The Barrow Downs

Haedorial

As the elf, Ascarnil, and the mercenary, Mercatur, scrambled for weapons and armor, Haedorial stood in awe of the ancient tomb. The stout bard held his notebook open, writing furiously, oblivious to the approach of the enemy.

I considered myself well-traveled, but I never dreamed I would be standing inside the tomb of the great kings of old. I can just feel the magic surrounding this chamber. The stone work is magnificent, likely crafted by the masons of the lost Noldorin city of Nargothrond. Unlike the dwarven masons, the elves built their underground halls with an airy feel and this place fits that motif perfectly.

The script on the walls is in the ancient Tengwar, the characters of the Noldor, as well as the runes of the Sindar and the ancient men. It details the noble history of the house of Beor and I will try to write as much of it as I can in another book. The script glows faintly under the light of the orb, not doubt enchanted by some means. The wondrous thing is the characters move upon the wall to match where the reader's eye falls. Amazing.

I am now in the tomb of the ancient lord, Ostoher. He is dressed in the finest of robes of silver and red and his blond hair is neatly combed. The script in this chamber reveals that he perished fighting a dragon of Morgoth. All of the dragons are said to have perished in the War of Wrath, but I am not so sure. As a bard, I have heard tell of great worms hidden in the far north. The Northmen claim that there is a foul beast they call Scatha that is slumbering in the southern mountains. But, I digress.

I am in awe at how the elves repaired Ostoher's broken body, but yet, they could not restore him to life.

Besides him lies his lady, Silwë. Such a lovely woman. It says that she died of grief for the loss of her lord. The tale of the early men is one of great nobility, yet great tragedy. The lady wears a mithril headband with a single green emerald the size of the tip of my thumb. Her robes are woven with silver thread and her necklace is of mithril, laced with emeralds.

I cannot fathom what enchantments have kept their bodies intact for more than five thousand years. I am humbled by their magnificence.

Along the walls of the chamber are many chests. I have opened one that is full of gold coins and jewels. I am not here for treasure, but for knowledge and I shall not pilfer the resting place of these noble people.

By the Valar, one chest holds a great book, bound in gray leather. It is embossed with the Tengwar script – 'Of the Elements.' There is another book beneath. It is heavy and bound also bound in gray leather. There are two characters in Tengwar written upon them that only a bard or other learned person could read. The style is ancient, beyond even the Wars of Beleriand. 'Este' 'Irmo'. The names of two of the Valar. Could this be? I must open it. By the Valar!

Valandil

Outside of the barrow, the knight turned his horse to avoid the charge of a warg rider and a spear passed by his side. He drew back his arm and chopped the orc in the neck with his fine broadsword. The blade sliced through the orc's steel gorget and into flesh, sending a spray of black blood into the snow. With a shriek, the orc tumbled off of its mount and the warg barreled into Valandil's horse.

As the warg snarled, the horse reared in panic and Valandil slid from the saddle into the soft snow. The blanket of flakes cushioned his fall and he quickly got to his feet to block a spear thrust with his shield.

"Firiel, get to the barrow. Find the others!" he yelled as he thrust the point of his weapon into the belly of another warg. A small arrow sank into the beast's face and it howled in agony, toppling on its rider.

Valandil looked back to see Firiel notch another arrow. "I said get back!" he yelled again, but she seemed to be ignoring his pleas.

The knight stepped over the dying warg and thrust his sword into the heart of the helpless orc, but another two riders were upon him. The first warg slammed into Valandil, its teeth digging into his shield, tearing wood from its frame. Valandil fell backward, leaving his shield in the beast's fangs. A spear point jammed into his mail shirt, rattling the close-knit rings and bruising his flesh beneath. The point caught on the links of the knight's mail and he used that moment to chop the wood with his sword.

With his left hand now free, Valandil grabbed the broken shaft of the spear and yanked the orc down. He drew his arm back to strike, but the next attacker was on him and cut down upon his helm. The scimitar blade clanged on the steel of Valandil's helmet, ringing his ears and he staggered back. He brought his arm up to parry again, but was relieved to see another arrow sink into the chest of the orc.

With his chest heaving and his breath coming in vents of steam, Valandil chopped at the riderless warg, the blade sinking into the beast's shoulder. His legs felt like rubber with fatigue and cold and he could not react in time to dodge away from the warg's charge. It slammed into him and its teeth crunched down on his left arm.

Valandil shouted in pain, but chopped down on the warg's neck, letting the blade bite into its hide. Another arrow sank into the beast, but it thrashed his head, rattling the links of chainmail.

