Agarwaen

Part Ten
~The Gambit~

Soft smoke curled up on the drifting breeze, the hedge’s leaves mimicking the long-missed sounds of laughter and scraped pans. The women were sprawled around the clearing in the sun. “Not a bad catch,” Carlóme leaned back contentedly, swiping her tongue over her teeth. The fair lunch, fairer weather and lack of trouble had put her in a decent mood. That was going to change.

The hedge crackled as though someone was trying to thrust their way through in a hurry. She leapt up, hand already reaching for her javelin when Miren staggered through supporting an ashen-faced Zaren.

The man was bleeding badly from a neck wound. Already ugly crimson dripped down his shirtfront. Yyrin helped the red-haired woman lower him to the ground under the wooden shelter as Aragorn and Saeryn lurched in behind them, panting as though they had run all the way.

Haldir leapt up and went to his friend immediately. The ranger was limping and held a hand to his head where a trickle of blood seeped between his fingers. A flurry of activity erupted around them as the others all tried to aid and question the returning party.

“What happened?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Did you find him?”

Aragorn couldn’t keep track of it all as questions bombarded his already aching skull. Saeryn took his arm and tried to help him sit down but he shook her off, going instead towards his things by the fire. When he noticed the elf captain approaching him, he tried a smile that looked more like a grimace. “It’s not bad,” he assured him. “Zaren…”

Carlóme was already kneeling beside the older man, pressing bandages over the wound. When the ranger dropped his pack beside her, she glanced up only for a brief second.

“Let me.”

Aragorn pulled out a leather wallet given by his adopted father before he left. For some reason, Lord Elrond could never trust his youngest enough to stay out of trouble. With an ironic little twist of his lips as he sorted through pressed herbs and a few vials, the ranger realized it was true enough. Glass clinked as he drew out a sealed bottle with an opaque paste inside. He pulled the stopper out and smeared his fingertips with a little of the precious mixture.

“This will help slow the bleeding.”

“What the devil happened?” Carlóme demanded but she leaned back and let the ranger work.

“I was unconscious for most of it,” he admitted, almost apologetically as he caught a drop of blood dribbling off his chin. He hated scalp wounds; they always bled more than they should. “I don’t know what—”

“We found the elf—or rather he found us,” Saeryn said without taking her eyes off Zaren’s wan face, her fingers twisting in her lap. The others exchanged looks among themselves; it was unlike Saeryn to be so discomposed in the face of injury.

She explained how they had found the orcs’ bodies and how Brenn and Miren had discovered the path leading up to the rogue’s old camp. Aragorn, being ahead of them, reached the great stone first but because of the angle, he did not see the danger until it was too late.

“Strider!” Brenn screamed, spotting the golden-haired figure rising over the lip of the rock. “Look out!”

Aragorn’s head snapped up. The exact wrong move to make. A steel-toed boot slammed into his chin, slicing his lip against his teeth and knocking him over backwards. His sword bounced out of his limp grasp as he hit the ground hard. Choking as he inhaled dust into his winded lungs, he ran a testing and bloody tongue over his surprisingly intact teeth. His face throbbed and already he could feel blood tingling in his hair. With his head swimming and blood deafening one ear, he pushed himself to his feet and reached for his sword which lay at armslength.

Fedorian cocked his head in surprise at the ranger’s swift recovery. Any other man would have been knocked instantly senseless or dead after a blow like that. The man was hardy. No matter. He would take him apart slowly.

The dark Galadhel circled, putting the ranger between himself and the rest of the shell-shocked company. Brenn craned his eyes avidly over Zaren’s shoulder when the older man tried to push the boy back in the shadows. They seemed too shocked to move, frightened little lambs among the wolf. One even had a bow dithering helplessly in her hands.

Aragorn saw where the elf was looking and swung out at him, his broadsword sweeping out in a whistling arc. The elf dodged nimbly aside without bothering to take the powerful blow on his knives. Spinning tightly to the inside, he slammed one of his knives against the ricasso of Aragorn’s sword, forcing the tip into the ground.

