

Dark Horizons 
Chapter 12   A Rainy Day

The rain came down in steady, driving sheets, forming winding streams of water 
that flowed off the surrounding hills.  The ground had long since soaked up all 
the moisture it could, and now the water collected into small, muddy pools.  The 
storm was quiet in its intensity, lacking the normal bright flashes of lightning 
or loud booms of thunder.  Low, gray clouds blanketed the earth, stretching from 
horizon to horizon, promising continual rain for the majority of the day.

Aragorn wiped a hand across his weathered face, brushing away the moisture that 
had collected there.   He shrugged his shoulders in discomfort as drops of water 
seeped through his soaked clothing and began to trickle down his back.  His wet 
hair clung to his face, and he kept blinking away the drops of water that flowed 
down into his eyes.  He wondered wryly if he looked as much the drowned rat as 
he felt.  Not exactly the way he had wished to enter the city, but there was 
nothing to be done about it now.

Behind him, the army continued to plod on steadily, despite the miserable 
conditions of the weather.  The horses walked with bowed heads, their hooves 
splashing through the puddles of mud the only sound dimly heard over the rain.  
The soldiers all sat hunched in their saddles wet, cold, and miserable.  
However, they were still making good time, and Aragorn hoped to reach the city 
in little less than three hours.

The army had stuck mostly to the deep ravines winding beneath the tall hills 
that surrounded them on all sides.  This position inhibited their view of what 
lay before them; however, it protected them from the harsh winds that would have 
caused travel to become a nightmare, instead of just uncomfortable.  Aragorn 
knew that he could trust the scouts to bring any warning of a waiting ambush, so 
he was not terribly worried about not being able to see past the tall hills.

Now, however, Aragorn found the hills beginning to thin out, and he realized 
they must be nearing the level plains directly in front of the city.  This meant 
that they were actually closer to the city than he had expected.  This was 
welcome news; although he knew that it was this part of the journey that would 
be the most difficult, for once they left the tall hills behind, they would have 
no protection against the driving rain.

He wondered how Legolas fared in this weather, and his hand unconsciously 
tightened around the bow he still held in his left hand.  The elf should be 
nearing the city by now if he hadn’t run into any trouble along the way.  
Aragorn quickly shoved this line of thought to the back of his mind.  He 
reminded himself that Legolas was no child wandering lost in the wilderness.   
The elf knew perfectly well how to take care of himself! Even without his bow, 
Legolas was hardly defenseless.  Aragorn had seen the elf defend himself using 
no weapon but that of his body, and Legolas also had his sharp senses to warn 
him of any possible threat long before it reached him.

Despite these thoughts, Aragorn could not keep a worried frown from his face.  
If Legolas could make the mistake of leaving his bow behind, what would keep him 
from making some other, more fatal mistake?

Aragorn sighed, once more brushing water from his face.  There was nothing he 
could do for his friend, and neither he nor Legolas gained anything from his 
worry.

At first, he had wanted to send someone out after the elf, perhaps even go 
himself, but he quickly realized it would be pointless.  Arwen was right; 
Legolas could very easily keep from being found if the elf wanted to.  Aragorn 
was perhaps the only one with enough skill to track him, but even he would have 
found it impossible in this rain, and besides, his place was here, with his men.

A muffled voice at his back drew his attention, and he turned slightly so that 
he could hear Gimli above the sound of the rain.  “I apologize, friend Gimli, 
but you will have to repeat yourself, for I was lost in thought.”

Aragorn could feel Gimli shrug slightly against his back.

“I do not like these mountains,” Gimli repeated grumpily.  “They are far too 
dark even when the sun is shining brightly, and on a day like this they appear 
positively evil!”

Aragorn glanced to his right where the mountains towered above the surrounding 
hills.  He found that he had to agree with Gimli, the mountains did look evil.  
The low rain clouds clung to the rocky slopes, casting the mountain in a dark 
haze.  Shadows seemed to cling to every part of them, as they loomed high above 
the army’s head.

“I thought you liked mountains, Gimli.” Aragorn said lightly, pulling his eyes 
away from the dark slopes.  “At least I would hope so, seeing as you live in 
one.  Unless, of course, you have decided to give up the mountains and go live 
with Legolas in the woods.”

Gimli grunted loudly and decided to ignore Aragorn’s last comment.  “Just 
because I live in ONE Mountain, doesn’t mean I like them all!  I’ll have you 
know that the Lonely Mountain is much nicer than this dark pile of rocks!”

“So say you,” Aragorn shot back, “but I have heard many tales of your mountain, 
and most of them are not bright and cheery.”

“Tales told by elves, more likely than not,” Gimli snorted.  “They know nothing 
about our mountain and I would think that you would know better than to listen 
to every little thing you hear from them!”

Aragorn chuckled softly, the sound lost to the storm.  “So you would say that 
the elves judge the Lonely Mountain because they do not know enough about it?”

“Definitely,” Gimli responded emphatically.

“And what do we truly know about these mountains?”  Aragorn asked quickly.  
“Except that evil lies in wait somewhere deep in their depths.”

“Isn’t that enough?”  Gimli growled deeply.

“I intend upon learning more,” Aragorn stated, his voice becoming low and quiet. 
 “Especially since I have a strong feeling that it is within these mountains 
that our destination finally lies.”

Gimli grunted once more and cast a silent and apprehensive look towards the 
towering peaks of the Ered Nimrais.  “I thought we were going to remain in 
Calembel and let Malek come to us.”

“That is the original plan,” Aragorn replied, “but as long as we remain in the 
city, we will be playing on Malek’s battlefield with his rules.  Eventually, we 
will need to take our own battle to him, driving him from his hole and 
destroying him.”

“That is the part that I like,” Gimli said excitedly, running his hand over the 
shaft of his axe.  “When do we intend to do that?”

“First, we must learn more about him, such as the number of orcs he has managed 
to gather to himself.   Also, where exactly it is that he is hiding in that 
‘pile of rocks’ as you called it.”

“And how do we find that out?” Gimli asked curiously.

“Gandalf and I have discussed this a little, but now is not the time to speak of 
it.  We must wait until we reach the city and can all gather together to 
formulate our plans.”

“You are beginning to sound like Gandalf!” Gimli grumbled loudly.  “I shall 
wait, but I hope that you have come up with better plans then I myself have been 
able too.”

Aragorn had no reply to this, so he remained silent, peering ahead into the 
storm and trying to ignore his cold and wet state.  Gimli continued to shift 
uncomfortably at his back, and every now and then Aragorn heard the dwarf 
muttering to himself, the majority of it sounding like curses.  Aragorn did not 
know whether Gimli was cursing the weather or something else, although he had a 
sneaking suspicion of what was bothering him.  Gimli didn’t even seem to be 
noticing the rain that ran in virtual streams down his rough face and into his 
long beard.  He kept shifting and peering around Aragorn, as if in search of 
something, and his muttering was growing louder.

“Legolas will be fine, Gimli,” Aragorn said gently, after putting up with the 
dwarf’s restlessness for several more minutes.  “He knows how to take care of 
himself.”  This was exactly what he had been attempting to tell himself all 
morning, but he found that saying it aloud seemed to make him feel a little more 
like believing it.

“He’d better be fine,” Gimli mumbled, “so I can kill him when he returns!”

Aragorn was about to respond to this when Roheryn stepped from the sheltering 
hills onto the long plain leading up to the city.  Without the high hills as 
protection, the full force of the storm hit him like a sharp blow, knocking all 
air from his lungs.  He lowered his head against the wind and driving rain and 
pushed Roheryn into a faster walk.  Behind him, the rest of the army also picked 
up their pace.

“Just remember what I said about finding the right time and place,” he told the 
dwarf sternly after he had managed to regain his breath. “He will be expecting 
us to confront him.”

“Yes,” Gimli said against his back, and then the dwarf surprisingly began to 
chuckle. “I think you are right. We shouldn’t say one word to him until later! 
Let him stew awhile!”

Aragorn thought about this for a while, then shook his head. “I am not sure that 
will work.”

“Oh, it will work,” Gimli replied, a note of cunning in his voice.

Aragorn merely shrugged, and several long minutes of silence followed until a 
small voice at his side drew Aragorn’s attention.

“Are we almost there yet?”  Pippin asked through chattering teeth, looking up at 
Aragorn with a hopeful expression.  The four hobbits, along with Gandalf and 
Arwen had been riding a few lengths behind Roheryn, but now they moved up 
alongside him.  Faramir was riding back near the end of the army.

Aragorn smiled down at the hobbit and shook his head.  “Only a few more hours, 
my small friend, and then you will be warm and dry.  I promise.”

“I don’t think I will ever be dry again,” Merry piped in from the other side of 
Aragorn, “let alone warm!  This weather is sinking into my very bones.”

“I am sure that once you are seated in front of a roaring fire, drinking ale and 
eating a fine meal, you will change your mind,” Gimli stated from behind 
Aragorn.

“A fine meal,” Sam said somewhat dreamily from the other side of Merry.  “Now 
won’t that be nice, Mr. Frodo.  No more of this travel rations we have been 
forced to choke down this last week, no sireee.

“A nice portion of roast with baked potatoes sounds nice,” Frodo said wistfully. 
 “Do you think they’ll have something like that?”

“Sure, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered jovially, despite the rain pounding against his 
small head.  “And if they don’t, I will find the kitchen and make you up 
something nice myself.  I know of a really good recipe for stew that I have been 
dying to try out.”

“Does it have potatoes and carrots in it?” Pippin called out excitedly.

“And little green beans and celery?” Merry added.

“You can’t forget meat!” Frodo called out.  “Will it have soft, juicy meat in 
it, Sam?”

“Of course,” Sam answered all of them, “but what makes it really special is the 
mushrooms!”

“Mushrooms!” the other three exclaimed, Merry actually licking his lips.

Aragorn exchanged an amused look with Arwen.  The hobbits seemed to have 
completely forgotten about everything around them, including the driving rain.  
Pippin’s hood had even slipped from his head, yet the hobbit seemed completely 
unaware as he listened hungrily to Sam describing his stew.

“…And then the old Gaffer discovered a whole new way to roast them and collect 
the juice afterward to use….”

“Can we stop talking about food,” Gimli interrupted grumpily.  “I will remind 
you that some of us didn’t get breakfast this morning!”

“That was your own fault,” Merry pointed out seriously.  “You weren’t hungry, 
remember?”

Gimli muttered something beneath his breath, and the hobbits prepared to 
continue their discussion, but something caught Pippin’s eye.

“Hey, Aragorn,” the hobbit called out, “is that the Ciril River up ahead.”

Aragorn turned to peer through the rain in the direction the hobbit was 
pointing.  He could barely make out the thin silver line of a river winding 
lazily to the left of where they marched.

“No,” he answered the hobbit.  “This is one of several smaller rivers that run 
from the mountains; the river Ciril is much larger.”

“Oh,” the hobbit answered.  “How do the rivers get past the mountains?”

“They flow right through them,” Aragorn answered.  “Through underground tunnels 
or passageways.”

“Oh,” the hobbit repeated, looking away from the river and apparently losing 
interest.

“I think the rain may be dying down a bit,” Sam commented hopefully, looking up 
into the sky.

“Perhaps,” Arwen said lightly from the other side of the hobbits, “but whatever 
respite we may have will be brief.  This weather will continue all day, and the 
night promises to be starless and wet.”

“This may work in our favor, or against us,” Aragorn sighed.  “If Malek decides 
to attack us tonight, he will have the cover of complete darkness in his favor. 
 Without the light of the sky to aid us, we will have to depend upon the fire 
pits along the wall, and they may be hard to light with all this moisture.”

“My, aren’t we all full of light and cheer this morning,” Sam said 
sarcastically.

Aragorn smiled slightly at him.  “There is also the chance that Malek will 
decide not to venture an attack in this weather.  We can always hope.”

“I would not count on this.” Gandalf spoke up quietly for the first time.  
“Malek does not strike me as a patient creature.  He will wish to begin his 
little game as soon as possible.  Such a little thing as rain will not keep him 
from us.  But until such a time, we can only wait and see.”

“I hate waiting,” Frodo mumbled quietly, unknowingly speaking aloud the thoughts 
of all the others.

*********

‘Wait…wait….just a little closer,’ Legolas repeated over and over silently in 
his mind.  He knelt quietly in the rain, listening to the approaching footsteps. 
 He tried to guess the nature of his attackers, as well as how many he would be 
forced to face.

He knew it was not orcs creeping up on him, for he would have smelled the foul 
creatures long before they managed to get this close.  Nor could orcs be as 
stealthy and quiet as this.  He guessed that it was men he was dealing with.  
Most likely some bandits who had come to loot whatever they might from the 
destroyed town, and had found him and thought him easy prey.

He could not easily guess how many were behind him, the sound of the rain 
muffling the sound of their footsteps, but he knew there were enough to give him 
a fight.

Legolas continued to kneel silently, outwardly appearing completely unaware of 
anything out of the ordinary.  Shielded by his body, his right hand gripped the 
hilt of one of his knives, then slowly and quietly drew it from its sheath.  His 
body appeared relaxed and unconcerned, yet every muscle was tense and ready to 
spring into action.  He felt a familiar fire burning in his veins, along with 
the expectant anticipation he always got before a battle.

Behind him, the footsteps paused briefly, and then one continued forward alone.

‘They are sending one of their member to sneak up behind me and undoubtedly 
knock me senseless,’ Legolas smiled at the tactic.  ‘Just a little bit closer…’

The footsteps paused almost directly behind him. There was a brief moment of 
complete silence but for the rain, and then Legolas was moving.

Fast as lightning, he flung himself upright and to the side, twisting neatly and 
gracefully away from where he had previously been kneeling.  His timing was 
perfect, for just as he moved, the cloaked figure behind him began to swing 
downward with a heavy club.

