The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Sacred Order

After the horror of the demon of Morgoth, Haedorial returns home and sets to work on his life's projects.  Valandil trains with the Tirrim Aran and learns the intricacies of the sacred order of Royal Guardsmen.

56) Tharbad - Ivanneth (September) 22nd, 1410

Haedorial

They stopped at Lord Rhudainor’s manor for a few days.  The three-story residence had such a calm, rustic ambiance with wooden walls painted in light colors with dark trim and wide, glass windows that allowed for much sunlight to enter the home.  Trees were interwoven into the structure thanks to the elves, giving it a natural look.  It was a little oasis in Rhudaur, a nod to a more stable time under the Kingdom of Arnor.

The sense of peace and safety grew with every mile they travelled away from the vale.  It was there that Dagar was reunited with Mirthi and Cicrid and their young son.  It had been a few months, so infant Arthor had grown a little.  The reunion was heartwarming with Dagar rocking the baby and carrying him around in a sling with pride.  It was clear how much he missed them.

Alquanessë remained at the manor as well, creating a memorial of plants to her siblings with Gildor’s help.  It was also there that Elrond and Glorfindel returned to Imladris and Gandalf headed north to Arthedain to counsel King Araphor.  It was bittersweet to see the great members of the expedition depart.  It was like a lively party where everyone finally had to head home.  Elrond promised to send any word of Mercatur’s health, and they rode east with much appreciation and little fanfare.  For the bard, it was a great honor to have worked beside such great persons with so much knowledge and lore.  But, life went on.  Still, it felt like holes opening up in their reality as the group grew ever smaller.

Gandalf went amongst the members of the expedition, offering praise and encouragement.  “My mission to Middle Earth was to provide inspiration and wisdom,” he said with deep seriousness. “While I provided the second, you all provided the first.  Your hearts gave us the victory.  Without your courage we would not be here.”

He touched Haedorial on the shoulder.  “I predict that your name and your lore will still be spoken hundreds of years from now.  Your work is something that the world needs.  I look forward to hearing more from you and your son,” he said. This was an amazing compliment from someone whose life spanned ages.

The bard put his hands together in thanks.  “Good Mithrandir, I don’t know what to say other than I am ever so grateful for the time that I have spent with you and for your patience with me.”  He had picked the wizard’s brain, knowing that this time would come.

Gandalf pursed his lips with a satisfied nod.  “I will be back in Tharbad soon after I meet with King Araphor.  You will see me again in the not too distant future,” he said reassuringly.

He moved onto Silmarien.  “My dear apprentice.  I know that your heart is troubled by what happened.  Your power and spirit are not broken.  It was you who gave the dose of Silima to Thuringwethil that allowed us to kill her.  Your formula allowed us to end the evil Blood-Wights.  I have my doubts that the formula will do what you ultimately hope that it will, but it was critical in our victory in the vale.  But I think that you and Dirhavel should keep the name. It’s a link to our past.  When I am done in Arthedain, I will stop in to see how you are doing.”

“I would like that very much, old man,” she said.

“Old man?” he groaned in mock insult and then started chuckling.  “Well, young lady, you will find that you are stronger than you know.”

He moved on to Nirnadel.  “And you, young lady…Your Highness,” he said with a polite bow.  “Silmarien kept me informed of your comings and goings, especially your nocturnal forays to the Houses.  And then, there was your insane performance at the Iant Formen to end the riot. Trust me, I’d heard all about you. I had feared that the destruction of Cardolan was at hand after the war.  The wise all thought, how could a Sixteen-Year-Old girl possibly survive this?  Now I know.  Not only survive but thrive.  You are supported by some of the best people that I can imagine.  Cherish them.  Now, I will stop in after my visit to Arthedain, and I will tell good Araphor of the events that have happened.  I’m sure that he will be amazed and proud.”  He took her hand and kissed it.  “Farewell everyone, but not goodbye.  I will be sure to bring proper fireworks and pipeweed for any celebrations that may or may not occur.”

The Princess performed a curtsey and then looked up into his eyes.  “Thank you, Mithrandir.  I look forward to our next meeting.  May I say when you will visit us?”

He chuckled again with a wink.  “Well, my dear, a wizard arrives at the proper time, not before and not after.”  He climbed into the saddle and held his staff up, releasing a burst of red sparkles, which the crowd all clapped to.  He spun his horse and sped off into the morning sun.

It was time for the Cardolan party to depart as well.  Lord Oswy and Lord Rhudainor formed an impromptu ceremony with their wives and family.  Lady Éanfled had joined them with Ecegar and a squad of lancers to reaffirm their oaths of fealty to the Princess, each taking her hand and kissing it. Technically, they were standing on Cardolan soil now.  The Princess promised military support should they need it and an invitation to the Yüle Festival.  The Royal Party embraced the lords and their families.  Lady Éanfled wore her signature scarlet gown with a matching bonnet bearing a white feather and a golden chain around her neck, made of pearls, rubies and a golden ‘A’ for House Amrodan.

“Lady Éanfled Amrodan,” Nirnadel began, “to see you again has been a dream of mine.  Your time back in the Royal Court will always be a cherished memory.  Be well, take care of Oswy and I shall expect to hear from you often as you shall hear from me.”

“Princess Nirnadel Aranyónorë, we pledge and affirm our faith to you,” Éanfled told her.  “You have established your place in history as one of the great people of Arnor.  I am sure that Elendil and Isildur smile down upon you as do the Lords of Andunië.  Serving you again has been my greatest honor,” she said with a sniffle and they embraced tightly.

The Princess went to Dagar, his family and Alquanessë. “My Lord Rhudainor, I shall miss your wit and humor.  I beg of you to care for your lovely family,” she said, framing them with her fingers like a painting.  “I shall keep this image of joy in my heart and always know you as a man who is good and true.  Your courage inspires me,” she said fiercely.  He knelt and kissed her hand.

“I swear that I am still in a dream.  The Good Princess Nirnadel staying in my home and dining at my table.  I hope that Haedorial will send me a painting of that so I will know that it was real,” he said, rising and holding his hands over his heart.

