Land of Light and Shadows Author: Thundera Tiger swordofomens@hotmail.com PG-13 Action/Adventure/Drama Eomer, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli journey south into Harad. It's hot, it's treacherous, and they're not in the best of company. Chapter 26: Sun and Shadows Waves of heat scorched their way across the forsaken land, robbing the burning sand of any semblance of moisture or relief. Temperatures soared as the sun reached its zenith, and the life that struggled in this desolate wasteland came to a grudging halt. Cowering in meager shelters, man and beast waited out the day with the knowledge that nighttime would bring a respite from the sun’s scornful gaze. Most of Harad’s inhabitants slept, finding refuge from the heat in dreams. But there were also those who did not sleep, much though they longed to, and of those, there were even a few who did so by choice rather than by force. Asbad, ruler of the Khurintu tribe, was one of these. For the past few hours, sequestered in his tent, Asbad had been carefully planning the final moves that would see him successfully on the way to complete control of Harad and eventually the northern countries as well. But that planning was now drawing to a close, and it was nearing the time when he should seek rest and sleep. The day was already quite warm, and ere long, it would be too hot for him to function properly. He smiled slightly as his thoughts took him beyond his tent toward the elf and the dwarf in their own small tent, which lay with its broad sides facing the sunlight. One of the easiest ways to cow and subdue prisoners was to subject them to the heat of the day. Asbad would never be so foolish as to leave anyone out in the desert unprotected if he desired them alive for later purposes, but there were things that could be done to make a captive’s stay highly uncomfortable. Arranging a tent so that it collected the day’s heat was one way. Those caught within would still be protected from the murderous effects of direct sunlight, but they would be greatly weakened and discomfited. Resistance usually dropped dramatically after such lessons, and captives were much easier to control. Of course, there were some prisoners who did not survive this treatment and died, but Asbad was fairly confident that his elf and his dwarf would endure. Still, it was best to err on the part of safety in such situations where safety was permitted. Glancing at the sides of the tent and noting the position of the sun, Asbad decided that water should probably be sent to the two prisoners. Dehydration was desired since it made captives disoriented and weary, but dehydration to the point of death was not the objective this day. Khurintu could utilize the corpses if the elf and the dwarf died, but the overall plan would be better served if they remained alive for now. With this in mind, Asbad motioned to the guard who stood at one of the entrances to the tent, picked up a skin of water, and handed it to the man. "Takes this to the captives and see that they drink it. If they are awake, they may refuse. Force them. If they are yet unconscious, wake them so that they do not choke and then give them the water. Are my orders to you clear?" To his credit, the large guard did not hesitate in barking an affirmative, but his eyes clearly showed his distaste for the assignment. This duty was the work of servants and water boys, not renowned soldiers. Beyond that, the desert was currently an oven, and the tent holding the prisoners was in no way an effective shelter. But the loyalty of Khurintu’s tribesmen was legendary, and despite his feelings of reluctance, the guard took the water skin, turned smartly on his heel, and left the tent. With this last problem out of the way and the remainder of the plan worked out in sufficient detail, Asbad stretched and moved to his pallet. He had no intention of remaining awake any longer. The day was growing hotter, and after another hour or so, his own tent would offer little in the way of protection. And so the leader of the Khurintu tribe lowered himself to his bed and shifted until he found a comfortable position. He fell asleep almost immediately, welcoming with open arms the dreams that came to greet him as he was carried into a new age in which his power was uncontested. * * * * Within a small white tent, arms and legs still firmly bound, Legolas tried to think of a time when he’d felt more miserable or more wretched. It was a rather grim testament to his plight when, after searching several centuries of existence, he decided that he had not been in a worse situation. His head still throbbed, he’d lost all sensation in his hands and feet, and his throat felt as though it had been dragged over the volcanic Sihal and then laid out to dry for a few days. The heat in the air around him was stifling, and the rising temperature of the sand was sapping his strength. And beyond that, there was the dwarf… Legolas shook sweat out of his eyes and turned to examine Gimli as he had already done many times that day. The dwarf was still far too pale, and his breathing had become increasingly labored as the temperatures rose. But other than speaking to him and offering unheard words of encouragement, the elf knew of no way to aid his best friend. And so he was forced to watch in helpless frustration as Gimli went from bad to worse, all the while wishing vainly for a change in fortune that might somehow see them through this trial. If only he would say something, the elf thought desperately, watching his friend closely as only an elf can. He had a vague hope that Gimli—always slightly uncomfortable under the prince’s intense scrutiny—would move away or tell him that if he were to chisel a sculpture it would last longer. But the dwarf remained deathly still, and the elf remained, for all intents and purposes, alone in his misery. He was not alone for much longer. Noise outside the tent caught Legolas’s dulled hearing, and he turned his head toward the flap curiously. What madness would drive anyone into the sun at this hour of the day? He received his answer when the door of his shelter was thrust open and a large, burly man entered. Dark eyes flashed angrily beneath a sheen of sweat, and the man surveyed the tent’s occupants with a curious mixture of fear and disdain. Seeing that Legolas was awake, the man advanced, flipped the elf onto his back before Legolas could even think about resisting, and shoved something into his mouth. Despite the protests of his back and his bound arms, Legolas was hurriedly running through plans of attack when something trickled across his lips. Frozen in shock, he almost allowed the precious liquid to run down his chin before he gulped greedily. Soon more water flowed from the flask, which the man now tipped upward. Pride thrown to the wind, Legolas closed his eyes and sent up multiple prayers of thanks for the lukewarm drink that was a balm to his mouth and throat. But far too soon for the prince, the flask was taken away and he was shoved back onto his stomach. Despite the fact that he was wheeling in sweet ecstasy, the elf tried to keep an eye on the man. The guard was now bending over Gimli and seemed to be trying to rouse the dwarf. Legolas’s blood boiled when he heard two hard slaps, but an accompanying groan put a stop to his ensuing protests. The flask containing the life-giving water was placed against Gimli’s lips, and Legolas’s breath caught as he watched the dwarf open his mouth and reflexively swallow the water that started to flow. Then the flask was taken away. The man rose, shoved Gimli back to his stomach, and left the tent with a low grumble in Haradric. Hardly daring to hope, Legolas immediately forgot all about trying to track the man’s footsteps outside the tent and instead kept his eyes glued to Gimli. The dwarf was moaning slightly and seemed to be on the verge of waking. Fearful that he would destroy the moment but anxious to hurry the process, Legolas hesitated and then called the dwarf’s name. "Gimli?" Another moan was his answer, and then blurred eyes fluttered open so slowly that Legolas felt he might go mad with impatience, a feeling as foreign to the elf as snow was to Orodruin. The prince grimaced when he noticed the fixed, dilated pupils, a clear indication of a head injury. Of course, considering the blow that felled him, Legolas would have been amazed had there not been some injury, but it was still painful to see the evidence of that hurt. At least the dwarf was opening his eyes and responding to his name. Those were good signs, and Legolas was hoping for more. "Gimli, can you say speak?" A seemingly infinite pause was finally followed by a very tentative voice. "Legolas?" The dwarf was blinking his eyes as though trying to clear them, and Legolas surmised that his vision was blurred. He doubted that Gimli could see little more than vague lights and shadows. But he could hear and he could respond. These two accomplishments were priceless, and Legolas hurried to encourage his friend to even greater achievements. "Yes, Gimli, I am here. How are you feeling?" Even as he said it, the elf realized how ridiculous the question was. He could easily see and guess for himself how Gimli was feeling, yet what else could he ask? What else would the dwarf be capable of answering? Was he even capable of answering this? "Stupid question," Gimli mumbled. Legolas smiled slightly and shook his head, which—thanks in part to the water—had stopped throbbing and currently only sported a dull ache. "I should have expected such a response from a dwarf," he answered even as relief filled his heart. If Gimli could jest, then things could not possibly be as bad as they seemed to be. The elf watched with a mixture of hope and fear as Gimli sighed and closed his eyes, wincing unconsciously at the pain that Legolas knew must have been crippling. "What happened?" the dwarf whispered. It was a simple enough question, but Legolas did not have a simple answer. Or any answer, for that matter. He was still trying to piece together the puzzle himself, and he was also lost as to the motives behind abducting the two of them. Power, to be certain, but the elf sensed something larger was at stake. Something larger than any of them suspected. But as for what that something was, the elf could not say. He had pondered on it for much of the morning, but the increasing temperatures had slowed his thought processes and he had been unable to reach an answer or even a vague guess. "What do you remember?" Legolas finally asked, turning the question back on his friend since he could not seem to put his own thoughts in order. Besides, this would help him uncover the extent of the dwarf’s head injury. "Night…tents…" Gimli trailed off and his brow furrowed. "Do you remember leaving the company of Aragorn and Eomer?" Legolas asked when the dwarf’s pause began to stretch into minutes. "Aragorn?" Gimli’s voice was becoming faint, and the elf sensed he was about to lose consciousness again. "Is Eomer…where are they?" "Not here, Valar willing," Legolas said. "What do you recall of them?" "I…I do not know," Gimli murmured. "I cannot remember…" Watching the dwarf closely, Legolas saw his body relax and his labored breathing deepen slightly. "Gimli? Gimli?!" There was no response and the elf sighed heavily. He did not know what to make of the dwarf’s broken speech and he could not tell how much damage had been done by the Haradrim’s blow. Gimli’s ramblings might be the direct result of an injury to his brain or merely the side effects of semi-consciousness in the midst of paralyzing heat. Legolas was sorely tempted to wake the dwarf again and see if he could push him to greater coherency, but he eventually decided that sleep would probably be best for him. At least that way, he could remain unaware of the blistering temperatures. "Rest well, Gimli," the elf said quietly. "Perhaps when you wake again, I will have the answers for which you seek and you will have the answers for which I seek. But until then, rest well." And with that, the elven prince returned to his own confusing thoughts, once again alone. * * * * Weaving through the alleys and buildings that protected Haradhur’s wells, Arabano and a small group of guards dared the deadly heat of the early afternoon and hastened toward the area where Gondor and Rohan camped. It had been a hazardous journey through the burning desert to reach even the walls of Haradhur, but strange things were happening and Budari had felt the risk was necessary. Arabano concurred with his leader, but he almost wished that someone else had been chosen to make the journey. Not that anyone else really could have gone. He and Budari knew the most about the situation, and no one else could be trusted to handle matters as convoluted as these had become. "Arabano!" Arabano froze, and at his side, the Lotessa guards all reached for their daggers. A wave from Arabano relaxed them slightly, but the feeling of alarm and warning continued. As one, the group turned to watch as Fastahn of the Soltari tribe, accompanied by two guards, approached. "Honored one, I would speak with you upon a matter of some importance," Fastahn said, his voice quiet but firm. Studying Fastahn closely, Arabano eventually nodded and motioned his men back. "Speak quickly, then, for I have much to do this day." "As do we all," Fastahn sighed. "But I would know what has become of the elf and the dwarf. Our spies reported that they never left Haradhur, but it seems they are no longer within the camp of Gondor and Rohan." "Have the vaunted spies of Soltari faltered at last?" Arabano asked with mock dismay, neatly avoiding the question at the same time that he began wondering about Fastahn’s purpose. "Surely they did not fail to keep track of the abominations within Haradhur." Fastahn’s eyes narrowed marginally, but he did not rise to the bait. "Our spies observed members of the Khurintu tribe advancing on the camp of Gondor and Rohan. This was shortly after the elf and dwarf had entered. There were sounds of a struggle, but then all fell silent again. After that, word came of the attack in the desert and our spies were recalled to aid in driving off the raiders. So I ask again, honored one, what news of the elf and the dwarf? What has become of them?" "Why does this matter interest you?" "They are not within Haradhur, are they? Khurintu has taken them." Arabano was rapidly losing what little patience he had left. "Why does this matter interest you?" he repeated through gritted teeth. "It does not interest me specifically, but the welfare of the Soltari tribe is in a precarious position," the man answered. "For this reason, honored one, I seek information. And your refusal to answer is answer enough. I thank you for your help." Arabano felt the iron control that held his temper in check begin to slip. If pressed much further, he would be unable to restrain himself. "Listen well, Fastahn, and then consider well your answer. Why does this matter interest the Soltari tribe? How does the location of the elf and the dwarf affect you and those beneath you?" Seeming to sense the imminent explosion in Arabano, Fastahn backed away slightly. "Asbad, using the guise of the Destroyer, has labeled the elf and the dwarf as abominations," he said after a moment of silence. "The interpretation has come to mean that they shall bring doom upon Harad unless the Gartabo tribe is able to contain them and hold them without Haradhur. But this has not happened, and that is also the work of the Khurintu tribe. They have opened the way for destruction, they have absolved themselves of blame while placing responsibility upon the tribe heading the Gathering, and they are leaving so that they are not caught in the path of doom. And you wonder that the Soltari tribe is concerned?" "The power of the Khurintu tribe is less than what rumor makes it," Arabano said firmly. "But rumor has a way of becoming reality if left uncontested," Fastahn countered. "Can you stop the rumors, honored one? Can you stop the fears? For out of fear is born submission, and already there are tribes who speak of following in the footsteps of Khurintu. Some are thinking of departing after tonight’s meetings." "Then let them depart," Arabano spat. "They are of no importance to us." "You are not strong enough to stand alone," Fastahn warned. "Gondor and Rohan stand with us." "Most of Harad will stand with Khurintu." Arabano let out a frustrated sigh and leveled Fastahn with a dark glare. "What is your purpose? You ask concerning the whereabouts of elf and dwarf, and then you speak of politics and Khurintu." "My purposes are the purposes of the Soltari tribe. As for its purposes, we seek only to maintain the balance of power within the desert. Khurintu is looking to upset that balance," Fastahn answered. "One more question, though, ere I depart. Know you the identities of the raiders who attacked last night?" "What binds me to tell you anything?" Arabano demanded. "Because I warned you of the plan to take Legolas and Gimli." "The warning did more harm than good." "I also explained to you the rumors and interpretations of the Destroyer that were spreading yesterday." Arabano sighed and shook his head. "My tribe does not know the identity of the raiders," he eventually answered. "However, King Eomer and the Rohirrim believe that they were of the Portu tribe." "Were they certain?" "When I spoke with them, they were," Arabano said. "Does this information mean something to you?" "Perhaps," Fastahn murmured. "I thank you for your time, honored one. If you will excuse me, there are now other matters I must attend to on behalf of my tribe." And without another word, the advisor from Soltari walked away, leaving Arabano to puzzle over their conversation. "Honored one?" one of the guards asked hesitantly. "Come," Arabano said quietly, still wondering about Fastahn’s intentions. Now that he thought about it, without Soltari’s warning, Legolas and Gimli would never have fallen into Khurintu’s hands. But had Khesva and Fastahn known that? Were they truly seeking to maintain a balance, or had they aligned themselves with Khurintu? Shaking his head, he decided this would have to wait until he could consult Budari about it. "Come," he repeated, turning and resuming his walk toward the camp of Gondor and Rohan. "There is much to be done this day." * * * * If there was one thing Dashnir hated, it was cleaning up after other people’s messes, even if those messes were necessary. This particular mess had even been expected, but it still gnawed at Dashnir’s temper. He had cleared out one of the larger tents in the Khurintu encampment for use as a place of healing as well as a morgue. Not wishing to be burdened with bodies, Asbad had left behind all that had been wounded or killed during the capture of the elf and the dwarf. Consequently, they were Dashnir’s responsibility, and it was his duty to see that no one else noticed that Khurintu seemed to have suffered an inordinate number of casualties during the night’s attack. Eleven men had been killed by elven blade or dwarven axe, and seventeen had been wounded, some grievously so. Dashnir sighed and rubbed his head. The dead tribesmen would have to be given proper rites, and that could certainly not be done here. There were far too many of them, and the required ceremonies were far too conspicuous. Thus, they would have to be disguised as baggage and carried out on the horses. With a grimace, Dashnir wondered if it would have been easier had Asbad taken the bodies along when he left with the elf and dwarf. But then, Asbad had been unable to take horses because of the havoc caused by the Portu tribe and the numbers kept by the Soltari tribe. And without horses, eleven dead men would have been a terrible burden. The number of wounded was also going to be a problem. Dashnir had known that both elf and dwarf were capable fighters, but their abilities had surpassed his expectations. And now he was forced to care for seventeen wounded men. Nine of these men could no longer walk, and of those nine, three would never be able to do so again. There were but two hours left until sunset, and Dashnir was still trying to devise a way of getting these wounded men out of camp without calling too much attention to them. Fortunately, almost all other preparations for departure were completed, and Dashnir could devote his attention solely to this. "Honored one?" That is, I can devote my attention solely to this problem if I meet with no other interruptions, he sighed, raising his head and glaring darkly at the guard who had poked his head into the tent. "Report." "The honored Radarad of Portu is demanding a right to speak with you. I would have turned him away, but his status as a tribal leader—" "Yes, I know," Dashnir sighed, releasing the poor guard from his sharp gaze. "Send him in." The man nodded smartly and disappeared. Voices could be heard outside the tent, and then the flaps parted to reveal a rather upset tribal leader. Radarad was not even attempting to mask his anger, and Dashnir wondered what was bothering the man. "Where is Asbad?" Radarad demanded. A slight tremor of uncertainty crawled through Dashnir’s stomach, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "He is not here, honored one, as I explained on the opening night of the Gathering," Dashnir answered, wondering if Lotessa was no longer alone in its knowledge of the Destroyer’s true identity. "Then where is he?" Radarad demanded. "Surely he would have arrived before now. And I do not think he would bestow upon you the power to withdraw your entire tribe from the Gathering." Relief swept Dashnir. It seemed Radarad did not know about Asbad’s role as the Destroyer but rather was working from assumptions based upon standard protocol and procedure. "The honored Asbad and I have conversed through hawks," Dashnir explained, gesturing toward some of the perches near the back of the tent where a few hawks were sleeping through the day’s heat. "In leaving Haradhur, we are acting upon his orders. And since we are leaving, he saw no reason to make the journey here but rather to await our coming and join us at a rendezvous point." Radarad looked less than pleased with this news, and his countenance darkened significantly. But after a short pause, he seemed to come to a decision of sorts and began speaking again. "Then I shall address you, Dashnir, as the resident authority, and I pray that you have the wisdom to handle this responsibility. Call off the Warra soldiers who guard the hidden lakes. My people are dying." Ah. So this is what so vexes you, dear Radarad. Wondering why he hadn’t seen this before now, Dashnir made his face carefully neutral and studied the Portu leader. At length, he shook his head slowly. "With all due respect, honored one, I fear that we cannot do that. I know not if I have the authority to order those guards, nor do I know if such a policy would be a wise one." Radarad’s eyes narrowed. "And in what way is this an unwise policy?" "If we allow your people access to the water, what assurances have we that you will not go crawling to Gartabo and confess all?" "It would be foolish for us to confess!" the tribal leader exclaimed. "It was my tribe who attacked the Gathering. Such an offense would alienate us from all in Harad. We will not go before them. We cannot go before them. You may rest easy in this knowledge." "My apologies, honored one, but we simply cannot take chances in this area. After all is said and done, we shall certainly allow your people access to the hidden lakes again." "My riders have done the work you requested of them!" Radarad exclaimed. "Your plans are set in motion, and none can stop you now. I demand that you uphold your end of the arrangement. Release my people!" "Prudence is often a kindly master, and though we do not always hearken to its counsels, we heed it as often as we can," Dashnir answered. "As I have said before, the Warra tribe shall guard the hidden lakes until our goals have been accomplished. Yours is not an entirely trustworthy tribe, honored one. I fear we cannot afford to take risks such as you would have us take." "And is this also the policy of Warra? For they are not represented in this tent. Surely Joranen has better uses for the men that guard hidden lakes from women and children." Dashnir froze and his eyes became dark. "For your own sake, Radarad, I urge you to never bring this matter before the honored Joranen. The Warra tribe wishes to keep their ties to us quiet and secret in the event that something may go wrong. He will refuse to see you, and he will deny all that you say, for they cannot afford to be caught in a web of deceit. Should aught happen and our plan fail, Warra wishes to remain untainted. And in exchange for their help, Khurintu has allowed this. Do not go to them, or the Portu tribe shall suddenly find itself bereft of its leader." Radarad’s look became hard, and Dashnir prayed that his improvised speech had worked. The entire plan would become far more complex if Joranen learned that a rebellious faction in his own tribe was working for Khurintu under the assumption that they were still operating beneath the deceased Garat. Should Radarad inform Warra of this, it would throw enough doubt onto the Khurintu tribe that the Lotessa tribe might be able to convince others that Asbad had been the Destroyer. Eventually, Dashnir’s hopes were realized as Radarad muttered something highly uncomplimentary under his breath and looked away. "Remember our agreement, then," he growled. "You have promised to let my people drink." "And we shall keep our promise," Dashnir said firmly. "You need only wait a few more days, honored one. I trust that your people shall be able to ration their remaining water accordingly?" "Do not seek to placate me," Radarad snapped, his eyes flashing. "I will be watching, Dashnir. And if you fail in your word, or if Khurintu fails in its promise, all of Harad shall know of the dishonor." And with this, the man fixed Dashnir with a parting glare and then swept out of the tent. And a moment ago, he was saying how he could never bring this before all of Harad, Dashnir sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump and thanking the Iluh that Radarad was too dense to see what was actually happening. Another leader would have seen the situation for what it was in minutes, but the Portu tribe was not renowned for its intelligence. They were cunning, devious, and sly upon the field of battle, but in the political arena, they were as children playing with weapons far too sophisticated for their abilities. Still, something would have to be done about the Portu tribe. They did not know enough to ruin the plan, but they knew too much for their own good. Perhaps the same surprise that was planned for Lotessa and key points along Haradhur’s wall should be extended to Portu. It could be done easily enough before the time came to depart. Two of Khurintu’s guards could deliver a message of apology, and while there, they could— "Honored one, Fastahn of the Soltari tribe is here to speak with you." Startled out of his thought process, Dashnir looked up and frowned. First Radarad, now Fastahn. This day was becoming unpredictable, and unpredictable things always made Dashnir extremely nervous. More than that, the Soltari tribe had no pressing business with Khurintu. Radarad’s interruption was understandable, but what could Fastahn possibly want? It made no sense, and given the fact that Dashnir was about to depart into the desert where he would rendezvous with the rest of Khurintu’s warriors, these unexpected interruptions were very disturbing. "Tell him that I am unable to meet with him," Dashnir said at length. He would set agents upon Fastahn and discover his intentions later. At the moment, he had more important items of business. "Honored one, he insists upon speaking with you," the man said, his eyes nervous. "He said that if you refuse him an audience, I am to tell you that he knows the color of the robes that the honored Asbad wore on the first night of the Gathering." Dashnir’s jaw dropped. Things did not usually catch Dashnir by surprise, for he was a man of great planning. He studied his moves carefully, he studied his opponents carefully, and when the time came to act, he had a very good idea of what would happen as well as most of the possible twists and turns that a situation could take. But this… It was impossible for Fastahn to know that Asbad had been the Destroyer. Arabano knew, and the Lotessa tribe now knew, but beyond them… Even if Lotessa had spoken with Soltari about it, Soltari would never have believed them. "Show him in," Dashnir hissed. His mind felt as though it was now tumbling through the thorn bushes that grew in the eastern part of the desert. How could this have happened? And why hadn’t Fastahn acted on this knowledge earlier? Why hadn’t he gone before the Gathering with it? What game was Soltari playing? Dashnir’s fists clenched at his sides while his teeth ground together. The Khurintu tribe was the one that did the maneuvering. It did not work the other way around! "Honored Dashnir, I present to you Fastahn, a member of Soltari’s advisory council." Dashnir looked over, his face now a mask of casual curiosity. But beneath that façade he was burning with anger, rage, hatred, and above all else, fear. "You asked to speak with me?" "I did, honored one," Fastahn answered. "Yet before we begin, I would make plain some things which, until now, have been hidden. I know where Asbad was on the first night of the Gathering. I know where he was during the second night when Aulit entered the hall alone. I know he wore red robes, and I know that he confronted an elf in the name of the Iluh. But this is not all, honored one. What I know, my tribe also knows. If I do not return to them this day, then the honored Khesva shall take my knowledge to all of Haradhur and your tribe shall be disgraced beyond any hope of ever regaining honor." Fastahn gave Dashnir a thin smile. "So kindly remove your hand from your dagger. You cannot kill me without inviting your own destruction. How ironic it would be if the Destroyer’s prophecies turned themselves upon you." "What business have you here?" Dashnir demanded, dropping the veneer of politeness and twisting his face into a threatening scowl. If Fastahn was going to hide nothing, Dashnir would return the favor. "We of the Soltari tribe know much of your plan, honored one," Fastahn said with a slow drawl. "We know that you have taken the elf and the dwarf. We know you are amassing significant forces to the northeast around Lake Hajim. We suspect that you have great plans for Harad, and we suspect you wish to hold power over other tribes. We ask only one thing of you, Dashnir—if your plans give you success, then spare the Soltari tribe. You may use us as a vassal tribe if necessary, but allow our people to live as they have always lived." It took Dashnir a moment to realize that he was staring. It took him another moment to realize that he was only seconds away from lodging his knife in Soltari’s throat. Eventually, he mastered himself and took one slight step forward. It was not much, but it was enough to tell Fastahn that this was Dashnir’s tent and that he would control the flow of their conversation. "And what have you to offer in return?" he asked, his voice cold as the desert sand under the moonlight. "For one, we offer discretion," Fastahn said. "Many tribes would be very interested to learn of your recent activities, particularly insofar as they relate to a certain religious figure traditionally clad in red robes. But we offer more than simply discretion, honored one. The Soltari tribe knows many secrets and tricks in convincing the desert soil to yield crops. We know methods of irrigation that would enrich your own tribe if you were to rely upon us for agriculture. But if you were to subjugate us as you plan on subjugating all else, then we would hide our secrets from you and the desert would not produce enough to sustain your warriors as you marched them upon Gondor and Rohan." Last minute surprises were not good, especially on the eve of a plan that would either lift the Khurintu tribe to heights it had never known or bury it beyond any hope of glory. No longer able to hide his emotions, Dashnir scowled at Fastahn even as he considered what was being asked. In truth, Asbad had been planning to make Soltari a vassal tribe anyway, but Khurintu could not grant it upon request. Such a move implied weakness, and weakness could not be allowed. Perhaps the fate of the Soltari tribe should be adjusted to parallel the fate of the Portu tribe. But this would mean the loss of a valuable agricultural base that Khurintu would need as they began to build their empire. There was always Gartabo, of course, and they would be completely at Khurintu’s mercy, especially given their disgrace in losing the elf and dwarf. But would Gartabo alone suffice? Dashnir mentally raged at the choice placed before him. He could not allow Soltari to coerce Khurintu like this, for