Hostage of Hate  (Chapters 25-33)
Littlefish

Chapter 25    Simple Tasks

“Welcome to the Sleeping Dragon, sirs.  I’ll be happy to take your horses for 
you.”

Aragorn and Gimli had barely come to a halt in front of the inn before they were 
greeted by a young boy around the age of twelve.  The lad was dressed in the 
uniform of a stable boy, with a long, thick overcoat, and sturdy, knee high 
boots.  A small patch bearing the same picture as the one on the sign above the 
inn’s door was sown into his tunic directly above his left breast.  His smile of 
welcome seemed genuine, if a bit guarded as he moved forward to hold their 
horses as they dismounted.

Aragorn shook his head.  “We thank you for your welcome, lad, but we will take 
care of our own mounts.  These horses can be somewhat temperamental at times.”

Gimli snorted softly at that statement, but Aragorn ignored him.

“Of course, sir, whatever you want,” the boy replied nonchalantly, shrugging his 
shoulders.  He was looking at Gimli curiously, and trying to peer beneath the 
dwarf’s heavy cloak.  “If you follow me to the back, I’ll show you to the 
stables.”

Aragorn nodded for the lad to lead the way, thankful when the boy turned his 
attention away from Gimli.  He spared a quick glance behind him as he followed 
their guide to a narrow path leading to the back of the inn.  The man who had 
been following them was still there, leaning against the front of the building 
across the street and openly watching them.  Aragorn felt somewhat relieved when 
they rounded the corner and were no longer in the man’s sight.

The stable was a long, one story building filled with the familiar scents of 
straw and manure, combined with the strong smell of leather from the tack.  It 
appeared neat and orderly, with rows of stalls lining both sides of a wide 
alley.  Several other horses were already in residence here, and the echoing 
sound of hooves striking against wood and soft nickering filled the air.

The boy, who at last revealed his name to be Kyan, led them to two adjacent 
stalls near the center of the long building, then stood back and watched as they 
worked at unsaddling their horses and rubbing them down.  Shandarell was feeling 
playful and was giving Gimli some trouble, but the stout dwarf had grown 
accustomed to dealing with the high-strung horse and handled him well.

“You’re here for the pit fights, aren’t you?”  Kyan, who had been silently 
watching them work at last spoke up.  “We get all kinds of foreigners here to 
see the fights.  My father says that is the reason Norvil is here in the first 
place.”

Aragorn had heard about the popularity pit fights in Khand, though he saw not 
the thrill.  It was siad two fighters entered a small pit cut into the ground 
and pounded each other until one was knocked senseless and the other was 
declared winner.  Crowds would gather around the outside of the pit to watch the 
fight and bet on their champion.  Aragorn thought the whole idea was rather 
pointless and foolish, but he did not believe it wise to state that fact at the 
moment.

“Have you ever seen a pit fight?” he asked instead, hoping to divert Kyan’s 
attention away from them.

The lad’s eyes brightened.  “My mother won’t let me out after dark, but my 
father once snuck me and my older brother out to one.  I was younger then, and 
there was a lot of blood, but I didn’t get sick at all.  My father was worried I 
would, and he was real proud of me when I didn’t.  He promised to take me again 
sometime.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding, trying not to show the disgust he felt at the 
boy’s obvious eagerness to see more violence.  “Are there fights every night?” 
he asked.

Kyan shook his head.  “Not every night, but almost!”  He continued to talk 
animatedly about the pit fights while Aragorn and Gimli finished tending 
Shandarell and Cierno.  Both horses were soon comfortably settled and 
contentedly munching on a bundle of hay.

“The nights around here sound pretty rough,” Aragorn commented lightly as Kyan 
led the way back up the stalls toward the doors.

The young boy nodded vigorously.  “All the action around here takes place at 
night.  I can always hear shouting and screaming from my room.  It’s worse on 
the nights with no pit fights,” he added.  “Then, it gets really bad, because no 
one has anything to do.”

“Why don’t they try sleeping,” Gimli mumbled sarcastically, his voice soft 
enough that only Aragorn heard him.

“You needn’t worry about safety while at the Sleeping Dragon,” Kyan continued.  
“The stable doors are barred each evening at sundown, so no one can get in and 
steal the horses.  It has been almost ten years since a horse was stolen from 
these stables!  The inn is just as safe.  The owner is married to The Serpent’s 
niece, so no one dares mess with any guests here for fear of inciting his 
wrath.”

“The Serpent?” Aragorn asked, confused.

“That is the name of the Guildmaster who rules this section of the city,” Kyan 
patiently explained.  “Everyone knows this inn is under his protection, so they 
pretty much leave it alone.  It’s probably the safest place to stay in all of 
the city, and the pits aren’t too far away from here, either.  You chose a good 
place to stay, sir.”

Aragorn smiled.  “It seems I have.  Tell me, does The Serpent get along well 
with any of the other Guildmasters?”

Kyan appeared thoughtful as he considered his answer.  “He likes Corin, the 
Guildmaster to our North, but rumor says they are somehow related.  Other than 
that, I wouldn’t say any of the Guildmasters get along with any of the others.  
They tolerate one another just so long as they stay out of each others way.”

By this time they had reached the back entrance to the inn.  Kyan left them to 
return to his chores, and Aragorn and Gimli entered the Sleeping Dragon.  They 
found themselves in the inn’s kitchen, where a pretty young woman wearing an 
apron greeted them and then led them to the innkeeper.  Gimli hung back while 
Aragorn spoke with the fat little man.  The innkeeper was brisk and efficient, 
and in no time at all Aragorn had acquired a room.  The young woman reappeared 
then and quickly led them up a wide set of stairs and down a long hall to their 
room.  After making sure they required no more assistance, she turned and left 
them to return to her duties.

Aragorn opened the door to the room and entered, taking a quick glance around.  
Two comfortable looking beds took up the majority of the space in the room, but 
there were also two large trunks against the far wall and a washstand with a 
mirror near the door.  He tossed his saddlebags on one of the beds, then hurried 
over to the window looking down onto the street below.  “We have more company,” 
he informed Gimli softly.

The dwarf grunted, then after tossing his own bags on the bed joined Aragorn at 
the window, peering over the ledge.

Two others had joined the man who had followed them, and they now stood 
conversing in a small gathering across the street.  Two more men stood further 
down the street on either side of the group, their gazes fixed on the Sleeping 
Dragon.

“I’ll wager they have this place completely surrounded,” Gimli muttered.  “Do 
you suppose they are planning on attacking us?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “If they attack us here, they risk angering this 
Serpent fellow.  I cannot be certain, but I do not think Servius will wish to 
involve another Guildmaster in his plot against me.  He will have to use 
caution, and that will work to our advantage.”

Gimli sighed.  “I suppose you will now tell me that we must sit and wait for our 
enemies to come to us.”

Aragorn smiled at the dwarf.  “You know what they say about patience, Gimli,” he 
replied lightly.

“No, I don’t.” Gimli snapped.  “I don’t want to know, either,” he added, when 
Aragorn opened his mouth.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

Aragorn nodded.  “We will go downstairs to the common room.  My guess is it will 
not take Servius long to contact us.”

The two left the room and hurried downstairs.  They found the common room all 
but deserted, with only one other guest, an old man who spared them barely a 
glance before returning to his mug of ale.  The pretty young woman who had shown 
them to their room was using a cloth to wash the tops of the tables.  She smiled 
at them when they entered, then after they had chosen a table off in the corner 
of the room, she hurried over to ask if they would like to order anything to eat 
or drink.  Aragorn declined, and after letting out a regretful sigh, Gimli did 
as well.  Then, the waiting began.

They did not have long to wait.  Barely a quarter of an hour had passed before 
the front door of the inn swung open and a tall man with a dark mustache strode 
into the room.  He glanced around the common room, caught sight of Aragorn and 
Gimli, and immediately strode over to their table.  Without asking permission, 
he seated himself in a chair opposite them and leveled the two companions with a 
stern look, as if they were two naughty children about to be taught the error of 
their way.  “You’re late,” was all he said by way of greeting, then sat back in 
his chair and waited for their reply.

Aragorn stared at the man and tried to suppress his rising anger. He did not 
answer the man’s statement, but remained quiet as he calmly studied him.  His 
silence seemed to unnerve the visitor, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat 
and seemed to lose some of his bluster.

“My master would know why you are late,” he finally prompted, obviously unable 
to stand the silence any longer.

Aragorn didn’t bother answering, but instead phrased a question of his own.  
“Who is your master, and what does he want with me?” he demanded coldly.

The visitor shook his head, frowning with annoyance.  Aragorn expected him to 
press them again for an answer as to why they were late, but the man merely 
said, “My master will reveal himself in time, but first you must prove yourself 
worthy.”

“Worthy of what?” Gimli demanded impatiently, the anger in his voice obvious.

The man spared the dwarf a quick glance before returning his attention to 
Aragorn.  “Worthy of the elf’s life, of course,” he replied simply.

Gimli let out a low growl of fury and began to rise, but Aragorn quickly reached 
out and placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, forcing him back down into his 
seat.  He never took his gaze from the man in front of him, however, and his 
voice was low and hard as he demanded, “And how am I to prove myself worthy?”

Servius’ messenger was obviously beginning to feel slightly nervous at the 
dangerous undercurrent he detected in Aragorn’s voice, for he began to shift 
restlessly on his seat and he could not hold Aragorn’s gaze.  He cleared his 
throat, then began reciting the message he had been sent to deliver.

“My master is not interested in your companion, only in you.” he began.  “But 
first, he wishes you to prove yourself worthy of his attention.  You will do so 
by accomplishing a few simple tasks he has planned for you.  If you succeed in 
each of these tasks, your friend will be set free and my master will reveal 
himself to you.  However, if you should fail, your friend will be killed 
immediately.  He will also be killed if you refuse any of the tasks, and his 
death will not be painless.  I have come to reveal to you what your first task 
shall be.”

Aragorn did not allow him to continue, but instead raised his hand sharply in 
the air, halting the man’s explanation before it even began.  “You have 
delivered your message,” he said in a voice as hard as steel.  “Now, I have a 
message for you to take back to your master.  Tell him that I demand to see 
Legolas, and only after I know that my friend still lives will I even consider 
playing his foolish games.  Now go!”  

Arwen had once told Aragorn that when he was angry, his glare was fierce enough 
to sheer the wool off a sheep. At fifty paces.  Aragorn wasn’t angry now, he was 
furious, and the full heat of his rage was leveled at the tall man sitting 
across from him.  The man didn’t even attempt to argue with him.  He leapt from 
his chair and all but fled from the room.

Several moments of silence passed then, as Aragorn struggled to regain control 
of his raging emotions.  Hearing the man so casually threatening to kill Legolas 
had angered him beyond measure,  mostly because it had also frightened him.  He 
knew Servius would have little trouble carrying out his threats, and there was 
nothing Aragorn could do to stop him.

It was Gimli who finally broke the silence.  “Aragorn, if it is your wish to 
completely crush my shoulder, then I will admit that you are well on your way to 
succeeding.”

Aragorn looked at his friend in surprise, then realized that he had never 
released Gimli after forcing the dwarf back into his chair.  The grip he now had 
on the dwarf’s shoulder would have likely crushed a frail man, but as it was 
Gimli’s face only showed slight discomfort.

Aragorn immediately released him and mumbled a quick apology.  Gimli nodded in 
acceptance, rotated his shoulder a couple of times to work out the ache, then 
quietly grumbled, “I would ask you what we do now, but I know you will merely 
tell me that we must wait.”

Aragorn smiled slightly, but did not answer.  Several more minutes of silence 
passed before Gimli at last gave in.

“So what do we do now?” the dwarf demanded.

Aragorn was careful to hide his smile.  Gimli sounded as if he wanted to break 
something, and Aragorn’s arm was resting much too close to the dwarf’s meaty 
fists for comfort.  “We eat,” he answered simply.  

Gimli actually smiled, but a second later, Aragorn completely destroyed the 
dwarf’s budding good humor.

“And then we wait.”

*****

He was almost free.

Legolas gave a final jerk and his left wrist, made slick with blood and sweat, 
slipped free of its bindings.  His right wrist was loose only a few moments 
later, leaving the blood stained ropes dangling uselessly from the iron posts of 
the bed.  His hands felt swollen and numb, and his wrists ached fiercely, but 
Legolas ignored the pain as he quickly sat up in the bed and reached for the 
bindings on his ankles.

He immediately regretted his hasty action as a wave of nausea and dizziness 
washed over him, leaving him gasping for air.  He slowly sank back down and 
closed his eyes, fighting the bile rising in his throat.  Even with his eyes 
closed, he couldn’t completely rid himself of the sensation that the room was 
spinning around in circles.  Legolas knew he was close to losing consciousness, 
and he struggled against the shadows claiming his mind.  He knew what nightmares 
awaited him in the darkness, and the terror of that far outweighed any physical 
complaints of his body.

Long minutes passed before he thought it safe to open his eyes.  After taking a 
deep, steadying breath, he once more attempted to push himself into a sitting 
position.  This time he was successful, and with a sigh of relief, he reached 
for the ropes binding his legs to the bed.

He had no memory of being moved from his cage in the cellar to his current room, 
no idea of how much time had passed as he had lain deathly ill, drifting on the 
brink of consciousness as the fever raged through his body.  All he knew was 
that several days had passed, and Aragorn would soon be arriving in Norvil.  He 
was swiftly running out of time.

Legolas steadily worked at the knots securing his legs, cursing the trembling in 
his limbs that made the task difficult.  He was unaccustomed to such feelings of 
weakness and physical illness, for as an elf he had never had to worry about the 
sicknesses and diseases that plagued other races.  He wasn’t exactly certain 
what had caused his illness, but he had a deep suspicion that it had something 
to do with the drug Svellon.  He could think of no other explanation to account 
for his present condition.  He was recovering, but it seemed to him far too 
slowly.

