Notes - Ugh, work has been brutal. I've been flying two to three times a day. I will finally have a day off on Friday and then fly all weekend. Don't ever be good at what you do or you will always be in demand.
The Mouth of the Gwathló River
Gwirith 4th, 1410. Spring
Valandil
A light drizzle under gray skies dampened the camp near the wide mouth of the mighty Gwathló River. Tents and rough shelters sat upon the wet grass and soft earth near the shore. A score of men with tools dug a swampy pit as the knight, Valandil stood in the rain, letting the drops roll down his face. Moisture beaded on the chainmail that peeked out from under his green Cardolan surcoat. He was pleased that Firiel's meeting with her mother went well. Apparently, they had not seen each other in more than a few years, which is nothing to an elf. Her mother, Elanoriel, donated a significant amount of herbs to the Houses of Healing as well as to the expedition they were now on. In addition, she decided to accompany the party on their journey, which was proving to be a boon and a burden.
The mercenary, Mercatur, thrummed his fingers on an oak table under the tent while pulling on his beard with his other hand. "How long have we been in this wet, miserable place?"
Valandil chuckled, but did not look back into the tent. "Only a week. Give it some time. I'm sure it will grow on us."
The mercenary grunted and continued thrumming his fingers. "Bard, what are we suppose to find here again?"
In his gaily-colored, red and yellow tunic and breeches, Haedorial stood in the tent, looking at a map hanging on the wall. "If you could be patient for just a little while, my good Mercatur, we shall find the Mithril horde of Tar-Telemmaitë, the King of Númenor nearly three thousand years ago. We are near the ruins of Vinyalondë, also known as Lond Daer Enedh," he said with authority.
"Vinya…what?" asked Mercatur, perked up by the reminder that Mithril could be near.
The bard looked back with a smile, now that he had gotten Mercatur's attention. "In the Year Seven-Seventy-Seven of the Second Age, the Crown Prince of Númenor, Anardil Aldarion began the construction of a great harbor to house the mighty ships of the realm. He wanted an impregnable base nigh to the Elf-lands to expand into Middle Earth. The great mariner erected a lighthouse on a small rocky islet near the outer mudbank and on the western promontory that formed the bay. An earthen rampart sealed off the eastern promontory as well. From there, the Númenoreans constructed docks and raised the castle of Bar-en-Uinendil, the House of the Venturers' Guild."
Valandil entered the tent to better hear the story and Haedorial's smile broadened at the prospect of more attention.
"Provisions would be Aldarion's greatest concern this far from Númenor," the bard continued. "As such, he made the Bar-en-Uinendil one of the largest fortresses ever built by men. There was a great, sloping basalt wall on the seaward side to resist storms and an elaborate drainage system was provided so that the twin towers on the landward side would not be overwhelmed by the sea. Soon, a populace moved in, and settlements grew near the defenses. It must have been a sight to behold."
Valandil moved over and took a look at the map. "What happened to Vinyalondë?"
"Ah, I thought you'd never ask," Haedorial said with a broad smile as he twirled one of the ringlets in his hair. "Aldarion was a mighty king and expanded the influence of Númenor far and wide. Sadly, he and his daughter Ancalimë were constantly at odds. She became the first ruling Queen of Númenor when the great mariner retired. Three hundred years after construction began, a hurricane obliterated all of Vinyalondë, except the Bar-en-Uinendil. Ancalimë abandoned the fortress, and the proud towers were eventually worn down by the wind and sea."
Valandil was genuinely curious and studied the map intensely. "So where does the Mithril Room come in? Didn't Tar-Telemmaitë come after Aldarion?"
Haedorial nodded. "Very astute, my good knight, very astute. Well, six-hundred years later, another Crown Prince, Minastir, decided to build Lond Daer anew. The coastline had been altered by the seas, but Minastir wanted to build around Aldarion's old house. It took fifty-six years, but the city proved pivotal in the wars that crushed Sauron. Minastir constructed an artificial harbor and raised massive walls. Along with this came the fortress of Minas Mellon that sat on a huge pyramid. Minastir's finest feat of engineering came in the form of the Floating Avenue to resist the power of the storms. Once again, in Twenty-Five-Eleven of the Second Age, the Wrath of Ossë, a hurricane beyond imagining, wiped out the city. The Kings of Númenor made some repairs, but they were beginning to fall into evil by this time. The site was finally abandoned during the reign of Tar-Palantir, who hoped to restore Númenor to the old ways. The last straw was when Ar-Pharazôn the Golden incurred the wrath of the Valar, the site was drowned in the tidal waves that came from the Downfall of Númenor. Water and earthquakes ruined the coastline and sunk the site beneath the waves."
"That's pretty impressive. How do we hope to find this?"
Once again, the bard smiled and produced another map from a wooden scroll case and laid it out over the table. "Over time, the coastline has changed again and what was once sunken has now resurfaced."