such a weakness was unprecedented. But could he destroy the tribe? Did the risks warrant such an action? Their lands will be open to us if we destroy them, Dashnir reminded himself. Techniques can always be learned. We can sift their records and force their survivors to talk. For a moment more, he wavered between the options presented him, and then he made the only choice that he could. Soltari would have to be destroyed. There were other agricultural bases to be found, but a perceived weakness could not be allowed. Decision made, Dashnir fixed Fastahn with a deadly glare while Fastahn casually examined one of the hawks in the tent as a means of passing time. Sensing Dashnir’s gaze, the tribesman from Soltari straightened and turned, his nose wrinkling slightly as though from an unpleasant odor. His dark eyes took on a questioning look, but other than that, he betrayed no emotion. "Your wish is granted," Dashnir said coldly. "If our plan is successful, your tribe will become a vassal of Khurintu." What’s left of it, that is, he mentally added to himself. "And now if you will be so kind as to leave…" "My thanks," Fastahn answered, wrinkling his nose slightly once more and then smiling. "You have been most helpful. Now that a place has been assured for Soltari, we shall step back and allow this drama to unfold. May the Iluh guard your feet, honored one." Dashnir offered no response but turned his head pointedly toward the door, hoping that Fastahn would take the hint and depart. Reading the message with ease, Fastahn smiled slightly and bowed before turning away and exiting. Left alone, Dashnir nearly collapsed, his mind spinning into a state just short of a full-fledged panic. With victory so near, they could ill-afford to have something like this happen. The fact that Soltari, Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan all knew the identity of the Destroyer was a risk that could not be allowed to persist. The list of tribes slated to become examples of the Destroyer’s power would have to be expanded. Lotessa was actually already on the list, and preparations had recently been made to ensure their destruction. The alliance that Gondor and Rohan had managed to construct with the Lotessa tribe had been unexpected but ultimately very beneficial for Khurintu. It gave Dashnir the perfect place to plant the last surprises that the Khurintu tribe had to offer before leaving Haradhur. But extending the same courtesy to the Soltari tribe…that was a fairly large risk. It seemed that Soltari had outlived its usefulness and could no longer be controlled with misinformation, but that did not mean they could be wiped from the map of Harad. They knew too much, and if even one member of the ruling and advisory councils survived, then the knowledge they held would be all over Haradhur. But to let them live… Dashnir shook his head. It could not be allowed. Khurintu was being blackmailed, even though their plans did not have to be altered. Soltari had gone too far this time. Had they kept to themselves as was their wont, all would have been well. But they had not, and so arrangements would have to made to ensure that Soltari received the same gift that Lotessa and Portu would receive. This gift was quite possibly the crowning jewel as well as the inspiration for the entire plan and was born of a message sent from Asbad’s kinsman, the Mouth of Sauron, almost five years ago. It had traveled first by horseman and ultimately by hawk, originating from the ruins of a fortress identified in the message as Isengard. There were many incomprehensible things in that particular letter—among them some rather strange references to very peculiar trees—but one bit of information had stood out above all. The Mouth of Sauron had spoken of a weapon created in this fortress of Isengard, and Asbad had set much of Khurintu’s extensive resources to the task of learning more about this strange thing. The effort had been long but very fruitful, and the Khurintu tribe now had the ability to topple even the mightiest tribe with a single stroke. So it would be for Portu, Lotessa, and now Soltari. There were great risks in this, but there were now great risks in everything that Dashnir did. And he felt confident that Asbad would agree with him that Soltari should be a recipient of the Khurintu tribe’s greatest asset. Mind made up, Dashnir stepped to the entrance of the tent and spoke a few quiet words with the guards outside. A short time later, other men arrived and instructions were quickly given. By the time all was finished, the sun was very close to setting, and Dashnir knew his stay at Haradhur had come to an end. He had arranged things to the best of his ability, and it was now in the hands of the Iluh, or so the saying went. Dashnir smiled. Before long, Khurintu would be hailed as the messengers of the Iluh. And after that, all of Middle-earth would bow before them. The saying would have to be altered, for things would no longer be in the hands of the mythical Iluh. Things would be in the hands of Khurintu. Author’s Notes: Once again, I must thank everyone so VERY much for sticking with this story. I was afraid it would become too bogged down in the politics, but you guys are so faithful! Thank you so much! And hopefully everyone clamoring for more Legolas and Gimli can be satisfied now. As for Aragorn and Eomer…well, guess you’ll have to wait until the next chapter. And I’d like to give HUGE thanks to all the reviewers and also all the lurkers. But today I pay special homage to PuterPatty, Midnightrogue, and Insane Muse, who have been putting up reviews for almost every single chapter! It’s absolutely mind-boggling! I couldn’t do that and I wrote the chapters themselves! And next up, I have to send out general compliments because we have some very good detectives in our midst. Some of you are so close! No one has nailed exactly what’s happening, but that’s because I really haven’t given you all enough information. I’m curious to hear what you think of this chapter, but until then, promotions from gumshoe to super sleuth are in order for Mari and Ithilien, in particular, though there are definitely others out there who are following other promising leads. Character List Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) Aragorn—King of Gondor Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC) Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) Eomer—King of Rohan Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC) Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC) Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC) Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC) Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC) Tribe List Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe Portu—Widespread raiding tribe Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe Warra—Northern based warrior tribe Chapter 27: To One Side of Comfort The dancing shadows upon the walls of the tent informed Eomer that the sun had set and lamps had been lit within the encampment. With a sigh, the king of Rohan ran his hand along Shade’s broad back and wondered how things had gotten so off course. Sensing his rider’s despair, the dark gray horse turned black eyes upon Eomer and gently whickered, almost questioning. "My mood is no fault of yours," Eomer said quietly, stroking his stallion’s neck as he turned back to his task of grooming the horse. "Pay it no heed." A soft snort answered this and Shade turned his head away from Eomer, but his ears flicked back as though waiting for the king to speak again. But silence suited Eomer’s mood well this evening, and so he stroked Shade’s sleek coat without a hint of the usual quiet song that accompanied him in this chore. But though his voice was still, his mind was very active. The last time he had been this obsessed with a political problem was the day that Wormtongue somehow convinced Theoden to dispatch a full eored northward when the true threat clearly lay in the west. And on that day, much as he was doing now, Eomer had sought out his horse, for he found solace in the seemingly mundane chore of grooming. And as Shade aids me this evening, so Firefoot aided me then. But in this is yet another parallel: Both then and today, I cannot fully escape the misgivings of my heart. Arabano and a few guards had arrived in the camp of Gondor and Rohan during the mid-afternoon, drenched in sweat and filled with many questions but very few answers. He, Aragorn, and Eomer had held a long discussion, but ultimately they only confirmed that they knew next to nothing. They all agreed that the Portu tribe had been the attacking tribe during the night, they agreed that it had been done under Khurintu’s orders, and they agreed that Khurintu had been the tribe to take Legolas and Gimli. More than that was sheer speculation. They all suspected that Khurintu had yet to unveil the crux of their plan, they suspected that something traumatic would happen during this night, but they knew neither what nor when nor how. Arabano had informed them that Budari intended to have some of Lotessa’s riders trail the departing Khurintu tribe when they left Haradhur, but he did not know how long they could follow them or if it would do them any good. Of course there were spies watching the Khurintu camp throughout the day from various vantagepoints, but according to Arabano’s latest information, nothing of note had yet happened. Eventually, Arabano had left, making mention of urgent matters he needed to discuss with Budari. But before he had done so, he had left a strange warning concerning the Soltari tribe. Aragorn was almost as surprised by this latest bit of news as was Eomer. So far as he knew, save for supporting the interruption in the Gathering the previous evening, Soltari had remained a neutral party in all proceedings. And according to Aragorn, such was their custom, for their livelihood depended upon neutrality within the desert. Giving Shade a final pat and setting aside the brushes he had used, Eomer sighed and moved away. He had lingered here far too long, for there were yet many things to be done. He and Aragorn were still debating whether or not to send out a few riders in pursuit of the departing Khurintu tribe or whether one of the kings could afford to miss the Gathering and lead a search for those who had abducted Legolas and Gimli. Eomer’s personal preference was to take the entire Rohirrim company and conduct a search on his own terms, a plan that involved storming the Khurintu caravan and leaving them much as they had left the Gondor guards on the previous night. Aragorn was rather reluctant to sanction this action, but Eomer has a suspicion that the king of Gondor was of half a mind to do the same thing. A commanding whinny suddenly snagged his attention, and he turned to find himself looking into the large, black eyes of Faensul. The elven stallion whinnied again, causing the other horses within the tent to shift nervously. "Has no one been to see to you, my friend?" Eomer asked quietly, making use of a tone that managed to calm even the most restless of colts. Raising one hand cautiously, he ran it along Faensul’s strong face, making his movements slow and deliberate for the horse was clearly skittish. In response to this, Faensul snorted and tossed his head, but he did not move away. He turned his eyes to the tent’s entrance and then looked back at Eomer, his ears lying flat upon his head momentarily. "I can see that you have been groomed already, great one," Eomer said quietly, now stroking the horse’s neck. "And you do not lack for food or water. Why this fear and anxiety? Perhaps you miss Legolas?" At the elf’s name, Faensul threw back his head and whinnied a third time, but this whinny turned into something akin to a keening wail, its eerie sound rising into the night air and startling the other horses. A few neighed and some pulled sharply against their stakes. It was a sound that Eomer had never before heard from a horse, but then, he had never before worked with elven horses. Uncertain of what to do, he resorted to a trick that had never failed to calm Firefoot. He began to hum. Faensul seemed startled by this development and he ceased to keen, but the look he turned upon Eomer was not friendly. Stomping his back foot, he tossed his head and his ears went back. Still Eomer continued to hum, never ceasing to stroke the horse’s neck. After a few minutes of this, Faensul dropped his head and whickered quietly. It was almost as though he had given up for the time being. Eomer did not know what to make of this strange behavior, but since Faensul was no longer agitating the other horses, the king of Rohan judged it safe to leave him. "Peace, my friend," he whispered, giving the horse a final pat. "I shall come to see you again shortly. And if it is within my power to do so, we shall find your rider. That I promise." If Faensul understood these words, he did not show it. He now seemed utterly dejected, a far cry from the spirited stallion that had splashed and played in the Anduin before crossing on the barges. With a sigh, Eomer shook his head and turned away, quickly leaving the tent. Faensul was not the only one possessed of a pessimistic mind this night. He was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed himself, and the lack of both answers and action was telling on Eomer. He did not truly mind waiting out a situation so long as there was an objective to the wait. But stalling because one knew not what else to do…that was something else. Eomer shook his head as he pulled aside the flap to his own tent. If things did not change soon, he might well face a mutiny. The Riders of Rohan were not accustomed to sitting quietly and waiting. They did so with an ill grace. "How fare the horses?" "Well enough, all things considered," Eomer answered, spying Aragorn sitting in a corner and sharpening a knife. Legolas’s knife, the king of Rohan realized with something akin to despair. It seems that I am not the only one at a loss for things to do. "Faensul does concern me, however," Eomer continued, praying that Aragorn would stop playing with the elf’s knife in the near future. "His behavior is not that of a normal horse, and I do not know how to interpret his actions." "That was his cry, then?" Aragorn asked. "I wondered. Elven steeds form very strong ties to their riders. It does not surprise me that he misses Legolas’s presence." "Is there anything that can be done? I know not how to handle him, and he is vexing the other horses." "We must find Legolas," Aragorn answered with a slight shrug. The king of Gondor held the elf’s knife up to a lamp that flickered nearby and nodded slightly, apparently satisfied with his work. "As for how we shall do that, it remains yet to be seen." "Would the break in tradition be too great if we decided to avoid the Gathering tonight and instead spend our time in the desert?" Eomer asked. "Or is tradition a moot point by now?" Aragorn gave a rather humorless laugh and ran his thumb over the edge of Legolas’s blade. "Tradition is never a moot point in Harad, but customs are certainly changing during this Gathering. Of that there can be no doubt." "Then we are free to go?" "Somewhat, I suppose, but would it be wise to do so? Would we be playing into Khurintu’s hands by leaving Haradhur?" Aragorn rubbed his brow and sighed. "Let us run through our speculations and the situation again. What do we know so far and what do we fear?" "We know that the Portu tribe is working for Khurintu," Eomer said, running through a growing mental list of facts and theories. "We know that Khurintu has used the legend of the Destroyer to turn much of Harad against us. Or at the very least, they are suspicious of our motives and our intentions. We know that the Gartabo tribe was commanded to apprehend Legolas and Gimli and to hold them outside Haradhur, but the Khurintu tribe got to them first. And now they are missing. We know that Arabano suspects treacherous dealings on the part of Soltari, and we know that the Khurintu tribe is leaving Haradhur within the hour. We also know that there are a substantial number of Khurintu tribesmen located northeast around Lake Hajim. What else do you wish me to list?" "This seems a fair place to begin," Aragorn murmured. "Now what of our fears for the future? We believe that Khurintu has a weapon or plan of some kind that will reinforce fears that the Destroyer is about to live up to his name. We believe they will use this weapon tonight. We believe that Khurintu’s objective is supreme power in the desert and ultimately the capture of northern lands. They wish to obtain Mordor’s glory." "And they shall start with the overthrow of key tribes such as Gartabo," Eomer sighed. "Because Gartabo has failed to capture Legolas and Gimli, they have failed to obey the Destroyer’s commands. Whatever happens, they shall be held responsible." "Which is probably why Khurintu wished to capture Legolas and Gimli for themselves. They are now the agents of the Iluh. They shall be the ones to obey the Destroyer’s commands" "But it does not explain why they wanted Legolas and Gimli alive," Eomer pointed out, rubbing his temples. "Nor does it give us any clue as to what they plan to do that will incriminate the Gartabo tribe." "But it does, in its own a way," Aragorn said quietly, seeming to speak to himself. "Khurintu cannot afford to destroy the Gartabo tribe, for they will need them as an agricultural base. One cannot feed warriors upon the blood of their slain enemies unless one is an Orc, and even then, something more is required." "Then they shall do something that causes a stir, is highly visible, but leaves valuable tribes intact," Eomer concluded. "Which means that whatever they do, it will undoubtedly be a localized occurrence. Perhaps they shall target key tribes or groups." "And those groups will have to be kept under careful watch," Aragorn sighed. "So who becomes a target?" "Ourselves," Eomer answered with a shrug. "That much is obvious." "Is it?" Aragorn grimaced and shook his head. "I fear that I must disagree with you. I do not think that we are a target. Not yet. That is not how Khurintu operates. They will slide around the bush and eliminate all subordinates who stand in the way, but when confronting their primary opposition, they prefer to do it directly. Nay, we are not a target yet. We shall be in the future, but for the moment, our encampment at least is safe. I suspect that this is one of the reasons for our being inside the city rather than without its walls. We are shielded from the desert and from angry tribes. We are being protected against the time when Asbad and Dashnir will come to claim us themselves." Eomer thought this logic over, but while it made sense, he was still unconvinced. "Would it not be easier to destroy us when we were unawares?" "It would, but it would not further the plan. If I were placed in Asbad’s role and had his desires, I would wish to make an example of the kingdoms from the north. And I would wish to do it in such a way that none would doubt my supremacy after their defeat. Of this much I am becoming very convinced, Eomer. We are being spared for a later date. Our time will come, but it is not yet here." "As you say," Eomer said, still feeling rather uneasy about this idea but lacking the necessary knowledge to debate it. "Then whom shall we watch? And whom shall we warn?" "Lotessa," Aragorn said, conviction beginning to grow in his voice. "They shall be among the first. They are a rival but not a direct one, nor have they done aught during the Gathering that might merit Khurintu’s ill will. Thus, a quick end to Lotessa’s power suits Khurintu’s needs. The Portu tribe, also, may become a target. Khurintu cannot risk their telling the other tribes of their participation in last night’s raid. More than that, though, I cannot say. If Khurintu specifically singles out all their rivals, it will look suspicious. Perhaps one or two is all they require." "What of the Warra tribe?" Eomer questioned. "Upon the journey here, Garat seemed to be working with Dashnir, yet I have not seen anything in the way of partnership between Joranen and Dashnir." "I have also wondered about this," Aragorn murmured. "It makes no sense, for you are right. There was an alliance between Dashnir and Garat. But between Dashnir and Joranen, I have seen nothing. I wonder if we should not look into the structure of the Warra tribe. It may be that there are rebel factions within it. Perhaps Garat was operating independently." "And in addition to this, we must also discover how Khurintu’s bid for power will take shape. We must discover what they shall unleash upon us tonight." Eomer sighed and rubbed his temples. "This takes time, Aragorn. All of this takes time and research as well as resources. May I point out that we are lacking in every one of these requirements?" "I am well aware of our limitations." "Then may I also point out that Legolas and Gimli are somewhere in Harad and that we must also devote time, research, and resources to finding them?" "How would you draw the line, Eomer?" Aragorn asked wearily. "We have requirements that must be met. We need to maintain a presence of some kind at the Gathering. We need to prevent an unknown disaster from taking place tonight, and to do that we must discover not only the targets but the nature of this unknown disaster. We must rescue lost comrades, and to do that we must discover their whereabouts and their captors. We must also fathom why live captives would be better than corpses and how long live captives will be esteemed useful. Additionally, we must investigate the Soltari tribe and the Warra tribe, but we must do so quietly. Where shall we start, Eomer? And how shall we divide ourselves?" "Aragorn, what troubles you?" Eomer demanded, deciding that he had endured quite enough of this. "This is unlike you. You act as one lost, and yet we have discussed possible answers. Are they not enough for you? Come, what is truly the problem?" It was a rare day when the king of Gondor was caught off guard by a question, but a look of surprise flashed across his face. Normally, Eomer would have been greatly amused by this, but at the moment, it only added to his conviction that something was very wrong with his friend. "Usually, I can sense things before they happen," Aragorn eventually said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. He raised Legolas’s knife and studied the weapon, seeming to find comfort in the delicate workmanship of the silver haft. "Only rarely does this foresight fail me, and when it does, I am sometimes at a loss for direction. It does not help that my mind and thoughts have already been tampered with upon this journey. Perhaps it is taking longer for my foresight to recover from this. Perhaps I simply lack the confidence I once had. Whatever the cause, though, I no longer sense where destiny is leading us. And without the guidance that foresight once provided, I seem to be plagued by indecision." Eomer blinked and stared at the king of Gondor. He had never expected such a detailed answer, but as he studied Aragorn, he wondered just how long his friend had been dealing with these feelings and misgivings. Gondor’s king was a very private individual, and as he had learned more of Aragorn’s past, Eomer had come to realize the reasons for this privacy and its extent. Thus, he was quite surprised to be told so much so quickly by a man for whom secrecy had once been equated with survival. His confusion must have been evident upon his face, for Aragorn suddenly gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. "My apologies, Eomer," he said with a slight smile, though the mirth did not quite reach his eyes. "I fear you were expecting something different." "Nay, my apologies," Eomer said hastily, trying to compose himself. "I did not know how deeply you had been affected. I should not have spoken as I did, for it seems that I have stirred memories which are less than desirable." "Then I account us even," Aragorn said. "But though we may now be at peace with one another, there are still decisions to be made. I did not jest when I asked for your counsel. How would you divide us, Eomer? Where would you place your priorities? For I do not trust my own judgement at the moment." Eomer grimaced and turned the problem over in his mind, attempting to see it from as many angles as possible. "You know my desires, Aragorn," he said after a minute or so. "You know that I wish to lead a search party into the desert after Legolas and Gimli. But your words have caused me to reconsider, and though my heart still yearns to ride, I think such a task would be better left in the hands of Arhelm. He is a capable captain, and the searchers will not be lacking for want of their king." Eomer pursed his lips, thinking a bit more, and then sighed. "This, then, is my counsel. You and I shall attend the Gathering for a brief period only. We shall send Arhelm out with fifteen riders to search for Legolas and Gimli. We shall keep Imhran at the Gathering Hall to act as a second on behalf of both Rohan and Gondor. We shall send warnings to the Lotessa tribe at least and perhaps to the Portu tribe also. Finally, we send a small team of Gondorrim scouts around the camps without Haradhur to search for anything that might be connected with Khurintu." Aragorn nodded slowly, thinking through Eomer’s suggestions. "Your plan matches my own with but one exception. I would not send so many riders after Legolas and Gimli. I had envisioned Arhelm’s party as more of a reconnaissance team. Should they find our friends, they would send one back to alert the rest of us. By doing this, we keep more men here in Haradhur." "By why should we wish to keep them here?" Eomer asked. "We have ample protection, and you have already theorized that we shall not be the first targets. What better use for them than to send them out upon a rescue operation." "Too many trackers leads to too many trails," Aragorn argued. "Arhelm is not out to rescue Legolas and Gimli. Not initially. His first task is to find them, which shall be daunting enough. Once they are found, we can spare a large quantity of troops as well as ourselves for the purposes of liberating Legolas and Gimli. I would recommend that Arhelm’s group contain no more than five." "If Arhelm chances upon the prisoners and sees a window of opportunity in which to act, he cannot do so unless he is properly supported by other riders," Eomer protested. An awkward pause fell, and then the king of Rohan smiled slightly. "Ten. Ten riders." Aragorn returned the smile and sighed, shaking his head. "Ten, then, though what good ten shall do in battle I know not." "They are Rohirrim," Eomer pointed out with a cheeky grin. "What is there that ten Rohirrim cannot accomplish?" "My confidence wanes already." "You do not know the Rohirrim well enough, then." "Perhaps we should keep it that way," Aragorn said with a faint glimmer of a smile. "But now that we have concluded our business, let us give our orders to our men. Arhelm will wish to start early so that he may examine the desert ere the Khurintu caravan departs." "Then we shall send him out now," Eomer said. "And Valar willing, Legolas and Gimli we be with us again ere sunrise." "Valar willing," Aragorn murmured, but he did not sound as though he shared Eomer’s optimism. * * * * By nature, Imrahil was an exact, precise, and demanding man. He kept his records in perfect order, his own quarters were never anything less than scrupulously clean, and though he did not require such rigid standards among his men, he did see that his troops acted with order and discipline in all things. Because of this, Imrahil rarely found himself confused or uncertain. Things were almost always carefully planned out well in advance. Even upon the field of battle, most strategies that the prince of Dol Amroth employed were strategies he had formulated ahead of time in an attempt to account for all eventualities. And though his touch of elven blood did give him a penchant for foresight, he usually did not find forebodings to be distressing. They were merely omens sent to warn him, and he arranged his affairs accordingly so as to better meet whatever impending disaster loomed. But this evening as his men prepared to set out on the journey to Lake Nurnein, the last stop before Haradhur, Imrahil found himself adrift and lost. It was a disconcerting feeling that further unnerved the prince, but there seemed to be naught that he could do about it. He could identify the cause of this unease, but he could not alleviate it. What is wrong with me? Imrahil demanded of himself, rubbing his temples in a gesture of frustration that would have shocked his men had they seen it. When the Swan Knights had arrived at Lake Miyarr, Imrahil had told Mohart that his dreams and forebodings had quieted. He had told him that they were too late to stop a great catastrophe. Imrahil still believed this, but he had not been entirely truthful when he spoke of his dreams. They had not quieted, but they had certainly changed. And it was this change that was now puzzling Imrahil and occupying his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. Before this day, Imrahil’s dreams had contained images of Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, and Legolas in the desert. He had seen smoke and flame, both of which were very rare in Harad since fires were scarce. He had seen darkness reaching out over the land, and he had heard voices pleading for help. But this morning, all that had changed. He no longer saw the desert in his dreams. Instead, he saw the sea. Ere he entered Harad, Imrahil had created a point of reference for his dreams. He had fixed in his mind an image of the place where grass became desert and water met sand. This image was to act as a reference for Imrahil when his sleeping mind tried to recall memories of Dol Amroth. The prince’s dreams were strange in that they took his present surroundings and attempted to make them a part of his remembered experience, and so he often needed a reference point so as to better order his dreams. His perfectionist idiosyncrasies extended even to his sleeping world. But this past day, when Imrahil eventually did sleep, he had not retraced his route over the sand until coming to the castle walls lined with crushed seashells. Instead, he had skipped the desert entirely and dreamed of the open ocean. He had seen ships. Many ships. They had rowed their way toward the mouth of Anduin. He had been unable to identify the boats, but he had sensed no good will from them. And as the ships drew near the shore, Imrahil had seen a small group of people waiting for them. Here the dream began to make more sense, for within this group of people were desert tribesmen. But with these tribesmen was a figure that was not from the desert. He was bound with strong ropes, and they had carried him to one of the ships. After that, the dream was filled with the sound of waves smashing against the shore while the shadow that had risen from the desert was joined by a darkness from the sea. Together, they crept forward, devouring all that stood in their path. "Honored one?" Such a thing should not be! His dreams should have returned him to Dol Amroth. Even if they had not made it that far, they should at least have stayed in the desert. But the sea…why the sea? Nothing and no one in his current surroundings had reminded Imrahil of the sea, and yet he had dreamed of it. How did the sea fit into this picture? Imrahil missed the vast waters of his harbor, that was true enough, but to dream of the ocean with no reference… "Honored one!" Finally registering that someone was talking to him, Imrahil shook his head slightly and turned his eyes to the side. "You have somewhat to say, Mohart?