Yet even worse than the physical damage done to him was the darkness awakened 
within his spirit. Legolas had fought against this darkness before, and he had 
believed it defeated.  Now, however, he knew he had never completely been rid of 
it.  It was a stain upon the light of his spirit, a blemish put there by the 
evil creature Malek, and like the scars that would never completely fade from 
his chest, the darkness in his soul remained.  He had managed to push it away 
once, with the help of his friends and family, and yet the darkness had only 
needed a single moment of fear and weakness to once again take control.  And 
this time Legoals was alone.

But he was stronger than he had been before.  He had managed to defeat the 
darkness once, and he was determined to do so again, even if he had to do it on 
his own.  And he would not merely push it away, as he had previously done, but 
this time he would destroy it.  Never again would he allow the shadow and 
despair to have control over him.  What had been done to him was in the past, 
and had nothing to do with his future.  Now, Aragorn was all that mattered.  
Fear for his friend afforded Legolas all the strength he needed to do what had 
to be done.

His legs were free.  Carefully, but as swiftly and quietly as he could, Legolas 
rolled to the edge of the bed and pushed himself to his feet.  Once again he had 
to fight off a wave of dizziness, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as before.  He 
noticed with annoyance that his legs were trembling.  He felt as weak as a 
newborn, and had to suppress an overwhelming urge to sink back to the bed and 
sleep for a week.  Instead, he moved to the boarded up window and peered through 
a small crack in the wood.  Just as he had expected, long iron bars had been 
fastened to the outside of the window, blocking this particular escape route.  
He cursed, then reminded himself that in his weakened condition it was unlikely 
he would have been able to pry the boards loose anyway, and even more unlikely 
that he would have been able to do so without attracting the attention of the 
men surely standing guard outside his door.  He would simply have to find 
another way to free himself.

He knew the door to his room was securely locked from outside, and he had no 
idea how many men stood guard in the corridor beyond.  Yet perhaps if he made 
enough noise, the men would unlock the door and come inside to investigate.  He 
had no weapons, and there was nothing in the room he could use as one, but he 
would have the element of surprise on his side.  He would overpower them, and 
then….

His planning was suddenly cut short when he heard the latch on the door click.  
He had no time to react before the door suddenly swung open and Merton, followed 
by at least half a dozen guards, strode into the room.  The ex-mayor of Calembel 
skidded to a surprised halt when he saw Legolas standing unbound only a few feet 
in front of him.  He opened his mouth to let out a shout of alarm, but Legolas 
did not give him time.  Leaping forward, he slammed his fist into the other 
man’s nose with all the strength he could muster.   The blow was made awkward by 
the fact that Merton was already trying to back away from him, but it still was 
enough to send the man crashing backward into several of his men.

Legolas didn’t take time to celebrate the small victory.  Instincts honed from 
years as a warrior immediately took over, and he leapt forward without 
hesitation, straight into the middle of the group of guards.  He knew his only 
chance lay in reaching the door and hallway beyond before more men came running 
in answer to the guards’ shouts of alarm.

Three guards came at him at once, but Legolas refused to back away.  He ducked 
the first guard’s blow, then delivered his own punch to the man’s midsection 
before spinning around and kicking the legs out from beneath the second guard.  
The third man had just managed to pull his dagger from its sheath when Legolas 
kicked it from his grasp, sending the weapon flying away across the room.  The 
man responded by leaping at Legolas with arms outstretched in an attempt to 
force him to the ground.  His forward momentum was brought up short, however, as 
Legolas landed two fierce punches to his throat.

More guards rushed forward, replacing the first three, and Legolas faced them 
without fear but with a hint of worry.  His strength, afforded him by 
desperation, was quickly failing as his days of illness began to take their 
toll.  His movements were not as quick as normal, his blows weaker, and he knew 
if this fight lasted any length of time he would surely lose.  He had to reach 
the door and then make a run for it.  It was his only chance.

This proved to be somewhat difficult, however, as the guards seemed just as 
intent to keep him from his goal.  They were awkward in their attacks on him 
though, partially because he refused to stay put.  He was constantly moving, and 
in the small confines of the room the guards simply couldn’t keep up.  They 
found themselves merely getting into each other’s way as they struggled to reach 
him.

Legolas kept up a constant wary dance, darting in to land a quick blow on one of 
his opponents and then just as quickly slipping away.  He was watchful for any 
chance he might get to slip past the guards to the door, and at last his 
patience was rewarded.  Two men leapt for him at the same moment and their feet 
became tangled, sending them both crashing to the floor long before they ever 
reached him.  Legolas didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the hole in the line 
of guards trying to corner him.  Leaping onto the fallen men’s backs, he sprang 
forward, the open door standing only a few feet in front of him.

The way was open, and Legolas sprinted forward, using every ounce of strength 
remaining within him to force speed into his shaky legs.  He had just reached 
the door when a figure suddenly appeared from the hallway and blocked his path. 
 Legolas did not slow his pace, but attempted to use his momentum to barrel 
through the form blocking the doorway.  He threw a wild punch to help clear his 
advance, but this turned out to be his undoing.

With lightning swiftness, the figure blocking his path dodged his blow, then 
reached out and seized his wrist.  A second later, Legolas felt his arm being 
twisted around behind him.  His own momentum worked against him then, and he 
went crashing to his knees as sharp pain shot up his arm.  His arm was released 
then, but before he could rise to his feet the cold metal of a knife was pressed 
against his throat, and a low voice warned him to remain still.

Legolas slowly looked up into the calm gaze of the assassin.  Tervanis glanced 
inside the room and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he 
viewed the chaos Legolas had left behind him.  “Nice,” he murmured softly, 
before motioning Legolas to slowly rise to his feet.  The blade never left his 
throat as he complied.

Merton came thundering out into the hall then, blood pouring from his nose, his 
face a mask of rage.  “Bind him!” he screamed.

Legolas sighed as two guards stumbled from the room to do their master’s bidding 
and his abused wrists were once again firmly secured behind his back.

Merton was in such an obvious rage, Legolas suspected the man would strike him, 
or at least find some way of punishing him for his escape attempt.  He was 
surprised, however, when the man simply turned down the hall and ordered the 
guards to follow him with the prisoner.  Legolas was immediately afraid that 
they meant to return him to the cage in the cellar, and he had to force down his 
rising panic at the thought.

Tervanis, walking beside him in the center of a ring of guards, leaned close to 
him and murmured.  “Your friend has arrived. Now the fun begins.”

Legolas felt his stomach sink with dread as he was dragged along.  He doubted 
very much that what was coming would be any fun at all.

****

The sun had already set by the time Servius’ sent a messenger to fetch Gimli and 
Aragorn from the Sleeping Dragon.  This messenger was not the same one who had 
come earlier, but an older man with thick white hair.  He strode into the common 
room of the inn, walked over to the table where Aragorn and Gimli sat waiting, 
and ordered the pair to follow him.

“Follow you where?” Aragorn demanded.

“To your first task,” the man answered simply before turning to leave.

“I have already made it known that I will do nothing until I have seen Legolas 
alive,” Aragorn calmly announced, not even bothering to rise from his chair.

“Your friend will be there,” the white haired man called back over his shoulder. 
 “You may refuse to follow me, of course, but I assure you that if you do, the 
elf will be dead before the end of the hour.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, then exchanged a quick glance with Gimli before rising to 
his feet.  He had told the dwarf before that they were playing this game by 
Servius’ rules.  He would not do anything that would risk Legolas’ life as long 
as he had a choice.  If Servius wanted him to accomplish several tasks in order 
to prove himself, then Aragorn would do so.  He could only hope that the 
Guildmaster would then keep his word and set Legolas free.  Yet somehow he 
doubted it would be that easy.

Gimli and Aragorn followed the white haired messenger out of the inn and then 
through a maze of darkening streets and alleyways.  They passed several 
different groups of rough looking men, but surprisingly they were not disturbed. 
 Ahead of them, they could hear a loud frenzy of shouts and screams, and as they 
drew closer Aragorn realized exactly where they were headed.

“The pit fights,” he whispered softly to Gimli.  “That is where he is taking 
us.”

Gimli nodded his understanding, but did not reply.

A moment later, they entered a large courtyard surrounded on all sides by tall 
buildings.  The courtyard was swiftly filling with people, and the din in the 
air was deafening.  Near the center of the courtyard, a large hole had been dug. 
 Four lanterns hanging from posts at each end of the hole provided light for the 
area.  The ground leading down to the pit was steeply sloped so that those 
standing farther back in the crowd could still see what was happening.  Already 
two fighters were engaged in battle within the pit, the crowd screaming 
encouragement from the sides.

The white haired man led them forward through the crowd to the very edge of the 
pit, then motioned across the wide hole to a set of stands that had obviously 
been erected for the more wealthy and influential members of the city.  The 
stands were only half full and Aragorn had no trouble at all spotting Legolas 
standing near the back.  Several guards surrounded the elf, and a slim man 
dressed all in black stood directly beside him.

Aragorn was flooded with intense relief at the sight of his friend.  Legolas’ 
hands were bound behind his back, and his shoulders had an unusual weary slump 
to them, but at least he was alive.  His friend was looking directly at him, and 
Aragorn smiled to assure the elf that everything would be fine.  Legolas offered 
a weak smile in return, but it was obvious that he was worried.

“He looks ill, Aragorn,” Gimli announced from beside him, his voice raised to a 
shout to be heard over the cries of the crowd.  The dwarf’s face was creased in 
a frown of concern, and his hand was stroking the haft of his axe.  He looked as 
if he was considering charging around the pit to his friend’s aid.  Aragorn 
could understand the dwarf’s reaction, for he felt the same way.  

A loud roar erupted from the crowd, and Aragorn glanced down into the pit to 
find that one of the fighters had been knocked to the ground.  It was obvious he 
was unconscious, but his assailant continued to kick at his prone body, much to 
the delight of the crowd. Two men hurried down a set of stairs at the far end of 
the pit and began dragging the unconscious man away as the winner began to 
stride around the pit waving his arms in the air.  The screams from the crowd 
became almost unbearable.

The white haired man grabbed Aragorn’s arm, gaining his attention, then pointed 
to the side of the pit where a large man with scars covering his face stood 
leering at them.  Although he had never seen the man before, Aragorn immediately 
recognized him from Dar’s description.  A wave of white-hot rage washed over 
him, blurring his vision of the man who had beaten Arwen and killed their unborn 
child.  A low growl, much like that of an injured animal sounded from the back 
of his throat, and his hands balled into fists at his side.

The scar-faced man grinned mockingly at him, then turned and moved down the 
steps leading into the pit, stripping off his shirt on the way.  The crowd 
screamed their welcome as the previous winner exited and Kiesco began strutting 
around the pit, his gaze never leaving Aragorn as he waved his muscled arms in 
the air.

“Your task,” the white haired man yelled into Aragorn’s ear before pointing down 
into the pit.

Aragorn’s eyes widened in surprise.  He knew what the man was telling him, and 
though he was startled, he was also more than a little eager.  He knew there was 
nothing more he would like to do than pound senseless the man who had dared hurt 
his family.

“Aragorn is to fight?” Gimli demanded of their messenger.  “That is his task?”

The white haired man simply nodded.

Gimli’s face suddenly broke out into a wide grin as he looked up at Aragorn.  
“That fool down there doesn’t stand a chance,” he boasted loudly.  “Aragorn, you 
should have no problem winning this fight.”

Aragorn smiled at his friend’s confidence in him.  He was angry enough at the 
moment to agree with the dwarf.  He took a step toward the stairs leading down 
into the pit, but the white haired man stopped him by grabbing his arm and 
shaking his head.

“Your task…, “the man began, but Gimli cut him off.

“You said his task is to fight, now why can’t we get on with it!”

The messenger continued to shake his head, barely sparing a glance for the 
dwarf.  His gaze was fixed on Aragorn when he stated simply, “You are to fight. 
 Yet your task is not to win…but to lose!”

…………………………………………………………………………………….


Chapter 26    Valar, Keep Them Safe

“You want Aragorn to lose!?”  

Gimli’s enraged shout managed to jerk Aragorn out of his shock.  He stared at 
the white haired messenger in disbelief, wondering if he had heard the man 
correctly, praying that he hadn’t.  The thought of simply marching down into the 
pit and allowing the beast who had beaten his wife and killed his child pound 
him into pulp was almost too much to contemplate.  If it had been any other man 
Aragorn might not have found the task as difficult, but as it was, he felt a 
wave of outrage and defiance building within him.

The messenger was nodding in response to Gimli’s indignant demand, but his gaze 
remained fixed on Aragorn.  “Aye, you are to lose,” he stated a second time.  
“You may, of course, refuse this task, but if you should do so the man standing 
next to your friend has been given the command to slit his throat.”

Aragorn felt his wall of defiance crumple at the man’s threat.  In his anger, he 
had forgotten for a moment exactly what was at stake.  His child was already 
dead, but now he was being given an opportunity to save Legolas.  He knew in his 
heart that there was very little he would refuse to do in order to save his 
friend.

The messenger must have seen the acceptance in his face, for he continued on 
with his instructions.  “My master also orders that you make the fight 
interesting.  The people of Norvil are quite fond of these events, and they 
would be most displeased if they did not believe you were trying your absolute 
hardest to win.  Make the fight interesting, or your friend will suffer the 
consequences.”

Gimli mumbled something dark beneath his breath, but Aragorn merely continued to 
stare at the messenger calmly, refusing to show his anger.  He hated being used 
for the amusement of another, yet Servius seemed intent upon playing his little 
games, and Aragorn had little choice but to go along with it.  He turned and 
glanced down into the pit where Kiesco continued to strut, waving his arms in 
the air.  The crowd was still cheering him, but it was becoming obvious that 
they were impatient for the fight to begin.  

Aragorn’s gaze moved from the pit up to the stand where Legolas still stood 
watching him, the penetrating gaze of the elf boring through him.  Gimli was 
right, Legolas did look ill.  He also looked worried, and as Aragorn watched 
him, he frowned and shook his head.  Aragorn smiled in return, gave a brisk nod, 
then turned and began fighting his way through the crowd toward the steps 
leading down into the pit.  He heard Gimli call out to him, but he pretended not 
to hear the dwarf.

