SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTER

by Soledad

For disclaimer, notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Rating: still G, at this point.

Author’s notes:

The axe-fighting lesson is based on the English translation of “Le Jeau de la Hache” – hopefully, I have not misinterpreted anything. Esteven, the Swan Knight probationer, here mentioned only, is an original character of Isabeau’s.

CHAPTER 3 – THE MASTERPIECE

(In which Súrion is learning the art of axe-fighting, and Chief Warden Henderch and Mogh the Dunlending visit the ironsmith)

The training court of Lord Orchald’s Castle in Halabor, on the third day of Wintring, in the year 2996 of the Third Age

The daily training of the Wardens had become some sort of spectacle for the people in the Castle since Henderch’s return to Halabor. With Lord Orchald’s permission, it was held in the stone-paved courtyard within the Castle walls, where the townsfolk were not allowed, unless in urgent business, so that they could not ogle them while they were sparring. But that still left about three dozen Castle guards, servants, kitchen maids and other folks as a very interested audience.

The Castle guards could, of course, only watch with half an eye, as they had their own training to perform, and they even sparred with the older, battle-hardened Wardens – all of them sorted out of Gondor’s army after years of service due to injuries – on a regular basis. Unless there was a particular lesson they all wanted to watch – like in this very afternoon.

And today’s practice was one particularly worth watching indeed. On this afternoon, Mogh the Dunlending was giving one of his famous axe-fighting lessons to Súrion, the latest one chosen to become a Warden. Currently, the count of Wardens was fifteen, with sixteen-year-old Ingor as their errand boy and waiting to be allowed to begin his training in earnest, but Henderch was fervently hoping to raise that number at least as high as twenty, more so as half of them still served only half the time. Thus he did not mind when people watched them. If word got out how seriously they were preparing themselves, more men might become interested in joining them.

Mogh and Súrion were sparring with heavy wooden axes, wearing no armour, just padded gambesons, as even the practice weapons could bruise one badly. Opposite the large, straw-blond young man Mogh looked short, stocky, almost like a Dwarf. But he was incredibly fast on his feet, and strong like a bear. Any warrior would have a hard time against him.

So had poor Súrion, apparently, for after the exchange of the first few blows, his axe flew from his hand in a high arch. Mogh stopped his own forward momentum at once… a task not many would have been able to perform, being in full swung.

“Nay, lad,” he said with seemingly unshakable patience, “that will not do. Remember what you have been taught. We fight one against one, right-hander to right-hander. I gave you a swinging blow, and you had the point of your axe in front. What should you do in such cases?”

Súrion thought about it for a while very hard, obvious of the impatience and the hidden grins of their audience.

“Ummm… step forward with my left foot, receive your blow, pick it up with the shaft of my axe and – with the same move – bear downward to make your axe fall to the ground?” he asked hopefully.

Mogh nodded his approval. “Right. And how should you follow up from there?”

“With the other foot stepping forward, and giving you a jab with the shaft, running it through the left hand, at the face. Or wherever I could hit you. Or swing at your head,” answered Súrion, this time without thinking first.

“Very good,” Mogh nodded again; then, raising a heavy eyebrow, he asked. “Why have you not done any of these things, then?”

Súrion looked at him sheepishly, embarrassment colouring his already ruddy cheeks to a deep red. “I… I cannot think that fast, Master Warden.”

The Castle Guards watching the spectacle burst out in laughter, and poor Súrion seemed like one who would flee in any moment. Mogh, however, gave the spectators an icy glare, which made the laughter die down at once.

“Your problem is not that you think too slowly,” he then lectured Súrion. “Your problem is that you still need to think at all. Any warrior who thinks in the middle of a battle will end up dead; in a fight, there is no time for thinking. But if you learn these patterns, if you learn them down to the bone, you will never have the need to think, for they will come back to you, faster than you could ever think… you or your opponent, either. All you need to do is to learn them perfectly, and to practice, day to day, ‘til they become part of you… ‘til they become an instinct. When this happens, you can trust them to work for you on their own. Do you understand me?”

Súrion nodded, comforted by his tutor’s words. “Aye, Master Warden.”

“Good. Now let us try it again.”

Súrion picked up the wooden axe, and the two of them continued their sparring, practicing the same move of swinging blow and defensive movements again… and again… and again…

“Your Dunlending has sheer endless patience,” Borondir, the captain of the Castle Guard, said to Henderch. “Do you truly believe the lad will ever be able to learn the fighting patterns?”