The man let out a startled yell as his prey was suddenly gone from beneath his 
blow.   He stumbled forward, off balance, and Legolas never gave him a chance to 
gain his feet.  Swinging back in as fast as he had dodged, he slammed his elbow 
into the back of the unsuspecting man’s neck.  The cloaked figure dropped like a 
stone, face forward into the mud, where he lay unmoving.

Legolas did not stick around to watch the fall.  Once more, he was already 
moving.  He spun and leapt in the direction he had heard the other footfalls, 
his knife extended.

A half a dozen men in light armor and holding short swords stood in a half 
circle in front of him, their eyes just beginning to widen in shock.  Legolas 
did not give them a chance to recover.  He used his slight frame to knock the 
nearest man off balance, then grabbed his arm and swung him into the companion 
standing next to him.  Both went down in the mud in a tangled heap of arms and 
legs.

With a yell, the next man attacked, leaping over his fallen companions and 
rushing toward Legolas with sword arm raised.  Legolas watched him calmly, then 
almost lazily swept up his own knife to parry the blow as he sidestepped 
gracefully, the man’s momentum sending him careening past to slam painfully 
against a partially collapsed wall.  The man slid to the ground with a groan, 
blood pouring from his broken nose.

‘Four down and three to go,’ Legolas thought brightly, facing the last three 
standing members of his attackers. 

The last three men were being much more careful, having seen the ease with which 
Legolas had dealt with their companions.  They were not rushing mindlessly to 
attack, but were spreading out, attempting to flank him, and giving the other 
members of their party a chance to regain their feet.

Already, the two Legolas had first knocked into the mud were struggling to their 
feet, and Legolas knew that if he waited for them all to flank him and attack at 
once, he would have a much harder fight.

Instead of waiting, he struck out, leaping forward and slashing at one attacker 
with his knife.  The man leapt back, swinging his own sword outward.  Legolas 
had been hoping for the move.  He ducked beneath the blade and grabbed the man’s 
outstretched arm, twisting it hard and causing the man to drop his blade with a 
gasp.  The elf’s other hand moved up lightning quick as he reversed his knife 
and slammed the hilt against the man’s temple.  This one fell as lifelessly as 
Legolas’s first victim had only moments earlier.

Legolas knew he didn’t have much time.  The two he had knocked down had regained 
their feet, and now four men rushed toward him, hoping to overcome him by 
attacking all at once.

Legolas scooped up the fallen sword of the man at his feet and braced himself to 
meet their rush, sword held in one hand, long knife in the other.  They met in a 
loud clash of steel and flying sparks, Legolas’ sword arm a blur of movement 
that seemed to parry each blow the last second before it reached him.  The men 
broke up briefly, completely encircling him before rushing back in for the 
attack.

Legolas had an important advantage, however.  He was light-footed and graceful 
on the wet and slippery ground, where as the men continued to slip and slide in 
the mud.  Legolas pressed this advantage, pushing his attack every time one of 
them slipped or lost their balance.

He leapt forward and kneed one man sharply in the groin.  His victim doubled 
over in pain, his sword arm dropping limply to his side, but before Legolas 
could finish the job the next man attacked from behind.  Legolas ducked, then 
dropped completely to the ground and swept his feet out in an arc that caught 
his attacker just behind his knees, toppling him forward into the mud.

Legolas leapt up and danced away, freeing himself from the circle of attackers. 
 He moved swiftly over to a section of wall that remained standing, placing his 
back in the corner and forcing his attackers to come at him from only two 
directions.

They hesitated, obviously considering the best way to get at him.  Legolas used 
the small break to catch his breath, and he was just about to step forward and 
force the confrontation once more when…

Thunk…

Legolas jerked away from the spot where an arrow had embedded itself deeply in 
the wood a few inches from his head.  He cursed softly at this new and unwelcome 
development.  He glanced briefly past the men flanking him, and wondered if he 
hadn’t just maneuvered himself into a death trap.  All the men had to do now was 
keep him in the corner until their archer managed to pin him with an arrow.  
Then it would all be over.

He glanced in the direction the arrow had come from and saw a small figure 
standing on a pile of rubble a few yards off, fumbling to fit yet another arrow 
to the string.  ‘Well at least it isn’t a very competent archer,’ Legolas 
thought wryly, ‘if he managed to miss me standing that close.’  This thought did 
little to comfort him.  Competent archer or not, it would only be a matter of 
time before one of the arrows struck home.

The men flanking him seemed to have come to the same conclusion.  They no longer 
pressed their attack, but merely formed a half circle, holding him captive in 
his little corner until their archer could finish the job.

Legolas cursed once more, then glanced up, a slow idea forming.

He dodged to the side as yet another arrow smashed into the wood near where he 
stood.  The wall was obviously the remains of what used to be a long hallway.  
To his right, the wall only ran a couple of feet before it collapsed into 
rumble; but on his left, the majority of it was left standing, running for 
several yards, clear up to the base of the pile of rocks upon which the archer 
now stood.

Without a second thought, Legolas leapt upward, using the same move he had used 
several weeks earlier to escape the band of orcs.  He lightly caught the rim of 
the wall and pulled himself up, praying the weak structure would be able to hold 
even his light weight.  The four men let out a yell and leapt forward, but they 
were once again too slow.  Legolas raced along the top of the wall, feeling it 
shift and groan beneath him.  However, he moved so swiftly, and his steps were 
so light that it did nothing more than complain slightly.

The archer was just beginning to place a third arrow to the string, and he 
looked up startled, just as Legolas launched himself from the end of the wall.  
The two went down hard, a high yell coming from his victim as Legolas rolled on 
top of him.  He drew back a fist, intent upon knocking the hapless man 
unconscious, but he froze when he got his first glimpse of the archer.

Dirty blond hair fell recklessly around a small face that looked up at him from 
large, terrified, green eyes.  Legolas realized with shock that he was sitting 
on the chest of a boy who could be no older than ten years.  He had no time to 
ponder this, for he could already hear the sound of the other men racing toward 
him.

He jumped to his feet, yanking the bow from the boy’s limp hands before flipping 
him unceremoniously onto his belly and grabbing the quiver of arrows from his 
back.  He jumped away, throwing off the hood of his cloak to free his vision and 
spinning to meet the approaching men, an arrow already notched to the bow.  He 
only took a second to find his target, and then he lifted the bow and shot off 
four arrows in quick succession.

The four men running towards him skidded to a halt, their mouths dropping open 
as four arrows hit the ground inches in front of them.  A gasp came from behind 
Legolas, but he ignored it, stringing yet another arrow in his bow and pointing 
it at the four men.

“Don’t move,” he ordered quietly, “or the next ones won’t miss.”

The four men stood gaping at him, weapons fallen limply at their sides, eyes 
wide in wonder.

“Drop your weapons,” Legolas commanded, still holding the arrow taught against 
the bowstring.  The weapon felt small and strange in his hand compared to his 
long bow, but he still held it expertly, not doubting that he could kill the 
four men before they had taken five steps.

The men looked doubtfully at him, then behind him, obviously trying to figure 
out what to do next.  Legolas could see their thoughts mirrored in their faces. 
 They didn’t want to give up the fight, but they somehow knew they would die if 
they didn’t obey him.  He heard the shifting behind him as the boy rose to his 
feet, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.

“The order not to move goes for you as well, boy,” Legolas said sternly without 
even turning his head.  He heard another gasp, then the shifting stopped as the 
boy stood perfectly still.

Legolas kept his gaze and attention focused on the four men before him.  “I said 
drop your weapons,” he said once more, a dangerous note entering his voice.  “I 
will not ask you again.”

Legolas stared at the men as they continued to shift restlessly, eyeing one 
another.  He tensed, preparing to release the arrow…

“Stop!”  A loud voice called out desperately.  “Please stop!  Ralin, Talor, 
Korin, Matz, do as he says!  Drop your weapons!”

Legolas jerked slightly at this new voice. He turned his head slightly, trying 
to get sight of the owner of the voice without taking his eyes off the four men 
before him.

It did not take him long to find the new visitor.  The man stood upon a small 
pile of rocks, almost directly to the right of Legolas and only a few yards 
away.  He was tall and well built, with sandy blond hair and a moustache.  He 
wore the same armor as the men that had attacked Legolas and a short sword hung 
from his belt.  He held his arms out and away from his body in a sign of 
surrender, as he watched Legolas with intense brown eyes.

Legolas did not like this situation one bit!  He was now surrounded on three 
different sides, and he was finding it difficult to watch everyone at once.  To 
make matter worse, the rain continued to pound down upon him, and without his 
hood for protection the water ran down his face and into his eyes, blurring his 
vision.  Yet with no free hands, he could merely squint and try to ignore it.  
He backed up a few steps, shifting his body slightly so that he could focus his 
attention on one party, while still being able to watch the other from the 
corner of his eye.  He could still sense the boy behind and slightly to the 
right of him, yet he decided he would have to count the child as a lesser danger 
and ignore him for the time being.

"Please," the man called out once more, hands still spread out from his body.  
"We mean you no harm!"

"You have a funny way of showing it," Legolas answered dryly, still keeping most 
of his attention upon the four men directly in front of him.  They had dropped 
their weapons on the new arrival’s command, but Legolas was not about to let his 
guard down.

"Yes," the man replied seriously.  "And for that I must apologize.  This must be 
a big misunderstanding, for my men would never have attacked a High One 
knowingly."

Legolas's startled gaze flew back to the tall man once more.  It had been a long 
time since he had heard the honorary title of respect for the elves.

"Who are you," he demanded evenly, "and what do you know of my people?"

"I am Captain Kenson Brantz," the man replied immediately.  "My men and I are 
escorts for the boats that carry goods and supplies down the river."

"Merchant guards?" Legolas interjected sharply.

The man bowed, hands still outstretched.  "We are known by many names, my lord. 
 Merchant guards is only one of them.  As to what I know of your people…, 
unfortunately very little.  I have had the honor of dealing with a few of the 
High Ones during my work, but not very often, for your kind does not trade with 
man much."

"Why did your men attack me?" Legolas asked, deciding to cut directly to the 
point.  He still held the bow high and ready and he had not relaxed his stance 
an inch.

"My men did not know who you were," the Captain replied plainly, as if that 
explained everything.  “We were riding upstream toward Calembel, returning from 
one of our trade missions, when we saw the ruins of the town.  This place was 
still standing only two months ago when we first left Calembel, and from the 
looks of it, the damage was done recently."

The man paused, eyeing Legolas carefully for anything he might give away.  
Legolas carefully kept his face blank as he waited for the man to continue.

"When we reached the edge of town, I knew that something dreadful must have 
happened.  I split up my men and sent them in search of any clue as to what had 
happened here.  I can only guess that they found you and tried to take matters 
into their own hands."

"It is as the captain has said," one of the four men broke in suddenly.  "We had 
no idea who you were.  We just saw you kneeling there and we didn't know what to 
think.  We were all sort of spooked, as you might understand, and decided the 
easiest thing to do would be to knock you out and take you to the captain for 
questioning.  We were not expecting you to....resist....quite so forcefully."

"A wise soldier always expects the unexpected," Legolas stated firmly.

"A lesson well taught, my lord," Kenson replied with a hint of amusement.  He 
looked to where his four men stood frozen in front of Legolas, and then his eyes 
traveled to the three other men still lying motionless in the mud.  He shook his 
head slightly, "and one I expect they will not be forgetting anytime soon!  But 
I still can only beg for your forgiveness, and perhaps your understanding.  My 
men had no way of knowing if you may have played a part in this," he motioned to 
the burned out houses around them.

"And what do you think now?" Legolas asked pointedly.

"That you could have had nothing to do with it," Kenson replied without 
hesitation.  "I may not know much of the High Ones, but I do know that."

Legolas studied the man closely, searching for any hint of falsehood.  He had a 
strong feeling that Kenson was telling the truth.  For some odd reason, the 
Captain reminded Legolas of Faramir, and he found it impossible to dislike him. 
 His senses had never lead him wrong before, so he decided to trust them once 
more.

The four men let out audible sighs of relief when he lowered the bow.  The 
captain also seemed to relax, lowering his arms to his side, but still keeping 
his hand far from his sword hilt.

"You may see to your companions now," Legolas said lightly, trying to put them 
more at ease.  Captain Kenson nodded at his men, and they turned to go and see 
to their fallen comrades.

Legolas turned, his attention going for the first time to the boy who had stood 
silent and still behind him.  He found the child staring open mouthed at him, 
awe and curiosity filling his small face.

"And what part do you play in all this?" Legolas asked somewhat sternly.

The boy flushed and dropped his eyes, shifting uncomfortably.  "I am with them," 
he finally muttered softly.  "I heard the fighting and came to help.  I didn't 
know who you were either."  He lifted his eyes, meeting Legolas's gaze once 
more, his eyes shining with barely concealed excitement.

"He is my son," Captain Kenson said proudly, taking a few steps forward before 
stopping, obviously unsure of what to do or say next.

Legolas nodded, then turned back to the child.  "And what is your name?" he 
asked gently.

"Dar," the boy answered without hesitation.

"Well, Dar, if I give you your bow back, will you promise not to shoot at me any 
more," Legolas asked seriously, but with a hint of amusement in his voice.

The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded his head so hard that Legolas thought his 
neck would break.  He reached forward and took the proffered bow, still staring 
at Legolas in awe.

"You are quite handy with that thing," Legolas continued, as he reached down and 
retrieved his knife from where he had dropped it earlier.  He sheathed it 
carefully, still watching the boy.  "How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm nine," Dar answered proudly.  "I've been practicing for a long time."  The 
boy paused, and his eyes were practically dancing with curiosity.  "Are you 
really an elf?  I have heard all about them, but I have never seen one.  How 
fast can you shoot?  Can you teach me how to shoot like that?  Did it take you 
very long to learn?"