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded more composed than he felt. "Nay, but I sense that you do," the tribesman answered, running narrowed eyes over the prince. "This morning and this past night you have not been yourself. What ails you, honored one? If something troubles you, would it not be better to share the burden rather than letting it fester?" Imrahil stiffened slightly and studied Mohart. His men knew far better than to pry into his personal affairs. When Imrahil deemed information should be forthcoming, he gave out that information, but not until then. He knows not my methods, the prince reminded himself, forcing his hands to unclench and his visage to soften. He does this out of concern. Taking a calming breath, Imrahil centered his thoughts and then turned his attention back to the conversation. "I have received strange omens of late," he answered, making his tone one of finality. "Take no thought for it. I shall be well." Mohart looked less than convinced, but the prince’s voice seemed to deter him from further questions. "As you wish it, but remember that it is a dangerous thing to be alone in Harad. You are isolating yourself, honored one." "I shall remember," Imrahil murmured, casting his eyes upon the still waters of Lake Miyarr. "Mohart, know you of any tribe within the desert that deals with sailors or those living upon the seacoast?" The tribesman frowned, somewhat surprised by the question. "None come to mind. Perhaps in the far south they have dealings, for it is difficult for trade caravans to reach so far without coming to grief along the way. But to my mind, none of the northern tribes have ties with those near or upon the ocean. We are two different kinds of men, honored one. Sailors live upon waters. Tribesmen can only dream of them. It is difficult for our two cultures to understand one another." "That was my impression as well," Imrahil said quietly, his brow furrowing. Mohart’s words made sense and matched what the prince of Dol Amroth already knew, but the lingering image of open waters would not leave his mind. "Honored one?" "Let us depart," Imrahil said, shaking his head and deciding to think on the matter as they rode. The crisp night air in his face might do much for calming his thoughts and so enable him to piece together the puzzle that currently troubled his mind. "The sun has almost set, and it is time for us to be away." * * * * Sharp, jabbing pain was Gimli’s first warning that consciousness was returning. Lost in muddied shadows, the dwarf tried to thrust the pain away, but it seemed that the more he battled, the stronger it grew. Eventually, the throbbing pain began to consolidate itself in his head and in his right thigh, slowly releasing the rest of his body from crippling agony. Gimli wondered if this was a good thing and decided he was probably better off not knowing. With that out of the way and firmly stowed deep in the back of his mind, the dwarf moved on to a different set of problems. Where was he? What had happened? Surely Legolas hadn’t allowed him to drink that much. During the past few years, the elf had developed an uncanny talent for knowing exactly when Gimli had been given just a little too much to drink, and he usually intervened in time to save the dwarf from embarrassment. Of course, there had been times when Legolas’s mischievous side had allowed the dwarf to make a complete fool of himself before the elf had stepped in. But still, something about this hangover—if it was a hangover—felt different. And hadn’t he woken already? Why did he have to go through this again? It seemed very unfair, but then no one had ever said life was fair. Most, in fact, claimed just the opposite. With a sigh, Gimli concentrated on opening his eyes. Maybe he could speed the waking process along by doing so. Fuzzy memories were beginning to dance through his mind, and with them came growing feelings of fear and bewilderment. His headache had completely isolated itself and now ruled the back of his skull by means of a mithril fist that seemed to have an obsession with pounding. The throbbing from his thigh was more distant and easier to ignore, but it was still a very real agony. Gimli heard himself release a small groan and he cringed at the weakness that plagued him, working harder to open his eyes and achieve full consciousness. "Gimli?" Ah, there was Legolas. And there also lay answers, or so Gimli hoped. "Gimli? Gimli, can you hear me?" The dwarf frowned. Legolas wasn’t usually this impatient. In fact, the elf sounded anxious. Why should that be? What could cause the normally composed elf to sound…well…frightened? Gimli gave himself a mental shake and continued with the waking process. He was now growing more aware of his body as well as the sand beneath him that served as a bed. It was comfortably warm in contrast to the rapidly cooling air around him. He was lying on his stomach, and the dwarf winced as he thought about how long it would take to get the sand out of his beard. But he quickly forgot that problem when he realized he had another, more serious, problem. His hands were tightly bound behind his back and his feet were roped together. That elf is dead, Gimli thought, clinging desperately to the outside hope that this was an elaborate prank. Unfortunately, he finally managed to open his eyes at this point and discovered that Legolas was probably not responsible for this. The elf was lying partially on his side with unblinking eyes fixed on his friend, and from what little Gimli could see, Legolas’s arms were also bound behind his back, and a thick cord wound around his ankles as well. "This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into," the dwarf mumbled blearily, unable to think of anything else to say. Legolas closed his eyes and a wave of relief seemed to sweep over his entire body. Then it was gone, and the elf was composed again so quickly that Gimli wondered if he had imagined it. "I believe I was the one urging for flight rather than fight, my friend," the prince said with a tight smile. Bright, elven eyes studied Gimli in the last of the day’s light, evaluating his condition with frightening scrutiny. "How do you feel?" There it was again. To anyone else, Legolas would have sounded calm, poised, and collected, but to his best friend, the fair elven voice was pitched a little too high, revealing hidden distress and concern. Of course, given the fact that we are both securely trussed, there is probably good reason for that distress and concern, Gimli thought bitterly. "I think I am none the worse for wear," the dwarf answered aloud, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts. "What happened? Wait…I asked that before, I think. Or did I?" Legolas nodded slightly. "You did. You asked that question earlier today when you woke briefly, but then you fell asleep again. I was unable to give you an answer." "How long…how long ago was that?" Gimli asked, trying to account for the fact that the sun seemed to be setting. "A few hours, perhaps," Legolas said after a thoughtful pause. "Possibly more. You have been unconscious for most of the day, and I have had difficulty in keeping track of the time." "Ah. I see." In actuality, Gimli didn’t see anything, but at least he now more or less understood how he’d missed the passing of time. He’d been unconscious. But he still didn’t know why, and Legolas had still not told him. "So, must I ask a third time today or are you going to grace me with an answer?" "An answer to what?" Gimli sighed and wished his head would stop pounding so he could better match the other at word games. "Legolas, what happened?" The elf shifted slightly, a sign that Gimli instantly recognized as uncertainty. "What is the last thing you remember?" Legolas eventually asked. Gimli had to search his mind for that one, and the process was hampered by the fact that his head had turned into a practice hall for the drums of Moria. "I remember Budari and Arabano coming to warn us," he eventually said. "That Destroyer of theirs had come again and apparently convinced Gartabo that I was also a herald of doom, so we were going back to camp before journeying into the desert. Afterward…" The dwarf frowned as his memories became choppy and confused. "We were at the tent. I know that. And you…you said something to me about…about Amon Hen. And I thought that strange until I noticed you’d set your bow and…I think I had my axe…and then…there was mention of the Morannon, but…" The dwarf attempted to recall something more substantial than those meager details, but after a few more minutes of struggling, Gimli was forced to admit defeat. "I have no memory beyond that," he confessed with a sigh. "It is a wonder you remember that much," Legolas murmured. "I feared the blow to your head had done irreparable harm. It was a great relief to hear you speak a few hours ago." "You have always told me that dwarves have thick skulls," Gimli said with a smile. "And I am thankful that I spoke truly," Legolas said, his quiet voice filled with relief. "Well, as true as that may be, it is also true that elves have wandering minds. You have still not told me what happened. Shall I now ask a fourth time or shall you speak?" "There is not much to tell," the elf answered with a small shrug that caused him to wince. "And in truth, my own memories are jumbled. I was rendered unconscious not long after you fell. Still, I think I can better your story. We had arrived at the tent and entered when I sensed we were not alone. That was when I warned you by mentioning Amon Hen. Fifteen men attacked. You and I held our own for a time, but more arrived and they managed to drive us apart. That was when you were struck. At first, I thought the blow had killed you." Legolas shivered, apparently still haunted by that memory. He was silent for a moment before continuing, his voice softer and more solemn now. "I cannot recall with any certainty what happened after you were injured. Somehow I was rendered unconscious. I woke later to find that we had been taken captive." "By whom?" "Who else, Master Dwarf? The Khurintu tribe. Asbad, their leader, was among the men we confronted last night. I recognized his face." Gimli cursed quietly, trying to coax his muddled brain into a higher state of alertness so that he could begin deciphering what the Khurintu tribe would want with an elf and a dwarf. "Have you been awake long?" he asked at length. "I woke when they were pitching camp for the day. It was not long after they captured us." The dwarf frowned. "And you have not slept since?" Legolas shrugged again, this time managing to do so without wincing. "I thought it useful to evaluate our situation. And I was not hit as hard as you were. It was easier for me to stay awake. Also, I was concerned for you," the elf added, examining his friend again with piercing gray eyes that never seemed to miss anything. "You are still in pain," he stated. Gimli grunted as he rolled off his stomach and onto his side, recoiling briefly as the world tilted crazily and then righted itself. "It is nothing," the dwarf managed. "Tell me of our situation, Legolas, since you put your time to good use and evaluated it. Tell me how we fare." "Not well," Legolas sighed. "Our captors know their craft and they will not linger in one place for long. We will probably be moving once the sun fully sets. They had us in tents during the day as a means of shelter from the sun, though our own shelter left much to be desired. Samwise would doubtless have much to say about their concept of shelters, were he here." The elf was silent for a moment before shaking his head slightly and continuing. "If their intent was to weaken us, it was successful. I fear that, physically, I am at a severe disadvantage. And my mind is only now recovering from the heat it endured during the day." "What are the men doing now?" Gimli asked. "And what do they plan to do next?" "They broke camp not long ago and are packing yonder." Legolas looked over his shoulder and Gimli followed the gaze until he spied a group of men working with a collection of baggage. "As I said before, I suspect that they mean to travel soon. And I suspect that we shall be asked to accompany them." The dwarf studied the men, which he had only noticed after Legolas had practically pointed them out for him. Apparently his mind was still not up to par, but it was becoming clearer. More or less. And as he observed his captors, he saw something rather odd. "Are they not watching us?" Gimli asked, noticing that he and the elf were being ignored for the moment. The prince gave a small, mirthless laugh. "Do you think to escape? You, who have barely regained consciousness, can you break through the bonds on our wrists and ankles and restore feeling to our hands and feet? And even if you can, what then, Gimli? Can you navigate a way for us across the pathless desert sand? Can you find where the hidden lakes lie that would supply us with water? Can you lead us back to Haradhur, or even to Lebennin and Gondor? Because I cannot, my friend. I cannot." The dwarf frowned. "Surely we have not moved so far that Haradhur is beyond your…" Gimli trailed off as realization slowly dawned. "Someone has placed you beneath ú-glîr again." "So it would seem," Legolas murmured, looking away. "I think now that the first time was merely a test to see if it was possible. Then they freed me from ú-glîr so that I might not become too familiar with the use of limited senses. I fear, Gimli, that they were successful in their ploy. This has clearly been planned for some time, and we are but a small part of some larger scheme. We are pawns, my friend. Pawns to move at will, and we are now under the control of the enemy. And given the complications they faced the last time I was put beneath ú-glîr, I do not think we are pawns destined for a long life. So long as we remain in their clutches, our days, nay, our very hours are numbered." "You seem to have given this much thought," Gimli observed with a sigh. "I have had little cause to think of anything else," Legolas answered quietly. He was about to say something else, but he stopped and looked over his shoulder again. His elven ears, impeded though they might be, had caught the sound of advancing footsteps. Gimli glanced up and saw a large man walking toward them. It was the same man who had led the attack the night before. The last of the sun’s light reflected off the sharp tip of a long knife, and the man’s eyes gleamed above the wrappings that protected his face. Behind this man, falling into an orderly procession, the remainder of the group followed with the packed tents and baggage. Four unburdened, doughty men walked at the head of this line, and their eyes were fixed on the elf and dwarf. Our guards, Gimli predicted, glancing over at Legolas. Judging from the set of the elf’s jaw and his intense study of these four men, Legolas had reached the same conclusion. Gimli felt a flash of pity for these men who were now the subject of elven scrutiny. The dwarf himself had more or less grown used to said elven scrutiny after years of friendship with Legolas, but even he sometimes felt the urge to turn away if the elf watched him too closely for too long. Though Legolas would never match Galadriel, Gimli had learned that practically any elf had the power to make mortals feel utterly worthless. Being pinned beneath the gaze of an immortal who possessed both wisdom born of countless years and the unrivaled power of elven curiosity was enough to make anyone blanch. What made it worse in Legolas’s case was that the prince had grown aware of exactly how disconcerting this ability could be under certain circumstances, thanks in part to Gimli, and could now successfully employ it as a devastating weapon. And despite the crippling effects of ú-glîr, Legolas was still quite capable of making almost any man cringe. A knife suddenly flashed before Gimli’s face and his thoughts were interrupted when Asbad stepped forward and dropped to one knee between the dwarf and the elf. The man carefully studied first one and then the other, evaluating their condition and their mindset. Gimli noted with a small degree of satisfaction that the leader of Khurintu was unable to meet Legolas’s unblinking eyes for long. "We are traveling this night," Asbad said in Westron, his harsh voice breaking through the dark stillness. "Your legs will be free so that you may walk, but you will both be guarded. And know this: I do not need you alive. It is easier if you remain so, but it is not a necessity. Should the circumstances require it, I will not hesitate to kill one or both of you." Legolas narrowed his eyes slightly—a motion imperceptible to anyone but Gimli—and the dwarf interpreted it as a sign that the elf had swiftly reevaluated their plight and didn’t like his conclusion. Gimli was also doing some rapid thinking of his own, and he had to agree with Legolas. Things did not look good. But before Gimli could get very far with his foreboding ideas, the bonds on his legs were cut and he was hauled upwards. He floundered for a moment as blood resumed its normal flow to his feet and almost toppled over when the world began to spin violently. The stiff, torn muscles from his wounded leg cried out in protest and he doubted for a moment whether or not his injured limb would be able to endure his weight, though he finally managed to steady himself. At the same time, Legolas was also raised to his feet. In contrast to Gimli, the elf did not stumble but continued to watch the humans around him with an intensity that could only be surpassed by wizards. "One final item of importance," Asbad added as two of his men stepped to either side of Legolas and the other two repeated the maneuver with Gimli. "A wrong move by one will result in punishment for the other. I thought you should be made aware of that." Watching the prisoners to make sure they understood, he eventually nodded to his men, and they took their captives by either arm. "Forward!" ----------------------------------------------------------- Next, a question has been posed concerning Imrahil. He is NOT my own character. He is Tolkien’s and he appears in Return of the King as the prince of Dol Amroth, leader of the Swan Knights (who seemed to be Minas Tirith’s only real cavalry until Rohan showed up). He is Denethor’s brother-in-law and the major political authority down in Belfalas, though he does answer to Gondor. He also takes control of Minas Tirith when Denethor dies, Faramir is struck down, and Aragorn decides to play Ranger for a bit longer. And according to Legolas, he has quite a bit of elven blood in his veins. Go Imrahil. Finally, I must extend a huge round of thanks to everyone who reviews. I know this story has been going for a while, and it means so much to me that everyone’s hanging with it. Thank you so much and I hope you’ve enjoyed this latest chapter. ----------------------------------------------------------- Holiday greetings to all who are interested in this story. Think of this as my gift to you, and I sincerely hope you enjoy! Chapter 28: From Dark to Light and Back Again Budari, tribal head of Lotessa, had seen quite a few Gatherings in his lifetime, and Iluh willing, he would see quite a few more. But he could not remember a Gathering ever being quite this…tense. Or unpredictable. There had been occasions when Lord Sauron had sent advisors and observers to the Gathering, and during these times, a definite air of fear and hatred could be felt. The southern tribes, especially, had no great love for Sauron. They had no great love for Sauron’s enemies, either, but at least Gondor and Lebennin had not made a habit of stealing away young men for the sake of stocking an army. The northern tribes also contributed great numbers of men, but because they were closer to Mordor, they received a greater share of the benefits for their willingness to serve the Dark Lord. The southern tribes rarely saw anything in the way of compensation, and so a great dislike for anything to do with Mordor had been cultivated in the southern portions of the desert. And this dislike came to the forefront when the southern tribes were forced to deal with Sauron’s representatives at the yearling Gathering. Yet even then, the tension at the Gathering had almost always been at a manageable level. And there were no surprises such as a sudden attack, for Mordor prevented such things from happening. But now, that was no longer the case, and the air of uncertainty that pervaded the room had tainted this particular night beyond any reasonable hope of reclamation. With a sigh, Budari noted that someone on the other side of the table was ranting about tradition and the possibility of yet another tribe withdrawing after this night. So far, five different tribes had come forward and announced their intentions to depart, a complete break with protocol and custom. Three others had hinted that they were considering such action. All the tribes were clearly ill at ease, something Budari could well understand, but what he could not understand was why so many were ready to flee rather than confront the problem. There were reasons, of course. Budari knew that. The appearance of the Destroyer, the disappearance of an elf and a dwarf who were said to be the cause of the Destroyer’s anger, the withdrawal of one of the most powerful northern tribes, the strange attack in the desert the night before…they were all disconcerting. Put together they were nothing short of terrifying. And yet…Budari shook his head. Perhaps he was aided by the fact that he was not a superstitious man. Perhaps he was aided by the fact that he knew much of what was actually happening. But what good was this knowledge and this grounded practicality if his tribe stood alone? He and his kinsmen were not here at the Gathering in full force. Many members of the Lotessa tribe had stayed in the south so as to maintain holdings on hidden lakes and carry out the odd raiding and pillaging mission. If Khurintu came with the bulk of its force and descended upon the Gathering, there would be no stopping them. Lotessa could not defy them without aid. Gondor and Rohan did not have enough men. But who else was willing to help them? With a sigh, Budari glanced over at Aragorn and Eomer, neither of whom had said a word during this session. Eomer, in particular, seemed unusually quiet. Budari’s first impression of the king of Rohan had indicated that Eomer would sooner argue a point than listen to the reasoning behind it even though that reasoning might be sound. Yet now he was silent, his eyes fixed on the table and his brow furrowed as though in deep concentration. Perhaps that is why he does not seek to interrupt or contradict, Budari thought. He is not paying attention to the conversation but rather to his own suspicions. This led Budari to yet another topic, and he frowned as he studied the two kings. Before the start of the Gathering, while everyone was collecting within the inner hall, Aragorn and Eomer had come to him and expressed grave misgivings about this night. They felt that Khurintu would unleash something that could be read as a sign from the Destroyer, and they felt that Lotessa might well bear the brunt of this attack. While Budari could not fault their logic, he had no way of preparing himself or his tribe He did not know what form an attack might take or when it would be carried out. He agreed that his tribe was at risk and he agreed that the Portu tribe would also be a likely target, but he could not fathom what Khurintu might do. By necessity, it would have to be a demonstration of great power and authority, yet what would that entail? And how did one prevent it when one did not know what it was? I must search for something out of the ordinary, Budari decided. Khurintu is not following their usual methods, and therefore something in this Gathering shall strike me as odd. Budari sighed. This reasoning really didn’t help because quite a few things at this Gathering struck him as odd. Still, there was one oddity that might be worth pursuing, and that was something that had happened just prior to sunset. According to Lotessa spies, Fastahn of the Soltari tribe had been seen leaving the Khurintu camp an hour before Dashnir and the Khurintu tribe left Haradhur. That was unusual. Soltari kept its dealings in the open so that they might never be accused of favoritism or treachery. It helped maintain their carefully constructed position of neutrality. Yet now the picture seemed to be changing. Fastahn’s meeting with Dashnir had been a rather secret encounter, and this raised the possibility that the Soltari tribe had become an agent for the Khurintu tribe. Perhaps they would be the ones behind the fulfillment of the Destroyer’s prophecies. But Budari didn’t like that idea. The Soltari tribe had invested too much into their neutrality for them to abandon it now. There was another possibility that Fastahn was acting independently and a rift of sorts had formed within the Soltari tribe. But if that were so, then it came as a complete surprise to Budari. And while it was certainly not impossible to keep factions within a tribe secret, the Lotessa tribe kept a close watch on Soltari, for they were Lotessa’s primary source of agriculture. Budari felt rather confident about his sources on Soltari, and they had said nothing of any kind of a rift or a faction, much less one led by Fastahn. A stir in the conversation around him drew Budari’s attention back to the Gathering, and he noticed that Eomer also seemed to be focusing on the meeting. Aragorn was impossible to read, and Budari wondered what thoughts had come to the king of Gondor. The ruler of the Lotessa tribe prided himself on his ability to judge thought and intent from faces, but he had met his match in the northern king. Budari had never before seen a man who hid his emotions so well. It was simply uncanny, and Budari wondered if there was a trick or two that Aragorn might be willing to teach him. Such a skill was invaluable during negotiations. "Since there seems to much turmoil and much doubt, we shall adjourn for this evening," Aulit announced, effectively capturing the attention of everyone within the Gathering. Budari stiffened and managed to keep from protesting only with great effort. "I strongly urge all of you to consider your future actions well during this night. Together we are strong. Divided we become weak." Nay, Aulit, that is not what we need to hear! Budari mentally groaned. If Aulit’s hope was to inspire others to stay at Haradhur and finish the Gathering, he was more foolish than Budari had ever dreamed. To maintain order and calm, traditions had to be followed. Ending a session of the Gathering early—especially when it had ended early the previous night due to a sudden attack—was an indication that something was wrong. It would do nothing to calm the nerves of already-frazzled leaders. It might even prompt more of them to leave. But the damage was done now, and many of the leaders were already heading for the doors, no doubt intending to discuss events with their councils. If Budari were a betting man, his wager would be that at least one-fourth of the tribes would make plans to depart the next night. Still, there was some good that came out of this. Granted with extra time, Budari might be able to decipher what was happening with Fastahn and the Soltari tribe. Quickly glancing around for Soltari’s leader, Budari was disappointed to see that Khesva had already left. But there would be time to search him out later in his own camp. If there was a rift within Soltari, Budari would be able to sense it in the encampment. And perhaps by openly confronting a rift, it might heal in such a way as to guarantee Soltari’s aid for the inevitable battle. It was a shot in the dark, Budari knew, for Soltari rarely involved itself more than necessary. Yet it had been strangely active this particular Gathering, and military aid might not be beyond them. At the very least, they might be willing to solicit other tribes for assistance on Lotessa’s behalf. But there was another side to all of this that worried Budari. If Soltari had aligned itself with Khurintu—something that was still a remote possibility in Budari’s mind—then he might be walking into a trap by journeying into the Soltari camp. It would probably be best to travel with an armed escort. And it wouldn’t hurt to flex some muscle before Soltari, either. They had played with Lotessa enough. It was time to show them what a tribe of warriors could do. "Perhaps it would be wise if you moved the bulk of your delegation into the city for this night." Budari blinked and turned his head to meet Aragorn’s calm but concerned gaze. Hiding was exactly what tribes of warriors did not do. "I do not think I heard you correctly," Budari said, giving Aragorn a chance to redeem himself. Perhaps he had been jesting. "Yes, you did hear me correctly, and no, I did not jest when I spoke." Aragorn was either exceptionally good at reading minute facial expressions or he had a talent for reading minds. Considering what he had seen from this man already, Lotessa’s leader was half-willing to believe that the latter of the two might be possible. Frowning, Budari studied the king of Gondor and then shook his head slowly. "You would have us cower in the city as a lizard beneath a rock?" "I would have you survive the night," Aragorn countered. "We have survived countless years in the desert while at odds with both other tribes and the will of Lord Sauron. We will survive a bit longer." "What is it that we discuss?" a new voice questioned, and Eomer stepped up beside Aragorn. "I was advising Budari of the prudence of taking shelter within the walls of the city," Aragorn answered, studying the tribesman through narrowed eyes. "Ah," Eomer murmured. "Were I in his saddle, I believe that I would refuse such a request. I suppose that he is doing likewise?" "Indeed he is," Aragorn answered. Budari deepened his frown and attempted to send two glares in two different directions. He was not especially appreciative of the fact that Eomer and Aragorn were talking about him without really acknowledging him. It was almost as though they were working together to maneuver him into a trap, which would have been acceptable except that Budari had never faced a trap like this and so did not know how to avoid it. "You say you would also refuse such a suggestion?" Aragorn was asking as Budari turned his mind to possible escape routes. "Initially, yes," Eomer said. "The Rohirrim do not take well to hiding and slinking. However, after you had explained to me the plan to muster forces within the city and then to ride forth with those forces and meet Khurintu in the desert, I would reconsider my refusal. I would wish to keep my horses fresh, my men safe, and the morale of my company high." "Interesting. Perhaps we should try explaining this to Budari," Aragorn said, glancing at the Lotessa leader. "That would be good counsel. I do not see how he could then refuse our offer to accommodate his tribe within our camp," Eomer agreed. Budari stifled a laugh and shook his head. They were strange, these men from the north, and their methods of persuasion were even stranger. It was quite humorous, actually. Aragorn and Eomer sounded very much like children looking to obtain some favor or gift from intractable parents. But then again, perhaps he should not take their efforts so lightly, for despite his pride, they were beginning to convince him. "What is this of mustering forces?" Budari asked, attempting to sound as though he was only reluctantly considering their ideas. "Having discussed this matter at length before the Gathering commenced this evening, King Eomer and I have reached several conclusions," Aragorn answered. "First of all, Khurintu shall act tonight and attempt to capitalize on the disappearance of Legolas and Gimli. We know not what form their actions shall take, but whatever the result, it will be powerful and devastating." "And you believe Lotessa to be one of the targeted tribes," Budari finished for the king, feeling a slight bite of impatience. "You spoke of this earlier." "It has occurred to us that Khurintu will then ride back tomorrow night," Eomer said, picking up where Aragorn left off. "They shall wish to show their invulnerability to the prophecies of the Destroyer. And having an elf and a dwarf within their grasp, they shall undoubtedly wish to show their power over the so-called abominations." "Which is why Legolas and Gimli were captured alive," Aragorn concluded. "When Khurintu returns, they will kill Legolas and Gimli before all the other tribes and in some grand fashion, leaving no doubt as to who has been granted power within the desert." "So they will fulfill their own prophecy that the Iluh will deal with your elf and dwarf," Budari sighed. "And who would dare to challenge them after that? They shall be seen as agents of the Iluh and the saviors of the Haradrim. If they choose to claim power and make all other tribes vassals to them, none will stand against them. The Lotessa tribe and all other potential threats shall have been destroyed by whatever calamity comes this night. The kings of Gondor and Rohan will be dispatched as your small forces attempt to fight Khurintu without allies. The superstitious populace of Harad shall look upon Asbad and Dashnir as men nearly equal to the stature of Lord Sauron. The Gartabo tribe will have lost its standing by its failure to capture those it was commanded to take. Khurintu will rally the desert to unification and ultimately expand their empire northward." Budari gave a mirthless laugh. "Tell me, my friends. Have we forgotten anything of this grand plan? Or does the confusion caused by whatever they did to your elf still linger?" "It lingers still," Aragorn murmured, his eyes clouding momentarily. "And because of this, we are unable to discover the final pieces of their puzzle. I cannot see beyond what we have discussed here, but there is more to their plans than this. Harad is not prepared to face a prolonged war in the north. Khurintu knows this. Even bereft of its kings, Gondor and Rohan will stand strong. Imrahil leads from Dol Amroth, Faramir and Arwen command the forces of Minas Tirith, Lothíriel can muster Rohan, the elves of Ithilien and the