A flicker of pain skimmed over the ranger’s face as the knife scraped off a sliver of skin and stubble from his jaw before Fedorian reversed the weapon and smashed the hilt into his temple. Added to the dazing blow from before, Aragorn’s head felt as though it had been cleaved open by an axe rather than a knife. He sank dazedly to his knees, his sword sliding out of his hands again. Fedorian picked it up and flung it far out of his reach as the man’s vision rocked, the colors blazing together and then blackness.

With a roar, Zaren hurtled across the glade. But Fedorian retreated from the downed ranger and the axe that whooshed within a half inch of his torso. The older man swung out again—too hard—the elf wasn’t there and his heavy blade thudded deep into the earth. Before he could pull it free, the elf was right next to him, the knife flashing up.

Zaren quick-released the shaft and flung himself sideways and down as the razor-sharp steel lashed out at him, clipping his throat as he tried to dodge out of range. Blood spurted the grass but the man still scrabbled away on hands and knees.

“Saeryn, take Brenn and run!” he gasped, clamping a hand over the severed vein in his neck. Miren was already beside him, one eye on trying to help him, the other watching the elf but he had disappeared.

The redheaded Miren shook her head in fearful amazement. “He just…vanished. I never saw him. At first, I thought Strider and Zaren were goners for sure. But both were still breathing and bleeding.”

“I lost Brenn in the thick of it,” Saeryn whispered, her face resting in her hands. “And Zaren needed help fast so we couldn’t look for him. Oh, I am such a fool! I had a bow! I should have shot him! I couldn’t even move.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Miren consoled, rubbing her back. “We was all surprised.”

“At least you tried to fight.”

“It was foolish in any case,” Haldir said, examining the ground thoughtfully. “He must have been tracking you. We can only hope Brenn will hold out until he find him.”

“And pray the rogue doesn’t find him first,” Carlóme added, slamming her fist against the granite wall. “How’s Zaren?”

Aragorn sat back on his heels and swiped a trickle of sweat off his lip as he pulled a blanket up to the now-sleeping man’s collarbone, leaving the bandages exposed to breathe. “The bleeding’s stopped and thankfully the cut wasn’t deep enough to cause severe damage. It was a near miss though.” He made to stand and his legs nearly gave out on him, his vision tilting alarmingly towards darkness. That one blow had been bad enough. Two made his head feel as though it were three times what it should be.

Haldir grabbed his arm to steady him and pulled the ranger up against his shoulder. “And you need to have that seen too. It’s not a scratch.”

“I wasn’t going to say it was,” Aragorn muttered, a little woozily as the elf helped him over towards the hedge.

One side of the ranger’s face was one big bruise, his lip and tongue deeply cut. He washed the metallic taste out of his mouth and pressed a wad of gauze packed with snow on his jaw. Once the blood was wiped away, the gash on his temple was less visually nasty but he would have an uncomfortable night at best.

“Stop touching it,” Haldir grabbed his fingers and yanked them away from the freshly applied bandage. “You are supposed to be a healer aren’t you? You should know better.”

“It itches.”

“Consider yourself fortunate your skull is still in one piece.”

“Well, there is that.” Aragorn adjusted the position of the pack, compressing the cooler side against his face. Despite the pierce-point it caused in his head, he frowned a little for that very question had been rolling around in his mind since he woke in the clearing. Why was his skull still in one piece? The elf had left him to breathe when he could easily have slain him. Why? He resisted the urge to gnaw his lip. “I have never seen fighting like that before.”

Haldir had been repacking the ranger’s supplies but his hands stilled at those words. “You are lucky to be alive.” He still didn’t want to acknowledge how his heart had plummeted when he first spotted Zaren with his throat nearly slashed, afraid that the next body would be Estel’s.

“Do you think he knows where we are?”

“I am sure of it.” Haldir met the man’s slightly wide eyes. “But I also do not think he will attack the camp directly. Not yet. Today was a discovery. Learn your enemy, test his strengths and weaknesses. Suppress the former and exploit the latter.”

“War tactics?” Aragorn had never been in a full-scale conflict like that before though his father and even Glorfindel would occasionally discuss their time in the War of Sauron and the Elves or in his ancestor’s time of the Last Alliance. It made sense the former Lórien captain would employ such techniques if he had seen such action himself.