Haedorial chuckled.  “I already have a sketch made.  You will be the first to receive that painting.”

The Princess and the bard then held Alquanessë’s hand. The elf seemed conflicted.  “My good Alquanessë,” Nirnadel began, “does something trouble you?”

She nodded, pushing her hair behind her ear.  “I have grown fond of you all,” she said.  “And I am torn at this parting.  I still mourn Finculion and what my other siblings used to be.  Forgive me, but I have become attached to all of you. Gildor will stay for a while and promises to visit often but there will be a hole in my heart until I see you again.”

“There will be a hole in mine as well, good lady,” the bard said, squeezing her hand.  It went both ways.  Seeing her as a bard, dancing and playing, was an inspiration.  She was not a Blood-Wight then, not a vampire, not a demon, she was a masterful musician, bringing joy to people.  “Not to sound blasphemous, but I felt that I was watching Nessa when you danced.  It was…sublime.”

Morelen then approached and held her hand as the others stepped back.  “When I heard that the Blood-Wights had been slain, I thought I’d never see you again. Hearing that you were alive, I had hoped that we would again meet.  I am so sorry about your siblings, but I am so glad that you survived.  You’ll be hearing more from me and, when I return to the Guild, I will let your mother know everything that has transpired…well, the good parts.  I suspect that she may wish to visit you here or, you and Lord Rhudainor are always welcome in the south.”

Alquanessë hugged her.  “I would like that very much.  We will discuss it.”

“You could always send one of your messengers,” she said jokingly and they giggled about her swans.  “I would have Captain Ferui come and pick you up.  On the Bregolaph, the journey is very swift as she is the fastest vessel in Círdan’s fleet.”  She looked at the Princess and the bard.  “Well, it looks like I will be visiting Tharbad as your guest.  Please, lead on.”

Haedorial had been feeling a void in his heart at leaving his friends behind but having Morelen visit them was another gift.  And now, with the border and roads far more secure, the leisurely ride from Tharbad to Rhudainor Manor was less than a week and Castle Amrodan, nine days.  There was no excuse now not to visit.  The bard embraced Dagar and his family.  “I will see you all for the Yüle Festival.  You will have a front row seat at Thalion, my friends,” he told them. “And the courtesy of the Royal House.”

Sergeant Fendir had the cohort in column of march, led by Jaabran.  The Haradan looked back at the men.  “You are all heathen dogs, but you are my fighting heathen dogs!  Cohort, prepare to march!”  These were not the same green farm boys, shepherds, fisherman, cobblers and cattlemen who marched out of Tharbad back at the end of Cerveth in the heat of summer.  Now, the skies were mostly gray towards the end of Fall and the cohort stood, ramrod straight in orderly lines, spears held proudly.

The Tirrim Aran mounted next, along with the Royal Party, followed by the supply wagons and camp followers, all waving to the Rhudainor and Amrodan Families.  Dagar held his son’s hand, waving back to them.  Haedorial looked over his shoulder all the way down the road until he could no longer see his dear friends.

They stopped in Fennas Drúinen for a few days at the request of Mayor Eston.  Crossing the border was a great relief for everyone.  The inn and several houses were offered up to the returning party and they graciously accepted.  The mayor hosted the Royal Party at his home.  “I am delighted to have you here.  You do not know how proud we are of all of you,” the mayor told them at the dinner table.  “When you left, everyone here was on edge.  We had the militia ready for anything.  When word came of your victory, there was weeping in the streets for joy.  The last war was hard on us all so you cannot imagine the relief.”

Nirnadel stood and raised her brass goblet.  “I offer a toast to good Mayor Eston.  He and Fennas Drúinen are Cardolan!  I have seen the true heart of our people here, in the countryside.  Fennas Drúinen kept the Angmarim from crossing the river and made them pay dearly for trying to destroy us.  Cardolan is now strong because of you and your town.”

The next day they visited the graves of those who fell in the war, a somber moment.  These were the men and women who manned the walls of the town, throwing rocks, pouring flaming oil, beating back the orcs and forces of Cameth Brin.  And they sacrificed for it.  It was Dagar’s counterattacks on the enemy’s rear that kept the town from falling.

On the day of departure, the townspeople lined the road out of town, waving banners and cheering.  The teenaged villagers screamed in excitement, leaping up and down, awaiting a view of the Royal Party.  People danced the dances that they had brought into the culture of the realm as a band played.  Haedorial’s heart was full, seeing the people of Cardolan come together, throwing flowers on the road in front of them.  A teenaged girl ran from the crowd and handed him and the Princess posies of roses, tulips and orchids.  Then others ran up with flowers for the troop, one girl putting a flower in Sergeant Fendir’s spangenhelm.

Mayor Eston and his family awaited them at the edge of town, turned out in their best attire.  He wore a blue velvet doublet with his gold chain of office and a deep green bycocket hat with the brim turned up and folded in the back with a point at the front. His wife, Thurenil, stood in her blue silk kirtle with a white veil around her hair while the children danced around them.  They bowed low.  “To the heroes who saved the north, our town is forever open to you,” Eston declared. “We wish you a safe journey home and bless you all!”  He kissed the Princess’ hand as she stopped to bless them.

Next came the town of Alanora, then came Nilrenhil and Morvalen, with nightly stops at each where Haedorial and Mindolinor recorded the visits.  Every mayor came out with the people to wave banners and greet the returning party.  They had been told the stakes and were prepared for an onslaught of darkness should they have failed.  They were amazed to find that the Mayor of Morvalen, Theodwyn, was a woman, and a tough one at that.  She was elected while the expedition was away and she knew Valandil and Firiel from the Barrow Downs, having served as a cook in the King’s Army. She even knew Maelil.

Finally, the walls of Tharbad could be seen and soon, the soldiers of the Dagarim Aran or Royal Army could be seen lining the roads, spears and lances held high.  Captain Tardegil had brought out the Raggers and many of the Royal Rangers, including Amrith.  The pikemen were an imposing sight, shod in thick chainmail hauberks with steel breastplates and flat brimmed helms with a prominent crest running forward to back, called a pikeman’s pot.  Their sleeves and pantaloons were brightly colored and pleated in reds, blues, greens and yellows, speaking to their elite status and proud history.  Tardegil was dressed in his finest outfit, a brightly colored doublet with gaudy slashes in his sleeves and elaborate patterned pantaloons. He wore an ostentatious, many-colored muffin cap with a bright red feather.