Valandil looked at the map and then walked back to the tent opening. "It still looks pretty wet to me." He looked out onto the river where flat boats were pulling up onto the shore – more supplies had come in, courtesy of Elanoriel and another benefactor. "I'll be back shortly. I'm going to help with the incoming supplies." The knight strode across the muddy ground toward the rivermen where Firiel and her mother were tying off their lines.
A burly man, with the look of the sea, stepped off of the boat as his men began unloading crates and barrels. He wore a floppy red leather cap, that had been waterproofed against the rain and ocean. "We've some goods, courtesy of Westin Heathertoes," he said with a curt bow.
"Westin?" asked Valandil. "Well, this is welcome news." The knight extended his hand. "Sir Valandil of Cardolan."
"Aelfred, Captain of the Bargemen's Guild. The rain's swollen the river like a pregnant sow, which made our going a lot easier," the man said as he wiped moisture from his blond hair and mustache. He turned back and motioned to his men. "Come on, look alive. I want to shove off quickly. We've got a lot of cargo to move."
Valandil pitched in and began rolling a barrel, with the Royal Seal of Cardolan, down the walkway as Aelfred strode along. Men carried crates and rolled their own barrels as the constant drizzle continued. The blond guildsman looked off at the excavation site. "What's the deal with all of this work? Not since Prince Braegil has there been anyone out here."
"Well, as a matter of fact, we're picking up where he left off. Our bard, Haedorial, thinks he has the solution."
Aelfred looked skeptical and his lips curled up. "Well friend, I wish you luck. The river and sea are harsh mistresses to be sure. What might be a little bad weather elsewhere can be sure death here. Oh, by the way, your expedition seems to have some favor. It seems that the Princess of Cardolan is sending more supplies your way. I heard Brethil the Old and Findegil Finwarin set sail a week ago."
"I thought Brethil was too old to put to sea anymore and Findegil…he has a good heart, but not much sense," Valandil said with a wince and a head shake.
Aelfred laughed deeply. "Indeed. As I said, I wish you luck."
Up ahead, there seemed to be a commotion at the excavation site. Valandil set aside the barrel and trotted up to take a look. "What do you have? What is it?"
Haedorial stood over the muddy hole where the men stepped back from something. "My good knight, what we have here is the outer wall of Lond Daer. My friends, I think we're onto something."
The Ruins of Vinyalondë
Firiel
The healer sat in her tent as light rain pattered on the canvas. She looked down at an open journal, pondering what to write. She took a deep breath and then put quill to parchment.
Two weeks have passed and we're still digging in this muddy pit. I don't know how much longer I can remain here. Jonu is still too young to manage the House by himself. With Kaile and the princess away from Tharbad…I just don't know.
Firiel closed her journal and then ventured outside. She looked up at the gray, overcast sky and then sat atop a low sand dune in the constant drizzle. Off to the northeast, diggers continued to shovel sand and mud out of the hole near the wall, which was really starting to look like a wall now. Firiel vacantly looked at the rusted iron wall fittings that were piled on the dune from a fruitless search a few days ago. She reopened her journal and held her free hand over it to keep the rain from smudging the ink.
We founds some old torch holders and door handles, but it's not much. Haedorial seems to think that everything will be found near the outer wall, but it's been millennia since this place was in its glory.
Just to the northwest, another long, stone wall protruded from the sand and water. Battered granite and rusted steel could be seen rising a yard above the ground. Another sand and mud dune, just north, appeared to be square and man made.
She heard footsteps in the sand, drawing closer – it was Valandil. He pointed to the square dune. "Haedorial thinks that the dune was the foundation of the old bailey. I'm really glad that he's here. He seems to have the corner on arcane knowledge in the group. Even your hard to please mother seems taken in by him."
"He does indeed," Firiel answered curtly. Are you glad that I'm here too? She shifted her body to look out at the dune, which was flanked by ruined walls and a line of small, sandy islets heading straight out into the water. "He says that those islets are the remains of the Floating Avenue, a wonder of Númenórean engineering."
Valandil took her arm gently and tugged her toward the square dune. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"
Her mood lightened and she gave him a shy smile. Between the bustle of the expedition and the visit with her mother, there had not been much time for them to be alone. They trudged down from their position past the rusted fixtures, letting their feet crunch on the moist sand. Firiel felt Valandil's fingers tracing along her slightly pointed ears. She felt a tingling in her body.
"The gift of being half-elven," he said, and she turned to look at him.
"Valandil, what do you want to happen? Is there a future for us?" It had been a question gnawing at her for some weeks.
He looked at her curiously, his brows furrowed. "Wh…why of course. Oh…I'm sorry. Now that I'm a knight and a man of Cardolan, I've dishonored you. We should make our bond permanent."