“You have a mild concussion and a very impressive goose egg but I think it will be all right for you to get some sleep,” Haldir’s face softened as he gently fingered the side of the ranger’s head, testing one last time for any bumps or swellings he might have missed.

Under his puffy face, Aragorn couldn’t help grinning a little which turned into a grimace when the elf found a sore spot. “Listen to you. Now who’s the mother hen?”

Haldir snorted at the very idea of him being any kind of mothering. “Because you don’t look after yourself, someone has too.”

Chuckling painfully, Aragorn stopped mid-yawn. He felt drained enough to sleep for a week but as Haldir started to drape a blanket over him, memory jolted. “No… Brenn’s still out there. We—we have to look for him. What if—”

“You need to get some rest,” the elf finished drawing the blankets over the ranger’s legs. “You’re no good to Brenn as you are.”

“Haldir, I cannot sleep when he’s out there, not knowing…” The ranger pushed away the covers and staggered to his feet nearly sprawling as his head expressed its fierce displeasure with his movements.

Haldir grabbed his arm and pulled him back down, his expression steely. “You’re not going anywhere.” He snapped the words off like icicles, daring the ranger to refute him.

Aragorn did, his gaze half-flinty, half-pleading as he stared the elf down. “Would you stop and rest if it was me out there?”

“I do not have a concussion.”

“You just said I was fine!”

“No, now I think you’re deranged.” Haldir stared at the ranger’s resolved, hardened face for a long moment waiting for the ranger to back down. When he didn’t, the elf let out a partially exasperated, infuriated sigh and began rifling through his pack, taking a little longer than strictly necessary. “At least drink some water first.”

“I will not leave him out there.” Aragorn took a long draught from what the elf handed him, eyeing him over the rim. He suddenly dropped his eyes from his friend’s face and frowned at the flask in his hand, running his tongue around his palate as though savoring a strange flavor.

The elf was watching him closely.

Aragorn spilled a little of the water into his palm. “A little sweet… for water…” His blinking eyes were fast glazing. The barest amount of realization and betrayal flitted through the man’s eyes before they fluttered shut.

Haldir rescued the flask from slipping fingers and caught the man’s shoulder as he slumped sideways. Gently, he lowered the ranger until he lay flat on a small pallet he’d made of their blankets. He adjusted them unnecessarily. “You will not forgive me, but you need the rest.”

----------

Aragorn alone slept peacefully that night; the rest of the camp was in an uproar. Those not wounded wanted to go looking for Brenn who still hadn’t returned. Clearly something had happened to him and they needed to find out what.

Carlóme was already sorting them into groups. “I’ll need someone who was there this afternoon. Miren—”

“I will go,” Saeryn fastened her quiver over her shoulders grimly. “Miren, stay here and watch over the others.”

Carlóme cast a sidelong look at the Gondorian woman then nodded her acquiescence. “Fine. Miren…and Narturi too. You two will stay here. The rest of you I want with me. Yyrin, grab a torch from the fire.” She spun about sharply only to find Haldir standing in front of her, leaning on his saber.

“If your friend’s taken Brenn, I’m going to kill him,” she threatened.

“Where’s my cloak? I can’t find it!” Yyrin tossed the contents of his pack on the ground and rifled through his sleeping blankets. His eyes flashed towards Haldir; he had wanted to scapegoat the other since his slight against Narturi yesterday. “You took it didn’t you!”

Haldir answered the man with a blank look. He was a good five and a half inches taller than the human. “What good would your cloak do me?”

“Forget the cloak,” Carlóme snapped. “We’re leaving. Are you coming or not?” But her eyes weren’t on the other man.

Haldir sheathed his saber. “The dark does not hinder my sight and I am more prepared to deal with Fedorian should I find him than you are.”

She darted a glance at the nest of blankets where Aragorn rested. “Your ranger’s not going to like you leaving him behind.”

“He’ll live.”

Carlóme retrieved her javelin from where it had lain near the fire and gave him a feral smile. “Then let’s go huntin’.”

