The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137

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Sacrifice

Alquaness, Nirnadel and Mercatur fight against Thuringwethil and her demonic children and sacrifices must be made.

(Some tie ins with The Court of Ardor and The Dark Mage of Rhudaur)

53) Blogath’s Sanctuary - Ivanneth (September) 16^th, 1410

Alquanessë

Comfortable and safe in the dining room with her sibling, the elf continued to play her flute, unleashing the dreamy notes of the Ainulindalë, the song of the creation of the world. The melody floated in the air, a golden mist engulfing the four Blood-Wights who were laughing and dining on her roasted rosemary chicken. She put the distraction of the odd old man from her mind and returned to the bliss of the moment. They had almost fifteen hundred years of peace and serenity since the War of Wrath until this Lord of Gifts offered them a cure and a new life.

She thought about how this Annatar could help them. What would it be to receive the cure from vampirism? She would lose the ability to fly, to read minds and emotions, to heal in an instant, to never truly die. She would lose the incredible strength and speed given to her by the affliction. But what would she gain? She could be among her own people again. She could find someone to be with who wouldn’t try to kill her when he found out…someone whom she wouldn’t someday try to kill, tearing his throat out and devouring his blood. It would not be an easy choice, but she wanted to know if it could be done. And she wanted to find their mother…be a family again.

Sercë waved to get her attention. “Change the song, sister,” she said, almost as a demand, her face perturbed.

Alquanessë paused but shook her head. “But I like this one, sister. It resonates with me.” She did not often find the will to defy Sercë but she felt that she needed to here. Call it…intuition. She put her lips back to the flute.

As the notes of the Ainulindalë danced in her mind and started to clear it, she thought that they had already met Annatar. Yes…yes, they did. Why did she think that they had not? She searched her memory. What happened? That’s right. He turned Sercë against her, splitting the family. He dangled the cure to enslave them, turning her sister into a monster. He used her love and loyalty to degrade her for his power and pleasure. She shook, gulping hard, pausing the music as a cold shiver went down her spine. She balled a fist and saw the old man again near the entrance. Another snippet of memory came to her. Didn’t she find someone? Yes, he was one of the Eldar, a kind and noble elf. What was his name? Where was she? What was happening? Everything was still foggy in her mind, and she couldn’t shake it.

Suddenly, Sercë turned on her, taking the flute from her hands. “You ungrateful cur! We bring you back here. We give you back your family, and you still doubt us? I will drag you before mother and we will teach you a lesson that you will never forget,” she said with a snarl, fangs forming in her mouth as she wrapped a hand around Alquanessë’s throat. Where did this come from? The vision shot through her mind of Sercë choking her in the hot tub of Fountain Baths of Ost-in-Edhil, screaming that she dared to steal Annatar from her. Was this some false memory? Nothing made sense.

The younger sister choked, slapping futilely at the arms that held her. “Sercë,” she croaked. “Why?” She still didn’t understand, thinking that this was three thousand years ago. Then, from the music, more of her memory came back to her. Sercë forcing her to massacre women and children for Annatar’s power. She began to realize that this was all a deception, an illusion, and she played right into it, now feeling the fool. She shrieked, baring her own fangs but her sister’s power far exceeded her own, and her struggle was futile. She was getting weaker, unable to breathe, beating pitifully at the arms that held her. Her eyes darted back and forth, seeing Finculion and Tindómeno frozen.

Sercë…no…Blogath hissed at her, eyes red and blazing. “Skrykalian, you will crawl like an insect before mother and me, begging for forgiveness. You will sate the lust of everyone that we wish, bringing them into the fold, you succubus…you whore. You dared to try and steal Annatar from me. You will pay for your disloyalty!”

Alquanessë’s vision was fading. “Kill me,” she whispered pathetically. “I’ll die before you can do that to me again.” Finding a little fight, she jerked her head and bit into Blogath’s wrist, sucking the blood. Power flowed into her veins, and she knocked the hands from her throat with newfound strength. “You will have to destroy me for all time before I let you enslave me again,” she hissed, wiping the blood from her lips. She knew that she was no match for her sister. It was just a matter of how much pain she could inflict before the end.

Blogath shrieked, the cry of a falcon and feathers sprouted from her skin, her face elongating into a sharp beak, her feet now talons. Her wings unfurled, flinging her elegant robes away as she circled her prey. “Defy me and I will merely tear you, limb from limb and leave you like a worm, rolling on the floor.”

The younger sister trembled, contemplating surrender but then bit her lip in resolve. She would fight no matter the outcome. She would never be used like that again, even if she were destroyed for all time. She unfurled her swan wings, casting off her robes and crouched, ready to defend herself, fangs and claws out, a snarl on her face. Then, an arrow flew by her ear and sank into Blogath’s chest. Her sister staggered back, her falcon cry shaking the room. Alquanessë let out a gasp.