Two men stopped him at the entrance to the pit.  They motioned toward his sword, 
their gazes dark, and Aragorn hurriedly unbuckled the belt holding the weapon 
around his waist.  One of the men reached to take the sword from him, but 
Aragorn took a step back and shook his head, unwilling to hand Anduril to a 
complete stranger.  Luckily, Gimli appeared at his side then and took the sword 
from him along with the dagger he pulled from the top of his boot.  Weaponless, 
Aragorn nodded to the two men and they parted to allow him entrance into the 
pit.

The crowd went wild as he stepped forward, screaming in anticipation.  Aragorn 
walked to the center of the hollow, his gaze locked on the gloating face of his 
adversary.   Aragorn was expecting someone from the sidelines, or one of the men 
who had stopped him, to come forward and announce the start of the fight.  
Therefore, he was caught completely by surprise when Kiesco stepped forward and 
punched him forcefully in the side of the jaw, sending him reeling backward.

The fight had begun.

Aragorn stumbled back against the far wall of the pit, his vision blurring for a 
second.  When it cleared, he spotted Kiesco stalking toward him, a huge grin on 
his scarred face.  Aragorn waited as the large man approached, pretending the 
blow had dazed him far worse than it really had.  When Kiesco reached for him, 
Aragorn leaned back, allowing the wall of the pit to support his back and 
shoulders as he raised his foot and kicked the man full in the face.

It was Kiesco’s turn to stumble backward, blood oozing from a long cut to his 
lip.  He recovered quickly, however, his grin gone as he and Aragorn began to 
circle each other within the confines of the pit. 

Aragorn watched Kiesco’s every move closely, the screams of the crowd fading to 
nothing but a buzz in the back of his mind.  His entire concentration was on his 
enemy.  Servius had commanded him to make the fight interesting, and Aragorn was 
more than willing to comply.  He might have to lose in the end, but Kiesco would 
still pay for some of the harm done to his family.

The large man leapt at him, goaded on by the impatient screams of the crowd.  
Aragorn easily dodged the attack, landing a quick punch to Kiesco’s side as he 
darted away.  Kiesco let out an enraged roar and dove at him a second time, his 
meaty fists swinging wildly.  Aragorn ducked the blow aimed for his head, then 
moved in to land two fierce punches to Kiesco’s stomach.  The large man let out 
a loud grunt of pain before knocking Aragorn away.  

The two began circling again, watching each other warily.  Kiesco was wise 
enough to realize that Aragorn was too quick for him, and so he began trying to 
herd the smaller man against the pit walls, obviously hoping to trap him with 
nowhere to go.  Aragorn realized what Kiesco intended, and did his best to keep 
the fight in the center of the pit.

Minutes seemed to drag into hours.  Aragorn managed to land the most blows, but 
his punches were quick and lacking any real amount of strength behind them.  
Kiesco, on the other hand, only managed to land a few punches, but with each, 
the blows sent Aragorn reeling.  Both men were soon breathing in panting gasps 
as they kept up their game of circle and attack.

The crowd was getting impatient.  No real damage had yet been done to either 
fighter, and the people were thirsty for blood.  Aragorn managed to ignore their 
screams until a large stone, tossed from the sidelines, struck him in the back, 
sending him stumbling forward.  

Kiesco took advantage of Aragorn’s dropped guard and charged forward like an 
angry bull.   He threw Aragorn against the wall of the pit, held him there with 
one hand, and began slamming his other fist repeatedly into the King’s right 
side.  Aragorn would have been finished right then and there, but his fighter 
instincts immediately took hold.  There was a pause as Kiesco hesitated in his 
attack, attempting to readjust his grip on his opponent.  Aragorn used that 
moment to send his fist flying into the other man’s nose with as much force as 
he could muster.  Kiesco immediately released him, stumbling back with a dazed 
look on his face.

Aragorn gulped in several deep breaths, ignoring the fierce pain in his side as 
he tried to maneuver away from the sides of the pit.  Lucky for him, his blow 
had carried enough force to stun Kiesco, giving him the precious moments he 
needed to recover.

The two men faced each other again, Aragorn leaning slightly to his side to 
protect his injured ribs.  Kiesco fared little better, a bloody giant with a 
silent trail of red running down his face and onto his chest.  Kiesco’s glare 
was furious, but his tone was mocking as he taunted Aragorn.

“Is that the best you can do,” he spat angrily, wiping the blood from his face 
with the back of his hand.  “Why, even your pretty little wife put up more of a 
fight than you have!  Oh, how I enjoyed feeling her soft flesh give beneath my 
fists.  She was quite a beautiful thing, and if I had had more time….”

He never finished his sentence, for a wave of white-hot fury had enveloped 
Aragorn, making him forget everything but the monster who stood before him.  He 
let out a wild yell and charged Kiesco, intent on nothing else but bringing down 
the beast who had dared harm his family.

Kiesco’s eyes widened in surprise, for obviously he had believed Aragorn too 
badly injured to attempt such a daring maneuver.  He put up his arms to block 
Aragorn’s blows, but it was to no avail, for nothing could stop the King’s 
wrath.  Aragorn attacked the large man with every ounce of strength remaining in 
him, completely oblivious to the violent blows he received in return.  His fists 
slammed into flesh again and again, until his knuckles were raw and bleeding, 
and still he attacked.

Aragorn was unaware of what finally brought him to his senses.  Perhaps it was a 
shout from the crowd, or maybe it was due to the fact that he was now facing 
towards the stands where Legolas still stood, surrounded by guards. But it was 
as if someone had suddenly poured a barrel of ice-cold water over his head.  He 
ceased his attack as quickly as he had started, stumbling back from Kiesco in 
horror.  The scarred man was swaying dangerously on his feet, and Aragorn knew 
if the man fell, Legolas would surely be killed.

“Kiesco, you are a weakling coward!” he shouted in an attempt to rile the other 
man back into the fight.

Kiesco shook his head, sweat flying from his hair and face, his eyes glazed with 
pain.  He managed to straighten, however, and Aragorn let out a small sigh of 
intense relief.  The full impact of what he had almost done was beginning to 
settle upon him, and he suddenly felt ill. 

Kiesco let out a strangled cry and lunged at Aragorn, his movements sluggish and 
sloppy.  Aragorn put up his arms in a pretense of trying to block the other man, 
but he made no move to get out of the way.  Kiesco slammed into him, and both 
men went flying backwards.  Aragorn sensed the wall of the pit looming up behind 
him a second before his head impacted with the hard dirt with a sickening crack. 
 Stars exploded across his vision, then just as quickly faded as the world went 
black.

******

Legolas could not contain his cry of alarm as he watched Aragorn and Kiesco slam 
into the side of the pit.  Both men went crashing to the ground, but a moment 
later Kiesco pushed himself to his hands and knees, then surged to his feet.  
Aragorn, however, remained still and motionless upon the ground, bright crimson 
blood coating the side of his face.  Legolas felt helpless and weak as he stared 
down at his friend.

The crowd was going wild, and Kiesco, caught up in their enthusiasm, began to 
kick at the motionless figure at his feet.  He was still unsteady from the 
beating Aragorn had delivered, and his blows lacked his full strength, but 
regardless Legolas felt hot anger surge through him.  He jerked forward, 
mindless of the guards surrounding him, intent only upon doing something, 
anything, to aid his friend.

Tervanis, who had obviously suspected such a move, was quick to kick Legolas’ 
legs out from under him, sending the elf crashing to his knees.  Yet Legolas 
still struggled forward, ignoring the guards rushing in to hold him.

A sudden roar drowned out even the shouts of the crowd, and an instant later, 
Gimli appeared in the pit.  Legolas watched in wonder as his short companion 
strode forward, grabbed Kiesco’s arm, jerked the man around to face him, then 
slammed his fist into his stomach.  Kiesco staggered back, and though Legolas 
had not thought it possible, the crowd grew even wilder.

Gimli was obviously in a rage.  The dwarf tossed his cloak away, then stormed 
toward the swaying Kiesco, murder in his eyes.  The crowd let out a gasp as 
Gimli’s form was revealed, but just as quickly they began screaming out their 
encouragement, always hungry for new blood.

Kiesco, already considerably weakened from his fight with Aragorn stood 
absolutely no chance against the enraged dwarf.  Within a matter of seconds, he 
too lay unconscious upon the dirt floor of the pit.

Legolas watched as Gimli hurried over to Aragorn and knelt by the King’s side.  
Two men were entering the pit to drag away the unconscious fighters, but they 
seemed reluctant to approach the furious dwarf any sooner than necessary.  They 
moved to take care of Kiesco first.

Gimli glanced up from Aragorn’s still form, his gaze seeking Legolas.  Their 
eyes met, and Legolas could tell the dwarf was torn.  It was obvious Gimli was 
tempted to come to him, yet at the same time he was reluctant to leave Aragorn. 
 Legolas shook his head at his friend, trying to silently convey to the dwarf 
that he would be fine and that Gimli should not try to free him.  Gimli surely 
knew any attempt would be hopeless, but Legolas knew his friend was stubborn 
enough not to allow that to keep him from trying.

Gimli reluctantly nodded, though his face darkened when Tervanis and another 
guard lifted Legolas to his feet and began leading him away.  Legolas offered 
his friend a final encouraging smile, and Gimli managed a small smile in return 
before Legolas was led around to the far side of the stand where Merton stood 
waiting for them.

Legolas expected the Guildmaster to be angry over Gimli’s interference, but the 
man only looked smugly pleased. 

“That has to have been one of the best fights I have ever seen,” he crowed 
proudly, as if he had personally won the victory within the pit.  “I believe 
your friend will be somewhat sore come morning,” he added with an evil grin.   
“I wonder if he will be willing to complete the next task.  If he does not, dear 
Legolas, I fear your time is nearing an end.”

Legolas hid his anger and returned the man’s stare with a cold one of his own.  
He said nothing, and after a moment Merton was forced to turn away from the 
intensity of his gaze.

“Bring him,” he muttered, before starting off down the street, Legolas and his 
guards trailing along behind.

*****

“Aragorn, it is time to wake up.  Rise, my friend, for the hour is growing 
late.”

Gimli cursed when his efforts to rouse his friend proved futile.  Aragorn was 
apparently going to wake up when he chose to and not a moment sooner. Gimli knew 
it was impossible for him to carry or drag his friend all the way back to the 
Sleeping Dragon, yet staying where they were was also out of the question.  Two 
men had dragged Aragorn to a small, open-faced tent erected on the far side of 
the courtyard, and though no one had bothered them there so far, Gimli knew it 
was only a matter of time.

Gimli had carefully checked his friend from head to boots for any broken bones 
or serious injuries.  Aragorn had a nasty gash on the side of his head, and no 
small amount of bruises marring his face and chest, but beyond that he did not 
appear seriously injured.  Gimli knew it was the wound to the head that had 
knocked Aragorn unconscious, but until they returned to the inn, he had no way 
of properly tending the man’s injury.  In the meantime, he merely sat with his 
friend’s head cradled in his lap and his axe within easy reach, waiting for 
Aragorn to decide to wake up.

Gimli was not an especially patient individual, a flaw for which Legolas had 
repeatedly tried to cure him, to no avail.  Each passing minute felt like hours 
to the waiting dwarf, and in no time at all he was mumbling curses beneath his 
breath and threatening Aragorn with all sorts of dark tortures if the man didn’t 
wake up, and wake up soon!  

“Come, Aragorn,” he muttered darkly.  “I know what a hard head you have.  The 
blow could not have done too much damage.  You are merely trying my patience.  I 
swear, you are as bad as the elf!”

Aragorn shifted in his arms and let out a soft moan.  Gimli immediately began 
shaking his friend in an effort to rouse him.  He tried to be gentle, but 
suspected he had failed when Aragorn muttered, “Gimli, if you do not stop 
shaking me, I will use your own axe to lob the head from your shoulders.”

Aragorn made the threat with his eyes still closed, but as Gimli ceased his 
shaking, the King slowly opened his lids.  His blue gray eyes looked slightly 
dazed, and Gimli thoughtfully gave him several long seconds to blink away the 
cobwebs before trying to push him into a sitting position.  “Come, Aragorn, we 
must return to the inn.  It is not safe here.  How do you feel?”

Aragorn grimaced, his left arm moving down to wrap protectively around his ribs. 
 “Bruised,” he answered simply.

Gimli snorted.  “You’ll feel worse tomorrow,” he predicted grimly.

Aragorn gave him a disgruntled glare.  “Thanks for the encouragement,” he 
muttered darkly.  “Would you stop tugging on my arm, I am getting up as swiftly 
as I can!  For what reason must we rush?”

Gimli sighed.  “We are not safe here,” he explained again, using a tone that 
suggested he was instructing a thickheaded child.  “At the moment everyone seems 
too interested in the pit fights to bother us, but I am sure that will 
eventually change.  I would prefer we be well away from here before then.”

Aragorn nodded, then suddenly jerked upright, his head swinging around wildly.  
“Legolas,” he gasped, lurching to his feet.  “Gimli, do you…”

“He is gone, Aragorn,” Gimli interrupted, reaching out a hand to steady his 
swaying friend.  “They led him away shortly after you were knocked unconscious. 
 I wanted to follow them, but I could not leave you.”

Aragorn sighed, obviously trying to hide his worry and disappointment.  “What 
about Kiesco?” he asked, wincing as he raised his hand to probe at the bruises 
on his face and at the side of his head.

Gimli scowled, unable to hide his anger.  “You need not worry about that beast 
bothering us again any time soon!” he stated angrily.

Aragorn looked at him curiously, but before he could question the dwarf further, 
the white haired messenger who had led them previously now appeared in their 
clear sight.  Gimli muttered something dark beneath his breath, then moved to 
stand slightly in front of Aragorn until his friend could regain his balance.