The marchwarden jerked his head tersely and stepped aside to let her pass. He scowled at her back as Saeryn sidled to his side. “She has a temper like a dragon—sly and sour.”

“Do not think too badly of her, Master Elf,” Saeryn said, very softly so her leader would not hear. “She has not had an easy life.”

“Neither have I and it is longer than hers.”

“And you’re a delight,” she retorted with unexpected wit. Her face abruptly sobered as she stared ahead. “I do not excuse her but you must understand. There are hard lessons to learn in the South. When knowledge dogs your footsteps, knowledge that if you anger your lord, spill one cup of wine or drop one load of cleaned sheets, you will either be whipped until the skin curls off your back…Or sent to barracks for the soldiers’ amusement…You learn to tread carefully.”

He tried to catch her eyes, surprised by the bitterness in her usually mild voice. “You speak from experience.” It was not a question.

For answer, she rolled up her sleeve, displaying a strange black mark on the inside of her forearm, a weal with a crimson snake threading through it.

Haldir lifted his hand as though to touch it and thought better of it. “I am not unfamiliar with some customs in the South.”

“Then you know how they brand their slaves. Eight months,” she said, yanking her sleeve down. “She was there longer than I. We fled together after our ‘master’ died in a coup. But she has never forgotten that she could never go back and put an end to those who took every inch from her. And now, it is happening again. Your friend took away the one thing that was still worth something in her life. First her brother. Now perhaps Brenn too.”

“I did not know she had lost a brother,” Haldir glanced at the back of the dark woman’s head which bobbed ahead of him in the dark. It made better sense now: her unease around him, the unabated mistrust, the unbridled fury that flashed in her eyes whenever someone spoke condescendingly to her. And yet, freed from one type of slavery, she had chained herself to another in an ending hunt for revenge. He did not see how this could end well—for her or for any of them who followed her.

Beyond the firelit clearing, there was nothing but darkness. Even his elven eyes took a moment to adjust to the forest at night. A chill wind blew up from the valley but he could hear the others all around, their breathing light and uneasy, their footsteps wary of wrenching twigs that would betray their presence. The single torch at the head cast rippling shadows of the company over the uneven trunks.

Haldir did not need the light. Where humans saw only shades of ever-deepening grey, the forest to his eyes hung with veils of blue, bright blue. A bloated moon hung overhead. Shafts of gauzy light illuminated the world; he could see every speckled branch, every skittering squirrel shadow or brown-spotted insect hidden in bark chinks. Nothing ominous yet.

But he’d expected that. Fedorian was too intelligent to leave anything behind and if he had gotten Brenn… No. He couldn’t assume the worst. Not yet. For all they knew he had taken shelter elsewhere, waiting for them to find him, crouching in some dark tree hollow or lying belly-down in a ditch. Or face-up…throat slashed…blood pouring…

A rattle of leaves announced an approach and both he and Saeryn at the rear swiveled sharply, hands on their weapons, only to recognize Yyrin wrapped in his voluminous cloak.

Saeryn took her hand off her strung bow and nodded to him, relieved. “You decided to come after all.”

The hood contracted as Yyrin nodded and pointed silently over his shoulder the way he had come. Any way they could avoid noise, they would.

“All was quiet at the camp still?” Saeryn hastily dropped her voice as Yyrin nodded again. “I have to go tell Carlóme, we need to veer towards the stream from here.”

Haldir let her go as the man took her place beside him. Yyrin had drawn his hood up all the way even though the shield probably impeded his already weak vision. But then it, some of the others had their hoods up too, the elf reasoned, not wanting to be picked out if they were watched from above.

Except the man was taller than he remembered.

The marchwarden looked purposefully up at the branches then stared right at his companion. Yyrin never walked beside him if he could help it.

‘Yyrin’ sensed his gaze and the hood shifted towards him a little. A pale, uncalloused hand appeared from under the draping cloak and surreptitiously pressed a folded bit of paper deep into the palm of the elf’s hand, curling his fingers closed around it. Haldir scanned the company’s backs. No one had discerned anything out of place, all intent on staring outward into the darkness. They never noticed when one of their number suddenly slipped out of line and vanished into the undergrowth. Haldir did not apprise them.