Firiel looked away. That's not exactly what I was looking for. With a sigh, she spoke, "No, it's not that. I do want a future with you, but not because of honor. Do you…do you l-"
They had now reached the wall north of the square dune and Firiel saw a small whirlpool draining into a hole at the base of the wall. An old, weather beaten engraving was carved in Tengwar runes into the stone of the wall: Minas Mellon.
"Valandil! Look at this. I think we've found something."
The knight watched the sea water swirl into the hole. "This must be the access way into the tower basement." He waved frantically back at the men at the excavation site and soon, Haedorial and the crew came rushing over.
Breathless, the bard bent over, hands on his knees. "What do you have…my good knight?"
Valandil and Firiel smiled together. "I think we have a way in," they said in unison.
In the Ruins of Minas Mellon
Mercatur
"I was really beginning to enjoy sitting on my ass and drinking ale," said the mercenary in a frustrated monotone as he wiped brew from his beard. He looked at the excavation around the entrance to the basement of Minas Mellon, which had been dammed off to prevent the sea from flooding the hole.
"Well, I'll bet you're curious about what we might find inside," answered Valandil. He held out a lantern to see into the hole, which had drained sufficiently for people to enter.
"Númenórean loot? Okay, I'm game," Mercatur said with a smirk as he took the lantern and walked down the worn stone stairway. The light shone into a tunnel that quickly shrunk down to almost nothing. "Crap, we're going to have to crawl for a bit. There better not be any rats! I hate rats."
Valandil chuckled and started down the stairs, followed by Haedorial and Firiel. Four diggers rounded out the crew, carrying lamps and shovels. Mercatur crawled through the watery sand for about five feet until the tunnel expanded once again. He stood, brushed off the wet sand and looked at a split in the tunnel as Valandil emerged, soaking wet. The mercenary examined the two tunnels. "The right one is more recent. I'll bet this was one of Braegil's digs. I'd say the left one is our way."
The knight nodded in the gloom and Mercatur continued on while the rest of the party came through the crawlspace. Soon, the tunnel expanded into a large cave with a pile of rocks in the center.
As the party came up behind him, Mercatur entered and shined the light on a strange sight. Facing the rocks were five lines of small, stone statues, roughly carved. Haedorial burst into the cave and stared at the totems, eyes wide with wonder. "How odd. These carvings are rather chubby and crudely done…certainly not Númenórean in origin. This almost looks…pagan."
"You don't know what these are?" asked Firiel.
"Not a clue, good healer."
Mercatur snorted. "Well, there's a first." He kicked one over and it fell into the sand. "Whatever it is, it's harmless. Let's keep moving."
Valandil shrugged and brought his torch near to get a better look at the figurines. The largest one was horribly bloated and clearly monstrous. Slowly, he drew his sword and looked around. He drew Firiel close to him and then pressed on behind Mercatur. "Stay close," he whispered. "I just have a feeling."
The mercenary drew his double-bladed axe and leaned it against his shoulder. "Be ready for anything. The ancient sites aways have some unpleasant surprise."
As they filed out of the cave toward a stairway that led further down, two bright eyes appeared in the darkness behind them and the fallen figurine righted itself.
In the Ruins of Minas Mellon
Haedorial
The bard's heart beat incessantly in his chest as they descended lower into the ground. The stairway was partially clogged with rocks and debris, but the workers quickly cleared it. "I don't think Braegil made it this far," he said, his voice reverberating in the watery tunnel. "I saw his markings down the previous tunnel, but nothing down this way." Here, the tunnel was finely finished with smooth walls and still gleamed in the lamplight. "Most certainly of Dúnadan construction. Look at the polish," he added. "Remarkable."
The corridor was long, heading east, with several adjoining corridors. They initially took another long one, heading south, which ended in a pentagonal room. Again, the walls were finely polished despite the millennia that had passed. Mercatur held up the lantern, which revealed an alcove.
"That is where the shrine to the Valar would have sat in days of yore," announced Haedorial. "We are in a holy site."
"Yah, whatever," said Mercatur with a grunt. Without another word, he turned and walked back up the corridor. Haedorial genuflected toward the alcove and fell back in with the group.
They pressed on past a few more rooms until they came to a tiny chamber. Haedorial looked closely at the ground. "Look, my friends, more of these figurines. I'm beginning to think that they have some religious significance."
"Do you think that they're recent?" asked Firiel.
"Hmmm, I believe that they are, but it's hard to tell if they've been here a week, a month, or a year."
A commotion outside of the room caught his attention. "What was that?" voices called out.
Haedorial rushed back into the tunnel, where Mercatur stood, axe in hand. Three of the workers huddled together.
"Where's Bova?" asked Valandil.
The workers cowered and pointed down the corridor. "It took him! It took him!"
Haedorial pushed his way past the warriors to the workers. "What took him? What did you see?"
"The demon."