Legolas was slightly taken aback by the string of questions, but Kenson stepped 
forward and laid a hand on his son's shoulder, cutting off the line of 
questions.

"Yes, I am truly an elf.  My name is Legolas, and it probably took me a thousand 
years to learn to shoot like that."  Legolas smiled down at the boy’s complete 
look of disbelief, then he turned his gaze up to the Captain’s.  "You said that 
you and your men were headed to Calembel?" he questioned evenly.

Kenson nodded.  "Yes, my lord.  My men and I have been traveling the last two 
weeks, and we are anxious to be home."

"Did you see anything strange on your journey up the river?" Legolas continued 
to question him.

Kenson let out a grunt and looked about him at the destroyed village and his men 
who were just beginning to regain consciousness.  "Depends on what you consider 
strange," he answered wryly.

"Any large sets of tracks or prints that you could not explain?"

Kenson shook his head, studying Legolas closely.  "No," he said quietly, "though 
I must admit we were not looking very closely.  As I said before, we were just 
anxious to get home."

Legolas nodded, and peered up into the sky, trying to judge how much time had 
been lost to him.

"Do you know who, or what, did this?" Kenson asked, once more motioning to the 
ruined houses around him.

Legolas glanced at him and several seconds of silence passed before he nodded 
slowly.  "Orcs," he said simply in answer to the man's question.

Kenson let out a loud gasp and opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He 
looked about the ruins again, a sick expression crossing his face.  "The mayor 
at Calembel must be told of this immediately," he said quietly.  "There are 
other towns nearby who will need protection against the same thing happening to 
them."

"I am afraid that Calembel will need to be seeing to its own protection very 
shortly," Legolas answered smoothly.

Captain Kenson shook his head.  "But Calembel is a large city, with high walls. 
 There would need to be hundreds of orcs to dare an attack on it."

Legolas merely looked at him, and a light of understanding began to dawn in the 
captain's eyes.

"I ride as a scout for the army of Minas Tirith that rides to Calembel even as 
we speak," Legolas explained gently. "I am supposed to meet them before the 
city, and I am afraid I have already wasted too much time here."

Kenson was just beginning to realize the seriousness of the situation, and he 
met Legolas's gaze without hesitation.  "I ask, my lord, that you allow my men 
and I to ride with you to the city."

Legolas nodded slowly.  "How many men do you have?"

"There are three more who wait with the horses at the edge of town. Besides 
them, there is just us." he motioned to the seven men behind them, all of whom 
were on their feet now, even if a few of them wobbled slightly.

Legolas nodded again.  "If you can keep up, you may ride with me.  But I warn 
you that I will be going swiftly."

Kenson was quick to assure him that they would be able to keep up.  He sent two 
men to go and fetch the others, and then he looked around him, obviously 
confused.  "Will you be needing a horse, my lord?" he asked carefully.

Legolas shook his head and laughed.  "No, I brought my own mount."  He whistled 
sharply, and a few minutes later Shandarell galloped up, obviously displeased at 
having to enter the ruined town.  He snorted and thrust his head forcefully 
against Legolas's chest, almost knocking him down.

"Let's get started," Legolas said, easily swinging onto the horse’s back.  "We 
have a long ride ahead of us."

*******

The rain was starting to lessen two hours later, as Legolas, followed by the 
captain and his men, left the riverside and crossed toward the city.  They met 
the army on the flat plains before the south end of the city.

Legolas waited quietly on Shandarell's back as the army crossed the last few 
paces toward them.  He was beginning to feel slightly sick as he tried to 
prepare for the unavoidable meeting with Gimli and Aragorn.

He could see the dwarf, perched behind the king's back, and he knew the wet 
weather would not have helped to ease his friend’s temper.  He doubted this 
reunion would be very pretty.

Beside him, he heard Kenson hiss something.  Glancing to his right, he found the 
man staring at him in disbelief.  "The king!" the man whispered sharply.  "You 
did not tell me the army was led by the king!"

Legolas shrugged and turned back to watching Aragorn's approach.  He had much 
more serious things on his mind at the moment.

"This is more serious than I thought," Kenson muttered under his breath.

Aragorn raised his hand, ordering the army to stop; then urged Roheryn forward 
to meet Legolas.  The elf found himself growing tenser the closer they 
approached.  He fought desperately to keep calm, but his stomach was beginning 
to do flips inside his chest.  He shook his head and tried to force the feelings 
down, reminding himself firmly that he had faced armies of orcs before without 
getting this nervous.

Aragorn had reached him now, and Legolas tried to force his mind to the task at 
hand.  The king called out a greeting, and Legolas responded, risking a quick 
glance at Gimli.

The dwarf didn't look angry, but Legolas knew that did not necessarily mean 
anything.  He yanked his attention back to Aragorn, just as the king reached out 
his arm toward him.  Legolas realized with a flush that Aragorn held his bow and 
quiver in his hand.

He took the weapons, waiting for the reprimand and lecture he was sure was 
coming next, but Aragorn only turned his gaze toward the others riding with him. 
 "I take it your scouting mission went well?" the king asked calmly, not a hint 
of reprimand in his voice.

"Fine," Legolas answered, darting his eyes back to Gimli.  The dwarf still did 
not look angry; in fact, he smiled at Legolas!

Warning bells began to go off in Legolas's head, and it took an effort to draw 
his eyes back to Aragorn, as the man spoke to him once more.

"Are you going to introduce us to your companions?" Aragorn asked, his voice 
still completely quiet and calm.

Legolas could only nod dumbly, wondering what his two friends were up to.  He 
had expected them to tear into him the minute they saw him, but instead, they 
were acting as if nothing had happened at all!

"This is Captain Kenson and his men.  We met along the river."  He decided it 
was best not to bring up the circumstances they had met under, and Kenson looked 
relieved that he hadn't.  The captain bowed low to Aragorn; quite a feat, since 
he was still mounted.

"My lord," Kenson said lightly, his voice filled with respect.  "I and my men 
are completely at your service, and you may direct us however you please."

Aragorn smiled at the man, raising an eyebrow at Legolas, who was still sitting 
tensely to the side.  "Do you know what it is that we face?" he asked plainly, 
and Kenson nodded.

"Legolas has told me a little, although I still seem to be facing surprises 
every time I turn around."  Kenson gave Legolas a sharp look, but the elf was 
paying him no mind.

Aragorn laughed! He actually laughed, and Legolas's eyes narrowed.  "You and 
your men will be welcome.  You may not be many, but I assure you that every 
helping hand will be needed."

"Aragorn," Gimli spoke up for the first time, and Legolas jumped slightly at the 
sound, but the dwarf was not even looking at him.  "From the looks of this wall, 
I fear we have much work ahead of us this afternoon.  Perhaps we should be 
going, instead of sitting here in the rain chatting."

Kenson stared at the dwarf, undoubtedly wondering who he was to be able to speak 
to the king in such a manner.

"You are right, my friend, as usual!  Let us be going then."  Aragorn turned 
Roheryn, signaling the army forward once more.

Legolas just sat on Shandarell and watched them go until Aragorn called to him. 
 With a jerk, he kicked Shandarell after them, a stunned look on his face.  
Gimli had not said one word to him!

The rain seemed to echo Legolas's own mood, as he joined his friends and rode 
through the gates into the city of Calembel.

******

"They have reached the city, my lord," the orc captain reported, groveling at 
the feet of Malek.

Malek looked down at him, an evil smile filling his face.  He considered killing 
the orc captain in celebration.  Whenever he got excited the blood lust would 
fill him, and he was very excited at the moment.  All his plans were falling 
into place beautifully.

As if sensing his danger, the orc at his feet began to twist and moan.  Malek 
watched him for a few seconds before he reached out with a clawed foot and 
roughly pushed the orc away.  He certainly hoped that the members of this 
so-called 'fellowship' would show more bravery when they were placed before him. 
It would make breaking and killing them so much more fun if they resisted.

He flicked his tongue out in anticipation of that moment, and then turned to his 
captains.  "Do you understand all your orders?" he demanded, and they quickly 
nodded. He knew that they did not understand, but they would obey, and that was 
all that mattered.

He looked toward the distant opening of the cave to the outside world and 
growled deep in his throat.

"Soon," he whispered to himself.  "Very soon!"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Another chapter mostly devised while sitting in a hotel room. Only this time, 
the ice machine was broken. **pouts grumpily** It seems that this time my muse 
decided to travel with me, the only reason I got this chapter out as soon as I 
did! **grinz** Yeah. Now, I have a pile of homework that I am supposed to do 
this spring break and I haven’t even started on it yet. (ooops)

More frustration. They were supposed to have reached Calembel two chapters ago, 
if everything had gone according to plan. As I said before, I had a change in 
direction, so I needed to put this chapter in. I hope you all enjoyed it.

They are finally in Calembel, and the fighting is about to start. You will also 
learn exactly what Aragorn and Gandalf have discussed, and have the long awaited 
confrontation between Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas! Stay tuned for more!

-----------------------------------------------------------


Chapter 13   Kings and Fools


Merton Fallow Candywell the III was not happy. Nor was he particularly dry, a 
fact that related directly to his sour disposition. He stood in the middle of 
the main street leading to the southern gate of the city, completely ignoring 
the traffic that was forced to swerve around him on the narrow pathway. Luckily, 
the rain had driven most people indoors and the streets were fairly empty.

Four servants stood shivering and soaked on each side of him, holding a long 
piece of canvas over his head in a vain attempt to keep the rain off him. Two 
men in rich, flowing robes stood to his right, also huddled beneath the small 
protection of the canvas.

Merton ground his teeth as a gust of wind drove a blast of rain beneath the 
canvas, dampening his silk cloak and tunic further. He cursed and turned to 
glare at one of the servants, as if his wet condition was the man’s fault. The 
unlucky man jumped slightly and almost lost his wet grip on the edge of the 
canvas. Merton turned his disgusted gaze back toward the city gate, his foot 
tapping impatiently upon the stone of the road.

After another several seconds of wet misery had passed, he turned to the two men 
standing beside him beneath the long canvas. “I thought you said they were 
coming,” he snapped impatiently to the first man.

The man’s only response to Merton’s obvious anger was a slight bow of the head. 
“The lookouts upon the wall spotted their approach. They will be here shortly.”

“They had better be!” he muttered quietly, his voice a veiled threat that the 
other man merely ignored.

“Patience, my lord,” the second man joined in, eyeing Merton critically. “It 
would not do to have the king see you so obviously upset. You must at least act 
as if you are glad to see him.”

“I could ACT a lot better if I were warm and dry and in my own home!” Merton 
bellowed. He was speaking to perhaps the only two people in the city who did not 
fear and avoid him whenever possible. They were his top business advisors and 
the only reason that Merton’s merchant business continued to prosper and bring 
in great wealth. Merton was well aware of this fact, as were the two men.

They were both greedy and devious, much like the man they worked for. They would 
do anything to make a profit, knowing that any trouble they managed to get into, 
Merton would be there to bail them out of it. A smart person, upon seeing them 
walking down the street, would do well to keep a tight grip upon their money 
pouch.

“It would be considered an insult if you did not bother to greet such an 
important guest at the gate,” the first man spoke quietly, in a soothing voice. 
“You must be very careful, my lord. I have heard much about this new king, and I 
have come to the conclusion that he is either very lucky or very powerful. Until 
we know which, I would advise that we proceed with caution concerning him. If we 
play our parts right, this visit may be very profitable for us!” The two men 
exchanged greedy looks, and Merton grunted.

"We must stick to the plan, my lord," the second man broke in once more. “It 
would be best to greet the king warmly, make him feel welcome, serve him that 
grand feast you are preparing, assure him that all is well within the city and 
that we have everything under control, and then send him on his way! With any 
luck, he will be gone from the city by this time tomorrow.”

“And if he is not?” Merton shot back at them.

“Then we simply find other ways to profit from his visit.” The greedy look was 
passed between the two men once more.

Merton turned away from the two, and then stiffened as he caught sight of the 
object of his present misery riding through the gates. He immediately 
straightened, pulling his great girth up as tall as he could and smoothing a 
hand down the front of his tunic. Next to him, he sensed his two advisors 
shifting restlessly.

Merton watched as the main army stopped within the high shelter of the walls, 
and a small group broke off from the rest and began riding up the street toward 
him. There were about a dozen of them, but Merton only had eyes for the man who 
rode at their head upon a tall white horse. He knew without a doubt that this 
was the king. How he knew, he could not exactly say, for the man wore no 
distinguishing clothes nor did he wear a crown or any other insignia of his 
rank. His clothes were that of a man used to hard travel and battle, made of 
fine material but still plain and unadorned. A black cloak hung limply down his 
back, cast far enough back to reveal the sword hanging from his hip. In all, 
Merton had seen some of the lesser merchants of his city dress in a more 
distinguished fashion.

Yet despite all this, there was something about the way the man held himself 
that left no doubt in Merton's mind who he was. He sat tall and proud upon his 
horse, and an almost tangible sense of nobility and grace surrounded him. His 
posture did not look forced or put on like Merton's own upright frame. Instead, 
it looked natural, as if this was the way the man was used to carrying himself.

As the small group of horsemen drew closer, Merton found himself gripping his 
hands together in front of him, rubbing his right thumb over his left in a 
gesture he always used when nervous. He forced his hands down at his side and 
waited as the company closed the remaining distance to him, his eyes never 
leaving the king.

When the party of riders at last reached them, the king swung gracefully from 
his mount and closed the last few steps on foot. Merton was aware of the others 
dismounting as well, but he could not tear his eyes from the man who came and 
stood before him. His own eyes met hazel ones and he shivered at the power and 
strength he saw radiated there. He bowed low to the king; his advisor's 
mirroring him.

"My lord," he said quietly, trying to make his voice light and unconcerned. 
"Welcome to Calembel. I am Merton Fallow Candywell the III, the Mayor of this 
city and your humble servant."