“You’ll do no such thing, Sercë!” a woman’s voice sounded from behind her.

Alquanessë turned to see a woman in silver plate armor, a conical helm over her head that had intricate etchings from an age long past. She wore a cobalt blue and silver surcoat with a silver star on her chest, the colors of High King Fingon. “Morelen?” she said with a gasp. It was her friend from Ost-in-Edhil, the woman who was once one of Fingon’s riders who had been a dear friend of Sercë’s.

Time seemed to snap back with a popping sound and a warping sensation, the world no longer feeling dreamlike. The old man reappeared, staff in hand as Finculion scrambled away and Balisimur shifted into a great eagle with a bloodcurdling cry. Morelen nocked another arrow to her blue recurved bow. “Sercë…Tindómeno, we were friends. We rode together and fought together. Stand down!” she ordered. Alquanessë ran behind her and Gandalf, seeking protection.

Blogath changed back into a woman and let out an evil, disdainful laugh as she ripped the arrow out, healing instantly. “You! Friend, huh? Always grasping for glory over everyone else, fawning over your precious captain. I could see how you manipulated him for your own favor, always receiving the best things in the company,” she said with a sneer. “And then, in Ost-in-Edhil, you and that worm behind you tried to take him from me! From me! But we defeated you and destroyed that city.”

Morelen lowered her bow and shook her head. “No Sercë, it was never like that. We fought Morgoth together. We tried to save Fingolfin but failed…us, together. I searched for you when you vanished, sneaking into Tol-in-Gaurhoth to find you because we were sisters in the company. And Annatar…Sauron, he used us all. He was the one all over Alquanessë and I. We didn’t want that. He divided us, made you think that we were behind it. We never wanted to be with him. It was all in your mind.”

Blogath put her head down, thinking, her eyes searching for a memory. “No…no, it was…he was…he wanted me. You lie!” she cried, baring fangs again, her face twisted. The Dark Lord’s cultlike hold over her was formidable. Alquanessë remembered how he poisoned her mind, day by day, week by week, from loving sister to vicious monster. Blogath sneered. “Mother will drag you by the hair and the two of you will become our succubae! Your screams will nourish us!”

Alquanessë put her hand out, feeling her sister’s mind, sending out tendrils of power to pierce her mental defenses and find some angle to use, some way to resolve this peacefully. Something clicked. Maybe this was a way in. As horrible as her sister was, maybe she could be saved. “Sercë, Sercë, please listen. You don’t want a larger family, do you? You want it to be just the five of us. You don’t want anyone else, right? We can be that. No one else,” she said in a soft, soothing voice, her palms out in a sign of peace. “I want my sister back…our family back, please but not like this.”

Blogath shook, her eyes blinking. “No…no one else,” she said sadly. “Why? Why does mother think that we need more? I…I don’t understand. I pleaded with her.”

Morelen stepped forward, offering her gauntleted hand. “Come back to us, Sercë. Take my hand, my friend. There is still time.”

Blogath took two steps forward, her face softening, her breathing shaky. Then, her eyes narrowed and blazed red. “There is no time, daughter of Morgoth!” she shrieked and then changed into a falcon.

Gandalf held out his staff and a beam of light blazed onto the Blood-Wight. She cried in pain and flew by them out the door in a flash. Balisimur threw a chair at the wizard who dodged deftly for an old man. Finculion grabbed Balisimur by the arm, his fangs bared, sinking into his brother’s wrist. Balisimur cried out and then swatted him away as two arrows sank into his chest in rapid succession up to the fletchings. Alquanessë had seen the power of Morelen’s archery before.

Balisimur howled and grabbed a massive two-handed sword from the wall and darted ahead, slicing at Morelen as Alquanessë dove out of the way. She would just be a burden in this fight as her strength was as a child’s before her brother. Morelen dodged and the sword smashed a chair into splinters. Gandalf smote him with the staff in his face and the Blood-Wight staggered back, blood flying from his nose, allowing Morelen to draw her curved sword that was forged of some black metal, etched with runes.

Finculion leapt onto his brother’s back, sinking fangs into his neck. Balisimur groaned in pain and then spun his sword rearward and shoved it through Finculion’s body. The younger brother’s face registered shock as he slid down and slumped on the floor.

“No!” Alquanessë screamed and her wings carried her to her brother. This couldn’t be happening. Balisimur turned to strike her down, but Morelen darted in and cut his left arm to the bone. With one good arm, he swung back, striking the elf in the side on her silver armor with a clang!

Morelen staggered and cried out in pain but delivered two swift diagonal cuts down Balisimur’s chest as Gandalf cracked him on the head with his staff. Blood flowed down the older brother’s chest and arm, and he tried to heal himself. “Not this time!” the wizard shouted and pushed his arm out, hurling the Blood-Wight into the wall, cracking stone.