The messenger ignored Gimli, but bowed slightly to Aragorn.  “My master 
congratulates you on the success of your first task,” he stated simply.  “He 
sends his men to escort you back to the inn where you will be contacted mid-day 
tomorrow with the instructions for your next task.’

“And how many more tasks am I to complete before my friend is set free?” Aragorn 
demanded, moving forward to stand next to Gimli.

“You will be given tasks until you prove yourself worthy,” the messenger 
replied.

Gimli snorted loudly, but both Aragorn and the messenger ignored him. 

“Why not give me instructions for my next task now?” Aragorn asked.

“You will be given your instructions tomorrow,” the messenger insisted.  He 
waved behind him, and four men stepped forward from the crowd.  “These men will 
see you safely back to the inn.”  With these words, the white haired man turned 
and strode away, disappearing into the thick mass of people.

Gimli glared at the four men standing in front of him.  “We can get back to the 
inn on our own,” he growled.

None of the men answered him, but they didn’t move away either.  Gimli took a 
step toward them, intending to prove that they didn’t need assistance, but 
Aragorn’s hand on the dwarf’s shoulder stopped him. 

“Let them accompany us, Gimli,” Aragorn said softly.  “As you said before, these 
streets are not safe at night.  I fear someone might see my injuries and use 
that as an excuse to attack us.”

“I can protect us against any attack,” Gimli argued, gripping the haft of his 
axe tightly.

“I am sure you can, my friend,” Aragorn replied gently, “but wouldn’t it be 
easier if you didn’t have to.  Lay down your pride and let these men see us back 
to the inn.  Now where is my sword?”

Gimli sighed in defeat, then motioned behind him to where he had laid Aragorn’s 
sword and dagger.  The man went to fetch them, and Gimli couldn’t help but 
notice that Aragorn’s movements were stiff and slow.  It was obvious his friend 
was in pain, but Gimli knew Aragorn would never complain.

“Let us get back to the inn quickly,” Gimli suggested, moving closer to Aragorn 
to offer his support should his friend need it.  “Perhaps we can get some rest 
before we face this next task of yours, whatever it may be.”

Aragorn nodded, and the two started forward, the four men spreading out to form 
an arc around them.  Gimli knew that morning would come all too soon, and that 
whatever task Aragorn was given, it was not likely to be pleasant.  He was just 
as sure that Aragorn would need his assistance, and he was determined to be 
prepared to help his friend in whatever way he could.

Yet despite his determination, Gimli could not keep his doubts at bay.  He could 
not fight back the sinking feeling that things were going to get a lot worse, 
and that he would be powerless to help the two people he held as dear as 
brothers. He, Aragorn, and Legolas were all caught in a dangerous current of 
madness and revenge, and as he moved through the dark streets, Gimli kept 
repeating a single prayer over and over again.

‘Valar, keep them safe.’

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Chapter 27    Revelations

Gimli’s prediction that Aragorn’s injuries would feel worse come morning turned 
out to be not far from the truth.  Gimli could see his friend’s discomfort in 
his pale face and slightly tensed jaw, but he knew Aragorn too well to expect 
his friend to complain.  Aragorn would suffer in silence, downplaying his pain 
and leaving Gimli guessing as to the true extent of his injuries.  In this 
manner, Aragorn was much like Legolas.  

When they had returned to the inn, Gimli had done his best to play healer and 
tend to Aragorn’s wounds.  He had cleaned and bandaged the gash on the side of 
Aragorn’s head, clumsily examined the man’s ribs, washed his swollen and cut up 
knuckles, then ordered him to bed.  

Aragorn had patiently tolerated the dwarf’s fumbling efforts to help until 
Gimli’s last order.  Then he had arched a cool eyebrow, muttered something about 
bossy dwarves, and then moved over to sit on one of the chests near the window. 
  He showed no signs of obeying the order to go to bed, and after several 
minutes of useless arguing, Gimli had given in.  Aragorn had insisted that he 
only needed a few moments of peace and quiet in which to think.  

Gimli was not exactly sure when he had drifted to sleep, but when he woke the 
following morning, he found Aragorn still perched upon the edge of the trunk, 
his gaze distant as he stared out the window.  Gimli rolled from the bed and 
sprang to his feet, feeling a flash of annoyance.  “By the Valar, Aragorn, have 
you been up all night?!”  he demanded in a near shout.

Aragorn gave a slight start at Gimli’s bellowed question, turning toward the 
dwarf in surprise.  His eyes looked slightly glazed, though Gimli was uncertain 
whether this was due to exhaustion or simply because the man had been jarred 
from deep thought.  He scowled at Gimli in obvious displeasure at the dwarf’s 
surly tone, then offered a simple shrug in reply to Gimli’s question.

It was not enough of an answer for Gimli.  Not at all intimidated by Aragorn’s 
frown, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and then commenced in letting 
his friend know exactly what he thought of his foolish behavior.  Aragorn was 
clearly exhausted, and in his weakened state, rest was what he needed more than 
anything else.  Gimli knew that the man was determined to come up with a way to 
free Legolas, and stubborn enough to set aside his own discomforts in order to 
accomplish this goal.  Still, today they would learn their second task, and if 
Aragorn was not prepared…

Aragorn had to wait until Gimli was forced to pause his tirade in order to draw 
a breath before he could speak.  “I was thinking, Gimli,” he explained simply, 
shrugging once again to show that he thought the matter inconsequential.  

Gimli let out a low growl of frustration.  Arwen had once told him that when 
Aragorn was in a truly thoughtful mood he could walk through an avalanche, 
earthquake, or flood without ever realizing it.  Gimli had laughed at the 
ludicrous notion, yet now he wasn’t so certain that the Queen hadn’t been 
serious.

“And do you have anything to show for your hours of thought?!” he demanded 
sourly.

Aragorn let out a mirthless laugh.  “A sore backside?” he offered dryly.

Gimli was not amused.  “Aragorn, things cannot continue on as they have!” he 
exclaimed in frustration.

“No, Gimli, they can’t,” Aragorn answered softy.

Gimli peered at him suspiciously.  From the distant look in Aragorn’s eyes and 
the determination in his voice, Gimli suspected his friend was speaking of an 
entirely different matter.  With a loud sigh, he decided to let it go.  He was 
still worried about Aragorn, but he knew the King was strong, and yelling at the 
man now was not going to bring back the lost hours of the night.  In truth, 
Gimli was more angry with himself than his friend.  While he had been sleeping, 
Aragorn had at least been trying to come up with a plan.  Gimli had never 
considered himself a great strategist, but he could have at least made an 
attempt.  Legolas’ life hung in the balance, after all.

Thoughts of Legolas filled his mind then, and he found himself wondering how the 
elf fared this morning.  He had looked ill the previous night, a fact which 
served to upset Gimli no small amount.  Legolas was never ill, and he dreaded to 
think what his friend had gone through to make him look so pale and weak.  He 
swore that as soon as he found out, he would find those responsible and make 
them pay dearly!

“So you have been unable to come up with any plan yet?” he asked glumly, sinking 
back down onto the edge of the bed.

Aragorn sighed and shook his head.  “Servius had been very clever in this game 
he plays with us.  Look at the men he has sent to guard this inn?  Five watch 
the front, while still more guard the back.” he waved a hand toward the window. 
 “How many more men do you suppose he has guarding his Guild.  Still, I would 
not hesitate to take on a whole legion of soldiers if there was some way we 
could assure Legolas’ safety!  Yet if we so much as set foot outside of this 
inn, his men will know it.  Even if we manage to sneak past them, there is no 
guarantee that we will be able to get past the men guarding the Guild without 
detection.  Servius may panic to learn we are so close, and I doubt he will 
hesitate at all in killing Legolas.  I simply cannot risk his life in such a 
manner.”

Gimli nodded in understanding, hiding his disappointment.  “So we continue to do 
things Servius’ way,” he muttered darkly, detesting the idea.

“Perhaps,” Aragorn answered softly. 

“Perhaps?” Gimli countered.  “Then you do have some sort of plan?”

Aragorn shook his head as he slowly rose from his position on the chest.  “I am 
still working on that,” he answered softly.  He grimaced in pain then, his arm 
cradling his ribs gingerly.

Gimli frowned in concern.  “Are you sure those ribs are not broken, Aragorn?” he 
asked worriedly.

“I am sure,” Aragorn answered firmly, “They are merely bruised and will cause me 
some discomfort for a few days, but nothing that will hinder me too greatly.  
Now come, Gimli, we only have a few more hours before Servius’ sends his 
messenger.  Let us go downstairs and find some breakfast.”

Gimli liked that idea, and he and Aragorn quietly left their room and made their 
way downstairs to the common room.  Both wore their cloaks, but Gimli kept his 
hood down.  After the previous night, the majority of the city already knew of 
his presence and he no longer felt the need to hide.

The morning seemed to crawl by slowly, and Gimli soon found himself growing 
impatient.  Aragorn, as usual, seemed completely calm, a fact which served to 
annoy Gimli all the further.  He attempted to put the extra time to good use and 
come up with a plan, but all his ideas seemed to contain a single, critical 
flaw; they all ended up with Legolas being killed.  He desperately hoped Aragorn 
was having more luck than he, but all it took was a single look at the bleak 
expression on the King’s face to prove otherwise.  

Just when Gimli thought he could handle the tension no longer, the white haired 
messenger from the previous evening strode through the door and into the common 
room.  He spotted Aragorn and Gimli and quickly made his way over to their 
table.  He didn’t bother sitting, and it was obvious from his stance that he 
intended to make the meeting as short as possible.

“My master sends me with instructions for your next task,” he offered by way of 
greeting.

Aragorn nodded.  “And what is to be my next task?” he asked softly.

The man shrugged.  “My master wishes for you to retrieve an item for him.  It is 
an item of extreme worth and beauty, and he would have it for his own,” he 
explained.

Gimli snorted in disgust, not at all surprised that Servius was motivated by 
greed. “What is this item?” he demanded.

“It is a silver medallion,” the man informed them, “With precious stones inlaid 
about its edges.  It is in the shape of a crescent, and has intricate scrollwork 
surrounding the stones.”

“And Aragorn is to find and buy this medallion for your Master?” Gimli asked, 
casting a worried look toward his friend.  Neither he or Aragorn had brought 
much gold with them, and certainly not enough to purchase such an item as the 
man had just described.

The white haired messenger remained expressionless as he replied, “You may try 
to purchase the medallion if you choose, yet it is unlikely its current owner 
will wish to part with it.”

“Someone already owns this medallion?” Aragorn demanded sharply.

The man nodded.  “It is the prized possession of Thorbis the Black, master of 
the Thieves Guild.  It is said he keeps the treasure locked within a secret 
compartment in his private office.”

Gimli gawked at the messenger, disbelief and anger building up within him.  “Are 
you saying that Aragorn must steal this medallion from the master of thieves?” 
he demanded.

The white haired man merely shrugged.  “My master does not care how you acquire 
the prize, only that you do.  You have until midnight tonight to achieve your 
mission and bring the medallion back here.  A man will be waiting to take it 
from you.  Should you fail, your friend dies.”  With these ominous words, the 
messenger turned and strode from the common room, leaving a speechless Gimli 
behind.

All the tension within Gimli suddenly erupted.  Jumping to his feet, he slammed 
his fist down on the table hard enough to crack the wood.  “Aragorn, this is 
insane!  A few simple tasks?  Ha! Try impossible!  I am beginning to believe 
this Servius wants you to fail.  He cannot possibly expect you to succeed in 
this.  Delran told us the Thieves Guild was one of the most powerful Guilds in 
all of Norvil. To go against them would be madness!”

“You are right, Gimli,” Aragorn agreed, much to the dwarf’s surprise. “I do 
believe Servius does want me to fail in this task.”

Gimli blinked, then slowly sank back to his seat.  “Then why go to all this 
trouble?” he muttered in confusion.  “If he truly only wishes you to fail, then 
why give you all these tasks in the first place?” 

“He is toying with me,” Aragorn replied, his voice deceptively soft but laced 
with a burning anger.  “He hurts those closest to me, then draws me here simply 
so he can play his little games.  I am sure he is enjoying having me dance upon 
his strings.  It will not matter whether I succeed in this task or not, for he 
will continue to give me more impossible duties until I eventually fail.  Then 
he will kill Legolas, and use his death as another blow against me.  It all 
makes perfect sense to me now, Gimli, and I curse myself for a fool for not 
seeing it earlier!”

Gimli shook his head, still not quite understanding.

“He doesn’t plan on releasing Legolas,” Aragorn explained patiently.  “He 
intends to kill him, and is merely using these tasks as a way to place the blame 
upon me.  He must think the guilt will make me easier to destroy, or perhaps he 
simply does this out of hate.”

Gimli stared at Aragorn, realizing the man’s words made sense.  He felt such a 
tidal wave of different emotions racing through him he could barely make sense 
of his own thoughts.  He was so angry he wanted only to find Servius and 
strangle the man.  Yet he was also afraid.  Afraid for Legolas, and afraid for 
Aragorn.  For the first time since he and Aragorn had arrived in Norvil, he felt 
completely useless, like a silent observer watching a drama unfold from the 
safety of the sidelines.  Servius was interested only in Aragorn, and he was 
using Legolas as a tool to force the King to play his twisted games.  No matter 
what course of action Aragorn chose, Legolas’ life was in jeopardy.  Aragorn was 
trying to save Legolas, while Gimli desperately wanted to help both of them.  
And yet he knew he could not.  Legolas’ life was out of his hands.  All he could 
do was support Aragorn and try to keep the man alive long enough that they might 
come up with a plan to free Legolas.

Gimli realized that there was a strong chance they might not be able to save 
Legolas, and that possibility caused his chest to tighten painfully with fear 
and desperation.  He knew deep inside that if the elf were to die, a part of 
himself would die also.  Every time he was around Legolas, his life seemed 
somehow richer, more complete, and he could not even fathom what life would be 
like without his friend. They were constantly arguing, tossing insults back and 
forth, and yet he supposed it was just another way they had of showing their 
affection for one another.  Gimli knew without a doubt that he would willingly 
give up his own life in order to protect Legolas, just as he knew the elf would 
do the same for him.  They were more than just close friends, for in their 
hearts, they were brothers.  

