The Dark Mage of Rhudaur by AliceNWonder000137  

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Fury

The final assault comes to its climax.  But there is still the question of the Blood-Wights to answer.

The Tirthon, Cerveth 20th, 1407

          

Dagar watched in horror as dark gray smoke poured out of the kitchen window on the ground floor, an orange glow behind the smoke.  “Mirthi! She was helping in the kitchen!” he cried as he ran for all he was worth to the tower entrance.  A dark cloud erupted in his heart and mind.

“Right behind you!” Mercatur shouted as they tore down the entry corridor to the kitchen.  Smoke was already filling the halls as they bashed in the door.  Much of the kitchen was engulfed in flame, and bodies lay about on the ground.

Dagar’s eyes darted around, looking for any sign of life.  Then, he saw Mirthi, crawling on the floor, blood on her forehead, holding a knife in her hand.  “Mirthi!” he called over the roar of the fire.  He covered his face with the sleeve of his tunic and rushed to her. She was coughing and raised her knife when she saw him.  “No! It’s me!  Dagar!” he shouted.  She stopped and focused her eyes.  He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up as Mercatur threw a wet blanket over them. They rushed back out of the door as Wiglaf and some boys began hurling buckets of water into the room.

Dagar walked Mirthi down the corridor and put one hand up above his head in a prayer.  “Thank the Valar.  Thank the Valar.  I couldn’t lose you.”  As she coughed, he patted her on the back.

Mercatur chuckled.  “You did good again.  I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.”  The blanket was steaming from the heat but they were alive.

Éanfled came running to meet them.  “What happened?  Is everyone all right?”  She wore her red gown and carried a sack over her shoulder.

Dagar pointed at Mirthi. “She inhaled smoke and is coughing.”

Lady Amrodan pulled out some dried leaves from an envelope in her sack.  She crushed them in her hand and then held the leaves under Mirthi’s nose. “There you go.  Inhale slowly.  Slowly.  There, that should ease the congestion.”  She pulled a vial of liquid out and handed it to the girl.  “Take a sip now and then another in ten minutes.”  She looked at Dagar.  “You’ll see to it, yes?”

He nodded, and Éanfled gave them a smile.  Wiglaf called her and she ran down the hall to the men to help any injured there.  Mirthi breathed easier and nodded her head. Dagar blew out a long sigh of relief. “I was so worried, so worried.  What happened back there?  How did that fire start?”

She gave one final cough and cleared her throat.  She took a sip from the vial and inhaled deeply.  “The cook…Garwine, started talking to his ring and then he just went crazy…started shouting nonsense and then stabbing the other cooks,” she said excitedly, her brown eyes huge.  “Then he threw oil on the cooking fires, and they got out of control.  He tried to stab me!  Cut me on the head, he did!” she exclaimed, holding her hand over a wound on her scalp.

Dagar’s heart was pounding as he listened to the story.  “Then what?”

“I hit him with a frying pan and grabbed a knife.  He tried to stab me again and missed and I stabbed him!” she said aloud, her body shaking. “He tried to come at me once more and I managed to pull this off of him,” she continued, showing them the golden ring.  “Then, he just went limp and tried to crawl away, but the fires were everywhere.  Then, you came!  You saved my life…again!”

He stood and bowed with a flourish worthy of King Ostoher’s court.  “I could do no less, good Mirthi.”

Mercatur patted him on the back.  “Good man. Looks like the fire is contained. I have to head back out with Oswy. Those bastards are coming shortly, and I need you to get to the top of the tower and make sure that boiling oil is ready to pour on them.  Take your crossbow too.  We may need support up top.  Go, go, be safe.”

Dagar and Mirthi rushed up the stairs and she quickly peeked into the guest room.  Cicrid was there with the other village girls.  She would be safe for now.  Mirthi pointed at some of the adult women.  “Follow us to the roof!”  They continued to the top where the four remaining footmen were boiling vats of oil.  Steam floated up from the vats and the smell was overpowering, making Dagar’s eyes water. “What can we do?” Dagar shouted to the footmen.

“You see that pump handle? Yeah, that one!  Start pumping for all you’re worth!” yelled the lead.  The man looked out through a gap in the bronze plating.  “Pump fast! Here they come!”  Just then a stone slammed into a huge bronze plate that shielded the roof, setting off a ringing noise that made everyone cover their ears.