His advisors were the ones who had suggested he use this greeting, and though 
the words stung in his throat, they sounded oddly fitting when presented to the 
tall man standing before him. His advisors had also suggested that he use his 
full title when introducing himself. They seemed to think this would impress the 
king, but Merton suddenly realized it would take something much greater than a 
simple name to impress this man.

He straightened from his bow, reluctantly meeting the king's piercing gaze once 
more. Aragorn merely nodded at him, his eyes flickering towards the two men at 
Merton's side. Merton hastened to make the introductions while forcing his voice 
to remain steady.

"These are my advisors," Merton motioned to the two men. "Fanchon, son of 
Domorin and Telfor, son of Mandul."

Both men bowed once more as they were named, and as Fanchon straightened he 
addressed the king in an oily tone. "Calembel is greatly honored by your 
presence, my lord. I hope your stay will be a long and comfortable one."

Merton inwardly groaned and shot the man a glare from the corner of his eye. Now 
that he had met King Aragorn, he desired all the more for the man to leave. A 
strange unsettled feeling seemed to have come over him and he did not like it at 
all.

"I thank you for your warm welcome," Aragorn spoke for the first time, and 
though his words were soft and kind, Merton flinched. The man held power even in 
his voice! "And now, I will introduce you to my companions."

For the first time, Merton looked past the king to his entourage, receiving yet 
another shock. It was all he could do not to let his mouth fall open in 
surprise. The king's company was made up of the oddest assortment of people that 
Merton had ever seen.

As Aragorn introduced each member, Merton smiled and bowed respectfully, hiding 
his surprise and confusion. He remembered hearing rumors that the king kept 
strange company, yet he had either ignored everything he had heard or dismissed 
it as nonsense. Now, however, he discovered that at least some of the rumors 
were true.

He swept his gaze over the company for a second time, trying to recall exactly 
what it was that he had heard about each of them.

Standing directly to the right of the king was the man introduced as Gandalf the 
White. Even without the introduction, Merton recognized the man to be a wizard, 
and a flash of fear raced through him. Little was known about wizards, and 
Merton was of the opinion that they were creatures to be feared and mistrusted. 
The fact that the king traveled in the company of one only added to Merton’s 
feelings of growing unease.

Gathered around the wizard were the four small forms that Merton had at first 
taken to be merely children, but who Aragorn had introduced as hobbits from a 
land called the Shire. Merton had never heard of hobbits before and he was 
vastly curious about the small creatures.

On the other side of Aragorn were two more strange beings, though not so strange 
that Merton had not heard of their kind before. The dwarf and elf stood side by 
side, and a more vastly different pair Merton had never seen before. In the 
manner of his race, the dwarf was short and stocky, rising little higher than 
the hobbits. A thick beard flowed down his chest, and a metal helm rested upon 
his head. Merton was not completely ignorant of the race of dwarves, having 
dealt with them often in the course of his trading; yet he had had little 
personal contact with any of them.

Beside the dwarf, the elf stood tall and fair, golden hair falling about slim 
shoulders, his body lean and fit. A bow and quiver of arrows hung from his back, 
and the hilt of two knives were visible at his waist. Even as Merton studied 
him, the elf raised his head and met his gaze. Light gray eyes returned his 
perusal, and Merton suddenly felt as if the elf could see right through him, 
into his mind. He shuddered and quickly looked away. Though he had always known 
of the existence of elves, he knew little more about that race than he did about 
hobbits.

Despite the great differences between the two, there was something about elf and 
dwarf that spoke of a close camaraderie, of long travels and bloody battles 
fought side by side. Merton could not completely understand what it was that 
gave him this impression. It seemed as if there was much about this group that 
served to confuse him, and he didn't like this one bit.

Perhaps the greatest shock of all was the dark-haired elven princess introduced 
as the king's betrothed. Merton had heard many rumors concerning the king's 
choice for a wife, but he had paid little attention to any of them. Now, he 
found himself totally infatuated with her. To say the elf princess was beautiful 
would be a vast understatement. Even with her hair soaked and lying flat against 
her face, there was no hiding her graceful features and delicate elegance.

The last member of the company seemed almost boring when compared to his vastly 
different companions. Yet Merton knew this to be false. Faramir, son of 
Denethor, was one of the most powerful men in all of Gondor, and one of the most 
respected when it came to prowess in battle.

Merton suddenly became aware of the silence, and he turned from his private 
musing to find that the king had finished with his introductions, and was now 
looking at him expectantly. For a moment Merton panicked, wondering what he 
should say next, but Telfor stepped forward and saved him from further 
embarrassment.

"My lord," the man addressed Aragorn. "I am sure that you and your men are weary 
from your travels. Quarters have been prepared for your soldiers, along with 
stables for your mounts. As for yourself and your companions, a grand feast has 
been prepared for you at the Mayor's home, as well as rooms were you may rest 
and refresh yourselves."

Aragorn nodded, shifting his feet and glancing about him. A small, but growing, 
crowd had gathered on the streets, watching the strange arrivals with confusion 
and curiosity. "I thank you for your offer, and I accept graciously to both the 
meal and the rooms, though I fear it will be some time ere we can rest." Aragorn 
turned to Faramir. "See that the army is prepared for tonight and then join us 
as soon as possible."

Faramir nodded, turned and mounted his horse and rode back towards the army.

Aragorn turned to Merton once more. "If you will lead the way, sir," he said, 
sweeping his arm out in the direction up the street. "I fear there is much we 
must discuss while we dine."

Merton nodded wordlessly and turned to lead the way to his house. He impatiently 
waved away the four servants holding the tarp over him. He knew this would leave 
him bare to the weather, but he decided that this would perhaps be best while 
the king himself was left unprotected. Aragorn fell in beside him, and the rest 
of the company followed closely after. Merton found himself struggling to keep 
up with Aragorn's long strides, and he was soon puffing and gasping in air, 
unaccustomed to the exercise. Aragorn noticed his struggles and slowed his pace 
slightly.

"I trust you received my message warning of the danger of an orc attack on the 
city."

Merton jumped slightly at the question, and shot the king a quick glance before 
clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, my lord, we received your message," he 
said nervously, his hands clasping together once more.

"I had expected to see work being done upon your walls in preparation for an 
attack," Aragorn said, his voice holding a note of disapproval. "They are sadly 
in disrepair and will not hold against any lasting siege."

"I wish no disrespect, lord, nor do I wish to question your word, but my men 
have seen nothing of these orcs you claim are massing for an attack. Perhaps 
small bands of renegade orcs have chosen to hide out in the mountains of Ered 
Nimrais, but they hardly offer a threat to the great city of Calambel. I fear 
you have wasted both your time and energy coming here." Merton waved a hand in 
dismissal at the end of his last comment, already looking before him towards the 
warmth and comfort of his home.

Aragorn slowed his pace further, eyeing the Mayor closely, and Merton soon found 
himself shifting uncomfortably under the man's intense stare. At last, Aragorn 
spoke. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mayor. I believe that a force much bigger 
than a mere renegade band has gathered within the mountains. I am not even sure 
of the number of our enemies, but I do not doubt that they are many, and they 
are led by one whose evil knows no bounds."

Merton shrugged. "Even so, they would not dare attack Calembel. And if they 
should, I am sure that the guards of this city would be sufficient enough to 
take care of the problem. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with the 
affairs of Calembel."

"Calembel is a city within my realm and I have every right to trouble myself 
with its affairs." Aragorn's voice had grown soft, and there was an unmistakable 
firmness in his tone.

Merton winced slightly, wondering if he had perhaps gone a little too far. He 
had no wish to make the king angry with him.

"What would you say if I were to tell you that I expect an attack on this city 
this very night," Aragorn continued, his voice still soft and quiet.

Merton looked at him doubtfully, wondering if the king was playing some sort of 
joke at his expense. Aragorn looked back at him, his face completely serious.

Merton shrugged once more, his face showing his lack of concern. "I would say 
let them come and we will destroy them and leave their bodies as a warning to 
the others of their kind."

Aragorn merely looked at him, and then shook his head slowly. "If only it were 
that easy," he said sadly, his voice quiet and strangely distant. "If only..." 
he repeated, trailing off and saying no more as they continued their assent to 
the rich merchant's home.

*******

The Ered Nimrais loomed like a dark giant, its face thrust upward into the gray 
clouds. Nothing moved upon its rocky slopes, and all seemed completely silent 
and still. It seemed, almost, as if the Mountain was sleeping.

This, however, was nothing more than a sculpted mask set to hide the evil 
building and expanding deep within. Though the outside of the mountain looked 
completely calm and still, the inside was roiling with movement. Low grunts and 
exclamations in an evil tongue filled the caverns, as evil preparations were 
made and a malicious purpose was set.

*******

"That low down, overstuffed, pompous, bag of orc guts..." Gimli's voice trailed 
off in a string of very colorful dwarven curses. He was staring at the door 
through which Merton had just exited, and it looked as if he wanted to hurl his 
axe after the man. His face was bright red underneath his beard, and Legolas 
worried his friend was going to burst something.

Beside him, Faramir looked little better. His jaw was clenched and he gripped 
the hilt of his sword so tight that his knuckles had turned white.

Legolas himself was far from relaxed. Anger simmered hot and heavy and he was 
struggling valiantly to control it. The company had just finished holding 
council with Merton and his two advisors, and the meeting had not gone well. He 
felt his rage boiling hotter as he pictured the fat merchant and his two weasel 
advisors. He had to force his mind from replaying the events of the last hour, 
knowing it would only serve to infuriate him further.

Tenseness filled the room, and Legolas glanced from face to face, reading each 
member's reaction to what had just transpired.

The four hobbits looked troubled and uncomfortable, despite the grand feast they 
had just devoured. They kept glancing about them as if hoping someone would 
break the thick, uncomfortable silence that had settled after Gimli’s outburst.

Gandalf stood at the far end of the room, a distant and thoughtful expression on 
his face. He did not look overly distressed at what had happened, but every now 
and then he would turn to glance at the door, and Legolas’s sharp ears picked up 
the muttered word ‘fool.’

Arwen wore a slight frown, and she kept glancing at Aragorn, who was seated at 
her left.

Aragorn himself, surprisingly, was the only one in the room who appeared 
completely calm and unconcerned. He leaned back in his chair, his pipe clenched 
between his teeth, his eyes slightly closed; a picture of contented relaxation.

Both Gimli and Faramir were staring at Aragorn as if he had gone mad, but 
Legolas merely shook his head. He had known Aragorn for a long time, and he was 
not surprised at the man’s calm reaction to the situation. In fact, he would 
have been surprised at anything less. Aragorn had an unerring habit of taking 
bad situations and making them work for the best, and he rarely got excited over 
things he could not change.

“I do not understand how you can merely sit there after…after…” Faramir seemed 
at a complete loss as to how to finish his sentence, and he continued to stare 
at Aragorn in confusion.

Aragorn merely smiled slightly at him.

“I am not quite sure,” Merry spoke up quietly, “but I think that man insulted 
you, Aragorn.”

“Several times,” Faramir replied dryly, his voice laced with anger.

Aragorn shook his head slightly. “Nay,” he replied calmly. “In the face of a 
wise and cunning mayor, I would have taken Merton’s actions as an insult. But 
when dealing with a fool, it merely becomes a nuisance.”

“A simple nuisance it may seem to you, but the man had no call to speak to you 
with such disrespect. You are his king, and I would gladly take it upon myself 
to remind him of this fact, if you will but allow me.”

“Aye,” Gimli all but shouted. “And I will aid him in this task!”

"I must agree with them, Aragorn," Legolas spoke up for the first time. “The man 
practically called you a liar to your face! He must learn to speak with respect 
when addressing his king."

Aragorn continued to shake his head. “I may be a king, but you must remember, my 
friends, who I was before I became king. I am no stranger to others treating me 
with doubtful mistrust, for such was my life when I was a Ranger.”

“That may be, my lord,” Faramir interjected. “Yet a simple ranger you are no 
longer. You are king, and thus deserving of much more respect than you received 
this day."

“I agree,” Gimli spoke out once more. “You should allow us to hang this so 
called 'Mayor' by his ankles from the nearest tree until he gains a civil and 
respectful tongue.”

The hobbits looked at Gimli in horror, for the dwarf sounded completely serious 
in his threat.

Aragorn barked out a laugh. “And what would that accomplish, Gimli?” he asked 
the dwarf.

"I guarantee he would serve you without hesitation in the future,” the dwarf 
answered with a gleeful grin.

“Yes,” Aragorn answered. “And what type of service would it be?” At Gimli and 
Faramir’s confused look he continued. “Service born of fear and hatred is hardly 
trustworthy. I would prefer the grudging and doubtful service that is being 
offered now. Peace, my friends, for it is already late in the afternoon, and we 
have much to accomplish in preparation for the battle tonight."

Faramir and Gimli looked far from convinced, but they thankfully let the subject 
drop. Faramir rose gracefully and bowed to Aragorn, as if determined to show him 
the respect that Merton had lacked. "By your leave, lord. Kenson Brantz and his 
men volunteered to help repair parts of the North wall and I set them to the 
task with the help of a few of our own soldiers. I would go now, and see to 
their progress."

Aragorn nodded and also rose. "There is much for all of us to do. We will 
accomplish what we can before nightfall, and then stand ready for Malek’s 
attack.”

"Um, I have a question," Merry spoke up reluctantly, and all eyes turned to him.

“Speak, friend,” Aragorn urged gently when the hobbit hesitated. He sat back 
down in his chair, giving Merry his full attention.

“I was just wondering how we are supposed to fight Malek tonight,” the hobbit 
said quietly, then rushed on to explain himself. “I mean, we’re expecting him to 
attack with his orcs, right? What do we do when we have to face him? I thought 
he was impossible to kill at night?”