“Then what do we do?” he whispered, surprised by the despair he heard in his own 
voice.  “We have already decided that we cannot risk attacking Servius outright. 
 Yet we cannot continue on playing his games either.”  

“No, we cannot,” Aragorn said softly, his voice as hard as steel, his dark eyes 
burning with anger.  “Games,” he muttered darkly, “This whole city plays them!  
Servius plays them even now with us.  Yet perhaps we can turn his own game 
against him…”

Gimli watched Aragorn intently, recognizing the strange glint in his friend’s 
eyes.  Aragorn was formulating a plan.  Gimli felt a flare of hope ignite within 
him. He did not ask what his friend had in mind, for it was plain that Aragorn 
still had not completely worked it out himself.  The King’s eyes were glazed 
with thought, and Gimli could almost see the wheels of his mind turning over the 
different options available to them.

“The Guildmasters are the key to this,” Aragorn finally murmured after several 
long minutes of silence had passed by.  “They manage to stay in power because 
they don’t trust anyone.  They are constantly fighting amongst themselves, and 
their hatred and suspicion of one another has made them wary.  Perhaps we can 
use this against them.”

Gimli was not exactly sure what Aragorn was saying, but he had complete faith in 
the King.  Whatever Aragorn’s plan was, Gimli was more than ready to help in 
whatever way he could.  One thing was for certain; they were no longer going to 
be doing things Servius’ way.

****

 “Aragorn, this is madness.”

Aragorn glanced over at Gimli as the two made their way down the street from the 
Sleeping Dragon.  “Do you have a better idea?” he asked lightly, flipping the 
side of his cloak behind him so he would have quick and easy access to the hilt 
of his sword.  He didn’t expect to have to use the weapon, however, for it was 
only mid-afternoon, and the streets were mostly deserted

Gimli snorted, then glared fiercely at a passing merchant, causing the man to 
let out a soft gasp before hurrying on his way in the opposite direction from 
the two companions.  “Of course I don’t,” he grumbled, “But that doesn’t mean I 
have to like this one.”

“It can work, Gimli,” Aragorn insisted.

“Aye, it may work,” Gimli admitted, “Or we may both be walking to our deaths!”

Aragorn sighed, but said nothing.  He knew he really had Gimli’s complete 
support, no matter how much grumbling the dwarf did.  They had both been over 
the plan repeatedly so as to reduce the chance of error, and Aragorn truly 
believed they had a strong chance of success. It was true, many things could go 
wrong, yet Aragorn still felt sure in his chosen path.  After all, they really 
had no other choice.

They walked on in silence for several long minutes, before Gimli finally spoke. 
 “How many are following us?” he asked quietly.

“I believe only three,” Aragorn answered calmly.

“So when do we get rid of them?”

Aragorn glanced around him, then motioned to the opening to a small, dark alley 
that split off from their main path.  “That looks as good a place as any.  We 
must be quick, though.”

Gimli nodded, a small grin of anticipation lighting his face.  “You know, 
Aragorn, this is the only part of your plan I expect to enjoy.”

Aragorn laughed as they rounded the corner then flattened themselves against the 
shadowy walls of the alley.  “The first one is only a few yards behind us,” he 
quietly informed Gimli.  “The other two follow at a greater distance.”

“The first one is mine!” Gimli declared, “We can share the other two.”

Aragorn nodded, amused by Gimli’s eagerness.  They were both in desperate need 
of releasing some of the tension that had built up over the last several hours, 
and this seemed as good a way as any.  The men following them would surely 
report their activity back to Servius, and Aragorn could not risk the 
Guildmaster knowing what he and Gimli were up to.  “Make it quick, Gimli,” he 
ordered softly, “I know how much you are itching for a fight, but I would be 
done with this deed as swiftly as possible.  We have much to do before 
nightfall.”

Gimli looked slightly disappointed, but he did nod in agreement.  A moment later 
the first man rounded the corner and entered the alley, completely oblivious to 
the danger before him.  He was making no attempt at caution, obviously believing 
Aragorn and Gimli would never dare do anything to risk the wrath of his master. 
 He strode forward boldly, his gaze fixed before him. 

He noticed Gimli only a scant second before the dwarf reached out and grabbed a 
handful of his tunic, jerking him forward.  Struggling wildly, he opened his 
mouth to let out a shout, obviously hoping to warn his companions of the danger. 
 Aragorn acted quickly, moving forward to land a vicious chop to the back of the 
man’s neck before he could cry out and rendering him instantly unconscious.

Gimli looked disappointed.  “I thought you were going to let me have him,” he 
muttered grumpily.

“And I thought you were going to be more quick about it,” Aragorn replied 
evenly.  “He was about to cry out, and his shout would have surely warned his 
companions.”

Gimli grunted, then reached down and grasped the unconscious man’s shoulders, 
hauling him further back into the shadows of the alley.  He had barely finished 
the task when Aragorn signaled the approach of the other two men. Gimli hurried 
back into position.

As soon as the men rounded the corner, Aragorn attacked, dimly aware of Gimli 
launching himself from the shadows opposite him.  Both men were rather large, 
but they were caught by surprise by the unexpected ambush, and were no match for 
Gimli’s strength and Aragorn’s speed.  

Aragorn felt a slight twinge of pain from his battered ribs as he slammed his 
fist into the throat of the man closest to him, but he ignored the discomfort.  
His hand, however, began throbbing so fiercely he could not hold back a hiss of 
pain.  He watched with a frown of annoyance as the man he had hit sank to the 
ground, gasping for air.  A second later the man fell unconscious, the imprint 
of Aragorn’s boot on the side of his head.

Gimli had already dispatched his own opponent and was dusting off his hands, 
looking smug.  His grin faded quickly, however, when Aragorn suggested they be 
on their way.  Muttering darkly to himself he followed Aragorn out of the alley 
and back onto the main street.

Aragorn made certain that they were not being followed by any more of Servius’ 
men before he led the way to their destination.  He moved quickly, anxious now 
that he was nearing the most critical—and most dangerous—part of his plan.  He 
sensed Gimli moving soundlessly behind him and was comforted by the dwarf’s 
silent support.  

At last he came to a stop at the edge of a wide courtyard, his gaze fixed on the 
large building rising ominously before him. He knew that within a few precious 
minutes he would face the man who would be responsible for either the failure or 
success of his plan.  If it failed, it was likely that neither he nor Gimli 
would live to see the sun set.  

With this grim thought to keep him company, he silently moved forward into the 
shadow of the Thieves Guild.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 
Chapter 28      Plots

Aragorn did well at hiding his apprehension as he and Gimli crossed the 
courtyard and moved toward the Thieves Guild.  The building was the largest he 
had seen yet in the city.  Made of stone and rising at least four stories high, 
the structure supported several carved stone statues depicting various beasts 
that appeared as if they had crawled from some child’s nightmares.  The statues 
glowered down at all those daring to pass through the courtyard, their ugly and 
misshapen forms creating an air of foreboding that settled darkly around the 
large structure.  Two guards stood sentry before the massive doors leading into 
the building, their clothes colorful and rich in appearance, their faces 
completely void of any expression as they watched Gimli and Aragorn approach.

“They do not look as if they are eager to let us in,” Gimli whispered softly 
from beside Aragorn.  “What if they do not grant us entrance?”

“They will,” Aragorn murmured.

“And if they don’t?” Gimli insisted.

“Then we will find another way,” Aragorn answered softly, his voice filled with 
determination.

They were drawing within earshot of the two guards now, and Aragorn motioned 
Gimli to remain silent.  They had already agreed that he would do all the 
talking, and that Gimli’s main role was to offer support while simultaneously 
watching Aragorn’s back.  They both knew, however, that if a situation requiring 
battle did happen to arise, they were not likely to leave the building alive.  
Still, they would not go down easily.

Aragorn and Gimli were still several paces away from the doors when one of the 
guards stepped forward and ordered them to halt.  They immediately complied, 
their hands held carefully away from their weapons in a sign they meant no 
threat.

“What is it you want?” the guard who had ordered their halt asked in a bored 
voice, his hand casually laying across the hilt of the sword belted about his 
waist.

“I seek an audience with your master,” Aragorn replied calmly, bowing his head 
slightly in a show of respect.  He had learned from one of the servants back at 
the Sleeping Dragon that all of the members of the Thieves Guild were extremely 
prideful, and that their master, Thorbis, was worse than all of his men 
combined.  He had also learned that Thorbis was an extremely suspicious man when 
it came to the other Guildmasters.  His position of strength within the city 
made him a target for the jealous ambition of those less fortunate than himself, 
and he constantly had to protect his guild—and himself—from the attacks of those 
seeking to rob him of his power.  Aragorn hoped to use this fact to his 
advantage.

The guard showed no response to Aragorn’s request.  Without taking his gaze from 
either of them, he made a small motion to the other guard, who promptly turned 
and entered the building.  Only a few minutes passed before he returned, this 
time with a tall, lavishly dressed man beside him.  The man strode down the 
steps and moved to stand before Aragorn and Gimli, a deep scowl on his face.

“Why do you wish to see Master Thorbis,” he demanded in a haughty voice, his 
gaze moving back and forth between Gimli and Aragorn.

“I have a message for him,” Aragorn answered simply.

“Give me this message and I will have it delivered to him,” the man demanded, 
holding out his hand.

Aragorn shook his head.  “I am afraid the message I bear is for the ears of your 
master alone,” he replied, trying to make his voice sound respectfully 
apologetic.

The man’s scowl grew even darker.  “Master Thorbis does not grant audience to 
every beggar that comes knocking at his door.  I will not have him disturbed.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I assure you, sir, that your Master will wish to see me.  My 
message is of the utmost importance.  I believe your Guildmaster’s life may be 
in terrible danger.”

The man didn’t even so much as twitch an eyebrow at this statement, though he 
did take a step closer to Aragorn in an obvious attempt to intimidate.  Aragorn 
met his stare without any hint of fear, and the richly dressed man was the first 
to look away.  “Who are you?” he demanded in an angry voice, his question 
directed more toward Aragorn’s chest than his face. 

“I am Strider, a ranger from the North, and this is my companion, Master Gimli.

The man gave Aragorn a curt nod before turning back toward the doors.  “I will 
tell him you are here, yet I doubt he will agree to see you,” he announced as he 
disappeared back into the building.

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Gimli.  If Thorbis did refuse to meet with them, 
then Aragorn would have to find some way to force the Guildmaster to change his 
mind.  The hardest part would be finding a way that wouldn’t get both his and 
Gimli’s head lobbed off in the process.  Both of the guards had returned to 
their positions beside the doors, but their eyes remained fixed on Gimli and 
Aragorn with only the slightest hint of interest in their hard gazes.

Several long minutes dragged by, and Aragorn was just beginning to despair of 
ever being granted entrance, when the lavishly dressed man reappeared at the 
doors.  “You have managed to attract my Master’s curiosity,” he announced 
piously.  “He is eager to learn what might bring two foreigners to his doorstep 
with a message for him.”

“Then he has agreed to see us?” Aragorn asked.

The man gave a curt nod.  “You will leave your weapons here,” he ordered, 
motioning to the two guards who immediately stepped toward Aragorn and Gimli 
with the obvious intent of relieving them of their weapons.  “The men will 
return them to you if you return.”

Aragorn did not miss the fact that the man had used the word if instead of when. 
 He slowly unbuckled Anduril from his side and handed it to one of the guards.  
Gimli followed suit, if a bit more reluctantly.  Once their weapons had been 
handed over, the richly dressed man turned back to the doors, motioning Aragorn 
and Gimli to follow him inside.

The interior of the building turned out to be much more impressive than the 
exterior.  Wide hallways were richly adorned with thick, expensive rugs in a 
myriad of colors.  Exquisite vases etched with detailed designs stood on 
intricately carved stands in numerous places along the hall.  Bright tapestries 
hung from the walls with scenes ranging from a nude woman bathing under a 
waterfall to two men fighting on a dusty street.  The evidence of great wealth 
was displayed everywhere they looked.

They were led down several different hallways, then up a wide set of stairs and 
into yet another hallway that appeared even more richly adorned then those on 
the floor below.  The lavishly dressed man led them to a wide, iron bound door 
guarded on either side by two men.  He knocked on the door, waited for the call 
to enter, then ushered Gimli and Aragorn inside.

The room they entered was immense, with over a dozen bright lamps hanging from 
hooks on the walls.  Layer upon layer of thick, soft rugs woven in bright, 
colorful designs, muted their footsteps.   Heavy bronze statues of all sizes and 
shapes stood on small white pedestals against all four walls of the room.  In 
the center of the room stood a massive table decorated with even more of the 
bronze statures.  A large chair was positioned behind the table, and it was in 
this chair that Thorbis, Guildmaster of thieves, sat.  The man was about the 
same height and weight as Aragorn, with thinning black hair, a high sloping 
forehead, and a hawk like nose.  His full attention was currently fixed on a 
small statue he held in his right hand, and he didn’t even look up as they 
entered the room.

The richly dressed man hurried forward and bent to whisper in his Master’s ear. 
 Thorbis merely nodded to whatever the man was saying, and continued to study 
the statue in his hand.  He still had not looked at Gimli and Aragorn.

Aragorn suspected Thorbis was deliberately forcing them to wait in order to 
unnerve them.  He squared his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, then 
calmly waited for the Guildmaster to acknowledge his presence.  He was pleased 
to see Gimli doing the same, though the dwarf looked far from pleased.

Several long minutes passed before Thorbis at last carefully placed the statue 
on the table, then lifted his head to study his guests.  His face was the 
picture of boredom, though Aragorn did notice a small spark of interest light up 
his eyes as his gaze fell on Gimli.  Thorbis continued to study them silently 
for several moments, then he turned to the lavishly dressed man still standing 
at his side.

