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, for the complaints of his body made it difficult to 
relax. And so he lay quietly, showing no signs of the internal battle that raged 
within him, nor the questions that hounded him relentlessly. He would just have 
to be patient and put his trust in his companions. They would come for him, and 
once they did he needed to be ready to aid them in whatever way possible.

A small sound drifted in through the boarded up window, soft yet distinct, and 
Legolas turned his head to the side, straining to hear. A few moments later it 
came again, so softly that Legolas was sure that no one inside the house could 
have heard it except for himself. It was a faint cry of pain and alarm, the low 
ring of steel against steel. As he continued to listen, Legolas became more and 
more certain of what it was he was hearing.

Outside in the alley, a silent battle was raging.

Aragorn and Gimli had come for him.

******

Tervanis sat motionless in his hiding place upon the roof of the guild, watching 
impassively the massacre taking place below him. Servius' guards held no chance 
against the stealth and strength of the men from the Thieves Guild, and they 
were one by one being cut down even as they came to realize the danger. One man 
had managed to let out a small cry of alarm, but he was silenced so quickly that 
Tervanis doubted if anyone in the house had heard him.

It seemed as if he had been right; King Elessar had indeed managed to form an 
alliance with Thorbis. They had not delayed in making their move, either, though 
this did not surprise Tervanis. He had expected them to act right away, that 
fact being the reason he was sitting out on this cold roof in the first place. 
Tervanis could not see either the King or his dwarven companion in the fray 
below, but he was not worried. They would come. Perhaps Thorbis' men were merely 
clearing a way for them.

Over a dozen men had been guarding the alleyway leading up to the guild, but 
they were now all dead, fallen where they had been standing. Thorbis' men melted 
back into the night, leaving the alley eerily silent and completely devoid of 
life but for the large, darting forms of rats, which were already moving forward 
to feast on the dead flesh of the fallen men. The tangy smell of blood hung 
heavy in the air.

Tervanis waited a few minutes, then silently slipped down from his hiding place 
on the roof. He moved with a silence and grace that put even the stealth of the 
Thieves Guild to shame, calmly skirting the dead bodies littering the alley. He 
knew the King and his companion would be coming soon. It was time he make his 
move.

Entering the guild, he quietly moved down the hall toward the stairway leading 
up to the room where the elf was being held.

.................................
 

Chapter 30    A Race Against Time

“They are gone, Aragorn.”

At Gimli’s quiet comment, Aragorn rose swiftly from his position on the bed and 
went to join his friend at the window.  The street below was lit by the soft 
glow of the almost full moon and by the lantern light filtering from the windows 
of the Sleeping Dragon.  Nothing moved on the dark street, and the positions 
where Servius’ guards had earlier stood watching the inn were now eerily vacant.

 “It is time for us to go,” Aragorn murmured softly, his eyes carefully 
searching the street below.  “It seems Thorbis’ men have done their duty, and 
now we must do ours.  There is only a few more hours until dawn, so we must be 
quick.”

Gimli grunted in reply, his hand rubbing against the haft of his axe, his eyes 
gleaming with anticipation.  He was not an exceptionally patient being, and the 
long hours waiting in the dark room for Thorbis’ men to make their move had 
caused him to become somewhat irritable and edgy.  It was obvious that he was 
more than a little anxious to be given the opportunity to unleash some of his 
frustration on Servius’ men.

Aragorn moved to the foot of his bed were Anduril lay on a low wooden chest.  
Lifting the sword, he belted it about his waist, then motioned Gimli to follow 
him out of the room.  He too was feeling the quickening rush of blood through 
his veins that always preceded a battle, and he could not deny the fact that he 
was relieved that the wait was finally over.  If all went according to plan this 
night, Legolas would be free by dawn, and they would all be well on their way 
away from Norvil by mid-morning.  

They took the back way out of the inn, unwilling to go through the common room 
crowded with rough and drunk citizens looking for a final glass of ale.  The 
cook and a few of the maids gave them curious looks as they moved through the 
kitchen towards the back door, but no one moved to stop them.  Once outside, 
Aragorn led them carefully down the narrow alley beside the inn, keeping a sharp 
eye out for any of Servius’ men.  Yet it seemed that Thorbis’ men had done their 
jobs effectively, for there was no sign of any of the guards.

They moved quickly through the streets, dodging from shadow to shadow and 
avoiding the numerous gangs of dangerous looking men drifting about the city 
looking for a fight.  They made good time, using the direction provided by 
Delran, and soon were standing at the mouth of the alleyway that led down to 
Servius’ guild.  There they stopped, peering suspiciously into the dark shadows 
before them.

“I can’t see anything,” Gimli growled, hefting the haft of his axe out of his 
belt and holding the weapon at the ready.  “The guards could still be down there 
for all we know.”

Aragorn nodded, then motioned for Gimli to remain silent so he could listen.   
He heard a strange scratching sound, like long claws scraping against wood or 
stone, and an occasional angry squeal.  It didn’t take him long to guess what 
was making such noises.  “Rats,” he whispered softly.  “Many of them from the 
sound of it.”

Gimli grunted, glaring into the darkness with a look of disgust.  “Every single 
one of Servius’ men are rats, if you ask me, with him being the largest one of 
all!”

Aragorn sighed.  “I suppose we will have to trust that Thorbis has kept his 
word,” he said softly.  “Come Gimli, we are losing time.”  Aragorn removed 
Anduril from its sheath, then cautiously began making his way forward into the 
deep darkness of the alley, Gimli only a step behind.  He stopped only a few 
steps in, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blackness and listening 
intently.  Still, all he could hear were the scurrying noises of rodents, and so 
he started forward once more.

They had gone perhaps a yard down the alley when Aragorn spotted movement up 
ahead.  He squinted through the gloom, barely making out the squat bodies of 
several large rats, their eyes glowing ominously red in the dark alley.  
Littering the alley all around the rats were strange mounds which Aragorn soon 
recognized as bodies.  The smell of blood was strong in the air, and now, along 
with the sound of claws and squeals, there came the disgusting noise of sharp 
teeth ripping through flesh.

Aragorn grimaced, sickened by the gruesome sight.  He could not see Gimli’s 
expression in the dark, but he sensed the dwarf stiffening beside him, and knew 
that he too was affected by the scene.  Death hung heavy and oppressive over 
this alley, and for the first time Aragorn was glad the moon had veiled itself 
behind a low sheet of clouds, masking the details of the horrendous sight.

Aragorn wrenched his eyes away from the floor of the alley and peered at the 
squat front of the building sitting before them.  No light spilled from the 
boarded up windows, and all was eerily silent.  Aragorn exchanged a glance with 
Gimli, then slowly began making his way forward once more, cautiously skirting 
the bodies littering the ground and kicking any rat that seemed reluctant to 
give up its feast and move out of the way.

Three men lay slumped before the entrance to the guild, their positions giving 
the false pretense that perhaps they were only sleeping.  Aragorn stepped over 
them, then hesitated, staring at the plain wooden door before him.  He reached 
out a hand and tried the latch, fully expecting to find the door barred shut.  
Instead, it swung silently inward, revealing a dimly lit hall.

Aragorn shook his head, marveling at Servius’ stupidity.  The man obviously 
believed the guards out in the alley were adequate protection, a thought which 
he would soon realize to be folly.  Still, Aragorn wasn’t about to question his 
luck.  Stepping inside, he waited until Gimli had entered behind him, then 
quietly shut the door.

The hall was wide and plain, lacking the rich decorations that had been so 
prominent in Thorbis’ guild.  It was completely deserted, but Aragorn spotted a 
small stool sitting beside the door with a tall bottle of ale resting beside it. 
 The bottle of ale was only half empty, and Aragorn had a sudden suspicion.  
Whoever had been set as guard here might have heard a noise out in the alley 
during the fight and gone to investigate.  They were likely lying dead in the 
alley at this very moment, which would explain the unlocked door and the empty 
stool.  Aragorn had to admit that Thorbis’ men had been extremely effective in 
their attack.

Aragorn turned his attention to the rest of the hall.  Several doors branched 
off to both the right and the left, and near the end of the hall a set of stairs 
led upward.  All was silent, Gimli’s breathing the loudest thing to be heard.  
It seemed that Thorbis had been right in suggesting this as the most opportune 
time for their attack.  Whatever soldiers remained in the guild were either 
sleeping, or keeping to themselves in their own quarters.  This offered Gimli 
and Aragorn more time in which to search for Legolas without interruption.

“Should we split up and search in different directions?” Gimli suggested in a 
low whisper.  “It is nearing dawn, and it would save us time.”

Aragorn considered this for a moment, then shook his head.  “I think we should 
stay together for the time being,” he answered softly.  “At least until we get a 
better idea of what it is we face and how large this place may be.”

Gimli grudgingly nodded, then headed for the first door branching to the left.

“Be careful,” Aragorn advised quietly.  “I wish to keep our presence here secret 
for as long as we may.”

Gimli didn’t answer, but he did place an ear to the door and listened quietly 
for several long moments before swinging it open to reveal a set of narrow stone 
stairs leading downward.  Gimli glanced at Aragorn, then reached up and grabbed 
the single torch that flickered in a small bracket at the top of the stairs.  He 
motioned Aragorn to follow, then led the way down the narrow steps.

Another wooden door stood open at the bottom of the stairs, and as they 
cautiously moved through it, they discovered themselves in some sort of cellar. 
 Large crates and barrels lined the walls haphazardly, and near the center of 
the room stood a small iron cage.  

Aragorn scanned the room carefully, then turned back toward the door, confident 
that there was nothing to find within the cellar. He stopped, however, when he 
caught sight of the strange expression on Gimli’s face.  The dwarf was staring 
toward the iron cage, his brow furrowed.

“What is wrong, Gimli?” he asked quietly, looking at the cage curiously.  Then 
he saw what had caught the dwarf’s eye.  Near the center of the cage two loops 
of rope lay discarded, the brown fibers of one of them stained a dark red, 
almost black.  Aragorn frowned and took a step closer, a slow, sick feeling 
rising in the pit of his stomach.

“Aragorn,” Gimli whispered softly, his voice a mixture of horror and anger, “Do 
you think they put Legolas in there?”

Aragorn stared at the tiny cage, his own horror building up within him.  He was 
certain the two loops of rope lying within the cage had been used to bind the 
hands and feet of someone.  The probability that that someone was Legolas caused 
his stomach to clench painfully and his rage to rise hot within him.

Gimli obviously did not need Aragorn to answer.  The dwarf knew, just as 
certainly as Aragorn knew, that Legolas had indeed been held within that tiny 
cage.  The fury on Gimli’s face was enough to make any sane man run screaming in 
terror, and the dwarf’s voice was rough with emotion when he asked, “So where is 
he now?”

Aragorn only mutely shook his head, not trusting his own voice.  He knew only 
one thing for certain; Servius would pay dearly for what he had done to Legolas.

“If they have hurt him…” Gimli began, but did not finish.

Silently the two turned and left the room and the small cage, the memory of it 
forever burned into their minds.  They both knew very well how Legolas would 
react to being locked in the tiny confines of the iron prison, left alone in the 
dark of the cellar.

Once back up in the main hall, they quickly moved to search the other doors.  
Two of them led into storage rooms and two more into completely empty rooms. The 
fifth door they explored branched off into yet another hallway with even more 
doors, and the sixth led into a large dining hall with the remains of a feast 
still sitting upon the table.  Nothing in any of the rooms indicated where 
Legolas or Servius might be.

They had just left the dining hall and were heading toward the stairs, when the 
door leading into the second hallway opened and a band of about six men burst 
into the front hall, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

There was no time for Gimli and Aragorn to hide, and a moment later the men 
spotted them.  The group jerked to a halt, their eyes widening in surprise.  For 
a moment all they did was stare at Gimli and Aragorn, obviously too shocked to 
do anything else.  Then, one of them finally opened his mouth and screamed 
“INTRUDERS!” at the top of his lungs.  His scream was cut short, however, as one 
of Aragorn’s knives flew through the air and embedded itself deep within the 
man’s chest.

Complete pandemonium broke out then as the remaining men leapt forward, 
brandishing their weapons and crying out their challenges.  One man leapt at 
Aragorn, his face filled with rage, only to crumple at the King’s feet in a 
motionless heap as Aragorn’s sword smashed into the side of his head.  Two other 
men came at him then, but Aragorn easily dodged their blows.  Beside him, Gimli 
let out a loud war bellow and slammed into two of the guards, knocking them both 
to the floor with one blow.  Soon the hall was filled with cries of pain and the 
angry clash of steel against steel.

It did not take Gimli and Aragorn much time at all to dispatch the men attacking 
them, Aragorn with grace and elegance, and Gimli with pure brute force.  Yet the 
last man had barely fallen to the floor before another group of soldiers burst 
from the same hall, this time led by a giant of a man with muscled arms even 
larger than those of Kiesco’s.

“Get em’, Garish,” several of the men shouted as the large man charged across 
the hall toward them.

Aragorn and Gimli immediately split, forcing the large man to chose which one of 
them he would come after.  The man veered away from Gimli and raced toward 
Aragorn, an ugly grimace on his large face.  He swung a giant sword toward 
Aragorn’s head, which the King easily ducked, then lunged forward, obviously 
intent on pinning his smaller combatant against the wall with his superior 
strength.  He did not count on Aragorn’s speed, however, and the ex-ranger 
easily danced out of his way, his own sword sweeping around to cut a gash in the 
giant man’s arm.  Behind him he could hear Gimli’s roar as the dwarf fought 
against the other men.