“In time,” replied Henderch calmly. “His mind may not remember the moves, but his body will. ‘Tis only a matter of time, practice and patience – all things his tutor has aplenty.”

“How long it will take, I wonder?” said Borondir.

Henderch shrugged. “As long as it takes. But once he has learned proper fighting, he will be a blessing for the Wardens. He is as strong as an ox, and not easily frightened.”

“Not to mention young,” added Borondir with a nod. “He will serve with you for a long time yet.”

“We need lads like him,” said Henderch. “The ones among us who are properly trained, have also suffered injuries that made us unfit for the regular troops; and the others, who joined us out of despair or vengeance, are mostly beyond their prime. Our numbers are ruefully low to protect an entire town.”

“You can always count on our help, you know that,” said Borondir.

Henderch nodded. “I know, Captain. But your troops are not that numerous, either. And you are sworn to protect our Lord and his family, first and foremost. Our duty is to protect the people. And ‘tis not a town easily protected, with the ports wide open to the Great River. ‘Tis fortunate that the cursed Orcs are not good on water, but they can cross it if they have to.”

“We are part of the people, Master Henderch,” the youthful voice of young Lord Herumor said from behind their backs, and the lordling joined them, with Kenver, one of the younger Guards, in tow.

They were both wearing padded gambesons, ready to begin their own sparring practice. Herumor had taken upon him to make the Guards better in swordfight, and it was said that he drilled them quite mercilessly. When someone complained, his answer was always the same, delivered with a raised eyebrow. ‘You think I am hard on you? You would not last a day under the hand of Master Andrahar!’

“How is Súrion doing?” he inquired now. As the one who had sponsored the young man to become a Warden, he had a justified interest in Súrion’s headway.

“He is learning,” replied Henderch, “but it is a slow process.”

“Learning a task properly always is,” said Herumor with a shrug. “It took me more than six moons ere Master Andrahar allowed me to spar with sharp steel… and I was one of the best among the esquires. Father had begun to teach me how to wield a sword when I was eight years old, after all. Súrion will learn his task, too.”

“And who was the best?” asked Kenver, a good swordsman himself. “In Dol Amroth, I mean.”

“There were many who could wield the blade well,” said Herumor, “though if I had to name one from our own rows, I would name Esteven. He surely will become a Swan Knight one day. But the very best I have ever tried my skills against was young Lord Boromir, the Steward’s son. ‘Tis no wonder, though; he has been an officer in the garrison of Osgiliath from the age of sixteen. He visited Dol Amroth a few times during my training, and though we are about the same age, I could never compare myself with him. He will make a terrific Captain-General one day. Gondor is fortunate to have men like him to rule in these dark times.”

Henderch, who had fought alongside the Steward’s Heir often enough while still a soldier in Osgiliath, nodded in agreement. Young Lord Boromir surely was a marvel in battle, and beyond his fighting skills, he already showed all the qualities a great leader of Men was needed to have. And he was well-liked among the common soldiers, as he shared their food and their lodgings without complain, declaring that he cannot expect from his men aught that he was not willing to endure himself.

In the meantime, the lesson in axe-fighting was nearing its end. It seemed that Súrion had, indeed, managed to perform all three possible defensive moves against that particular swinging blow, several times in a row, without thinking. Mogh seemed content with his performance.

“’Tis enough for today,” he said, walking to the bench with the water buckets, while shedding his sweaty gambeson already. He grabbed a bucket and slouched the cold water over his head and naked torso, despite the chilly autumn evening. But again, Dunlendings are tough like cooked swine hide, Henderch thought, grinning.

“One day, I shall treat you a proper bath,” he said. “Soaking in the hot water would do wonders to your old bones and loosen the kinks in your back.”

Rubbing his wet hair and beard with a rough linen towel vigorously, Mogh snorted in honest amusement.

“You are the battered veteran here,” he said. “Or can you imagine Sinsar fussing over me, as if I were some perfumed lordling?”

“Hardly,” admitted Henderch, though he had to admit that the bath master truly had a tendency to fuss over his customers. As long as they were not Dunlendings, that is. “But the common baths are for everyone, you know.”

“I know,” Mogh nodded, “and I have no desire to visit them. Can we just leave it there?”