“Tell me, Harum,” he asked in a soft, silky voice, “Do these two look familiar 
to you?”

“Yes, Master,” Harum answered, “they were both at the games last night.”

Thorbis arched an eyebrow then turned back to studying Aragorn and Gimli, “Ah 
yes,” he finally murmured, a small smile twisting the corners of his lips.  “You 
took part in the pit fights last night.”  His gaze was fixed on Aragorn now.  
“As I recall, you lost your particular fight.”

Aragorn did not react at all to the slight mocking he detected in Thorbis’ 
voice.  “Yes, my lord, I did,” he answered simply.  Thorbis was no lord, but 
Aragorn was not above stroking the man’s pride a bit in order to get what he 
wanted.  Thorbis’ grin grew wider, though Aragorn was unsure whether it was due 
to his answer to the man’s statement, or because he had called him a lord.

“Harum here has told me that you bear a message.  A ranger from the North, and a 
dwarf.  I must say I am intrigued.”  

“It is more a warning than a message,” Aragorn answered simply, his gaze 
pointedly fixed on Harum.

“You wish my aide to leave,” Thorbis observed.  “Yet how will I know that once I 
dismiss him you will not attack me?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “There is nothing we would gain from attacking you, 
sir.  Besides, both my companion and I are unarmed, and I suspect we would not 
get two steps in your direction before your guards would be upon us.”

Thorbis smirked.  “What you say is true,” he admitted arrogantly.  “Yet even if 
you should somehow manage to reach me, I am an excellent swordsman, and would 
cut you both to pieces.” 

“I have no doubt that you would,” Aragorn answered with a bow, forcing a mixture 
of respect and fear into his voice.  Inwardly, however, he was scoffing at the 
arrogant man.  One look at the jeweled hilt of the sword around Thorbis’ waist 
revealed that the piece was meant for show, and not as a real weapon.  Aragorn 
doubted Thorbis even knew how to hold the blade properly.

Thorbis nodded, obviously believing Aragorn properly cowed.  He turned to his 
aide then and dismissed the man.  “Wait outside the door, and I shall call you 
if I have need,” he commanded.

Harum looked far from happy, but he obeyed his master without argument.  As soon 
as the doors had shut behind him, Thorbis turned his complete attention on 
Aragorn.  “Tell me of this warning you have for me, and be quick about it, for I 
have much to do,” he ordered, his voice practically dripping with disinterest.

Aragorn was not fooled.  He knew Thorbis was curious.  “I have come to warn you 
of a plot against your life,” he informed Thorbis gravely, hardly wincing at all 
at the blatant lie.  He was determined to save Legolas, and if that meant 
telling a thousand lies, then he would do just that. 

Thorbis waved a jeweled hand in the air.  “When you become a man of my position, 
everyone plots against you,” he informed Aragorn with indifference.  “I have 
ceased to worry about it.  No one can break through my security.”

“Even if the man plotting against you were a fellow Guildmaster,” Aragorn asked 
simply.

A flicker of interest passed over Thorbis’ features, then just as quickly was 
gone.  “The other guilds are envious of my position,” he stated boldly, “They 
are constantly seeking to find a way to overthrow me.  Yet my guild is too 
powerful.  We will crush anyone who dares to attack us!”

Aragorn quickly nodded.  “I am sure your guild is more than strong enough to 
defend itself.  However, the man who plots against you does not intend to attack 
your guild, but instead, he will merely attack you.  He has already hired an 
assassin to complete this task,” he hurried on when Thorbis looked doubtful.  “A 
man by the name of Tervanis…”

Aragorn was cut short when Thorbis leapt from his chair.  “Did you say 
Tervanis?” he asked in a strained whisper.  “The name of the assassin hired to 
kill me is Tervanis?”

Aragorn nodded, startled by the man’s violent reaction.  From Delran’s 
description of the assassin, Aragorn had suspected Tervanis would be well known 
within the city.  What he had not expected was the raw fear he saw in Thorbis’ 
eyes.  It seemed that the mere name of the assassin, combined with the 
possibility he might be after him, terrified Thorbis.

“Tell me his name.” Thorbis demanded, his jaw clenched in fury, but the fear 
still more than evident in the slight quiver to his voice.

“I have told you,” Aragorn began, “His name is Tervanis…”

“No!” Thorbis hissed.  “I know the assassin.  Tell me the name of the man who 
plots against me.”

Aragorn shrugged.  “His name is Servius,” he answered simply.

Thorbis swore, picked up one of the bronze statues on his desk, and hurled the 
object violently against the wall.  “He would not dare!” he bellowed angrily.

The door to the room swung open, and Harum and the guards rushed in, swords 
drawn.  They had barely stepped into the room, however, when Thorbis turned on 
them and screamed, “Get out!  Now!”  The guards immediately turned and fled, but 
Harum hesitated.  

“Is all well, Master?” he asked.

Thorbis glowered at him, and seemed about to order the man out a second time.  
Then he hesitated, his gaze turning to where Aragorn and Gimli stood, his eyes 
narrowing.  “Come here, Harum,” he ordered, never taking his gaze of Aragorn.

Harum hurried to his master’s side, casting Gimli and Aragorn a triumphant look. 
 Thorbis leaned down and began talking to his aide in a hushed whisper, his 
voice too low for Aragorn to make out what he was saying.  The discussion lasted 
for several minutes, and Thorbis did not appear to be at all pleased with the 
topic.  At last he dismissed Harum once more, then turned back to Aragorn and 
Gimli.

“My aide has confirmed your story,” he said darkly.  “He tells me that Tervanis 
has been seen in the presence of Servius several times within the last week.  No 
doubt they have been planning my execution for some time now.”  Thorbis turned 
his back on them and walked over to the wall, bending to retrieve the small 
statue.  “Only Servius would be fool enough to plot against me,” he hissed, 
turning the statue over and over in his hands in search of damage.  “I have 
always known him to be hungry for more power, yet I never thought he would 
become so daring.  I will make him regret his boldness.  No one plots against 
me, no one!”  He seemed to have forgotten that just moments before he had 
informed Aragorn he was aware that everyone was plotting against him. 

Since Thorbis’ back was turned to him, Aragorn did not try to hide his smile.  
Thorbis was in a rage, and Aragorn could not have been more pleased.  The 
Guildmaster had accepted his story as the truth, never once questioning how 
Aragorn, a foreigner, might have come by this information.  Thorbis’ wariness of 
the other Guildmasters had given Aragorn the advantage.  It had turned out to be 
almost absurdly easy convincing Thorbis that Servius wished to kill him.  It 
seemed that the name of the assassin had truly frightened and worried Thorbis, 
an added bonus which Aragorn had not been expecting.  Thorbis would likely be 
willing to do almost anything to ensure his safety against the assassin, and it 
was this fact that Aragorn hoped to use to his advantage.

Thorbis continued to rage on against Servius and his guild, and it seemed that 
he had completely forgotten the presence of Gimli and Aragorn.  Man and dwarf 
exchanged a glance, then Aragorn surreptitiously cleared his throat in an 
attempt to gain Thorbis’ attention.  When the Guildmaster showed no sign he had 
heard him, Aragorn cleared his throat a second time, this time louder.  Still 
Thorbis continued to ignore his two guests, completely caught up in his plans of 
revenge.  Aragorn was about to give it a third try, when Gimli decided it was 
time to take matters into his own hand.  His cleared throat sounded more like a 
bullhorn, and was strong enough to stir some of the tapestries on the wall.  
Aragorn winced, but Gimli’s method turned out to be effective, for Thorbis ended 
his raging and turned to give the two companions his full attention.   

“Ah yes,” he muttered, “I suppose you two will be wishing a reward for bringing 
me this information.  Name the amount you require, and I will see that Harum 
gives it to you.”  He began to turn away from them once more.

“It is not money that we desire,” Aragorn said quickly, raising his hand to 
regain Thorbis’ attention.

Thorbis arched an eyebrow.  “You do not wish for money?” he asked, obviously 
startled by that possibility.  “Then what could you possibly want.  You cannot 
expect me to believe that you gave me this information with no hope of anything 
in return.”

“We do indeed wish for something in return,” Aragorn said softly, “Yet it is not 
your gold.  Instead, we wish for your assistance in a more personal matter.”

Thorbis looked intrigued.  He walked back to the table, set down the statue, 
then seated himself in the large chair facing Aragorn and Gimli.  “Continue,” he 
ordered simply.

Aragorn took a step forward.  “You and I share a common enemy, Guildmaster.  
Servius seeks to kill you and steal your position of power, yet you are not the 
only one he has attacked.  He has stolen something of great importance from me, 
and I greatly desire to get it back.  I was hoping that perhaps we can ally 
ourselves together and work to right the wrongs done against us by this man.”

Thorbis clasped his hands together in front of his face and regarded Aragorn 
with a curious expression.  “What is it that Servius has stolen from you?” he 
finally asked.

Aragorn hesitated for only a moment before telling the Guildmaster.  He supposed 
that a little bit of truth would make his lies all the more believable.  “He has 
taken a companion of mine.  A very dear friend who I hope to rescue before it is 
too late.”

Thorbis nodded.  “And why was this friend taken from you?” he asked.

Aragorn knew Thorbis was fishing for more information before he decided whether 
or not to offer his aid.  Aragorn thought it was the first wise move Thorbis had 
made yet.  “He took my companion in order to get to me,” he answered simply.  
“He seeks revenge for some misdeed against him.  I have no doubt he intends to 
kill my friend in order to punish me,” he hurried on, hoping Thorbis would not 
ask him what misdeed he was referring to.  Aragorn did not want to have to admit 
he did not know.

Thorbis looked at him for a very long time, his gaze calculating.  “So you wish 
me to aid in freeing your friend?” he asked quietly.

Aragorn nodded.  “I thought we could work together as we both have reason to see 
Servius’ downfall.  Gimli and I cannot free my friend on our own.  Servius has 
the inn we are staying at closely watched, and even should we manage to slip 
past the guards as we did in order to come here, we could not attack Servius 
guild.  He would kill Legolas before we could ever hope to reach him.”

Thorbis let out a small sigh, then sank back in his chair.  “I cannot attack 
Servius’ guild,” he announced bitterly, “At least, not until I have found some  
way to prove that he plots against me.  If I were to attack him before then, the 
other guilds would think I was merely attempting to strengthen the power and 
influence of my own guild.  They would fear that I have become too powerful, and 
they would unite against me.”

“It seems Servius has placed you in a dangerous position,” Aragorn said softly. 
 “If you move against him, you are in danger of being overthrown by the other 
guilds, and yet if you wait, it will give time for his assassin to do his duty. 
 From what I have heard of this Tervanis, he does not strike me as a man who 
fails in his assigned tasks.”

Thorbis’ face darkened.  “Indeed you speak the truth,” he muttered angrily.

“All the more reason why we should join together,” Aragorn said firmly.  “The 
only way you will be free of the assassin’s threat is if Servius is destroyed.  
Once he is dead, Tervanis will have no reason to come after you.”

Thorbis shook his head.  “I have already told you, I cannot attack Servius’ 
guild until I have proof of his plot against me to give to the other 
Guildmasters.”

Aragorn smiled.  “You cannot,” he said slowly, “But Gimli and I can.  We would 
need your men’s help in getting past the guards at the inn, and perhaps those 
stationed around the guild, yet none of them would have to set foot within the 
guild itself.  Gimli and I will go in alone, so no blame can be placed upon you 
when Servius is defeated.  If your men are careful, the other Guildmasters might 
never even know you were involved.”

Thorbis looked incredulous.  “You believe that you and the dwarf alone can 
defeat Servius.  He is likely to have many guards within his guild.”

Aragorn shrugged.  “Gimli and I are no strangers to battle,” he said firmly.  
“We would defeat them.”

Thorbis continued to shake his head.  “And what if you should run into 
Tervanis?”

“We would deal with him as well,” Aragorn answered calmly, not even a hint of a 
boast in his voice.

Thorbis regarded Aragorn with narrowed eyes for several long seconds.  “And what 
should happen if you fail?” he asked slowly.

“Then you will have lost nothing,” Aragorn responded lightly.  “You will be no 
worse off than you are now.  Yet if we should succeed, then you will have gained 
everything.  The threat to your life would be gone, and since Servius’ land 
borders yours to the east, I am sure you will have no trouble gaining at least 
part of his guild-land as your own.”

Thorbis nodded slowly, his hands still clasped in front of his face.  Aragorn 
could tell the Guildmaster liked the idea, no matter how hard he tried to hide 
the fact.  Thorbis would be taking a minimum risk, with the chance of gaining 
maximum profit.  Aragorn was certain he would agree.  

Thorbis turned to regard Gimli.  “You have said nothing since entering,” he 
commented softly.  “What have you to say of all of this?”

Gimli shrugged, then stepped forward to stand beside Aragorn.  “My companion’s 
thoughts are my own,” he stated simply.  “He speaks for us both.”

Thorbis nodded, then suddenly broke out into a wide grin.  “I think I shall 
agree to this arrangement, though I do have some doubts as to your ability to 
defeat Servius’ guild all on your own.  Still, you both look like fit warriors, 
and perhaps you will surprise me.”  

“Then it is agreed,” Aragorn asked.

Thorbis cocked his head to one side, his smile growing even larger.  “I do 
believe you two have gotten the worst end of this deal, and yet it matters not. 
 It is agreed.  How soon do you wish to act?”

“Tonight,” Aragorn and Gimli said together.  “Before midnight,” Aragorn added 
with a glance down at the dwarf.

Thorbis shook his head, his smile still in place.  “Tonight it will be, then,” 
he agreed, “Though not before midnight.  I will not have time to assemble all my 
men and instruct them properly before then.  I think you should choose to strike 
closer to dawn.  It is then that our adversaries are more likely to be drowsy 
and drunk.  You will stand a better chance of success then.”

Aragorn was already shaking his head.  “It must be before midnight,” he 
insisted.