The company searched long into the night along the path, the stream, even daring to return to the bloodstained rock where the fight had taken place that afternoon.

Up on the hill the rock protruded from the earth like a broken tooth out of mossy gums, its very presence menacing as they approached from behind. No signs of the fight remained except for a blade scar in the dirt and flattened brush.

Carlóme stopped short of the rock itself, an almost visible shudder running the length of her body. Saeryn put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something that made her shake her head.

“It’s old. He doesn’t come here anymore,” she said in an almost audible whisper, her eyes stretched wide. “It’s old. We chased him out. There’s no use looking here.”

Haldir examined the rock thoroughly anyway, the torchlight Kari held over his shoulder trembling slightly. The faint light revealed wind and rain seepage had widened the cracks and all but crumbled it. The chains and iron spike driven into the stone to keep them up were desperately rusted and covered in sprouting lichen, the bloodstains made permanent by time. Only evil memory lingered.

Kari backed away from the grisly thing, taking her light with her. She cast about the clearing nervously, holding the torch further away from her. “He’s not here… fine… But maybe Brenn hid—”

“No! He’s not here! He can’t be here!” Carlóme screeched in a desperate hiss, eyes shut as though to block out the sight of the foul rock already chiseled into her memory.

Haldir had never heard her so fearful. She had faced him down in the stables, in the wine cellars. She acted with often unthinking rashness, damning the cost of danger to her life or limbs—and those of others. Yet, here she was, terrified to go any nearer to a rock that was too old to bear any importance to their investigation now. He did not know that she’d seen it before on a like night almost twenty years ago. When the chains had still been used and gleaming.

They retreated from the hill, too nervous to stay any longer. The night was growing deeper and the humans’ eyesight worsened as they made a large sweep around the hill.

“We won’t find anything unless we fall over it,” Kari muttered, shrugging her cloak higher up on her shoulders dispiritedly.

No sooner were the words out of her mouth then Saeryn tripped over what she thought was an upraised root off the path. Something clinked against the base of a trunk and she fished it out of the long grasses. The thing glinted in the torchlight when she held it up. Haldir closed his eyes as he recognized the knife he had given Brenn. The boy had been far too proud of his prize to leave it behind.

His heart sank.

----------

“Did you find him?” Yyrin inquired the minute they squeezed through the hedge, empty-handed, exhausted, fearful and beyond frustrated.

Carlóme almost stalked past him before she stopped short, frowning at him. “I thought you were with us already?”

But no one could remember whether they had seen the man with them or not during the search, nor at what point he’d slipped off to beat them back to camp.

Bewildered, Yyrin shook his head and half-shrugged. “Couldn’t find my cloak.”

Haldir said nothing as he went directly to his bedroll, stuffing the note deep into his satchel. He cast a glance out of the corner of his eye at Aragorn’s face deep in slumber. The ranger lay curled on his side, pressing the good side of his face on his makeshift pack-pillow, the blankets sliding off his shoulders.

The marchwarden fastened his satchel closed, reached over, and tugged the blankets back up around the young man’s sternum, letting the tips of his fingers rest a little longer on the man’s limp shoulder. He hoped Aragorn wouldn’t be too put-out with him when he woke.

“Elf.”

He snatched his hand away and swiveled on his heels at Carlóme as she leaned over him, her arms folded and eyes narrowed in a posture he had come to despise. “My name is Haldir.”

“I want a word.”

The elf captain glanced at Estel, still blessedly oblivious. He straightened and wordlessly followed her towards the ruins of the old lookout platform when this place and its protective hedge had still been useful as an outpost. Despite assurances, no one slept under it for the frame sagged unsteadily. Nevertheless, it was as close to privacy as they were going to get.

A short series of weatherworn, dangerously narrow steps had been painstakingly chiseled into the rock, more like a ladder than a staircase. They wound up towards the wooden platform which still carried the remnants of an aged railing around it. It almost reminded Haldir of the flets his people built though this, certainly, was much cruder than anything the elves devised. Only iron nails driven in to secure the sides against the granite and a long support spar beneath kept the whole structure from coming down. He set his weight gingerly on the wood, waiting for the telltale creak and jerk that would send him plummeting. To his relief, it didn’t come.