The knight hacked again. "Where is Mercatur?" he bellowed.

This time, a crossbow bolt and a long-shafted arrow struck the warg and its jaws opened to cry out. Valandil pulled his wounded arm back and rammed the point of his sword into its maw.

Shouting from his flank bolstered his flagging spirits as Mercatur, now clad in black chainmail, rushed forward with his battle axe. From the other side, Ascarnil struck an orc, crying, "Runya!" The enchanted blade smote the orc, throwing flame and smoke into the air.

The mercenary swung down on another orc, chopping through its parry. The glistening blade clove its helmet and head, spattering blood. Mercatur yanked the weapon back out and turned to Valandil.

"We got held up. Here, take this sword," he said, tossing the weapon.

Valandil caught it by the handle and drew it from its ancient scabbard. The weapon shot from its sheath with a life of its own. He took a second to examine the blade, which seemed to have little weight. The metal was black and forged by enchantments long forgotten. Tengwar characters, which he could not read, adorned the length of the blade. An orc rushed at him and Valandil made a diagonal, one-handed cut. He prepared for the orc's parry and for their blades to meet, but the sword went cleanly through the scimitar and then passed through the orc with ease.

Valandil's mouth fell open with surprise as the orc fell to pieces into the snow. Instinctively, he swung back at an approaching warg and the blade clove away half of its head. "By the Valar!"

The orcs took notice of the sudden change of their fortunes and began scampering away amid the shrieks of their dying brethren and the howling of wounded wargs.

Valandil staggered to a rock to sit while Mercatur and Ascarnil finished off the beaten enemy. The knight took a moment to examine the sword, which was mysteriously devoid of any blood or gore, which covered him from dented helm to armored boot.

Firiel rushed to him and began looking at his wounded arm. The armor had borne the brunt of the bite, but he would have a nasty bruise. She quickly applied a patch of herbs, but Valandil seemed oblivious, so obsessed by the sword was he.

"Valandil…are you alright?"

The knight blinked, reluctant to take his eyes off of the unearthly beauty of the weapon. It seemed to be talking to him and he cocked his head as if listening to it.

"Valandil?"

This time, he looked at her with a blank expression. "Yes, my wounds are only minor. I'm glad you're alright. I thought we were done for."

She returned a weak smile. "Maybe my mother's herbs are not worth this risk. I cannot lose you…not now."

His old self seemed to be returning and he cupped his hand over her cheek. "We'll get through this. Remember, we've been through worse here," he said with a bittersweet laugh.

At that, Ascarnil stepped up and plucked the sword from Valandil's hands. "You fought well with Sulring. Yes, that is his name…forged by the hands of Maeglin in the fastness of Gondolin, the hidden city. He is a powerful weapon, but dark of heart. It is time for him to return." Ascarnil sheathed the sword and Valandil felt the urge to take the weapon back and strike Ascarnil.

The knight trembled for a moment as the elf took off the black chainmail that belonged to Ostoher. The elf smiled. "You should feel honored. Sulring has not been wielded since the dawn of men. He, along with this armor that I wore, were forged of a meteoric metal known as Galvorn. You will feel his presence…and his thirst." Ascarnil then turned and walked to Mercatur.

"Mercenary, it is time. We must return the items to their rightful owners and seal the tomb."

Mercatur looked down upon the Galvorn rings of the armor, touching them lovingly with his finger. "I don't think so. This will be far more useful to the living than the dead."

The elf stopped, letting snow flakes fall between them. "I said it was time and hold you to your word."

"I said, I don't think so." Mercatur's hand drifted to the shaft of his axe.

Valandil shot up, his stupor now gone. "Wait! We must abide by the will of the elf here. These treasures are not for us despite their power. Their age is past and we cannot hope to wield them wisely."

Ascarnil nodded. "Well spoken. Elrond himself decreed that these barrows should remain undisturbed and I shall have to answer for that. Mercenary, you would not be able to travel ten leagues without Elrond's sons confronting you."

Mercatur didn't flinch. "Bring them on."

Valandil walked slowly over to him and put gentle hands on the mercenary's shoulders. "Let it go, friend. There will be other treasures. Our fight is not with the elves."

Suddenly, Mercatur burst into laughter. "Very well," he said and peeled off the armor. He tossed it to Ascarnil, who caught it deftly. "Put your toys back in their boxes. I care not."

The elf quickly returned to the barrow, where Haedorial staggered out in a daze.

Valandil trod over. "What happened?"

The bard looked confused. "I…I don't remember."