Townspeople stood behind them, cheering and waving banners and the walls of the city hung banners of the realm while flags flew.  Standing next to Tardegil were Captains Guilrod of the garrison and Asgon of the Navy, along with Chancellor Nimhir, a broad smile on his face.  The Princess rode with her ladies with the Tirrim Aran beside her.  The wagons came next with the cohort marching proudly to cover the rear.  The Chancellor bowed low, along with the captains.  “Welcome home, Your Highness.  News of the victory preceded you.  You are all heroes in the eyes of Cardolan,” he said warmly and gestured towards the great main gate of the city.

They noticed that the Shanty Town was nearly gone, most of it having moved north with Lamril to rebuild a town that had been destroyed by the war.  As the procession moved south along the Thraden Forn, the North Road, the Raggers and the Rangers snapped to attention, long pikes held high and then lowered as one to form an arch over the party.  Men of the garrison stood on the battlements and on the great Annon Forn gate to the city, the massive wooden and steel doors open for the procession.  The city folk threw flowers on the road ahead of the procession.  They rode down the Menetar between white wooden buildings, framed in dark beams, the shops and homes of the people of Tharbad.  The horses were stabled at Beregond the Honest’s Livery, and the procession continued on foot over the Iant Formen where flowers continued to be thrown on the bridge.  While he always admired the ancient Númenórean road that still looked new, the bard kept searching the crowds, hoping to see someone.  He bit his lower lip, feeling increasingly anxious.

The granite outer walls of the Bar Aran came into view and Haedorial was never so happy to be home.  It was still an odd feeling to live in the King’s House rather than in the Nightsinger Guildhall.  He had been consumed by worry, but then he saw them…Faeliriel and Idhrendiel.  He put his hands together and ran to them, Mindolinor right behind.  The family practically slammed together in an embrace.  “Thank blessed Manwë we are together again,” he blurted out.  “Varda’s stars, we are so glad to see you.”  He tousled his daughter’s hair as they all wept for joy.

Nirnadel and her ladies were already heading inside, waving to the crowds and their departing friends as the healers continued south and the camp followers returned to the Common Quarter and Docktown.  The expedition to Rhudaur was officially over. Faeliriel took his bag of clothes and Mindolinor carried the sacred satchel of writings and drawing and they went upstairs to their rooms.  His wife opened the door for them.  “You do not know how worried we were, good husband,” she said.  “We received news of the siege and the victory there, but all went dark once you reached the Tirthon.  We know what was at stake and we know that you had to fight.  We are just so, so grateful that you are home.”

His writing den was just as he left it, his ink wells filled and his calligraphy pens in the blue ceramic jar that Idhrendiel made for him in class.  Parchment paper was stacked neatly on his desk just waiting for him to return.  Half-finished paintings stood on wooden easels, anxious to be completed.  Even his jars of paints and brushes were organized and cleaned while he was gone.  He sighed in contentment and then inhaled the scent of sandalwood and cedar.  As terrifying and exciting as this adventure was, it was good to be home.

Mindolinor put the satchel on his desk and Haedorial wrapped him up in a bear hug.  “I could not be prouder of you, my son.  I saw you fight, and I saw you volunteer to go to the vale.  I could not have asked more of you.”  He put him in a playful headlock.  “Good wife, this son of ours is a lion.  He is already a magnificent bard and a stunning artist, not to mention a swordsman.  We will show you our artwork come supper.”

Mindolinor blushed.  “I am following our good father’s example.  Please excuse me.  I will go and clean up and return my things to my room and then attend the Princess as a good steward.”  The duties of a steward of the Royal House never ended.  As he left, Idhrendiel was at the door, holding her stuffed Oliphant, a nearly legendary beast of the south that Jaabran and Morelen had confirmed existed. She had named it, Olly.

“Papa, I made something for you while you were away,” she said, holding up a vase that had been fired and painted in bright colors with flowers and stars.  It was actually quite professional for an 11-year-old.  “It’s to put flowers in your den.  I hope you like it.”

He held it to his heart.  “I love it.  I love it! We will put flowers in it for supper,” he said, holding up the posey that he was given in Fennas Drúinen.  “I will show it to the Princess, and I know that she will love it too.  You will be the finest artist in the family, this I know.”

She jumped and twirled with a squeal.  She was going to be a dancer too, also the best in the family. She hopped, holding Olly over her face, embarrassed and delighted.  “I best get ready for supper, Papa!  I want to dance for Her Highness one day,” she said, dancing the Sogenne, tapping her shoes on the wooden floor while swaying her arms and looking over her shoulder with narrowed eyes.  Nirnadel’s culture was truly sweeping the realm.

“You are simply magnificent, my dear.  You have learned so much.  I have a new dance to teach you later though.  I call it the I-Rian, the Queen.  Lots of jumping and leaping,” he said excitedly while tickling her side. “Now run along, we will come get you for supper,” he said and she scurried from the den, giggling all the way.

He turned back to his wife and sighed heavily.  “I would not have traded this expedition for the world, but I missed so much here,” he said, torn between duty and family.  This had been his life’s work but they needed him here as well.  He felt that would always be something he would have to contend with in the Royal Household.  His duty was to the Princess but his heart was with his family.

Faeliriel went and closed the door and then turned back to him with an evil smile.  “You did indeed miss so much, good husband,” she said as she undid the laces and let her kirtle slide to the ground.  Oh, he did miss this.  Alquanessë’s prancing about for months had him worked up.  He threw his flatcap onto the wooden rack, it landing perfectly on a peg, something that he had practiced for years as Faeliriel’s chemise slid down.

He wrapped her up around the waist and carried her to the plush seat that he used for his artwork.  He would keep this moment as a painting in his mind and his heart.