"Ahh," Gandalf spoke up for the first time. "Impossible to kill, my dear hobbit, 
but not impossible to defeat. You merely have to stay alive long enough to 
injure him so severely that he must retreat to heal himself.” The wizard's voice 
was calm, even cheerful.

"Oh. Is that all," Merry replied in a dazed voice. “And he is still after us, 
right? That means he will probably be hunting for at least one of us?”

"Do not worry, Merry," Aragorn said softly. "You will have no need to face Malek 
on your own. All of us will split into two groups. That way, if Malek wishes to 
attack one of us, he will have to face the entire group. I think that puts the 
odds decidedly in our favor. We simply must be careful not to get separated from 
our groups during the battle."

"Who will be in what group?" Frodo asked.

"Gandalf and I have already discussed this," Aragorn answered. "Frodo, Merry, 
and Sam will be in a group with Gandalf and Faramir, while myself, Legolas, 
Arwen and Gimli form the other group."

Pippin frowned. "What about me?" he asked. "What group shall I be in?"

Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged glances, and the wizard rose and walked over to 
Pippin. He placed his hand on the young hobbit's back and began directing him 
towards the door. “I have another task for you, Master Took,” the wizard said 
seriously. “And if you will follow me, I will reveal it to you.”

Pippin looked extremely doubtful, and he shot a questioning glance back at his 
friends, receiving only shrugs in answer to his unspoken question. He let 
Gandalf lead him out the door, shutting it firmly behind them.

“I wonder what that was all about?” Gimli muttered, glancing at Aragorn who 
merely shook his head slightly.

Legolas was wondering the same thing, but he didn’t have time to voice his own 
questions, for just at that moment, a slight knock came at the door.

“Come,” Aragorn called out, sitting forward in his chair.

The door cracked open slightly, and a small head poked through, perusing the 
room uncertainly.

“Dar,” Legolas called out, recognizing the boy immediately. He motioned the 
child over to him, and Dar hesitantly entered the room completely.

“S..s..sorry to interrupt,” the boy stammered, walking over to stand next to 
Legolas, his wide eyes fixed upon Aragorn. Aragorn smiled at the boy, which 
seemed to put him more at ease, so he continued. “My father has finished doing 
what he can to the Northern wall, but he is concerned over the gate. He does not 
think it will stand against a rushed attack.”

Aragorn nodded, eyeing the boy curiously. “Do you know much about battle, son,” 
he asked the child gently.

Dar nodded emphatically. “I’ve been guarding merchant supplies with my dad since 
I was six!” he explained excitedly. “I know all about battle.”

“Do you now?” Aragorn asked, then glanced at Faramir and nodded. Faramir walked 
over to the boy and put his arm around the slim shoulders.

“Take me to the gate, Dar, and we will see what can be done,” Faramir instructed 
with a look of mock seriousness. “Do YOU have any ideas of what we can do to 
strengthen it?”

Dar seemed thrilled that Faramir had bothered asking him, and as the Steward led 
him from the room he began to pour out ideas on how to fix the gate.

Arwen smiled delightedly after the retreating form of the child, then she also 
rose and turned to the hobbits. “I saw an armory shop on our way here. If we are 
to fight tonight, then we must be prepared. Perhaps they will have something to 
fit you three.”

The three hobbits stood up and followed the elven princess from the room, 
leaving Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli alone. Legolas glanced at Aragorn, waiting 
for the man to give orders on what else should be accomplished for the battle 
tonight. He was slightly surprised that Aragorn had not gone with Faramir, and 
he was sure that he had some task that needed seeing to. However, Aragorn 
remained seated, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes completely 
closed! Legolas glanced at Gimli and found the dwarf staring back at him with 
narrowed eyes. Legolas glanced back at Aragorn. “I think I shall go and help 
Faramir,” he said quickly, turning swiftly to leave the room.

He had just managed to reach the door when something hurled into the back of his 
legs, flinging them out from beneath him. Legolas let out a shout as he toppled 
ungracefully to the floor, his hands going behind him to soften his fall. Before 
he even had a chance to see what had hit him, a heavy weight settled onto his 
chest, driving all the air from his lungs.

Legolas attempted to gasp in air as he stared in consternation at the dwarf now 
seated smugly upon his chest.

“I thought we were going to try and talk to him first, Gimli,” Aragorn said 
calmly as he rose and walked to stand over the two on the floor.

Legolas glared up at his two friends while still desperately trying to pull air 
into his squashed lungs.

“I owed him one,” Gimli replied dryly, looking down at Legolas in triumph. 
“Besides, he wouldn’t have listened.”

"You're probably right," Aragorn answered with a shrug. He glanced down at 
Legolas and cocked his head slightly. "I don't think he can breathe, Gimli," he 
continued in a conversational tone. "His face is turning a rather bright shade 
of red."

Legolas really couldn't breathe, and he felt all the blood rush to his head. He 
was sure he was about to pass out, and Gimli's face began to blur and dance in 
his vision. Just when black shadows were beginning to creep into his vision, he 
felt the weight lift from his chest, and he took a deep gasp of air.

It took several seconds for him to recover enough to push himself into a sitting 
position, still feeling slightly dazed. He glared at Gimli and Aragorn, who now 
stood before him, but their only response was a slightly raised eyebrow from 
Aragorn, and a fierce scowl from Gimli. The dwarf crossed his arms over his 
chest and stared down at Legolas with an expression the elf had never seen on 
his friend’s face before.

With one last gasping cough, Legolas forced himself to his feet. He had no doubt 
what his friends were up to, and he figured he had only two options. He could 
try to struggle past them to the door and make an escape once more, or he could 
tell them what they wanted to know. At the moment, Legolas was too exhausted to 
even seriously consider the first option.

He let out a loud sigh and turned his back to his friends, walking over to a 
chair and sinking down into it. Behind him, he thought he heard Gimli muttering 
something about a rope. The dwarf sounded disappointed.

"I guess this means you are ready to talk to us now," Aragorn asked quietly, 
moving to stand in front of Legolas. Gimli followed him, still looking at 
Legolas intently.

Legolas let out another sigh, and shook his head slightly. "I don't know where 
to begin,” he answered tiredly, lifting a hand to sweep away a stray lock of 
hair that had fallen around his face.

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged glances before turning back to Legolas. “Then let us 
help you,” Aragorn replied gently, grabbing a chair and placing it in front of 
Legolas, facing the elf. Gimli followed suit, and when they were both seated, 
Aragorn continued. “Before we ever left Minas Tirith, you began to act 
strangely. I could tell that you were not sleeping properly, and I also knew 
that you and Gandalf were hiding something from the rest of us. At first, I 
decided to leave you alone in the hopes that you would choose to talk to me of 
your own accord. However, it soon became apparent to me that you had no 
intention of doing this.”

Aragorn paused, and Legolas glanced at him somewhat guiltily. He glanced toward 
Gimli, but the dwarf’s eyes were on Aragorn. The man continued. “I decided then 
to find a time to confront you on my own, but circumstances interfered and I am 
afraid I never got around to it.” Aragorn shook his head regretfully. “I must 
confess that I placed the matter in the back of my mind. That is, until this 
morning.” Aragorn stopped once more and looked directly at Legolas. “Gimli told 
me what happened,” he stated plainly, watching Legolas for his reaction.

Legolas glanced once more at Gimli, and this time the dwarf was looking at him. 
The anger that had been in his friend’s eyes earlier was gone now, replaced by 
something else. Once again, Legolas had a rough time reading Gimli’s expression. 
The dwarf looked frustrated, concerned, expectant, and tense, all wrapped in 
one. There was something else there as well. Fear.

Legolas quickly looked away, forcing his eyes back to Aragorn. “We have come to 
the conclusion,” Aragorn continued softly, “that whatever is troubling you has 
to do with dreams. Am I correct in this?”

Legolas hesitated for the barest of seconds before he nodded slowly. He let out 
the breath he seemed to have been holding since Aragorn first began speaking. 
“You are correct,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Aragorn and Gimli 
merely continued to look at him, and so with yet another sigh, Legolas settled 
back further into the chair and closed his eyes.

He began to speak, refusing to allow his brain to think on the words, but 
instead allowing them to flow from him as they would. He talked of the first 
night they had returned to Minas Tirith, and of the dream that had plagued him 
since.

At first, he planned to limit what he told them, only outlining and giving them 
the barest of facts in the hope that that would satisfy them. Yet as he began to 
talk, the pent up emotions inside of him began to build and push at him, 
demanding release. Without even fully realizing it, Legolas began telling them 
everything, keeping nothing back.

Part of him remained horrified that he was speaking so directly, that he was 
leaving himself completely bare and open in front of others. Yet he could have 
more easily stopped a flood from breaking through a dam than stop talking once 
he had begun.

He explained his dream in each gruesome detail along with its direct effect upon 
him and his efforts to ignore or forget the images presented him. He shared the 
fear and horror, and above all the complete helplessness that he had felt. He 
shared how he dreaded even sleeping for fear that the dream would come again. He 
did not look at them while he spoke, but instead studied his hands lying limply 
in his lap.

When he had finally finished, a silence hung heavy in the air. Legolas felt 
drained and exhausted, while at the same time strangely relieved. It felt as if 
a great weight had been lifted from him, and for the first time in many days it 
seemed as if all the tension had eased from his shoulders. He felt oddly light 
and weightless, and thought he could probably sleep for days without worry over 
his dream.

For the first time, he glanced up at the faces of his friends, only to find them 
looking back at him with shocked and stunned expressions. He winced at their 
obvious distress, and wished once more that he had been less explicit in his 
explanation.

Aragorn was the first to recover from his shock. He cleared his throat loudly, 
breaking the wall of silence that had been growing more and more intense. He 
faced Legolas squarely, struggling to keep his face emotionless. “You said you 
have had this dream several times?” he asked Legolas, keeping his voice calm and 
business like.

Legolas merely nodded, not meeting his eyes.

“And this dream is of the same nature as the one you had before?”

Once again, Legolas only nodded.

“Well, that’s good!” Gimli broke in, his cheerful voice an odd contrast to the 
tense look on his face. “We changed the outcome of your first dream, and we 
shall change the outcome of this one as well!”

Legolas gave Gimli a weak smile and the dwarf rose and moved to his side, laying 
a hand on his shoulder in silent support. Aragorn moved forward and also placed 
his hand on the elf’s knee.

“We may not have any specific answers for you, my friend, but I am still glad 
you have shared this with us. That is what friends are all about; sharing in 
each other's burdens. I hope in the future that you will not feel the need to 
hide anything like this from us again.” Aragorn’s voice was gentle, yet firm and 
he gave Legolas’s knee a firm squeeze.

“So what do we do now?” Gimli asked quietly, still standing at Legolas’s 
shoulder.

“We will merely have to be careful and extra watchful,” Aragorn answered, rising 
from his chair.

Gimli nodded emphatically, and Legolas turned to him, a firm expression on his 
face. “Do not think to set guards on me,” he said sternly. “And do not try 
following me everywhere I go in the hopes of keeping an eye on me, either!”

Gimli attempted to look innocent, as if he had not been considering those very 
ideas, but Legolas was not fooled. “I know you too well, my friend, and if you 
should attempt to do this, then I will be forced to tie you up and leave you 
somewhere!” Legolas’s tone was lighter than it had been for days, yet he allowed 
his face to show how completely serious his threat was.

“You can borrow a rope from Gandalf,” Aragorn suggested innocently, ignoring the 
dwarf’s glare.

Outside, a bell began to toll mournfully, and Aragorn glanced toward the only 
window in the room. It faced west, and he could see the orange glow of the sun 
setting just above the horizon. He sighed, and rubbed a tired hand across his 
eyes. Behind him, Legolas spoke up.

“Whatever may happen, I hope this whole mess is over soon.”

Aragorn nodded, the same thought running through his head as the three 
companions turned and left the room.

*****

“It’s not fair!” Pippin exclaimed, stalking up the street from the small armory 
shop where he had found his friends trying on armor for the expected battle. “I 
have to sit around and do nothing, while you three fight a battle!”

“You’re not just sitting around doing nothing,” Merry argued, trying vainly to 
keep pace with the younger hobbit. “I think the job Gandalf gave you is very 
important.” Merry had to pause briefly and adjust the bundle of armor he held in 
his hands.

“Besides,” added Sam breathlessly, “you can’t possibly prefer to fight orcs. I 
myself think it is a nasty business and I am not looking forward to it at all.”

“Do you wish to trade places with me then?” Pippin offered grumpily.

Sam glanced toward Frodo, then shook his head.

“It is not fair!” Pippin repeated, looking totally dejected.

“Come on, Pippin,” Frodo spoke up for the first time. “Merry is right. The job 
Gandalf gave you is very important.”

Pippin cast a dark glance in his direction. “You think babysitting a bunch of 
baggage is important,” he muttered angrily.

“Gandalf already explained this to you,” Frodo replied with a sigh. “He does not 
trust Merton, and he needs someone to keep an eye on all our stuff. He doesn’t 
want them attempting to riffle through our belongings while we’re busy guarding 
the city.”

“But why me?” Pippin exclaimed. “I am a warrior of Gondor and should be 
defending the wall tonight! Why can’t he have chosen someone else? One of the 
soldiers, maybe.”

“If Gandalf used a soldier, it would be obvious to Merton that he suspects 
something. We don’t want to outright insult the man!” Frodo was beginning to 
sound a little exasperated.

“I don’t see why not,” Sam muttered. “The man was more than willing to insult 
Aragorn this afternoon.”

“That is not the point,” Frodo said, elbowing Sam roughly, and pointedly looking 
toward Pippin.

“I’m a warrior of Gondor,” Pippin repeated, his tone still injured. "If Aragorn 
did not want me at his side tonight, he could have just told me."

“Don’t worry, Pip, I am sure there will be lots of opportunities for you to 
fight in the future," Merry said in an attempt to cheer up the younger hobbit.