“Come and get me, Garish,” Aragorn taunted softly, grinning as the man let out 
an angry roar and dove for him once more.  But instead of dodging out of the way 
this time, Aragorn met the charge straight on, ducking beneath the giant’s 
outstretched arms at the last moment and bringing his sword’s point up.  Garish 
was unable to stop his own forward momentum, and he let out a strangled cry as 
he impaled himself on Aragorn’s sword.  Aragorn rolled away, pulling Anduril 
with him as Garish crashed to his knees, his sword dropping from his hands as he 
clasped at the gaping hole in his belly.

Aragorn turned to help Gimli then, only to find the dwarf slamming his final 
opponent to the ground, his axe raised above the man for the final blow.

“Wait, Gimli,” he called, hurrying forward.

Gimli checked the downward momentum of his axe, his surprised gaze moving to 
Aragorn.  The man Gimli had been about to kill reached for a discarded sword 
lying near him, but Aragorn’s boot slammed down on his wrist before he could 
bring the weapon to bear.

The man let out a terrified squeal, and began to thrash desperately in an 
attempt to escape.

“Be still,” Aragorn snapped angrily, placing the tip of Anduril at the man’s 
throat, “or I will allow my companion to finish what he started.”

The man immediately quit struggling, his eyes going wide.  “Please,” he 
whimpered, “Please do not kill me.” 

“I will allow you to live as long as you answer my questions?” Aragorn said 
simply, listening carefully for the sound of any more approaching guards.

The man nodded wildly.  “Yes anything,” he yelped.  “Anything.”

“What lies up these stairs?” Aragorn demanded, motioning to the stairs he and 
Gimli had been about to take.

“That leads to my Master’s office,” the man said quickly, “and to his private 
quarters and the quarters of his two advisors.”

“Are there guards?”

The man hesitated, and Aragorn pressed Anduril more firmly against his throat.  
“Do not lie,” he hissed threateningly.

The man gulped, then nodded.  “Yes,” he said pitifully, “There are guards.”

“Where is Legolas?” Gimli demanded from over Aragorn’s shoulder.

The man pointed a shaky finger back down the hall he had just come.  “At the end 
of the hall there is a set of stairs.  Your friend is in the room at the top of 
those stairs.  He is guarded by four men.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn muttered, kneeling and slamming the hilt of his sword 
against the man’s temple, immediately rendering him unconscious. Then he rose, 
his gaze meeting Gimli’s.  The house was once more silent, but Aragorn did not 
entertain the hope that they had managed to defeat all of the guards so easily. 
 It was likely that even now the remainder of the soldiers within the guild were 
flocking to their master’s side, preparing to make a final stand.  The battle 
was far from over.

 “It will be dawn soon, Aragorn,” Gimli muttered softly from beside him.

Aragorn grimaced.  “It is time we split company,” he decided.  “Go and find 
Legolas.  Hurry Gimli, for I know not what orders have been given regarding him. 
 His guards may have been commanded to kill him should anyone break through the 
guild’s defenses.”

Gimli nodded his agreement.  “You will be going after Servius, then?”  It was 
more of a statement than a question.

Aragorn didn’t answer.  He didn’t have to.  “Find Legolas, then join me as 
quickly as you can.  I may need your assistance.”

*******

Servius was barricaded within his office along with his two advisors, surrounded 
by a small contingent of his guards.  He had been awakened by the first sounds 
of battle from downstairs, and had known immediately what was happening.  He did 
not know how his enemies had managed to get past the men guarding his guild, but 
the fact that they were inside and searching for him was inescapable.  He had 
gathered as many of his men to him as he had been able, then hurried to the 
relative security of his office.

He was furious, but he was also more than a little nervous.  King Elessar had 
been full of surprises this night, and now Servius was unsure of what to expect 
next.  How had the King managed to get inside his guild?  How many men did he 
have under his command?  How long would it be before he discovered where Servius 
was hiding?

It didn’t matter, Servius told himself, for before this night was through, King 
Elessar would be dead.  One way or another, he would succeed in his plans of 
revenge.  Perhaps it would not end in the way he had always dreamed it would, 
but that hardly mattered any more.  The only thing that did matter was that the 
King die.  Soon.

******

Legolas lay tense and expectant upon the bed, his ears straining to catch any 
more sound from outside.  All was silent now, and yet he had been certain of 
what he had heard. A battle had taken place outside within the alley, and he 
could guess from what he had heard that it had been brief yet fierce.  The 
silence now seemed loud in comparison, telling him nothing of what had happened 
or who had won.  The lack of reaction from within the guild told Legolas that he 
alone was aware that anything had happened at all. At first he had felt certain 
that what he had heard was Aragorn and Gimli coming for him, but as the long 
minutes dragged by he began to doubt this assumption.  He knew there were many 
men guarding the guild.  Far too many even for the great strength and skill of 
his two companions to withstand.  Aragorn would not have been foolish enough to 
make such an attempt when there was no hope for victory.  Yet who had it been 
then?

Legolas jerked in surprise as yet another sound reached his ears, this time from 
directly outside his door.  It was a small grunt, one that could very well have 
been made by one of the guards out in the hall shifting positions.  Yet Legolas 
somehow knew it wasn’t.  He gazed intently at the door, his heart beating 
expectantly within his chest, waiting for what would come next.

The door swung open, causing the two guards on either side of it to jump up in 
alarm, their hands flying to their weapons.  However, a moment later they 
relaxed as Tervanis entered the room, silently shutting the door behind him as 
he came.  Legolas heard the unmistakable click of a lock sliding into place.

“What are you…?” the first guard began to ask, but he never was given an 
opportunity to finish his question for a small knife suddenly blossomed in his 
throat.  His eyes widened for a moment in shocked surprise and pain, and then he 
sank lifelessly to the ground.

The second guard grasped for his sword, his mouth opening in alarm, but he fell 
as quickly as his companion, a second knife protruding from his own neck.

Legolas watched in helpless horror from the bed, marveling at the quickness with 
which the assassin had dispatched the two men.  Neither had been given a chance 
to cry out, and Tervanis had moved so quickly that not so much as a single drop 
of their blood marred his tunic, though it was now spreading across the floor in 
a gruesome pool of scarlet.

Tervanis crouched and withdrew both of his knives, pausing to wipe them clean on 
the dead men’s tunics.  Then he rose and moved toward the bed,  knives still 
gripped loosely in his hands.

Legolas watched his approach warily, wondering if the assassin had come to kill 
him were he lay.  Somehow he doubted it, but his stomach still clenched with 
apprehension.  Whatever Tervanis was up to, Legolas was certain he would not 
like it.

The assassin stopped only inches from the bed, his gaze moving up Legolas’ bound 
form.  Their eyes met and locked, and Legolas felt a horrible chill spreading 
down his spine at the expression on Tervanis’ face.  The assassin looked like a 
man who had been desiring something for a very long time, and had suddenly been 
offered it upon a silver platter.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, suddenly desperate to end the man’s stare, 
but before he could say anything, Tervanis was moving again.  With the same 
speed he had used to kill the two guards, the assassin lashed out once…twice, 
and the ropes binding Legolas’ wrists to the bed fell away.  Then, without a 
word, Tervanis turned and cut the ropes from Legolas’ ankles as well.

Legolas was so startled by the man’s actions that he could only stare up at 
Tervanis in disbelief.  He felt the painful tingle of blood flowing back into 
his wrist, but the discomfort was lost to him as he stared up at the assassin.

“Get up,” Tervanis ordered simply, his knives disappearing somewhere beneath his 
cloak as he took a step back away from the bed.  He continued to watch Legolas 
with his hungry gaze.  

Legolas slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, swinging his legs off the bed 
and onto the floor, his gaze never leaving Tervanis.  A wave of nausea 
threatened him, but he ruthlessly pushed it back, swallowing the bile rising in 
his throat and ignoring the loud protests of his battered body.  Pushing himself 
up into a sitting position, he slowly rose from the bed, only a slight trembling 
in his legs giving evidence to his weakness.

“Move around until you have regained your strength and balance,” Tervanis 
commanded, taking several more steps back in order to give Legolas room to move 
about.

Legolas hesitated for only a moment before obeying, still trying to figure out 
what the assassin could be up to.  He moved around the room, the blood beginning 
to flow once more through his legs and arms and the feelings of dizziness slowly 
beginning to fade.  His ribs still ached fiercely with every step he took, and 
his head still pounded relentlessly, but he resigned himself to these weaknesses 
and then staunchly worked to ignore them.  

After a few moments had passed he turned back to face Tervanis.  “What is it you 
want?” he asked softly.

In reply, Tervanis reached beneath his cloak and withdrew two swords, one of 
which he tossed toward Legolas who caught it easily.  “You,” he answered simply, 
a small, crooked grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

Legolas looked down at the sword he was holding, then back at the assassin.  
“You wish to fight me?” he asked, incredulous.

“For someone as intelligent as yourself, I would have thought it to be obvious,” 
Tervanis replied mockingly.  “Yes, Legolas, I wish to fight you, and though the 
conditions are not exactly as I might have liked, they will have to do.”

“Why?” Legolas asked slowly, still unable to mask his surprise.

“Why?” Tervanis repeated, then shrugged.  “I began my trade as an assassin when 
I was only twelve years old,” he explained calmly, “and since that time I have 
never been bested by anyone, nor met anyone who could even begin to match up to 
my level of skill.  Yet when I watched you fight my men that day you tried to 
escape, I knew that fate had brought you to me.  I saw your skill and knew that 
you alone could fight me, and perhaps even defeat me.  Many years I have lived 
without challenge, and I have grown weary of it.  I decided that one way or 
another I would find a way to fight you and see for myself if my assumptions 
regarding your skills are correct.”

“And what if you defeat me?” Legolas asked slowly.  “What will you do then?”

Tervanis cocked his head to one side.  “I will merely have to go in search of a 
new challenge,” he stated simply.  “Perhaps I have stayed in Norvil for too 
long.  I will go out into the world and discover for myself if there is anyone 
worthy of my skills.”

“And if you fail?”

Tervanis grinned widely, then shrugged, “At least it will be a new experience,” 
he murmured softly.  “But come, Legolas, enough talking.  Even now your friends 
will be coming for you.  I would have this done before they arrive.”

Legolas gave a start at the news that Aragorn and Gimli were coming for him, but 
he was given no time to reflect on this piece of news, for Tervanis had 
unsheathed his sword and was steadily advancing.  Legolas quickly unsheathed his 
own weapon, then squared his feet in preparation to meet the man’s attack.  He 
was well aware of how swift and skilled the assassin was, and in his present 
weakened condition he knew he would be hard pressed to defeat Tervanis.  Still, 
he was given little choice as the assassin leapt toward him, his sword aimed 
straight for Legolas’ chest.

Legolas’ own sword came up to meet Tervanis’ with a loud ring of steel upon 
steel, and the dance for survival began.  Legolas, his injuries forgotten, moved 
with the grace and speed of his people, his elven reflexes guiding his sword in 
each thrust and parry.  His feet never remained in one place for more than a 
moment, and his blade was nothing but a silvery blur as it arched and cut 
through the air.

Tervanis matched him move for move, his own sword a blur, first cutting one way, 
then feinting back mid-swing to sweep in from another direction.  The assassin’s 
form was perfect, his eyes locked on Legolas as they moved about the room in a 
graceful dance, their steps matched perfectly, the ring of steel against steel 
the music that guided their feet.  Anyone watching the fight would have been 
immediately captivated by the deadly beauty and elegance of the battle going on 
before them.

Legolas felt the hot rush of blood through his veins, urging him to greater 
speed.  Tervanis danced forward, his blade sweeping toward Legolas’ head only to 
be knocked away only inches away from its target.  Then Legolas was moving 
forward, his own sword pressing for any chance to break through Tervanis’ guard 
and find flesh.  Minutes seemed to drag into hours as the battle continued, 
neither gaining any ground on the other.  Both combatants were soon breathing 
hard, covered in sweat, and yet their battle did not slow in the slightest.  

Still, Legolas abused body was beginning to show signs of rebellion.  He could 
easily block out the pain of his battered ribs and aching head, but the weakness 
in his limbs was not something that could long be ignored.  The warrior within 
him was giving him strength, and yet that strength would not last forever.  
Sooner or later this fight must end, and unless it was sooner rather than later, 
Legolas highly doubted his chances for victory.  Yet no matter how hard he 
pressed his injured body for more speed, Tervanis seemed to be matching him step 
for step.  Had he been in fine health Legolas would not have viewed this as a 
problem, holding faith that his elven endurance would see him through.  Yet as 
it was now, he knew he could not keep the battle up much longer.

His old elven masters had often taught him that one’s own body could be just as 
effective a weapon as a sword or dagger.  Many years of experience had taught 
Legolas the truth of this statement, and he hoped now to use it to his 
advantage.  Raising his sword to block yet another blow from Tervanis, he 
twisted his body to the side, rolling his form with the force of the blow.  Just 
as expected, the assassin pressed forward, believing he had managed to unbalance 
his opponent.  Legolas ducked underneath their crossed blades, bending with an 
amazing show of flexibility, and bringing his free fist up sharply into 
Tervanis’ stomach.