dwarves of Aglarond will to our aid by force of alliance…" Aragorn trailed off and shook his head. "They are planning something more, but as for what that something is, I cannot say." "Beyond that, we still have not solved the mystery of the Warra tribe and the Portu tribe," Eomer added. "We do not yet understand their role in all this." "Still, even with the mystery unsolved, I see that Dashnir and Arabano are well on their way to making Khurintu a successor to Mordor’s might and power," Budari sighed, rubbing his temples. "Iluh take their Númenórean tricks! Had your minds and Arabano’s mind been able to function on the ride to Haradhur, you might have seen some of this in Dashnir." "All of that is in the past," Eomer broke in, his voice indicating that he was eager to move on to other matters. "Brooding over it accomplishes nothing. Let us instead focus our talents and thoughts on what can be done now. We can gather within Haradhur, protected by the city from the forces set against us, and we can rally other Haradrim. You have told us that the Soltari tribe knows the identity of the Destroyer. Let us force them into sharing that knowledge with others. Khurintu can stand before a single tribe, but it cannot stand before the desert. We must all unite against them." "Your suggestion is good, but it remains to be seen if we can convince Khesva and the Soltari tribe to share their knowledge," Budari cautioned. "There are recent developments that cast doubt upon Soltari’s willingness to assist." "So Arabano warned us," Aragorn said. "Yet he did not tell us the origins of his suspicions." "He had no origins at the time he spoke to you," Budari said. "We have had more information since then. But in one thing at least you have convinced me, honored ones. I shall move my tribe into the city for this night and the following day. I also know of other tribes that are beholden to Lotessa. I may be able to convince them of the need to ride to war with us. We shall seek them out and bid them join us. And as we walk to my camp, we shall discuss what preparations are needed to accommodate us within the city." "And then you shall tell us what you know of Soltari," Eomer added, his eyes flashing. "We have been kept in the dark far too long, and at this point, secrets do not assist anyone." "Nay, they do not," Budari agreed quietly. "Come, then. We shall find Arabano and depart for the camp of my tribe. And when we reach them, all shall be explained." * * * * Gimli could never clearly recall the forced march through the desert during the first part of that night. His headache quickly escalated into extreme regions of pain, and his mind seemed to be cloaked in a perpetual haze. His injured leg buckled continuously, and he wondered how much damage was being done as he forced it to hold his weight. In truth, only the strong grips of his guards kept the dwarf upright, and only their constant shoves kept him moving forward. But as the night began to wear on, his faltering feet grew slower, his wounded leg throbbed harder, his guards became more impatient, and his mind grew ever darker. He was dimly aware that Legolas kept throwing him concerned looks. The elf had spoken up once for the dwarf, and for his troubles he had earned a violent blow to the side and a stern warning from one of his guards. He had not called out since then, but his eyes were constantly locking onto Gimli’s as though he could ground the dwarf to reality with his gaze alone. And for a while, it seemed to work. Looking into eyes that had been trained to command an elven army with a single glance, Gimli was steadied and his world ceased to spin so quickly. But when the elf was forced to look away, the shadows returned, and the dwarf found himself swimming against swirling currents of darkness and pain that threatened to swallow his consciousness. Legolas was also surreptitiously attempting to slow the march on the dwarf’s behalf, something for which Gimli was intensely grateful in spite of the outcries of his stubborn pride. The dwarf was all too aware of his own diminishing strength, and he knew that a faster pace might require more than he had to give. And yet, after a time, Legolas’s small efforts were no longer enough. The all-anvil orchestra in Gimli’s head refused to die down and even intensified as time ticked away. His vision began to fade in and out, and all clarity was lost in a foggy dream. Equilibrium failed, and sometime during the night, despite all attempts to keep his balance, his wounded leg refused to take any more. He stumbled and fell, bringing down the guards who had kept a firm grip on his arms. A halt was called, he heard Legolas’s voice rise up in sudden protest, and then darkness overcame him. For a time, he knew no more. He was next aware of a gentle touch on his brow and hushed, urgent words pleading with him to wake. Deciding that waking was the last thing he wanted to do, Gimli initially ignored the commands that filtered through hazy layers of consciousness. But the voice that called to him was nothing if not persistent, and eventually the dwarf gave in just to be rid of the constant encouragement. Struggling for a minute or so, Gimli eventually managed to open his eyes, something that he considered a rather noteworthy event. The next step was getting his eyes to focus. "Gimli?" What had happened to his sight? He couldn’t see a thing! His vision had tunneled, and all peripheral objects were lost. Even those things straight ahead of him were vague and blurred. "Gimli?" the voice asked again, and there was a note of fear in the deceptively smooth tones. The dwarf could make out that someone was bending over him now, and despite the fuzziness of his vision, he could dimly see two glittering gray eyes peering into his own. A flicker of relief passed through those expressive orbs, and then they closed momentarily before opening again, this time with more composure. "It seems that the legendary hard-headedness of the dwarves is falling short of its renown," Legolas whispered. "You have been unresponsive for some time." "My apologies," Gimli grunted, the memory of their current predicament swiftly coming back to him. How long had he been unconscious? Why hadn’t he been killed after falling and stopping the march? More than a little baffled, Gimli started to sit up, but Legolas held him down before he could even begin to rise. At this point, Gimli belatedly realized that neither his hands nor Legolas’s were bound. Now thoroughly bewildered, he shot the elf a look of complete and utter confusion. What was going on? "They released me to care for you, and in turn, I released you," Legolas explained quietly. Gimli frowned. "They do not fear that you will escape?" "They know our hearts well," the elf answered with a sad smile, "and my own heart has bound me as surely as any chains. I have not the strength to carry you. The heat and ú-glîr have seen to that. And they know that I will not leave without you." "Foolish elf," Gimli muttered. "You would do the same for me, elvellon." "That is different," the dwarf grunted. "But why am I still alive? I would have expected them to kill me." "It seems the original claim that we are still useful if dead was somewhat exaggerated," Legolas answered. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and then turned his attention back to Gimli. "They did threaten to kill you because you slowed our journey, but I was able to convince them that I could wake you. Asbad agreed to the attempt. He needs us, Gimli. He did not lie when he said that our lives were not completely necessary; I am certain of that. But we are far more valuable to him in the land of the living than we would be in the realm of the dead. If he can keep us alive, he will. For now, at any rate." "You are fortunate, then," Gimli breathed, a twinge of fear and guilt squeezing his heart. "If it were not so, speaking out might have cost you your own life." "I judged the risk to be worth it," Legolas said with a slight shrug as if to dismiss the matter. "But I had almost lost hope of rousing you until now. Will you be well enough to travel soon?" "I will manage," Gimli said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The world still had a precarious tilt to it, and he wasn’t certain he could remain vertical were he to stand. "I will stall for more time, but I can not stall for much longer," the elf warned. "I do not understand their speech, but I believe there is some rendezvous for which they are making. They are growing anxious to travel, and they will not wait indefinitely." "Nay, you need not stall. I am able to travel now," Gimli assured him, attempting to sit up again, but once more, the deceptive strength of the elf held him firmly to the ground. The dwarf blinked and glared at his friend "What are you—" "You are not able to travel now," Legolas said sternly. "Your leg wound reopened when you fell and the bleeding did not stop easily. More than that, you are starting to run a fever, and your thigh has become infected. I told you that I can obtain more time, and I wish for you to use that time wisely. Continue to recover. If you collapse again, I do not think I can prevent them from killing you. Asbad will have tolerated too much. And to kill you, elvellon, they will first have to kill me." Gimli blinked at this. "Legolas, I—" Legolas clapped a hand over his friend’s mouth and gave him a look that would silence a wizard. "Rest, dwarf!" At times like these, Gimli was sharply reminded that Legolas was a prince among his people and accustomed to getting his own way when he set his mind on something. Though normally content to step back and let others take the lead, Legolas had inherited a strong stubborn streak from his father, and he would not hesitate to employ his authority if push came to shove. And when faced with an angry, resolute elven prince, even Gimli would back down. It was usually safer that way, and now was no exception. Relaxing back into the sand with some reluctance, Gimli couldn’t help but allow his eyes to slide shut when he felt a gentle elven touch on his temples, and he sighed softly. Much of the shooting pain in his head slipped away under Legolas’s ministrations, and the dwarf drifted into a blissful realm somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. The earth ceased to roll and buck beneath him, and he felt his equilibrium begin to right itself. Then a soft song in the Sindarin tongue filtered through to his hazy dream world, further quieting him. Despite the fog within his mind, Gimli heard and translated enough of the words to know that Legolas was singing of the sea. It was a sobering reminder that his friend was never truly content, nor had he ever been since hearing the gulls in the fair fields of Lebannin while they rode behind Aragorn and before the hosts of the dead. His thoughts were interrupted when other voices—voices far less fair than the voice of Legolas—entered his dream. Then he heard the elf again, but the soothing tone from the song had been replaced by the tone of an affronted prince. There was much satisfaction in hearing the elf make use of his royal upbringing against others. The other voices answered his friend now, harsh and demanding, but once more, Legolas countered with all the authority of an incensed elven lord. Even Gimli, lost in vague dreams, trembled at the sound of the elf’s anger and was thankful he had made friends of Legolas rather than staying his enemy. He would not wish that voice to turn upon him. More fleeting dreams swept the dwarf away from reality, and then the world shifted again. Gimli wondered what was happening and then recognized that Legolas was speaking to him. This time the elf was neither comforter nor prince but an anxious friend who struggled to hold back worry and panic. Full awareness was slow in returning, but the dwarf tried to hurry. Legolas sounded urgent, and this spurred Gimli on to greater efforts at coherency. Eventually he could make out the words of the elf’s speech, and he shivered at the hidden fear in the elf’s voice. "Gimli? Gimli, open your eyes. You must open your eyes. Gimli? Gimli, hear me. You must wake. My friend, you must do this for your own safety. Open your eyes. If you value your life or mine, son of Glóin, open your eyes!" With great effort, Gimli worked to comply with the request. It would mean leaving behind his peaceful sanctuary of semi-consciousness, but it would also mean that Legolas would stop calling him. Eventually, after a few failed attempts, he lifted heavy lids and met Legolas’s concerned gaze. "It is time," the elf said quietly, fear and uncertainty lurking in the gray depths of his eyes. "The men will wait no longer. I have done what I can for you, but I fear it is not enough. Do you feel ready to travel?" "Ready or not, I have little choice," Gimli grumbled, but in truth, he did feel somewhat better. His head did not ache so much, and for now, at least, the world had decided to stand still. He did not have much hope that this would last long, but it was still a welcome respite from the previous chaos that had made the ground rock beneath him. "They have agreed to let me support you as we travel, and this means they will bind my hands in front rather than in back," Legolas said with a quick glance at the captors that were surrounding them. "But they will not do you the same courtesy. I tried to convince them otherwise, but I have already pushed our fortune too far. I am sorry." "I am amazed you talked them into allowing even that much," the dwarf said quietly, ignoring his pride that insisted he needed no help whatsoever. "It is more than I would have been able to accomplish." He closed his eyes and sighed, wondering if he would be able to accomplish anything in the near future other than burdening his elven friend. "Gimli? Gimli, listen closely to me," Legolas pressed. The dwarf opened his eyes again and looked obediently at the elf. "Do not struggle when they bind your hands," Legolas instructed, his voice so soft that it was almost inaudible. "Act as though you do not know what is happening around you. The more delirious you seem, the better." "That will not prove to be a difficult task," Gimli assured him, wondering what the elf was planning. It was obvious that he had something in mind and the dwarf could see a curious gleam in the prince’s eyes, but he knew that the plan’s details would not be forthcoming until Legolas worked them out more fully. "Move him away!" someone behind Legolas ordered. Hands seized the elf and he was pulled away from the dwarf, having only time to send one apologetic and yet strangely confident look. Then Gimli was being hauled to his feet and his arms were wrenched behind his back. It did not require much effort of will to refrain from struggling, for Gimli was too concerned with remaining upright. All his efforts were focused on the need to stay vertical, and it proved to be a great challenge. "Easy, my friend." Legolas was back now and Gimli felt the elf catch and steady his swaying body. "Stay awake if you can. Lean back against me and take the weight off of your wounded leg. Good. Now rest for a moment. We will start the journey again soon." Gimli sighed wearily as he relaxed, using the elf’s slender frame for support. He knew that dwarven honor should have been forcing him to stand on his own, but he had neither the energy nor the will to make even a slight protest. After a moment of subduing his inner voice of pride, he gradually became aware that Legolas was whispering hushed words in the elven tongue. Gimli had no understanding of them, but it seemed his pain and nausea diminished as Legolas continued. Then nimble elven fingers were attacking the ropes binding his wrists. There was a slight awkwardness in the movements and he decided that Legolas’s wrists were probably tied together by now, but this didn’t seem to be too much of an impediment to the elf. A short time later, Gimli felt his own bindings loosen slightly, and then Legolas stopped, apparently satisfied. "Stay with me, Gimli. Stay with me for now," Legolas whispered, his voice pitched so low that it was nearly impossible to hear. "We must bide our time, but I promise you that you will not have to endure this much longer. I believe I might have discovered something that could be of use to us when we choose to make our escape." "Don’t risk yourself," the dwarf managed to hiss in response. "One of us must survive this ordeal." "I risk what I must," the prince said in a tone that flatly forbade any further discussion on the subject. Gimli fell silent and let the argument slide, knowing that in his present mood, Legolas was beyond common sense and reason. Instead, the dwarf tried to make the world hold still long enough for him to get his balance. He couldn’t tell if he was leaning too far forward, too far backward, or if he was floundering to the side. He only knew that were it not for the elf’s support, he would be flat on his back in the sand. Or perhaps on his stomach. Or would he fall on his side? And if so, which side? And just how many sides did he have, anyway? Then the voices of the Haradrim surrounded them, creating a clamoring din that was anything but intelligible to the fading dwarf. Fortunately, these voices were comprehensible to Legolas, and gently but firmly, he pushed Gimli forward, all the while keeping a tight hold on the dwarf’s right shoulder and trying to take some of the weight off his friend’s injured leg. And so the forced journey continued. Gimli felt as though he walked in a dark dream with the elf’s firm grip upon his shoulder as his only anchor to the outside world. At times it seemed that voices intruded upon his darkened reality, always angry and always demanding. Then Legolas would answer these voices, his tone sharp, argumentative, and filled with all the authority of an indignant elven prince. Gimli would shiver at that sound, but pressure from the elf’s hands assured him that Legolas’s anger was not directed at the dwarf. And then Gimli would fade back into his dreams of shadows, conscious only of the strange need to keep moving forward and the constant, crippling pain that throbbed in his leg and enveloped his head in a suffocating grasp. Sometimes the pain was so near and so great that it became almost unbearable. But at other times, it was a distant curiosity, present but feeling as thought it belonged to someone else entirely. Gimli was vaguely aware of a time when he stumbled hard and fell to his knees. Legolas was hauling him upward again before he truly realized what was going on, all the while whispering quiet words of encouragement. He then heard the harsh voices of the men who herded them as sheep. For a small moment, Gimli felt a flash of rebellious anger, but it was immediately swallowed up by concern when he heard what sounded like the impact of a club followed by an elf grunting in surprise and pain. "Legolas?" His voice was weak and strained and the formation of simple words had become a daunting ordeal, but Gimli’s fear for the elf would not allow him to stay silent. How many other blows hat Legolas taken when the dwarf’s feet faltered? "Keep moving," Legolas whispered in response to Gimli’s query, almost lifting the dwarf into the air as he forced them both forward. "Think of nothing else. Only move." And so Gimli moved, obedient to the elven presence that kept him grounded in Middle Earth. And thus his dream continued, a mass of shadows and darkness with a single light behind him to hold it all at bay. But as the darkness grew darker and the shadows grew greater, the light slowly dwindled and faded until the dwarf could barely see at all. Then the world tipped, spun, and ultimately collapsed. The single light now flared brightly above him, demanding attention, but Gimli no longer had the ability to focus. Everything continued to fade until all that remained was darkness. And then he knew no more. * * * * Eomer stopped cold on the outskirts of the Lotessa encampment and turned to stare at Budari. "Fastahn went to see Dashnir?!" Equally startled but hiding it for the moment, Aragorn quickly went through the plans he and Eomer had made while waiting for the Gathering to begin. It seemed that a few of them would have to be altered, particularly the methods of "persuasion" they had chosen to use in order to elicit Khesva’s support. "Our spies saw him enter Dashnir’s tent and then leave after some time had passed." "Were there any others in the tent at the time?" Aragorn asked. "Nay, our spies say that the two of them were alone," Budari said. "Radarad of Portu had been in earlier, no doubt discussing his tribe’s involvement in the surprise attack, but he left before Fastahn arrived." "Valar," Eomer murmured, rubbing his temples. "Know you what Fastahn wanted there?" Aragorn asked, clinging to the hope that Soltari’s intentions had been honest. "Our spies were not close enough to hear anything in the way of a conversation, honored ones," Arabano answered. "However, judging from his questions to me earlier in the day, it is possible that the Soltari tribe is reconsidering its position of neutrality." "Or Fastahn could be acting independently," Budari added with a sigh. "His actions might not be sanctioned by Khesva. There is a possibility—albeit a remote one—that there is something of a rift within Soltari. Perhaps the tribe is splitting apart." "Is it possible that we are jumping to conclusions?" Aragorn asked. "Your spies did not overhear the conversation." "Even if we are wrong, it is best to act with prudence in this case," Arabano advised. "Alliances are tenuous at best, even the strongest ones. Soltari should be treated with great caution." "Let us say that you are right, then," Aragorn said, deciding to play the game. "There is still the possibility that a part of the Soltari tribe would be willing to help us." Having finally gotten his mind working again and having hit upon a plan that seemed to promise success, he was not about to let it fall to the wayside. They had delayed too long, and they needed to act now. And given his present state of his mind and his limited foresight that was returning only reluctantly, Aragorn did not trust himself to engineer a second workable plan within the next few hours. "But how shall we tell?" Eomer challenged, his frustration apparently getting the better of him. "Much of our plan lay in the coaxing of Khesva to join us and share with others his information. But can that still be done if Soltari has elected to move to Khurintu’s side?" For some reason, Budari found this notion rather humorous, and Arabano could not quite keep back a chuckle. "Northerners. You are all alike," Budari said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You think the world can be divided into sides. Perhaps that is true in your lands, but in the desert, there are multiple aspects to every problem. Even we are not altogether on the same side, as you put it, for we each have our own agenda and our own desires. For the moment, they happen to coincide. However, were we on opposite ends of an issue that led to bloodshed, I would not hesitate to slit your throat." There was a rather awkward silence for a moment or two until Eomer finally spoke. "I see," he murmured, his tone one of uncertainty. "If it eases your mind, I would regret the action," Budari added, almost as an afterthought. "My thanks for your concern," Aragorn sighed with a shake of his head. Budari’s statement might be unexpected for Eomer, but it did not surprise Aragorn. It was a logical extension of basic desert philosophy. There was a saying in Harad that alliances were like hidden lakes. They were few and far between, they were coveted and guarded jealously, and they could be stolen away by other tribes. Nothing in the desert was ever permanent. But this mindset did not help solve the current problem. Aragorn still thought they were drawing hasty conclusions, but if Budari and Dashnir were right and if Soltari’s "side" was closer to Khurintu than to Gondor, then much of their planning would have been for naught. To use a dwarven phrase, they would be back at the drawing slate. I fear that we must become certain on the point of Soltari’s alignment before proceeding to anything else, Aragorn decided at length. Too much rides upon it. Perhaps it would be best if we confronted them openly… It would certainly make Eomer happy. He has endured enough of secrecy. "I would not regret slitting the throat of all my allies. You may count yourselves singular in that," Budari was saying when Aragorn turned his attention back to the conversation. It seemed that they were still discussing desert philosophy, and apparently Budari had sensed that his comments had stirred feelings of unease in Eomer. For his part, Arabano looked confused as to why such comments might elicit an unsavory reaction. Deciding to redirect the conversation toward more pertinent matters, Aragorn cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. "My apologies," he said, "but I feel there are other areas that better deserve our scrutiny. Budari, is it possible to relocate your tribe to Haradhur in such a way that leaves you free for a short trip." Budari raised one black eyebrow. "And where would I be going?" "By your leave, I would take you with me to see Khesva. The Soltari tribe is not far from here and I would hear what they have to say in response to the reports of your spies. I would also have Eomer come with us, if he feels so inclined," Aragorn added with a nod toward the king of Rohan. "I am grateful for the invitation," Eomer said, nodding back. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you." A small smile crept over Budari’s face and he shook his head. "Ere you convinced me to join you in Haradhur, it had been my intention to travel with armed escort to the Soltari tribe myself and learn the truth of the matter. By all means, let us depart. Arabano, you shall be charged with the affairs of this camp. We shall take the southern perimeter guards with us to Soltari, so you need not be concerned with recalling them." "As you wish, honored one," Arabano answered with a slight bow. "Though I will confess that I had wished to confront Fastahn myself." "And doubtless you will have opportunity for it," Budari replied. "But for the time being, the welfare of our own tribe must come first." "Then if we are finished here, let us depart," Aragorn said, feeling a touch of his old confidence returned. This action felt right. His instincts had returned and he was beginning to trust himself again. Translating word to deed, he began walking away, looking expectantly at Budari. Following Aragorn’s lead, Budari nodded a farewell to Arabano and started moving. "We shall certainly give the poor Soltari guards a shock. I doubt Soltari sees much in the way of visits from kings and tribal leaders." "Shock may be exactly what we need at this point," Aragorn said quietly. "We have been far too predictable in our actions, and such a thing can only play into Khurintu’s hand. We need to make bolder moves." The king of Gondor flicked a glance over his shoulder to see if Eomer was smirking—for such a statement would seem far more natural coming from him than from Aragorn—but he stopped when he noted that Eomer was not following them. He was still standing next to Arabano—who looked rather confused—and staring at two soldiers near Lotessa’s main tent. "Eomer?" Aragorn called, questioning. Eomer turned slightly, and at the look on his face, Aragorn felt his blood chill. "Budari, what is it that your guards hold over yonder?" the king of the Mark asked, his voice carefully neutral but his eyes flashing with sudden fear. A rather puzzled Budari looked in the indicated direction and frowned. "I know not. Do you wish me to investigate?" "If you would," Eomer answered in a tone that would not be countermanded. Had he not been so alarmed, Aragorn would have been impressed. Such a tone might make even Thranduil sit up and take notice. Budari nodded—though he looked as though he desired an explanation—and obligingly walked toward the guards that had earned Eomer’s undivided attention. Noticing his approach, the men turned quickly and bowed, awaiting instruction. "That bag you carry," Budari said. "What is it?" "We know not, honored one," one of the guards answered. "It was found near your tent and we were debating as to whether or not it should be brought to your attention." Having said this, the guard presented Budari with a rather lumpy sack. Standing slightly behind the tribal leader, Aragorn studied the sack closely, but he could see nothing about it that would attract Eomer’s interest. It was a fairly ordinary bag made from what appeared to be mûmakil hide. There were no unusual markings on it, and nothing about it indicated it could be a threat in any way. It was certainly not out of place within a desert camp. Shooting Eomer a questioning look, Aragorn was startled to realize that Eomer was not watching the bag but rather the guard’s hands. They were coated with a fine layer of black powder, which was strangely familiar for some reason, but Aragorn could not remember where he had seen such a thing before. "There are more of these bags, honored ones," the guard was saying. "A few lie further out while others are near some of the tents on the northern side of camp. We cannot remember their having been here before tonight." "Strange," Budari murmured, opening the bag and allowing some of its contents to spill out onto his hand. "I have seen nothing like this before." And that’s when recognition hit Aragorn like a charging Balrog. He felt his stomach drop into his knees, his throat went dry, and his eyes immediately went to the desert beyond the camp, searching the darkness for— "Aragorn!" Eomer cried, pointing toward the north. And quickly turning this direction, Aragorn gasped. Almost beyond the range of sight, he could see a tiny flicker of red. A glimmer of flame. "Fly!" Aragorn cried, seizing both Arabano and Budari and propelling them forward. "Tell all to leave the camp. We must—" But Aragorn was not allowed to finish his sentence, for a sudden blast of pressure, heat, and sound slammed into him. All air was forced from his lungs, and when he gasped for more, it seared its way down his throat. The world tumbled head over heels around him, and time seemed to slow into eternity as a wave of fire exploded outward from a point on the camp’s outer edge. His ears ringing and his skin blistering, Aragorn abruptly realized that he was airborne and flying forward. Behind him, a blinding light roared up from the ground and the world was filled with a deafening sound that was like and yet unlike the clap of nearby thunder. Sand and fire rained down, a plume of flame shot skyward, and all of Arda shook and clamored as though being overrun by a battalion of trolls. Then the ground rushed up to meet Aragorn’s falling form, but there was no time to even raise his aching head off the sand ere a second explosion did it for him. Flung sideways into the air, Aragorn did the only thing he could do; he pulled into a protective ball and sent up pleas to the Valar for help. But his cries were in vain, and he had not even hit the ground again when he saw a third wave of light and fire erupting next to one of the guard tents while a fourth explosion went off behind him. Caught between two colliding waves of pressure and flame, Aragorn’s consciousness fled, plunging his world into blackness. His last sensation was one of fire, and then everything went silent. Elvellon—Elf-friend Author’s Notes—In my defense, may I say that the last two paragraphs of the chapter were NOT inspired by the Two Towers movie (though I have now seen it twice). The plot has been outlined almost completely for quite some time and this particular section has actually been written for quite a while. It’s just been waiting for the other sections to be finished. Anyway, I came up with this on my own. Anyway, the primary motivation—as you’ve probably deduced by now—is power. Khurintu is making a power play in a vacuum that was created by Mordor’s fall. A power play seven years in the making, I’ll grant you, but since communication is slow in the desert and tends to be jumbled, I figured it was plausible. It always felt odd to me that no one tried to assume Mordor’s position when Sauron was defeated, so I fixed that with this story. Satisfied me, anyway. Also congratulations to fliewatuet, Mari, and Little Fish for accurately deciphering the sea reference from Imrahil’s dream. Finally, holiday greetings to all the lurkers and HUGE thanks to all the faithful reviewers. Without you, this chapter would not have appeared until New Year’s. It was troublesome. Anyway, thanks again and I hope you continue to enjoy! Chapter 29: Falling and Waking "Gimli?" Legolas’s panic reached fever pitch as he crouched protectively over his fallen friend. "Gimli?!" Around him, the elf could hear the sounds of a halt being called as well as the ring of drawn blades. But Legolas studiously ignored them, instead concentrating all his efforts on the