Dagar and Mirthi took hold of the handle and started pumping it back and forth.  Oil began to flow up through pipes into tubs that would be poured when ready.  A ballista bolt lodged in the armored plate with a loud PANG.  The footman shouted out, “It’s not going to hold forever! Faster!”  The footmen kept stoking the flames beneath the vats, all of them covered in soot and sweat.

Several of the village women, along with Baga Montúri, ran up and started grabbing rocks to throw.  Baga still had a bandage over his head where his ear was cut off and he looked ready to fight.  Dagar motioned one of them over.  “Take the pump for a minute!” he yelled, and a teenage girl grabbed the handle.  He ran over to the edge, keeping partially hidden behind the bronze plate.  He could see Oswy on the ground, ushering stable boys and villagers into the tower.

“Everyone in!  Everyone in!  Hurry!” the knight yelled as the enemy poured in through the shattered part of the palisade.  Dunnish tribesmen with axes, spears and clubs screamed an unearthly battle cry and charged as rangers with bows began to pelt the tower with arrows.  Dagar winced as the ping ping ping of arrows sounded on the bronze plate.  He grit his teeth and aimed his crossbow ahead of a tribesman and pulled the trigger. The bowstring snapped and the bolt flew into the chest of the man, burying itself in his fur jacket up to the fletchings.

The last of the villagers were inside and Oswy rushed in and slammed the gate shut.  Dagar could hear the two portculli slam down soon after.  Arrows began flying from the tower as the Vulseggi retaliated.  Dagar fired another bolt and saw the Dunnish warriors placing ladders on the tower wall. Behind them rolled a siege tower, pushed by three trolls.  The young man had never seen one before and his eyes grew huge at the sight of these monstrosities.  “They’re climbing up ladders!  We need the oil now!”

The footman pointed at a level on the wall.  “Do it! Don’t wait for us!”

Dagar grabbed the level and yanked it down, opening up tubes that let the boiling oil flow out of the tubs. Steaming liquid rained down on the ladders and the screams chilled the young man to his core.  He could never forget that sound for the rest of his life. Amid a shower of rocks thrown by villagers, tribesman tumbled off of the ladder, falling back to the ground, silencing their shrieks with a series of thuds.  Another wave surged up the ladders as a stone slammed into the bronze plate, cracking it up the middle, pieces of green metal flying back onto the roof.  Dagar flinched but held up his hand.  “Keep pumping!  Refill the tubs!”  Mirthi and the teenaged girl rocked back and forth, keeping the pumps going.  A glass gauge on the side of the tub showed half full but it was going to have to do.  He yanked the level down again and the oil flowed from the pipes into the faces of the tribesmen.  More screams and more thuds.  A third wave was already on the ladder.  The tribesmen were fanatical in their mindless hate and showed no signs of wavering.

There was no way that the tubs would be full enough to have any effect now and Dagar knew it. “They’re coming up the ladder! Prepare yourselves!” he shouted and fired a bolt into the face of the lead climber.  The man was dead before he hit the ground.  Dagar leaned back to reload as the four footmen rushed over and drew shortswords, axes and machetes.  One clansman came over the top, howling and laughing, only to be hacked to pieces by the footmen.  Another was over the top and leapt onto a soldier, stabbing over and over with a dagger. Two more came over and the melee was joined.  Dagar fired a bolt into the stomach of one attacker, but he didn’t slow down.  The lead footman swung his axe into the man’s cheek and the man fell where he stood.  A short, stocky Dunman came over next, clad in stiff leather armor with a cloak of human and orc ears and noses.  This was the clan chief.  The chief swung his spiked club down on top of the head of another footman and blood sprayed from his mouth and nose.  “Surrender now to the Macha Mur and I’ll just take your ears and noses.”

Dagar staggered back and drew his smallsword.  He knew that Mercatur was right.  This pigsticker wouldn’t do shit against this enemy.  He fell in with the two remaining footmen and waved Mirthi and the teen back. “Get behind us!”  Baga and the village women began hurling rocks at the Macha Mur as more of the Dunnish warriors climbed over the wall.  Mirthi threw a rock that smacked into the face of one warrior who was at the top of a ladder, and he fell backwards, screaming all the way to the ground.  About ten Macha Mur were on the roof now with more streaming up the ladders from the Siol Nȗnaw.

The chief pointed his spiked club at the defenders and scoffed.  “Heh, two idiots, two boys and a bunch of girls.  You will all make fine trophies or slaves.”