The assassin let out a low grunt, stumbling back, off balance.  Unfortunately, 
Legolas’ position did not allow him to take advantage of his opponents 
momentarily dropped guard, and a second later Tervanis was fully recovered and 
pressing back in for the fight.

The cuts around Legolas’ wrists had re-opened during the battle, and soon his 
grip upon the hilt of his sword was made slippery with blood.  He made a quick 
feint to his left, switching at the last moment and sweeping his blade up and to 
the right, forcing Tervanis’ own blade down to meet it.  Then, instead of 
stepping back and waiting for the counter-attack, he stepped forward, his left 
leg sweeping around in an attempt to pull the assassin’s legs from beneath him.

Tervanis was too quick, and darted back from the attack.  However, Legolas had 
carefully judged exactly when and where to make the bold move, and as the 
assassin moved back, his sword rising in order to strike down at his vulnerable 
opponent, he tripped over one of the sprawled bodies of the guards and stumbled 
backward.

Legolas leapt forward, his blade sweeping around, yet at that moment a sharp 
twinge from his ribs caused him to gasp and falter, his sword merely cutting a 
shallow gash across Tervanis’ torso rather than killing him.

It was Legolas’ turn to be thrown off balance, and before he could recover, 
something hard slammed against the side of his head, causing bright stars to 
explode in front of his vision.  Legolas realized a moment later that Tervanis 
had thrown one of the guard’s vacant stools at him.

Legolas fought to regain his balance, but it seemed that his body had finally 
had enough.  His ribs were screaming in protest, and dark fringes of pain marred 
the edges of his vision.  He stumbled back against the wall of the room, raising 
his sword at the last minute to block a blow from Tervanis’ sword that would 
have surely cleaved him in two.  Yet it turned out that the true danger was in 
fact not Tervanis’ sword, but the small dagger he had retrieved from beneath his 
cloak and now held tightly in his left fist.  With Legolas’ attention focused on 
deflecting the blow from the sword, his left side was left completely 
defenseless, and Tervanis took full advantage of this fact.  Darting forward, he 
thrust the dagger deep into Legolas’ left side, directly below his ribs.

Legolas gasped as white-hot fingers of pain raced up his side, robbing him of 
his breath.  He jerked backward, ripping free from the dagger and struggling to 
remain on his feet.  Yet the fight seemed to be fleeing him just as quickly as 
the blood flowing from his side and soaking his tunic.

Tervanis stepped back, breathing heavily as he watched Legolas’ struggle to 
regain his wits.  When it became obvious that the fight was over for the elf, he 
calmly re-sheathed his blood stained knife and took yet another step back away 
from his opponent.

“Well done, Legolas,” he whispered softly. 

Legolas fought to remain conscious, fought to keep hold of the sword still 
clutched in his right hand as he stared back at Tervanis.  His breath was coming 
in sharp gasps now, and the pain from his side seemed to be intensifying with 
every gulp for air.  He was uncertain what was going to happen next, yet he was 
determined that if he was going to die, he would die standing on his feet.

“I did not expect you to defeat me,” Tervanis said calmly, his gaze still locked 
on Legolas.  “Not injured and weakened as you were.  Still, you have given me 
much to look forward to.  We will meet again, Legolas, and when we do, the 
battle shall be an even one, with neither of us holding advantage over the 
other.  I look forward to that day.”  

And with these words, Tervanis turned and strode from the room, leaving Legolas 
to slump with a soft moan to the floor.

…………………………………………………………………………………..


Chapter 31    Desperate Rescue     

Gimli sprinted down the long hall, barely giving a second glance to the numerous 
doors branching to his left and right, his whole attention focused on the stairs 
at the end of the passageway that would lead him to his friend.  The loud 
pounding of his booted feet upon the floor, and the harsh sound of his breathing 
were the loudest things to be heard in the silent and abandoned corridor as he 
dashed toward the stairway.  His axe was gripped tightly in his right hand, and 
his face burned with the fierce fire of determination and rage.  He was not only 
ready for the fight that lay before him in order to free Legolas: he was eager 
for it.  Four guards would not make for such a difficult battle, yet even if the 
man Aragorn had questioned had been lying and there were twice that number 
guarding the elf, Gimli was prepared to fight his way through all of them in 
order to free his friend.

He reached the stairs and began bounding up them, his short legs moving with 
remarkable speed.  Something within him was urging him to move faster, to make 
haste before all was lost.  Normally he might have moved forward with more 
caution, making more effort to hide his presence so that he might have the 
element of surprise on his side when he attacked.  Yet he somehow knew that this 
was not the time for caution, but speed.  Legolas was in danger, and if he did 
not hurry he would lose his friend forever.  He did not know how he knew this, 
yet it was a certainty that grew stronger with each wild thump of his heart.

He reached the top landing of the stairs with a final bound, then at last came 
to a stop as he surveyed the short hall before him, his axe raised and ready.  
The corridor seemed to be completely deserted of any living being, and for a 
moment Gimli feared that he had somehow been led astray.  Then his eyes fell on 
the stiff and cold bodies of two dead guards lying sprawled in front of a door 
at the far end of the hall.  The men’s throats had been expertly splayed open, 
their wide, staring eyes revealing their surprise and terror.  Their weapons had 
not been drawn from their sheaths, and it appeared as if neither man had been 
given a chance to defend himself.

Gimli slowly moved down the hall toward the dead men, his axe still raised 
cautiously before him.  He was not sure what to make of the scene.  Whoever had 
killed the guards had definitely been an expert with the blade, and for a moment 
Gimli wondered if Legolas had somehow found a way to free himself.  He dismissed 
the thought almost immediately however.  The scene before him was too gruesome, 
too coldly violent for Gimli to believe Legolas was responsible.  The elf 
treasured life far too greatly, and though Gimli knew Legolas would kill if 
given no other alternative, he also knew his friend would not choose such a 
brutal and cold way to dispatch his adversaries.  

Still, that left the question of who had done this and why?  Gimli felt the cold 
fingers of fear twist within his stomach, and again the urge to hurry was upon 
him.  He quickened his steps, wincing slightly in disgust as his boots tread 
through the sticky pool of blood surrounding the two dead guards.  He reached 
for the handle of the door the two men had obviously been guarding, then 
hesitated when he realized it was already opened by a crack.  Finding a firmer 
grip on his axe, he took a deep, steadying breath, then pushed the door open and 
entered the room.

His gaze took in the scene before him in one swift glance.  Two more guards lay 
at his feet, their throats slashed in exactly the same manner as their 
companions without.  Gimli hardly noticed them, however, for all his attention 
was focused on the limp figure on the far side of the room.  Legolas was half 
sitting, half lying slumped against the wall, his long golden hair falling in a 
curtain that hid his features, the hilt of a sword lying only inches from his 
limp right hand.  The left side of his tunic was heavily stained with blood.

Gimli stood motionless, his breath caught somewhere in his lungs and his heart 
frozen within his chest.  For a horrible moment he thought for certain that 
Legolas was dead.  He could not see his friend’s chest rise and fall!  He had 
not been fast enough!  He had come too late!  The panic and grief that seized 
him then was almost enough to send him to his knees.

But then Legolas groaned, shifting slightly, and Gimli’s body gave a start, as 
though he had just been struck by lightening.  His mind still numb with fear, he 
stumbled forward, reaching out for his friend.  His rough and work-worn hands 
were strangely gentle as he knelt beside Legolas and lifted the elf’s head into 
a more comfortable position.  Legolas’ body jerked at his touch, the elf’s eyes 
flying open and his body stiffening as Gimli brushed away the strands of hair 
from his face.

“Easy, Legolas,” Gimli murmured gently, moving his body so he could better 
support the elf’s limp form.

At the sound of his voice Legolas immediately relaxed, his dazed and pain-filled 
eyes searching for Gimli’s face.  A small smile graced his fair features when 
his gaze at last met Gimli’s.  “Elvellon,” he whispered softly.  “What took you 
so long?”

Gimli only grunted in reply, not trusting his voice to speak.  Legolas began 
attempting to struggle into a more upright position, and Gimli tightened his 
hold on his friend, growling for the elf to remain still.  

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Legolas said simply, his voice soft and weak, 
but still full of annoying elven authority.  “There is cloth on the bed.”

Gimli’s eyes traveled to his friend’s left side, and the gaping wound that was 
even now gushing blood.  He quickly steadied Legolas, then rose to his feet and 
moved to the bed, impatiently ripping free a long strip of cloth.  Balling the 
cloth into a thick wad, he moved back to Legolas and pressed the makeshift 
bandage tightly against the elf’s side.  Legolas’ winced and instinctively tried 
to move away from the pain the pressure caused, but Gimli placed a hand on his 
shoulder and firmly held him in place.

“You look horrible, Legolas,” Gimli remarked gruffly, running a critical eye up 
and down the form of his friend.  Legolas’ long golden hair was tangled and 
stained with blood, framing a face that was far too pale.  Two long vertical 
scratches, along with numerous bruises marred the elf’s facial features.  Gimli 
did not even want to guess what other injuries were hidden beneath Legolas’ 
tunic, but he suspected their would be many.

Legolas gave him a small smile.  “Thank you, Gimli,” he said simply, “I was not 
certain you would notice.”

Gimli shook his head in mock disgust, but he could not hide his own small smile 
as a feeling of intense relief swept over him. The fact that Legolas was feeling 
well enough to taunt him made Gimli feel certain that the elf would somehow be 
fine.

“What happened here?” he asked softly, refusing, for perhaps the first time 
ever, to respond to Legolas’ baiting.  He wasn’t in a playful mood at the 
moment.  Seeing his friend in such a condition was filling him with conflicting 
emotions of anger and worry.  Whoever had done this to Legolas was going to pay 
dearly.

Legolas’ smile faded, and he let out a soft sigh.  “An assassin,” he responded 
simply, “by the name of Tervanis—”

“The one who attacked us in Minas Tirith?” Gimli broke in.

Legolas’ looked surprised.  “You have heard of him then?” 

Gimli hastily nodded, not wishing to explain about Delran.  “Is he the one who 
did this?”

Legolas gave a brief, short nod.

“Why?” Gimli demanded.

“He wanted to fight me,” Legolas said simply, as if this explained everything.  
“As you can see, I lost.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Gimli muttered sarcastically, as he once more ran a 
critical eye up and down Legolas’ limp form.  “Where is he now?”

“He is gone,” Legolas replied, waving his right arm dismissively in the air.  

Despite this show of nonchalance, Gimli had the sudden feeling that Legolas was 
keeping something from him.  He opened his mouth to demand further explanation, 
but Legolas distracted him with a question of his own.

“Where is Aragorn?”

Gimli gave a small start, ruefully realizing that he had forgotten all about 
Aragorn in his worry over Legolas.  “He sent me to find you,” he explained 
quickly, “while he went in search of Servius.”

It was Legolas’ turn to give a start, and suddenly he was struggling against 
Gimli in an attempt to rise.  “Servius?!” he exclaimed, “We have to find him, 
Gimli.  Hurry.”

“We?” Gimli repeated, too stunned for a moment by Legolas’ actions to move to 
stop him.  “What are you talking about fool elf?  You aren’t going anywhere!”

But Legolas had already managed to push himself to his feet, and he was now 
stumbling toward the door.  “We have to find Aragorn,” he repeated.  “He is in 
danger, Gimli.”

Gimli let out a loud curse, easily catching up to Legolas before he could reach 
the door.  “Aragorn can take care of himself,” he argued, trying to grab one of 
Legolas’ arms and push him back toward the bed.

“You do not understand,” Legolas growled, wrestling his arm free of Gimli’s 
grasp with a surprising show of strength.  “Servius wants Aragorn dead.  He has 
likely set a trap for him.  He will need our help!”

“Fine,” Gimli snapped.  “Then you can stay here and I will go and find him!”

Legolas was already shaking his head and moving once more toward the door, his 
left hand clasped to his side.  “You can help me, or you can try to stop me, but 
I will waste no more time,” he called over his shoulder.

Gimli stared after his friend in consternation, the bloody wad of cloth still 
clenched tightly in his hand.  Then he let out a single, explosive curse, and 
set out after Legolas.

******

Aragorn knelt in the small confines of a narrow hallway, facing a pair of sturdy 
wooden doors which undoubtedly led into the private office of Servius.  The 
three men who had been left as guards outside the doors now lay in crumpled 
heaps about him, all of them dead.  Aragorn had tried to keep at least one of 
them alive in order to question him as to what lay in wait on the opposite side 
of the large doors, but the battle had not gone at all as he had planned.  A 
long, burning cut running the length of his right collarbone was proof to that 
fact.  A few inches up and to the left, and the guard’s sword would have sliced 
through his throat instead of his shoulder, ending his life immediately.  

It was not that the three guards were any more talented than any of the previous 
men Aragorn had fought.  Fate just seemed to have decided to play the game in 
their favor this time.  They had come at Aragorn all at once, and the narrow 
confines of the hall had caused the fight to resemble more of an awkward and 
clumsy brawl than a true battle.  Aragorn still would have had no problem in 
defeating the men if it hadn’t been for the lingering effects of his battle with 
Kiesco.  His ribs had begun to cause him some problems, but even that was minor 
compared to his hands.  They were still badly swollen from the number of times 
he had struck Kiesco, and as the minutes wore on, he had found it more and more 
difficult to keep a firm and steady grip on his sword.