“That is not possible,” Thorbis replied simply.  “I will not rush my men.  They 
are more likely to make mistakes if they are not completely prepared, and any 
mistakes they make can prove deadly to me.”

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged looks, then Aragorn took another step closer to 
Thorbis.  “Then I am afraid I have another request I must make of you,” he 
announced quietly.  “I am sure you will have no qualms about granting my request 
as you have already said you believe Gimli and I have the worst end of this 
deal.”

Thorbis’ shrugged, the smile never leaving his face.  “The thought of Servius’ 
death has put me in a most pleasant mood.  Ask what it is you want, and if it is 
within my power I will grant it to you.”

Aragorn nodded.  “The reason Gimli and I wish to attack before midnight is 
because Servius intends to kill Legolas at that time.  If we cannot act before 
then, then our friend will surely be dead.  There is only one thing that will 
buy us some more time.”

“And what is this thing?” Thorbis asked pleasantly.

“Your medallion,” Aragorn answered simply.  “Servius desires your medallion, and 
I am certain I can use it to persuade him to allow Legolas to live.”  Aragorn 
did not admit that Servius had in fact sent both he and Gimli after the 
medallion lest Thorbis come to suspect that everything Aragorn had said was 
nothing but a ruse.  “I am sure you know of the piece I speak.  It is crescent 
shaped, with many jewels inlaid around its arc.” 

Thorbis was no longer smiling.  He straightened up in his chair, all pretenses 
at pleasantness completely gone.  “You want my medallion?” he demanded in a hard 
voice.

Aragorn merely nodded.  “Without the medallion, Legolas will surely be killed, 
and then Gimli and I will have no reason to attack Servius’ guild.  Do you 
understand?”

Thorbis shook his head, then leapt to his feet.  “The medallion is precious to 
me,” he grated out, “It was the first piece I ever stole as a young thief, and 
it has brought me great luck over all these years!  I will not part with it!”
Aragorn sighed.  “I understand your reluctance,” he said quietly, “Yet what if I 
were to assure you that the medallion would be returned to you just as soon as 
Servius is defeated?”

Thorbis shook his head. “There is no assurance that Servius will be defeated,” 
he argued.

“He will be,” Aragorn said firmly, his gaze locked with Thorbis’.  

Thorbis slowly sat back down in his chair.  “I will not give you the medallion,” 
he stated resolutely.  

Aragorn clenched his jaw in frustration.  Things had been going so well up until 
the point.  He had to find a way to convince Thorbis to part with the medallion. 
 

“It seems our agreement has been for naught,” Aragorn said slowly.  “I apologize 
for wasting you time, and I wish you luck in your dealings with the assassin.”

Aragorn turned as if to leave, but Thorbis called out to him.  “If I were to 
give you the medallion, I would need something of equal value in return.  
Something I might keep to ensure the return of the medallion.”

Aragorn turned to face Thorbis, then shrugged helplessly.  “I am afraid I have 
nothing of value to give you.”

Thorbis shook his head.  “Ahh, but you do.” he said slyly, a slight gleam in his 
eyes.  “In exchange for the medallion, I would have your word that should you 
fail to return it to me, you will give your own life in exchange.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  “My life?” he asked softly.

Thorbis nodded gleefully.  “I will give you the medallion, but first you must 
swear that should it not be returned to me, you will serve me for a period of 
three years.  Only once you have given me your oath will I give you the 
medallion.  And should you think to break your pledge and flee from me, I will 
send my men to hunt you down and kill you.  Will you give me your promise?”

Aragorn felt a horrid sinking feeling within his stomach.  He knew it would be 
so easy to give his pledge and then take the medallion, and yet something held 
him back.  Should the medallion be lost, he knew he would be honor bound to hold 
up to his end of the bargain.  He was more than willing to take such a risk if 
it meant saving Legolas, yet at the same time he knew he had not the right to 
make such a promise.  He was King of Gondor, and his life belonged to his 
people.  In truth, he had already betrayed them by coming after Legolas in the 
first place, yet his heart had allowed him no other course.  Still, how far 
could he go?

A part of Aragorn screamed at him to give the oath.  After all, surely the 
medallion would be recovered and his promise would come to mean nothing.  Yet 
what if the medallion was not recovered?  He would then be forced to keep his 
word, and by so doing, he would be abandoning his people.

Aragorn felt as if he were being ripped apart inside.   His life was balanced on 
a precarious scale.  On one side was Legolas, his dearest friend whom he loved 
as a brother, and on the other side, his people, whom he had sworn himself to.  
Whatever choice he made, he would be betraying one of them.  The friend inside 
him refused to even consider betraying Legolas, while the King within him knew 
there was no other choice.  

“He can’t.”

Aragorn was startled by the gruff voice beside him.  He glanced down to find 
Gimli looking up at him, a strange expression on his rough features.

“He is unwilling to risk his life in order to save his friend?” Thorbis asked.

“He can’t,” Gimli merely repeated, his gaze firmly fixed on Aragorn.

“Gimli…”  Aragorn began, but the dwarf cut him off.

“I understand.  You need not explain it to me.”  The dwarf’s voice, instead of 
being filled with anger, was instead filled with sympathy and understanding.  
“You cannot do it,” he continued, “But that does not mean that I cannot.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Gimli turned to face 
Thorbis.  “You have my promise that should we fail to return your medallion, I 
will serve as your slave for not three years, but five.  You shall not be 
getting a better offer, and so I suggest you take it!”

Thorbis considered the dwarf’s proposal for only a moment before quickly 
agreeing.  “Done!” he stated.  “You will keep your promise to me, or you will 
die.”

Gimli nodded gravely.  “A dwarf always keeps his word,” he said stiffly.

Aragorn stared at Gimli, unsure whether to feel relief or worry.  Gimli merely 
smiled back grimly as Thorbis opened a hidden drawer beneath the table and 
withdrew a cloth-covered bundle.

“The medallion,” he said simply, offering the bundle to Aragorn.

Aragorn merely stared at the cloth covered offering, then turned to look at 
Gimli.  The dwarf gave a brief nod, then stepped forward and took the proffered 
gift from Thorbis.

“Now,” Thorbis said cheerfully, “Let us discuss the rest of our plans for this 
night.”

*****

The sun was setting low on the horizon when Gimli and Aragorn finally left the 
Thieves Guild.  As they crossed the courtyard, the cloth covered medallion 
clutched close to Gimli’s chest, neither of them knew they were being watched.

Tervanis sat on an overturned barrel near the mouth of an alleyway, his narrowed 
gaze following the steps of the two companions.  He was sharpening his knife, 
the low hum of the steel sliding across the whetting stone the only sound in the 
dank alley.  He had been sitting here waiting for some time now, ever since he 
had followed the man and dwarf from the Sleeping Dragon to the doorstep of the 
Thieves Guild.  They had dispatched the three fools following them with 
practiced ease, yet they had never suspected a fourth set of eyes watched their 
every move.  

“It seems the elf’s faith in you has not proven false,” Tervanis murmured softly 
as he watched Aragorn swing the belt containing his sword around his waist.  The 
king secured the thick strip of leather with a quick grace that spoke of a man 
well accustomed to the feel and fit of his weapon.  “You made a daring move 
today.  I am sure Servius would be most displeased should he learn of this.”

Tervanis let out a small laugh as the two disappeared down one of the streets 
branching off from the courtyard.  He made no move to follow them, for he had 
already learned what he needed.  He had no idea what had happened inside the 
Thieves Guild, yet he was almost certain that the man and dwarf had somehow 
managed to acquire the assistance of Thorbis the black.  Tervanis dearly would 
have liked to know how they had accomplished that feat, yet he knew it truly did 
not matter.  The only thing that mattered was that King Elessar was no longer 
playing the game by Servius’ rules.  This fact absolutely delighted Tervanis.

Tervanis re-sheathed his knife, then rose and began heading back to Servius’ 
guild.  He had no intention of telling the Guildmaster what he had seen today.  
Let Servius find out on his own just how much he had miscalculated his 
opponents.  Tervanis felt no loyalty to the man.  In truth, he despised Servius 
with a passion bordering on hatred.  The Guildmaster was nothing but a pathetic 
weakling.  If it weren’t for the elf, Tervanis would have ended his business 
with Servius long ago.

Tervanis smiled slightly as his thoughts turned to Legolas.  Fate had brought 
them together.  The elf was perfect: beautiful, strong, graceful, his very being 
one of light and nobility.  He was a perfect warrior, invincible and immortal, 
and Tervanis could not help but feel as if he had been waiting his entire life 
for Legolas.  He was a man who thrived off of challenges, and the elf would be 
his ultimate challenge.  He could not even look at Legolas without feeling a 
deep possessiveness.  The elf was his to conquer, and Tervanis looked forward to 
the chance with every particle of his being.

He hurried his steps, anxious suddenly to return to the guild.  King Elessar 
would make his move soon, and Tervanis was determined to be ready when he did.  
One way or another, Legolas would be his.

……………………………………………………………………………………………


Chapter 29 Unexpected Developments

Servius was having dinner with his two advisors, Telfor and Fanchon. The three 
men were alone in the giant dining hall, happily feasting on large platters of 
roasted fowl, bowls of deep red turnips, a variety of delicate pastries, and 
tankards full of fine wine that Servius had ordered prepared and delivered from 
one of the finest inn's within the city. The lavish meal was Servius way of 
making up to his advisors the fact that he had not allowed them to participate 
in the plans against King Elessar. He had not wanted either of his men to be 
spotted and recognized by his enemies, and consequently they had been forced to 
play an extremely minor role in his revenge against the King. Servius knew that 
neither man was happy about this. Both had suffered at the King's banishment 
just as he had, and in truth, if it weren't for them, Servius admitted he would 
not likely be in his current position of power. He owed much to Telfor and 
Fanchon. They were the closest things to friends he would ever have, and the 
only two people within his entire guild in whom he trusted. They had saved him 
from certain capture and death while wandering in Gondor, and after, when he had 
become Guildmaster, they had continued to serve him faithfully. Therefore, 
Servius was doing his best to make up for the fact that he had ignored them 
shamefully within the last couple of weeks. His plan, so far, seemed to be 
working. Telfor and Fanchon were extremely pleased when Servius promised them a 
chance to spit in the face of the King before he killed him.

Servius' glee was so great he could barely refrain from rubbing his hands 
together in anticipation. Soon now, very soon, the moment he had waited years 
for would arrive. King Elessar would kneel before him, and Servius would wield 
the blade that would end the man's life forever. He had planned on giving the 
King a series of several difficult, but possible, tasks in order to weaken and 
discourage him, but his impatience got the better of him. Having his quarry so 
close had proved too much for his restraint. He needed his revenge, and he 
needed it soon. Therefore, he had hastened to issue the task he had previous 
intended to save for last; the impossible mission of stealing the medallion from 
the Thieves Guild.

Servius had no doubt that King Elessar would fail in this task. Once midnight 
arrived and a his messenger returned with the news that the King had failed to 
retrieve the medallion, Servius would ordered his men to capture Elessar and 
bring the man to him. He would have to move carefully lest he attract the wrath 
of the Serpent. The Guildmaster was extremely finicky when it came to the 
protection of the people staying within his inns. Servius' men would have to 
find a way to lure the King and his dwarven companion away from the Sleeping 
Dragon before they made their move. Undoubtedly the two would put up a fight, 
yet they would not stand a chance against the superior number of men Servius had 
guarding them. He would order the dwarf killed, then have King Elessar brought 
to him.

He couldn't contain a shiver of glee at the thought of his most hated enemy 
brought defeated before him. He would order the elf brought down, then, after 
proclaiming Elessar's failure, he would kill the fair being. Perhaps, instead of 
ordering the dwarf killed, he would have him brought before him as well. It 
would be a double blow against the King to be forced to stare into his 
companion's eyes as Servius slowly slit both their throats.

Then, Servius would turn his attention on the man he hated above all else. He 
would likely torture the King for a bit-Telfor and Fanchon would be more than 
willing to aid in that particular endeavor-and then he would kill him. Slowly.

"I think you should allow Fanchon and I to kill the elf," Telfor spoke up from 
across the table. "After all, you get to kill the King, we should at least be 
able to slay his friend."

Servius considered this request while stuffing a large portion of the fowl into 
his mouth, it's juices flowing down his chin, staining his tunic. He knew 
Telfor's request was a fair one, but he had developed a sort of personal grudge 
against the elf, and he wasn't keen on being robbed the pleasure of killing him. 
Legolas had been trouble from the moment he had arrived in Norvil. His escape 
attempt last night had resulted in the injury of several of Servius' men, as 
well as the guildmaster's own slightly tender nose. As soon as they had returned 
to the guild from the pit fights, Servius had ordered the elf beaten for his 
rebellion, then taken back upstairs and re-tied to the bed, this time with two 
guards stationed inside the room. He had considered returning Legolas to the 
small cage in the cellar, but he was unwilling to risk the possible 
repercussions. He wanted the elf awake and aware of his surrounding when he 
killed him, and returning him to the cage might cause the elf to slip back into 
the coma-like state that he had suffered earlier.

"I will consider your suggestion," he said reluctantly, using a square piece of 
cloth to wipe the grease from his chin. "Perhaps I will allow you to have a 
little fun with both the elf and the King before we finally take our revenge."

Telfor and Fanchon nodded, obviously placated. They spent the remainder of the 
meal planning the gruesome details of what they would do once they had King 
Elessar firmly in their hands. As the hours dragged on and midnight approached, 
Servius found himself growing more and more excited, the greased fowl churning 
anxiously within his stomach. He drank several goblets of the fine wine in order 
to try and settle his nerves, but soon switched to water so he could keep his 
thoughts clear and his mind sharp. Tonight of all nights he would not allow his 
actions to be clouded by too much drink. He was pleased to notice that both of 
his advisors seemed to be using caution as well.