dwarf who moaned feverishly in the sand. "Gimli!" "You claimed that you could support him," a voice called out, and Legolas looked up with wild eyes as the man he assumed to be Asbad stepped forward. "You were warned about the consequences should you fail. Step aside." "I will wake him," Legolas said firmly, putting into his words every ounce of royal authority that he could muster. Had Thranduil been there to see him, the king of Mirkwood would have been proud. "Leave us be for a moment. I will rouse him." "You were already given that chance," Asbad answered, countering royal authority with harsh reality. "You failed." He nodded toward the surrounding men and they closed quickly, knives and swords brandished. "Stand down and things may go easier for you." But Legolas had no intention of letting these men carry out their orders. Waiting with all the awareness and all the latent energy of a coiled viper, the elf hovered above Gimli’s form, his eyes measuring each guard and promising death should they continue to advance. To his credit, a few of the men paused, uncertain. But some braved the threat lying within the elf’s eyes, and when the foremost man was within striking distance, the lord of Ithilien leaped into action. Had Aragorn been there to see it, he would have stared to see Legolas so sluggish. Had Gimli been awake, he would have cringed at the elf’s complete lack of fluidity and grace. Had any of Legolas’s mentors and trainers from Mirkwood been present, they would have shaken their heads in dismay at such sloppy fighting techniques. But the soldiers of the Khurintu tribe were the only witnesses of Legolas’s desperate attempt to save Gimli’s life, and they had no experience with elven warriors. As such, they were completely unprepared for what happened next. Remembering to keep his balance centered as Gimli had taught him during their sparring sessions, Legolas flung his shoulder into the first man’s midsection. Startled and winded, the guard’s grip on his knife loosened, and the elf’s bound hands quickly wrested the blade away even as he lashed out with his foot, catching the man in the chest and forcing him back onto the point of another knife. Then two more guards were lunging, and Legolas dodged while bringing up his newly acquired weapon. He caught one man in the head with the hilt and buried the blade in the other man’s neck. Springing backwards and resuming his position above Gimli, Legolas wondered if he had time to reverse the knife and cut through the bonds on his wrists. But the answer to that question came quickly when a fourth man seized him from behind and raised him off the ground. Acting almost without thought, Legolas jerked his head to the side and flung the knife over his shoulder, praying that his aim would be true. A sudden gasp informed him that he had succeeded. The restraining arms dropped away, and Legolas threw himself back over Gimli as the man who had seized him dropped to the ground, the knife lodged in his face. The surrounding men raised an outcry and charged forward, murder now their objective. Knowing his end was near and that he had failed both himself and the dwarf, Legolas gave a weary sigh and prepared to make his final battle one that would cost the Khurintu tribe dearly. But just before the first sword swung down, a shout from outside the circle of men stopped them all cold. The cry was repeated, and the men started to back away, though there was great reluctance in their faces. Other men who had not been initially involved now stepped forward with drawn bows, training their arrows on both Legolas and Gimli. Watching the archers warily, Legolas shifted until most of Gimli’s body was covered by his own and then turned his eyes toward Asbad, who was stepping back into view. Something in the man’s countenance had changed, but whether this was a change for the better, the elf could not say. He wondered if he should be thankful for the fact that he and Gimli were still alive. Their ultimate fate was less than certain, and if some torment was devised as retribution for his rebellion, the elf would much rather perish now and perish quickly by the bow. He could not speak for the dwarf in this, but he suspected that Gimli would feel the same. It seemed they were fated to die anyway. Why not die quickly in battle? After a few moments of tense silence, Asbad stepped closer to the elf, his eyes wandering over the forms of the fallen men. "You still refuse to leave his side?" he asked, though it was actually more of a statement than a question. Legolas’s position made it abundantly clear that he was not going to move. "Would honor and friendship compel any less of you?" the elf returned, watching the man’s movements closely through narrowed, stormy eyes. "Or perhaps you know nothing of such things." There were angry murmurings in response to this, but Asbad raised a hand and his people fell silent. "Bold words for a captive," he said, dark eyes flashing in the night. "You are either very brave or very foolish. Perhaps both. In any case, neither is to your advantage now. Tell me, elf. Do you realize who I am? Do you know who it is that you defy?" "It matters not who carries the evil so long as I am able to fight it," Legolas said quietly. "Do you truly believe that?" The leader of Khurintu stepped even closer and Legolas tensed, readying himself to repel an attack. Seeing this preparation, the man stopped and smiled slightly. "You are more naïve than I first thought. A small evil can be easily dealt with. A great evil requires more force than you possess. Do you still say it matters not whom you face? And what is the nature of evil? How can you be certain that I am evil? Why not you? Are you not a stranger in our land sent to intimidate our people into submission?" Legolas made no response, but his level of alertness increased, sensing that Asbad was coming to a conclusion of sorts. "Well, then, if you will not answer, I shall speak of what is to be done." Asbad stopped and watched the elf closely as though expecting a reaction. Legolas met his look with elvish inscrutability and his own piercing stare. It was a small satisfaction when the man was forced to drop his gaze, instead focusing his eyes on the dwarf sheltered beneath the elf. "There are four hours before dawn," he said slowly, drawing his sentence out as though relishing the power he had over his prisoners. "If you can carry your friend and match our pace for the next four hours, we will spare his life. If not, we will kill the dwarf and I will allow my men the freedom to visit their anger upon you." Four hours?! Legolas’s heart fell with despair. He did not think he could carry Gimli for five minutes, much less four hours. The day spent in nearly fatal temperatures had sapped most of the elf’s strength, and ú-glîr as well as fear for Gimli had made recovery slow. "Do you have a response?" Asbad asked when Legolas hesitated. "Or shall we kill you both now?" Though I may be shadowed, I am still an elf, Legolas told himself firmly, glancing down at Gimli. I can do this. I must do this. There is no other choice. Releasing the breath he’d been holding, the elf looked up darkly and nodded his agreement. His face showing something that might have been read as amusement, Asbad signaled one of his men forward. Bowstrings were drawn taut when the bindings upon the elf’s wrists were cut, but Legolas harbored no hopes for escape at the moment. Any attempt would be futile at best and fatal at worst. Bereft of weapons and burdened with an unconscious dwarf, he might manage two steps before the arrows brought him down. So the elf instead knelt by Gimli and slid his arms beneath the dwarf’s sturdy frame. With a stifled grunt, Legolas lifted and closed his eyes against the strain. When we return to Minas Tirith, Gimli, you and I shall begin a fitness regimen, the elf vowed as he struggled to raise his heavier companion. Slowly and with great effort, Legolas managed to stand with the dwarf in his arms. Gingerly, fearful both of disturbing the injured leg and of dropping Gimli, he began shifting the dwarf’s weight about so that it would be at least somewhat manageable, though he strongly suspected that no matter what he did, his left arm would be numb ere long. But at least they had a chance again, albeit a slim one. Steadying his burden and composing his face, Legolas opened his eyes and turned them toward his captor. "It seems you will not be rid of us so easily," he said quietly, praying that the abrupt increase in his rate of breathing would go unnoticed. "We shall see if your words are as brave after we begin traveling," Asbad retorted, sounding as though he knew exactly how much of a strain the dwarf was for the weakened elf. "And by your leave, I would make up for my lapse in manners. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, I am Asbad, ruler of the Khurintu tribe, descendent of the Númenóreans enlightened enough to serve the Dark Lord, and kinsman to he who was known as the Mouth of Sauron. You would do well not to cross me, for as you have already discovered, our talents can overcome even the fading elves." To his credit, Legolas’s face betrayed nothing, and only a flash in his eyes revealed any emotion. But within his heart, anger and rage flared to life. Fading elves, indeed, he thought darkly. Remove ú-glîr, cease to threaten Gimli, and then we shall see how you deal with this fading elf. But none of these thoughts appeared in his countenance, and he kept his expression placid. Asbad seemed to be disappointed at the lack of reaction, but he quickly shook it off. "Now that we are better acquainted, my lord prince, I think it is time for us to be off. But you have pressed your luck far this night, and I advise you to more humbly submit to captivity in the future. My men have no affection for either you or the dwarf, and they will happily slit your throats at my command." "I cannot submit to one who holds no sway over me," Legolas said, shifting Gimli’s weight as his predictions about a numb arm began to bear out. "As a prince, I answer only to a king, and you, mortal, are not that king." "Then learn to pretend that I am that king," Asbad warned, his eyes flashing with hints of anger, "or your friend’s life is forfeit. As for holding sway over you, it is not necessary. The dwarf does that for me." He then turned to his men and spoke orders in their own tongue. When he was done, he gave the prince a mocking bow, gestured with his hand, and began walking. Legolas felt the point of a spear scratch against his lower back while another brushed against his side. The elf obediently moved forward, but his temper was flaring dangerously. Had he been alone, most of the men would have died right then. Only Gimli’s weight in his arms kept him grounded, and for the sake of the dwarf, he bit his tongue and held his anger in check. Yet it was a hard thing, and Legolas’s elven pride was screaming for action. Trying to adopt a calmer frame of mind, Legolas took a deep breath and concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other. But he would not be able to endure either the physical strain or the injuries to his pride for much longer. Grimacing, Legolas shifted Gimli yet again, trying to get the dwarf partially over his shoulder and so relieve his arms. But that only made him stagger to the side, and deprived of a balance that had once been certain, Legolas eventually decided that Gimli would have to stay cradled in his arms. Their future was taking on a rather bleak outlook, and the elf wondered just how long they had left to their lives. Elven stamina was considerable, but so was the dwarf. Gimli’s weight was at least the equal of Aragorn’s for all that he was half the king’s size, and Legolas was already weak. And there was another problem that Gimli’s state of unconsciousness brought. The prince’s plans for escape depended upon an alert and at least partially active companion. He could not escape while lugging his friend about. And so with a deep sigh and a shake of already tiring muscles, Legolas trudged onward, very conscious of the unsheathed weapons behind him and desperately hoping that the dawn would grant him new strength. But then, that was dependent on whether or not he lived to see the dawn. At the moment, it seemed doubtful. * * * * Sensation and consciousness were slow in returning. Struggling upward through hazy layers of thought, Eomer wondered what was going on. His short-term memory seemed to be absent, and his long-term memory was strangely reticent to relinquish specific information about his predicament. He had only vague details from events long past with which to judge his body. Still, something was better than nothing, and thus armed with what little knowledge he had, Rohan’s king attempted to decipher what had happened to him. The first possibility that came to mind was that of drugging, for drugging might render one bleary and unconscious. It had also been one of Wormtongue’s favorite tricks if he needed someone to arrive late for a particular council meeting. But then again, Eomer couldn’t rule out less sophisticated methods, such as hard blow to the head. But…wasn’t Wormtongue dead? Confused, Eomer started listing other probable causes of his apparent unconscious state. Drowning was a possibility. So was hypothermia. Extreme exhaustion, perhaps, but Eomer doubted that such was the case. In fact, now that he was recovering somewhat, he could detect a shooting pain in his left shoulder as well as a burning sensation up and down the right side of his body. Which means that drugging is probably not the answer, Eomer reflected even as he fought the urge to moan. If he opened his mouth now, it would probably emerge as a scream. I can also rule out drowning. And even if I was hit on the head, something else has happened to me. Perhaps a fight? A war? Was I in a battle? With a frustrated mental sigh, Eomer attempted to open his eyes and rise to a sitting position. His first try was pitifully unsuccessful, but he did manage to move his right arm. This elicited a fresh burst of piercing agony, but it proved that he was still capable of movement. At the moment, Eomer was very thankful for that. "Eomer?" And in addition to proving he could still move, it had apparently attracted attention. As well as telling me that Aragorn is here, he added, attempting to subdue the voice of his pride. Normally, Eomer would shrink at the thought that someone was tending to his fallen form, but given his current condition as well as the sudden feeling that danger was lurking nearby, the king of Rohan decided to submit to Aragorn’s ministrations. He still could not open his eyes and he did not quite trust his voice, but with his ears he followed the sounds of Aragorn’s feet until they stopped next to his side. He heard the king kneel and then he felt a tentative touch at his throat. He is looking for a pulse, Eomer realized, wondering if the situation was indeed that dire. Does he think me dead? "Thank the Valar," Aragorn murmured somewhere above him. The hand at his throat moved to hover over his mouth, possibly feeling for breath, and then it came to rest on his left shoulder, gently prodding. Something about the entire process felt very odd to Eomer, but he could not say what was odd until he realized that Aragorn was only using one hand. Suddenly concerned for his friend, Eomer renewed his efforts to open his eyes. Like previous attempts, he met with failure, but the king of Rohan would not be daunted. Trying again and again, he struggled past the holds of unconsciousness, and by so doing he gained an even greater awareness of his surroundings. There was a crackling sound coming from his right that indicated a fire of some kind. At first, Eomer did not appreciate the significance of this detail, but something about it troubled him. There should not be fire here. Why? he demanded of himself, his frustration rising to the forefront of his thoughts. Why should I not be hearing fire? What is it that…Harad! Memory started returning, and along with memories came Aragorn’s words about the scarcity of fire in Harad. But then, what is burning? he asked, his brow furrowing as he attempted to understand this puzzle. Gathering what energy was left to him, Eomer once again tried to open his eyes. And at long last, he was rewarded with success. Dark, blue eyes opened on a devastated world, and the king of Rohan could barely keep back a gasp as the last of his memories returned in a disorienting and nauseating rush. "It is very good to see you awake, Eomer," Aragorn murmured behind him, his voice filled with relief. Eomer turned his head—he was not yet up to moving his body—and studied the other king, having heard a tremor of pain in Aragorn’s voice. He inhaled sharply at what he saw. One side of Aragorn’s face was red and burned with blisters already rising. Blood welled up from a gash in the king’s brow, and his hair was badly singed. There was no way to discern what hurts might lie beneath the charred and seared clothes, but if Aragorn’s posture was any indication, there were wounds that could not be seen. "You are injured," Eomer observed at length, deciding to stick with the obvious since his own condition was probably no better. "As are we all," Aragorn answered shortly. "The blast…" Eomer whispered, closing his eyes. "Orthanc Fire. I had never thought to see such a thing again." "Then we agree that this attack was similar to the attack in Helm’s Deep after Gimli and Gamling had blocked the culvert?" "Identical," Eomer answered. "I still remember the gaping hole in the Deeping Wall, and I remember well the blast that caused it. It was my hope that Orthanc Fire had become a weapon of the past." Deciding to test the limits of his body, Eomer attempted to sit up, but he was stopped by Aragorn’s hand on his good shoulder. "Not yet," the king of Gondor cautioned. "Lie still. You were hit by flying metal which laid open a wound in your left shoulder. I am about to clean it, and I will ask you to brace yourself while I do so. There may be splinters yet within the wound, and I will need to remove them." Eomer nodded wearily and forced himself to relax. It was difficult, for the warrior within him wished to be up and seeking retribution, but the logical part of his mind told him that such a thing could wait until he was better prepared to dole out his wrath. "What of Budari and Dashnir?" Eomer whispered, wincing slightly as Aragorn worked on his shoulder. "They lie unconscious behind us," Aragorn answered quietly. "They seem to be in better shape than we, but they both hit their heads on something. They have yet to show signs of waking" "The rest of Lotessa?" "I do not know. I see guards scattered about, and some are beginning to stir. But I believe the bulk of their force is now gone." Eomer swore quietly. "How is it that we survived?" "We were caught between explosions. Others not so fortunate were caught within the blasts themselves." Trying to comprehend the consequences of this latest development, Eomer suddenly become very aware of the fact that his companion was far from well. "Aragorn, would not this process be faster if you used both hands?" he eventually asked. "It probably would," Aragorn answered laconically, winding a torn strip of tunic around Eomer’s shoulder. The king of Rohan scowled and directed a pointed look toward Aragorn’s left arm, which, insofar as Eomer could determine, had not moved at all in the time he had been awake. "Then why do you insist on making this a slow ordeal? I am not enjoying it, and I daresay you are not enjoying it, either." "Because some things are beyond my reach." Rolling his eyes at the pun, Eomer refrained from hitting the other king only because he knew that he would seriously regret moving his shoulder so quickly. "Aragorn, what is wrong with your arm?" he demanded, deciding that the direct approach was called for in this case. "I cannot say with any amount of accuracy," Aragorn said quietly. "It is difficult to evaluate one’s own health." "Then what do you suspect is wrong?" Eomer asked, hoping that persistence would eventually award him answers. With a sigh, Aragorn finished wrapping the shoulder and secured the bandage tightly. "I suspect that both bones of the forearm are broken. The wrist, too, is either broken or badly sprained. More than that, I cannot tell." Aragorn then moved back and studied Eomer for a moment. "Let us see if you can stand. It would be unwise to linger here." Allowing the conversation change to stand since he had succeeded in eliciting information, Eomer slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and grimaced at the throb in his head. "Think you that our enemy might come into the Lotessa camp?" he asked. "My first suspect would be the Khurintu tribe, and I doubt they shall risk a public appearance." "I agree, but there are unscrupulous men from many tribes in the desert, and they would not hesitate to take advantage of our misfortune. We must be up and moving quickly." Aragorn’s right hand then found its way beneath Eomer’s unijured arm, and he tugged gently. "Come. All the way up. But slowly! There may be wounds we have yet to find." Eomer obediently struggled to his knees. The world spun briefly, but it was not enough to give cause for alarm. Wincing and feeling almost every muscle ache as it was asked to move, Eomer gathered his feet beneath himself and rose, swaying slightly. Aragorn steadied him, and ignoring the protests of an already indignant pride, Eomer allowed it. He wasn’t certain that he could stand on his own, and he had no desire to discover what falling down would do to his pounding head. "How do you feel?" Aragorn asked. "Better," Eomer answered, pulling his thoughts together and taking a few experimental steps on his own. "Yes, much better." "Good," Aragorn murmured. "Now, if you would assist me, we will see to—" "Before we do anything else, we are going to see to your own arm," Eomer interrupted. "If it is indeed broken, as you say, it must be splinted. And the sooner, the better." "The bones need to be set," Aragorn warned. "And I cannot set them myself." Eomer nodded. "I can set bones," he said, looking for something with which to form a splint. "I learned much in the way of medicine on the battlefield. This is not new to me. Sit, Aragorn. It is now your turn to brace yourself." With a quiet laugh that seemed rather devoid of real mirth, Aragorn lowered himself to the ground while Eomer picked up a length of broken metal and tore apart the sleeve of his tunic. "Do not enjoy your role as a healer too much, son of Eomund," Aragorn cautioned with a wry look. "You will need further treatment when we return to camp." "As will you," Eomer returned, kneeling beside the king of Gondor. Moving slowly, he picked up Aragorn’s left arm and tried to ignore the wince that accompanied the act of unlacing the gauntlet. With a grimace at the odd bend of the forearm, Eomer looked up and caught Aragorn’s gray eyes with his own. "I am prepared," Aragorn said in answer to the unspoken question. Eomer nodded, and with a firm grasp on both the upper and the lower forearm, the king of Rohan pulled. A sharp hiss and a sudden pallor were the only indications that Aragorn had felt any pain, and taking this as his cue to proceed, Eomer began to adjust the bones until they slipped back into place. Working quickly now, he pressed the metal against Aragorn’s arm and wound his sleeve around the limb, binding it tightly. "We might find something more suitable in camp, but this will do for now," Eomer said, tying it off. "It is more than adequate," Aragorn said, his voice trembling slightly. "My thanks." "I am not yet finished," Eomer warned. "Save your thanks for later." He then examined Aragorn’s wrist, probing gently and watching Aragorn grimace in response. "It is very swollen," he said at length. "I cannot tell if it is broken or not. To be safe, we should splint it now and check it again later." The king of Gondor nodded his acceptance of this proposal and Eomer stood to search for something short but stiff that might be used as a second splint. "You said you believed this to be Khurintu’s work," Aragorn called after him. "Have you any other suspects? "Have you?" Eomer challenged, returning with a tent stake. "Not many," Aragorn conceded. "But Khurintu would have needed archers to stay behind in order to ignite the Orthanc Fire. Such a move is rather dangerous, as they might have been discovered. I wonder if another tribe was persuaded to take upon themselves this task." "The Portu tribe?" Eomer questioned. "They have now attacked us twice." "Perhaps, but I do not think it was them," Aragorn said, his voice quiet as though he were still organizing his thoughts. "The Portu tribe does not know the true identity of the Destroyer, yet in carrying out this particular attack, they would be doing things that only the Iluh and their messengers should be capable of doing. As I said before, fire is very rare in the desert. Orthanc Fire would be seen as an unmistakable sign from the Iluh. No, the Khurintu tribe would not entrust this task to a tribe who did not already know that the Destroyer was actually Asbad." "Then you believe Soltari is to blame," Eomer guessed, trying to ignore Aragorn’s hiss of pain as he firmly bound the swollen wrist. "Fastahn told Arabano that he knew the Destroyer’s true identity. What if he did so to stall us? What if Soltari has been working for Khurintu all along? Thinking we had other allies, we refrained from acting until it was almost too late. The whole of the Lotessa contingent could have died here, Eomer. It is only by the good graces of fortune that some are still alive." "But you were suspicious of this idea earlier," Eomer reminded Aragorn, moving back and helping the other king to his feet. "You did not believe that Soltari would abandon its position of neutrality." "And I still have my doubts concerning that," Aragorn answered. "But at the moment, given the fact that Fastahn visited Dashnir ere Khurintu left, the idea of an alliance between Soltari and Khurintu seems far more credible." Eomer shook his head with a rumble of frustration. "Always we are one step behind the enemy! And things that should be clear to us are hidden. What shall be our next step, Aragorn? For Lotessa’s survivors will be in no condition to fight, and if our guesses prove accurate, we shall face a war with Khurintu very soon. Our own men will not be enough! We were counting on Soltari’s information to aid us. What now?" "As for that, we must counsel with Budari when he wakes," Aragorn sighed, "and hope that he has other allies we might use. Until then, we can only hope that the attack does not come soon, for you are right. Most of Lotessa is lost, and we cannot stand alone." Eomer shook his head wearily and looked out across the dark desert, turning his eyes away from the flames in the Lotessa encampment and allowing them to adjust to the black night. Looking to the stars, he wondered how it was that elves found comfort in the darkness when the land lay veiled in shadow. The tiny points of light could not overcome the void of black that Eomer saw. Turning away from the heavens, Eomer’s gaze wandered to the horizon in the hopes that he might find something close at hand from which to draw comfort. But instead, he found something that froze him. Gasping softly, he squinted and then issued a muttered curse "Aragorn, is not Soltari’s camp almost directly south of us?" Aragorn frowned and nodded, turning his eyes in that direction. "Valar," he swore quietly. Eomer could only echo the sentiment. Far down in the south, in the area what Soltari’s camp should have been, fires of destruction were burning brightly. They were identical to the fires currently burning in the ruins of Lotessa’s camp where Eomer and Aragorn stood. "They were also attacked," Eomer hissed. "Soltari was also attacked." "But what does this mean?" Aragorn asked. "Why? Khesva would not be foolish enough to make Soltari a target of Khurintu’s ire. More than that, Khurintu would need them as an agricultural vassal. Why would they be attacked?" "We are still one step behind our enemy," Eomer muttered darkly. "Our future grows ever more uncertain, Aragorn." To this, Aragorn made no response, and Eomer watched with sinking heart as the fires roared skyward and the smoke of their burning moved to blot out the twinkling stars. * * * * The night was cold and dark, which suited Asbad perfectly. There was a complete absence of wind, and all the world seemed to hang in a silence that begged to be broken. Unease rippled through the sand, and the very air of the desert reminded the tribal leader of a bowstring pulled too tight. Another man might have been nervous and uncomfortable in this environment of tense waiting, but Asbad relished it. He was at his best when pressured, and now more than ever, he needed the use of every talent he possessed. Something was happening that he could not quite explain, and Asbad did not appreciate unexplained things. Out of the corner of his eye, Khurintu’s ruler sneaked a glance at the staggering elf, who walked only at the insistence of two spears against his back. Precious drops of moisture beaded upon the creature’s brow, and it seemed that the latent power of the Eldar had been compromised. The elf was diminished, of that there could be no question. Yet despite his situation and despite the shadow of ma’awnwa, Legolas still had an aura of dignity that was strong enough to make a mortal man pause for thought. It was this dignity and the authority in the elf’s eyes that had earned the other prisoner a second chance. Nay, not a second chance. A third chance. By all rights, the dwarf should have been killed when he first collapsed several hours ago. He was a hindrance, and at this point, keeping him alive was probably not worth the effort. It was doubtful that Gimli could last the day in his condition. But the stunted being still lived, and now the elf was being forced to carry him. Asbad shook his head, wondering at himself. He was risking the lives of both captives by allowing this. Khurintu could do without the dwarf. He was meant for a demonstration, and while a live subject would be extremely effective, a corpse would also serve. The elf, on the other hand, was destined for something else, and his fate called for a living body. Asbad once again sneaked a glance at Legolas, and he grimaced slightly at what he saw. Things did not look good. The elf had fallen to his knees, and though he was struggling back to his feet, it was plain that he could not endure this for long. Do I really need him alive? Asbad suddenly wondered. In truth, I did not agree to deliver a living elf. It was understood within the arrangement, but the actual words were never spoken. Perhaps Garat had it right all along. Perhaps his actions just ere he died run parallel to the course we should now take. Perhaps the elf must be killed. With a shake of his head, Asbad signaled to his guards that the march was to be slowed slightly. He received some very odd looks at the change in pace, but he studiously ignored them. Things were becoming…complicated. Asbad didn’t know how else to put it. He felt that he should be more confident at this point in time. The plan had gone forward almost without incident so far, and yet…why this indecision? Why this questioning? It was strange, and strange things did not sit well with Asbad. And until he knew more about the source of his unease, he would keep the prisoners alive. Both of them, if possible. It gave him more options in the future. If he should act in haste and kill one or both of them now, then he might regret the decision later. By all the sacred powers of the Iluh, what is happening to me? Asbad demanded. Even this decision to delay irreversible actions was unlike him. He had cut many a throat in the past without any hesitation whatsoever. Why this sudden reticence? Why should he balk at the thought of committing himself to killing these captives ere the appointed time of their deaths? For they were now his to do with as he pleased. He owned them, body and soul, and they bowed to his wishes. He was the master, not the other way around! His word dictated their destiny, and his hand decided their fate. A snarl twisting his face, Asbad turned angrily toward the elf. He noted that Legolas seemed to be doing much better at a slower pace, but his feet were still faltering and sweat was beginning to trickle down his neck. The elf was losing too much moisture, and the chill in the night air would not be good for him. There! It is happening again! Barely refraining from throwing his hands into the air as a gesture of frustration, Asbad swore softly to himself and turned away from his captives. He could not keep his thoughts focused long enough to form any kind of coherent strategy for dealing with this situation. He couldn’t even concentrate on the situation itself for an extended period of time. He wondered if this might not be a strange case of nervousness such as young, inexperienced men might have ere their first raid or battle. But Asbad was neither young nor inexperienced. The future of Khurintu hung in the balance this night, that was true, but he had known of this night’s coming for quite some time. He had prepared for it. He had laid his plans and had made the necessary contacts. He had adjusted and adapted accordingly as circumstances changed. All was going as was intended. He should not be doubting himself. Not now. There was no room for misgivings this late in the game. Once again, Asbad glanced at the elf. To his surprise, he discovered the elf returning the look, and the tribesman found himself shivering at the gray eyes that hardened into flint. Determined to meet this harsh gaze and feeling as though the elf was reading every thought that passed through his mind, Asbad held up a hand signaling for a stop. The halt was unexpected, but Asbad’s guards had learned long ago to never question his orders. And so they stopped, watching their leader and wondering what was happening. For his part, Asbad ignored their stares and concentrated on his quarry. This prey should have been wounded and whimpering. It should have been docile and submissive. It should have been exhausted and pleading for relief. But instead, it was staring at him with unblinking eyes that had a power great enough to rival the sandstorms. Eventually, unable to tolerate the growing sense that defeat was only seconds away, Asbad advanced on the elf and backhanded him hard across the jaw. The blow drove Legolas to his knees, and he clutched the dwarf to his chest as he struggled to keep from falling over. "You will show me more respect," Asbad hissed, stepping back slightly. There was a pause and then the elf looked up, his eyes filled with a defiant fire that seared Asbad’s heart and mind. "My respect must be earned," Legolas answered, his voice low and dangerous. "You have not proven yourself worthy of it." Filled with rage, Asbad raised his hand to strike again, but the elf’s next words stopped him. "So easy, it is, to clout a fallen captive who is burdened with the body of a companion." Legolas’s voice was as cold as the bitterest nights in the northern desert and filled with a sneering disdain that sent shivers down Asbad’s spine. "Use me as a target for your anger, then. I cannot retaliate. I cannot offer you a challenge. I can only endure your frustration. Strange is it not?" the elf continued, his gray eyes taking on a sly look. "Strange that a mere prisoner should incite so much rage. Do you truly have as much control as you think? Earlier, you asked if I knew what I faced. I believe I do now. Can you say the same? Do you know what you face?" Against his will, Asbad stepped back. He was shaken by this speech, which seemed to hit the very center of all his uncertainties and fears. He was losing control over his actions and allowing emotions to govern his thoughts. Glaring daggers at his rebellious prisoner and promising to make the dwarf’s death a gruesome enterprise of which the elf would receive full details, Asbad lowered his hand and gestured to the guards that watched the elf. "We move on. Any delays are to be met with punishment." The surrounding men blinked, confused as to why Legolas’s words had not been met with a cruel execution at the very least. "Honored one, are you—" "We continue," Asbad snapped, taking no note of who had questioned him and resuming the journey. In silence, the men obediently hauled the elf to his feet and pushed him onward, prodding with spears when it seemed his pace was too slow. And ahead of his prisoners, Asbad marched in stoic silence, attempting to identify what was happening to him. I am hearkening to the voice of prudence, he decided at length. Nothing more. I wish to have room to maneuver should the situation become difficult. And as this is not my usual course, I am not behaving in my usual manner. Asbad was only partially convinced that this was indeed the case, but it was the best idea he could offer. Thus the company moved forward, slowly but surely making their way across the sands while the moon traveled its starry path and eventually began drawing toward the horizon. Prudence, Asbad told himself firmly. These doubts are only the warnings of prudence. Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for ú-glîr, which is explained at length in Chapter 10 and 12. Author’s Notes: Hey all! Once again, I must express enormous thanks for the reviews! The input and the response has been completely overwhelming. And just to give you some hope, this story IS gradually winding to a close. We’re nearing the finish line. Special congratulations go out to Mari for figuring out why Fastahn met with Dashnir three chapters ago. Any military/political history buffs out there? Think to your conspiracy theories surrounding December 7, 1941. While I personally don’t lend any credence to the theory that FDR knew an attack on Pearl Harbor was coming, the logic behind this particular idea has more or less become my reasoning for Fastahn meeting with Dashnir. (I hope that made sense to at least somebody out there…) Character List Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) Aragorn—King of Gondor Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC) Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) Eomer—King of Rohan Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC) Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC) Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC) Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC) Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC) Tribe List Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe Portu—Widespread raiding tribe Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe Warra—Northern based warrior tribe Chapter 30: Gamblers It was the crackle of fire that first roused his dazed senses. As consciousness crept back to him, Arabano found it strange that he would even recognize such a sound, for fuel was scarce within the desert save around some of the larger hidden lakes to the east. As such, fires were quite rare and Arabano could count on one hand the number of times he’d had either the fuel or the need to light one. But nevertheless, it was definitely the sound of a fiercely burning flame that caught his ears. And as he hesitantly blinked his eyes open and found that he was face down in the sand, the memory of exactly what had happened came rushing back to him in graphic and horrific detail. He remembered that Aragorn had shouted a sudden warning and that Eomer had reacted instantly as though he knew already what was to be feared. After that had come the screams. He remembered those most vividly, but they had not been what overwhelmed his ears and his eyes. There had been a sudden pressure, a blinding light, a deafening roar, and then the feeling that he was being thrown through the air. But after that, his mind drew an unnerving blank, and he could not remember anything of what had happened next. Nor did he know what was currently happening. This greatly disturbed Arabano, for he was accustomed to knowing what went on in the world about him. But his body and mind both were greatly shaken, and if someone were to tell him what was going on, he wondered if he would even comprehend their words. Still, he could not lie here in ignorance. In the desert, ignorance was an open invitation for death. With this idea ringing through his thoughts, Arabano closed his eyes and managed to roll over onto his back. He spared a quick moment in which to celebrate this small but important achievement, and then he moved back to the task of learning what was going on. And of learning why a fire should be burning, he added, his face twisting into a concerned frown. Mustering his energy once again, Arabano concentrated on getting his eyes back open. It was a rather difficult challenge as much of his strength had gone into turning over, but the desert breeds great persistence in the men that survive its dangers. Eventually, Arabano forced shuttered lids open and turned his head toward the crackling sound of flame. He was met by a ghastly sight. Almost nothing remained of his camp. The main tent was completely gone, and all the tents that had stood next to it were burning rapidly, sending columns of smoke into the sky and hissing as the fire devoured what little now was left to it. Blackened bodies that had been flung into the air by the force of the explosion lay scattered and broken. Some who had survived the blast were beginning to stir and there were those among them that cried out in terrible pain. It was a scene that would haunt Arabano’s dreams for many years to come, and he could never look upon fire the same way again. But neither could he look away, and for long moments he stared at the hungry flames that seemed to have taken on a life of their own. My kinsmen, he moaned within himself, feeling something in his gut twist and churn. The Lotessa tribe was a tribe of warriors. They were employed in guarding caravans from mercenaries, and they rounded out their living with a few mercenary activities of their own. In order for this system to work, trust and brotherhood were essential, and Arabano had formed strong ties and strong friendships with almost every warrior that had come to the Gathering. These men were not only bound by ancestry but by word and by deed. They lived together, struggled together, fought together, and died together. Oh my kinsmen, what have I brought upon you? Arabano was not a particularly religious man. He had been duly schooled in Harad’s ancient lore and he did believe in the Iluh, though he saw them more as guardians and watchers than as active participants in the lives of men. But many of the other legends, such as the Destroyer or the desert drake, he had taken to be but the fluff of fancy. Yet he now began to reconsider everything that had happened since he’d aided in escorting Gondor and Rohan to Haradhur. The ball of fire that had exploded upwards and momentarily blinded his eyes had been larger than anything he’d ever witnessed before. It had been greater and more powerful than anything the messengers of Sauron had been able to do when they were sent to intimidate the more independent tribes within Harad. The heat and the blinding light might have been likened to the sun at noon, while the blast’s tremendous power alone was enough for Arabano to seriously rethink the way he viewed legends of the Destroyer. Perhaps the rumors were right. Perhaps Gondor and Rohan were cursed and had brought doom to Harad. But even as these thoughts crossed his mind, his practical side fought back, reminding him that he had seen Asbad’s face beneath the Destroyer’s cloak and that Aragorn and Eomer were as ordinary men. Well, perhaps ordinary was not quite the term needed, but they were certainly neither agents nor enemies of the Iluh. The battle between his sudden fear and his intellect raged hard within Arabano, and in his confusion, he began looking for others around him in the hopes that they might be able to tell him something. He saw Aragorn and Eomer first. Both had regained their feet and both were staring at the destruction with horror and shock upon their faces, much as Arabano had done. But there was something more in their eyes than simply grief. There also seemed to be a strange look of remembrance. Arabano narrowed his eyes, struggling to gain a firmer handle on his reaction to the situation and carefully locking his emotions away for safekeeping. There would be time for sorrow later. Now was the time for questions and for answers. And as his mind eventually began to clear, Arabano became more and more convinced of his impressions. This was not the first time that Aragorn and Eomer had experienced this phenomenon of fire and light. "Blood of the sand!" Arabano turned his head to the side and felt a great surge of relief sweep his body as Budari slowly pushed himself up. Arabano had not seen Lotessa’s leader until now, and he was grateful that Budari seemed to be in relatively good condition. He was heavily favoring his right side, but he was alive and not only was he alive but he was on the verge of achieving a standing position. "What has happened?" Budari demanded, his voice trembling slightly. It was the most emotional reaction that Arabano had ever seen his leader give, and this was cause for great alarm. Though he certainly has good reason to fear, Arabano conceded, watching as Aragorn moved to help Budari. The king’s left arm was heavily splinted, and a growing stain of blood dirtied the crude bandage upon his head. "Orthanc Fire," Eomer spat in answer to Budari’s question. His eyes were narrow and his left hand was clenched tightly about the hilt of his sword, seemingly oblivious to the tight wrappings of his left shoulder that were soaked with blood. What manner of men are these? Arabano found himself wondering as he studied the two kings. Both seemed severely injured, yet both were on their feet with the fires of vengeance burning in their eyes as brightly as the fires that consumed the remainder of the Lotessa camp. My kinsman, he moaned again. Sorrow and pain threatened to pound their way back to the forefront of his thoughts, but ere they could take hold, Arabano sternly pushed them back. Now was not the time. "What is this Orthanc Fire?" he asked aloud, deciding to involve himself in the conversation. It would help keep his thoughts in order as well as giving him a focus. "Do you recall the black powder that the guards found" Aragorn asked. "That powder is capable of causing this?!" Arabano exclaimed, failing to conceal his skepticism. "You should behold what it can do to fortresses of stone if there is a sufficient quantity present," Eomer murmured angrily, shifting closer to Arabano as though preparing to assist him to his feet. "But how…" Budari trailed off and stared at the remains of the camp that had housed the leadership of his tribe. "We have never discovered how the powder works," Aragorn said quietly, "but if enough of it is gathered together and fire is set to it—or a flaming arrow, as was the case here—this is the result. A wizard by the name of Saruman, who had fallen beneath the shadow of Mordor, engineered the powder and employed it against us when he sought to destroy the kingdom of Rohan." "We named it Orthanc Fire after the tower where Saruman dwelt," Eomer added, his voice also soft. "We found much powder hidden there after the war as well as some of the secrets for creating more. But we lacked the resources, the desire, and the need to produce it." "Harad also lacks the resources to produce it," Aragorn said quietly, releasing Budari as the leader of the Lotessa tribe took a few faltering steps toward the burning fire. "If this is indeed the work of the Khurintu tribe, then they have traded for their resources. It may be that we face a larger and more dangerous alliance." Arabano was now getting to his feet—having grudgingly accepted Eomer’s unspoken offer to help him—but he froze at this latest statement and turned a sharp look upon Aragorn. "A larger alliance, honored one? Believe you that Soltari is an even greater aid than we suspected?" "Nay," Eomer answered with a dark shake of his head. "We believe Soltari was not an aid at all, for their tribes burns as does Lotessa." Arabano blinked and turned his eyes to the south where the Soltari tribe had established their base. A gasp from Budari informed him that he was not alone in his shock. "Who else?" Arabano demanded, watching the distant flames and fighting the nausea that clutched his stomach. "We have not had time to investigate," Eomer answered wearily. "But there is also a glow to the east beyond Haradhur. Someone there might have been struck." "You spoke of a larger alliance, honored ones," Budari murmured, still shaking his head in disbelief. "Yet given what I see now, I cannot find it within myself to believe that another of Harad’s tribes had this knowledge and yet managed to keep it a secret. What, then, do we face? With whom has Khurintu allied?" "With someone who has access to charcoal," Aragorn answered quietly. Seeing the puzzled expressions directed his way, the king of Gondor elaborated. "Charcoal. I know not what it would be in your own tongue—or if such a word would even exist—but it is a black substance that can be found after burning wood. Great quantities of wood, in fact." "Harad does not have great quantities of wood," Arabano said, his brow furrowing with thought. "That is why Khurintu would be forced to trade for it," Aragorn said. "But this would not be a trade with another tribe. The resources could not be found any part of Harad. This would need to come from outside." "If you required wood, to whom would you look?" Eomer asked, allowing Arabano to move away from him as he struggled to regain his balance. "Lebennin, perhaps," Budari murmured. "Or we might go through one of the eastern tribes, as they have contact with men who live in the jungles." "Nay, word would leak of the transaction," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "To maintain secrecy, there could be no one acting as a diplomat and negotiating the deal." "Umbar," Arabano said quietly, feeling as though something in his mind had just clicked. "I would go to those who sail the sea. We have traded for wood with the corsairs before, for they have great stores of it for the building of their ships. And if it was to be a secret arrangement, a member of our tribe could meet them at a fairly accessible location. They have ports up and down the entire northern and western edge of Harad where the desert meets the water. Or one could travel to their country, which sits almost due west of Haradhur." "Moreover, Umbar bears no love for you or your northern kingdoms," Budari added. "If this trading partnership included a military alliance as well, they could be trusted to keep it secret." Aragorn and Eomer exchanged looks, and Arabano had the uncomfortable feeling that they were sharing information he could not understand. Glancing over at Budari, he noted that his leader seemed to have the same misgivings. With a jerk of his head, Budari signaled Arabano forward. "Honored ones, if you would, we must decide our next course of action," Arabano said, causing both Aragorn and Eomer to turn his direction. "But ere we do…" he shot a look back at Budari, and the man nodded his approval. "If you would, what other ingredients would Khurintu have needed to obtain for the making of this Orthanc Fire?" Eomer’s jaw tightened marginally and Aragorn’s brow furrowed. "The remainder of their needs could have been found here in the desert," Aragorn answered at length. "They would not have been forced to trade for it." "That is well and good, and we shall watch for shipments of this charcoal in the future," Budari said, stumbling slightly over the foreign word. "But we are coming quickly to a crossroads, and we must decide our direction now. We have an alliance, my friends, but more is needed. You require our aid. You require more allies to stand against Khurintu. We offer you this, but in exchange, we would know what else is needed for the creation of Orthanc fire." A thick cloud of silence descended upon the small group, and Arabano found himself tensing as though preparing to repel an attack. Yet what else could they do? Gondor and Rohan clearly had knowledge of a weapon capable of devastating all of Harad. A true alliance could not exist so unbalanced. If Aragorn and Eomer wished for aid, they would have to even the scales. For the sake of its own safety, the Lotessa tribe could not risk continuing with them without getting something valuable in return. In the desert, those who gave and did not take were fools, and fools were ultimately destroyed. Up until this point, Lotessa had done much in the way of giving, holding to the promise of future stability and possible leadership with the downfall of Khurintu. But things had become far more complicated, and this future goal was growing dim. The time for giving without immediate reward had passed. It was now time to take. "Sulfur," Aragorn said after what seemed to be an eternal pause. "And saltpeter. Both can be found in your strips of volcanic rocks, such as the Sihal, and in the beds of your hidden lakes. Be advised, though, that it is important to know the proportions in which these things are mixed. Without such knowledge, the results can be disastrous." Arabano smiled slightly and mentally complimented the king of Gondor. Aragorn knew Harad’s customs well. He had given Lotessa the requested information without giving away the secret to the weapon. And though it hurt the pride to be beaten at one’s own game, Arabano was a gracious loser. If Aragorn could bend the rules to his own benefit, he was a worthy ally. "And now if we are finished, I suggest we gather your people and move them into the city," Aragorn continued. "I know not if other attacks are planned, but the city itself seems to be safe. I do not think Eomer and I were supposed to be here. For the moment, it behooves our enemies to refrain from openly attacking us." "The injured will not be easy to transport," Arabano said quietly, looking out over the devastated camp and struggling to mask the grief that once again welled up. "Our forces shall aid you," Eomer promised. "Unfortunately, we have had much experience in moving those who are wounded." "The city may be safe from Khurintu and its agents, but it will not be safe from other tribes," Budari warned. "This…act…will brand you as symbols of destruction in the eyes of the Haradrim." "Join us, then, and by your show of trust turn their hatred to sympathy," Aragorn said. "For why would a tribe struck down by the fires of the Destroyer seek refuge with those who brought doom upon them?" "That would be the logical question to ask, but the tribes will not be reacting with logic, honored ones," Arabano pointed out. "These fires and this ruin…it has never been seen before in Harad. It is a power greater than anything the Lord Sauron ever used in the desert. For those who know not what goes forth, it is nothing short of a demonstration of power on the part of the Iluh. Logic and reason do not come into play when dealing with such things. We shall have panics and riots on our hands." "I doubt any shall stage an attack upon us in the heat of the day, and morning is coming quickly," Eomer reasoned. "Moreover, we plan to be out in the desert by the time night falls," Aragorn concluded. "None shall be given opportunity to surround us in the city." "And once again we play into Khurintu’s hands," Budari sighed. "For doubtless Asbad and Dashnir wish to meet us in the desert where they are strongest. We cannot use Haradhur as a fortress for they have turned it against us. We are forced to ride forth and meet them." The tribal leader sighed and looked to Arabano. Arabano frowned darkly and turned back to watch the consuming flames. Eventually, he glanced again at his leader and nodded slightly. In truth, there was very little else that could be done. This option of relocating seemed to be the lesser of the evils they now confronted. "We will come," Budari said wearily. "And if you would lend us your aid in moving the wounded, we would welcome the assistance. But I counsel that we move your camp away from the open squares and take up residence within the buildings, preferably those with wells. The injured will need water, and if we are attacked, a cooler campsite will give our men the advantage." "We will heed your counsel, then," Aragorn said. "And we shall take further counsel once all has been settled. Let us depart, my friends. We stand now upon the edge of ruin." He nodded toward burning the camp as he said this, his eyes darkening and his jaw tightening. "It would behoove us to move away." * * * * Just outside the protective walls of Haradhur, Fastahn stood and stared with unblinking eyes. He could not say how long he had been standing there, but if the stiffening muscles in his legs were any indication, a significant stretch of time had passed. But Fastahn did not seem to know this, and he continued to stand and stare. Twin columns of smoke obscured the stars in the west, and a third column was rising in the east from the direction of the Portu tribe. The Soltari tribe had been expecting Khurintu to act. For his part, Fastahn had been counting on it. But in all his wildest imaginings, he had never expected this. It was as though the fires of the Iluh had somehow been turned over to the command of Asbad and Dashnir. Around Fastahn were other men, similarly shocked and dismayed, while even more were filtering out the gates of the city to stare in wonder and awe at the destructive forces that had been unleashed. Those who had been privy to the explosions themselves were still speechless and pale, trembling as they tried to absorb the shock of what had happened. Whispers and rumors were starting to fly. Accusations and predictions of doom were running rampant. A few of the tribal leaders who had tarried in the city for private talks among themselves were vowing to leave the Gathering unless Mohart did something to appease the Iluh. Others were suggesting they drive the foreigners from the city while still others protested this, deeming that such revenge would only anger the Iluh and show them that the Haradrim were unwilling to accept just judgements. Had he been in his right mind, Fastahn would have listened and watched all of this with great interest. Not only would it benefit his tribes and his schemes, but he had always been fascinated with how paranoia and superstitions spread. But Fastahn was not in his right mind, and he could only stare in horror at the remnants of his tribe’s camp. He could see very little movement, and judging from the evidence before his eyes, survivors would be few. I brought this upon us, he thought to himself, feeling a surge of guilt and shame sweep through them. I thought only to prompt us to greater action. I never intended for this to happen. I never intended for— A sharp oath behind Fastahn interrupted him, and then a commanding voice was ordering men aside as Aulit, leader of the Gartabo tribe, stepped forward. His face was grim, and his hands shook slightly as if from fear. And Aulit had reason to fear, for it had been his duty to see that all went as ordered at the Gathering. Yet now it seemed as though the world was tumbling down around them all. Legends of the past had come to life before their eyes. Fires raged in the desert. Men from the north defied their greatest leaders. An elf and a dwarf had been marked for destruction and had then disappeared. Fastahn shook his head slowly, marveling at how far they had walked into their own destruction without ever knowing the extent of what threatened them. Khurintu had played its cards very well. The Haradrim were frightened and losing faith in their current leaders. All it would take to claim their loyalty would be an act of control that restored the normal order of things. After that, Khurintu’s standing would be assured in the desert as men flocked to their banner and shunned the leaders that had brought death upon them. "They come!" The shout drew immediate attention, and Fastahn pulled his gaze away from the ruins of his own tribe to watch as a slow procession made their way to Haradhur from the direction of the Lotessa tribe. And walking near the head of this group, supporting wounded as they came, were Aragorn and Eomer. "Kill them!" Fastahn didn’t know who gave the order, but the reaction was instantaneous. Swords flashed silver beneath the stars, and a great cry went up from all gathered. But the Lotessa tribe seemed to be expecting this, and those still hale closed around the northern kings while Budari and Arabano stepped toward the raised blades. "Let us pass," Budari called, his voice calm and commanding despite the situation that surrounded him. "You cannot prevail without bringing death upon yourselves. Cease this foolishness and step aside!" "Where are you going, Budari?" Aulit challenged, managing to shoulder aside some of the men so that he might better confront the other leader. "And why do you shelter those that have been called abominations?" "By your own words, Aulit, the abominations were not specified. Your own best guess identified them as the elf and the dwarf. As you can plainly see, we do not have the elf and the dwarf with us. We bring no doom here. And now allow us to pass so that we might seek the wells in Haradhur. Our wounded need water." "But you do have those that brought the elf and dwarf!" someone in the crowd shouted, and an angry murmur voiced its agreement with this statement. But Budari chose to ignore the undercurrent of noise, instead focusing his attention solely on Aulit. "You have trusted my judgement in the past," Budari said, his voice lowering as though he and Aulit were the only two people in the desert. "I implore you to trust it one more time. There is much about this that you do not understand, nor am I able to explain it to you now. But for the sake of your own tribe, let us through." For a moment and an eternity, no one moved. Watching with a mixture of despair and fascination, Fastahn could not help but feel suddenly isolated and excluded. His desires and his wishes had no bearing on what would happen. All that mattered was the contest of wills that now sparked between Budari and Aulit. A tense silence settled upon the people until Aulit suddenly blinked and stepped back. "I cannot guarantee your safety," he finally said. "I have never asked you to do so," Budari answered. "Lotessa looks to none for its own protection." There was another stretch of waiting and then Aulit turned, his eyes flashing out over the people who had gathered to watch. "Let them pass into the city. The Lotessa tribe is welcome here. They, at least, have a claim to sanctuary. And some of you go forth to aid Portu and Soltari. Their wounded must also be brought within the city." At first, there was no response to these words. But after a dark glare from both Aulit and Budari, men reluctantly began moving aside. A few began walking toward the remnants of Soltari’s camp, some continued to hover near the gate, and still others turned back into the city. Budari favorite Aulit with a crisp nod and then called to his men, commanding them forward. For his part, Fastahn was torn. As one of the members of Soltari’s advisory council, his place was with his kinsmen and his camp. He needed to discover who had survived and what was left of their leadership. He needed to gather the Soltari tribe members who had been within the city. He needed to assist with the wounded and the dead. But he found that he could not move. He could not look at the fires without an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame taking him. It was so powerful that his stomach twisted and wrenched at the very thought of what he had done. But I cannot now abandon what I began, he sighed wearily, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away from the desert. I must continue on this course, or their sacrifice shall have been for naught. Stifling a strangled sob, Fastahn collected himself as best he could and began walking back into the city. Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan might have been able to enter the Haradhur without coming to grief, but this temporary peace would be over all too quickly. At the moment, most of the Haradrim were still in shock. They had not recovered enough to take independent action, and so their actions had been swayed by Aulit’s words. But that would change come evening. Budari, Aragorn, and Eomer were probably well aware of this, and they were certain to have plans of escape. But escape was not what was needed. The Khurintu tribe had to be confronted, yet with their diminished forces, Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan faced certain destruction were they to take that path. Fastahn grimaced and shook his head. It was time to play out his last gamble. The results of his previous gamble were the fires in the Soltari camp, but Fastahn was rapidly running out of both options and time. He only had until evening. After that, the time for action would pass, and for better or for worse, it would all be over. * * * * The moon was low in the west as Imrahil, Mohart, and the Swan Knights rode into the oasis around Lake Nurnein. The stars were slowly winking out as the sun’s light began to edge its way over the horizon in the east. For a moment, the interplay of light between the east and the west transformed the desert, and Lake Nurnein became a vast body of water, spanning the horizon as far as the mortal eye could see. Imrahil felt his breath catch in his throat as he was immediately reminded of not only the sea but also of his dreams from the day before. Something deep within his ordered mind clicked, and he grasped desperately at it, knowing that a clue had been found but failing to understand what that clue meant. And then the image was gone, lost in the cruel laughter of the sand as it tucked away a reminder of life. Lake Nurnein shrank back into what would be considered a small pond in Gondor, though it was one of the largest bodies of water within Harad. Sighing quietly as he felt the fleeting insight slip away from him, Imrahil tried to turn his mind to other things. He had been unable to find answers to his dreams during the night’s ride and had eventually decided to let the answers come to him at their own pace. This required a great deal of patience on his part, but though he normally possessed patience in affluent abundance, he now seemed strangely short of it. Perhaps it was the growing feeling that time was running out. Perhaps it was simply all the unknowns with which he was forced to work. Perhaps it was the sense that something ill had already been set in motion. But whatever the reason, Imrahil was unusually anxious, and waiting did not sit well with him. But there was truly nothing else to be done, and so disciplining himself as firmly as he might discipline a wayward soldier, the prince began examining the many tents around Lake Nurnein. Mohart had explained that Lake Nurnein was one of the boundaries that marked the northern edge of the Gartabo tribe’s territory, and running his keen eyes over the tents and people that hovered about the lake, Imrahil noted that most wore Gartabo’s colors. But there were many others also around this lake from various tribes, and Imrahil received the impression that this was not entirely normal. Nor was the feeling of tension in the air a normal phenomenon either, and glancing at Mohart who rode abreast of him, Imrahil could see the fear and suspicion flying across the tribesman’s face. "Consult with your kinsmen," Imrahil said quietly, his soft voice somehow cutting across the sound of hooves and horses to attract Mohart’s attention. "Learn what you can and report back as quickly as possible. Have you a recommendation for a campsite?" "Near my own tribe," Mohart answered, his black eyes pouring over the scene before them as they began to slow their horses. "There is great suspicion in the air, and I fear that some of the prejudice we faced at Lake Miyarr might be alive and well here. They will not trust you, honored one. My presence in your company should ensure us the protection of the Gartabo tribe, but it would be best if we were near their tents." "It shall be as you counsel," Imrahil said. "Do you see that area over there, where the sandbar extends into the lake? Shall that be adequate?" "A good choice, honored one," Mohart said. "And by your leave, I will depart now to speak with my brethren. I sense that something has happened during the night, and it may take long to sort through the rumors." "Go, then," Imrahil said. "We shall see to your arrangements and belongings in your absence." Mohart nodded and then spoke softly to his horse, drawing the mare away from Swan Knights and galloping toward the greatest concentration of Gartabo tents. Watching him go, Imrahil continued to slow the pace of his own company, hoping that a gentler approach might be a lesser cause for alarm than a full gallop. But even as he took these precautions, he was forced to wonder if they aided at all. The previous night, many Haradrim had looked upon the Swan Knights with apprehension and wariness. Now, there was naked fear upon their faces as well as hatred. At the approach of their horses, men moved away and averted their eyes, but not before Imrahil was able to catch horror mixed with a burning desire for vengeance. What was happening in the desert? They reached the intended campsite without incident, but Imrahil could feel many hostile eyes upon him. Calling the captain of his guard over, the prince gave quiet orders that camp was to be assembled and a double watch posted. The captain nodded smartly and began to organize the men while Imrahil backed his mare away from the others and let his eyes drift out over the lake. If the situation had not been so tense, it might have been amusing. The people were trying very hard to avoid the prince’s gaze, but at the same time they sought to keep watch upon him. Something ill has happened this night, Imrahil sighed. Something that has frightened these people so much that they fear even a glance from me. But neither can they ignore my presence as some did yesterday. Continuing to survey his surroundings, Imrahil’s eyes eventually chanced upon a small group of men several camps away who did not seem to be experiencing the same anxiety and tension as the others. They were restless and wary, Imrahil could sense that much from where he sat, but it was a different kind of wariness. Almost it seemed they did not care what the other Haradrim were doing. In fact… Imrahil frowned, his eyes narrowing. Their clothing did not exactly match traditional desert garb. It was certainly serviceable for travel in Harad, but there was no marking of tribe or trade. At least, none that Imrahil could find from his position. And while it was not entirely unusual for lower caste members to dress plainly, the leaders almost always wore something to indicate their tribe. But those who seemed to lead this party dressed as plainly as their subordinates. Nor did they seem to have a problem meeting Imrahil’s gaze. One man stood apart from the others, supervising as they broke camp and erected tents against the sun that would soon make an appearance. And at one point, apparently bored with supervision, this man allowed his dark eyes to sweep outward where they met with Imrahil’s questioning gaze. The man started and stared, apparently surprised that he was being watched, but he did nothing else. And that alone was enough to pique the prince’s curiosity. This is worth investigating, Imrahil decided at length. Looking over his shoulder, he noted that a few of the guards were occupied with grooming and watering the horses. Nudging his mare over, he called two of them to his side and ordered them to mount and follow. "Teril!" he called out as he prepared to leave. The captain of his guard looked up, and his eyes seemed to harden slightly when he saw that Imrahil was still mounted. "My lord prince?" he asked, walking over. "Teril, there is a matter that I must see to," Imrahil said quietly. "Watch our journey, and when Mohart returns, send him to us." Teril’s mouth tightened and he looked ready to protest this act, but Imrahil’s stern gaze warded him off. And the captain had served Imrahil long enough to know that there was no changing his mind once he had decided upon something. With a slight sigh, Teril saluted and backed away. "I shall have men mounted and waiting should you meet with any trouble, my lord," the man said. "Do not hesitate to call for aid." Imrahil smiled slightly, recognizing the tone in his captain’s voice. Even should he fail to call for assistance, Teril would send the guards if he felt the prince was in danger. Satisfied that they had come to a satisfactory arrangement, Imrahil nodded his agreement and then kicked his mare into a gallop. The two knights accompanying him were quick to follow, and together they set off to greet the men who did not seem to belong in the desert. Thinking about it further, Imrahil was forced to admit that this was a rather impulsive move for him, but something deep within his mind was telling him that this action was necessary. Nay, not just necessary, he amended. Vital. And I have come to trust my instincts far too much to ignore them now. Nearing the strange camp, Imrahil watched as the man whose eyes he had met earlier began wandering out to meet him. The fact that Imrahil’s coming was not greeted with terror and suspicion only further served to cement in his mind that a clue lay here. They were almost upon the man when Imrahil raised his arm and made a fist, signaling his two knights to drop back but to remain mounted should the need arise. Imrahil himself kept his mare moving forward, stopping only a few feet from the other man. "Akhlan, sahdiini," Imrahil offered as a greeting, dismounting and inclining his head slightly. "Akhlan biitak," the man replied after a slight moment of hesitation. He studied Imrahil, his dark eyes betraying a strange mix of caution and impatience. Then the eyes went to the knights saddled behind Imrahil, and he seemed to make a decision of sorts. "Hul intar an Khurintu?" Though he showed no outward reaction, Imrahil’s mind suddenly went into a whirl of swift conclusions. Within Harad, certain colors or certain patterns of embroidery upon the traditional desert robes marked the identity of different tribes. And this far north, no one should have been unfamiliar with Khurintu’s markings, as they were one of the dominant groups. Beyond that, Imrahil himself was clad in loose-fitting robes that did not come from the desert but rather from Belfalas. No native of Harad should have mistaken him for a member of the Khurintu tribe. His earlier guesses were correct. This man was not from the desert. But he was also not from any of the northern realms. Before crossing Anduin, Imrahil had purposefully left behind his banner and any symbols that would identify him as being from Dol Amroth, hoping that his company would be mistaken as travelers from Belfalas and thus left alone. The temptation to strike against one of Aragorn’s strongest allies—an ally not escorted by men from leading tribes across Haradhur—would be too great a temptation for many to resist. Thus, Imrahil bore nothing marking him as the prince that he was. But even without distinguishing symbols, any man of rank from the northern lands would have at least recognized him as being nobility from Dol Amroth. Thus, this man could not be from the north. Beyond that, his complexion was too dark, and his voice…there was a strange accent in his Haradric. Imrahil knew he had heard this accent before, but at the moment he could not place it. Studying the man as other suspicions began to rise, Imrahil took a gamble and decided to play along. "Na’am, anar an Khurintu. Wa intar?" "If we are to speak, let us do so in a language with which we are both familiar," the man growled, abruptly switching to Westron and further startling Imrahil. "I trust you are here for the charcoal?" Charcoal? By the Valar, what does the Khurintu tribe want with charcoal? "How much did you bring?" Imrahil asked, opting for a neutral answer. "As much as I brought the last time," the man said curtly. "Now, have you the sulfur and the saltpeter?" Something clicked in Imrahil’s mind, and his brow furrowed as he searched for a link between these three items. There was something familiar about them, and yet… "They were to have arrived here earlier, but they have apparently met with delay," Imrahil eventually answered. "We grow weary of waiting for them," the man growled, his eyes darkening. "If you truly wish for our participation in the assault, you must give us the promised materials. And where is the prisoner you wrote of? I see no elf, yet your most recent message clearly promised us one of the elves. We will not act without first testing our weapons." "As I said before, there seems to have been a delay," Imrahil said, hoping to stall while his mind frantically processed what had just been said. Vital information was landing in his lap, but it was coming too fast and he did not have a context in which to place it. He knew nothing of the situation at the Gathering, nor did he have any idea as to what Aragorn and Eomer were currently doing. But judging from this man’s statements, they were in trouble. Quite a bit of trouble. "Perhaps we have not made ourselves clear," the man growled. "We will not join you in attacking Minas Tirith without assurances that you have control in the desert and that we can neutralize the elven threat in Ithilien." "Might I know your name, sir?" Imrahil asked as sudden revelation hit him like a battering ram with mithril plating. "Aeri-eluwn. And yours, tribesman?" Umbar! Imrahil nearly cursed aloud. He should have recognized the accent, particularly after the switch into Westron, but he had been too busy trying to track all the information that was suddenly being offered. Still, the name made it absolutely clear. These men were from Umbar. Dol Amroth had dealt with the Corsairs far too often to fail at recognizing their names. But what was Umbar doing so deep in the desert? Realizing that the man was still waiting for a response, Imrahil quickly cast about for a name that he might give in return, but before he could do so, another man—who seemed just as uncomfortable in the desert as the first—approached them. "Aeri-eluwn, nhvon hadrit…" The second man trailed off and stared at Imrahil, his eyes showing signs of uncertainty. When the uncertainty abruptly changed to startled recognition, Imrahil knew the game was up. Acting before any could raise a cry of alarm, Imrahil seized the second man, drew his sword, and laid it to the man’s neck. Aeri-eluwn started forward, but he was stopped by a warning look from the prince of Dol Amroth. "The alliance is over," Imrahil hissed quietly, tightening his grip on his hostage as the man began to squirm. "You will depart with your goods and never again set foot in the desert. Gondor has been privy to your communications. The Khurintu tribe is being dealt with. If you value your necks, corsairs, then you will leave well enough alone lest we turn our eyes to you as well." "Imrahil! Dol Amroth!" the captive man hissed to his companion before Imrahil could stop him. At these words, Aeri-eluwn froze and stared at the prince, rage and fury swiftly overtaking his face. "I advise you to hold your tongue," Imrahil warned. The sound of hooves behind the prince informed him that the two guards accompanying him had joined the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their spears trained on Aeri-eluwn. "Tell your men to back down," Imrahil commanded as the rest of the Umbar party realized what was happening and began to advance. "There are many more of us in the desert. Spill blood now and you will never lay your eyes upon the sea again." "Twaqf," Aeri-eluwn ordered reluctantly. More hoof beats were sounding, and Imrahil realized that Teril had sent knights after his prince. Which was probably for the best, as Imrahil was outnumbered without them. "A wise decision, my friend," Imrahil said, continuing to hold his sword firmly at the other man’s throat. "And now I will offer you a choice. Make me an oath to take your men and leave for your own country the moment the sun sets come evening. Refuse this and we will kill you where you stand, beginning with this one." The prince jerked his sword just enough again his hostage’s throat to draw blood, and he heard the ring of steel behind him as other swords were bared. The man named Aeri-eluwn hesitated, conviction and rage fighting a fierce battle within his dark eyes, and then he nodded slowly. "We will depart at sunset." "For your own lands," Imrahil reminded him, taking no chances. "Swear it!" "Upon my father’s house, I swear we will depart for our own lands at sunset," Aeri-eluwn spat. Imrahil lowered his sword and pushed his prisoner forward, forcing the other man to catch him. "Then I hold you to your word," the prince said, sheathing his sword and reaching for the reins of his mare. "And may I offer a parting word of advice? Do not act against us during the day. If you do, then there will be none left to return to Umbar with tidings of your deeds." He held the other’s eyes for a moment after saying this, letting him know that this was not an empty threat, and then he turned away. Mounting quickly, he backed his mare up and signaled to his men. As silent ghosts, they turned away from the Umbar camp and followed their prince back toward their own camp. "My lord?" Teril questioned, guiding his horse next to Imrahil’s. At the prince’s gesture to speak, he continued. "Sire, why did we not kill them?" "There is something foul at work here," Imrahil answered, "but until I can discover what, we will take no hasty action. I will not risk inviting war with Umbar when we do not understand all that such a war would entail." "They will not submit easily to your demands, my lord prince," Teril cautioned. "And that is why the double watch shall be maintained throughout the day," Imrahil replied. "Fortunately, the men of Umbar value their word as they value their own lives. We can at least trust them to depart at sunset as they swore to do." "Honored one!" Imrahil looked up as Mohart galloped toward them, his face a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Have you discovered aught of what has caused such unease here?" Imrahil asked when the man neared them. "The rumors are scattered and fragmented at best, honored one," Mohart answered. "None seem to truly know what is happening. But at the moment, I am more interested to learn what you have been doing. With whom were you speaking? Those men are not of the desert." "Nay, they are not," Imrahil murmured. "They are of Umbar." "Umbar?" Mohart repeated incredulously. "It seems they have a trade arrangement with Khurintu. And an alliance, as well." Imrahil turned a sharp look on the delegate from the Gartabo tribe, his eyes accusing. "Did you know of this?" Mohart drew himself up indignantly as they rode back into Dol Amroth’s camp. "I knew nothing of such an alliance, honored one. And I find it difficult to believe that such a thing could go unnoticed, especially if they are trafficking in weaponry." "They are not," Imrahil answered, signaling his men to halt. Dismounting, he handed the reins to a nearby guard and drew Mohart aside, barking a dismissal to the other men. "What use would the Khurintu tribe have for charcoal?" he asked the moment the others withdrew. "Charcoal?" Mohart echoed, his eyes flickering with confusion. "A black substance that can be made from the burning of wood," Imrahil explained. "What use would Khurintu have for it?" "I know nothing of such things," Mohart said. "What uses would any have for it?" "It can be used as a writing implement," Imrahil said slowly. "But aside from that…" He trailed off as he was once again struck by the familiarity of all this. "Come, tell me what you have discovered," he said, deciding to change the topic for now. "What news from your kinsmen?" "The reports I have received make no sense, honored one," Mohart answered with a helpless shrug. "There are rumors that the Iluh have sent a destroying fire upon the Gathering and that judgement hangs above us all. Yet I can make no clear sense of their words. They are confused and fearful. And they say that it is the northern companies that have brought this doom upon us." "A destroying fire?" Imrahil asked, feeling as though he was sitting atop one of the keys to unraveling this mystery. "Can you be more specific?" "Nay, for they could not be. They had not witnessed it themselves but rather have received their reports through Warra’s hawks. They say a great noise shook Haradhur, and when men turned to look, fire erupted from the sand. Several camps were at the centers of these fires, but I could not confirm which camps were affected. There are too many rumors for that." "Orthanc Fire," Imrahil suddenly murmured, his mind flashing back to a conversation with Eomer when he and Lothíriel had visited Dol Amroth. Somehow the subject of Helm’s Deep had come up, and Eomer had mentioned that the ingredients for a blasting fire had been translated from one of Saruman’s scrolls. He could not remember all the specifics—and Eomer had been rather vague, as well—but he seemed to recall that charcoal had been upon the list of requirements for producing this destructive fire. "Honored one?" Mohart questioned. "If my guess is not far afield, I believe Khurintu has learned the secret of producing a weapon that was used once in the north," Imrahil said slowly. "When struck with flame, there is a substance that will erupt into fire. By Elbereth, I should have pressed those men for greater details!" "It seemed to me that you were holding one hostage," Mohart commented, his voice carefully neutral but with an undercurrent of curiosity. "My face is familiar to some of the corsairs, for Dol Amroth has battled them in the past. One recognized me and it was necessary to take action quickly." Imrahil shook his head, running a hand through dark hair. "Yet even so, I believe I can now hazard a greater guess as to what goes forth here. Khurintu and Umbar have been working together in the hopes of overthrowing Gondor. Khurintu was to seize control of Harad. I suspect that this process involves the disposal of Aragorn and Eomer. It is what I would do should I desire the overthrow of the north. With their kings gone, Gondor and Rohan are thrown into chaos. My realm is too far removed to act swiftly enough if Khurintu and Umbar press the attack. Belfalas and Ithilien are then the only obstacles, and Belfalas will be hit too quickly to react. Faramir will take command and the elves of Ithilien will join him, but those men said something about a weapon that they might use to neutralize the elven threat. Which leaves the men of Gondor and Northern Ithilien to defend the realm against a swift attack from both Umbar and Harad." "Yet how would Khurintu seize control of Harad, honored one?" Mohart challenged. "Most tribes have no wish to rise against the north." "Have you lost your sight, Mohart?" Imrahil demanded. "Look about this lake. Look at what is happening to your people. Rumors are flying swift and strong, and it seems that Khurintu is creating some great calamity in Haradhur. And did you not speak of a figure from your legends? The Destroyer, I believe? When suspicion, doubt, and legends mix, can you guarantee that common sense will prevail? Nay, you cannot. And we see only parts of what is happening, for we are removed from the center of this. Who knows what goes forth in Haradhur where the leaders of this desert sit in council!" Mohart was silent for a time, his eyes downcast and his brow furrowed. "Your words have the ring of truth to them, honored one," he said at length. "And perhaps you were right several nights ago when you spoke of our being too late. It seems that events have been set in motion that cannot be easily stopped." "Perhaps, but perhaps you also had it aright," Imrahil mused, his glance straying southward in the direction of Haradhur. "Events are still happening in Harad, and I have seen victory snatched from the jaws of defeat before. It takes but one slip to turn a revolution back on itself. Mayhap we can cause that one slip." "What, then, is your counsel?" What, indeed? Imrahil took a few steps away from Mohart and looked toward the lake. Aeri-eluwn had asked about an elven prisoner. As far as Imrahil knew, there was only one elf in Harad at the moment, and it seemed that he was expected to arrive at Lake Nurnein in the near future. Should they wait for Legolas and hope that by freeing Southern Ithilien’s lord they might put a stop to some of the plans and learn more of what was happening at Haradhur? Nay, for these plans have already been altered. The men of Umbar shall depart at sunset, and the Khurintu tribe shall arrive with none here to greet them. My apologies, Legolas, but I fear I shall have to leave you to your own devices and trust that you shall be well. The threat to the realm is greater. My place is beside my king. "We ride for Haradhur tomorrow night, and we do so with such speed that it will make the horses stumble," Imrahil answered firmly, his mind made up. "It may be that we are already too late," Mohart cautioned. "Or it may be that we will arrive only to witness the fall of your kings. Perhaps it would be prudent to wait for events to play out and then seek to thwart them." "Nay, I will wait no longer," Imrahil answered, clutching the hilt of his sword as his eyes glittered with the fires of a warrior. "If we do arrive to witness the fall of the kings, I view it as my duty and my pleasure to die with them. But Khurintu will not win without cost. If they are victorious, then we will make them pay for every step with their own blood." Akhlan, sahdiini—Greetings, my friend. (Haradric) Akhlan biitak—Greetings (the response). (Haradric) Hul intar an Khurintu?—Are you from Khurintu? (Haradric) Na’am, anar an Khurintu. Wa intar?—Yes, I am from Khurintu. And you? (Haradric) Aeri-eluwn, nhvon hadrit...—Aeri-eluwn, we are prepared to…(A local dialect from Umbar) Twaqf—Back (local Umbar dialect) Author’s Notes: For the "Orthanc Fire" (a name I more or less made up, but it seemed fitting to me) I went with the traditional recipe for early forms of gunpowder, specifically what was used by the Ottoman Empire. For most of their sulfur and saltpeter (also known as potassium nitrate or niter) they raided the deserts of Qatar, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and other places. Charcoal was another matter, though, and they had to look elsewhere for that. Thought you might want to know. And FYI, did you know that ancient peoples used to call the Dead Sea the "stinking sea" because of its huge sulfur despots? Random fact for the day. Anyway, almost all of the cards are now on the table and the counter-plots are starting in earnest. So if you’re still confused with what’s happening, separate out what Khurintu and Umbar planned together and what everyone else is planning as a response. Most (not all, but most) of the former is now known. The latter is still being revealed. Hello to all the new reviewers. Your input is extremely valued, and I have to thank you for taking the time to notice this extremely long story. (I honestly never intended for it to become so big.) And hello to all the old reviewers! I love the feedback and I love hearing what you like after every chapter. It helps me write better sections, and there have been times when I have redone parts that are already written because of a particular review. And finally, another hello goes out to all the lurkers. I assume there are some, if for no other reason than that I am a great lurker myself. Anyway, thank you all for your continued support (seen and unseen). The next chapter, if all goes as outlined, will witness some elven heroics. Character List Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC) Aragorn—King of Gondor Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC) Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC) Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC) Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC) Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC) Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC) Eomer—King of Rohan Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC) Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC) Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC) Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC) Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC) Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC) Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC) Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC) Tribe List Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe Portu—Widespread raiding tribe Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe Warra—Northern based warrior tribe Chapter 31: Moments of Clarity A sharp, ripping pain in his thigh as well as an incessant pounding throughout his head informed Gimli that he was once again returning to the conscious world. The dwarf was less then enthused. The fact that his first sensations were those of pain was a good indication that all was not well, and at the moment, Gimli was quiet content to remain blissfully ignorant of his surroundings. But in spite of these wishes, something was drawing him from his strange and shifting dreams, and though the dwarf fought this pull valiantly, it continued to drag him into the waking world. In the end, he decided that struggling against it was futile and reluctantly settled back for the ride. The next sensation he experienced was almost as bad as the pain. His mind became aware of a slight rocking motion about the same time that his stomach did, and even as he tried to learn the cause of this movement, his gut decided to twist and knot with rolling waves of nausea. His stomach was empty, which was something of a relief to the dwarf, but that didn’t stop it from violently protesting movement of any kind. Deciding that he should probably do something about that, Gimli began attempting to open his eyes. Perhaps he could hold reality steady for a moment if he gave it a good glare. Unfortunately, opening his eyes proved to be a daunting task because he couldn’t seem to remember how to do it. Gimli’s mind was not functioning correctly—perhaps because of the enormous headache that plagued him—and he slipped from one thought to the next with almost no direction or control. Physical movement was next to impossible. Vocalization was also forbidden. It seemed that the only thing he was capable of doing was quietly submitting to whatever was going on and analyzing the things his befuddled senses were able to pick up. Naturally, this was a great toll on Gimli’s pride. Dwarves did not stand idle while the world went by around them. They were the architects and builders of Arda. They had to know what was happening in their realms, and they had to participate in it if circumstances permitted. Very few outsiders knew it, but among their own kind, dwarves had a unique penchant for gossip and nosiness. Thus, Gimli’s nature demanded that he open his eyes and learn of his situation. But at the same time, his weary mind and aching body begged him to fade away again and ignore the outside world. It was a conflict of self that the dwarf was in no condition to handle, and it was further complicated by Gimli’s next discovery. He was being carried. Pride and honor roared to life, nearly eclipsing the pain in his leg and head as they screamed for self-sufficiency and independence. But his body rejoiced in the fact that someone else was seeing to his needs because this meant that the dwarf was justified in resting a bit longer. But as Gimli struggled between these two opposing forces and tried to find a logical solution, something clicked in his brain that started moving him even closer toward total consciousness. He was not safe here. He did not know why he was not safe here and he did not know where here was, but he did know that he was in danger. Rising above the clamor of pride and pain, warrior instincts began to dominate, and it was in these instincts that Gimli put his trust. He knew better than to question feelings of danger or unease, for such feelings had saved his life many times in the past. And so ignoring both honor and broken body, Gimli tried to discover more of the peril he sensed around him so that he would better know how to deal with it when it chose to attack. By this point in time, his brain was beginning to work better, and muscle control was coming back. His thoughts, though still hampered by a perpetual headache, were clearing, and memory was also returning. I should be dead, Gimli suddenly realized as hazy facts filtered through his mind. I collapsed again. I should not be alive. Our captors should have killed me. How is it that…Legolas? It had to be the elf. It was the only possible explanation. The elf was the reason that Gimli was still alive. And it was undoubtedly the elf who now carried him. Legolas had promised to protect Gimli with his own life should it come to that, and it appeared that the gamble had paid off. Rather than killing the dwarf, the guards had allowed Legolas to carry him. But…how long had the elf been doing this? Gimli could now sense that he was cradled against a chest that heaved for air, and if he didn’t know better, the dwarf would have said that he smelled perspiration. But elves did not sweat. Or if they did, they did so in a way that was not noticeable to others. Yet Gimli could not deny the evidence that his clearing senses were relaying. Legolas was breathing hard, the elven arms that supported the dwarf were trembling, and there was a definite smell of sweat in the air. Water! Gimli suddenly thought with horror. Legolas is losing water. I must get down. He cannot lose water, for who knows when our captors shall give us drink! But getting down was a rather improbable goal at the moment since Gimli still couldn’t open his eyes. But he was gaining the ability to move his arms and legs, and he put that ability into play, struggling weakly against Legolas’s restrictive hold. It didn’t help that the dwarf’s arms were still bound behind his back, but his movements at least attracted the elf’s attention. He could sense Legolas’s eyes coming to rest upon him, the power of the elven gaze transcending even the murky barriers that kept Gimli from opening his own eyes. Surely Legolas would now see that the dwarf was waking and would subsequently put him down. But his hopes were dashed when he heard a weary sigh that carried heavy overtones of frustration and despair. And while Gimli pondered on what this sigh might mean, Legolas shifted his arms, clutching the dwarf even tighter against the heaving chest that