Balisimur unfurled his eagle wings and flew at his sister. “I will take you with me, you traitor!” he shouted in rage, his eyes blazing and fangs bared. Alquanessë’s eyes grew big, knowing she could not get out of the way. She winced just before he would crash into her. Gandalf unleashed another shockwave and the Blood-Wight crashed to the floor, struggling, blood gurgling from his mouth. As he stood, Morelen rushed at him, shoving her blade through his chest up to the hilt. Blood erupted from his mouth and gushed from the wound as he sank to his knees. He blinked, his breathing coming in rapid gasps as she twisted the sword and he cried out in pain. Then, on his knees, he trembled, his eyes focusing as if were coming out of a dream. “Morelen…it’s…it’s you. How did you get here? The riders? Where…is Fingon?” he said in a near whisper as he collapsed to the ground.

Alquanessë shrieked in sorrow as she cradled Finculion, her two brothers mortally wounded, the family forever torn asunder. “No, please stay with me! You can’t leave me!” she cried, rocking as she held him. He would return, but it would be years.

Morelen wiped her blade and held her from behind, grasping her tightly. Both women had seen so much death…so much pain. Finculion’s eyes blinked slowly, painfully. “Go, my sister…Morelen, my comrade. Finish it. Have…have Elrond take the vampire from my spirit. I will go…I will go to the Halls of Mandos and face his judgment. Maybe…maybe he will have mercy on me. Maybe I can see my wife…Ectelissë and my daughter. It’s been so long. Go, go finish it…” he said as he touched her face with a bloody hand, a weak smile on his lips.

“No, no, no!” his sister cried. “We will be together, you and I. We are family. Heal yourself!”

He shook his head, his breathing raspy, fading. “I…I have not the…power of the blood. And I will not take another life to save mine now.”

She bared her fangs and put them on her own wrist. “Here, take mine! Take my blood. I’ll heal you,” she begged him, forcing a smile. It would all be fine. They could be together again. She could remember no other life than that of a vampire with her brother at her side, protecting her.

Finculion weakly pulled her arm away from her mouth. “No, you will need all of your strength to…to fight. No…it is my time. I will…await you here.” His breathing was shallow and rapid. He wouldn’t die, but he was fading fast.

Gandalf raised her up. “Come, he is right. We must finish it. We will return with Master Elrond and grant Finculion the honor of the death he wishes.” He turned to Morelen. “It is good that you arrived when you did. Welcome. We must discuss your…lineage later.” He turned and cast a web on Balisimur. “That will keep him from moving until Elrond can cure him and allow him to pass. Come, let us go.”

Alquanessë looked back at her two fallen brothers as they departed. In a matter of minutes, she had gone from an illusion of her once happy family to it forever destroyed. She trembled, wiping her eyes as Morelen put her arm around her waist. “I’ve got you,” Morelen told her. “I received your message. Now I cannot understand how you feel. They were my friends, but they are your family. I am so sorry.” The two women were the closest of friends until Sauron corrupted the family and destroyed Ost-in-Edhil. She remembered flying above the fall of the city, watching Morelen ride with the knowledge of the Noldor that Celebrimbor had given her. She remembered wanting to fly in and help Morelen or save the great smith, but she was too much of a coward.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I wanted to help you escape Ost-in-Edhil…I wanted to save Celebrimbor. I saw you from above, but I was terrified of Sauron. I’ve failed everyone that I ever cared about! And now my brother will die because I hid behind you!” she said, sobbing, ashamed of everything that she was.

Morelen pulled her tighter as they walked down the corridor. “I didn’t want to flee the city. I wanted to fight alongside of Celebrimbor, but I would then be dead too. I was able to bring so much knowledge to Gil-Galad, and we crushed Sauron in the end,” she said with determination. “And I never told you this, but I saw Fingolfin, Fingon, Orodreth and Turgon slain and I was helpless, afraid. I saw the High King fight Morgoth and I sat on my horse and watched. I wanted to charge the gates of Angband, but I slunk away like a coward. We will win today, and we will avenge those that we love.”

The Blood-Wight nodded silently, weeping to herself. Then, she tensed her muscles and balled her fists, turning her sorrow into rage. “Thuringwethil will pay! Even if it sends me to the Halls of Mandos or even to the endless void, she will pay!”

Nirnadel

Her mind screamed in horror as she struggled futilely against the magic that held her helpless as a babe. How could she have been so stupid? Now everything would be lost. She imagined the north, overrun with vampires, werewolves and other undead creatures, over fifteen hundred years of civilization and culture obliterated, because of her stupidity and weakness. In her mind, she begged the Valar to save her. Please, please, please, her thoughts kept repeating. She would become a slave of the demon, killing at her whim, being an instrument of destruction for all that she held dear.