Still, his skills and self-discipline had won out in the end, and the guards had 
finally been defeated.  Now, his path lay open and unguarded before him, 
inviting him to move forward and at last face the enemy he had come to destroy. 
 Yet still he hesitated, unwilling to charge blindly into an unknown situation 
until he was sure of victory.  He did not know how many more guards waited on 
the other side of the door, and with his injuries causing him trouble, he knew 
he should wait for Gimli and Legolas before moving on.

The problem was, Aragorn was uncertain how long he could afford to wait.  Every 
minute brought dawn closer, and with the coming of day, he was certain more 
soldiers would return to the guild from their night on the streets and in the 
taverns.  Unless they finished their task quickly and were gone, they would find 
themselves trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.  Of this Aragorn was certain.  He 
had to act soon, or not at all.

He had just about made up his mind to move on without his friends, when a sound 
in the hallway behind him caused him to leap to his feet and turn, sword raised 
before him.  A moment later he relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief as he 
caught sight of Gimli and Legolas making their slow way toward him.  Legolas was 
leaning heavily on Gimli for support, and Aragorn could see that the elf’s tunic 
was darkly stained with blood, his face deathly pale.  

He hurried toward them, reaching out to take some of Legolas’ weight from Gimli, 
his face furrowed with concern.  “What happened?” he asked worriedly, eying the 
bloody cloth Gimli was holding against the elf’s side.  “Legolas…?”

“I am fine, Aragorn,” Legolas stated in a slightly strained voice, his breath 
coming in short, sharp gasps.  

It was hard to judge whose snort was louder at this absurd statement, Gimli’s or 
Aragorn’s.

“I can see how fine you are, Legolas,” Aragorn replied dryly, moving the elf 
around so he could lean against the wall. 

“I…merely need…a moment to regain…my breath,” Legolas panted, grimacing in 
undisguised pain as he leaned heavily against the wall.

“You need far more than that, my friend,” Aragorn said softly.  Gimli had just 
moved aside the blood soaked bandage enough to give him a brief look at the deep 
stab wound.  

“I will be fine,” Legolas insisted, brushing aside both Gimli and Aragorn’s 
steadying hands as a bit of color returned to his pale face and his breathing 
evened out somewhat. 

“Fool elf,” Gimli muttered darkly, though his expression as he stared at Legolas 
was one of deepest worry and concern, and his hands wavered expectantly at his 
sides as if he were prepared to reach out and catch Legolas should the elf show 
the slightest sign of falling.  “I tried to get him to stay behind, Aragorn, but 
he would have none of it.  He seemed to think you were in danger.”

“It is Merton,” Legolas gasped out, ignoring Gimli completely.  “Aragorn, 
Servius is really Merton Fallow Candywell III.”

Aragorn stared at Legolas in surprise, his mind unable to immediately register 
the implications of what Legolas was telling him “Merton?” he repeated in a 
whisper, his mind rebelling against the absurd possibility.

Legolas was nodded, his expression serious.  

“That…that fool from Calembel?” Gimli exclaimed, his face showing his utter 
disbelief.  “Surely you jest?”

Legolas shook his head.  “I was as surprised as you when I found out,” he said 
simply, “but it is true.  Yet he has changed, Aragorn.  His hatred has become a 
living beast within him, and he is its slave.  He has but a single desire, and 
that is to kill you.  I had to warn you before you face him.  He is likely to do 
anything to see that you die.  You must use caution!”

Aragorn slowly nodded, his skepticism fading in the face of Legolas’ serious 
tone.  It was hard to believe that Servius, the man who had plotted and toyed 
with him all this time, was merely the banished fool of a mayor, Merton.  Yet he 
did not doubt Legolas’ statement, and he had every intention of proceeding with 
the utmost caution.  Merton had shown an amazing amount of cunning in his plans 
so far, and he was not about to underestimate the man now simply because he had 
learned of his true identity.

“It matters not who he is or once was,” he said slowly.  “All that matters is 
what he has done.  He will pay for his crimes.”

Legolas and Gimli both nodded in agreement.

“Tell me, Legolas,” Aragorn said in a tight voice.  “Is Merton the one 
responsible for your injuries.”

A strange, guarded expression flitted across Legolas’ face, and he dropped his 
gaze from Aragorn’s as he answered slowly, “In part, he is responsible.”

Aragorn arched an eyebrow at the vague response, but it was Gimli who explained.

“It was the assassin,” the dwarf announced gruffly.  “He and Legolas battled.”  

“I was not in my best form, it seems,” Legolas offered grimly, wincing slightly 
as he glanced down at the blood soaked cloth pressed to his side.

Aragorn merely nodded at this bit of news, though he shared a knowing glance 
with Gimli.  “And where is the assassin now?”

“Gone,” Gimli and Legolas said together, though their voices carried two very 
different emotions with the single word.  Gimli sounded bitter and angry, while 
Legolas merely sounded relieved. 

Aragorn nodded.  “I see,” he said slowly, though he realized that there was much 
more to the tale that would need explaining later.  Now, however, they were 
running out of time.  “Legolas, I can do nothing for your wounds here, though I 
daresay they will need tending, and soon.  We must return to the inn.  But 
first, Ser…Merton is locked away in the office behind us.  It is time we deal 
with him once and for all.  I cannot risk him escaping to torment us another 
day. 

“I will help…,” Legolas began, but Aragorn cut him off.

“No, Legolas, you will remain here.”

Legolas scowled and immediately began to argue, just as Aragorn had known he 
would. “Surely you will need my help.  You know not how many men guard Merton.  
I am not so injured that I cannot be of aid to….” 

“You will do as I say, Legolas,” Aragorn interrupted.  “In your condition you 
would merely get in our way if you try to help.  Gimli and I cannot afford to be 
distracted, and  we surely would be trying to protect you…”  

“You will not need to protect me, for I can protect myself!” Legolas interjected 
angrily.

“You are staying here, Legolas, and that is final,” Aragorn said firmly, his 
voice soft and calm, but filled with a kingly command that even Legolas could 
not ignore.  “You will either obey my order, or I will force you to obey, but 
you must choose quickly.  We are wasting time with this foolishness.”  Aragorn 
knew his words were harsh and would sting his friend’s pride, but he did not 
particularly care as long as Legolas did what he commanded.

Legolas’ eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched furiously, but Aragorn met his 
angry glare calmly, waiting for the elf’s agreement.  It was not the easiest 
thing in the world, meeting Legolas’ angry gaze, and only Aragorn’s years of 
practice in Imaldris allowed him the strength to stand, unwavering, against the 
simmering fury of Legolas’ stare.  

The tense battle of wills lasted for only a minute, but it seemed more like an 
hour to Aragorn.  Still, it was Legolas who first dropped his gaze, his 
shoulders slumping in defeat.  The elf let out a soft sigh, then raised his eyes 
to Aragorn’s once more, though this time without the burning heat of anger 
smoldering within their depths.  “You are right, Aragorn,” he said quietly, “And 
I apologize for my foolishness.”

Aragorn nodded, but was not about to let his friend off so easily.  “You will 
promise me, Legolas,” he said softly, not taking his gaze off the elf.  “You 
will not interfere.”

Legolas sighed again, but he did not hesitate in offering Aragorn his promise.  
“You have my word, Aragorn,” he said softly.  “I will not endanger you or 
Gimli.”

Aragorn felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and with a 
small smile he reached out and clasped Legolas’ shoulder tightly, relieved when 
the elf immediately returned the gesture of affection.  Legolas might still be 
angry, but at least he understood.

“Come Gimli, it is time we finish this nightmare once and for all!”

*****

Servius was sweating.

He told himself that his perspiration was due to the heat radiating from the 
blazing fire in the hearth directly behind him, and had nothing to do with 
nervousness.  He knew it was only a matter of minutes before King Elessar and 
his men came bursting into the room, and despite the half a dozen guards lined 
up in front of his desk, Servius was afraid.  He did not know how many men 
Elessar had with him, but it had to be many for the King to have so thoroughly 
ambushed his guild.  They would be coming for him soon, and he did not know how 
much protection the six guards in front of him could offer.

It was obvious that his two advisors were thinking along much the same lines.  
Standing beside him behind his great desk, they were both shifting nervously, 
their hands shaking slightly as they gripped the hilts of their swords.

“Perhaps there is still time for us to flee,” Telfor suggested in a small voice, 
his eyes glued to the heavy doors leading into the office.

The only reply Servius gave to this was a low growl in the back of his throat.  
He would not be running.  No matter how nervous he was, he was determined to see 
King Elessar die.  It seemed that most of his life had been shaped around this 
single goal, and he could not even fathom the possibility that he might fail, 
that the fates might not see fit to allow him to accomplish this single task.  
King Elessar might have him outnumbered, but Servius was still certain that the 
man would insist on leading his men in battle.  He was still flesh and blood, 
still mortal, and Servius would see that he died no matter what the odds against 
him.

As if to punctuate this thought, the doors to the office suddenly swung open 
with a loud bang, causing everyone within the room to jump slightly.  Servius’ 
hands tightened into hard fists at his side, and his jaw clenched with a fiery 
determination.  He watched with cold hatred as King Elessar strode into the 
room, closely followed by his dwarven companion.  The King stopped only a few 
feet before the line of soldiers standing in front of the desk, his gaze grazing 
across them almost casually before lifting to meet Servius’ dark glare.  

Servius had expected the King to show surprise and disbelief at the sight of 
him, but Elessar displayed neither.  His expression was calm and collected, and 
his voice revealed absolutely no emotion as he said simply, “Surrender, Merton. 
 It is over.”

Rage exploded inside Merton’s head, and for a long moment he could not speak, so 
overcome was he with burning hatred.  His hands had balled into so tight a fist 
that he could feel his nails cutting deeply into the skin of his palm.  His 
whole body shook with fury, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that he 
brought his raging emotions under enough control to be able to speak.  
“Surrender?” he spat, spittle flying from his lips.  “Unlikely!  I will never 
surrender to you!”

“Then you will die,” Elessar said simply, his voice still perfectly calm, though 
Servius could now see simmering fires of anger within the King’s gaze.

“Where are your men?” Servius growled.  “You make empty threats while you stand 
before me outnumbered.  Call your men to you, and let us finish this once and 
for all!”

King Elessar arched an eyebrow, his gaze flickering briefly to his companion 
before turning back to Servius.  “I do not know of what you speak,” he said 
finally.  “I have no men.  There is only Gimli and I, and our threat is far from 
empty.  I tell you again, surrender or die.”

Servius laughed mockingly, though inwardly he was reeling with the news that 
Elessar and the dwarf were alone.  “And what, o King, would you do to me if I 
were to surrender?”

“You would be brought back to Gondor where you would be tried for your crimes,” 
Elessar answered simply, his voice firm and hard.

Servius laughed again.  “And I suppose the punishment for my crimes would be 
death, would it not?” he asked scornfully.

Elessar did not answer, but his gaze hardened

Servius snorted contemptuously  “That is what I thought,” he said nastily.   
“No, I do not think I shall be surrendering.  Yet since you have just revealed 
to me that you and the dwarf are alone, I am afraid it is you who will be 
surrendering to me.   Throw down your weapons or I will have my men cut you down 
where you stand.  If you give yourself up, I swear I will make your death quick 
and painless.  Maybe.”

King Elessar shook his head.  “You are a fool, Merton,” he said softly, showing 
no signs of relinquishing his weapons.  “You have allowed hate to become your 
master, and now it is killing you.”

Servius’ face twisted into a grimace halfway between a sneer and a snarl of 
rage.  “Perhaps it is you who should be more worried about death, your majesty! 
 Hate is not killing me, it has made me strong.  Strong enough to defeat you!”

“If you were strong, you would have come after Aragorn and faced him yourself, 
instead of sending others to do your dirty work,” Gimli bellowed, hefting his 
axe threateningly. “You will never be strong enough to defeat Aragorn, you 
rotten excuse for orc dung!”

“KILL THEM!”  Servius screamed at his men, his patience snapping at the dwarf’s 
insult.  “KILL THEM BOTH!”

The line of men lunged forward, swords raised, their cries of battle echoing 
eerily within the large room.   King and dwarf stood firmly to meet them, their 
own weapons raised and ready.  There was a loud clash as steel met steel, 
followed by loud grunts of effort as Servius’ men attempted to overwhelm the man 
and dwarf with the sheer force of their number.  Elessar and his companion stood 
firm, however, refusing to back down, and repelling the men attacking them with 
an amazing show of strength and skill.

Servius wasn’t paying much attention to the fight, however.  Instead, his hands 
were scrabbling desperately within a hidden compartment on the side of his desk. 
 When he at last withdrew them, he held a large, already loaded crossbow in his 
grasp, his face shinning with triumph.

“And now you die, Elessar,” he whispered cruelly.  Raising the crossbow and 
aiming in the direction of his most hated enemy, he waited patiently for a clear 
shot and an easy victory.

*****

Legolas leaned against the wall of the hallway, his eyes closed as he listened 
intently to the discussion going on in the room before him.  His right hand was 
tightly clasping the bloody rag against the wound on his left side, yet he 
barely felt the pain of the injury any more, so intent was he on what was 
happening within Servius’ office.  