Pippin did not respond to this but continued to plod up the road toward the 
house.

The other three hobbits looked at their friend, realizing that nothing they 
could say would be able to cheer the distressed hobbit.

“Come on, Pippin,” Frodo said gently. “Let's go see if we can grab a bite to 
eat!”

*****

The night was completely black, the heavy blanket of clouds blocking out any 
light the heavens could offer. An unnatural silence hung heavy in the air, all 
sounds muted by the wet earth. The rain had lessened to a drizzle around dusk, 
and now it had completely stopped, adding to the unnatural silence. The normal 
nighttime sounds were strangely missing, as if all of nature lay in tense 
anticipation of what was to come. A sense of evil lay heavily over the land, 
almost tangible in its intensity.

The city of Calembel lay quietly at the base of the Ered Nimrais, looking very 
small and pitiful against the oppressive blackness. Large fires burned within 
fire pits spaced evenly along the city's wall, the light barely penetrating the 
darkness that encased the city. Movement could be seen here and there along the 
wall as soldiers passed before the flames.

Gimli sighed loudly and peered out into the darkness, flexing his shoulders in 
an attempt to relieve tired muscles. Nothing moved over the rocky ground leading 
up to the city, and the only sounds were that of the soldiers moving about on 
the wall. Midnight had come and gone, and Gimli found himself getting anxious. 
He wanted something to happen, anything, that would break the silent tenseness 
that lay over the city.

Legolas sat beside the dwarf on the ground, busying himself with sharpening one 
of his knives. His bow lay on the ground next to him within easy reach. The 
slight hiss of the knife over the whet stone seemed unnaturally loud in the 
otherwise still night.

Aragorn stood a few paces off, Arwen at his side, both peering into the 
darkness. Neither looked tense or worried, merely watchful.

Gimli sighed once more and went to stand next to Aragorn. He peered into the 
darkness, wishing it was not quite so black. Several more long minutes passed, 
and Gimli became restless once more. Legolas had finished with his first knife, 
and was starting on his second.

Gimli glanced at Aragorn, who seemed nothing more than a statue for how still he 
was standing. "Perhaps they will not venture an attack tonight after all."

The words had barely left Gimli's mouth when the abrupt sound of horns pierced 
the still night, coming from the direction of the mountains. All upon the wall, 
save Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Arwen, jumped at the sound.

"I could be wrong," Gimli added, drawing his axe from his belt. Aragorn drew out 
Anduril with a ring, just as Arwen unsheathed her own slim blade. Legolas calmly 
put away his knife, grabbed his bow, and jumped to his feet, moving to join his 
three companions. The horns were growing louder, echoing and reverberating off 
the high mountain peaks. The sound was completely ominous and dark, speaking of 
the evil creatures that now approached the city.

"I can hear them coming," Arwen said softly, and Legolas nodded.

"Remember to stay together," Aragorn reminded them all. "We must not offer 
ourselves as an easy target for Malek. If you fear you are becoming separated, 
shout out." They all nodded their understanding, waiting tensely for what would 
come next.

They did not have to wait long. With a final burst of horns, the first wave of 
orcs broke from the shadows and charged toward the city.

...........................................................

Chapter 14   Blood and Tears

Pippin was bored. Not only that, but he was tired, uncomfortable, hungry, and 
thoroughly disgruntled. He was seated upon a rough wooden stool placed against 
the far wall of the hall leading to the rooms the company had been given for the 
duration of their stay. From this vantage point, he could see anyone nearing the 
quarters, while remaining fairly inconspicuous himself.

Several hours had passed since Frodo, Sam, and Merry had left for the wall, and 
Pippin guessed that it was shortly after midnight. For the first couple of 
hours, he had been too wrapped up in anger, self-pity, and worry, to become 
bored. He had ranted and raved about the unfairness of his situation until he 
was hoarse, despite the fact that no one had been around to hear him.

He hated the fact that he could not stand beside his companions in facing 
whatever danger would come this night. It was not that he was particularly 
fearful for them. He knew that Gandalf and Faramir would not allow any harm to 
come to Merry, Sam, and Frodo. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were well capable of 
handling themselves in battle, and though he had never seen Arwen fight before, 
he guessed that if she handled herself in the same manner she did with 
everything else, than she too would be fine. It was not really fear that 
troubled him, but more the fact that he felt as if he should be with them, 
facing the same danger. Instead, he was left sitting here looking like one of 
the figures carved from stone that the old Gaffer loved to put in his gardens.

His righteous indignation had completely consumed him, building and growing 
until he could think of nothing else. He had even tried out some of the more 
nasty dwarven curses he had heard Gimli use earlier. All in all, he had worked 
himself up into a pretty impressive rage.

Yet as the hours had dragged by, his anger had slowly faded, replaced instead by 
a sort of resigned melancholy. Given time to think about it, he had come to the 
conclusion that the reason he had been the one left behind was simply that 
Aragorn and Gandalf had not wanted him to participate in the battle. They did 
not believe him capable of holding his own in the fight, and thought that he 
would only get in the way. So, despite the fact that he was officially a warrior 
of Gondor, they had placed him here, so they would not have to worry about him.

A part of him whispered that he was overreacting, that Gandalf’s reasons for 
setting him as guard were perfectly legitimate, and Pippin had just been his 
unlucky choice. Yet in the dark hallway, with nothing but his discomfort and 
hunger to keep him company, Pippin found it much easier to think gloomily.

Now, however, he found weariness and boredom his most troublesome companions. He 
caught himself continually glancing toward the door that led to the room he was 
sharing with Merry, and the soft bed just beyond. He figured that he would be 
just as useful sleeping as sitting. However, he was determined to prove himself 
to Aragorn and Gandalf. He would show them that he was capable of finishing any 
task they set him, no matter how useless. He would sit here until the sky turned 
green if that was how long they wanted him to, and he would not complain about 
weariness or hunger, either.

He stifled a yawn, shifting on the hard stool and peering up and down the long 
corridor. His eyes drifted down, studying the large stones that made up the 
floor of the hall. He had counted them three times and knew that there was 
exactly one hundred and two in this particular hallway. He groaned and stopped 
his eyes in the middle of counting them a fourth time. “This is just great, 
Pip,” he said to himself. “Next, you’ll start naming them all and holding 
conversations with them.”

He rose, stretching stiff muscles, then began pacing up and down the hall, 
counting how many steps it took from one end to the other. Every time he reached 
the cross hallway, he would stop, glance both directions to make sure no one was 
coming, then whirl, and pace back to his stool. He was actually getting quite 
into the game, humming a little counting tune that Sam had taught him ages ago 
and trying to figure out different ways to walk that would change the number of 
steps it took from one end to the other. He decided that it was a step better 
than sitting on his stool and moaning about his condition, and at least he did 
not have to worry about falling asleep.

Pippin cleared all outside thought from his mind and concentrated solely on 
figuring out a way to make it from one end of the hall to the other, skipping 
only two stones at a time, in only 22 steps instead of the 26 he had continually 
come up with. He pursed his lips and studied the layout of the stones leading up 
to the base of his stool, hands on his hips and brow wrinkled in thought.

After several seconds of silent contemplation, he thought he had found a course 
that would get him to the other end with the desired number of steps. He lifted 
his foot and was about to start forward when a voice spoke up from behind him.

“What are you doing?”

Pippin whirled, his heart nearly jumping through his throat, his hand flying to 
the hilt of the short sword he wore at his side.  He fiercely berated himself 
for becoming so distracted that he failed to notice anyone approaching.

A young boy stood in the cross way directly before Pippin, eyeing the hobbit 
with undisguised curiosity.  Pippin recognized the boy from the meeting earlier, 
and he tried to recall the name Legolas had used while steadying his breathing 
and calming his heart.

"I didn't mean to scare you," the boy said in way of an apology, shrugging his 
thin shoulders and glancing to where Pippin's hand still rested upon the hilt of 
his sword.

"You did not scare me," Pippin said quickly, removing his hand from the hilt of 
his blade.  "You just startled me, that's all," he added, his tone defensive.  
He studied the boy intently for a few seconds, recalling that Legolas had called 
him Dar.

For his part, the boy stared back at Pippin just as intently, his head cocked 
slightly to one side, the curious expression never leaving his small face.

Pippin frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.  "You should be careful about 
sneaking up on people," he stated firmly, attempting to look down at the boy 
despite the fact that they were almost the same height.  "Especially Knights of 
Gondor.  I could have lobbed your head from your shoulders before I realized it 
was you!"

Dar's eyes grew wide, and Pippin regretted his harsh words, thinking that he had 
frightened the boy.  Dar's next words, however, allayed his fear.

"You're a Knight of Gondor?" the boy whispered softly, his wide eyes filled with 
awe and excitement.

Pippin merely nodded, feeling a surge of pride run through him at the boy's 
obvious admiration.  He straightened to his full height, throwing his shoulders 
back proudly.

"I saw you riding with the king," Dar stated, still staring at Pippin with 
excitement.  Suddenly, he frowned, doubt flickering across his small face.  
"Aren't you a little short to be a knight?" he questioned boldly, looking 
Pippin's small frame up and down.  "And a little young?" he added almost as an 
afterthought.

"I'm probably as old as your father," Pippin stated, ignoring the boy's 
incredulous look. "And as for being short, I'm a hobbit.  All hobbits are 
short."  He placed his hands on his hips and gave Dar a serious look.  
"However," he continued, "Do not underestimate us just because we are small.  
Even the mighty Sauron knew of hobbits and was wary of us."  It was true, Pippin 
decided, even if it was for reasons other than what he was insinuating.

Dar nodded slowly, some of the awe returning to his face, though he was still 
not completely convinced.  "If you are a Knight of Gondor, why aren't you out on 
the wall with the others?" he asked curiously, a hint of doubt still lingering 
in his voice.

"I am on a secret mission," Pippin replied without hesitation, nodding his head 
firmly.

"A secret mission?" The excitement was back in Dar's voice and eyes, and he 
leaned forward eagerly.  "What secret mission?" he asked enthusiastically.

"It wouldn't be a secret if I told you, now would it," Pippin replied 
mysteriously, winking at the young boy.

"Please tell me," Dar begged.  "I promise I won't tell a soul!  Not even my 
dad."

"I don't know," Pippin said, shaking his head doubtfully.

"Please," Dar continued to beg, practically bouncing up and down on his toes in 
his eagerness.

"What if someone captures you and tortures you," Pippin asked seriously.

Dar's eyes grew even wider if that were possible, but he shook his head wildly. 
 "I still wouldn't tell them!" he stated bravely.

"Well," Pippin said, pretending to wrestle with indecision.  "I suppose I could 
tell you as long as you swear to remain silent."

"I do!  I swear!"  Dar cried out, nearly exploding from his curiosity.

Pippin reached forward and gripped the boy's shoulder, lowering his voice to a 
conspiratorial whisper.  "Did you know that a wizard travels with the king?" he 
asked softly, his voice secretive.

Dar nodded.  "I saw him," he said.  "He wears a really funny pointed hat and has 
a lot of white hair."

"That's him," Pippin nodded, and then looked Dar squarely in the eyes.  "Did you 
know that he is the most powerful wizard in all of Middle Earth?”

The child’s eyes practically glowed with wonder.  “Really?” he asked.

“Yep,” Pippin answered.  “My mission is to guard some very powerful objects the 
wizard has brought with him.  The orcs know of these objects and will attempt to 
steal them.  I am the last defense if the orcs manage to break through.”

"You have to guard them all by yourself?" Dar asked, still excited.  "What 
happens if a lot of orcs come here?"

Pippin shrugged.  "That is why they had to put a warrior of Gondor as guard.  
Any orcs that try to get past me will find themselves impaled upon my trusty 
sword."

Dar was left speechless with awe, and then he suddenly burst out.  "Can I help 
you?"  He pulled a short knife from his tunic pocket, the blade no longer than 
three inches, and held it up for Pippin's scrutiny.   "See," he said proudly. “I 
can fight really good, just ask my dad.  I’ve helped him guard the merchant’s 
goods since I was six.”

“I don’t know,” Pippin said seriously.  “This job is pretty dangerous.”

“Please,” Dar begged once more.  “I really can fight.  I’m really good with a 
bow and arrow too.  Even Legolas said so.”

Pippin pretended to think about it for a while, then nodded.  “I suppose you can 
help.  Why don’t you go down to the other end of the hall and let out a whistle 
if you see anyone coming.”

Dar hesitated, and Pippin looked at him expectantly.    The lad looked somewhat 
embarrassed as he looked at Pippin.  At last he murmured, “I don’t know how to 
whistle.”

“Oh,” Pippin said, somewhat at a loss.  “Just let out a little shout then.”

“Alright!” the boy yelled, and then took off at a run toward the other end of 
the crossway.

“Hey!” Pippin yelled after him.  “Weren’t you ever taught not to run with a 
knife in your hand?”

Dar slowed his pace, waving back at Pippin over his shoulder before positioning 
himself at the end of the hall.

Pippin shook his head and began his slow march up and down his own section of 
the hallway.  Entertaining the boy had helped take his mind off his own 
troubles.  He actually let himself pretend that what he told the boy was the 
truth, and that he was the last defense of a great and powerful object.  Who 
really knew what the wizard kept hidden within his belongings.

Long minutes passed in silence while Pippin patrolled his hall with shoulders 
back and head held high, eyes perusing every shadow for a hidden danger.  He was 
getting quite into the game, and was once again startled when Dar’s small shout 
came from down the hall.

He glanced toward the lad, and found Dar racing down the hall towards him, his 
face flushed with excitement.  “Someone is coming,” the boy panted breathlessly 
when he reached Pippin.

Pippin nodded and boldly placed his hand upon his sword.  “Be ready, Dar.  If 
this is a spy of the enemy, we will have to dispatch him quietly and quickly 
before he can warn the others!”

