Chapter 2

THE ROAD TO THARBAD – Ivanneth 29th, 1409

Only the occasional howl of a lone wolf broke the silence of the night as a broken-down wagon creaked along the North Road. The driver, cloaked in dirty gray, turned around and said quietly, "We must stop. The horses are tired."

From the inside of the wagon a woman answered, "No, we must reach Tharbad by midnight." The driver shrugged and shook the reins, pushing the two horses onward.

The driver, Valandil, was a common soldier in the Army of Cardolan. His years of service brought him the rank of sergeant just prior to the war. He had seen action against both Arthedain and Rhudaur, but nothing prepared him for the slaughter he had just experienced. Having had his entire unit wiped out, the only thing left for him was to drive a wagon load of wounded back home. The weight of his experiences reflected in his haggard expression. He was clothed only in his torn and stained tunic and breeches covered with a suit of rusting chainmail. A week of facial growth made the usually clean-shaven man look like a Dunnish barbarian. After sixteen hours of travel, he was as exhausted as the horses and his vision began to blur.

As Valandil began to nod off, the woman placed her hand on his shoulder, rousing him. She handed him a cup of hot broth. The aroma filled his nostrils, reviving him. "Thank you," he mumbled and drank heartily from the cup. The woman, Firiel Halatani, was a healer. She was kin to the noble house of Tinare and the elves of Lindon, who had trained her in the healing arts. "How did you get mixed up in all of this?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Firiel blew out a long sigh. "King Ostoher ordered me to accompany the army to the Barrow Downs to tend he and his sons. Throughout the days of battle, I tried to save as many men as I could. I ended up commandeering the supply wagons to get the wounded out. I saw…I saw," she began, her voice cracking. "The troll…what he did to the king, I… I was already on this wagon. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The entire royal family fell. I couldn't save them. What will become of us?" Her eyes were bloodshot and her face puffy. Tending to the wounded, she had not slept in days and now her blonde hair hung matted on her head. She looked down and bit her hand.

Firiel turned back into the wagon and huddled over one of the injured men in the wagon and gently gave him some of the broth. The man drank hungrily for several moments and then fell unconscious again. He was covered in blood-soaked bandages, and it was obvious that his wounds were grievous. Though stained with blood and mud, his surcoat could still be recognized, marking him as a member of the noble house of Tyrn Gorthad. His family bore the brunt of the fighting on the Downs as those were their ancestral lands. Few, if any, now could claim kinship with that House. Firiel had brought him back from the brink of death, but even now she remained doubtful.

At the rear of the wagon, beyond several more sleeping bodies, a man sat huddled, honing his double-bladed axe. Still clad in chainmail he appeared every bit the warrior ready for the battle. Long brown hair hung in disarray about his weathered face and his beard was tangled into the links of his armor. The man's name was Mercatur, a mixed breed mercenary from Rhudaur who fought only for gold. At one time he had taken arms against every kingdom in the North and took no permanent loyalties. He looked over to Valandil and Firiel and chuckled. "The only reason I fought for Cardolan was the fact that they promised to pay me thirteen more silver pieces than Angmar was willing to give me, and now I'm on my way back to collect," he said in a deep, gravelly voice, full of mirth. The muscular Mercartur placed his fine axe back in its sheath and then cocked his crossbow. When Firiel gave him a curious glance, he smiled back, "one can never be too cautious."

"I see the lights of Tharbad ahead," called Valandil. This would mean that they were within a few miles of the city and could reach the gates within an hour. As the wagon drew on, the soldier was troubled by the presence of dozens of makeshift shacks on either side of the road. These hovels were definitely not here when the grand army of Cardolan marched forth four months ago. The stench was overpowering and Valandil could see masses of starving people moving about. Suddenly, Valandil reined in the horses. A tree trunk was blocking their path.

"Drop the reins man, unless you wish to die!" a voice yelled out from the side of the road. Two blond northmen stepped out onto the road in front of the log. One had a short bow drawn on Valandil, who quickly looked around and saw several others nearby, all armed and cloaked in dirty brown. He released the reins and raised his hands. The man with the bow grinned and said to the other, "Eudail, tie him up."

The shorter man drew a dagger and scrambled up the wagon, "No problem Nial."

Without warning, a crossbow bolt sunk into Nial's chest with such force it flung him back. He crashed to the ground and did not move. Valandil sprang into action. Drawing his broadsword, he slashed Eudail across the throat. The stunned northman spat blood and then collapsed backward off the wagon. Then, a stocky, brown-haired boy leapt up on the back of the wagon brandishing a short sword. He cried, "You bastards killed Nial and Eudail. I'll cut your throats." With this, he turned toward Firiel and her patients.

Before he could move, Mercatur's axe spit his head in two. The rest of the robbers fled. The mercenary wiped the blade of his axe on the young man's tunic. "Damn, I just cleaned the blade," he complained and then spat on the corpse. After rifling the body for gold, Mercatur rolled the dead adolescent out of the back of the now moving wagon. He then started counting the bronze and copper coins. "Five, six, seven. Eh, barely worth the swing of my axe."

Firiel looked at him with disgust, "Is that all you care about...money? You just killed that boy...have you no feelings?"

The mercenary smirked, a raw half grin through his beard, "Blondie, you'd be dead or worse if I didn't take him. Besides, think of it as his final gift...a donation to the Mercatur fund."

Irritated, Valandil looked back, "Hey, mercenary, don't talk to the lady like that!"

Bristling at the command, the brawny mercenary drew his axe, "What are you gonna do about it, boy?"

At this Firiel stepped in, raising her hand. She took Mercatur's weapon arm and held it, "I'm sorry...I started it. I'm just tired...we're all tired...please sit down." The mercenary sat and said nothing further.

Creaking along in their wagon, they reached the Annon Forn or North Gate just before midnight and after displaying their credentials, they continued on to the South Bank of the city. The city of Tharbad was large by most standards and was arranged in three sections: A North Bank on the north side of the Gwathlo River, a central island in the middle of the river, and the South Bank. The wagon creeped through the deserted Menetar street, the main road through Tharbad, then over the Iant Formen and the Iant Harnen, the North and South Bridges, spanning the river. Shortly before one o'clock in the morning the wagon rolled up to the familiar Houses of Healing, Firiel's home. Beyond tired, Valandil staggered to the door of the three-story building and pounded his fist. Several sleepy attendants emerged minutes later.

"Can't you see the Lady has returned?" said Valandil sternly. His vision was blurry by now and the pit in his stomach gnawed at him. The attendants gave a look of surprise and immediately rushed to the wagon. They gently carried the wounded into the house and then returned to assist Firiel herself inside. Mercatur gathered the trophies of war from the bottom of the wagon and then followed them in. He sunk the blade of his axe into the back of an expensive wooden chair and then lay down on the floor. Sleep took him in seconds. Two of the attendants escorted Firiel to the Master Healer's chamber and opened the door.

Valandil watched as she stepped inside of her room and said sadly, "leave me." The attendants bowed and shut the door. He couldn't decide at first if he was more tired or more hungry. In a moment he decided that food could wait and that his body was at the end of its rope. The soldier than crumpled down onto a wooden bench and rolled his dirty cloak up like a pillow. No sooner did his head hit the cloak did his eyes close.