“Your loss,” Henderch shrugged. For his ever-chilly shoulder, the hot baths were a true blessing, but he knew there was just no reasoning with Mogh sometimes. “Well, I think we have had enough for one day. I must be off. There is next week’s duty roster waiting for me, and you all know how much I love being a clerk.”

The other Wardens laughed and went off, too, some to relieve the guards in the watchtowers, some home to their families, the others to the Drunken Boat to have a somewhat early evening meal. Henderch waited for Mogh to pull on a clean tunic. As they both lived in the House of the Wardens, they usually had supper together at Mistress Pharin’s, too.

But Mogh’s mind was not on eating just yet. Something else seemed to occupy his mind.

“I believe the lad will need an axe of his own,” he said, thinking aloud while putting on his sword-belt. “My spare one is not the right size for him.”

Kenver, who happened to be the son of the blacksmith, caught this remark while taking up his fighting stance opposite his young lord.

“You should talk to my father, then,” he said laughing.

“Mayhap,” Mogh agreed, looking up to the sun that was still fairly high over the mountains. “’Tis still early enough for a short visit, I guess. Are you coming with me, Henderch?”

The Chief Warden thought of the still unwritten duty roster and sighed in defeat. Even friendship had its price, it seemed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The house and the forge of the blacksmiths were situated in the southwestern part of the town, near Nurria’s Gate. Thus the two men took the broad and comfortable road that connected the port and the castle with the Gate, instead of climbing the Steep Path again. This was the only road inside the town where two carts had enough room to go at the same time, built for the very reason to get goods from the warehouse to the Old Port and the Castle.

The house of Master Ludgvan, standing on the west side of a paved courtyard, was a typical Halabor-style building: low and wide, with surprisingly much room in the inside, built half of stone and half of heavy oak beams. The smithy was in a separate, all-stone building on the other side of the courtyard. Opposite the smithy, on the third side, was the laundry house, also serving as the bath. It was a wooden building, made of oak beams – the reason why it was as far from the smithy as possible.

A big and ugly watchdog, with more remembrance of a Warg than of a dog, began to bark furiously when they entered the courtyard through the open gate. Fortunately, it was still chained – they only let it roam free during the night. Hearing the rancorous noise of their dog, the blacksmith’s wife hurried forth from the main house to look what was happening.

She was a pleasant, middle-aged woman, wearing a simple blue gown and a short grey cape over her shoulders, her greying hair – braided and wrapped around her head – covered by a white lace cap, in the fashion of married women. Several small items hung from her leather girdle: a small knife, a purse and a leather bag with writing utensils. A farmer’s daughter, she had married the Master Smith at a rather young age, and despite having given birth to eight children – six of which were all grown up and well – she still was easy on the eye, and her friendly nature made her well-liked by both the townsfolk and by the outside customers as well.

“My good Chief Warden!” she called out in delight, as Henderch was a good customer for them indeed, bringing all the Wardens to their forge for repairs and new weapons, and seeing him normally meant more work for her husband and thus more coin for their household. “What can we do for you?”

“Why, I am only accompanying Mogh here,” answered Henderch with a broad grin. “He wants a battle-axe made.”

Mistress Tamsyn raised an eyebrow.

“Another one?” she asked; as she kept the books for her husband, she knew well enough that the Dunlending just had such a weapon made by the Master Smith half a year ago. “Or have you broken it already? Are Orc-heads plated with iron nowadays?”

“’Tis not for me,” explained Mogh. “I want it for Old Craban’s lad. It seems he does have some skill with the axe, after all.”

“And a good thing it is that you have brought him in the Wardens,” Mistress Tamsyn nodded with emphasis. “A very good thing and no mistake! ‘Twas time that lad did something else than just pulling Old Craban’s nets. Come with me then, we are just about to have evening meal, but I still have a moment or two to take your order before that.”

She led them into the main house, where the family was already gathering in the large common room adjoining the kitchen. Currently, the blacksmith’s family contained about a dozen people, all living under the same roof and all older than ten working for the family business in some way. Keverne, the oldest daughter of the smith, was setting the table, somewhat hindered by the “help” of her own, small daughter. Through the arched window to the kitchen they could see young Sabra, the wife of the smith’s son Kevern, finishing the meal.

Kevern himself was just entering the house with four-year-old Peder sitting on one arm and one-year-old Briga on the other one. He was after the evening bath already, it seemed, his clothes clean, his hair and beard still damp. The children greeted their grandmother with much happy noise, and Kevern handed them over, inviting the potential customers into the small side room, where the books of business were kept – thin, leather-bound tomes of parchment, written by the steady hand of Mistress Tamsyn.