She bit her lip hard as Thuringwethil bathed her lovingly, almost motherly with the sponge. Her mind raced. Get a hold of yourself! Tears and terror would not save her and she knew it. But a thought might, an idea might. Did it come from wise Manwë or powerful Varda? She didn’t care at this point. She willed her body to relax and imagined the sublime music that Alquanessë taught her.

“My name is Lindarë, mother. How may I please you?” she said, her voice quivering. If she said that she were not terrified, she would be lying. But her mind was all that she had to survive…to fight.

Thuringwethil rinsed the sponge, her expression changing from motherly to that of a lover and put it back between the Princess’ legs. “What was that, Nirnadel?”

The Princess forced a dreamy smile. “Who? There is no one here by that name,” she said, remembering what Alquanessë told her about how the vampire had turned the elf, robbed her of her identity. Nirnadel allowed herself to let out a contented sigh, spreading her knees. She wanted to vomit but tightened her stomach to hold it all in.

The vampire looked surprised, her mouth open. “Oh my. I had not expected you to yield yourself to me so soon. Humans bend to my will more quickly than elves, I have found.” She stroked Nirnadel’s face as she kept the sponge moving. “This is a pleasant surprise.” The princess began to quiver.

“Yes, mother,” Nirnadel answered as sweetly as she could. “I am young and weak, but you will…oh, you will give me…give me strength,” she said, her breathing more rapid, her body moving with the sponge. She kept the music of the Ainur in her head, shifting her thoughts, trying to keep her soul hidden. She blew out a quiet breath to the other room, a message, a cry for help. Stay calm. Stay in control. Only your mind will save you. “I…I will…oh, I will rule by your side, mother,” she whispered, putting on the expression of ecstasy that Kaile had shown her, eyes closed and mouth open. She pushed against the vampire’s hand.

Thuringwethil smiled. “Oh, my daughter, you squirm so well. Now sing for me.”

Something moved at the door. It was time. It was all or nothing. The words came to her, and she sang them out in defiance,

“Oh stars, your light I send,
Oh dark heart, I will weave your rest,
Remain shadow, your breath shall fade,
The star shines in the land at night,”

It was part of the Lay of Leithian, the story of how Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel recovered a Silmaril from Morgoth’s iron crown, enchanting and defeating the Dark Lord. It was a tale of hope and love and triumph over impossible odds. It was the conquest of light over darkness, good over evil.

Thuringwethil recoiled, her face twisted. “What? What is this? Stop that! Stop singing that!” Fangs sprouted and eyes blazed in anger. “I will finish you right here, you miserable whelp!” she hissed, reaching out in rage as Calarmë pounced on the vampire, biting and clawing at her exposed face. The vampire fell backwards, screeching, stumbling over her own feet, the cat leaping away, hissing, arching her back.

The enchanted bindings around Nirnadel evaporated, and she rolled up, taking her longsword from the scabbard at the vampire’s hip. She didn’t care if she died here. It was all or nothing. She began striking Thuringwethil with all of her might, over and over, no technique, no method, just fury, screaming with every blow.

Thuringwethil staggered back under the assault, shielding her head with her arm, the mithril anket hammering on the armor as Calarmë hissed and snarled. “You treacherous bitch!” the vampire howled. “You will watch as all of your friends die, slow, horrible deaths!” she shrieked and changed into a bat, fleeing as the empty armor fell to the ground.

Nirnadel paused, her breath coming in gulps. Was she safe? She frantically looked around, her eyes huge. The room shimmered and faded to a gloomy empty chamber, ancient dust on the floor, except for where a bed once was. She began to shake uncontrollably and sagged to her knees as Calarmë and Gîliel came up to her, purring and rubbing their faces into her leg. All of the fear and fury pent up in her came flowing out and she balled her fists around the handle or her weapon. She could see lanterns coming down the hall towards her now and she picked up the two cats, hugging them.

“Safe…gone…bad…gone,” Calarmë meowed.

“Yes, yes, I am safe because of you. I love you so much, both of you.” She could not believe that she was still alive and that her ruse worked. Only her mind had allowed her to survive. She put her hands together in prayer to the Valar, thanking Alquanessë for her words and training that saved her life. They had driven off a demon of unimaginable power, full of the blood of her victims.

Footsteps pounded into the ancient bedroom, lantern lights shining on her. “Oh! Thank the Valar, thank the Valar,” Baranor cried out and ran to her, Kaile, Galadel and Haedorial right behind him along with Carvion the orange cat, who began licking her hand. All four wrapped their arms around her, Kaile and Galadel weeping for joy. “We thought we lost you!” they all said.

Kaile looked at her sideways, wiping tears from her eyes. “I can’t believe that we found you! I was so afraid! But…but, why are you naked? Why did you take your armor off?”