Despite the burning wound to his pride, Legolas knew Aragorn had been right in 
forcing him to stay out in the hall.  In his present condition, weak and 
unsteady, he would only be in the way.  He knew he would never forgive himself 
should either Aragorn or Gimli suffer injury whilst trying to protect him.  Yet 
still he felt as if there had to be some way to help his friends.

“KILL THEM!  KILL THEM BOTH!”

Merton’s screams from within the room carried clearly out into the hallway were 
Legolas was waiting.  He straightened as the first sounds of steel against steel 
echoed from the room.  Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself away from the 
support of the wall and began moving toward the doorway to the office.  He knew 
he could not stand idle within the hall, listening to the sounds of battle 
without knowing what was happening.  Perhaps he would not be able to help, but 
he had to at least watch.  He had to know what was happening.  Stooping down, he 
retrieved the abandoned sword of one of the guards Aragorn had killed, then 
straightened painfully and continued toward the door.

He would not break his promise to Aragorn and purposefully join the fight, yet 
perhaps some of the guards would notice him standing in the door and move to 
attack him.  Aragorn would hardly be able to blame him for defending himself.

He staggered to the doorway, peering in at the fierce battle taking place before 
him.  Gimli and Aragorn stood side by side, fighting off half a dozen guards, 
their backs turned to him.  Neither of them seemed to be in too much danger, for 
though they were outnumbered it was obvious that they were far superior in skill 
than the men facing them.  None of the guard’s blows seemed in danger of coming 
anywhere near them, and Legolas knew it would only be a  matter of time before 
they were able to reduce the enemy to a much more manageable number.  Still, he 
had to fight off the nearly overwhelming urge to join his friends and even out 
the odds a little.  

A movement from the far side of the office suddenly caught Legolas’ attention, 
and his gaze swung immediately to where Merton and his two advisors still stood 
behind the desk.  His heart froze at the sight of the object in Merton’s hands, 
and it did not take him long to realize exactly where the Guildmaster was 
aiming.

“Aragorn!” he cried, stumbling into the room, forgetting his promise to remain 
out of the battle in his need to protect his friend.  “Watch out!”

It was too late.  Even as Legolas lunged forward, two of the men fighting 
Aragorn shifted, opening up a clear shot for Merton.  Legolas’ cry of warning 
sounded at the exact instant the bolt from the crossbow was released with a loud 
snap.  

………………………………………………………………………………………



Chapter 32      An End to Evil            

Aragorn never heard Legolas’ shout of warning, nor did he hear the snap of the 
crossbow bolt being released.  He was too busy fending off two of Merton’s 
guards, while trying to keep his third opponent from circling around behind him. 
 His concentration was focused completely on his adversaries, and the ring of 
steel on steel rang loudly in his ears, muting all other sound.  He had just 
managed to forcefully drive back his first two opponents and was whirling to 
face the third when he hesitated, all his senses suddenly screaming out in 
warning.

It was too late though.  He gasped in shock and pain, his eyes widening slightly 
as the crossbow quarrel found him, cutting a long, deep welt along the top of 
his forearm, the tip tearing through skin and muscle and grazing bone, before 
flying away to burry itself deeply in the wood of the floor.  His right arm went 
almost instantly numb, and his sword slipped from his limp fingers with a loud 
clatter.  He stumbled forward, all color draining from his face as blinding 
waves of agony raced up and down his arm.

The three men he had been fighting were quick to take advantage of his dropped 
guard, lunging forward with upraised swords.  Aragorn saw their approach and 
stumbled back, helpless to stop the blows he knew were coming.  But before any 
of the swords could reach him, Legolas was there, appearing out of nowhere to 
stand before him, his own sword sweeping out in a fierce arc that deflected all 
three of the guards’ blades.

The men were as startled by Legolas’ sudden appearance as Aragorn, and they 
hesitated, their faces showing their uncertainty.  Legolas did not give them 
time to regroup, but leapt toward them, his sword a whirring blur as he drove 
them back, away from the injured and dazed Aragorn.

Aragorn shook his head, trying to clear his mind.  Legolas’ unexpected 
appearance had served to buy him some much needed time in which to regain his 
wits.  His right arm was useless now, the cut from the crossbow bolt running 
from just above his wrist up to his elbow.  The gash was extremely deep, slicing 
clear down to the bone and bleeding heavily.  His arm was throbbing in agony, 
and his body seemed to suddenly be protesting his slightest movement.

Yet there was no time to either succumb or see to the injury.  Legolas was now 
locked in a fierce struggle with the three guards Aragorn had been battling, and 
it was obvious the injured elf would not be able to keep the fight up for long. 
 His movements were much slower, much less graceful than normal, and Aragorn 
knew it was only a matter of time before the elf faltered, perhaps with a fatal 
result.  Gimli was too busy fighting off his own three guards on Aragorn’s other 
side to be able to offer aide, and so it was up to Aragorn to help his elven 
friend.

Aragorn tucked his injured right arm protectively against his stomach, then 
began looking around desperately for his dropped sword.  His vision was somewhat 
blurred, and the burning agony in his arm was a distraction, but in his 
desperation to help Legolas he was able to push away the pain.  His friend had 
saved his life, but unless Aragorn acted quickly, the elf would die for his 
sacrifice.

Aragorn had just reached his sword and bent down to retrieve it when a loud roar 
from across the room distracted him.  He turned just in time to see Gimli fling 
himself forward, his axe swinging wildly before him.  The three guards facing 
him fell back in surprise and alarm, the force of the dwarf’s blow knocking the 
sword from one man’s hand, and snapping the second man’s weapon clean in two.   
Both men fell dead a moment later as Gimli’s axe slashed for a second time. The 
third guard attempted to dash out of reach of the raging dwarf’s axe, but in so 
doing, he put himself in range of Gimli’s fist.  The dwarf sent him crashing to 
the ground with a single, fierce blow to the side of the head.  

Gimli’s path lay open then, and the dwarf charged forward, his destination 
clearly the spot behind the large desk where Merton and his two advisors were 
still huddled.  Merton was busy trying to wrestle a second bolt into the 
stubborn crossbow, so his two advisors, in a surprising show of bravery, moved 
forward to block Gimli’s path.  Their faces were twisted in anger and hatred.  
Gimli met them in the narrow space between the large desk and the wall, his own 
face filled with rage and determination.  Unfortunately, the small area did not 
provide him much room in which to swing his axe, and the two advisors fell upon 
him with wild abandon, their ferocity and enthusiasm making up for any lack of 
skill.  Even as Aragorn watched, he saw one of the men pick up what looked like 
a heavy block of iron from the desk and hurl it at Gimli.  The object slammed 
into the dwarf’s face with a sickening crunch, and Gimli stumbled backward, 
dazed.  

All of this had happened in the space of a few heartbeats, and for the barest of 
moments Aragorn stood motionless, unsure of which direction to go.  Both Legolas 
and Gimli were in need of aid, but if he went to one, would that mean the loss 
of the other?

Blood was pouring down Gimli’s face from a deep cut above his left eye, but the 
dwarf was still fighting, the swings of his axe perhaps slightly more wild than 
usual, but still effective in keeping the two advisors at bay.  Still, how long 
would it be before the blood flowing down into the dwarf’s eyes blinded him to a 
surprise ending, like the single, lethal slash of a blade.  And yet on his other 
side, Legolas too was in serious danger.  It seemed that only desperation and 
rock hard determination was keeping the elf alive, and how long could that last?

Aragorn was not given the chance to decide who was most in need of his help, 
however.  He was saved from having to make the decision by a loud shout of 
triumph from behind the desk.  Merton had at last succeeded in loading the 
second bolt into the crossbow, and with a look of uncontained glee, the 
Guildmaster raised the weapon and pointed it directly at Aragorn’s chest.

“You lose, King Elessar!” he screamed in mad glee.  “Throw down your weapon!”

Aragorn stood frozen, his mind whirring in desperate search of a plan.  He knew 
whether he threw down his weapon or not, Merton would still kill him, and a 
rebellious part of his mind screamed at him to fight!  Merton might shoot him, 
but if he acted quickly enough, perhaps he would be able to bring the 
Guildmaster down with him.  Even if he died, he would at least die fighting.   
But then, if he did as Merton ordered and dropped his sword, the Guildmaster was 
likely to take time to gloat over his victory.  This would give Aragorn more 
time in which to come up with a plan.  Either way his chances were slim.

Aragorn at last decided to try and buy more time, and for the second time his 
sword slid from his fingers to land with a clatter on the floor.  Around him, 
Legolas and Gimli continued to battle with their opponents, and if they were 
aware of what was happening, they were obviously unable to do anything about it. 
 Aragorn and Servius faced one another from across the room, the only two people 
not locked in a desperate struggle for survival.  

Just as Aragorn had suspected, Merton began to taunt him, secure in his surety 
of victory.

“Would you say my hate is killing me now, King Elessar?” he crowed, his voice 
full of disdain.  “No, indeed it is your love that has killed you! If you had 
not come after the elf, I would not now be given this opportunity to kill you.”

Aragorn made no response, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this 
situation.

“No bold words now that you are facing death?” Merton asked derisively, waving 
the crossbow in tantalizing little circles.  “Ahh well, I always knew you to be 
a coward beneath your proud play at heroics.  Perhaps you will have something to 
say after I have killed one of your friends.  Which one would you like me to 
kill first, Elessar?” 

Aragorn’s heart gave a sickening lurch as Merton shifted the crossbow from him 
to the still battling Legolas.  He took a step forward, but then stopped, 
knowing he would never be able to reach Merton before he fired.

The Guildmaster was watching him gleefully, obviously enjoying the panic he saw 
reflected in Aragorn’s eyes.  “You will all die eventually,” he said 
dismissively, “But which of your friends should go first?”  The crossbow now 
moved to Gimli.  “Which one would you like to watch die?  The one you came to 
rescue, or the one who has so foolishly stood by your side?”

Aragorn’s heart was hammering wildly within his chest, and his mouth had 
suddenly become so dry he could not speak.  He stared fearfully at the crossbow, 
waiting for Merton to make his move, and dreading what that move might be.  

Merton seemed to have at last grown tired of his game with Aragorn, impatient to 
move along in his plans of revenge.  His gaze moved from Aragorn to fix on the 
struggling form of Gimli.  His aim steadied; his fingers drifted toward the 
trigger.

Aragorn had no time to think, only act.  His left hand plunged inside his tunic, 
desperately seeking out the hilt of the tiny dagger Elrohir had given him as a 
gift years before.  The dagger was much too small to use in a normal battle, but 
Aragorn had developed the habit of carrying it with him wherever he went.  The 
small knife was extremely useful in other tasks, as Aragorn had discovered in 
his years as a Ranger.

He was thinking of none of this, however, as he wrenched the small blade free.  
All his attention was focused on Merton’s right hand, which was beginning to 
tighten upon the trigger of the crossbow.  Aragorn did not hesitate, but hurled 
the tiny dagger with all his strength.  His throw was somewhat awkward, due both 
to the fact that he was using his left hand and he had not taken the time to 
properly aim.  Still, the knife found its mark, burying its tiny blade deep in 
Merton’s shoulder.

The Guildmaster let out a surprised shout, jerking back, his hands slipping on 
the smooth wood of the crossbow.  The weapon began to tumble from his hands, and 
Merton made a wild grab for it as it fell.  As he did so, his hand bumped the 
trigger.  There was a loud snap as the bolt was released, followed almost 
immediately by a loud wail of pain.  

Aragorn watched in stunned surprise as Merton’s arms began to windmill at his 
sides, his face contorted in agony.  The crossbow had been aiming downward, and 
the bolt meant for Gimli had instead pierced deeply into the top of Merton’s 
foot.  The Guildmaster tried to jerk his leg away from the stinging pain, only 
to find that his foot was pinned to the floor by the bolt.  Overbalanced, he let 
out a cry and tumbled backwards, straight into the gaping mouth of the hearth 
and the hungry flames waiting within.

A horrible shriek filled the room as the fire blazed angrily, dancing flames 
reaching out to embrace the figure thrashing wildly amid the ashes.  Merton’s 
screams echoed throughout the room, growing slowly louder in pitch as the raging 
fire consumed him.  Ugly black smoke poured from the hearth, filling the room 
with the sickly stench of burning flesh.  When Merton’s screams cut off 
abruptly, the silence that replaced it was almost deafening.

Aragorn stood transfixed, staring at the fire, his face showing a mixture of 
relief and horror.  The other occupants of the room also stood frozen, their 
weapons still raised, but their eyes locked on the burning remains of the body 
in the fire.  All fighting had ceased, and no one seemed to dare even breathe.

It was Merton’s two advisors that finally broke the silent spell that had fallen 
upon the room.  With loud cries, the two men lunged forward, knocking Gimli 
backwards before racing past him and through the doors of the office, the 
pounding sound of their retreat echoing back up through the hall.  The remainder 
of the guards quickly followed suit, some of them even dropping their weapons in 
their haste to get out of the room.

As soon as he had regained his balance, Gimli made to go after them, but Aragorn 
stopped him.  “Leave them, Gimli,” he ordered, his gaze fixed on Legolas, who 
had slumped back against the far wall, his face completely ashen and his arm 
gripping his side tightly.  The dark stain of blood on his tunic had spread even 
farther, and the elf seemed to be trembling slightly.

