The Thieves of Tharbad by AliceNWonder000137  

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House Rhudainor

The dwarf regroups with one of the instigators of the protection racket but is pursued by Valandil and Mercatur.

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The Royal Palace at Thalion – Girithron 6th, 1409

Captain Tardegil

The scarred and grizzled Captain Tardegil sat in the throne room of the King's House. He remembered the days in which he fought for King Tarastor nearly 100 years ago. Tardegil was old, even for a Dúnadan, but he could still hold his own in a fight.  Tardegil thoughtfully fingered a long pinkish scar running down his neck, which he received from the dagger of an Arthedan regular during a brawl in the King's Rest Inn in Bree back in 1407.  The death of the King had weighed heavily on the captain, who now guarded the palace with well over 300 hand-picked men.  His loyalties were solidly with the young Princess, but his mistrust of Nimhir made him unpredictable.  He was not overly fond of politicians.  The old captain looked at Ostoher's throne from his nearby wooden chair.  He still couldn't bring himself to sit in it.  Hopefully, it would soon be occupied by a young woman.

Tardegil's quartermaster, Talremis, entered. "Sir, more grain has come in from Hir Tinarë.  The men are storing it as we speak."  The quartermaster was a tall, thin mixed Dúnadan with bright ginger hair and a beard to match.  He wore the uniform of a soldier of Cardolan, forest green with the symbol of a red hill, surrounded by seven stars.

Tardegil stood slowly, rubbing his back.  Old age came with a lot of pain and stiffness.  He straightened his green uniform, let out a few times over the years as he got older.  "Good news.  A fine Yüle gift from a fine warrior.  Talremis, any new raids from Rhudaur?"

The quartermaster shook his head. "I think those Cultirith bastards have gone into winter quarters as the snow thickens.  Hirgrim is no fool.  They took enough of a licking last time we met them."

Tardegil smiled through his gray beard.  "Aye, lad, we sent their Cultirith rangers packing with our own, good old Amrith.  He's a true leader.  And our Raggers are still a force to be feared."

The old captain had referred to the Ragh Crann-Sleagha, Dunnish for Ranks of Pikes, affectionately known as the Raggers.  There were over 300 Raggers defending Thalion, and they were considered the steel heart of the forces of Cardolan.  Their professional pride was legendary, and they were easily the finest heavy infantry in Endor.  At the end of the Second Age in 3434 as part of the Army of Arnor, they held the flank of the Alliance against Sauron's forces after the rout of the Silvan Elves.  More recently, in 1235 at Cameth Brin, the Army of Cardolan under King Calimendil was caught by the orcs of Mount Gundabad.  Calimendil was slain and the army surrounded.  The Raggers, despite an exhausting day of heavy fighting, fought their way out of Cameth Brin through hordes of orcs.  Finally, the bravery of the Raggers at the Barrow Downs saved the remnants of the Army of Cardolan and took a heavy toll on the forces of the Witch King.  Their long, heavy pikes and thick steel hauberks were feared by any force.

Tardegil walked over to a map of Tharbad, which was up on one of the fine paneled walls of the Throne Room.  He quietly remembered better days when lavish parties took place here and the room was full of handsome knights and beautiful ladies.  Now, empty mugs of ale and full quivers of arrows sat on the exquisitely carved Royal Table.  Tardegil mused out loud, "I wish Prince Braegil were here.  He was always such a smart one."  Snow could be seen falling lightly outside.  He scratched his head, which was covered in a buzz cut of salt and pepper hair. "How long could we hold out here for?" he asked.

"I'd give us three, maybe four months if no help comes.  The deepening snow will slow down any force and give us the advantage.  Plus, the King's Rangers are quartered a mile down the road.  We could have two hundred here within a day."

"That bodes well.  How is Amrith?  Is he back from furlough yet?  His bow is worth twenty rangers."

Talremis nodded.  "He led that foray that threw the Cultirith back into Rhudaur.  Well, he's still in Tharbad, helping his cousin.  She was robbed in broad daylight.  It seems that crime in the city has really peaked."

Tardegil turned sharply to face the quartermaster, his eyes open in surprise.  "Firiel, the healer?  Is she alright?"

"Yes, she is fine, but the thieves got away with three hundred gold crowns.  A princely sum.  It seems that they are also working with a Sergeant Valandil, who was present at the final assault on Tyrn Gorthad.  Valandil is a fine man and fought bravely.  He would be with us, but he has no unit to come back to."

The captain put his head down and could see in his mind's eye the brutal final assault of the orcs and the pure chaos around them.  As commander of the Raggers and of the King's Rangers, he was cut off from the Royal Compound and finally retreated when it was confirmed that Ostoher had fallen.  Nothing could penetrate the wall of pikes and the arrows of the rangers, and they were able to retreat back into Cardolan with few losses.  "He's doing good work then.  Let him be.  Our focus is in defending the palace and reconstituting some kind of army and that will take time."

"Thankfully, with the gold and grain coming in from Hir Tinarë, it's more than just a dream.  I've counted about three thousand effectives in the ranks, but the Houses of Healing are returning many more.  Perhaps we could field five thousand by Spring."

The captain poured a glass of brandy for himself and the quartermaster.  "Please send Firiel some of our food and supplies.  She's more than earned it."  He let out a long sigh. "To think that we marched with ten thousand, months ago.  And we still had a king.  I don't know what will happen, but I would die to bring Nirnadel to the throne and see this land prosper again."

The Fortress of Barad Girithlin

Mablung Girithlin

A fierce wind howled outside the tower as inside, Hir Girithlin paced along the reflecting pool on the ground level of the fortress.  Dressed in gray robes and gold cords of the Númenórean style, his massive frame cut an imposing figure.  Two mithril daggers were thrust into his belt as a caution against would be assassins.  Girithlin stopped and rested against the ten-foot-tall red obelisk next to the reflecting pool and stroked his chin.  It was time to turn up the heat.

After a few minutes Falathar entered with two of Girithlin's knights.  He was dressed much like his father, in a rich gray robes with his black hair slicked back.  Falathar smiled broadly. "Father, good news.  Lamril is open to our offers.  We have been meeting him through a discreet third party.”

The elder Girithlin returned the smile. "Excellent.  Take the gold and weapons we have for him and see that they are delivered.  Also, talk to Thrangull and find out where my payment is.  This is unusual; the Gurth Rodyn is never late.  We need to get that straightened out."

Falathar and the knights bowed. "By your leave," they said before departing.  As they rode away toward Tharbad, the heptagonal shape of the tower could be seen in the fading light as a spike emerging from the earth.

The Shop of Dirhavel the Alchemist

Silmarien

Dirhavel put his hands on his hips and frowned. "You should not have gotten directly involved, Silmarien," he chastised.  He was dressed in a rich robe of blue and violet that was adorned with stars and three bright gems on his chest, his interpretation of the Silmarils.  He was tall and lean with just the hint of dark facial hair on his handsome features.

Silmarien turned sharply to the Alchemist. "I did what I had to do!  Not getting involved cost me my lands, my home, and my family..." She stormed out onto the balcony where Dirhavel's complex telescope stood, looking heavenward.  Her robes were of rich deep purple fabric and she wore a floppy violet hat with the symbol of a bronze wyvern.  Dirty blonde hair flowed from under the hat, framing amber eyes.

Dirhavel followed her out.  In their finery and appearance, they looked as though they were elves out of legend, noble and proud.  Dirhavel started to speak, but Silmarien stopped him.

"Like you, I come from a noble family.  I am the last of House Rhudainor," she said forcefully. "I let my brother Marendil, the last lord, perish because I did not get directly involved.  If someone does not get directly involved here, we will all perish!  I know your experiments are important, but I have to do my work also.  I would never compromise your work, never.  So let me save a small part of Cardolan even if I could not save Rhudaur." Silmarien stood, looking up at the stars for guidance, her eyes misty.

Dirhavel put his hand gently on her shoulder.  He knew she was hurting over having to leave Rhudaur before the war.  She wanted nothing to do with the petty dynastic politics of the last few Dúnedain houses there.  Her brother, Marendil and House Rhudainor took the brunt of the Witch-King's initial assault.  She read the dispatches with growing fear but kept telling herself not to get involved until things were desperate.  Her delay caused her to arrive too late to save Marendil or their people.  Silmarien's rage took a heavy toll on the enemy in Rhudaur in the aftermath, but that is another story.