A voice sounded from behind Dagar and the roof went quiet.  “Is that so, Lumban?  What? You can only fight boys and girls?” Dagar looked back to see Mercatur and Jaabran moving in besides them.  Both mercenaries were covered in blood and the blade of Mercatur’s axe was notched like a saw after the battle below.  He looked at Dagar and made a sly half smile.  “Miss me?”

“You don’t know how much.”

Lumban moved forward, flipping his club back and forth menacingly.  “I thought I saw you out there earlier, Mercatur.  You should have taken my deal.  Now you’re on the losing side.  I’m going to enjoy adding you to my collection.”

Mercatur chuckled as he adjusted the chin strap of his barbute helmet.  “It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it?” he said and then kicked over one of the oil vats towards the Dunnish warriors and the steaming liquid poured out around some of their feet.  Macha Mur and Siol Nȗnaw fighters howled in pain and began hopping around, trying to get free of the molten mess.  Dagar took the cue and fired a bolt into the throat of a warrior as rocks began to fly again.

Lumban was quick on his feet and skittered away from the oil as the defenders moved forward cautiously. Steel met wood as the melee broke out again.  The Macha Mur chief lunged at Dagar, and he leapt back, parrying with his small sword. He was not an expert by any means, but he knew enough to deflect instead of block.  He had learned one signature move from Haedorial that wouldn’t fool anyone in the Nightsinger’s Guild or the School of Duelists in Tharbad, but this wasn’t Tharbad.  Lumban swung again, an overhead crushing blow to which Dagar angled his thin blade, deflecting the club into the floor.  With a flick of his wrist, he sliced Lumban’s cheek with the tip of the blade and then thrust the tip into the chief’s shoulder.

The barbarian roared in pain and anger as blood trickled down his face.  “I’ll take more than your ears and nose, boy,” he growled, taking an offensive stance again.

Dagar’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for opportunities or means of escape.  Nearby, Jaabran sliced the hand off of a warrior with his curved sword, but one footman was down and not moving.  The young man could hear a battering ram below, slamming into the Tirthon’s gate.  As if that wasn’t enough, the siege tower was almost at the wall.  The Vulseggi below were pouring arrows into the tower and the trolls.  Dagar waved Mirthi and the teen back.  “Get downstairs!  We cannot hold them!”

Mirthi screamed, “Never! They murdered my whole village!  They’ll have to kill me before I run!”

As Lumban circled them, Dagar glanced at the huge bronze shield that faced the attackers.  They wouldn’t dare fire the onager or the ballista while their men were on the roof and ladders.  An idea struck him.  “Mercatur! Cut the ropes!  Cut the ropes!” he shouted, pointing at the bronze plate that was easily as big as a wagon.  It wasn’t going to hold much longer anyway.

The mercenary looked at him, questioning, and then it registered.  “Keep them off of me, Jaabran!”  As the Haradrim fended off two warriors, he sliced at the thick ropes with his axe, hacking them twice before they snapped.  With a great groan, the bronze plate toppled forward and crashed into the siege tower, crushing one troll.  The siege tower wobbled for a few seconds and then toppled backwards, wooden splinters flying into the air.

Lumban howled with rage and swung at Dagar again, knocking the blade of his smallsword aside.  The young man staggered back but Mirthi threw a rock into the chief’s face, drawing blood.  Dagar recovered and did a quick thrust into Lumban’s thigh and then twisted the blade.  Lumban hobbled back with a grunt, holding his leg.  The smallsword was not so much a killing weapon as it was a dueling weapon, designed to wear an opponent down with small wounds.

Mercatur stepped between them and motioned Dagar aside.  “You did good, Dagar.  I’ll make a mercenary out of you yet.  And I take back what I said about your pigsticker.  But this one is mine.  I’ve been waiting for this for a while now.”  The roof was near quiet now as the Dunnish warriors were nearly all dead.  Jaabran and the footman leader were putting the wounded enemy to the sword.

Dagar nodded and put his arm around Mirthi, guiding her back.  Lumban laughed at them, uncaring about his perilous position now.  Mercatur kept tapping the haft of his axe into the open palm of his free hand.  Then, he extended that hand and pulled his fingers in.  “Come on.”

Lumban raised his club to strike but Mercatur leapt forward and brought the blade of his axe down on the chief’s shoulder.  It sank in several inches in a sickening squelch of cutting flesh and bone. Lumban gasped, his mouth wide open. He tried to speak but only a croaking noise came out.  Mercatur drew his dagger and sliced off the barbarian’s nose.

“Good to see you too, Lumban,” he said with a grin.  “Next time, pay better and don’t be such a ghoul.”  He picked the chief up and threw him over the wall.

