Princess opened the door with a radiant smile. The adventure of the previous night had left her flush with the confidence of youth.  She felt that nothing could stop her.   

Hmmmm, those thugs…  They must have perished in some foul gang rivalry.  It has no bearing on our work, she pondered briefly, making light off the experience.  Her brush with death left her exhilarated as only an adolescent could feel.

“Why uncle, praythee, what brings you here so early in the afternoon?  Supper is still a ways off and We are not yet hungry.” Nirnadel chimed.  Seeing Anariel behind the Chancellor quickly changed her tone. A knot began to form in the pit of her stomach.

Did she inform him of our activities?

Nimhir’s stern expression revealed the answer.

“Your Highness, I think you know why.  Let us go inside and speak,” he said brusquely, pushing past the two guards. He motioned toward the Princess’ chambers and followed behind, snorting and clomping his boots on the wooden floor. He shut the door before Anariel could enter, leaving her huffing outside.  Nimhir sat in the plush red velvet chair next to Nirnadel’s vanity mirror. Enchanted lanterns supplemented the now fading sunlight.  Nirnadel plopped onto her massive bed, allowing the netting to shroud her in her discomfort.

“Damn her,” Nirnadel exclaimed.  “The nursemaid has no business revealing our activities. We are doing what it right.”

“Do not blame Anariel,” the Chancellor shot back.  “It was you who was wrong.  She was correct in coming to me.  You are out of control,” he continued, point his finger at her.

Nirnadel’s anger began to rise.  “Uncle, We are heir to the Throne of Cardolan.  We will not be kept prisoner here while the land is ruined...while you play your foolish political games with Hir Girithlin.”

Nimhir rose, shaking his fist at Nirnadel, yelling, “Foolish games! These foolish games save lives and secure your crown, which I might add, sits very precariously at the moment. Life is all fun and games to you! Run around and save the people. If only we all had such freedom. Who would ascend to the Throne if you are killed?  We'd have civil war!  Remember Calimendil?  What happened then?”

Nirnadel was in tears by this time, her thin body shaking.  She remembered being taught about the devastating civil war, which had nearly destroyed Cardolan two centuries ago.  King Calimendil and his heirs perished leaving numerous claimants to the Throne and the kingdom was nearly consumed with strife.  Without a male heir, his widow, Queen Almariel tried to claim the Throne, but the Hiri would not accept an Arthedanian ruler.  She abdicated in favor of Princess Mirien but the civil war was already playing out.  The stories of the Queen and the three Princesses being violated, dragged out of the palace and butchered were horrifying.  Blood feuds and deep mistrust endured even to this day as a result.  Sobbing, she spat, “Fine, what do you want from us?”

Nimhir face softened.  “I…I am sorry that I have made you cry.  I have never done that before and I hope to never again.  However, I must be hard hearted here.”  He took a deep breath and focused his eyes on her.  “Your Highness, as Chancellor of the Realm and Guardian of the Throne of Cardolan I confine you to the Bar Aran until such time as you demonstrate an ability to control your actions.”  With this, he stood and departed.

Nirnadel lay wrapped in her quilt for some time before rising.  She shuffled over to the silver mirror and gazed at her reflection.  With her eyes puffy and her cheeks red, she sat and washed her face.

“We swear We will never cry again.  The land needs our strength not our tears,” she whispered.

The Houses of Healing

Firiel

The herbs delivered by Nel and Anna came as a very welcome relief. Many of the patients were improving and Firiel was finding new strength.  Haedorial the bard was even up and about, munching on crackers.  He still had a black eye and a deep bruise on his cheek, but a smile was on his face now.  Swallowing his last cracker, Haedorial took his empty soup bowl to the kitchen passing Firiel and Kaile.  Bowing with courtly grace he grinned.  “M’lady, this humble bard gives many thanks for his life.  Please tell that brave swordsman that my services are also at his disposal.  I am but a simple ...” The bard stopped mid‑sentence, looking directly at Firiel.  He surely noticed the ladies’ discomfort with his mention of Valandil.

Firiel gave Haedorial a wan smile and quickly changed the subject. “I was beginning to think that nothing would go right.”

Kaile took her queue.  “We really must do something to repay Nel and Anna.”

“Nel and Anna?” inquired Haedorial, tilting his head and listening intently.

“Our mysterious benefactors,” replied Firiel.  “They came from nowhere bringing food, herbs, and supplies.  We have no way of repaying them for their kindness,” she continued.  She was mostly content to just receive the goods from them, but curiosity had been eating at her and the nurses.