The blacksmith’s wife joined them as soon as the grandchildren had been taken care of, and, gathering the folds of her full skirt, she sat behind the desk. Taking orders and calculating costs and prices was her share in the family business.

“Well then,” she said, opening the tome with the records of the current year’s business, “do tell me, what kind of axe it should be?”

“A double-headed one,” answered Mogh, without a moment of hesitation, “with a short handle. The lad is big enough, and his arms are long. The handle should be strengthened with iron rings and covered with leather – he will need a steady grip on it. And the axe-heads should be thrice-forged.”

“That would be a lot of work,” warned Mistress Tamsyn, “and a costly one at that. Forgive my asking, good Mogh, but do you have the coin to pay for such a weapon? You used to work for my husband – you know what the price would be.”

Mogh nodded. “It matters not, Mistress Tamsyn. I do have the coin for it, and I am willing to pay three golden pieces in advance and the rest when the weapon is finished.”

“The lad means a lot for you, I deem,” she said thoughtfully. “Which is strange, considering where he comes from… and where you do.”

“That might be so,” replied the Dunlending. “But you see, Mistress, your husband took me as an apprentice when no-one else would. He gave me the chance to learn a solid craft, to earn honest coin, ere Lord Orchald took me in the Wardens. I wish to give that lad a chance to do what he wants. He does have the talent, and I shall see that he learns the skills, too. We need people like him.”

“Very well,” Mistress Tamsyn wrote down the order and the specifications and blew on the ink, so that it would dry more quickly. Mogh, not learned in the art of letters, set his sign under it. Then he took out his purse and counted three golden pieces into the woman’s hand. She staved them into her girdle purse and smiled contently.

“We have much work right now,” she said, “but if you are willing to wait ‘til the Spring Fair, I can promise you something special. Kevern!” she called out to her son who had stepped out to the common room to soothe some quarrel between the children – in the meantime there were four of them already. “Join us for a moment, would you?”

Kevern turned back, with a curious look on his open, friendly face. “How can I help you, mother?”

“You can help yourself,” his mother replied. “The good Warden Mogh here just gave the order for what could easily become your masterpiece.”

But Kevern shook his head. “Mellof is the one who wants to become a famous weapon-smith. And Selyv, my oldest. I am content to make cauldrons and horse-shoes.”

“Selyv is not even a helping lad yet, and Mellof is barely into the second year of his apprenticeship,” pointed out Mistress Tamsyn. “You have been working as a journeyman for how long by now? Ten years? Think you not that it would be time to move forward?”

“Uthno has worked as a journeyman all his life, mother,” the young smith defended himself. “Not everyone has to be a master smith.”

“Uthno is not supposed to take over the forge from your father one day,” his mother replied. “And he is the only oven-builder this side of Minas Tirith. His living is secured. Yours is not. You cannot take over for your father as long as you have not been titled a master. You know that. And you have the skills. Why are you being so unreasonable?”

Kevern hesitated for a moment, then he shrugged. “You cannot make a cauldron or a plough as your masterpiece. And I do not like making weapons. I know the Wardens need them to protect us. But I do not like making them.”

Henderch began to understand. Many times had he tried to win the strong young smith for the Wardens – as most of them kept their own work as well, the need to increase their numbers was ever-present – but Kevern sidestepped every time neatly. Now the Chief Warden knew that he would not ask again. There were men who despised the thought of killing – not many, as the constant threat from Mordor had made most of them willing to defend their homes by any means – and Kevern was apparently one of those. There was no use pressing the issue.

Mistress Tamsyn, however, seemed to have had enough from her son’s antics.

“No-one demands that you become a weapon-smith, my son,” she said sternly, “but you must make your masterpiece. You are your father’s heir, but you must have the master title for the Guild in Minas Tirith to accept you as their equal. As you said, you cannot choose a cauldron as your masterpiece.” She put down the quill and rose. “You will make this axe for Mogh – for Súrion, that is – and you will do good work, proving your skills to everyone.”

Kevern shook his head sadly but gave in – what other choice would he have? “As you wish, mother.” Then he looked at the other two men. “I shall forge a good weapon for you, worry not. I might not like it, but it will be a good one.”

