[Elora]

Barrold


Barrold slung the alleged Queen over his shoulder with a wide grin. He’d take care of her. She did not even move nor murmur on the way through the lower floor of the farm house and out the side door, no matter how roughly he treated her. Barrold gave over his exploration once he came to the cellar doors. The hinges were surprisingly well tended, oiled to keep them from screaming alert every time he opened them.

Beneath was a dusty space that Barrold had used for similar purposes in the past, his business in ransoming one of his more entrepreneurial and successful operations, Barrold turned into it. It had no window, being a cellar still. The holding room was roughly 9 feet by 6 feet in size, and contained a mat, a bowl, and rope.

Having already picked up a spluttering candle from a table by the kitchen door, he set it down carefully in one corner. It’s uncertain flame danced over the earth walls and the thick beams that supported the earth roof. Onto the mat and far less carefully he tossed down the Queen. She was Elf, alright, but that was where Barrold’s expectations ended. She had fair hair and bore a striking resemblance to Naiore. Barrold squatted by her motionless form for a closer look.

This was no Queen! Strider’s wench had dark hair, or so those they spoke to had said. With a grunt of disappointment, he set to work on her hands and feet. Soon both were well bound with the roughly twisted rope. Her eyelids did not so much as flutter during this, and Barrold was by no means gentle. His handling become worse as he contemplated how he had fallen for Naiore’s trick. Queen! He’d have to pull her into line, but not before she paid him in full.

He bent close to check that the Elf breathed still. Then Barrold collected the candle, climbed the stairs and closed the cellar doors after him, plunging the narrow, stuffy place into unbroken darkness. Air only came in around the door, which whilst did not neatly fit the frame, was sturdy nonetheless.

He stumped back through the house, candle in his hand, ready to take up Naiore’s trick with her. “She’s no queen,” he charged as he entered the kitchen. Naiore had her head bowed, in her hands. “She’s one of yours,” he added. Naiore’s head snapped back and she levelled a gaze upon Barrold that froze the tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“In that alone she is queen to the likes of you, mortal, beggar though she is.” Barrold’s reply was nothing more than a stutter. Naiore let him twist in her gaze a moment longer, terror beating within his heart as the moment stretched. Then, as sudden as Naiore had seized him she looked aside, at a dirty window.

“Is she secure?”
“Yes m'Lady,” Barrold replied, shaken by the savagery he had seen in Naiore and recalling all he had seen and heard about the woman who sat at his table. “Tied her neat as a hog. Are you planning on ransoming her,” Barrold asked, trying to ingratiate himself with her. Naiore sighed heavily.

“She is my daughter,” she replied as if reluctant to give him even that morsel. Barrold made a sound of admiration.

“I never thought of ransoming my own family,” he said with growing appreciation dripping from his voice. “Just knocking them off,” he added with a moment’s thought. Naiore shot a glittering gaze at him.

“In your stables is a stolen horse. Dispose of it. Then return for further instructions. There are matters for us to discuss, work and payment for your services.” The discussion apparently over, Barrold took his cue, knuckled his forehead and saw to it.

He left Naiore to consider the brush of another's mind, a mind that was familiar and yet not. Barrold had gold, reward and profit on his mind. Added to those heady thoughts were grandiose plans of finally bring Naiore Dannan off her high horse. It was about time, as he reckoned it, and there was no Mordor, no Sauron not even Saruman to stop him.