Aragorn stooped and retrieved Anduril, then quickly moved to Legolas’ side, 
Gimli a step behind him.  He reached out his left arm to steady the elf, 
ignoring the screaming pain in his other arm.  “Legolas?” he whispered 
worriedly, fearing that the elf was about to pass out from pain any moment.

“I…I will be fine, Aragorn.  Just give me a moment,” Legolas requested, his eyes 
sliding shut for a brief moment before re-opening.

“We need to get out of here,” Gimli murmured, watching the elf with unveiled 
apprehension.  “Both of you have serious wounds that need tending to, and if we 
do not hurry more guards may return.”

“If they do, Gimli,” Legolas said wearily, “I’ll let you deal with them while 
Aragorn and I watch.”

“We need to stem your bleeding before we go anywhere,” Aragorn announced, 
struggling to tear a long strip of cloth from his cloak with his good hand.  
Gimli moved to help him, and they soon had the wound on Legolas’ side tightly 
bound, stemming the flow of blood.  Another strip was then cut from the cloak, 
this time to be wound firmly around Aragorn arm.  They moved quickly, ignoring 
their pain in the rush to be gone.

 “It is not the best, but it will have to do until we reach the inn,” Aragorn 
announced when they had at last finished.  He let out a soft laugh then.  “We 
all look horrible.  Perhaps we are losing our touch”  The sickly stench of 
burning flesh was beginning to turn his stomach, and the pain in his arm seemed 
to be growing with each passing second.  

Aragorn and Gimli helped Legolas ease away from the wall, then supported him as 
they moved out of the office and down the hall.  “A dwarf never loses his touch, 
Aragorn,” Gimli said staunchly when they were well away from the office and 
heading down the stairs toward the main hall.  “Perhaps these skills are fading 
from Legolas and you, but mine will stay with me until my dying day.”

It was a measure of how weary they were that neither Aragorn nor Legolas had an 
answer for this.

“We will rest at the Sleeping Dragon for one day,” Aragorn informed them as they 
moved toward the doors leading out of the guild.  “I don’t want to stay in this 
place a moment longer than we must.  Captain Jeralk will be worried, and the 
sooner we return to him, the better.”

“I am as anxious as you are to leave this place behind,” Legolas assured 
Aragorn, his face twisted in a grimace of pain he could no longer hide.

“We will rest longer at Del and Fandon’s homestead,” Aragorn said, watching 
Legolas with mounting concern.  “They took excellent care of Dar, and I am sure 
they will be more than willing to have us.”

Legolas nodded wearily, then suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his head 
jerking up.  “Dar?” he said, obviously startled.  “Aragorn, Dar is alive?  He 
escaped?”

Aragorn nodded, giving Legolas a small grin.  “His injuries were grave, but 
thanks to the kindness and care of a wonderful family, he will be fine.”

A look of joyous relief swept over Legolas’ face, and when he again moved 
forward, his steps were much lighter.  “It seems there is much you must tell 
me,” he said softly, his eyes glowing bright.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, “But not until we get back to the inn and I tend to your 
wounds.

They were outside the guild now, the first bright glow of dawn lighting the 
eastern sky.  Legolas’ face revealed his disgust as they moved through the 
jumble of bodies littering the ground, and they all picked up their speed 
slightly in their anxiousness to be free of the gruesome sight.  Even more rats 
had come out to feast, and their beady red eyes followed the three companions as 
they hurried down the alley.

Aragorn kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, and his gaze swept the 
shadows before them in search of any signs of ambush.  He knew they were not 
free of danger yet, and in fact would not be completely safe until they had left 
Norvil far behind them.  He had to admit, that like Legolas, he would be more 
than a little relieved when that time came.

They had gone about halfway down the dark alley when Gimli suddenly stopped, his 
abrupt halt causing the others to stumble.  Legolas moaned softly, and Aragorn 
turned to face Gimli questioningly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his 
sword.

Gimli’s eyes were unnaturally wide, glinting softly in the darkness, and what 
Aragorn could see of the dwarf’s face seemed to be twisted in horrified 
realization.  “Oh no, Aragorn,” he whispered softly, “We forgot the medallion.”

Aragorn winced, his eyes sliding shut for a moment at his own stupidity.  How 
could they have forgotten the medallion?  Gimli’s life rested on that tiny 
trinket, and yet they had almost walked off without it.

“What medallion?” Legolas asked when Aragorn opened his eyes again.  “Of what do 
you speak?”

“The medallion used to buy your life, my friend,” Aragorn answered softly, then, 
as Legolas looked about to question him further, he said, “I will explain 
everything later.  But now, we have to go back for that medallion.”

Gimli was shaking his head, and when Aragorn looked at him he cast a pointed 
look at Legolas.  “You need to get Legolas back to the inn, Aragorn,” he said 
firmly.  “Perhaps I can stay and look for the medallion myself—”

“No!” Aragorn immediately overruled the dwarf’s suggestion.  “We stay together. 
 Perhaps we can take Legolas to the inn, and then you and I return together to 
search.  It is likely the medallion is in Merton’s office somewhere.  It should 
not be too hard to find.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, “But what if the Guild is crawling with guards by the time 
we return.  You are hardly in the condition to fight any more battles, Aragorn.”

“I could…” Legolas began, but then quickly cut off, his gaze locked on something 
at the end of the alley.

Aragorn swung around, awkwardly drawing Anduril from its sheath with his left 
hand.  Gimli removed his axe from his belt, and the two friends immediately 
moved to stand protectively in front of Legolas, their eyes locked in the 
direction Legolas had been staring.  “What is it?” Aragorn asked in a whisper.  
“What do you see, Legolas.”

“Men,” Legolas answered simply.  “Several of them.  Down near the end of the 
alley.”

“More of Servius’ guards no doubt,” Aragorn said grimly, glancing wildly around 
the alley for a place the three of them might hide.  None of them, save perhaps 
Gimli, were in any condition to fight, and if they could hide until the men 
passed…

“Aragorn, one of them approaches,” Legolas whispered hurriedly.  “I do not think 
he is a guard, for he is rather richly dressed.”

Aragorn barely had a chance to nod his understanding before the man had reached 
them.  He stopped perhaps a yard from where they stood, his face cloaked in 
shadow, his casual stance revealing that he was not at all surprised to find 
them standing there.

“You may put your blade away, Strider, ranger of the north.”

Aragorn immediately recognized the voice, but it was not until the man took 
another step forward that his facial features were revealed.  It was none other 
than the richly dressed and pompous aid that had questioned them outside 
Thorbis’ guild before taking them to see the Guildmaster.

“What are you doing here?” Aragorn demanded, lowering his sword slightly but not 
putting it away.

The man’s face darkened, as if annoyed that Aragorn would dare question him, and 
when he answered his tone was somewhat sullen.  “My master has sent me to learn 
whether you have failed or succeeded in this night’s mission.”  

“Then you may tell him we have succeeded,” Aragorn answered simply.

The man’s eyes swept quickly over Legolas, then behind them to where the shadowy 
hulk of Servius’ guild was just visible in the early morning gloom.  His 
expression was somewhat dubious as he asked, “And Servius?”

“He is dead,” Aragorn replied firmly.

“And what of the assassin, Tervanis?”

Aragorn sensed Legolas shifting slightly behind him, but he did not turn to look 
at the elf as he answered, “The assassin is gone.  Yet your master need not fear 
him now that Servius is dead.”

Thorbis’ aid slowly nodded, his gaze fixing on Aragorn with an intensity that 
immediately set him on guard.  “You have my master’s appreciation.  In truth, he 
did not believe you would be successful tonight, and he will be most pleased 
when I report back to him.  Most pleased indeed.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Gimli grunted darkly, and when the aid cast 
him a curious glance he continued, “I do not have your master’s medallion.  Yet 
perhaps if you will spare some of your guard, they can help us search for it.”

The man shook his head, a wide and arrogant smile spreading across his face.  
“There will be no need for that, master dwarf,” he stated superiorly, “You see, 
I already have my Master’s medallion and will be returning it to him personally. 
 You need not ever bother him again.”

Aragorn and Gimli stared at the aid in surprise.

“You already have the medallion?” Aragorn asked, hardly daring to believe their 
good fortune.

The man nodded. “ We caught several of Servius’ guards trying to escape from the 
guild a few moments ago.  Among them were Servius’ two advisors.  We killed 
them, of course, and afterwards checked their bodies for any valuables.  My 
master’s medallion was one of the things we found hidden in a pocket of one of 
the advisors’ tunics.  Of course, it does not appear in the best of conditions, 
yet I am sure Thorbis will not hold you responsible for that.”

There was something in the aid’s tone that made Aragorn suspect that Thorbis 
would indeed try to hold them responsible for the medallion’s condition.  “I am 
glad that your master is happy,” he said simply, “Now if you please, we would 
like to return to our inn.”

“Of course,” the aid said, moving aside and sweeping his arm out in front of 
him.  “But I would be careful if I were you,” he added, just as they started 
moving past him.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked, turning back to face him.

The aid merely shrugged, but the intensity was back in his gaze as he looked at 
Aragorn.  “I simply mean that you may not find yourself as welcome at your inn 
as you once were.  In fact, you may not find yourself welcome anywhere in 
Norvil.  It would be my suggestion that you leave immediately.  That is, if you 
still can.”

“What is this you are babbling about,” Gimli growled impatiently.  “Stop 
speaking in riddles man, and tell us why we will not be welcomed back to the 
inn.”

The aid shot a sharp look in Gimli’s direction, but he did explain.  “It seems 
that there is somewhat of a large mob out looking for you,” he stated simply, as 
though he were making some comment about the weather.  “They are led by that man 
you fought in the pit fights the eve before last.  He has been spreading rumors 
about you around town.  Wild and far-fetched, perhaps, yet that is just the kind 
needed to stir up the good citizens of this town.”

“What do the rumors say?” Aragorn asked, though he already suspected he knew 
perfectly well what Kiesco was spreading around town.

“That you are no mere ranger of the north,” the aid stated, his intense gaze 
returning to Aragorn, “But that you are in fact a King.  And no mere King at 
that, but King of Gondor.  Wild and far-fetched, as I have said, but I do not 
think I need to remind you that Gondor and Khand are not on the best of terms at 
the moment.  If this mob finds you, I do not think they will hesitate in tearing 
you to pieces, and your friends along with you.”

Aragorn felt a strange sinking sensation within his stomach.  He had been 
counting on being able to stop at the inn long enough to see to Legolas’ 
injuries as well as his own, yet the possibility of such a things seemed remote 
at the moment.  If Kiesco had a mob of bloodthirsty men looking for him, it 
would be best if they left Norvil as fast as they could.  

“Thanks for the warning,” he offered shortly, then turned and motioned Gimli and 
Legolas to follow him from the alley.  The sun had barely risen, and yet Aragorn 
felt certain that the day would be long and difficult.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

First, my greatest appreciation goes to my beta, Ithilien.  Without her, who 
knows what kind of junk would have ended up polluting this story.  I know I have 
said it before, but you truly are the greatest, Ithilien.  Thank you so much for 
all your help.


Chapter 33      A Time For Rest

Legolas was nearing the end of his endurance.

Never before had his body felt so weak, so drained, each passing minute sapping 
him of even more strength.  Every step, every breath was becoming increasingly 
difficult, leaving him teetering dangerously on the brink of collapse.  Every 
inch of his body was screaming in pain, the hurt so fierce that Legolas found 
himself longing for the black oblivion of unconsciousness, so that his suffering 
might ease, even if only by the smallest of measures.  Only the certain 
knowledge that to falter now would endanger not only himself, but also his 
companions, allowed him the strength to keep moving.  But even that would soon 
not be enough.  Already he had stumbled several times, and were it not for the 
steadying hands of his friends, he would have certainly fallen and not likely 
risen again.

“He cannot go much further, Aragorn.”  Gimli’s concerned voice sounded from 
Legolas’ left side as he stumbled yet again, his friends’ arms immediately 
tightening around him to keep him from falling.

“The inn is just ahead,” Aragorn replied grimly.  “If he falls, we will have to 
carry him, Gimli.”

Legolas’ jaw clenched.  His friends’ words, combined with the fact that they 
were talking about him rather than to him, served to add further injury to his 
already severely battered pride.  Unfortunately, it was taking every ounce of 
strength left within him to merely place one foot in front of the other, and he 
had not the breath to object to this insult.   And if he were completely honest, 
he would have to admit that Gimli was correct in stating that he could not go 
much further.  But he was not about to let his friends carry him either.  
Aragorn would not be able to with his injured arm, and the mere thought of Gimli 
trying to lift him was enough to safely jerk his mind back from the brink of 
unconsciousness.

Aragorn and Gimli had stopped, and Legolas stumbled to a halt also, wondering 
vaguely if he would ever be able to start again.

“The inn,” Aragorn murmured, motioning to the squat front of a building across 
the street and a few yards down.

“There is no sign of Kiesco or any others waiting for us,” Gimli muttered 
thoughtfully, squinting in the early morning sunlight.

“That does not mean they are not there,” Aragorn replied grimly.  “Kiesco knows 
where we were staying.  It is highly likely he has men stationed inside ready to 
inform him the moment we return.  I am afraid we will have to leave our 
saddlebags behind, Gimli.  It is simply too great of a risk to try and retrieve 
them.”

“What of the horses?” Gimli asked.  “Will they not be guarded as well?”