Before supper, he sat at his desk, contented, bathed and perfumed, the ringlets of his brown hair neatly styled again, his mustache waxed to a fine tip.  He placed the posey that the young lady had given him into Idhrendiel’s vase, full of water now.  He opened the book of notes that he and Mindolinor had compiled during the expedition. It was a lot.  It would require some time to put into a coherent narrative, one that would stand the test of time.

In his ongoing novel, he began writing with the training of the cohort and the preparations, ending with the march to Rhudaur.  Biting his thumb, he flipped back to the first page, wondering if he should modify it somehow.  It never seemed to be just right.  He held up the book, reading aloud.  “It is on this Day of Yüle in the Year Fourteen O Nine of the Third Age that, I Haedorial of the Nightsingers, wish to present to my dear readers the lore of the Realm of Cardolan.”  He would have to think more on this.  As Gandalf said, this book needed to stand the test of time.

Satisfied that he had done enough writing for the day, he turned to the easel and put his tray of paints on his lap.  He had been working on the one of Nirnadel stepping between the Sons of Elrond and the Blood-Wights to defend them.  He had much of the background done, the bridge and the woods finished and the people had been rough sketched.  This was a tricky one.  He wanted to capture the tension between the elves of Rivendell and the party. The looks of Elladan and Elrohir weren’t right.  More intensity…more distrust was needed.  He took an eraser to their faces and redrew the boxes and triangles that made up the features, eyes now narrowed with a scowl.  No, not a scowl, more apprehension.  Yes, that would do.

Alquanessë and Finculion were on their knees with hands behind their heads.  He quickly drew loincloths on them and put her hair down her front for modesty.  He would have to do something to honor Finculion. A portrait would do nicely, he thought. He redid Nirnadel’s face too, dissatisfied with the expression.  More determination…more intent to defend her friends.  Yes, it all looked perfect.  Now it was time to mix paint.  His good wife had cleaned his paint grid where he could set out all of the different colors that would create the pallet where he could mix and match tones.  She was so good to him.  He poured out a tiny bit of paints of various colors onto the grid, from light to dark, white, yellow, red, green, blue and violet, looking at the sketch to imagine the final product.

He began to mix on the pallet, stirring with his brush and then, using the thinnest, painted in the eyes.  He created a flesh color for the faces, blending the shades and tones and applying them to create a living image that looked like his subjects. Then came the hair and clothing. Armor was always tricky with the silver hues of Nirnadel’s mithril shirt.  Ah, this looked superb.  It was time to let the work dry, and he set it aside in the sunlight.  This was good progress.  With two more sessions, this piece would be complete and ready to frame.  His friend in the Merchant Quarter, Urthel, was also an artist and always helped to frame Haedorial’s work.  He did feel bad for the man, who fell on hard times in the aftermath of the war and resorted to painting houses to support his family.  No one was doing portraits for some time after, so he always had Urthel do the finishing touches.  Perhaps he could commission him to do some of the pieces.

He had three other paintings about Rivendell that he was working on, but he liked chronological order as a bard and historian. Each painting would receive attention in the sequence that it happened.  It was just something that kept his mind organized on his work.  But he did want to begin rough sketching recent events while they were still fresh.  He put another canvas up, picturing the siege at Castle Amrodan.  This would be his first work from the expedition.  He had never done a battle before or such a large scene.  This would be a challenge.  He thought he might need Urthel’s help on this, but he wanted to at least lay the groundwork.

He stared at the blank canvas for a few minutes, imagining the layout and the perspective.  He ascribed to the realism school of art where portraits were as close to reality as possible with embellishments for style and character.  What did he want to portray here?  The whole organization of the painting was jumbled in his mind. So many subjects.  So much volume to the image.  But he wanted to do something grand.  He would need the castle but how much of it should he show? The gate where Mercatur attacked from behind?  The foreground where Nirnadel rallied the troops?  He wanted to do both, but how?  He narrowed his eyes, still holding the charcoal pencil to his lips.  There was a little flash of inspiration, and he drew the gate of the castle along with the walls and battlements, the charcoal pencil flitting about the canvas.  Through the gate he sketched Mercatur’s force attacking the tribesmen from behind. They would be smaller for perspective, but he made sure that a viewer could recognize the mercenary’s barbute helm and Baranor’s sallet along with Hirgrim’s wild hair and Silmarien’s pointed mage cap.

He then sketched Nirnadel in her mithril chain, conical helm and eket held high, mounted on her palfrey, which was rearing, eyes wide as soldiers turned back to fight.  It was a good start, but he knew that he would need Urthel’s expertise on this. The man brought canvas to life for big scenes and landscapes.  He stepped back and gave the charcoal drawing a once over from a distance and noticed Faeliriel there.  “What do you think, dear wife?”

“Was that the siege?” she asked and he nodded.

“Indeed.  This was the final battle where Captain Mercatur led a force through a culvert that Lady Éanfled knew about.  Jaabran led the cohorts forward to assault the main gate.  Oh, I forgot the siege tower.  I’ll put that in next time.”

Faeliriel scanned the picture.  “Oh, yes, I see the good captain behind the open gate.  Has there been any news of his health?”

Haedorial shook his head.  “Unfortunately, no but he is in the best care available in the north,” he said sadly.  Then, he pointed to Nirnadel and Galadel rallying the fleeing mercenaries.  “This here.  I’d never seen anything like it.  The second cohort looked as if it might break and Lord Oswy led a staggering cavalry charge to save them.  I was at the command tent with Mindolinor, and a horde of tribesmen attacked us from behind.  They overwhelmed the fifth cohort, getting by them and it was feared that the camp would be overrun.  Brave Sergeant Cedhron turned the Tirrim Aran around and formed a Thangail or shield wall. That…that, my dear saved us. Tribesmen leapt over the Thangail and were going to attack the nurses when Her Highness and Lady Galadel stopped them cold,” he said intently, remembering the fight.  “Her Highness was struck in the side and the cohorts thought that she had fallen and began to flee.”  He pointed to Nirnadel and Galadel on horseback.  “This is where they rode out and turned the battle around. It was amazing.  I was so proud to be there.”