“It’s…it’s a long story,” Nirnadel said, her breathing calming and her stomach settling. For a moment, she thought that this was another mental trick of the demon’s, but she trusted her gut. “I met Thuringwethil…or rather, she met me. She was going to enslave me, turn me into vampire like Alquanessë. I was only saved by these brave and ferocious cats and the mercy of the Valar. Good Baranor, perhaps we can make these courageous felines part of the Tirrim Aran.”

Galadel picked up Nirnadel’s clothes. “Umm, perhaps you might want to get dressed? And Captain Baranor, good Haedorial, could you turn around?”

The Princess snickered and waved her off. “It’s nothing they haven’t seen, and I would prefer the good captain’s eyes were on us until we survive this.” She touched him on the hand. “I am sorry that I was reckless, my dear Baranor. It nearly cost me my life and the fate of Cardolan. I put everyone at risk.” She pulled on her tunic and breeches, and then they all helped with her armor which had a good number of dents and scratches from her mad attack. “You do not know how terrified that I was. She was going to make me her right hand, and I was to rule the north as her vampire slave.” She turned her head down. “I sobbed like a baby…I was so ashamed, but Alquanessë’s training and these wonderful cats saved me.” The three women put their heads together in the middle, arms around each other’s necks in a show of solidarity.

Then, she turned to Baranor, her face red and sad. She had let them down, but she had to be honest. She could not hide this. “My good captain, I am not worthy of your faith,” she said sadly, her eyes down. “In my fear…in my fear I wet myself…like a baby. I am…I am just a cowardly child.” She was so embarrassed. How could anyone hold faith in her now? How could such noble knights respect her, much less follow her?

He blew out a breath and then shook his head, taking a knee. “Your Highness, you were courageous in the face of the darkest evil to haunt this realm other than the Witch-King. I am going to tell you something that might surprise you. In my first battle, I soiled my pants. It was…awful. But any warrior who says that they haven’t done what we’ve done or thrown up is lying or mentally warped. You survived. You faced down that monster, and you are still with us. My faith in you is unshakable,” he said, putting his hand on the pauldron over her shoulder in a warm gesture of assurance. She nodded in relief and smiled up at him. “Come, let us find Firiel for she is still missing, and we have to end Thuringwethil. This is not over,” he told the group.

As they turned, Gandalf came through the door with Alquanessë and another elf, tall and regal, clad in silver plate armor and a blue and silver surcoat. The elf removed her helm, letting her raven hair tumble down. Like Alquanessë, she was a Noldor, ethereally beautiful like something out of a painting.

Alquanessë saw them and let out a sigh of relief. Her eyes and nose were red from weeping, but she put her hands together in thanks. “Praise Varda, you are all alive. We feared the worst.”

Nirnadel ran into her arms. “You saved me! You saved me! Your music, your words saved me! Thuringwethil had me in her grasp. She did to me what she did to you, said that she would turn me in the same way, break me in the same way!”

Alquanessë held her tightly. “Oh no…oh no, I’m so sorry.” Then, her face showed surprise. “How…how is it that you are here? How did you escape?”

“Your music played in my mind, calmed me in my fear. She could not read me then. And good Haedorial, the bardic skill that you taught me allowed me to call for our good cat, Calarmë and even little Gîliel.” She grasped his hand and held it tightly.

Haedorial held up the pouch, the flap and ties ripped apart by claws and teeth. “They could not be kept from you, Your Highness, such is the power of their loyalty,” he said, stroking the cats and feeding them some chicken.

Alquanessë knelt and held the Princess’ hand. “You did what I could not do. You fought her! You beat her! I was…I was weak,” she said, her face turning down, tears running down her cheeks. “And my brothers…they are…they are going to die. I could not save them much less myself.”

Nirnadel raised her up. “I am so sorry. I understand loss and we will honor your brothers, I promise this. But you saved me. I am alive and free because of you…and the cats. It was by pure chance that we discovered Thuringwethil’s weakness.”

The wizard tapped his staff with an, “Ahem.” I dislike having to ruin this beautiful moment, but we must go. This is not over. Come, follow me to the temple and be prepared. Her rage at being driven away from her prize is bringing her to madness. I can feel it…she is draining the life from her followers to fuel her revenge. We have no more time to waste.”

Nirnadel lowered the visor of her sallet helm with a snap of the metal, a sound that signified her resolve. She grabbed Alquanessë’s hand and squeezed it, sisters not in blood or even race, but in soul. Then, she drew her longsword and gritted her teeth. If the demon wanted rage, she was damn well going to get rage.

Mercatur

He was enveloped in inky blackness like being drowned in a swamp at night. Time had no meaning, and he seemed to exist in all times at once. The only thing that grounded him was the feel of Neldis’ hand that he hung onto for dear life. He looked back but could not see anything other than the void, feeling the chill of it. Weird images then passed by as if he were moving quickly. There was an elven tower of white marble and granite, both a fortress and a symbol of elegance in the style of the High Elves. It fell under siege as three massive volcanoes erupted, spewing orange magma onto a grassy plain. The image had no meaning to him other than seeing Alquanessë and her mother fighting off orcs, only to have the vampire, Thuringwethil swoop down and drag them into the air, screaming. The scene flowed by, passing behind him as a new one formed.

An island of horror coalesced, filled with werewolves and creatures beyond human imagining. They haunted another white tower that was now stained and desecrated. In a dank and filthy cell, Thuringwethil tormented Alquanessë and her mother, draining the younger elf’s blood and feeding it back to her. The vampire renamed her Skrykalian, stripping her of her very identity and soul and doing the same to all of her siblings right in front of their mother, who was nearly mad with grief, gibbering and sobbing.

Then, Thuringwethil was gone, summoned to perform some foul deed but the scene shifted to a massive hound, as big as a horse, ripping her throat out followed by an elf of unearthly beauty cutting the vampire’s skin away and wearing it as a disguise. Was this event that Nirnadel sang of? It was something so unreal to a Rhudauran mercenary that it might as well have been a fairy tale.

Then, whispers and giggles sounded all around him, like a child at play. He tried to pull Neldis closer, but it was like moving through tar. Then there was a loud pop, like a balloon bursting and they stood there in a well-lit hall of mirrors, their reflections on hundreds of panes. He turned back to Neldis and Coru. “What is this? Are we seeing things?” he asked as he touched a mirror and it felt solid.

Neldis came up and touched the same pane. “No, it’s…it’s real. It feels real.”

Then they heard a pitiful wail. It was Silmarien. Other voices sounded in the distance, Hirgrim, Elladan and Elrohir, but they were nowhere to be seen. Mercatur growled. “I don’t know what this is, but we’re going to find my cousin and I’m going to put my axe in that bitch’s face. Come, don’t get separated.” He led them along what looked like a path through the mirrors, still hearing the voices, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. It was impossible to tell direction with their reflections everywhere.

Some of the reflections began to move independently of them, some appearing happy, some terrified. One mirror showed Neldis on top of Mercatur in the act of love. He narrowed his eyes. “This is bullshit,” he grunted and hurled one of his daggers at the mirror, shattering it. “Fine, if that what it takes, we’re cutting through this,” he said, his voice barely containing his anger and frustration. “Stand behind me!” he ordered and began chopping at panes with his axe, smashing them into shards. “Silmarien! Where are you! Call to me!”

There was a scream of fear and pain, and it was close. He smashed several more mirrors, feeling the tiny shards bouncing off of his rigid leather overcoat and his heavy chainmail. His ferocity grew until he heard a shriek behind him. He turned to see the two nurses facing a mirror that was only blank. “What? What happened?” he asked with his axe raised and ready.

Coru pointed at the mirror. “It was in there! I swear it was!” she cried, her face and voice full of fear. “A monster with fangs and red eyes!”

“Not any more,” he growled and shattered the pane with a single stroke, but the creature appeared in another pane, now laughing. It was a woman with a bat’s face, red eyes and fangs, her feet claws with black, bat’s wings sprouting from her back. She pointed at them with a taloned finger, snickering.

“I have your beloved princess,” she said sweetly with a sinister grin. “She is my plaything now and you know what I do with my playthings.” Mercatur smashed that mirror, but the demon appeared in another one, laughing, toying with them. “She sang for me. Her voice is so beautiful when she sings in pain and ecstasy. Can’t you see her face, brave mercenary,” Thuringwethil continued, her form changing into Nirnadel’s, nude but for black stockings, gloves and a bejeweled velvet choker. Her face bore an expression in the throes of love, her hands on her own body. “You like this, don’t you? Come to me and I will give her to you. The two of you will rule the north in my name. King Consort? Isn’t that what you told the healer?”

He smashed that mirror with a growl, but she appeared in another, still as Nirnadel, her hands caressing herself. “Come to me, my good Mercatur. Hold me in your strong arms and make me a woman,” she said in the Princess’ voice. “I have never felt a man’s love,” she pleaded. “Be my first.” Her mouth formed a wide O.

He snarled. “You’re not her! I have someone,” he said, pointing back at Neldis and then immediately regretted it. He revealed something that he shouldn’t have.

“Ah, I would have found out anyway. Your mind is as weak as your body is strong.” The image changed as laughter filled the mirrored halls. It was the King, a little younger though, in rich robes of crimson, black and gold. He held a dark-haired woman in his arms, pulling her robe off, letting it fall to the floor as his hands caressed her body.

“Mother!” Neldis called out, her face full of surprise and confusion.

“Yes, dear,” the image of her mother said, looking at her as the King kissed her breasts. “This is the truth. You are Nirnadel’s older sister…well, half-sister. You should be Queen by rights. I can give that to you.” The King knelt down, kissing other parts. “But your life was this instead,” the image said and the scene changed to Neldis besides her dying mother who was burning up from fever. Then her in the blacksmith’s home in her room as the son came in and closed the door. Then, she was in the shanty town, dressed in rags with no shoes as the snow fell, followed by a man giving her a handful of coins as he pulled her ratty dress up.

“But you could have the life that you have so longed for, finery, adoration, power.” The image changed to Neldis in a silk royal gown, emerald green and scarlet in the colors of Cardolan, ladies dressing her in foresleeves of ermine, a golden bejeweled girdle about her waist and a necklace of pearls and rubies. The ladies removed her stiff felt hood with golden trim and pearls with a black veil down the back of her neck and placed a mithril crown above her brow as she ate a candied plum dipped in chocolate.

The nurse gasped, one hand covering her mouth. “I…I…,” she stammered, shaking.

Mercatur stood in front of her. “She’s lying! It’s not real!”

The Neldis reflection giggled. “Oh, but it could be,” she said, the mirror showing people kneeling before her, adoring crowds waving as she sat on the throne with the ancient Sceptre of Thalion in her hand. “How would that be? A whore becoming a queen? All of that could be forgotten, my dear. Come to me and I will make it so.”

Neldis blinked hard, scrunching her face, thinking and Mercatur’s heart fell. How could she even consider this lie? He’d been a fool to let his guard down...to feel. He balled his fists. Then the nurse scowled, her face twisted. “Keep your lie!” she shouted in anger. “I will never betray Nirnadel!”

The image of the vampire returned, fangs bared. “Then you will die!” Thuringwethil growled and the image flitted from pane to pane, almost too fast to track, appearing behind the nurse, a clawed hand reaching out from the mirror pane. Coru saw this and pushed her friend out of the way, stepping between them. “Neldis, look out!” she shouted and the claw tore her throat out as the Mercatur and Neldis turned around.

“No!” Neldis cried, drawing her eket. Coru’s hands went up to her throat, blood pouring down her nurse’s apron as she gurgled blood. The hand pulled her into the mirror and Thuringwethil drank.

Mercatur smashed the mirror but there was nothing but laughter as the shards flew away to reveal Coru’s body, her face white and twisted in terror. Neldis sank down, cradling the nurse’s head. “No! Why did you do that? It should have been me! Why, Coru?”

Mercatur howled in rage. “Enough of these games, demon! Fight me or kill me! Enough!”

All of the mirrors shattered as one, glass flying everywhere as the scene and the shards vanished and they now stood in the Temple of Sauron. Tengwar runes covered the walls and on the ceiling was a painting of a golden ring surrounded by fire. Magical braziers sat at each corner, casting a hellish red glow in the room. At the opposite end was a stone slab, the altar of sacrifice with metal bowls full of blood. Bodies of tribesmen, drained, lay scattered about, eyes wide in horror. Thuringwethil and Blogath stood at the altar where Silmarien was bound, writhing about in pain and fear. Firiel was chain next to her, unconscious.

Mercatur closed his eyes. There was no way that he could defeat these two monsters, but he had to try. He pushed one hand behind him. “Stay back, Neldis,” he ordered but she stood beside him, eket held at guard.

“It won’t matter. We win or die together,” she declared. He felt proud and terrified at the same time. He trust had been warranted. The vampires turned towards them, and he knew that their time was short. Thuringwethil raised her arms and the corpses of the drained men shambled up.

He sucked his teeth. “And I thought that this was going to be easy.” This was it. No one else was going to save the north, just him and a former prostitute for whom he actually felt something for. With a battle cry, he sank his axe into one of the undead, the Silima coated blade splitting its head. He hewed about him as Neldis stabbed with her eket, shouting with every strike. Mercatur felt a dagger plunge into his shoulder, the leather and chainmail blunting the stab, the point only sinking in a little. He hooked the attacker with the beard of his axe, pulling the man’s face into his knee. A sword struck his barbute helm with a loud clang, knocking him back. He drew his thick, nêl-i-fingel dagger, a wide bladed weapon meant to rip and tear flesh and drove it up under the attacker’s chin with his left hand. Another sword struck his flank, the chainmail stopping the cut, but he felt it in his ribs. He moved in front of another attack meant for Neldis and a mace struck his helm and he saw stars. He shoved her back, taking up a guard again, shaking his head to clear it.

The two vampires began a chant,

“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.”

He had no idea what that meant so it was all demonic bullshit to him, but it had to be bad. An inky cloud appeared above Silmarien and the mage screamed, turning her head away. With a battle cry, Mercatur bull rushed the mob, hacking and striking, now covered in gore, but little blood came out of his undead enemies. As he felt his arms tiring and his breathing heavy, arrows flew into his attackers, and he heard the sons of Elrond shouting with Hirgrim, Valandil, Jaabran and Dagar. Some help had arrived.