“That is all we ask for,” Henderch gave the shoulder of the young smith a friendly squeeze. “Thank you, Kevern. We are in your debt.”

The smith shrugged. “You are paying for it.”

“We are paying for the axe,” said Henderch. “But you are doing something against your own heart, and that cannot be paid for with mere gold or silver.”

“Spoken like a man of true wisdom,” a deep, rumbling voice said, and the Master Smith entered the small room, filling it almost completely with his own bulk.

Ludgvan, son of Ludan the Older, was a true bear of a man, just beyond his sixtieth summer; his hair and beard iron-grey, his chest could have put his bellows to shame, his huge arms like oak-beams the houses in Halabor were built from. But not brutal strength alone was his forte. Those large hands could make the tiniest, finest items possible, from the rings of chain mails to the smallest clasps that would fasten a young lord’s armour.

Beyond that, he was the ranking member of the Town Council and the spokesman of the Craftsmen’s Guild. In that position – called the provost in these lands – he ranked equally to Master Suanach, the head of the Merchants’ Guild, and was just as respected… if not more. For Master Suanach was a stranger, a newcomer who had moved north from Pelargir, while Ludgvan’s family had been there longer than even their Lord.

“Mogh, my friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand onto the Dunlending’s shoulder. “Are you not tired of soldiering yet? You know you can always come back and work for me.”

“I know, and I thank you for that, Master Ludgvan,” said Mogh, something akin a smile dawning upon his grumpy face. “But I have found my place with the Wardens… and, to tell the truth, I do like the fighting. I only wish my people would understand that allying themselves with our enemies will do them no good. Alas that there is little hope for that.”

“Sometimes I wonder just how much hope there might be for any of us,” replied the Master Smith gloomily. “The Shadow of the Black Lands is growing longer with every passing year, and never before have the roads been more dangerous. Not in my lifetime anyway. Tell me, Master Warden, do you truly hope that we shall see better times yet?”

“I have to;” said Henderch quietly, “or else I could not fight any longer.” He rose. “Well, I must take my leave from you. A long, hot bath and a good rubdown are waiting for me ere I turn in.”

“And I need a tankard of Gennys’ good ale for a night of peaceful sleep,” Mogh added.

They all laughed and parted company, Mogh going to the New Port to have some ale in the Old Sailor, the ale-house of Gennys, and Henderch heading towards the Infirmary, behind which the bath-house was built.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The common baths of Halabor had been built over a hot spring, several hundred years earlier, when the town still had been an important crossroad of the main trade routes. Accordingly, it had been constructed in a way that would serve the needs of the rich merchants from Pelargir – or even Harad – as well as those of the horse-sellers from Rohan. It was such a refined institution that even the Wandering Elves paid it a visit whenever they went through town, rarely as it happened in these days.

The bathhouse itself stood on the river bank, adjoining the herb gardens of the Infirmary, just inside the town walls. It was a long, two-story building, made of stone on the ground floor and of oak beams on the second floor, with the usual balcony looking at the Old Port over the walls.

Henderch entered through the front door in the middle of the ground floor, which was the actual bathhouse, and came into a small anteroom, where Sinsar, the bather, was sitting behind his small counter. He was a slight man in his late thirties and came after his late mother, who had hailed from Khambaluk, one of the Haradric realms. Thus Sinsar, too, was slender, slim-limbed and dark-skinned, with bluish-black hair. He was also highly skilled at giving healing massages and at the righting of dislocated joints and broken bones. Henderch had benefited from those skills himself, several times.

Running a bathhouse was tradition in Sinsar’s family. His parents had come with Master Suanach, the old mercer, from Pelargir, where they had done similar work. Sinsar’s father had taken over the then-abandoned bathhouse and run it ‘til his death, after which Sinsar himself continued the good work to the great satisfaction of his customers. He had married Uailne, one of the laundresses of the Infirmary, with whom he had two children already, and a third one on the way.

Despite his origins, Sinsar was a well respected man in Halabor. The townspeople, while they had their prejudices, appreciated good, hard work – and no-one could deny that the bather and his entire family worked hard and well.

When Henderch entered the anteroom, Sinsar was haggling with old Mistress Crodergh, herbalist of the Infirmary. The old crone had a small manufactory in the herb gardens, where she made various kinds of soap and scented oils for bathing, massage and for the sweat lodge that had been added to the bathhouse for the sake of Rohirric customers. A few expatriate families from the Mark had always lived in Halabor, and they were very fond of their stánbath, as they called it.