Dar nodded, still clutching his small knife in his hand.

A few seconds later, the object of their discussion appeared around the corner. 
 He was peering behind him, as if afraid of being followed, and his steps were 
slow and cautious.  When the man turned and spotted Pippin and Dar, he stopped 
cold, his face registering frustration before it quickly went blank.

Pippin’s eyes narrowed as he recognized one of Merton’s advisors, and his hand 
tightened unconsciously on his sword. 

The man hesitated, looking almost as if he was about to turn around and go back 
the way he had come. At last, he seemed to make up his mind, and continued 
forward toward Pippin and Dar.

Pippin watched him approach, suspicion and mistrust flaring to life within him. 
 He remembered Gandalf’s warning to watch out for Merton or one of his men 
snooping around, and he had never seen anyone look more like they had been 
caught somewhere that they shouldn’t be.

When the advisor reached them, he looked the two up and down, arching a smooth 
eyebrow at Pippin’s hand upon his sword hilt. Pippin looked calmly back at him 
and didn’t remove his hand.  “Isn’t it past your bedtime,” the man said in an 
oily sweet voice with a hint of mockery.  “Everyone else is either out upon the 
wall or already retired.”

“Obviously not everyone,” Pippin responded dryly, pointedly staring at the man.

The advisor gave him a sickly grin that looked more like a grimace.  “I often 
walk the halls at night when I find that I cannot sleep,” he said innocently.

Pippin grunted, running his eyes over the man’s fully robed form.  “Perhaps in 
the future, you should try more comfortable bed clothes,” he answered boldly.

The advisor’s smile faltered, and his eyes narrowed.  “I am first advisor to the 
lord of this house,” he grated out through clenched teeth.  “I have every right 
to go where I please, when I please.  Who are you, small one, to question my 
actions?”

Anger flashed in Pippin’s eyes, but before he could answer the man, Dar spoke up 
from behind him.  “He is a Knight of Gondor!”

The man seemed startled at the boy’s outburst, and he glanced behind Pippin at 
Dar.  Then he began to laugh, great gusts of false mirth.  He looked back at 
Pippin, still roaring with laughter.  “You, a Knight of Gondor?” he gasped 
between wild chuckles.

Pippin looked back at him and said nothing, his face completely blank.

“Do you even know how to use that blade at your side, small one,” the man asked, 
finally controlling his laughter and looking down at Pippin with a malicious 
grin.  “I am afraid I will have to tell the king that I have found one of his 
brave knights hiding within the house while he boldly awaits to do battle with 
ghosts.”

Pippin narrowed his eyes, his fist clenching tightly around the hilt of his 
sword. He was angry at the man’s mocking tone and insults, but surprisingly he 
found that he was mostly disgusted. “Only a fool speaks of something he knows 
nothing of,” he said quietly, his voice filled with loathing. “I have no stomach 
to tolerate your foolishness, so you will leave now, or I will have this boy 
teach you a lesson in courtesy.”

The man stared at Pippin in shock, his face turning an ugly shade of red. “How 
dare you…” he spluttered, unable to finish his sentence.

Pippin merely grunted and took a threatening step toward the man, drawing his 
sword from his sheath.

The advisor eyed the blade warily, raising his hands slightly. “You will regret 
speaking to me thus,” he hissed, before turning and striding swiftly down the 
hall.

Pippin watched him go, somewhat shocked at his own actions. He turned to Dar, 
but before he could say anything to the boy, bells began to toll throughout the 
city, the sound loud even within the house.

Pippin lowered his blade, his face suddenly pale. He knew what the bells 
signified. Outside, the battle had begun.

******

Merton was lying comfortably in his large bed, sipping an expensive wine that he 
always kept near at hand.  He was completely relaxed, his open window letting in 
the cool evening breeze. He sank back into his soft pillows closing his eyes and 
sighing contentedly.

A few seconds later, he jerked upright, the sound of tolling bells filling his 
room. His wine cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, spilling the expensive 
liquid down the front of his silk bedclothes. He stared unseeingly at the red 
stain, his entire body frozen in shock. Just as Pippin had heard and understood 
the meaning behind the bells, Merton also knew what they signified. His body 
began to tremble, and he fearfully slipped from his bed to lie huddled on the 
ground.

Merton tried to call out to someone, afraid of being alone, but his voice was 
not working.  Whimpering in fear, he crouched beside his bed, too frightened to 
even close his window and shut out the dreadful noise of battle.

******

Legolas stood silent and still upon the wall, watching the hordes of orcs 
rushing toward the city.  Behind him, the bells of the city began their frantic 
toll, warning the people to remain indoors and hidden.  Legolas was aware of his 
companions standing beside him, but his attention was mostly on the approaching 
army of vile creatures.

There were hundreds of them, fierce and intent only upon the death and 
destruction of everything that stood in their path.  They charged toward the 
wall with siege towers, crude ladders, grappling hooks, and battering ram; 
anything that would help them gain access to the city.  The orc horns had fallen 
silent, replaced by foul war cries and the low rumble of thousands of feet 
rushing forward over the uneven ground.

Legolas’s keen eyes scanned their dark ranks in search of any sign of Malek, 
even as his hand went to his quiver and freed an arrow.  He notched the arrow to 
his bow, pulling back and releasing in one smooth motion, sending the dart on a 
deadly course toward an overzealous orc who had pushed a little too far ahead of 
his companions.  Even before his first shot had landed, Legolas had released yet 
another arrow, then another, his movements smooth and continuous, dealing death 
to all he aimed at.

The orcs soon came into range of the rest of the archers upon the wall, and 
Legolas’s arrows were joined by a hail of other shafts, felling one orc after 
another.  Yet still they came on, their howls chilling the blood.  The wall 
seemed to shudder slightly, as the first wave of orcs crashed into it.  Legolas 
and the other archers continued to rain arrows down on the attackers, focusing 
on the orcs carrying the large battering ram.  However, for every orc that fell, 
two more took its place and with a mighty crash, the large beam slammed into the 
wood of the gate.

Up on the wall, the defenders could feel the stone shudder, and Aragorn 
exchanged a worried glance with Gimli.  The gate had been reinforced with large 
beams of wood, but they both knew it couldn’t take too much more of the heavy 
abuse.  They were not given long to ponder this, for even as the ram continued 
to slam into the gate, other orcs began attempting to scale the wall using 
grappling hooks and ladders.

Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen joined the rest of the defenders in cutting down the 
hooks and pushing away ladders as Legolas continued to fire deadly arrows into 
the orcs at the gate.  He was swiftly running out of arrows, and he knew he 
would soon have to give up his bow for the sword at his side.  It was not his 
first choice of weapon, but his knives would not hold up against an orc 
scimitar.

Pulling the last two arrows from his quiver, Legolas took a step to his side and 
thrust the tips into the nearest fire pit.  The arrows immediately burst into 
flame, and without hesitation he shot them both at once into the large wooden 
ram beneath him.  He then grabbed the metal fire grill in both hands, ignoring 
his burning palms, and poured its contents after his arrows.  The orcs below him 
let out a howl, dropping the ram and jumping away from the fire raining down 
upon them.  They quickly regrouped, but Legolas’s plan had worked, and the great 
wooden trunk began to burn, the fire growing and spreading rapidly.  The orcs 
tried to beat out the flames, but the archers continued to rain arrows down on 
them, impeding their progress.

Legolas smiled grimly, swinging his bow onto his back and pulling his sword from 
its sheath.  He glanced about him then, taking in the extent of the battle.  
Despite the defenders best efforts, several orcs had managed to gain the upper 
wall and were fiercely doing battle.  A siege tower full of orcs had made it to 
the wall, with a second close behind it.  Orcs poured from the towers onto the 
wall, crashing into the line of defenders that raced to confront them.  Aragorn, 
Gimli, and Arwen were already caught up in the fighting, pressing the orcs back, 
their blades blackened by dark blood.

Legolas stepped forward, intending to join his friends, but a movement from the 
corner of his eye caught his attention.  He turned, just as an orc head appeared 
over the edge of the wall, sneaking up a ladder that had been missed by the busy 
soldiers.  Legolas swung around, kicking out fiercely, his boot landing between 
the ugly creature’s eyes.  The orc howled, toppling from the wall, and Legolas 
threw his weight against the crude ladder, pushing it back away from the wall.

He turned once more, glancing in the direction he had last seen his friends, but 
they were hidden from view by the battling forms of man and beast.  Several orcs 
had broken through the line of defenders, and at the sight of the elf standing 
before them, they let out a cry and raced forward.  Legolas lifted his sword and 
moved to meet them.

******

The fire of battle burned strong and true though Gimli’s veins as he hacked left 
and right with his axe.  Orcs shied away before his wrath, and those not swift 
enough quickly fell beneath his blade.  Yet more and more orcs were gaining the 
wall, and the defenders were caught up in the struggle around them.

Gimli yanked his axe free from the chest of an orc and was given a brief 
reprieve to catch his breath and glance around him for his companions.  Aragorn 
and Arwen fought side by side only a few paces away, and Gimli allowed himself a 
moment to watch their graceful movements.  The two seemed as perfect a pair in 
battle as anywhere else, their movements precise and complimentary to each 
other.  Aragorn ducked an orc scimitar just as Arwen swung her sword above him, 
taking off the unlucky creature’s head.

Gimli turned from watching them to search for Legolas.  He had not seen the elf 
in quite some time, and he worried that they had somehow allowed themselves to 
become separated.

An orc rushed toward him, and Gimli sloppily swung his axe, cutting through the 
creature’s armor and into flesh beneath.  He did not bother watching the orc 
fall, but continued running his eyes frantically through the melee in search of 
his friend.  “Legolas!” he shouted, but this merely managed to draw the orcs 
attention to him, and he was soon desperately fighting off several large brutes.

One of the creatures swung a blood soaked sword at the dwarf’s head.  Gimli 
easily ducked the blade, but he was not expecting the gauntleted fist that 
smashed into the side of his helm.  He stumbled back, barely managing to duck 
the second swing from the creature.  This move threw him off balance, and he 
fell to his knees, blindly throwing his axe up to protect against the blow he 
knew would be coming.

The orc howled in glee, believing he had managed to defeat the dwarf, but before 
he could land his final blow, a knife blossomed in his throat.  The creature 
barely had time to look surprised, dark blood flowing from the wound, before he 
toppled over backwards.

Gimli grunted, lowering his axe from over his head just as his friend appeared 
before him.  Legolas quickly dispatched another orc who had thought to take 
advantage of the fallen dwarf, then turned and looked down at him.  “Now is not 
the time to be laying around, my friend," Legolas said, his eyes twinkling 
mischievously.  "If you need, I shall fetch a basin of water to pour over your 
head and revive your senses."

Gimli glared up at him, saying nothing and holding out his hand.  Legolas 
clasped his arm and pulled him to his feet, his eyes turning serious as he 
looked Gimli up and down.  "Are you hurt?" he asked softly.

Gimli shook his head.  "Nay, and you?"

Legolas also shook his head, the mischievous light returning to his eyes.  He 
glanced about him at the battle still raging fiercely around them.  "You had 
better get busy, Gimli, if you wish to catch up to me."

Gimli gave Legolas a questioning look, so the elf explained himself.

"I slew many of the enemy before they reached the gate, and my number has grown 
in the last few minutes.  You will have to work hard indeed if you wish to match 
my number."

The light of understanding dawned in Gimli's eyes, and with it a look of 
challenge.  He slashed at an orc who drifted too close, threatening to interrupt 
their conversation, before he turned back to Legolas who was still looking at 
him expectantly.

"So," Gimli said lightly, "You wish to continue our little game?"

"Only if you feel up to the task," Legolas replied immediately, grinning wildly 
at Gimli.

Gimli snorted loudly, looking the elf up and down.  "You might want to stop 
talking and start fighting if you wish to sport a chance of winning against me!" 
he retorted boldly, returning the elf's crazy grin.

Legolas bowed to him dramatically, then spun, neatly swinging his sword to end 
the life of an orc who had been attempting to sneak up on him.  The elf did not 
hesitate, but scooped to retrieve his knife from the orcs throat and press 
forward into battle once more.


"Show off," Gimli grunted, charging into a knot of approaching orcs.

******

Aragorn glanced around him, sweat and blood soaking his tunic, his breath coming 
in hard gasps.  A pile of dead orcs lay before him, staining the stone of the 
wall with their dark blood.  He was aware of screams and shouts all about him, 
but at the moment, no orcs were near at hand.  Glancing around, he realized that 
most of the foul creatures had been driven from the wall, and those that had not 
been were slowly being overwhelmed by the city’s defenders.

Distant horns were blaring a retreat, and the remaining orcs still on the ground 
began a hasty withdrawal back towards the mountains.  Aragorn frowned.  He had 
seen no sign of Malek, and this fact slightly unsettled him.  He had expected 
the dark creature to make an appearance, and an odd sense of foreboding settled 
upon him.  This battle seemed to have ended just a little too easily.

He saw Gimli and Legolas only a couple of paces away, fighting side by side with 
several other soldiers against one of the few remaining groups of orcs still 
upon the wall.  They seemed to have the battle well in hand, and the number of 
orcs were quickly dwindling.

Shaking his head and trying to push away his feelings of unease, Aragorn turned 
to Arwen.   His eyes carefully scanned the elf princess up and down, searching 
for any sign of injury to her slight frame.

Feeling his intense gaze upon her, Arwen looked up and met his eyes.  She smiled 
and took a step toward him.  “I am fine, my love,” she said softly, reaching out 
and gently touching his arm.

Aragorn nodded, but did not stop his perusal.  Arwen’s light armor was stained 
with the blood of the orcs she had slain, her drawn blade covered in their gore. 
 Her hair, which she had placed in a tight braid before the battle began, was 
now coming loose, tendrils poking out everywhere.  Aragorn could not keep his 
eyes from her, wondering how she could look so disheveled and still so 
beautiful.