Firiel

The half elf woman sighed with relief at seeing Valandil's wounds: they were minor and the herbs would heal them quickly. Her skill in healing and herbal lore was the best in the Kingdom of Cardolan and most in her care recovered.

As the icy wind howled over the downs, Firiel gazed across the white landscape and, for a moment, her mind saw the Army of Cardolan fighting desperately against the host of Rogrog.

"The enemy is upon us! Awake!"

Trumpets blared in the dead of night, rousing Firiel from sleep. She blinked her eyes heavily and swirled her tongue in her mouth.

"Rogrog is upon us! To arms, to arms!"

Fear shot through her limbs and she seized a short sword that lay upon her table. The sound of steel on steel rang through the warm night along with the cries of battle. Firiel's breath caught in her throat as she drew the weapon and stepped through the tent flaps.

Men with torches ran about as others hastily pulled spears from racks. A cloud of arrows sailed overhead…black feathered arrows…the arrows of orcs.

She grabbed a soldier by the arm. "What is happening? The King said we would be safe here. We wouldn't be attacked for days."

The man, with the coat of arms of House Girithlin, was near panic. "Flee for your life. Rogrog stole a march on us and - "

An arrow shot by the two and the soldier turned. Firiel saw an orc notching another black feathered arrow. The sigil of the red castle was on its helmet…the symbol of Angmar and the Witch King.

The soldier instinctively rushed at the orc and hacked through its chainmail with a sword. The creature fell and the soldier struck again. Two orcs charged past him and pointed sharp scimitars at her while howling in their guttural language.

Firiel stopped for a moment and then ran for all she was worth.

She passed burning tents and scattered weapons while horses were screaming. She scooped up a short bow and a quiver and ran behind a barricade. She quickly notched an arrow and took a breath as her heart pounded in her chest. One orc rounded the barricade and searched the ground for her. Firiel let her fingers go slack and the bowstring twanged, propelling the shaft into the orc's chest.

The creature shrieked and collapsed to the ground. Firiel notched another arrow with shaking hands as the second orc moved up. She held the string to her ear for a moment before firing again. The shaft leapt into the orc's face through its iron helmet, but the beast staggered forward, raising its scimitar. She launched another arrow into its chest and still it walked toward her. A third arrow shot into its neck and the orc fell a foot from her, its weapon slashing into the grass.

Firiel trembled uncontrollably until she heard the roar of a monster nearby. Peering around the corner of the barricade, she saw a bloated form advancing on the King. It stood twice the height of a man with a spiked club held in both hands. An apron of human heads hung at its belt. It was an Olog-Hai troll, bred for war and killing and no other purpose.

"Rogrog," she whispered and closed her eyes.

She rocked back and forth, full of terror, wishing for it all to end, until someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

"The King is slain! We must retreat."

It was the soldier that she had seen at the tent. It was Valandil.

Firiel sighed as the vision passed. As she returned to the present, Mercatur was being difficult…again. She stood behind Valandil as tension mounted between the elf and the mercenary and it seemed as though another battle would erupt.

Damn mercenary…always so stubborn and contrary. Why can't you just do what's right for the sake of doing it?

Again, she sighed as Mercatur handed over the armor and Ascarnil returned to the tomb. She followed the elf out of curiosity and Haedorial emerged from the barrow, looking dazed.

Valandil approached and they sat the bard down. In his hands, he held a gray leather book.

"I…I…found this…in the tomb of Ostoher and Silwë. I don't remember anything else."

Firiel was about to open the book when Ascarnil took it and entered the barrow. He looked back and said, "This needs to end here. We have opened something that should not have been opened. As Valandil said, this age is past. These things are beyond our understanding."

Firiel followed the elf and marveled at the wonders of the tomb. As Ascarnil returned the items to their rightful places, she rushed into the chamber to see Silwë, the grief-stricken lady. Unable to take her eyes off of the dead woman, Firiel could hear Silwë call to her, drawing her near.

Firiel shuffled closer and closer until she stood over Silwë and gazed upon her delicate features, awestruck by the ancient woman, her beauty preserved over the millennia.

Ascarnil shook her. "We must go."

She shook her head and narrowed her brows and the elf pulled her away. He looked her in the eye. "We must lock this barrow and say a prayer to Varda. You must never return here."

She nodded reluctantly and they departed. Ascarnil closed the metal door and the keyhole vanished. He looked up into the darkening sky as the stars twinkled and asked for Varda's forgiveness.

A/N - Thanks Thug! Will what happened to Haedorial come back? You betcha.