Kaile furrowed her brow.  “Perhaps we can retain the bard’s services for this,” she said brightly.  “I have something in mind.” Turning to the bard she continued, “Haedorial, are you familiar with all of the noble houses of Cardolan?”

The bard, flush with pride, responded, “Why of course, fair ladies, of course.  I’m normally one to do all of the talking about lore,” he said, bowing his head in a self-deprecatory gesture, “but my recent brush with death has given me some deep insight into who I am and where I am going.  And I thank you ladies for that.  Back to your original question, please fill me in and what would you like to know?”

Kaile smiled broadly, clearly interested.  “The younger one, Nel, seems to be in charge and she has some really weird mannerism and, the way she talks…weird.  Now, I’ve heard nobles talk and I’m pretty sure she’s a noble. She’s really pretty and her makeup is perfect every time.  That takes some money.”

At one time, Firiel was glad to just let the question be, but her curiosity was coming out.  She struck a pose with her nose turned up and her finger to her cheek.  “Nel does this.  It’s definitely something that she learned, and her speech is always excessively formal.”

Haedorial narrowed his eyes.  “This is…most unusual.  Are you sure?”

Firiel nodded.  “She’s also quite pale and her hands are far too soft for her to have done any manual work. She is extraordinarily well read too. She once told us the entire history of the Kingdom of Arnor and Númenor.”

Kaile chuckled.  “I don’t even know what I had for supper a week ago, much less stuff that’s happened for the last two-thousand years.”

The bard made an ‘O’ with his mouth.  “If we’re talking about Númenor, we’re going back almost five-thousand years to Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first king,” he said proudly.  “He was half elven, but chose to become mortal.  King Ostoher comes from that line, but not directly as he was not directly descended from Elendil.”  He put his finger to his lips and began tapping.  “Well, this begs looking into.  Now, Hir Tinarë has a young daughter, Galadel.  She is of fine, aristocratic breeding and the image of a young, Dúnadan woman.  I’ve heard that she is kind and generous.  Yes, that would make sense.  I think we have your answer.”  He took his glass of wine and raised it to the healer and her assistant.

The Streets of Tharbad – Girithron (December) 1st, 1409

Valandil

“Damn that woman.  Damn her and her crusade,” Valandil muttered as steam came from his breath.  The day was chill with heavy rain and sleet, and the two partners had their cloaks pulled tightly around them.  Would nothing get better?

Mercatur grunted, “Blondie, eh?  I knew she was no good.  Too uppity, that one.”  Valandil grunted in return.  They stood near the wharf on the North Bank near Liam the Grocer’s, watching and waiting in the lightly falling snow.  The two were soon to be rewarded.

Michl, the short Dunnish boy working for Liam, came out of the grocery and made his way to the North Bridge. Valandil backhanded Mercatur. “Let’s go.” The mercenary fell into step beside the sergeant.  The soldier was hungry for something good to happen for a change.  And come what may, he fully intended to return 300 gold crowns to the Houses of Healing, Firiel be damned.

The plainly dressed Michl crossed the bridge and turned right toward the docks.  He stopped outside the residence of an old sea captain and looked around. Valandil and Mercatur ducked around a corner.  Seeing no danger, the boy crossed the street and entered the office of the Harbormaster.

“Why did I know he would go in there?” Mercatur shrugged with a smirk.  “You know, this part of town reminds me of Rhudaur.”

After nearly ten minutes the youth reemerged and began heading back.  Valandil motioned to Mercatur and said, “Let the boy go, we can pick him up later. Let’s find out about the Harbormaster’s connection.”

“We’ll try to convince them that we’re outlaws from Rhudaur.  That’s right up my alley,” Mercatur nodded.

Valandil snorted a chuckle.  “And why did I know you were going to say that?”  The mercenary was really starting to grow on him, and he felt that he could trust the man with his life.

The mercenary splayed his hands in mock surprise. “You wound me.  I gotta admit, I think we make a decent team.  You know, you and I could live like kings in Rhudaur. I know this keep that we could take over.  It’s on the trade route so the money’s good and the women!  Oh, the women.”

“Tempting, oh so tempting,” Valandil said.  “Let me think it over.”