Henderch greeted the bather and the old woman courteously and listened to their haggling for a while with hidden amusement. Southrons were thought the true artisans of haggling, but Old Mistress Crodergh was more than an even match for Sinsar. But again, she was good at everything she touched. She had saved the lives several of the Wardens with her concoctions and poultices, and whatever Henderch might have thought about the Haradrim, the bather and his family could not be blamed for their deeds. They were good people, even if a little strange.

“Master Henderch,” Old Mistress Crodergh said in that scratchy voice of hers. “So good to see you again – and this time not in need of my services, for a change! Pray tell, how is that shoulder of yours doing?”

“Still cold,” replied Henderch with a shrug. “I fear sometimes it will never get warm again.”

“Oh, hmmm…” Old Mistress Crodergh rummaged in the wooden box in which she usually carried her vials and small flasks. “I do have here something that might help, if someone with good, strong fingers  works it deeply into your shoulder. Ah, here it is!”

She held up a small, cloudy bottle, half-filled with some viscous dark oil in it. A wooden stopper, bedded in a wisp of linen, was firmly wedged into the opening of the bottle, as if she wanted to keep as much as a drop from escaping.

Henderch eyed the bottle suspiciously, not liking the colour of the oil at all.

“What is this?” he asked. “It looks like Orc blood.”

“And just like Orc blood, ‘tis poisonous if it gets into the mouth or the eyes – or anywhere near a scratch or any other break in the skin,” warned the old woman. “’Tis wolfsbane, mixed with mustard oil and the oil pressed from flax seeds⁽¹⁾ , so make sure that anyone who rubs it into your shoulder will was his hands.”

“I shall ask Mistress Dorlas to do it when I visit little Godith tonight,” decided Henderch. “She would know how to handle it.”

Old Mistress Crodergh nodded. “That she certainly would; she has used it on her father a few times. You will find the feeling not entirely unpleasant: a tingling warmth when it is worked in – and hopefully some relief from the coldness.”

“You cannot be sure?” asked Henderch, a little disappointed.

Old Mistress Crodergh shook her withered head.

“Nay, I cannot,” she said regretfully. “I have never seen a pain like yours, so all I can do is guesswork. This is why it will only cost you two silver pennies… for I cannot guarantee that it will truly help.”

“Does it mean that you sell it to other people for more?” grinned Henderch.

The old hag grinned back. “Surely I do, when I can be certain that it would help. And I do know that it works wonders for creaking old joints. So I sell it to Lord Orchald for six silver pennies and to Master Suanach for ten.”

“You charge the head of the Merchants’ Guild more than our Lord?” Henderch’s grin grew from ear to ear. Old Mistress Crodergh winked.

“Why, certainly. The old mercer is way too rich for his own good… and he does not offer any of it to the poor and needy all too eagerly, unlike our Lord. ‘Tis only proper that he would pay for the rubbing oil we use on the penniless dwellers of the Infirmary for free.”

“Mistress Crodergh,” said Henderch in open admiration, “you are a truly wicked woman.”

“Well, I have to live up to my reputation, after all,” replied the herb mistress, putting the Warden’s two silver pennies into a small pouch worn on her girdle. “Now, remember what I told you and be careful with the oil. I hope it helps.”

Henderch thanked the old woman – making the time-honoured gesture to ward off bad luck, for everyone knew that thanking for medicine lessened its usefulness considerably⁽²⁾, so if one did not wish to be ungrateful, one had to take counter-measures. Mistress Crodergh grinned at him, then graced the bather with a toothless grin, too, and shuffled out of the bathhouse, letting the bather turn his attention to his customer.

And Sinsar did that eagerly, as the Wardens, most of them suffering from old injuries when the weather changed, were among his best customers. After all, nothing eased the pain of aching limbs and bones better than a good, long soak and a vigorous rubdown afterwards.

“Do you wish to use the sweat lodge, Master Warden?” asked the bather. “I can heat it up for you while you are soaking, ‘tis no hardness at all.”

Henderch shook his head. “I would love it, Master Sinsar, but I have no time for that today. I promise, though, to come back with Amlach next week. The man needs the heat for his bad leg as much as I need it for my shoulder.”

The bather smiled politely. “As you wish, Master Warden. In that case, you may enter the bathing hall at your convenience. You know the customs already.”