Aragorn slowly shook his head.  “Kiesco does not know that we are onto him, nor 
does he realize we are trying to leave.  With any luck, he will not have posted 
a guard in the stables.   It matters not though, whether there are guards or 
not.  We must retrieve the horses, for we will never make it out of Norvil on 
foot.”  This last was said with a pointed look in Legolas’ direction.

Legolas realized that he should probably add his own opinion to the discussion, 
but he was still trying to catch his breath from the trip to the inn, and he 
couldn’t think of a single think he might say anyway.

“Stay with Legolas, Gimli.  I will go and see if our way is clear.”

Before Gimli could argue, Aragorn had crossed the street and headed toward the 
inn, skirting close to the wall so that he might hide his presence from anyone 
looking out from one of the building’s many windows.  Legolas and Gimli watched 
him apprehensively until he disappeared down the side alley beside the inn.  
Then the waiting began. 

Fortunately, they did not have to wait very long before Aragorn reappeared and 
began hurrying back toward them, once again using the same stealth motion as he 
had before.

“The way is clear,” he gasped as he reached them.  “We must hurry though.”

With the help of Aragorn and Gimli, Legolas began to stumble forward once more, 
though he could not contain a low moan of pain.  He wanted this nightmare to be 
over.  He wanted to be able to simply lie down somewhere and rest, to let his 
mind drift away from this world of pain and worry.  When would this mad flight 
come to an end?

“Just a little further, Legolas,” Aragorn murmured encouragingly, as though 
reading Legolas’ thoughts.  “The going will be easier on horseback, and once we 
reach our soldiers’ camp, I will have the supplies I need to properly tend to 
you.”

Legolas nodded, still finding the act of speaking too great of an effort, 
especially now that they were moving once more.  They hurried down the short 
alley beside the inn, then made a quick dash toward the open doors of the 
stable.   A young boy was sitting on a stool by the door, polishing some 
saddles, and he leapt to his feet as they rushed in.  His eyes grew quite wide 
at the site of them, and his mouth opened as though he were about to speak, but 
Aragorn quickly reached into a pocket of his tunic and tossed a silver coin in 
the lads direction.

“For your silence, boy,” he said simply as they hurried past.

“Yes, sir!” the boy answered enthusiastically.  “Would you like any help with 
your horses?”

“No,” Aragorn called back over his shoulder, already heading toward the far end 
of the stables, “But if you would be so kind as to stand at the door and give a 
shout if you see anyone coming, it will be worth another coin.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Legolas saw the boys’ eyes light up as he 
quickly turned to do as Aragorn had asked.  

At the sight of Legolas, Shandarell began banging against the sides of his 
stall, neighing loudly in his excitement, so delighted was he at seeing Legolas. 
 The three friends made their way toward him.  Legolas could not hold back a 
weak smile at the sight of his faithful horse, and when they reached the stall, 
he caught Shandarell’s head in his hands and began stroking the horses’ soft 
nose.  Shandarell whickered in delight, and began snuffling along the collar of 
Legolas’ tunic, his warm breath stirring the elf’s long hair.

Legolas leaned heavily against Shandarell’s stall door as Gimli and Aragorn 
worked on saddling and bridling Cierno.  Both of them were talking in hushed 
voices that even Legolas could not make out, and every now and then one of them 
would glance worriedly in his direction.

‘They are talking about me again,’ Legolas thought glumly, his shoulders 
stiffening slightly at the rankling thought.

When Cierno was ready, Aragorn moved to stand next to Legolas.   “Let me help 
you mount,” he ordered gently as he opened the stall door and allowed Shandarell 
to move out into the corridor.  

Legolas would have liked to mount on his own, but he wise enough to realize that 
if he tried, he would undoubtedly end up flat on his back.  And so he allowed 
Aragorn to boost him up onto Shandarell’s back, gasping at the sharp pain in his 
side.  He swayed dangerously for a moment, but then Gimli was hoisted up behind 
him, and the dwarf’s thick arm snaked gently around his waist, offering support.

“We will take it slow as much as we are able,” Aragorn assured them as he moved 
to mount Cierno.  “I will be riding right beside you Gimli.  If he starts to 
fall, let me know.”

“I will not fall,” Legolas growled through clenched teeth, glaring at Aragorn.  
His brief rest against the stall had helped him regain his breath, and though he 
was reeling from pain and lightheadedness, he was relieved to know he would not 
have to walk any further.

Aragorn looked relieved at his response, and went so far as to offer him a small 
grin.  “Shall we go then?” he asked softly.

Legolas nodded, squeezing Shandarell’s sides gently.  The great horse was still 
shaking somewhat in his excitement, but he refrained from his normal 
enthusiastic prancing, sensing his riders’ need for a smooth and gentle gait.  
Legolas was grateful for this, unsure if he would have been able to calm the 
horse in his present condition.

On the way out of the stable, Aragorn tossed the young boy a second silver coin, 
then led the way back down the side alley.  They had just moved out onto the 
main road and turned west when a loud shout sounded from behind them.  

“There they are!  They are escaping!”

Legolas turned to see a large mob of people streaming down the street in their 
direction, their faces filled with anger and hatred.  Their hands gripped 
various weapons ranging from swords to simple pitchforks.  Most of the group 
were on foot, but at least two dozen men, led by Kiesco himself, were mounted.  
Their loud shouts echoed through the streets, and Legolas felt a shiver of 
apprehension run down his spine.

“Ride!” Aragorn shouted, and Legolas did not need to be told twice.  He dug his 
heals into Shandarell’s side while gripping the horse’s main in a white knuckled 
fist.  His vision went dark for a few terrifying moments as the horse leapt 
forward, sending waves of agony throughout his entire body.  Gimli had a firm 
hold around his waist, however, and through sheer force of will he was able to 
fight back the darkness and keep his seat.

Angry shouts sounded from behind them, soon followed by the unmistakable sound 
of pursuit.  Legolas did not dare risk his precarious balance by trying to look 
behind him, but he could tell that their pursuers were hot on their trail.  

“Ride to the West,” Aragorn cried as soon as the hard packed street of Norvil 
gave way to dried and dead grass as the last few houses of the town drifted 
behind them.  “If we can get to the soldiers’ camp…”

But the rest of what he was going to say was abruptly cut off as Cierno stumbled 
heavily, nearly pitching Aragorn from his back.  The horse recovered from the 
fall almost immediately, but there was a limp to his stride now, and he 
inevitably began to slow.  Aragorn’s face was grim, but he continued to urge 
Cierno on, coaxing the horse with soft words and gentle strokes to his neck.  In 
response, Legolas slowed Shandarell to match the injured horse’s pace.

“We will never make it, Aragorn,” Gimli called from behind Legolas.  “They are 
gaining on us.”

Legolas risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that the dwarf was 
right.  Kiesco and the other mounted men were indeed gaining on them, their 
faces filled with an evil malice.  Legolas had never before so missed the 
absence of his bow and quiver of arrows.  He was completely weaponless, though 
he doubted he would be able to do much in a battle in any case.  He drained of 
all strength, helpless and weak, yet even if he had been in fine health it was 
doubtful they would be able to resist the overwhelming numbers against them.

“Keep riding,” Aragorn ordered, though it was obvious from the expression on his 
face that he too realized the situation was hopeless.

Legolas ground his teeth, fierce anger sweeping unexpectedly through him at the 
unfairness of the situation.  How could they fail?  After all they had been 
through, how could it end like this?  He cursed the ill turn of fate.  Was life 
really so cruel, so unfair?  He found himself wishing that Aragorn and Gimli had 
never chosen to come after him.  He did not want to see them die in this cold 
and hateful land.  He would have rather suffered at the hands of Merton for all 
of eternity rather than see that.

Just when despair was beginning to enfold him completely in its cold and bitter 
shroud, an excited shout from Aragorn ripped him from his melancholy.  Ahead of 
them, just mounting a low rise, was a large group of soldiers.  They were 
dressed in the colors of Aragorn’s guard, and hope flared anew within Legolas at 
the sight.  Though the soldiers were still a fair distance away, they were 
moving swiftly in the direction of the elf, dwarf, and King. Captain Jeralk rode 
at their front, his sword free of its scabbard.

Legolas took the initiative and glanced again behind him to see that Kiesco and 
his men were slowing.  Their faces showed alarm at the sight of the charging 
soldiers.  Legolas smiled grimly, then resumed his focus to what lie ahead of 
him just as Shandarell leapt over a small knell in the ground.  Normally such a 
small jump would have been completely unworthy of notice, but in Legolas’ 
condition it turned out to be his undoing.  Because he had been looking behind 
him, he had not been prepared for the jump.  As Shandarell landed smoothly on 
the far side of the knell, Legolas pitched forward, off balance.  The abrupt 
jar, combined with Gimli’s arm tightening around his waist caused Legolas’ body 
to explode in sudden pain, and he let out a soft cry.

He was vaguely aware of the sound of horses pounding past him, and then Gimli’s 
shout of alarm, before he felt himself tumbling sideways.  Shandarell 
immediately slowed as he felt his rider slipping, but it was already to late.

‘This is going to hurt,’  Legolas thought distantly as he felt himself falling 
through open air.  He was unconscious before he struck the ground.

Floating in a black oblivion, he felt his world calm, the darkness offering 
solace for his pain.  He was content to drift along, paying no attention to the 
passing of time, his mind at last finding desperately needed rest.  If a part of 
him objected to the darkness, warning him of the danger of staying here too 
long, it was buried deep, and he paid no mind to it.  He forgot all about his 
troubles, about the danger to both his friends and himself.  Life and light 
might have continued on around him, but he was oblivious to its presence as it 
slipped past him, unheeded.  

It was some time before he found the strength to rebel against the darkness.  
Once he did, his journey back to consciousness was not a pleasant one.

As the darkness in his mind began to clear, the first thing he became aware of 
was pain.  A lot of pain.  His entire body ached, and a tight band seemed to 
have settled around his chest, making breathing a somewhat difficult chore.  His 
head was pounding fiercely, and his eyelids, quite against his own consent, 
seemed to have firmly shut, casting the world into darkness.  This might not 
have been a problem, except that they were now refusing to open, and he did not 
seem to have the energy to force them.  He felt as weak as a newborn baby, and 
this feeling did not sit well with him at all.

“Legolas?”

The voice seemed to drift to him from very far away, familiar, yet at the same 
time unreachable.  He moaned in frustration, or at least, he would have if his 
mouth hadn’t decided to rebel against him as well.  It seemed he had absolutely 
no control over any part of his body, and this fact was beginning to cause him 
to panic.  Why couldn’t he move?  Would he ever escape this darkness?  It had 
been comforting at first, shielding him from the pain, but now it was only 
taunting him, keeping him from the light he knew lay so near.

“I think he might be waking up.”  The voice was back, and though Legolas heard 
the words, he was having trouble putting together their meaning.

“How can you tell?  He looks exactly the same as he has for the last two days, 
Aragorn.”  This voice was lower and somehow more gruff than the first, and at 
its sound Legolas felt himself drift a bit closer to the brink of consciousness.

“That is not entirely true, Gimli.  His face has regained some color, and his 
breathing is no longer as labored as it was before.”

“This is true.  For a while there I thought for sure we were going to lose him.” 
 The second voice had dropped even lower, and there was a grave note to its 
tone.

“He will live, Gimli, have no fear.  If he were a man, I would not be so sure, 
but already his wounds are mending nicely.”

“He lost too much blood,” the gruff voice replied.  “When he fell from the 
horse….  I tried to catch him, Aragorn, but—”

“Do not blame yourself master dwarf.  I am sure he would not want that.”

‘They are talking about me,’  Legolas slowly realized, and with this dawning 
comprehension he felt the last reluctant grips of darkness release his mind.   
He felt control of his bodily function return to him, and with a great effort he 
forced his eyes open, blinking them groggily against the bright rays of the 
sinking sun.  He was lying on his back on the ground, a soft piece of folded 
cloth serving as a pillow.  A blanket was laid over him, and beneath its thick 
covering he was stripped to the waist.  He could feel the tight pressure of a 
bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs, and as he shifted restlessly he 
realized more bandages bound both his wrists and his left thigh.

“He’s awake!” a voice cried out joyfully from beside him, and Legolas winced as 
the pounding in his head increased somewhat.  Two shadows fell over him then, 
and with some difficulty he was able to make out the features of Aragorn and 
Gimli, their faces both furrowed in concern.  Gimli sported a small bandage 
above his left eye, and Aragorn’s right arm was bound from wrist to elbow, but 
neither of them looked to be gravely injured.  Legolas was relieved, though he 
could not recall exactly why he would have believed them in danger.

“How do you feel, Legolas?” Aragorn asked softly, brushing the back of his hand 
gently across Legolas’ brow.

Legolas tried to answer, but found that his mouth was too dry, his throat too 
parched to form any words.  Fortunately Aragorn seemed to realize his dilemma, 
for the cool rim of a cup was pressed to his lips and a small trickle of water 
was allowed to flow down his throat.

“Better?” Aragorn asked after removing the cup, and Legolas nodded.

“What…what happened?” he questioned weakly, his mind trying desperately to pull 
together the shattered bits of memory flittering tauntingly just outside his 
grasp.  “Where are we?”

“We are approximately two days ride from Norvil,” Aragorn answered 
matter-of-factly.  “As for what happened?  That is a bit of a longer story.  
What do you remember.”