Mercatur gave a half smile through this thick beard. “Take your time.  I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

The Harbormaster’s Office

Mercatur

Hallas the Harbormaster was a mixed breed Dúnadan, known as a Tergil, and a large one at that.  He stood six foot four, and was all muscle.  His darkly tanned skin was coarse and leathery from years at sea.  He wore a brown leather tunic and breeches and a dark red sea cap made of wool.  Hallas was preoccupied at the time ‘correcting’ the ship’s cargo logs to match the loads he was actually sending to the noble families and businesses of Cardolan.  At least ten percent of what came through the port of Tharbad never made it to its intended destination.  Hallas had grown wealthy, but not stupid.  He never flaunted his spoils, but had rather hidden it away in a secret location for better days or an emergency.  The entrance of the two broke his concentration.

“Eh, what do you two want? I’m busy,” Hallas croaked as he looked up from his ledger.  Mercatur played on a thick Rhudauran country accent, common among the river boatmen where he had worked for a few years.  “Aye, friend, we be two mercenaries from afar and we be here to meet a ship in Tharbad.  Have you the schedule of shipping?”

Hallas quickly stuffed his books in a drawer as if he didn’t want anyone to see them.  “Err...It’s on the wall, over there.”  He said, pointing at a sheet of parchment tacked to the wall over a fishing net. The walls were covered with old harpoons, spears, nets, and tattered sails.  The smell of the sea was strong here, even this far up the Gwathló River. Valandil scanned the document looking over the names of the vessels that would soon dock here.  A great many were supply ships from Gondor bringing relief cargo to Tharbad.

“I see our ship.  Thanks.”  Valandil smiled, waving to the Harbormaster.  Hallas grunted, anxious to get back to his manifests.

As the two left, he went to the door and bolted it.  “Damn, mercenaries and Rhudauran scum,” he commented to himself.

The Courthouse

Valandil

Valandil knocked on the Eärdil’s back door.  The Minister gave them access to the secret passage at the rear of the courthouse to avoid being seen by any subjects of the investigation.  They were to remain covert, after all.  The Minister opened the door and ushered them in.

“Sir, we have some information, but we need a favor to follow up on our lead,” Valandil stated, bowing before the Minister of Justice.  The Minister sat at his teak desk in a gray and gold trimmed robe.  He wore a gold velvet flatcap with a hawk’s feather along with his chain of office around his neck.  Valandil explained the transactions at Liam’s and the boy’s trek to the Harbormaster’s.

Eärdil nodded attentively and when Valandil was finished he spoke.  “You have made some progress.  It grieves me to hear of the Harbormaster’s possible involvement,” the Minister said, stroking his chin, thinking.  Then he continued, “What is the favor that you ask?”

Mercatur extended his hand as if expecting a handout. “Chiefie, we’re gonna need some fake passes.  Ones that’ll make us out to be harbor inspectors.  We’re gonna see the difference ‘tween what arrives and what gets delivered,” the mercenary said with confidence.

“Very well gentlemen, you will have them by tomorrow morning,” Eärdil agreed, nodding.  Mercatur began to speak, but Eärdil cut him off as if anticipating the question.  “Of course you’ll need some money for bribes,” he said handing over a bag of 200 silver coins to the startled Mercatur.

The mercenary made a half grin and spoke, “you a wizard or somethin’?” He reached out to take the bag.

Suddenly, Eärdil retracted the bag, holding it next to his chest.  “Wait, I think Valandil should hold the coins.” Mercatur gave a hurt look, but smiled. Valandil took the bag, and they both bowed before departing.

“He’s not the Minister for nothin’,” Mercatur commented as they walked out of the secret passage into a back alley.

Valandil nodded with his lips pursed.  “I’m beginning to see your point of view.”  He pulled out a coin from the bag and took a look at it.  It was definitely a silver piece from the Royal Mint of Cardolan with an image of King Minalcar that was stamped over fifty years ago.  “Hmmmm, Thirteen-Fifty-One.  That was a year before the Great Northern War.  It was us and Arthedain against Rhudaur and Angmar. If I remember correctly, Minalcar was brother of the earlier king and was not a direct descendant of Isildur.”

“Eh, whatever.  I don’t know nothing from kings.  But I do know that when this is over, we take our coin to hire some mercenaries and we take that beacon tower in Rhudaur and set ourselves up like the fat nobles around here.  Then, we sit back, relax and enjoy.”

The soldier bit his lower lip and then sucked his teeth.  “That, my friend, sounds better every time you mention it.”  He looked up to see the snowfall beginning to worsen.  Winter was here.

Chapter End Notes

A little tie in with The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.  

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment