Chapter 11. Arthedain and Cardolan

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Arthedain, 40 miles west of Amon Sul. October 20, 1347
Written by Valandil
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The slow pace of the caravan had kept Beleg restless for days. With men on a march by road, it was an easy four days from Fornost to Bree, four more from Bree to Amon Sul. Now mounted, they were doing barely more than half that pace – and they had spent four DAYS at Bree! And all along the road, it seemed like always some local thane or householder wished to speak with his father, Celebrindol. Of course, Malvegil’s years as king would draw to a close before many more – and Celebrindol was Heir to the throne of Arthedain. So all about the kingdom, men wished to gain his favor, or at least to be known by him.

Beleg wondered what that would be like. Eighty years from now, he could be in the same position himself, as his father’s reign neared its end. His father was taking it all in stride in his own turn, but Beleg had found it more and more tiresome, so he had dropped steadily back in the line of their train, behind his father and the entire vanguard, and was now among the wagons.

“Oh Beleg…” taunted a feminine voice beside him, “Calafornien wants to know whether it is her charms that have brought you back among us?” followed by an eruption of laughter and giggles. Beleg turned his head and saw next to him the canvas sides of the royal carriage drawn up, and sitting right beside him were four ladies wearing a wide gamut of expressions. His youngest sister, Estelien, who had spoken, looked mischievous and triumphant, while the young lady in question sat next to her, trying to hide her face from embarrassment (and indeed, Beleg was not unaware of her charms – although they had not summoned him to this interview). Across sat his mother Sulawen, giving his sister a sharp look of disapproval, and next to her, a young noblewoman who was his mother’s favorite lady-in-waiting, trying her hardest to show no expression at all.

“Discretion now, Estelien!” said their mother, her eyebrows knitted together. Perhaps she indulged her youngest daughter too much, she thought, that she was bold enough to speak like this to her eldest son, in front of others. Besides, she would not mind at all if Calafornien drew her son’s interest, a daughter in the House of Fornost’s Prince, so it was no good giving him reason to despise her.

“Besides Estelien,” she continued, “You should be happy to have a friend along for the winter, while your brothers go without.”

“But mo-THER!” protested Estelien, “They weren’t going to send Calafornien along to Cardolan with the others, were they? Especially not to Tharbad!” ending in a half-scandalized tone.

Sulawen rolled her eyes, but Beleg just stammered, “Cardolan? Tharbad?” He longed for the company of his other sister, Ethuiliel – but she was back at Fornost, enjoying her newly-wedded bliss with one of Calafornien’s more fortunate male cousins.

Seeing his consternation, but not quite yet comprehending it, Estelien looked square at Beleg once more and chided in mock-soothing tones, “Aww Beleg… what is it? Are you sad that you don’t get to spend a winter with the Cardolani girls? And find out for yourself if what’s said of them is true?” Estelien and Calafornien broke into giggles and Sulawen’s attendant couldn’t contain the blush creeping up her face. Estelien went on, “Too bad you don’t speak Dwarvish… but then, who does?” Sulawen began to address Estelien once more, but Beleg spoke first.

“What is this about Cardolan? Were my companions sent there? On what task?” he demanded.

The giggling came to an abrupt halt and for a moment the only sounds were those made by horse and wagon. But at last Sulawen replied evenly, “Perhaps you should ask your father.”

His lips grown tense, Beleg nodded sharply and spurred his horse toward the front of the convoy.

Before her mother could rebuke her further, Estelien continued, her face now a picture of genuine surprise, “He really didn’t know!”

***

Beleg pressed his mount to a canter, running up the right side of the column before him. There were forty mounted men riding by twos – nearly half of Arthedain’s budding cavalry. Most turned at the sound of a steed drawing up from behind them, and nodded when they saw that it was the Heir’s first son. At last he reached the side of his father, Celebrindol. Beleg’s younger brother Aramacil – the better horseman, drew back from the Heir’s right side to allow Beleg to come in between them and address their father.

“Father!” exclaimed Beleg as he drew near. Then reining in beside him, “Father, what is this news of my companions being sent to Cardolan this winter? And why am I not among them, to lead them?”

Celebrindol at first kept his eyes forward, drew in a breath, sighed and then clearing his throat, turned to his elder son, “Have you only just heard this, my son?”

“Yes… YES!” replied Beleg, and turning briefly saw the look of consternation on the face of Aramacil. Beleg turned back to his father and continued, “What, am I the LAST to know of it?”

“Well… ah-hem, I am startled that you have only now learned it. An oversight, perhaps?”

“But what is the nature of this visit to Cardolan? The formation of a treaty of some kind?” Beleg knew that the last of Isildur’s line there had died an old man just two years before – his sons long ago slain in civil strife. There had long been talk of reunification between Arthedain and Cardolan – even while bitter old Dirion lived, though not in his presence of course. His hatred for the land of his cousins was too great. But now, nobles on both sides of the border seemed ready to accept it – and King Malvegil was privately elated at the prospect of reuniting all Arnor again, maybe even while his days lasted.

“That… and something more,” answered Celebrindol.

Beleg only waited, expectantly, so at last his father continued, “Some months ago, a scribe of little note found an old scroll of Numenorean lore. It was part of a greater work and the ending described the fashioning of… well, of enchanted weapon-making.” At that last, Celebrindol’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“It was found also, that more on this matter was held in the lore-vaults of Cardolan… but not the portion that we held in Arthedain.”

“Now, your grandfather, the King,” Celebrindol paused before continuing, “Placed much stock in the timeliness of this discovery, deeming it a portend of some coming need of these things. Some thought it might be happenstance, but he was determined to pursue the venture.”

“So,” replied Beleg at last, “a mutual effort to create new weapons. But what was this about Dwarves?”

“The scroll in our holding calls for a small amount of mithril… which seemingly can still only be got from the Dwarves of Moria. Tharbad’s nearness to Moria, and the abundance of master-metal workers there made it a logical place to begin the effort. Well… either there, or Harnost.”

Beleg rode in silence for awhile, digesting all this information. Finally, he spoke once more.

“Father, why was I not sent to Cardolan for this myself?”

“One reason,” his father replied, “is that your grandfather and I are slow to trust the life of a future King in that land which was so long against us. But… there is another.”

”Yes?” asked Beleg, curiously.

“Well… some… on the Council… thought this a worthy project for an Heir to undertake. But it is your grandfather’s sincere hope – and he asks that you give it proper consideration, for he believes he has foresight in it – that you will take up the charge of strengthening the defenses of Amon Sul.” What Celebrindol had not said was that he himself had tried to place the weapon-making task under Beleg’s care, but that his father the King had refused it – deeming Amon Sul’s strengthening as of even greater importance.

Beleg started slightly. It was customary for a Dunedain Heir to spend the time of his father’s reign on a special project – something to better the kingdom. This gave the Heir work to fill the long days of his father’s reign, gave him practice in leadership, and should, in theory, give him a better kingdom to rule when he came to the throne himself. It also might signify how the realm could change when he came to the throne. Beleg’s father Celebrindol, for instance, had taken on the task of creating a cavalry arm for Arthedain’s army. Even in Gondor, years ago Tarannon had built up Gondor’s navy, and gone on to become the first “Ship-King” there.

Soon his grandfather would go the way of all their ancestors, his father Celebrindol would be King, and as Heir, Beleg would have the choice of what great task he would undertake. Here were two possibilities before him. Of the two, he found that the idea of making enchanted weapons appealed to him much more. A revival of old Numenorean craft sounded interesting, and might spur a more general re-awakening of Numenorean culture in the kingdom. Besides, a joint effort with Cardolan could speed reunification. Amon Sul, on the other hand… didn’t seem of much great worth. There was no great city there, only a few small towns. It was fairly defensible anyway, and there were no enemies capable of taking it. Cardolan and Rhudaur had both exhausted themselves in long generations of fighting one another for it. And maybe familiarity with the place had made it less exciting – after all, he had spent every second Yule there for as long as he could remember, and other times as well. Besides all that… for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, the place had always felt a little unsettling to him – while he was there, each time he first saw it on arriving… even just thinking about it.

But – there WAS the Palantir, of course.

“I will consider it father,” Beleg answered at last. “But for now, I already look forward to returning home to Fornost in the spring. At this time I wish to be alone with my thoughts. I shall ride up and join the scouts.”