The clock on the mantel chimed.  “Ah, good husband, it is time for supper.  Shall we?” she asked and picked up his crimson doublet and laced it on him, fluffing his poufy shoulder pieces.  She then put his emerald green cloak around his shoulder, pinning it with his mithril Royal sigil device.  He grabbed his crimson flatcap from the stand and flipped it in the air, letting it land on his head perfectly.

“Yes, my dear wife, we shall.”

Valandil

It was a bit of a transition from the Army to the Ministry of Justice to the Tirrim Aran.  They were truly the elite.  There were rights of passage to mark moments in each knight’s progress, something that bonded every man to the order.  Mornings were filled with vigil before the shrine to the Valar, followed by training, which consisted of practice with different weapons, sparring, wrestling and riding.  Every knight was expected to be a master in sword, dagger, mace, hammer, poleaxe and lance, as well as bow and crossbow.  Tilting at the quintain was frequent where one had to be able to strike a small target with his lance at a full gallop.  Squires would then attend to the knight’s weapons, armor and horse, ensuring that everything was ready to protect the Royal Family.  Oaths were life for these men, and each had sworn to defend the Princess with all that they had.

The Guard was a far cry from the monotony of the regular army and the legal study of the Ministry.  Their sole purpose was to protect and fight.  In nearly any martial issue in the realm, the word of an Arequain of the Guard would take precedence.  Any matter regarding the safety of the Princess was of the utmost importance.  A Guardsman was given full authority to detain or even slay anyone threatening her. But the Guard was not merely a steel fist of the Cardolan Royal Family, it was an intelligent, professional and educated force.  Learning of strategy, tactics, sieges and battles happened daily.  These were knights who could function in nearly any setting or situation.

As Valandil walked to his horse on the training ground south of the city, he had to admire what Captain Baranor had forged.  The men were tight, willing to lay down their lives for each other and Nirnadel.  He was initially surprised that Baranor was an open man, always inviting suggestions and willing to make changes in the group if he felt it was warranted.  But on the field, his word was law.  Once he decided on a course of action, every knight moved swiftly.  He knew that Baranor was taking the loss of Sergeant Cedhron hard.  The two had been partners, guarding the Princess in the aftermath of the war.  It was a blow for every member, harkening back to the loss of every man who left Tharbad with King Ostoher.  At first, Valandil felt like an imposter, joining the Guard as a lieutenant, second only to Baranor.  But the knights welcomed him as a brother, and he never lost the feeling of having to grow into the role of a leader.  Setting the example was a touchstone value for the captain.

He mounted his warhorse, a magnificent beast, tall and proud and his squire handed him a lance.  His training on horseback only began in earnest when he became a Guardsman so his expertise with the lance was not quite there yet.  Still, his fellows showed great patience in teaching him and he felt comfortable if not exceptionally proficient yet.  Another squire set the quintain up with the target facing.  In the training code of the Tirrim Aran, if you missed three times in a row, you were on cleanup duty for the day, regardless of rank.  If you struck the target improperly, a sandbag on an attached pole swung around and slammed you on the back of the head to reinforce learning.  That also counted as a miss.

Valandil settled into the saddle that was made for war with a high cantle to keep the rider seated after striking the enemy.  The stirrups covered the feet as protection and the pommel was designed to grab to stabilize the knight for close combat when needed.  Everything in the Guard was crafted for victory.  And many of the knights here were born commoners.  Merit, skill, courage and loyalty were the main arbiters of success and advancement.  It was no wonder that so many young men aspired to join.

He lowered the visor of his sallet helm, snapping it in place. Through the eye slit he saw the target, focusing all of his energy.  “Prepare to advance!” Baranor yelled.  He personally oversaw all training and put his time and effort into improving each knight. “Charge!” came the order and Valandil put spurs to horse, and they flew forward at the gallop.  He lowered the lance, point at the target, trying to compensate for the bouncing and his tip went wide as he flew by.  He grunted, slowing and then turning the horse around. A red flag was raised on the stands. One miss.

He repositioned the horse, settling into the leather. Focus.  Patience.  “Charge!”

They bolted ahead, the pounding of hooves filling his ears. Dadadun, dadadun, dadadun, the sound throbbed as he lowered the lance, striking the quintain a little low and the sandbag swung around and slammed him in the back of the head.  He saw stars for a moment, nearly tumbling out the saddle, grabbing onto the pommel with his left hand to keep him steady.  Dammit.  A second red flag went up.  Only a true hit would count.  That was the quality of the Tirrim Aran.  There was no room for failure when protecting the Princess.  Every single Guardsman protecting King Ostoher and the Princes died on the field that day in the war.  There was not one survivor to live through the shame of defeat.

He swung around and took several deep breaths to steady his hands which were already sweaty beneath his gloves and gauntlets.  “Charge!” Baranor yelled and knight and mount galloped down the list.  Valandil could only see the target through his visor, the world passing by in slow motion. He lowered the lance and leaned in, the fist-shaped coronel on the tip sharp in his vision.  The fist punched dead center on the target, and he blazed by as the sandbag struck only air.  He let out a feral shout of satisfaction and raised his visor to see Baranor grin with a nod.  That man was inspirational…a true leader and teacher.  He blessed the Valar for how lucky he was.  And he was soon to be married with the most talented and beautiful woman in the kingdom.  How things had changed since he was a defeated man, riding away from the disaster on the Downs in a wagon full of wounded.

He trotted up to Baranor and dismounted while a squire took his horse.  “I was worried,” he said.  “I was getting tired of cleanup duty.”

“I see improvement every week, lieutenant.  I know it wasn’t easy joining the Guard like this, but you’ve proven yourself.  We all know your fighting record.  You have no shame here, I can tell you.  Still, you can always improve,” he said, tossing Valandil a poleaxe.  This was a knightly weapon, deadly and powerful. It had the length of a glaive, the spike of a spear, plus an axe and a hammer to pound armor.  The captain gestured to the melee training area as he took his own weapon.  “You’re used to swords and shields, but we must master as many weapons as we can.  You’ve been to war.  You know that your sword could be broken, taken or lost.  You must be able to use whatever you can get your hands on, fight and win.”