"The battle seems to have gone in our favor tonight," Arwen said cheerfully, 
squeezing his arm lightly to assure him that she was fine.

"Yes," Aragorn nodded.  "Perhaps a little too easily.  I hope that Gandalf, 
Faramir, and the hobbits fared as well as we did.  I do not like the fact that 
Malek has not shown himself, and I only hope that they did not run into the foul 
creature."

"They will be fine," Arwen assured him lightly.  "Now should we go and collect 
Legolas and Gimli?"

Aragorn nodded, taking her hand in his and making his way toward the dwarf and 
elf.  Even as they approached, Gimli dispatched the last of the orcs with a 
quick swing of his axe.

"Hah," the dwarf shouted triumphantly, stepping away from the falling orc.  
"Thirty-two!  Beat that, elf!"

Aragorn wondered for a second what Gimli was talking about, but Legolas's 
response to the dwarf's outburst answered his unspoken question.

"You will have to do better than that, master dwarf." Legolas responded gaily.  
"That," he pointed to an orc that lay near his feet, "was number thirty-seven."

Aragorn and Arwen reached the two, but neither seemed aware of their presence.  
Gimli glared at Legolas, shaking his head vehemently.  "Are you sure," he asked 
skeptically.

"I do not know about dwarfs," Legolas responded arrogantly, "but elves are 
taught how to count from an early age."

"And then they need thousands of years to perfect the skill," Gimli retorted.  
"I still think you made an error somewhere!"

Legolas opened his mouth to respond to this, but Arwen interrupted.  "If you two 
are arguing about the number of orcs you have slain, I am afraid I have beaten 
you both!  I felled at least forty of the ugly creatures."

Legolas and Gimli turned and stared at her, at last becoming aware of the 
presence of the others.  Legolas saw a familiar mischievous light in the elf 
princess's eyes, and he slowly shook his head.  Gimli muttered something else 
about the elve’s ability to count, and Arwen sent him a devilish grin.  Legolas 
was about to ask her if she was serious, but once more he was interrupted before 
he could say anything.

"I am not sure our battle is yet over," Aragorn said softly.  "Look!"  Three 
sets of eyes followed his pointing finger.

The orcs had retreated about two hundred yards before stopping and regrouping.  
Their black forms were nearly lost within the nighttime darkness, as they stood 
silent and still facing the city, appearing to be waiting for something.  Once 
more, Aragorn felt a shiver of foreboding run down his spine.

"What are they waiting for?" Gimli muttered.  "Surely they do not intend to 
attack once more."

"I do not know," Legolas began, "but..." The elf cut off abruptly, his body 
stiffening.  On the other side of Aragorn, Arwen let out a soft gasp of dismay.

Aragorn turned to them, only to find that both of their faces had turned a 
deathly white. Obviously, their far seeing eyes saw something that the others 
were yet unable to. Aragorn followed their gaze, trying vainly to peer into the 
darkness at the base of the Ered Nimrais.

“What is it?” Gimli asked Legolas softly, but the elf did not seem to hear him 
and did not answer.

Aragorn tensed, straining his eyes even more, believing he had seen movement 
within the dark shadows beneath the mountains. He stepped forward, gripping the 
edge of the wall and leaning as far forward as he could without fear of falling. 
He was now certain that he had seen movement, and a lot of it. The darkness 
seemed to be shifting and swirling, as if alive, and he could not help the 
shudder that ran down his spine.

The defenders upon the wall watched in horror as the nighttime shadows 
transformed into thousands of orcs, moving quickly and quietly towards the city. 
They were too numerous to even begin to count, pouring from the mountain like 
ants from an anthill and joining the small force already upon the battlefield. 
They did not shout or blow horns as the previous group had, yet somehow their 
silence was even more ominous. They formed rank after rank upon the field before 
the city, the flickering light from the fires upon the wall reflected dully off 
their armor and drawn weapons.

“So many!” Gimli whispered hoarsely, his voice seeming loud in the shocked 
silence that covered the wall.

Aragorn did not answer, his heart sinking lower with each line of orcs that 
formed upon the field. He tore his gaze from the horrendous sight, looking about 
him at the defenders lining the walls. Their faces showed their shocked 
disbelief and fear, doubt heavy in their eyes. They began to shift restlessly, 
many crying out in hopeless despair.

“How will we fight them?” a soldier standing nearby suddenly cried out. “We will 
be overcome for sure, for they are too many.”

Aragorn looked at the frightened man’s face and then firmly shook his head. “We 
WILL fight them,” he said loudly, his firm voice carrying to many of the 
soldiers nearby. “And we will endure,” he continued. “Hold fast to your courage, 
men of Gondor! Remember the innocent women and children you protect. We must not 
allow the enemy to pass!”

Aragorn’s words seemed to have a calming effect upon all that heard him, but 
fear and doubt still hung heavy in the air, almost tangible in its intensity.

Aragorn looked out once more at the ranks of orcs, trying to guess at their 
number while also trying desperately to think of a way to protect the city 
against them. The defenders were well outnumbered, and Aragorn doubted that the 
advantage afforded by the city wall would have much affect on the final outcome.

“Where did they all come from?” Legolas asked softly from behind him, his voice 
steady despite his still pale features.

Aragorn shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered just as quietly. “I did not 
think so many of their foul kind had survived the war with Sauron. I fear we 
have made the terrible mistake of underestimating Malek,” he finished, his voice 
a mere whisper.

The orcs seemed to have all arrived at last, but they merely stood before the 
city, an unnatural silence hanging heavy in the air as the soldiers tensed for 
what they knew would come next.

Suddenly, Legolas grasped Aragorn's arm, pointing towards the ranks of orcs. 
“Look!” he said, his voice low and strained.

Aragorn followed his friend’s outstretched arm, his eyes sweeping up and down 
the ranks of orcs in search of what had caught Legolas’s attention. It did not 
take him long to find it, and he felt his body stiffening once more. “Malek,” he 
whispered, the single word sounding like a curse.

A black shadow, seemingly darker than the night itself, hovered a short distance 
before the orc army, an intense feeling of malice and hatred radiating from it 
in waves. Even the orcs seemed loath to approach too near the shadow, and gave 
it a wide berth.

Aragorn shook his head. “I can not see through the darkness that surrounds him,” 
he admitted quietly.

Legolas nodded. “He wears the night like a cloak, and even my eyes cannot 
penetrate to what lies beneath.”

“What is he waiting for,” Gimli spoke up from beside them, his eyes also 
perusing the darkness that was Malek.

Aragorn continued to watch the orc army closely, and several long minutes passed 
before he answered the dwarf.

“He is toying with us,” he finally replied, his voice angry and bitter. “He can 
sense our fear and uncertainty, and he is playing with us!”

Legolas and Gimli had to agree, and their anger ignited as several more minutes 
of intense silence followed, the orc army merely standing and staring at the 
city. Aragorn found himself shifting as restlessly as his men, anxious for 
something to happen and yet dreading it at the same time.

Aragorn was unsure of how much time had passed since the orcs had first 
appeared, but each moment of inactivity seemed like hours. He wondered briefly 
if Malek intended on defeating the city by merely staring at it. It did not seem 
so impossible now, for with each passing second, the soldiers were losing 
courage.

The defenders all jumped as a single horn blast broke the silence of the night. 
Everyone tensed, and weapons were raised in preparation for the attack.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli also raised their weapons, but a second later 
lowered them in surprise.

“They are leaving,” Gimli said quietly, his voice filled with surprise and 
disbelief.

It was true, the orc army was breaking up, melting back into the shadows from 
whence they came, filing away as silently and quickly as they had come.

“It is nearing dawn,” Legolas replied simply.

“They are not going to attack,” Gimli murmured, his voice half statement, half 
question. “What kind of game is Malek playing?”

“A very dangerous game,” Aragorn replied softly, running his gaze over the 
retreating army. “And one in which he has struck us a hard blow.”

Legolas could only nod in agreement. Malek’s last action had been a calculated 
blow, attacking the courage of the defenders instead of their strength. All 
along the wall, the result of this attack could be plainly seen. Men stood ashen 
faced, weapons hanging limply from numb hands, faces showing shocked disbelief 
that they had been allowed to live yet another day. Several of the soldiers had 
even fallen to their knees, and the sound of weeping filled the air.

Legolas met Aragorn’s eye, seeing his own weariness mirrored in the man’s 
haggard face.

The sky opened up once more, pouring down rain without warning to mingle freely 
with the blood and tears of the defenders of Calembel.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Well, here it is!  My very first battle scene ever!  Pleasssse drop a note on 
what you thought of it.  If you don't want to send a review, you can always 
email me at the address on my bio sheet.

For those of you wanting to know what exactly it is that Merton said to Aragorn, 
I will just say that I left that open for interpretation on purpose.  Use your 
imagination and I am sure you will come up with something.  If enough people 
REALLY want me to write it out, then I guess I will, but until then, you will 
just have to guess.



Chapter 15   Plans and Preparations


Dawn, gray and cold, was just beginning to lighten the skies above Calembel.  
The high dark storm clouds choked off most of the light of the rising sun and 
the rain continued to fall in steady sheets.  Far to the west, however, the 
clouds thinned and eventually faded, promising that this day would ultimately be 
dryer and brighter than the previous.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had joined with Gandalf, Faramir, and the hobbits, 
and the small company now stood huddled together up on the wall, viewing the 
damage of the evening’s attack.  The small company had managed to escape the 
night, for the most part, unscathed.  Arwen had already left, intending to join 
the healers of the city in tending to the wounded defenders.  

“I do not like this,” Aragorn said softly, gazing in the direction in which the 
large orc army had just disappeared moments before.  “If I had but known that 
Malek had managed to gather so many orcs to himself, I never would have 
separated the army and continued on without the main force.” Aragorn shook his 
head, and it was obvious that he was placing the blame upon himself.

Gimli looked at him and sighed tiredly.  “You did not know,” he said in support. 
 “None of us knew.”

“Yet I should have been prepared nonetheless,” Aragorn responded.  “It was 
foolish of me to assume anything when dealing with this creature.”

“What is done, is done,” Gandalf broke in.  “Fretting upon the mistakes of the 
past will not help the future.  We must dwell now upon what must be done to 
prepare for the next attack.  I do not expect the rest of the army to reach us 
for another day yet, which means we must fight at least one more battle without 
their aide.”

“There is much to do,” Aragorn agreed, looking up and down the wall.  “If Malek 
had attacked last night, we surely would have fallen, for we were unprepared.  
As it is, he only intended on scaring us.  We must take the reprieve he 
foolishly gave us and use it wisely.”

“If his only intentions were to scare us,” Frodo said quietly, repressing a 
shudder, “he most certainly succeeded.”  Beside him, Merry and Sam both nodded, 
their faces still trying to regain some color.

Aragorn smiled down at them gently.  “This is true, yet the day will bring new 
courage to all.  We shall stand ready when night falls upon us once more, and we 
shall endure, even if Malek sets all the orcs of Middle Earth to the task of 
defeating us.”

“I think we saw all the orcs of Middle Earth last night,” Sam pointed out 
gloomily.

“What do we do in the meantime?” Merry asked.  “How do we prepare to fight such 
a large group of orcs?”

“There is much we can do, my small friend,” Faramir answered.  “Traps can be 
set, defenses made, and strategies determined.  Malek shall find that he made a 
mistake in not defeating us when he had the chance, for the next time he 
attacks, he shall not find us so completely defenseless.”  Faramir paused, and 
there was a strange light in his eyes.  “My father always told me that when you 
are outnumbered, you must find a way to outsmart your enemies.”

“Your father was a wise man,” Aragorn responded, “And indeed, we must find a way 
to outsmart Malek at his own game.”

“I have a suggestion,” Legolas spoke up for the first time.  All eyes turned to 
him and he smiled grimly.  “I am speaking of a tactic that is used often in my 
home when driving away large bands of wargs or spiders.”

“What is this tactic?” Aragorn asked.

“Instead of waiting for the orcs to attack the wall and trying to push them back 
here, I suggest that we build defense lines before the city and meet the enemy 
on the field.  This way, we have more than one position to fall back to, and we 
may slow them enough to protect the city.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I was thinking of this strategy myself,” he admitted, “and I 
think it is a good idea.”

“Then I will get started on it right away,” Farmir stated, stretching sore 
muscles.  “We cannot afford to waste a single minute.”

Aragorn smiled at him, “ You may begin to see to this, but I also expect you to 
find a couple of hours to rest this day and regain your strength for tonight.”

Farmir nodded at this, knowing the importance of facing a battle, especially one 
in which you are outnumbered, rested and prepared.  He turned to leave, but 
Aragorn called out to him once more.

“I also need you to send a messenger to the main army bidding them to hasten 
with all speed to the city.  They must not waste any time in coming to our 
aide.”

Once more, Faramir nodded, then turned and quickly strode from the wall, calling 
men to him as he went.  

Aragorn watched him go, his thoughts distant until he heard a hesitant voice 
call out quietly to him.  He turned and found Kenson Brantz standing 
uncomfortably a few feet away.  The man's armor was stained with blood, and a 
small stream of red worked its way down his face from a cut above his left eye, 
contrasting sharply to his pale features.  He looked awkward and self-conscious, 
so Aragorn smiled lightly at him, trying to put the man at ease. 

"Kenson Brantz," he said quietly, nodding his head at the man.  "Your help was 
greatly appreciated both before the attack and during and if there is anything 
that I can do to repay you, just ask." 

"You are very gracious, my lord," Kenson replied, bowing low.  "However, it is 
not with hope of repayment that I come to you, but more with hope of survival." 

Aragorn arched a questioning eyebrow and Kenson continued. 

"I can see that our enemy greatly outnumbers us, and I would ask permission to 
ride from the city to the trading ba