As Beleg rode away, Aramacil pulled closer to Celebrindol. “‘In the spring?’” he asked. “Father, does Beleg not yet know that he is to stay at Amon Sul through all the next year and the winter after?”

Celebrindol looked a bit uncomfortable, but replied, “I suppose not, my son. I suppose not.”

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Tharbad in Cardolan October 20, 1347
Written by Duilin
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As they crossed the great bridge at Tharbad, Duilin looked back nervously at the Gondorian guard towers. “Almost safe now, eh Thurisind?” he said to his companion. He looked forward, to the Cardolani side of the bridge, and squinted at the sun, now low in the western sky. Whereas the Gondorian half of the city was little more than a dusty military border town, the part of the city in Cardolan was a thriving port. Duilin looked forward to relaxing at a fine inn of the city – since they’d left Osgiliath they’d largely had to make due with dusty roadside inns in Calenardhon and Enedwaith.

“I don’t see how we needed to go all the way to another country to be safe from Castamir and his street thugs. We could’ve headed to Anor, or Ithil, and been fine until things cooled down.” The taller man looked ahead to the city before them.

“Castamir has a long arm, and we’ve made him quite angry. Best to get as far away as we can. Besides, what’s there to do in Ithil? Depressing place, I’ve always thought. And Anor’s as dull as a post. The only other decent city in Gondor is Pelargir, and that’s full of Castamir’s types. Best to make a clean break of it.”

“Well, I’ll admit, I’m a bit relieved to be out of Osgiliath. I always get claustrophobic there. Too many buildings. Too many police.”

“You Northmen, always wanting to be out in the woods, or whatever it is you do. You will admit, the girls are prettier in Osgiliath, though, than anywhere else.”

“The girls are pretty in the city, it’s true. I think all the prettiest girls of the north have gone to Osgiliath to be barmaids. And the native women aren’t bad either, although the Westwomen can be a bit haughty. What do you know about this place?”

“What, Tharbad?”

“No, the North Kingdom. My folk have little contact with this place. I think I had a distant cousin who joined the army of Arthedain, but nobody ever heard from him again. And then there was that fellow in the regiment. What was his name?”

“Which one? The fellow from Cardolan?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can’t remember. And I don’t know much about these parts. Never been, just like you. Rougher than Osgiliath, I expect. They say these kings are always fighting each other. I’d thought we might go to an inn, and see what we can learn about possible job opportunities.”

“So you’ve led us to a country you know nothing about, eh Duilin? Well, then, lead on.”

They crossed the rest of the way in silence, and once on the other side, looked for an appropriate inn. The Stone Bridge was right by its namesake, and the two men decided to take a look inside. The inn was about as one might expect – pretty barmaids, at least, and a good number of patrons. The innkeeper walked up to them, glancing nervously at the blonde giant as he addressed his smaller, more usual looking companion. “What can I do for you gentlemen? Would you like rooms? My boys can stable your horses.”

“Yes, that all sounds good. For now, we’d like some tankards of ale.”

The two men sat down. “This seems adequate enough,” said the smaller man, still surveying the establishment.

Hearing no response from his companion, he saw that he was in the midst of a flirtation with the buxom little serving wench. Ah, the amenities of the city, thought Duilin. Hoping to give his companion some space to succeed in his seduction, Duilin stood up. These Cardolanis seemed like good enough folk – most of them reminded him of his own family, back in Lossarnach – brown hair, medium height and build. He’d seen some Dúnedain in the town, but they seemed rarer than back in Osgiliath. Duilin noticed a group of about a dozen men, armed, but not in the uniform of the army of Cardolan he’d seen worn by the guards at the bridge. “Mercenaries,” he thought to himself. “Well met, lads,” he cried, greeting the group. “If I am not mistaken, you are in the same line of work as I.”

The men looked at him, not saying anything. After some time, one spoke. “You came in with that giant northman, didn’t you? You’re not from these parts, are you?”

“Indeed not, friend. My tall companion and I are lately released from service in the army of Gondor, and we’ve come here to the north to seek our fortunes with whichever kingdom is in need of our services.”

“Ah, then youÂ’re right,” the man paused, “friend. We are in the same line of work. YouÂ’ll find little enough work here in Cardolan, IÂ’m afraid,” the man said. “WeÂ’ve just been dismissed from service. The kingdom is in strange shape since old Dirion died two years ago, and the nobles aren’t willing to pay for soldiers. We had thought to go south to seek our fortunes with old Rómendacil. Maybe see some action against Easterlings or Southrons, or see the great city. But if youÂ’re here up from there maybe GondorÂ’s a bad choice. Is the King in Osgiliath also not in need of men?”

“Ah, no. Gondor’s always in need of good men to serve in her armies. My friend and I just ran into some, er, difficulties back home.” Seeing their looks of incredulity, he clarified. “My home, I mean – obviously my friend is from the wilds of the North. Anyway, we thought it would be best to leave Gondor for a time. You say Cardolan isn’t hiring. What about the other kingdoms?”

“Well, Arthedain is how you say Gondor is. They always are looking for good men. Are you horsemen, perchance? The heir of Arthedain is building up a cavalry for the kingdom, they say, and needs good horsemen, in particular. Some of our companions are headng up towards Kings’ Norbury to seek service there.”

Another of the men broke in here. “I wouldn’t go to Arthedain, though. My brother is in the Arthedain army, and it seems deadly dull. Lots of garrison duty, and training marches. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s in Arthedain, and Arthedain’s terrible. They’re all haughty Dúnedain there, and the women turn their noses up at good men of Middle-earth. If you’re lucky, you get put in Norbury, and Norbury, they say, is even duller than Tyrn Gorthad, and the rest of the country is even worse. Garrison duty in Tharbad, or even Tyrn Gorthad, is a pleasant enough job, but in Arthedain it’s meant to be awful.”

“So there’s work and pay in Arthedain, but it’s not very interesting. What about Rhudaur?”

“Well, Rhudaur’s more interesting they say,” said one of the men. “My cousin does business with Cameth Brin, and he was just up there. It sounds like there’s a lot of action – hillmen and orcs and the like. But I don’t think I’d like to go to Rhudaur, either. Those hillmen are bad sorts, and nothing but trouble has ever come out of Rhudaur.”

“Aye,” said another. “If you have to stay in the north, Arthedain is the safest bet.”

“I’ve heard talk of another kingdom, away up north,” Duilin said.

The men looked at each other nervously. “Yeah,” said the leader. “We’ve heard talk of Angmar ourselves. Don’t much like the sound of it, though. Away up north, and they say the King is an evil sorcerer. They say he’s always taking in new soldiers. We talked to one of their recruiters in an inn in town, earlier today. Something about him gave me the creeps. No Angmar for us, thank you very much. We’re going to head down to sunnier climes.”

“Thank you, friends, for the words of advice. I wish you luck in Gondor. There should be plenty of excitement in Rómendacil’s army. At the very least, Osgiliath has the prettiest girls in the world – and not all haughty Dúnedain girls, either.” Not that all Dúnedain girls were so haughty, Duilin thought to himself. He remembered Lothiel back in Osgiliath, and the nights they’d spent together – there was a lovely girl. And, as a bonus, she’d still be just as lovely if he didn’t get back there for ten years. But it was probably best to play along with their prejudices.

“And good luck to you as well. Old Malvegil may not give you much excitement, but he pays well enough, they say.”

Duilin returned towards his own table. The Cardolani soldiers had given him much to think about. There was Arthedain, reliable but boring. The Cardolanis assumed that theyÂ’d go up to Fornost, but the prospect didnÂ’t seem terribly appealing. On the other side was Rhudaur, exciting but dangerous. HeÂ’d want to know more of the place before committing to go there. He realized that, without even considering it consciously, he had already rejected Angmar. Something about the way others talked about it made him want to stay as far away as possible. He looked for his friend, to tell him what heÂ’d learned, but he saw that Thurisind had abandoned their table. Going up to the innkeeper, Duilin inquired as to his friendÂ’s whereabouts.

“Oh, I think he went up to his room.” The innkeeper winked at him. “He may have company.”

Duilin groaned. Here he was, doing the hard work of discovering more about possible opportunities, and the barbarian was off making love to a serving girl. Ah well, he thought to himself. He might as well find a girl of his own for the night. Seeing a pretty young thing glancing shyly at him, he beckoned her towards him. Decisions could wait till tomorrow.