Sergeant Riston and Corporal Lanchanar were sparring, one with a glaive and one with a sword and shield.  Fighting those with different weapons was a knowledge that every knight here must know.  There was a time for fine dueling, but their oath was to protect and win.  Baranor held his weapon out aggressively, ready to strike.  “On guard, lieutenant.”

Valandil nodded and took a defensive stance as the captain thrust out with the blunted spike of his practice weapon.  No one needed to be injured in training.  Each knight was too valuable.  He hooked the attack with the axe blade and deflected it away, swinging with the butt of his poleaxe.  Baranor just nicked it upwards with the staff of his weapon, a perfect defense with barely any movement.  They went back and forth, swat and strike, thrust and counter with the captain not even breaking a sweat, tiny, controlled movements to defeat any attack. Valandil’s arms ached and sweat dripped down his face, his plate armor holding in all of his heat.  His chest heaved now with every attack, every defense. He had to end it now and swung the hammer side of his weapon at Baranor’s head.

The captain disappeared from his view under his visor, and he felt something hook his leg.  With a grunt, he hit the ground on his back, and the captain was on him before he could blink, a dagger at his throat.  Baranor rolled off of him and extended his hand, which Valandil accepted. “That was…better,” the captain said evenly.  “Your movements are still too wide, too forced.  You need to be tighter.  Block only enough to defeat the attack and no more.  You also need to learn to move better in plate.  You are used to chainmail, but this is different.  You will breathe differently…fight differently. Once you master that, you will be a force on the battlefield.”

He bowed professionally.  “Thank you, sir.”  Everything that was said about Baranor’s skill was true.

Morelen was standing at the edge of the field, watching intently, dressed in her blue and silver robes.  Seeing them, she approached with her blue bow and a quiver. “I enjoyed watching you,” she said, standing slightly taller than both of them.  “May I borrow a mount and use your archery course?”

Baranor nodded and gestured to a horse at the list.  She hiked up the skirts of her robe and tied them off, along with her sleeves.  They followed her over where she climbed into the saddle and secured her quiver, placing her thumb ring on.

“Horse archers draw more effectively with the thumb,” she told them.  “It’s faster and smoother.”  She guided the mount to the combat range, which, in this case was for men on foot, humanlike manikins set up to fight and shoot in different locations.

“May we watch, Lady Morelen?” the captain asked and she nodded.

She started out at a canter, pulling an arrow and nocking it to the right side of her recurved bow while holding a second arrow with her left hand on the weapon.  “Hiya!” she yelled and the horse powered into a gallop with the targets to the left.  Just before reaching the first target, she rose up on the stirrups, pulled back to her ear and released.  “Yai!” she called as the arrow hit the center, sinking into the fletchings, followed immediately by another, the two shafts touching.  That would have been a difficult and deadly shot for a trained archer on foot, standing still.  Each arrow was drawn and nocked with precision and expertise, smooth and fast.  Two more arrows flew into another manikin and then she reversed direction, firing to the right, twisting her body to aim the bow.  “Yai!”  The arrow flew into the center again as she passed and then leaned backwards to fire another arrow into the same target, both shafts touching.

She trotted back to the knights, back straight and dismounted.  “Thank you. I needed the practice.”

They both nodded.  “I cannot lie.  I am impressed,” the captain said.  “I understand that you served under High King Fingon as a horse archer.”

“I did.  My first battle was in the Year of the Sun, One Fifty-Five when Morgoth’s armies invaded Hithlum.  I had trained for more than three quarters of century by then, but I was excited and terrified.  This was about Fifty-Three Hundred years ago…give or take.  I was a skinny, rash elf maiden and it was my chance to prove myself.  Prince Fingon walked amongst us, checking our weapons and armor.  He shook my hand and told me to fight bravely to defend our lands and people,” she said, her nostrils flaring and her eyes misting as she remembered her leader.  “I fought another elf, who I later learned was my brother.  He…served Morgoth.”  Her expression hardened.  “I had defeated him, but I hesitated and he invoked power from the Dark Lord and nearly killed me but for my father.  We moved to capture him but were attacked by a balrog.”

Both men’s eyes widened.  “A balrog?” Valandil asked.  “You mean the demons of fire from the Elder Days?  Those are just legends…like dragons.  Fairy tales that we tell children to get them to behave.”

“Uh, yes and no,” she answered.  “No, they are real…or were.  You cannot imagine a demon of shadow and flame, twice my height or more, winged with a sword and whip like a raging inferno.  Many have the face and horns of a bull with fangs like daggers. During the Unnumbered Tears…I tried to save the High King…but I was too slow as he was murdered by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs.  He was five times my height and shrouded in flame like a volcano.  I can still…I can still feel his heat in my mind.”

Valandil gulped hard.  Orcs and Dunnish tribesmen were one thing.  If one of these things still existed and got loose…

“And dragons,” she said solemnly as she nocked an arrow and fired it into a target five yards away.  “This was the distance in which I saw Glaurung, the father of dragons.  It killed my captain, and I fled in terror.” She paused for a moment, trembling and then wiping her nose.  “The man who became my husband rallied me and we shot the beast in its nose, eyes and mouth and it ran.  I…I was consumed by shame, but my Prince Fingon held me and forgave me.  He told me that no one had faced such a horror before.”

“That is astounding, my lady,” Baranor said.  “We would be honored if you would train with us while you are here.  Our home is yours.”

“I would like that very much, good captain.  Your knights are well trained and well led.  I know that I will learn much while I am here.”

Valandil chuckled.  “I doubt that, my lady, but we wish to learn all that we can from you. Now were there many female troops among the elves?”

“Many of us train but it’s mostly for defense should our homes be attacked, which they often were in the Elder Days.  Some were quite formidable, such as Galadriel, but only Sercë and I served in the company.  She was exceptionally strong for a woman and I have…the blood of the Ainur. We were rare.  But the Silvan elves of the south have many women serving as scouts or archers and I hear that the Woodland Realm in Greenwood the Great have the same.  The woman who raised me, Lysa, was deadly in close combat.”

“We are proud of how well Nirnadel fought,” Baranor said. “She could outmatch the tribesmen that we fought, but I would not put her up against an experienced knight.  I wish she would stick to dancing but the sovereign must lead.  I trained with and fought with King Ostoher and Prince Thôrdaer, and they were excellent fighters…few better in the kingdom.”