Dagar collapsed to his knees in exhaustion as the adrenaline wore off.  He felt hollow and nauseous even as Mirthi hugged him.  The lead footman came over to them.  “You were amazing,” the man said, extending his hand. “Fastulf is my name.  I can’t tell you how glad I am that you stood with us.”

Mirthi pointed at the teenage girl who fought with them.  “And this is Heci, my cousin.”

Fastulf helped him to his feet, and he wobbled a little bit, still drained from the fight.  Mercatur walked over and tossed his axe aside.  He wrapped Dagar up in a bear hug.  “Dammit,” the mercenary said.  “I had you all wrong.  I thought you were some pouncy fop from the city who couldn’t hold his own out here.”

Dagar laughed for the first time in a while.  “Umm, you thought right.  I was exactly that, some pouncy fop from the city who couldn’t hold his own out here. But I…I couldn’t have done this without you, good Mercatur.”

As Fastulf and Jaabran tended to their wounded, Oswy and Tonfall came up the stairs, followed by Éanfled. A few of the Dunnish tribesmen surrendered and threw down their weapons.  Oswy had a huge grin.  “They’re in full retreat.  They got through the gate, but we held them in the corridor with arrows and flaming oil. Tonfall and I led the charge to repel them and drive them from the tower.  Now, get yourself together.  We’re going to pursue and finish them off for good.”  Éanfled came over to Mirthi and applied a bandage to the cut on her scalp, wiping away the blood on her face with a damp cloth.

Dagar sighed in relief but then another thought came to him.  He turned to Mirthi.  “Do you still have that ring?”  She pulled it out from a pocket of her cook’s apron and showed it to him.  “I saw…I saw Nasen give the cook that ring.  There is something evil about it,” he said, taking the ring and then hurling over the wall.  Then, his blood ran cold.  “Nasen? Nasen gave him the ring.  By the Valar, is Nasen a traitor?  We need to find him.”

Oswy narrowed his eyes. “He and his men left the tower after we drove the enemy away.  I tried to warn him not to leave but he ignored me.  I had more important things to do than chase him.”

The pieces of the puzzle began to come together for Dagar.  “The look he gave me when my father told me that I would inherit the business and not him…  Since I left for Tharbad, Nasen was named as the successor.  It all…it all makes sense now.  I think he hoped that I would die here and he would still inherit.”

Mercatur gave him a grim smile.  “Welcome to Rhudaur.”  He motioned to the stairway down.  “Come on. Daylight’s a wasting.  We have some assholes to squash, and I want to personally squish that mage and that blood-sucking bitch.”

They rushed down the stairs into the yard where the few Vulseggi remaining stood with horses, ready to go.  Oswy swung into the saddle.  “There aren’t many of us left,” he said, “but they are even fewer now.  He leaned over and kissed Éanfled.  “Let’s finish this once and for all.”

Wiglaf and some of the servants stood nearby along with Old Pad, Nig and Cisgid.  “Aldhelm and l will take care of things here, Sir Oswy. Fight bravely,” the old man said. “But when you return, we’re going to need to talk about the tower.  It may not be salvageable and we may not have enough people to hold it any longer.”

Dagar went to a horse, but Mercatur waved him off.  “You’ve done enough, young man.  You don’t need to go on this one.”  

Dagar shook his head. “Not a chance, good Mercatur.  I’m seeing this through.”  He grasped Nig and Cisgid by the arms.  “You stood and fought as promised.  As promised, I am releasing you from indentured service and will pay you once we return.  If you choose to stay with me, I will consider you full employees.”  The two teens nodded in agreement.

Wiglaf grinned.  “Don’t you worry about payment.  I have you taken care of.  You all earned it.”

Dagar had been thinking about this for some time, but he knew that now was his chance and he’d better take it or forever regret it.  He grasped Mirthi from behind the neck and pulled her in with a kiss.  She tensed at first but then relaxed into his arms.

Mercatur patted him on the head.  “Alright, lover boy.  Come on. If you’re going to join us, it’s time to go.”

The young man reluctantly released her and climbed into the saddle.  “I’ll be back.  I swear it.” They rode through the shattered palisade gate and turned north to pursue the enemy into the Yfelwood.

To the west, walking slowly away, were the few remaining Siol Nȗnaw.  Their chief raised his open hand to them and Mercatur stood tall in the saddle, waving back.  “He’s signaling that he’s leaving the field and will fight no more.  Let em go.  Cagh, you dog,” he said of the chief.  “Be safe and I’m glad your tribe survived.”