continued to gasp for air. "Peace, my friend," the elf soothed quietly, his voice coming across as rather breathless. "Hush and lie still. We have not far to go." To the dwarf’s ears, it sounded as though Legolas was repeating something he had been saying often, for it had a very practiced feel to it. Then he has been carrying me for quite a while, Gimli decided, thrusting down a surge of guilt. Well, we shall certainly change that! And with this vow, the dwarf renewed his efforts to open his eyes and prove his consciousness so that Legolas would set him down upon his own two feet. A small and extremely cynical voice in the back of the dwarf’s head informed him that even if Legolas did put him down—which was unlikely—he would probably be unable to walk. His right leg felt as though it had swollen to the size of a hobbit’s stomach after a large meal, and though Legolas had positioned his arms carefully so as not to disturb the wound, it was still quite painful. But Gimli felt that the risk must be taken. Aside from his dwarven honor—which was still stinging sharply—and his warrior instincts—which were still clamoring about danger—Legolas seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Once again, the dwarf began to struggle, and as before, his efforts proved completely ineffective. Legolas shifted him yet again, turning him so that his face was pressed into the elf’s shoulder and his bound arms dangled in the air away from the elf’s chest where the weak struggles would not disrupt Legolas’s hold on his friend. "Hush, Gimli. Hush. You are safe," the elf whispered, again sounding as though this was something of a litany. Had Gimli been able to scream with frustration, he would have done so. Nothing he did seemed to register with Legolas. The elf spoke to him as though soothing one who was delirious. And I am certainly not delirious, the dwarf growled to himself, trying to muster enough strength for speech. If he could communicate, then perhaps the elf would believe that he was awake. Putting all his energy into this new endeavor, Gimli’s efforts were eventually rewarded with a quiet groan. It was not much, but it was progress. "You are safe, elvellon," Legolas murmured, apparently having heard the noise. "I shall see to that. Peace, now. Rest." He must think me daft, Gimli decided. Peace? Rest? I shall do no such thing. Not until he sees to his own welfare, stubborn elf. His thoughts were becoming even clearer now, and his ears were beginning to pick up muted conversation around him. His stomach was not nearly as fitful as it had been minutes ago, though it was still protesting the rocking motion caused by Legolas’s stride. Bolstered by these improvements and feeling even more confident in his ability to make coherent contact, Gimli once again pooled his resources and tried to speak. This time, he managed to get out a name. "Legolas?" There was a slight break in stride, and the dwarf felt Legolas’s eyes upon him once more. "Gimli? Are you awake?" Summoning as much energy as his broken body was capable of mustering, Gimli managed to lift his heavy eyelids and turn his head upwards. His vision was blurred, but at least his eyes were open. "Awake," he hissed, only now noticing just how parched his throat was. "Thank Elbereth," Legolas whispered. "I had nearly given up hope." "Legolas, I— "Hush," the elf interrupted quickly, his words no louder than a sigh. "Speak more softly. They will hear you if you raise your voice." "Doesn’t matter. Put me down." There was something that sounded like a stifled laugh from Legolas, though if it was a laugh, it was hauntingly devoid of mirth. "Gimli, were I to set you down, they would kill us both. You are completely unable to support your own weight." "But—" "Nay, my friend. Cease your talk. I am not so far gone that I cannot carry you yet a little longer." "So you say now," the dwarf grumbled, wondering when his throat had become so dry. He debated about continuing with his insistence that he be allowed to walk on his own, but he knew well that Legolas was right. He would topple over the moment his feet touched the ground. Beyond that, the elf’s statement about their captors killing both of them were it to be attempted had been made with chilling certainty. It was probably best to drop the subject for now in favor of gaining more information. Clearly much had been happening. With effort, Gimli turned his head around, attempting to look at something other than Legolas’s shoulder. Seeing his struggles, Legolas shifted his arms and Gimli soon found his hazy eyes were now staring up at blurred stars. "Where…" Gimli trailed off and licked his lips, deciding that Legolas wasn’t the only one who had lost a significant amount of water during the night. The dwarf felt he could drain the Anduin. "Where are we?" he asked quietly. "Harad." If Gimli had been strong enough to do so, he would have given the elf a solid clout for such an answer. "I know that," he rasped. "I was uncertain if you did." There was enough honesty in that response to give Gimli pause for thought. How far gone was I? he wondered. Aloud, he asked, "You did not think that I knew we were in Harad?" "I was uncertain," Legolas repeated. Unable to find a good response to that, the dwarf eventually returned to his original line of questioning. "Where in Harad are we?" "Somewhere to the north and the west of Haradhur. More than that I cannot say." Gimli sighed and closed his eyes. "We do not know much, do we?" "Nay. I fear that we do not." Legolas fell silent for a moment, and then he began speaking again, his voice even softer than before. "There was a line of volcanic rock to the south not long ago. We skirted it for some time, but now I can no longer see it. It was not unlike the Sihal." "There are probably many areas of volcanic rock here," Gimli murmured. "It is my understanding that one could find water there. Do I err in this?" "There could be water there," Gimli confirmed hoarsely, wondering what Legolas had in mind. "But you would need to find a cave with access to an aquifer." There was another stretch of silence in response to this, and Gimli frowned, trying to get his eyes to focus. He could not see Legolas’s face clearly enough to read the subtle emotions that would indicate what the elf was thinking. The dwarf had become very good at discerning what went on behind his friend’s expressionless façade, but he could only do so if he could see the elf’s face with complete clarity of vision. "Legolas?" he eventually prompted when his eyes refused to cooperate. "They intend to separate us," Legolas murmured. "Earlier this evening, I listened to their speech. We are meeting others at sunrise. They come with horses for faster travel, and Dashnir is expected to join us as well. At that time, we will be separated, but for what purpose, I do not know." Gimli digested that for a moment, thinking through the ramifications. "You may have a chance to escape after we are separated." "I do not intend to let them separate us." The elf’s forceful tone immediately put Gimli on alert, and he frowned. "You have something in mind." "You will not be allowed to live once I am gone. They will kill you and so ease the burden of carrying you, for they would not have to see to your comfort or welfare. I will not allow that. We will escape ere it can happen." "What is your plan?" Gimli whispered, wondering how any escape attempt could be made given his current condition. "Take no thought for it," the elf answered, his voice now so low that it was almost impossible to make out the words. "I only ask that you stay conscious enough to grip the mane of a horse." Gimli still didn’t have a good view of the elf’s face, but judging from his words, the plan for escape had not been thoroughly planned out. Turning away from Legolas, the dwarf directed his attention to those around them. His sight was still quite blurred, but he managed to find many shadows and silhouettes. They were completely surrounded. What was this talk of holding a horse’s mane? Legolas would never be able to get close to a horse, especially if he was carting about a wounded companion. The elf was too weak. "You will not make it," Gimli murmured. "Hush." "You will not escape if you take me with you." "I will not go if it means leaving you behind." "This is folly," Gimli hissed. "Your mind is wearied. Rest." "Why should two die when one could live?" "Because two can also live. Now hush. We are drawing attention." Gimli’s first inclination was to blatantly ignore the request to be quiet, but the conversation had taken far more out of him than he’d anticipated. Exhaustion claimed him once again, and his mind could no longer keep up with the turns of phrase necessary for enduring a debate with Legolas. Deciding that it would be best to resume this argument at a later time, Gimli squelched the qualms of his pride and fell silent, closing his eyes as he tried to regain his strength. A moment or two later, he felt an elven gaze lock on to his face, and he surmised that Legolas was startled by his acquiescence. "Gimli?" "Still here," the dwarf mumbled. The arms around Gimli shifted a bit, and he was forced to bite back a cry of pain as his wounded thigh pressed against Legolas’s hip. The elf’s stride slowed and a hand came down upon Gimli’s brow. "Your fever is growing." "I know," Gimli whispered. "I can feel it." Now that he wasn’t worried about proving his consciousness or arguing with Legolas, the dwarf had noticed that he was feeling flashes of heat as well as enduring periodic chills. It was disturbingly similar to a bout of pneumonia that he’d endured when he was still living in the Blue Mountains, except that his lungs did not ache and he was not coughing up mucus. At least not yet, but who knew what would happen to him next. Fortune was a notoriously fickle mistress, and she did not seem to be favoring him of late. Gimli felt himself shifted, and then the pressure on his leg was relieved as Legolas once again supported him with two arms. "I have no way to treat you here," the elf murmured. "I have neither medicines nor herbs." "I know," Gimli said again, wondering why Legolas had asked him to be still but then continued to speak to him. "I am sorry, elvellon." Ah, so that was it. Legolas was feeling helpless. The dwarf grimaced and wondered if there was anything he could do about that. Legolas did not deal well with feelings of helplessness or vulnerability. Gimli supposed it came from a long history of serving as a prince and a captain in one of Arda’s darkest forests. One could not afford to feel helpless there, for such a feeling meant almost certain death. One had to maintain complete control over both surroundings and forces. At the moment, Legolas had no control whatsoever. He had no ability to change his own fate, and he could certainly not alter anyone else’s fate. But I am as helpless as he, Gimli sighed. I have no words of comfort to speak and no counsel to give. The dwarf was still mulling over how to best aid his friend—and still finding no answers—when Legolas stiffened. It was not enough to be visibly perceivable to any of their guards, but pressed against the elf as he was, Gimli immediately sensed it. Something had changed. Then their forward motion ceased. Legolas had come to a stop. And as Gimli began to pay more attention to his surroundings, he noticed that the noise level had increased. And not only had it increased, but new sounds had been added. He could hear hooves. Horses. Horses had come. "Legolas?" "Hush," the elf commanded, a note of authority entering his voice. "Be as still as you can." Gimli, however, had other ideas. If he allowed Legolas to go through with this foolish plan, neither one would ever leave Harad alive. Alone, the elf had a slim chance of surviving, and at the moment, it was absolutely imperative that at least one of them escape and tell Aragorn of what had transpired. And since Legolas had more of an idea as to what was happening than Gimli did, he should be the one to go. Even noble elven sentiments had to give way before logic. "Legolas, I—" But as powerful as logic was, there was yet a stronger force in the desert that night, and it was brute strength. Shifting Gimli’s weak form, Legolas pushed the dwarf’s face into his tunic and held it there, quite literally smothering any further complaints. Barely able to breathe, Gimli immediately began fighting the elf, which only caused Legolas to hold him tighter. Strangely enough, though, this was actually more of a help than a hindrance for the dwarf. His growing need for oxygen triggered a surge of panic that lent him additional strength. He did not know where this strength came from and he suspected it would cost him dearly in the future, but he was so desperate for air that he threw caution to the Wargs and began struggling in earnest. It was not long before his attempts to free himself garnered a response, but it was not exactly the response that Gimli was hoping for. An elven face leaned close to his, and he managed to catch a glint of flashing gray eyes filled with such frustration and anger that a dragon might have stepped back. "If you do not cease and lie quiet, I will take no care to keep you awake and so attempt an escape while you are unconscious." Gimli had known Legolas long enough to be able to determine when the elf was serious and when he was jesting. At the moment, he was completely serious. The dwarf was not exactly graceful in accepting this defeat, but he did still his struggles slightly, though he could not quite prevent himself from attempting to get his beard out of his face. Aside from making it difficult to breathe, it was tickling his nose. Fortunately, Legolas did not seem to mind these smaller struggles, and loosened his hold on Gimli’s head. But he did not allow the dwarf to move away from his shoulder. He was apparently taking no chances. Eventually deciding that trying to move his beard was a rather futile endeavor, Gimli sighed and forced himself to relax so as to regain his lost energy. Mahal, but he was tired! The fever was sapping what strength he had left, and he longed to slide back into darkness where he had been ignorant of reality. Beyond that, he seemed to have developed a pulse in his thigh. He could feel his heart pounding away beneath the torn muscle, and he suspected that it had begun bleeding again. Though why I should be concerned with such things is beyond me, he sighed wearily to himself. It seems I can do nothing for myself. Even my thoughts are beginning to slip away again. In an attempt to ground himself, Gimli began listening to the talk going on around him. But this also proved to be a rather pointless undertaking since all the talk was in Haradric. The dwarf knew almost nothing about the language, but it was doubtful that even a rudimentary knowledge might have aided him. His head was spinning, and it was becoming difficult to keep his concentration on one thing. But he was determined in his efforts, despite the pounding hammers in his skull, and eventually he did catch a few words that he recognized. Haradhur was one. Nurnein was another. Nurnein was the lake located a night’s ride north of Haradhur. Yet this told him nothing. He had no context in which to place these things, and the rest of the talk was gibberish insofar as he was concerned. Bereft of any type of anchor and still finding it difficult to obtain enough air, Gimli was on the verge of loosing his hold on consciousness when Legolas suddenly moved, bringing the dwarf’s head up so that whispered words might be passed unnoticed. "Have you steel and flint with you?" Gimli blinked, confused. What in Arda did Legolas want with steel and flint? Even the most creative warrior would be hard-pressed to use such tools as an effective weapon when contending with spears, arrows, and swords. "Gimli?!" Legolas hissed, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. "Left side," the dwarf answered, shaken by the amount of effort now required to form words. "In the lining of my tunic is a pocket. Should be there." "The Haradrim did not take them?" "Nay," Gimli muttered. "No reason to, I suppose." "Then perhaps fortune still favors us," Legolas whispered. The dwarf gave a mental frown, wondering if his friend was finally caving under the pressure of captivity and fear. Gimli had an ample imagination, but he could not quite see how their current situation might in any way be construed as a favor from the hand of fortune. He began working up the energy to voice his concerns about the elf’s state of mind, but before he could do so, a low, gentle hum caught his attention. "Legolas?" he questioned, wishing he had enough energy to pull back and study his friend. The elf did not respond but continued to hum softly, his quiet song strangely compelling. There were moments when the notes did not seem to carry as well as they should have, and Gimli shivered to think of the effects that ú-glîr was having upon the archer if Legolas could not keep a consistent tune for so simple a melody. But even with ú-glîr shadowing him, the elf was still very gifted and his song was soothing. Some of Gimli’s pain drifted away as he listened, and the confusion in his mind died down, fading to a mumble in the background that could be ignored with effort. This song also seemed to affect those standing around them. Still listening to the speech of his captors, Gimli noticed that conversations were diminishing and a silence was falling as Legolas continued. But what do you plan to do with this? the dwarf silently demanded. This song is calming, yes, but surely you do not think to lull these warriors to sleep. They are not so easily fooled as that. What is this madness, my friend? Why do you draw their attention to yourself? Yet despite his questions—and questions were now breeding as rapidly as Orcs in the shadows—Gimli could not bring himself to interrupt the elf. It seemed that none could. All other talk had now completely ceased, and only Legolas’s voice broke the night’s stillness. The hum was slowly growing into a wordless, voiced melody, chillingly beautiful as its volume grew. Gimli had heard his friend sing before, and it was always a cherished moment for the dwarf—though he would sooner start breeding his own horses than admit his love of elven music to anyone—but this song…this song was different. There was something else hidden beneath the notes that Gimli could sense but not quite grasp. Words were being issued, but no words were spoken. A command was being given, yet the dwarf could not fathom to whom this command was addressed. Nor could he understand it, but he suddenly felt a pull of obedience surging through his breast. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it caused him to take a mental step backwards and reevaluate this being he considered a well-known friend. Louder and louder Legolas’s voice grew, and men began to shift nervously as the tone of the song began to change. Gimli felt himself released from something, though what that something was, he could not say. But the shock of being freed was so sudden that he had a very real sensation of falling. Then Legolas broke forth into words, his voice ringing strong and clear with only a slight tremor to betray that he had been weakened by the ordeals of the night. Gimli nearly jumped in surprise, but he was not the only startled one. In answer to these words, the clear whinnies of horses suddenly trumpeted in the waning darkness. And the previous calm abruptly became a bedlam of chaos. Hooves pounded against the sand, and men cried in alarm as the powerful steeds broke free of their handlers. A rush of wind swept over Gimli and he sensed horses moving all around them, driving the men away. Arrows whined and skipped, coming so close that Gimli felt one graze his cheek. But then Legolas was running, staying close to the horses even as his arms shook and his chest gasped for air under the strain of their flight. With an audible groan that indicated just how weary he was, the elf’s muscles bunched and Gimli suddenly found himself flying through the air, coming down heavily on the back of one of the horses. A hard thump indicated Legolas’s arrival behind him as the elf landed awkwardly onto the leather saddle that he would never use himself. Not a moment later, Legolas had placed Gimli’s hands on the horse’s mane, forcing them to clench the coarse hair while whispering instructions to hold fast. Then the elf reached into the dwarf’s tunic and seized the flint and steel for which he had asked not long before. Greatly puzzled, Gimli started to question these actions, but before he could do so, the horse beneath them screamed in pain and stumbled violently. Legolas’s arms snapped around Gimli’s waist in a desperate attempt to keep them both mounted, and the elf cried aloud to the steed, urging it to ignore the pain and continue onward. For his part, Gimli was now immersed in a world of excruciating pain. His head pounded violently from sudden jolt, and wild colors were now creating a nauseous menagerie of images in his mind. He dimly heard Legolas saying something about an arrow in the horse’s hindquarters, but he could not be certain of that. He only knew that if he had his axe to hand, he would probably use it to cut off his own head. At least then it would stop throbbing. His thigh slapped wildly against the side of the horse, and he felt blood trickle down his leg even as his pain rose to new heights. The sharp sound of metal striking against stone somehow caught Gimli’s attention despite the growing confusion and agony. It was a note of familiarity in a sea of chaos, and he clung to it as though it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning sailor. Then Legolas’s weight shifted and jerked to one side as though he was throwing something. Steel struck flint again, and the turning motion was repeated, this time to the other side. Through all of this, the horse continued running, but its gait was awkward and faulty. Like Legolas, Gimli thought, his mind beginning to wander as it tried to escape the grasp of pain. He still presses forward, but he is not entirely whole. He cannot endure this for much longer. His musings seemed to take a prophetic turn, for no later had he concluded this thought than Legolas lurched forward, pressing hard against the dwarf and grunting in shock and pain. Accompanying this came another scream from the horse, and it faltered yet again, wheeling drunkenly to one side and tipping precariously as hooves slipped and skittered across the sand. "Legolas?!" Gimli managed to rasp as he used the rest of his strength to clutch wildly at the horse’s mane. "Brace yourself," Legolas answered through gritted teeth, still leaning heavily upon the dwarf. The elf’s hands had now fastened themselves upon the horse’s mane, and he gripped so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Frustrated by this answer but in too much agony to repeat the question, Gimli swallowed a moan of pain and tried to turn his head so that he could see Legolas. But before he could do so, a sudden blast of light and a wave of heat hit him. The ground dropped away and a deafening roar sounded in the desert. Their horse careened forward madly, miraculously managing to keep its feat as it was pressed onward by a rolling wind that blistered skin and rattled bones. Legolas was shouting encouragement to the horse once more, but Gimli was perilously close to losing consciousness. He could feel his hands relaxing and he was beginning to slide to the right as his head nodded. He was falling… "Gimli!" Legolas’s arms were once again around the dwarf, and he pulled him back onto the saddle with a strength so slight that it frightened Gimli enough to drag him back to the conscious world. The elf sounded even weaker than before, and Gimli remembered that he still did not know what had happened to the prince. "What was it?" he croaked, working to get his eyes back open. He could not remember closing them, but then, he couldn’t seem to remember much of anything at the moment. His head felt as though a herd of oliphaunts had decided to invade and stampede. "Orthanc Fire," Legolas whispered. "I recognized the powder in bags attached to some of the saddles. I do not think we need worry about immediate pursuit. Our captors shall be occupied with other things." Gimli hissed as he continued in his efforts to open his eyes. That was not what he had meant in asking the question. But fate conspired against him when he sought more information, for as he was about to repeat the question, their horse stumbled again, emitting a keening bray that echoed throughout the desert. "Noro lim, mellon bain," Legolas cried out. "Le bell. Noro lim." Finally managing to open his eyes—but unable to drive back the pain that was crippling his thoughts—Gimli found himself looking down at an arrow lodged deeply in the side of the horse. Blood flowed heavily from the wound, but the horse ran on, obedient to the commands of the elf. "Legolas, the arrow—" "A flesh wound, Gimli. It will not affect me greatly." "You?" the dwarf questioned, brow furrowing in confusion. "What…you were struck with an arrow?" There was a pause and then Legolas’s hand fell upon Gimli’s brow. "My friend, are you—" "You were shot!" "Yes, Gimli. I thought—" "Where?" "The shoulder," Legolas answered, his voice filled with both confusion and concern. "Gimli, how do you—" "When?" "Before the Orthanc Fire was triggered." "Are you—" "Peace, Gimli," Legolas interrupted firmly, his hand leaving the dwarf’s brow. "I am well. The bolt struck high. I will draw the arrow the moment we reach safety. This injury will not interfere. I promise you that." Gimli nodded slightly, grimacing as this sent his headache raging again. At least now he knew what had happened to Legolas. But their mount… "Legolas, what of the horse? It was shot." There was another pause before the elf answered. "Yes, she was shot." "Are you not going to tend to the wound?" Gimli demanded, struggling to master his swirling thoughts. "If we stop to pull the arrow, the blood loss will be too great," Legolas said, sorrow weighing heavy upon his words. "I will be unable to staunch the wound and the mare will die when we force her onward. But if I leave the arrow where it is, she can carry us further before she collapses." "You are killing her," Gimli murmured, blinking with this realization. "Yes, I am," the elf replied quietly. "But—" "Gimli, we must find shelter and water. The sun rises soon. The horse is our only chance at survival. We must use her." The dwarf lifted his eyes to the horizon, which now displayed the telltale signs of the coming dawn. His bleary eyes looked long and hard, but nowhere could he see any sign of something that might protect them during the scorching heat of the day. His addled mind began to comprehend the utter hopelessness of it all, and he shook his head in disbelief. He stopped the movement immediately when his headache flared up at him, but he could not stop the feelings that now rose from his heart. There was no chance for them. They would be unable to find a place to hide from the deadly rays of the sun. They would be unable to find water to replenish what they had lost during the night. They would die in the desert after all. "You should have left me. You would have moved faster." "Such actions are in the past," Legolas answered. "Besides, as I told you before, I could not leave you in their hands. They did not intend to keep you alive. And I would not be able to live with your death, Gimli. It would destroy me." "You would survive," Gimli mumbled, hissing as the horse stumbled again. His thigh was slapping against the mare’s side and the pain building within it was muddying his thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate. "You would learn to go on." "Hush," the elf ordered gently. "Let us speak no more of this. Rest and conserve your strength. The infection still holds you, and you must find energy enough to fight it." "But—" "Sleep!" For the second time that night, Gimli was startled into obedience by the stern note of command in his companion’s voice. The dwarf could remember only a handful of instances in which Legolas had ever turned unbridled royal authority upon his friends, yet within the space of but a few hours, he had done so twice. It was a sign of just how upset the elf was. Under normal conditions, Legolas covered his frustration and despair with a mask of cynicism, but when cynicism could no longer shield him, he sometimes resorted to hiding behind his identity as a prince. The fact that Legolas was currently doing this and had already done so earlier in the evening worried Gimli greatly. But he said nothing, knowing that any words of his would be brushed aside and that he would once again be told to lie quiet and still. At the moment, it was probably best to humor Legolas in this. Their chances for survival were slim, in any case. What harm could it do to cater to the elf’s last wishes? And so Gimli closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, turning his safety over to Legolas’s care with rare abandonment of dwarven honor and pride. They rode on in silence, and Gimli drifted to and fro in his thoughts. His thigh was pounding, but he now seemed to be removed from the pain and he did not truly feel it. The same could be said of his aching head. It did not matter anymore. Precious little did. He could sense that he was uncomfortably warm, and he suspected that his fever was again on the rise. But such problems were no longer his to deal with. He had no care for them, and the outside world began to fade into a vague oblivion as Gimli started to fall into darkness. A sudden scream of pain and a hard jolt managed to drag Gimli back. He felt himself flying through the air, and then he met the ground with an abrupt shock that nearly destroyed any sense left in his mind. Opening his eyes, he turned his head just enough to watch as the horse they had ridden breathed her last. A long exhale of air and a shudder marked the coming of death, and expressive eyes dimmed to vacant orbs that stared at Gimli as though foretelling that he would be next. Movement to the side attracted his attention, and the dwarf looked toward Legolas, who was groaning and clutching his shoulder as he struggled to rise. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his left shoulder and a stain of blood coated his tunic. Worry filled Gimli, but he had no means to express his concern. Strength had left him, and he could only lie quietly and watch in helplessness. Then, from beyond Legolas, a blinding light shot outwards from the horizon. Its piercing rays slammed into Gimli’s head, and he felt himself reeling. Darkness closed back in, and his muddled mind, unable to handle anything more, plummeted into unconsciousness, mercifully shutting down before the dwarf could realize what had happened. The sun had risen. Elvellon—Elf-friend Noro lim, mellon bain. Le bell. Noro lim—Ride on, fair friend. You are strong. Ride on. Author’s Notes: Okay, as you’ve probably all noticed, we just hit Chapter 31. I never had any intention of making this thing so long. And it’s still going. And going. And going. Reminds me of a little pink bunny. So once again, I must express huge thanks for sticking with me on this tale. I’m very impressed. Now, on to specifics. Ithilien, you are absolutely right. That little interlude about elves and Umbar is actually a setup to a sequel that is partially outlined. Why I’ve created a sequel, I will never know. As if this story isn’t long enough already. ;) But there it is. We’re not going to learn the reasons that Umbar wants an elf in this story. There will be speculating toward the end, but no definite answers. That’s for another fic. Papillon, the Haradric language is more or less my own creation, but I’ve firmly routed it in Arabic. The grammar and sentence structure, in particular, as well as concepts like the null verb and the prefix prepositions all come from Arabic. The Umbar language…it’s kind of a cross between several languages. Rather odd, and I tried to give it a Norse feel. Jocelyn, the name "Orthanc Fire" actually doesn’t come from the movie. Some of those scenes were also written out as early as October, and the name was included there. I took it from that scene in the books where Aragorn (I think it’s Aragorn, but I don’t have the books with me right now) says something about the "blasting fire of Orthanc." And I took it from that. (And if you’re still looking for that snowball fight, Jocelyn, bring it on!) Hello to all the lurkers who have de-lurked. Very impressive, as I am still working on my own lurking tendencies. And many thanks for the suggestions that are coming out of your reviews. I’m revising parts of the next chapter in response to this. For everyone else, once again, THANK YOU for reviewing. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by just how enormous and complex this story has become, and it’s your reviewers that inspire me to keep going. Thank you very much! It is extremely appreciated!!!