Silmarien melted into Dirhavel's arms.  He caressed her long hair softly and whispered, "I'm sorry, I know you need to help.  I was only worried about you." Silmarien nodded, choking back tears.

She bit the back of her hand. "My whole family…gone.  All that we were… I have to.  I have to help, Dirhavel.  The horror from the Yfelwood.  You cannot imagine.  It was too powerful even for me.  I was forced to flee.  I couldn’t help them.”

After some time, they went back into the shop.  Dirhavel combed his jet-black hair, while reading an ancient text on chemical properties.  He showed it to his wife.  “This is a tome that I had managed to procure with a series of favors to the elves.  It’s written in a nearly dead dialect of Quenya,” he said, sucking his teeth.  “It will take some time for me to decipher.”  He pointed to a particular text.  I hope that this will prove to be the salvation of the north.  It’s a longshot, I know.”

She read the text with some difficulty.  Her Quenya was less than fluent and this information was at least an age old.  “I know that your skills as an alchemist will be up to the task.”

He marveled at how the pages of the book were so well preserved after thousands of years.  It was truly the magic of the elves.  He scanned the forward, trying to make sense of the Tengwar script, handwritten in a strong, flowing style.  He focused on one name and pointed it to his wife.  “Look here.  It says, Fëanor.  We are on the right path,” he said with a broad smile.

Silmarien wiped her face and her nose and set up a mirror that was mounted in gold and silver and had been polished to perfect shine.  She gazed into the mirror, seeing herself, her heart shaped face with amber eyes.  She touched the mirror and said, "Hithui," the elven word for misty.  The mirror quickly became cloudy and then an image of the Princess appeared in the pane.  Silmarien motioned to Dirhavel. "Come here love, look at this.  I told you that one night."

The Docks

Mercatur

Amrith moved cautiously toward the warehouse.  No lights could be seen inside and daylight was rapidly fading into darkness.  Mercatur moved in behind, crossbow at the ready, his feet crunching in the soft snow.  Valandil, Firiel, and her two attendants crouched behind several barrels across the street, along with the hired men.  The ranger held out his hand, stopping Mercatur from approaching the door.  He examined the doorstep carefully and then looked up. "Trap... Don't step here."

Mercatur nodded.  This guy seemed to know what he was doing.  The battle at the kiosk and the discovery of a surviving member of House Rhudainor had put Mercatur in a pensive mood.  Was this the Silmarien who fled Rhudaur before the war to study her…magic?  His cousin? No one in the family had heard from her in years.  He had a sudden flashback of the siege of Tirthon just over two years ago, where Marendil Rhudainor perished at the hand of one of the Blood-Wights.  He, Marendil and the remaining knights charged the enemy line in what was supposed to be a glorious fight. His axe hewed at the hordes in front of them, Marendil beside him, and then they saw her.  At first, she was a vision of beauty, a lithe young woman with black hair and white wings.  She was unclothed and unashamed, a temptress floating before them.  It couldn't be real. Then, her soft silver eyes glowed and she sprouted fangs and claws.  Then, in an instant, the demon swept his friend, Gamrid from his saddle and drank his blood.

Then, Marendil was shot with a ballista bolt.  As Mercatur tried to save him, the demon seized Lord Rhudainor as they attempted to retreat back to the palisade.  The mercenary stared, slack jawed as the demon whisked Marendil away to his doom.  Mercatur snapped back to reality and shuddered.

"Are you alright, Mercatur?" Amrith asked, seeing his distraction.

"Hmmm, yeah, just a…just a bad memory is all.  I'm good."

Amrith drew out a long steel tool and inserted it between the door and the frame.  He jiggled it for a minute and then slid it out.  Then, he slowly opened the door and peeked inside.  It was hard to see in the dark, but he could make out a number of boxes, barrels, and assorted goods.  Mercatur entered, followed by the others and looked cautiously around.  In the dark, he failed to see a trip wire that he had just snagged. "Damn, I hit something," he whispered.