Morelen smiled.  “I know that she trains with you daily, along with her ladies.  If you need help or inspiration, I am here for you.”

“We would appreciate that,” Valandil said.  “But if I may ask, what happened to your husband?” he asked, genuinely curious considering his own relationship.

The elf sighed and then looked across the field.  “Oh look, here comes the Princess now.”

If there was one thing that he learned about the woman during the journey home from the expedition, it was that she was a master of changing the subject.  They all waved to Nirnadel who approached in her armor with Kaile and Galadel.  She walked as if she had something stuck up her rear as her plates clinked along with her.  “We need to work on her moving in the harness,” Baranor said with a chuckle. “Welcome ladies!” he said gesturing them to the field with wooden weapons.

They drilled and sparred lightly, going over stances, guards, strikes and parries.  Nirnadel and Galadel were much more advanced than Kaile, who still struggled with her eket. Morelen stepped in, using a wooden longsword.  She moved fluidly, gracefully, keeping a masterful distance to let the women practice without too much stress, sparring with all three at once.  The elf took the time to show Kaile a better grip and how to balance her weight to move quickly.  “Don’t grip so hard,” she instructed.  “Light but firm…kind of like holding your man,” she said with a wink and the ladies began giggling.

“I wouldn’t know!” Nirnadel complained.  “Is it like a pickle, good Kaile?”

“Exactly like a pickle!”  Kaile took the new stance and grip and swung her eket smoothly, finishing with a nice thrust.

Morelen turned to the knights.  “A woman’s body is different…different balance.  Our center of weight is lower, and I’ve learned to use that.”

Valandil nodded.  “I see.  And we’ve already learned something,” he said, pursing his lips in approval.

The three ladies began to move more fluidly, and their cuts were cleaner.  “Ah, well done,” Morelen said in a compliment as she parried attacks from all three, her movements small, controlled and efficient.  “I think that is good for now,” she said.  “You all show promise.”

Kaile bowed.  “Oh, this felt so much better.  Thank you,” she said and then looked at Nirnadel and Galadel, licking the pommel of her weapon.  “Just like a pickle,” she added with a sly smile.

Morelen snickered.  “Ah, I’m starting to forget.  It’s been too long.”

Valandil opened his eyes wide.  It was difficult to imagine women as stunning as she and Alquanessë lacking companionship.  Mercatur once joked about a fantasy that he had with the Blood-Wight.  ‘It would be like screwing one of those imaginary Valier goddesses,’ he quipped.  ‘And I’d end up with my blood drained but it’d be worth it.’  It was interesting comparing the two elves.  Alquanessë was spritely, flirtatious while Morelen was more serious and controlled, even elusive.  Her humor was quiet, subdued.  He was raised in the Girithlin Estates with preconceptions of elves.  He had never met one until they fought alongside of Ascarnil in the Barrows and learned that his biases were wrong.  And when he went to Rivendell, he learned that many legends and fairy tales were real, both good and horrible.

Baranor gathered the practice weapons, helped by other knights.  “We have one more thing to take care of,” he said, gesturing back to the training house where the Guardsmen studied strategy, tactics and history.  Every Arequain was an educated warrior, intelligent, cunning and deadly.  They walked to the building, Nirnadel moving more naturally, walking with the armor instead of fighting it.  It would still take some work.

The Princess began hopping though.  “Ugh, I have this itch!  This is simply awful!”

“You’ll get used to it,” Baranor answered with a chuckle.

Galadel raised her chainmail shirt and scratched her back. “Oh look,” she said, teasing.

Nirnadel growled while still hopping.  “Errrgh, you noisy fiend!”

Lady Tinarë turned a shade redder and then swatted the Princess on the rear with her eket.  “I am not noisy!”

Baranor gave Valandil a curious look.  “What’s are those two on about?”

The lieutenant snorted out a laugh.  “Apparently, the young ladies are…exploring themselves,” he answered.  “At least that’s what Firiel tells me.”

Baranor blew out a breath.  “Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.  I can’t wait until my daughters grow up,” he said flatly.  “It’ll be nonstop fun, and I’ll be chasing young men away with a crossbow and poleaxe.”

“I don’t envy you, sir.”

“I’ve gained a new appreciation for Lady Anariel.  She probably needed ten arms and eyes in the back of her head when Her Highness was being courted.”

Valandil chuckled.  “I could imagine that it was like a swarm of bees.”

Baranor nodded as they entered the building.  It had a musty, sweaty smell, the place where fighting men learned their trade.  Otherwise, it was immaculate, training weapons and armor hung in neat, organized rows with paintings and drawings of the history of the Tirrim Aran adorning the walls.  He locked the door after everyone had entered and ushered them to the back.  A painting of every sovereign of the realm hung in a row down the hallway, starting with Thorondur the Magnificent, the First King, a man who radiated strength and honor, the most intelligent and gifted of the three brothers who formed Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur, almost six hundred years ago.  King Tarcil the Mariner was painted on the prow of a ship, while King Calimendil the Minstrel held a lute and King Ostoher the Merry held a carafe of wine.

Nirnadel stopped to touch the portrait of Chancellor Nimhir and then herself at 14, holding a cat.

“We’ll have to update that,” Baranor said.  “I hear that Haedorial is already painting new works.”

They entered a back room that was paneled in dark walnut wood that had the robust aroma of coffee and chocolate, a much more pleasant scent than the entryway and classrooms.  Sandalwood incense burned in the corners where Sergeant Fendir of the cohort sat, nervous and just a little confused.  His wild ginger hair had been combed out and his muttonchop sideburns waxed back.  The cut across the crooked bridge of his nose had settled into a faint scar.  He wore a simple but neat tunic and breeches of wool, befitting a plain spoken man of the countryside.

Baranor nodded to the lieutenant.  This would be his to perform.  “Sergeant Fendir of the cohort, please rise,” Valandil began clearly. “You fought with skill and valor on this expedition.  We, of the Tirrim Aran, wish to invite you to join our ranks,” he said with solemn intensity. “The choice is yours, but the offer comes but once.  You were selected amongst all others by vote of the Arequain.  If you wish this honor, say aye.”