As they rode away, a rider galloped toward them.  It was Baga Montúri, the wounded boy from Maig Tuira.  His face was full of anger.  “I’m coming with you.  They will pay for what they did to the village.”  Oswy nodded and motioned him forward.  They passed the tree line into the forest and the temperature fell significantly.  Dagar shivered and pulled his fur cloak tight.  Snow lay thick on the forest floor but there was a trail where the enemy had retreated. The chill was beyond just the cold. There was something evil ahead.

Mercatur rummaged around in his saddle bag and pulled out a scroll.  He leaned over to Dagar and handed it to him.  “I wanted to tell you something before but there wasn’t time.  I told you a little bit before, but I was disinherited too.  My father called me a wastrel, brawling in pubs, fighting for money.  No son of mine, he said.  Not worthy of the Rhudainor name, he said.  Last year, my mother convinced him to relent.  I was on my way back home when they died of the fever. I know what you’re going through and I want you to have this.”

Dagar narrowed his eyes, curious.  “What is it?”

“It’s my inheritance. Our manor house and some farmland. It’s near Thuin Boid so you can still be close to family.”

Dagar was moved, his mouth falling open.  “I…I can’t. That’s your inheritance.  You’re a Rhudainor.  I’m just an accountant in a guild of bards.  I’m just the waenhosh driver.  I don’t have a drop of noble blood.”

Mercatur pressed the scroll into his palm and closed it.  “Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” he said, and Dagar put his arm up.  “I, do solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the Kingdom of Arnor of old as created by the men of the west from across the sea. I swear to protect its lands and its people with my life if need be and I will carry my title with courage and with honor.”  Dagar had a chill run down his spine as he repeated it and then Mercatur slapped him across the cheek with his bare hand.  “And this is so that you won’t forget it.”  The mercenary bowed his head.  “Congratulations, Lord Rhudainor.”

Dagar rubbed his face, but his smile was a mile wide.  “I don’t know what to say.  Are you…are you the last Rhudainor?”

“No, you are,” Mercatur said, shaking his head.  “But Marendil has a sister in Tharbad, so I hear.  Never met her.  No idea what she looks like.  I think her name is Silmarien or something.  My parents said that she studies magic and wants nothing to do with Rhudaur.”

They continued to ride down the path, occasionally passing over a dead goblin or Macha Mur along with a couple of dead rangers, face down in the snow.  The Cultirith and Hirgrim were still strong and would be dangerous.  Dagar counted four Vulseggi, Ecegar, Tonfall and Oswy along with Baga, Mercatur and Jaabran. Eleven in total, including him and they would still have to face the mage and those blood-sucking demons.  He began to wonder if this was such a great idea. After a couple of hours, they rode into a vale, where many of the trees were burnt and nothing else seemed to grow. The pathway wound downhill into a clearing, where it looked like an excavation had taken place.  Equipment lay scattered about haphazardly and the tracks continued in the snow to a large cavern.  The sun was low above the trees now, but they could not stop to let the enemy regroup.

As they neared the cavern entrance, they dismounted and tied their horses to a post nearby.  Mercatur and Oswy stopped and looked around as if they saw something.  “Do you see her?” the mercenary asked.

“Who?  Who do you see?” asked Dagar, looking about.

“She was right there! Talking to me.”

Dagar shook his head. “I don’t see anyone.”  Then, he felt someone touch him on the shoulder. He turned and there she was: a tall, beautiful elven woman with curly black hair, angular features and high cheekbones, but not the demon who fought them earlier, the one from the Dunnish camp. He couldn’t help but notice that she was unclothed, and he felt embarrassed and looked away.

She appeared distressed and she put her hands together as if begging.  “Help me, Dagar.  My name is Sercë.  I am trapped inside,” she said, her voice reverberating.  “The mage and my sister hold me against my will.  Her name is Skrykalian.  Do not trust her as she is a vampire…an evil seductress.  Please help me.  He does unspeakable things to me, Dagar.  Please hurry,” she said, pleading and then evaporated into mist.  He could still feel her aura and her draw was undeniable.

Dagar grabbed Mercatur’s arm. “She’s a prisoner of the mage.  We need to free her and we must hurry.”

Chapter End Notes

Ethacali is defeated but he still has tricks up his sleeve.  Mercatur takes care of Lumban and Cagh saves his tribe.  But now the defenders pursue Ethacali into Blogath's Vale.

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