Amrith moved up and checked it out. "Well, I guess the element of surprise is lost." Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Mercatur saw movement.  He jumped just in time to avoid a stack of barrels as they came tumbling down.  Amrith got hit with one barrel and shouted, "Oww!  Damn, it's too dark."  Valandil heard this and opened up his lantern.

Mercatur fired a bolt from his crossbow blindly to cover Amrith.  A 'thunk' was heard as the bolt struck one of the wooden walls.

A loud, angry voice was heard. "How did they find us, Thrangull?  You said we were safe.  You said we would be protected.  I burned my shop for this."

Another, deep voice answered, "Shut up, Barkwell you idiot.  I'll deal with this."

Mercatur was listening for the location of the voices when an axe imbedded itself in a crate next to him.  He ducked around some more barrels and let out a sigh of relief.

Valandil took cover at the entrance and let the light of his lantern shine in.  The illumination revealed an average looking man holding a short sword and dagger.  He was blinded by the intense light and shielded his face.  Amrith saw him and fired an arrow into his chest, sinking up to the gull feathers.  The man staggered back and hit the wall.

The dwarf popped out and threw another axe at Valandil, who ducked back around the entrance throwing the room back into darkness.  Firiel then leaned around the corner and fired an arrow with her short bow.

Barkwell cried, "Thrangull, I'm hit bad.  Help me."  He was answered with only silence. Barkwell gurgled again, "All right, I give up.  Help me."

Amrith warily moved toward the sound of the voice.  He came around the corner of crates to the source, but was met by something unexpected.

Mercatur heard a crash and the sounds of struggle.  Valandil reentered the room with the lantern as Firiel also moved in with her bow ready.  The mercenary moved in to see Amrith and the dwarf locked in a death grip, wrestling over a dagger.  Barkwell was lying nearby gasping weakly and trying to pull the arrow from his chest.

Mercatur grinned broadly. "Bye, bye dwarfie."  Thrangull looked up from his struggle with Amrith just in time to see a razor sharp, double-bladed axe sweep toward his head.

The ranger stood, wiping the blood from his face and clothing.  "Oh man, I'm covered with this stuff.  Did you have to lop his head off?"  Mercatur laughed and put his damp boot on Barkwell's face.  Firiel and Valandil rushed in.

Firiel asked, "Is everyone alr... Ohhh, look at all that blood."  She saw Mercatur standing on the struggling Barkwell.  "Hey, stop that.  That poor man's dying."

Mercatur quipped, "And I'm trying to help him die."  He shrugged and stepped off Barkwell's face.  He walked over to the dwarf's headless body and went through the pockets and pouches.

Firiel sat down by Barkwell and soothed his wound, applying a poultice around the arrow and then giving him smelling salts under his nose.  "I'm here to help you.  I can't condone what you did, but that's for the authorities to decide."  She pulled out a scalpel. "Valandil, Amrith, hold him down.  This is going to hurt." She cut into the wound, causing Barkwell to cry out in pain and then deftly removed the arrow.  She covered the wound with a bandage and applied an herbal pack and pressure to the site.

Mercatur pulled a pouch from the dwarf's pocket and placed the axe and shield in a pile.  This was some good loot and dwarven shit was always valuable.  He opened the pouch and displayed the numerous gold coins to Amrith and Valandil.  Mercatur cooed, "Ohhh yeah, this is it baby.  We each get even shares."

Mercatur finished counting the gold and put the piles of coins back into a nearby box. "Just over four hundred gold coins by my count.  That makes more than a hundred for each."

Firiel began to protest, but Valandil stopped her.  "The money will do good. I'm giving my share to the Houses of Healing.  Think of what two hundred gold coins could buy."

Firiel nodded in understanding. "I don't like this looting and pillaging, but you're right. We're going to make things better."  Mercatur sealed the box with some cord.  He pointed to Valandil.  "Uhh, you better carry it."

The new constable cocked his head, looking at him funny. "What's gotten into you?"

"Ehhh.  Let's just say that my past seems to be catching up to me.  We'll talk more over ale."  It was a good haul, but the idea that another Rhudainor might still be alive was disconcerting.