Midnight had not yet come when a soft knock sounded upon the door to the dining 
room. Servius called for whoever it was to enter, and a moment later a tall man 
whom Servius recognized as the leader of those guarding the Sleeping Dragon 
stepped reluctantly into the room.

"Aha!," Servius called out at the sight of him, thinking that the man's presence 
before the assigned deadline could mean only one thing. "So, King Elessar and 
the dwarf have decided to attempt retrieving the medallion after all," he 
shouted gleefully. He had ordered his men to notify him the moment the King made 
a move against the Thieves Guild

Telfor and Fanchon exchanged startled looks. "Surely not!" Fanchon exclaimed. 
"They would not be so foolish as to risk stealing the medallion from Thorbis 
when there is obviously no chance of success."

Servius turned to them and shrugged. "King Elessar is a fool," he stated 
haughtily. "He is blinded by his affection and loyalty to the elf, and is likely 
to risk anything in order to save him. Ha! I was beginning to believe that they 
might not even make an attempt, and I was somewhat disappointed at the thought. 
This way is so much more fun. To have tried and failed will make Elassar's fall 
all the more complete!"

"But they will surely be captured by Thorbis' men," Telfor objected. "What if 
the Guildmaster has them killed? He will rob us of our revenge!"

Servius waved a hand dismissively in the air. "I have Tervanis standing by with 
a little message and a hefty bag of gold that will surely convince Thorbis to 
hand his prisoners over to us."

"But what if he refuses?" Fanchon questioned nervously.

Servius arched an eyebrow. "Have you ever seen anyone refuse Tervanis anything? 
I am no fool, man. Why do you think I use the assassin for such a mundane job as 
delivering a message? Thorbis will be wary when he realizes Tervanis is working 
for me, and it shouldn't take too much to convince him it is in his best 
interest to do as I ask. And even if he is still somewhat reluctant, the gold 
will surely serve to persuade him."

The two aides did not look entirely convinced.

"He is very powerful," Fanchon said softly, "If he thinks you are threatening 
him, he might retaliate."

"He is also very wealthy," Telfor added. "Your gold might not hold as much sway 
over him as you believe."

Servius laughed and waved away his companion's concerns. "Tervanis will make 
sure they are not killed," he assured them both. "I might not like the assassin, 
but I do have faith in him."

He then turned back to the guard who had listened to their conversation without 
interruption. The man's face was extremely pale, and Servius briefly wondered 
what was causing the guard to look so terrified. He didn't give it much thought, 
however. "Go and inform Tervanis to be ready to move in just as soon as the King 
and dwarf have been captured," he ordered briskly "I do not wish to risk them 
being killed before he can reach Thorbis with my message."

The guard swallowed hard. "S..si..sir?" he stammered. "My message."

"Yes, yes," Servius interrupted impatiently. "I know what your message is! 
Haven't you been listening? You have come to report that the King and dwarf have 
left the inn and gone to the Thieves Guild."

It didn't seem possible, but the guard grew even paler. "But sir," he objected 
in a tremulous voice. "I have not come to report that they have left, but that 
they have returned."

"Returned?" Fanchon repeated, surprised.

"How can they have returned if they never left?" Telfor demanded, his brow 
furrowed in thought.

"I gave the order to be informed the minute they went to the Thieves Guild," 
Servius growled.

The guard nodded. "Yes, master," he said quickly. "That is why when they left 
about mid-afternoon, Torlin, Jesil and Ran followed them. They were going to 
make sure they were truly heading to the Thieves Guild before reporting to you."

"They never reported to me," Servius hissed

"No, sir," the guard said slowly. "It appears as if they have disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Servius repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

The guard nodded glumly. "There has been no word from them, and when the King 
and the dwarf returned to the inn they were alone."

Servius ground his teeth together, his ire rising. What was King Elassar up to? 
Obviously the King had not gone to the Thieves Guild, for surely if he had he 
would not have returned. So where had he been? And where were the men sent to 
follow him?

"There is more sir," the guard added reluctantly, pulling Servius' from his 
thoughts. He glared at the man, and the guard looked as if he were about to 
bolt, his gaze flying toward the door. "When they returned to the inn they 
marched right up to us and gave me this," he bravely stepped forward and placed 
a cloth wrapped bundle on the table in front of Servius. "They asked.no, 
commanded me to deliver it to you immediately."

Servius felt an odd sensation of dread build within the pit of his stomach as he 
stared at the bundle, though he could not explain exactly why. Telfor, Fanchon, 
and the guard were all three watching him closely, and so with a pretend air of 
control and indifference, he reached for the bundle. Flipping aside the cloth, 
he quickly revealed the contents, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief.

"What is it?" Fanchon demanded, standing up from his chair in an attempt to see 
inside the bundle.

Servius slowly lifted the crescent shaped medallion from its nest within the 
cloth, his hands shaking slightly in a mixture of rage and shock. The light from 
the fire in the hearth glinted merrily off the bright stones inlaid among the 
intricate silver designs, causing the medallion to sparkle and glow in Servius' 
hands. All the occupants of the room stared at the precious necklace in awe, 
frozen into silence by its beauty and the impossibility of its presence.

"It seems you have underestimated your opponent," a low voice said from the 
doorway.

Servius jerked his gaze away from the medallion and sent a dangerous glare 
toward Tervanis who stood casually behind the guard in the open doorway. The 
assassin was also looking at the medallion, but unlike the others he seemed 
impervious to its spell. Nor did he look entirely surprised to see it, and 
Servius felt a wave of rage wash through him.

"Aren't you supposed to be standing watch at the Thieves Guild?" he snapped 
angrily, grasping the medallion in a tight fist and ignoring the pain as its 
sharp edges cut into his skin.

Tervanis shrugged. "There seems to be no need for me there any more."

Servius felt a blaze of angry suspicion. Surely Tervanis would have seen the 
King and the dwarf from his position guarding the Thieves Guild, and yet he had 
sent no word. He had obviously known they had succeeded in claiming the 
medallion or else who would not have returned early from his post. Or would he 
have? Servius honestly did not know, for Tervanis continued to remain a complete 
mystery to him. He could in no way predict what the assassin would and would not 
do if it fit into his own, private interest. And the fact that Tervanis had his 
own interests at heart had been clear from the very start. Servius was beginning 
to wonder if he might have made a mistake in hiring the assassin.

Tervanis was staring at him from across the room, a small, mocking grin on his 
face as if he could read Servius' every thought. The guildmaster shivered, then 
opened his mouth to demand an accounting from the assassin.

"How did they manage it?" Telfor asked in confusion, unknowingly distracting 
Servius from his intended interrogation of the assassin.

Servius turned to his aid, once again opening his mouth to reply before 
realizing that he didn't have an answer. He had no idea how King Elessar had 
come to acquire the medallion? Servius had been sure that he had given them an 
impossible task, and now he was left at somewhat of a loss. How had the King 
managed it?

Servius suddenly felt very suspicious and more than a little nervous. Warning 
bells were beginning to chime within his brain, urging him to use caution and to 
choose his next steps carefully. He had the most horrible feeling that all his 
well-laid plans were beginning to come unraveled beneath his very nose, and he 
wasn't at all certain what to do about it. Only moments before he had been 
celebrating the nearness of his victory, and now he was trying to figure out 
exactly what had gone wrong and how he was going to deal with it. All he knew 
was that he had to find a way to put a stop to whatever King Elessar was up to 
before it was too late. Tervanis was right, he had underestimated his opponent. 
The wise thing to do now would be to carefully think through his planning, 
discover his error, and then move quickly to correct it before the situation 
moved out of his control. He could always give up this game of tasks and simply 
order the King and his companion captured and brought to him.

Yet even as these thoughts were going through Servius' mind, a part of him 
stubbornly rebelled. He knew that should he take this course of action, he 
would, in essence, be admitting defeat. Instead of being brought to him in 
failure, Elessar would come in triumph, knowing he had succeeded in the tasks 
set against him. This was not the way that Servius had wanted things to be, and 
he obstinately held to the belief that he could still somehow hold victory over 
this situation. He wanted the King to be completely crushed before he was 
destroyed, and he was determined to think of some task that would ensure 
Elessar's failure once and for all. His plan was not completely lost to him. He 
merely needed time to think and he would find some way to set things right. King 
Elessar might have surprised him this time, but he would not do so again.

"Master Servius?" Telfor urged softly when Servius did not reply to his 
question. "What do we do now?"

Servius did not answer right away. Instead, he stared down at the medallion 
still clenched in his hand. At last he looked up. They were all watching him: 
Fanchon, Telfor, Tervanis, and the guard, waiting for his next orders.

"I am going to bed," Servius said at last, his voice admirably calm considered 
the raging storm of emotions tearing through him. "I will tell you my plans in 
the morning."

None of them argued, and Servius strode quickly toward the side door of the 
dining hall that led directly up to his chambers. As he passed the hearth, he 
opened his fist and hurled the medallion into the raging flames, watching in 
satisfaction as the fire hungrily swallowed the precious offering. Then he 
turned, and without another word left the room.

******

Legolas was not fairing well.

Locked in the upstairs bedroom, his hands and feet securely tied to the 
bedposts, and under the close watch of two guards stationed beside the door, he 
was finding it impossible to sleep. He was weary beyond measure, and he knew he 
would need to regain at least some of his strength if he were to be any use to 
Aragorn and Gimli, yet his mind was too full to offer him any hope of rest. He 
had all but given up on any hope of freeing himself on his own, and decided he 
would merely have to remain watchful for any opportunity that might present 
itself, and be ready to act when the time came. Until then, he was helpless, 
lost in his misery and growing despair.

His body ached fiercely from the abuse he had suffered the last couple of weeks, 
the most recent the beating Servius had ordered in response to his escape 
attempt. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, and his wrists burned fiercely from 
the ropes chafing against his tender and torn skin. He knew he had not yet fully 
recovered from his strange reaction to the Svellon drug, for he still felt 
incredibly weak, and the normal quick healing tendencies of his elven body 
seemed to be somehow disabled. He also continued to feel slightly ill, something 
that was completely foreign to him.

Yet despite all these physical complaints, Legolas' suffering was on a much 
deeper level. He could no longer remember the number of days in which he had 
been held prisoner against his will. His longing for release eclipsed all other 
discomforts, and his body virtually shook with his need to be free, to be rid of 
the rough bonds holding him in place. He was desperate for a chance to move 
about under his own power and free will, even if it was only a small moment in 
which he could stretch his legs. He was sure that were he free he would better 
be able to combat the darkness that continued to threaten to take his control. 
It seemed that the longer he was held prisoner, the weaker his body and will 
became and the stronger the darkness within him grew. He was not sure how much 
longer he would be able to fight it.

And as if the afflictions of body and mind were not enough, Legolas spirit too 
seemed locked in a frantic battle for survival. His desperation for freedom had 
awakened within him a longing that swept over him with the unmistakable scent of 
salt and sea air. It seemed that fate had decreed that he should suffer even 
more. In his mind the familiar cry of a hundred winged birds swooped down to 
catch their prey from crystalline waters. The thoughts mocked him, and Legolas 
was well aware of the sea longing rising up within him. A part of him was warmed 
and comforted by the familiar songs lifting from the place where water met sand. 
Yet another part of him recognized the danger of the calling of the sea, a 
danger that was far greater now than it had ever been before. Trapped as he was, 
held prisoner against his will, he knew that should he give in to the sea 
longing, it could very well drive him mad.

Legolas knew that time was swiftly running out. Servius had likely already 
assigned Aragorn his second task, and though Legolas did not know what it was, 
he dreaded it all the same. The thought of Aragorn and perhaps even Gimli 
suffering on his behalf was almost enough to make him start tearing desperately 
against the bonds holding him despite the sure knowledge of his guards' 
punishment. He had faith in Aragorn, yet he could not keep himself from worrying 
over his friends' safety. It was yet another concern that plagued his weary 
mind.

And then there was Tervanis. Legolas could not even think about the assassin 
without feeling an odd twisting sensation within his stomach. It wasn't fear 
exactly that he felt toward Tervanis, but it was definitely caution. Whenever 
the assassin looked at him, Legolas felt immediately wary. There was something 
in the man's eyes, something that deeply unsettled him. Tervanis' gaze was 
almost possessive in it's intensity, something that Legolas did not understand. 
Nor did he understand the respect, almost admiration, he saw in the man's face. 
It had not always been there, and Legolas tried to think back to when he had 
first seen Tervanis look at him in this manner. The last several days of travel 
to Norvil were nothing but a distant blur to him, and yet he was somehow certain 
that it was around this time that Tervanis' attitude toward him had changed.

But why had it changed, and what was Tervanis planning? Legolas knew the 
assassin was up to something, and yet he was not sure what it might be. Tervanis 
was a complete enigma to him.

In all his years as friend to Aragorn, Legolas had met and lived among many a 
human. He knew more about that race than perhaps any other elf still remaining 
in Middle Earth. But Tervanis was unlike any other human he had ever 
encountered. The assassin looked at other men with contempt and disgust, as if 
ashamed of the ineptitude of his own people. He was a man that seemed oddly 
displaced from the rest of his race, as if he did not truly belong, and in that 
aspect he was frighteningly similar to Aragorn. Raised and taught by elves, and 
with the blood of Numenor running through his veins, Aragorn was not elven, but 
he was certainly something greater than an ordinary man. Yet Tervanis had not 
been raised by elves, and he did not have the blood of kings in his veins. So 
what made him so different from the others in his race?

Legolas shivered slightly when he thought of the speed and grace in which the 
assassin moved. It seemed almost to be a learned version of the innate talent of 
the elves. The fact that Tervanis was well skilled was indisputable, and Legolas 
was curious to know how the assassin had come by his talent. Still, he could not 
help but feel slightly apprehensive at the interest Tervanis had shown toward 
elves in general and in him particularly. Did Tervanis somehow plan to use 
Legolas and perhaps other elves to prove himself superior to all other men? And 
if so, how?

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes, shifting as much as he could on the hard bed 
in an attempt to find a comfortable position. This turned out to be an 
impossible task however,