Fendir’s eyes shot open wide and his mouth hung open.  He blew out several sharp breaths and then nodded. “Aye…aye.  I accept,” he said quickly, nervously.  “Thank you.  I never thought that a mere cattle man such as myself would ever…I am honored beyond words, my lords.”

Valandil took his hand and held it tightly.  “Not my lords…my brothers.”

Fendir shook for a moment and sniffled.  “I am…overcome…my brothers.”  All of the Arequain surrounded him and put their hands on his back and shoulders.

“Welcome, my brother,” Valandil said with warmth and strength.  “Now, please kneel to accept the oath,” he commanded and Fendir knelt down, his hands together in prayer.  “Your Highness, if you would,” he said and she drew her mithril anket, knowing what was to happen.

“My good Fendir,” Nirnadel began.  “Your first oath is to protect and defend the members of the Royal Family and Household with your life if necessary and to obey the commands of your sovereign.  Do you swear this?”

“I swear it.”

“You are to uphold the ideals of the realm with truth, honor, valor and dedication.  You are to defend the people and fight for justice.  Do you swear this?”

“I swear it.”

“And lastly, as an Arequain, you will be granted the power to mete justice fairly and properly.  You will do nothing that will dishonor the code, the order or the realm. Do you swear this?” she said with power in her voice.

“I swear it!” he answered with all of his heart.

“Then, be knighted, Sir Fendir,” she declared and tapped him on the shoulders and head with the flat of her sword.  “Rise, Arequain of the Tirrim Aran.  You are now a brother in the most noble and ancient martial order of Cardolan.”

He rose, still shaking.  “Your Highness…my life is yours.  I will serve with honor.  I will never forget this,” he said, his voice quivering, the rough cattle man filled with emotion.

Each knight then came and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome brother,” each one said and Nirnadel did the same.

“I am proud to have you with me,” she said warmly.

“We are indeed,” Valandil added.  This was his first ceremony, and he was relieved that it went off well.  “I’m sure that this was overwhelming.  It was for me.  When you’ve recovered, report to the quartermaster to be fitted for your armor. And the weapons of the Guard are now yours to use.  You will find them…superior.”  He gestured everyone to the bar of the training house.  “Now come, let us celebrate.”

They gathered as Baranor brought out leather flasks and brass cups, plain and simple ware for warriors.  He poured as Valandil handed them out.  Then, the lieutenant held his cup high, followed by the others.  “Let us drink to the newest member of our sacred brotherhood.  Welcome, Sir Fendir!”  The gathering downed their drinks, patting him on the back.  Valandil then began humming the tune for the new Gondorian dance that Ciramir and Nirnadel brought to Cardolani culture.  It was something that just fit with the knights of the Guard and Baranor approved it as part of the music of their order.  He was joined by the other knights, deep solemn, powerful voices that erupted into song.

When I drink red wine

My friend, everything turns, turns, turns, turns...

Now, I also drink

Tinarë or Feotar wine.

The Princess and her ladies began tapping their shoes on the floor in rhythm to the words and Morelen tried to join in, watching and stepping with them.

Let's sing and drink:

Let's declare war on that wine flask!

Let's sing and drink

My friends; let's drink, then!

Nirnadel spun and tripped over her sabaton, her armored boot, and fell into Valandil’s arms.  She looked up at him and smiled.  “Lady Firiel is a lucky woman, and I am quite drunk.”

CODEX

Weapons:

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

Glaive – a polearm with an long chopping blade.

Flail – a spiked ball on a chain that attaches to a stick.  Also called a morning star.

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.

Armor:

Pauldron – plate armor that covers the shoulder.

Couter – plate armor over the elbow.

Cuirass – solid breastplate

Basinet – a conical helm with varying movable visors, some elegant, some grotesque.

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

Sallet – a squat helmet that may have a movable visor and a flange that protects the back of the neck.

Spangenhelm – A conical helm that has a fixed visor and sometimes ear protection.  Akin to a viking or Rohirric helm.

Bevor – the throat protector that goes with the sallet.

Pikeman’s Pot – a morion helmet.

Clothing:

Bycocket hat – Robin Hood hat.

Hood – pieces of stiff fabric that fits over a noblewoman’s head from ear to ear, often with gems, jewels and other decorations.

Kirtle – a gown.

Placket – a stiff piece of fabric that fits over the kirtle over the breasts.

Foresleeves – removable sleeves that are usually extravagant, made of fur, cloth of gold of brocade.

Battle Formations:

Thangail – shield wall formation.

Dírnaith – wedge formation.

Tûrtan – turtle formation with shields all around and held high.

Other terms:

Fëa – spirit

Hröa – body

Line of Cardolan Rulers:

Thorondur the Magnificent – 861-936;

Turambar – 936-1001;

Ciryon – 1001-1079;

Tarandil – 1079-1153;

Calimendil the Minstrel – 1153-1235, slain by Gundabad orcs;

Civil War – 1235-1248;

Tarcil the Mariner – 1248-1287, elected King;

Tarastor – 1287-1332;

Minalcar – 1332-1381;

Ostoher – 1381-1409, slain in the 1409 War;

Nimhir (Regent) – 1409-

Line of Rhudauran Rulers:

Aldarion – 861-951;

Orodreth – 951-988;

Eldathorn – 988-1031, slain in battle against Arthedain and Cardolan;

Eldarion – 1031-1107;

Forodacil – 1107-1176;

Rhugga the Usurper – 1176-1231, slain in battle against Cardolan and Elewen;

Various claimants – 1231-1235;

Elewen – 1235-1307;

Aldor the Addled – 1307-1347;

Elegost – 1347-1355, assassinated;

Various claimants – 1355-

Chapter End Notes

After the expedition, this chapter is all world and character development.  I decided to keep the CODEX for terms and settings.  The song at the end is La Tourdion, a medieval song about getting drunk on wine and eating ham and I was inspired to write it into the story.  I've been taking writing lessons from some online writers so I hope that translates.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pelrp8bw38k

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