Legolas closed his eyes and concentrated hard on remembering.  He recalled 
stumbling through the streets of Norvil, desperate for rest and nearly 
collapsing from pain.  He remembered retrieving Shandarell from the stable at 
the inn, and then being chased out of the city by a large mob, but after that 
his memory went completely blank.  “We were being pursued,” he mumbled slowly, 
“By Kiesco and some other men.  But how did we escape?”

“We almost didn’t,” Gimli replied grimly.  “If Captain Jeralk and his men hadn’t 
shown up, we would all be dead now.”

Aragorn nodded.  “They came right in time,” he agreed.  “Jeralk says a man 
dressed all in black came to their camp and warned him we might be needing help 
getting out of the city.  He said the man wouldn’t tell him why, but merely left 
his warning and then rode off.  Jeralk didn’t know whether to believe him or 
not, but in the end decided to take a group of soldiers and ride toward the city 
to check it out for himself.  It is lucky for us that he did.”

“A man dressed all in black?” Legolas questioned, struggling to sit up.  Both 
Aragorn and Gimli immediately reached out to push him back down, and Legolas, 
lacking the strength to resist them, gave in.  “What did he look like?”

Aragorn was looking down at Legolas sternly, obviously prepared to give him a 
lecture about staying still, but his expression changed at Legolas question and 
tone of voice.  “Do you know who the man is, Legolas,” he asked, obviously 
curious.  “Whoever he is, we owe him our life.”

Legolas stared at Aragorn for a moment, then slowly shook his head. He did not 
know why, but he somehow suspected the man who had warned Jeralk to come to 
their aid had been Tervanis.  But if he told Aragorn this he would then have to 
explain why, and he did not feel quite ready to do that yet.  “How long have I 
been unconscious?” he asked, choosing instead to change the subject.  For a 
moment Aragorn appeared as though he would press the matter, but much to 
Legolas’ relief he did not.

“Two days,” Gimli answered briskly.  “You gave us quite a scare, elf.  Next time 
you consider tumbling from your horse, kindly do not do it while I am riding 
behind you!”

“Two days,” Legolas gasped, and then the rest of the dwarf’s statement hit him. 
 “I fell off Shandarell?” he asked, groaning.  “That makes two times in the span 
of a few weeks!”

“Two times?” Gimli asked, raising his eyebrows.  “When did you—”

“I’ll explain later,” Legolas interjected weakly, turning his attention back to 
Aragorn  “Finish telling me what happened after Captain Jeralk arrived.”

“There is not much more to tell,” Aragorn replied.  “Kiesco and his men are 
dead, except for a few who escaped and fled back to the town.  We feared they 
would return with greater numbers, and so we moved camp and have been traveling 
slowly back toward the border.”

Legolas digested this information, then repeated as if to confirm it. “And I 
have been unconscious for two days?”

Gimli and Aragorn both nodded.  “Your body needed the rest,” Aragorn murmured 
softly.  “I fear we pushed you to far.”

“We had no choice,” Legolas answered lightly.  “I understand this Aragorn.  I 
would hold you blameless for my injuries and recovery.”

Aragorn nodded, but he still looked somewhat glum.

Legolas sought to distract him.  “Tell me who that man was in the alley outside 
Merton’s guild?” he asked with his returning recollection and mounting 
curiosity.  “What was that talk about a medallion?”

Gimli and Aragorn exchanged glances, and then began telling Legolas about their 
meeting with Thorbis, leader of the thieves’ guild, and their dangerous alliance 
with the man in order to free Legolas and defeat Merton.  Legolas’ eyes widened 
slightly at the tale, and when Aragorn told of how Gimli had offered his life in 
exchange for the medallion, he turned to stare in surprise at the dwarf.

“Elvellon…” he began, but Gimli, looking extremely embarrassed, interrupted him.

“I knew the medallion would be found,” he stated dismissively, waving a hand in 
the air.  “Do not try to thank us, elf, for it was nothing.”

Nothing?  Legolas looked back and forth between his two dearest friends.  It 
seemed they had both suffered so much in order to free him.  He owed them both 
more than he could ever repay, and a simple thanks somehow did not seem enough.

“You are our friend, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly, as if reading his mind.  
“You would have done the same for either of us.  In truth, if it were not for 
you, I would be dead now.  You saved my life in Merton’s office, and I was never 
given the chance to thank you.”

“And yet if it weren’t for me you would not have been there in the first place,” 
Legolas pointed out.  “Both of you have sacrificed much for me.”

“Aragorn is right,” Gimli stated stoutly.  “We are friends Legolas, and true 
friends do not abandon each other in times of need.  Now let us forget this 
silly topic and move on to something more important.  Legolas, I want to hear 
everything that has happened to you from the moment you left Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn and Legolas stared in wonder at the dwarf, but then quickly broke into 
grins at Gimli’s obvious embarrassment.  The dwarf clearly wanted to change the 
subject, and after a moment Legolas decided to accommodate him.

“Very well,” Legolas said lightly.  “But first, I would like another drink of 
water, Aragorn, and then I am going to sit up.  I am tired of having to squint 
up at the two of you.”

Aragorn and Gimli both frowned and tried to argue, but Legolas remained 
resolute, and in the end Aragorn agreed that he would probably be fine if they 
propped him against the base of a tree.  It took a few minutes to get him 
properly settled, and though Legolas was in some pain by the time they had 
finished, he was also relieved to be off his back.  Both Gimli and Aragorn were 
watching him like a hawk, but Legolas managed to ignore them as shifted to find 
a comfortable position and then began telling his tale.

He started with his and Dar’s capture in Minas Tirith, and went on to explain 
the long journey that had brought them to Norvil.  His explanation took a long 
time, partly because Gimli and Aragorn kept interrupting with questions.  If 
either of them thought he was leaving something out, they would grill him 
incessantly until he explained in greater detail.

“Svellon.” Aragorn murmured softly, his brow furrowed in thought as Legolas 
reached the part of Dar’s escape and his own subsequent poisoning.  “I have 
never heard of it.”

“It is a horrible drug,” Legolas stated grimly.  “I do not remember much of the 
rest of the journey.”  He hoped neither of his friends would press him for more 
detail.  He did not particularly wish to relive the torturous effects of the 
drug upon his body.  Thankfully his friends seemed to sense this and did not 
press him.

“When did they put you in the cage?” Gimli asked gruffly after a few moments of 
silence in which Legolas tried to collect his thoughts.

Legolas stared at him in surprise.  “How did you…” he began, but Aragorn 
answered his question before he could finish.

“We saw the cage as we were searching the guild for you and Servius.  So they 
did put you in it?”

Legolas nodded.  They were getting to the more difficult parts of his story, and 
he suddenly wished he could claim weariness and have his friends leave him in 
peace.  And yet he knew he would have to explain things to them sooner or later, 
for they would have it no other way, and it would probably be best to get it 
over with now.

“And why did they have you moved?” Gimli asked, his voice sounding strangely 
gentle.

Legolas winced.  That was the last question he wanted to answer.  How did he 
explain to his friends that Merton had moved him because he had started to lose 
his mind.  Because the darkness had been too much for him and he had collapsed 
beneath its weight.  His pride was burning within him, and try as he might he 
could not think of a suitable answer.

“They moved him, Gimli, because Merton did not wish to risk having him die 
before I had arrived and he could use him against me,” Aragorn said softly, his 
gaze fixed on Legolas  “Legolas was undoubtedly still suffering from whatever 
poison the assassin gave him, and Merton wanted to make sure he was somewhere 
where he could heal properly.”

Legolas stared up at Aragorn in surprise, reading the understanding and 
compassion in the man’s eyes.  He felt waves of relief wash over him, and he 
nodded at Aragorn in appreciation.  Aragorn smiled slightly and nodded in 
return.

“Tell us about the assassin, Legolas,” Gimli urged, showing his own 
understanding by his willingness to change the subject.

Legolas shrugged.  “Tervanis confuses me,” he stated simply.  “I do not 
understand him, nor do I think I ever will.  He is like no other human I have 
ever met.  He wanted to fight me, and yet when he realized the battle was 
unevenly matched, he left me alive with the promise that we would face each 
other again another day.”

Neither Gimli nor Aragorn appeared too happy to hear this piece of news.

“He said he was coming after you again?” Gimli demanded, his face darkening in 
anger.

“Why is he so intent on fighting you?” Aragorn added, “It does not make sense.”

Legolas shook his head.  “I told you he confused me.  He said something about 
waiting for this challenge his whole life.  He did not exactly say that he was 
coming after me Gimli, only that we would meet again.”

“He sounds rather mad to me,” Gimli grumbled darkly, “And if he thinks he is 
going to fight you again someday, he will have to get past me first!”

“So what do you intend to do, elvellon?”  Legolas asked gently, “Stand guard on 
me for the rest of your life?”

“Gimli is right, Legolas,” Aragorn spoke up before Gimli could reply, “I think 
this matter is serious.  I do not like the thought of a trained assassin 
hounding your every steps.”

“Yet what can we do?” Legolas replied.  “Tervanis and I will face each other 
again some day, Aragorn, of this I am certain.  I do not look forward to that 
day, but I do not fear it either.  Do you and Gimli have so little faith in me 
that you would shut me away in a box in order to protect me?”

“It is not that we do not have faith in you, Legolas,” Gimli objected.  “It is 
just that….well….I mean…”

“We do not want to see you get hurt,” Aragorn finished for him, his eyes locked 
on Legolas.  “Valar knows you have had enough pain since you have known us.”

Legolas was touched by his friends’ concern, and he sought for a way to reassure 
them.  “Perhaps nothing will come of this,” he said lightly.  “Perhaps we are 
worrying for nothing.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn answered softly, but in their hearts, they all knew this was 
not the truth.

 

EPILOGUE

It took them over a week to reach the homestead of Del and Fandon.  They 
journeyed slowly, giving Legolas plenty of opportunities to stop and rest.  
Though the elf was steadily recovering, his wounds had been severe and numerous, 
and it would take some time for him to heal completely.  Aragorn and Gimli were 
never seen far from his side, like two protective nursemaids fussing over their 
accident prone child.  Legolas, who normally would have enjoyed his friends’ 
company, began wearing a look of exasperated annoyance and tried to avoid them 
whenever given a chance.  Unfortunately, this did not seem to deter Aragorn or 
Gimli in the slightest.

When they were a half a day’s ride away from the homestead, Aragorn sent a 
soldier ahead with news of their arrival.  The man returned several hours later 
with the message the Del and Fandon welcomed them into their home once more, and 
invited them to stay for as long as they would like.  Aragorn had suspected this 
response, and he began thinking of ways in which he could repay the friendly 
family for all that they had done for them.

Kenson Brantz was there to greet them as they rode into the homestead’s large 
yard.  He rushed forward as Aragorn dismounted, a wide, relieved grin on his 
face.  Aragorn offered his left hand to the man, his right still heavily 
bandaged, and the two shook.

“Thank the Valar you have returned safely,” Kenson said joyfully, his eyes 
shifting to where Legolas was dismounting from Shandarell under the watchful eye 
of Gimli.  “I see your mission was successful,” he added, “You will have to tell 
me everything that happened.”

“It is a long story,” Aragorn warned him with a weary smile.  “How is Dar?”

Kenson’s grin grew even wider.  “He is doing much better,” he said lightly as 
Gimli and Legolas moved over to join them.  “Del has insisted that he start 
taking short walks in the afternoon in order to regain his strength.  He is 
walking right now with Eleana.”

There was something in the way that Kenson said this that caused Aragorn to 
smile.  “Del’s eldest daughter?” he mused softly.  “She is very beautiful.”

“So Dar has noticed,” Kenson responded, his eyes practically glowing.  “They 
spend most of every day together.”

Just then the subject of their conversation entered the main yard from around 
the barn, Dar’s face lighting up at the site of them.  Legolas smiled and moved 
over to greet him even as Del and Fandon came out of the house to welcome their 
guests.

They stayed at the homestead for three days, resting and recovering their 
strength.  Then they rode on for Minas Tirith, the weather favoring them so that 
they made good time.  It took them only three days to reach the White City, and 
Faramir and Arwen were there to meet them as they rode into the main courtyard 
of the Citadel, dusty and weary, but glad the journey was over.  Arwen raced 
forward as Aragorn dismounted and threw her arms around him, clutching him so 
tightly he thought he might be crushed.  He returned her embrace gently, 
breathing in deeply of her sweet scent and realizing, perhaps for the first 
time, just how deeply he had missed her.

“I am so glad you are home,” she whispered against his shoulder.  “So glad you 
are safe!”  She released him then, but only long enough to embrace Legolas, and 
then, to the dwarf’s everlasting embarrassment, Gimli as well.

Faramir stood behind her, grinning widely, his handsome face filled with relief. 
 “I knew you would be safe,” he called out cheerfully.  “Once you were together 
again, that is.”

Aragorn smiled and glanced toward Gimli and Legolas.  “Yes,” he murmured softly. 
 “Together we can handle anything.” His gaze fixed on Legolas then, and an 
unspoken message passed between them.

“Come, tell us all that has happened,” Arwen urged, moving back into Aragorn’s 
embrace.

Aragorn smiled, and together the companions began making their way toward the 
front doors of the Citadel, home at last.

 

THE END…..for now. ^_^