“It’s about damn time!” he growled, splitting another skull. This time a thin dagger plunged through his mail into his stomach and he winced, shoving the spike atop his axe into the man’s eye. He took a step back, feeling lightheaded and Neldis steadied him and Hirgrim advanced, smashing a man in the head with his war hammer. Valandil saw Firiel chained to the altar and let out a feral cry, hacking through the enemy. Arrows continued to fly as the two vampires chanted and began to glow with an unholy light. The undead howled in new strength and moved faster with more power. Hirgrim fell back under the new onslaught as Elrond and Glorfindel entered. How did these elves get here? They should have been all alone, no one to back them up. Well, he wasn’t going to complain. The captain of the House of the Golden Flower charged in, lopping the head off of one and Mercatur stepped back in beside him. “Neldis, get back, we have this!” He could see Dagar, stabbing with his mithril eket and Jaabran’s razor scimitar slicing through the undead. The tide might be turning, and he and Valandil were getting closer to the altar.

Then, after another verse of chanting, the fallen undead rose again with inhuman growls and moans, brutal wounds on their bodies. Killing them had no real effect. But it didn’t matter. Mercatur turned his shoulder and rushed forward, oblivious to blows raining down on his armor. He’d hurt later. Hacking with his axe and stabbing with his dagger, he pushed forward towards the altar with Valandil and Glorfindel. Another blade stabbed him in the back, sinking in an inch past the mail. He didn’t even cry out. He thought he could hear Elrond and some gray wizard shouting some heathen incantation, but he couldn’t worry about it now. The pressure on him seemed to slacken as he heard Baranor and Nirnadel charge in as more arrows flew. Thuringwethil turned and wrapped her bat wings around she and Blogath, arrows deflecting off of it.

He took a moment to glance to his right, and he saw the Princess, her armor battered and dented but hacking at the enemy with her longsword. She waved him on. “Get to the altar! All of us are behind you!”

Blogath emerged from the winged shield and turned to put some spell on him, but she was tackled by Alquanessë, who flew past them. Claws, wings and feathers flew as they tumbled to the ground away from the altar. Thuringwethil was engaged in a battle of wills with Elrond and the wizard, their minds fighting, trying to gain advantage. Flashes of power and energy sparked between them. Valandil rushed around the side of the altar and smashed the chains holding Firiel with his mithril sword. He turned and cut down two of the undead, keeping anyone from getting to the healer. Nirnadel and Baranor fought to get beside him as Jaabran and Dagar ran up.

“Dagar, Jaabran, get Firiel to safety!” Nirnadel commanded and they carried her back. The tied was turning.

With Thuringwethil distracted, Mercatur rushed to the altar and made eye contact with Silmarien, her bare body prepared for sacrifice or some other horror, the inky cloud above them, some demon waiting for a vessel…a body. He cut the leather straps on her left side while Nirnadel cut the right. The mage rolled off of the altar, pain on her face. “Get out of here!” Mercatur ordered her but she shook her head, grabbing her staff lying at the side of the altar with the shreds of her robes.

“We end this now!” she cried as she reached into her pack and coated the tip of her staff in Silima. Thuringwethil turned, seeing this and shrieked, drawing her claws back at Silmarien as three arrows sank into the vampire, fired from Morelen and the sons of Elrond. The demon staggered back, howling in pain and fury and Mercatur raised his axe.

“I’ve been itching to do this,” he snarled, driving his axe into her head. He started to laugh, but she pulled his head to her and sank her fangs into his neck.

“Stand back!” Silmarien cried and slammed her staff down on the altar. A bright flash and a shockwave tore through the room, knocking nearly everyone off of their feet.

Mercatur spun, his world going dark for a moment. Then, he saw the vampire staggering back, holding her burned face and then healing herself as Glorfindel and Gildor attacked her, their bodies seeming to glow with an inner light. He collapsed to the ground, his vision blurry, unable to speak. There was a weird pain in his neck and he touched it, looking at his fingers to see blood. Then, Neldis was kneeling down over him, saying something urgently but he couldn’t hear the words. She shook him but he couldn’t feel it. Numb was good. Then, all went dark.

CODEX

Poleaxe – a pole weapon that is topped by a spear at the tip and an axeblade and a spike just below.

Falchion – a thick sword with a blade more like a machete. Also makes for a good tool.

Anket – a longsword.

Eket – a shortsword akin to a Roman Gladius, mostly used for stabbing.

nêl-i-fingel – a wide bladed dagger, akin to the Spanish Cinquedea.

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Barbute – a conical helmet with a T shaped opening for vision and breathing.

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Chapter End Notes

More on the horror and temptation theme. I want to show Thuringwethil and Blogath as master manipulators, powerful in illusion and deception. And also how normal people can band together to fight.

(Some tie ins with The Court of Ardor and The Dark Mage of Rhudaur) Pics courtesy the module of The Dark Mage of Rhudaur.