Henderch paid the small fee before entering the men’s area, which was the one on the right side of the anteroom. Wardens were allowed for eight copper pieces only – a really low price, but Sinsar knew that in exchange for his generosity they would walk around his house during their nightly patrols, and that was him worth lowering the price.

The men’s area contained a changing room, where he could leave his clothes, and a long hall with large stone tubes that could be entered by a few flat stone steps. Each tube had place for six people. One was filled with hot water from the spring and one with cold water from the river, although the latter was led through a series of filters to keep it clear. The hot water flowed into the tub from bronze fountains shaped like dragonheads that had acquired a greenish hue from age and left it through a filter in the middle of its bottom.

There were stone benches along the wall, where one could have a rubdown with scented oil; Sinsar was famous of his back rubs. The bathing hall needed no heating, as the hot water kept it at a nice temperature all times. Even the cold tub’s water was pleasantly lukewarm, as the hot spring ran directly under the bath-house, fairly close to the surface.

Henderch, always yearning for heat, waded down into the hot tub with care, as the steps had become very smooth from the constant use. Submerging into the scalding hot water up to his ears, he felt its blessed warmth seeping into his icy right shoulder, and leaned back against of the rim of the tub with a contented sigh. This was one of the rare places where he could get it truly warm.

‘Twas strange that a simple Southron arrow could have such a lasting effect. He had discussed it with Cathbad, the leech of the Wardens, and with old Mistress Crodergh, too, but neither of them could it explain. Mayhap the Elven healers could have given an answer, but the Wandering Elves had been rarely seen there in the recent years, and even if they would visit Halabor again in his lifetime, as they had done it in the past, Henderch doubted that he would have the courage to approach them.

Well, he could still consider himself fortunate. Even though he could not fight with the army of Gondor any longer, his skills were still good enough to defend the town of his birth – a town that only recently had become a true home for him. And more than just that: due to Lord Orchald’s generosity, he could also give a home his crippled fellow soldiers. He had his own company now, ragtag as it might be, a responsibility, a purpose. He liked that.

And he had the closest thing to a family he could have ever hoped for. Mistress Dorlas, although not willing to give up her freedom and marry him, was everything a battered warrior could wish for: a clever, resolute woman, with a generous heart and a strong will. And little Godith, whom he had brought into her custody, had become the daughter neither of them could ever have. In the light of his newfound happiness, the pain of his old injury was truly not such a high price.

However, unlike most of the townsfolk, Henderch could not afford to live in blissful ignorance. He had seen the evil forces of the Black Land eye to eye and knew that the current peace, even interrupted by the occasional bloody ride from Orcs, Dunlendings or Easterlings, was but the calm before the storm that would come. He had seen the armies filling the tower of Minas Morgul, and Minas Morgul was but one of Mordor’s fortresses – not even the biggest or strongest of them. Once all the forces of Mordor began to move, Gondor’s hopes would dwindle very quickly. Henderch had no illusions about the outcome of an all-out war with the Black Lands. He knew they had no true chance to prevail.

But he was not going to tell that the common folk of Halabor. Why would he do that? They were content in their false safety, among the struggles of their simple lives, nursing their small hopes for a future that may never come. Who was he to rob them of that hope? It was enough that Lord Orchald and his fellow Wardens knew the truth.

Young Lord Herumor might still have some hope. Young people were more inclined to trust their own strength, due to the lack of experience, and that was good so, for without that hope and trust they would never have the strength to raise the sword against the forces of evil. The fight might be hopeless, but at the very least, they would go down fighting.

Even if after this storm there would be no dawn coming. Never again. There would be not new Húrin Thalion to valiantly call Aurë Enteluva into the very face of darkness. This time, the dark night might never end over Middle-earth.

But until the day of judgement came, the simple townspeople could live in relative peace, while Henderch and old warriors like him were watching. Even a short temporary retrieve was better than nothing.

We might walk straight into darkness, and that soon, but at least we do not despair, thought Henderch, and he climbed out of the hot tub to get to the Square House before the curfew. He had so grown used to sleep in the warm embrace of Mistress Dorlas that he would not willingly refuse that small comfort, unless there was dire need for it.

The duty roster could wait.

TBC

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End notes:

(1) Recipe taken from “Monk’s Hood” by Ellis Peters

(2) This particular superstition hails from my own grandmother who firmly believed that one must not thank for medicine, or it wouldn’t help. *g*