Carlóme braced her back against the worn stone wall. One could see for miles still though the mid-night depth revealed only the curving tops of trees and scattered stars.

“Narturi admires you a lot. You’re making Yyrin jealous,” the dark woman offered a kind-of laugh as her eyes searched out the thin man and woman on the ground.

Haldir arched an eyebrow, irritated if this was the only reason she’d dragged him up here at this unspeakable time.

She caught his look. “That’s not what I came up here to talk about.”

“Then what?” The moon was beginning to set and he wanted to get at least a little sleep tonight.

Carlóme walked a few paces forward and rested her hands on the railing as she gazed down into the camp. Most were lying down in an attempt to find rest while a few sleepless ones talked quietly together. “I don’t tell them everything.”

“A leader cannot afford to let everything be known about them,” Haldir said with a shake of his head. He regularly practiced that particular aphorism even among his own command—or his friends for that matter. “Too much knowledge ruins the image of strength, causes doubt or questions of judgement.”

Her gaze speared his, measuring. “Saeryn said she told you.”

It took him a minute to figure out what she was talking about but when she touched her wrist, he nodded hesitantly. “She did,” he kept his eyes on the rotted railing as he spoke. “What happened to you was—”

“What happened to me is none of your business to remember,” she snapped. “And don’t you go blathering it around the camp either.”

A person’s past was his or her own to deal with, not to burden others. Who knew that better than he? He shook his head to assure her he wouldn’t.

She passed her tongue briefly across her lips and swallowed as though stealing herself to say something. Her dark hair brushed her cheeks as she checked beneath them. The closest to them was Zaren; and he slept. The dark woman backed against the wall and leaned against the cool stone.

“Men hurt you, you said,” she said in a lower voice than before, her voice hoarse and strained as though someone had gripped her vocal chords and stretched them. “What did they do? Did they try to force…? Were you…?” She choked on the words she never could speak aloud.

He looked at her quickly and just as quickly away again. Uncomfortable heat prickled upwards from his soles to crown. He frowned at the railing. “Yyrin has no reason to be jealous. Unless he favors violent attentions. He can have that.”

She stared at his tense back then let the unanswered question dwindle into silence. She wasn’t sure she’d really wanted or expected a reply anyway. “There’s more to this than you are telling us.”

He opened his eyes but kept his gaze fixed on the verge beneath them. “I have not lied to you. I have told you what I know.”

“Not all of it,” the lingering malaise vanished from her face as she leaned forward, trying to catch his eyes. “You might not be lying but I know for damn sure you haven’t told us the whole truth. Why else would you protect this elf so much?”

“Oh? And what makes you suppose I’m protecting him?” His eyes snapped to her face with such force she almost stepped back.

She rested an elbow on the railing to keep herself anchored. A smile twisted across her lips, more like a grimace than any kind of amusement. “Because I know. When those men beat you, elf, how did you feel?”

Haldir jolted as if she had jabbed him with her javelin again, the question throwing him so completely by surprise he didn’t answer at first and it seemed to confirm her suspicions. He lifted his chin, looking down at her from his not-inconsiderable height and said, “They are long dead. Whatever I felt for then has no more bearing on me now.”

But his nightmares were proof enough that the memories still tormented him even after so many years—it surprised him at times. And she had noticed. The pulling-away from any human contact, even relatively harmless ones like Narturi’s, the rarity of open affection and the emotional reticence—she watched him with Zaren and the others and thought she knew why he flinched when they passed too close.

“Don’t tell me you can forget as easy as all that,” she shook her head, a strange white tightness to her lips. “Do not tell me you cannot remember every single thing they ever did to you. Every touch. Every word. Every hated thought that ever passed through your head that you were so sure this time they would see.

Her eyes blazed as she gripped his upper arm, squeezing hard. “I know what it’s like—you don’t have to lie to me or put on fancy airs. I felt what you felt. You can hide whatever you like in front of the others but be straight with me.”

He wrenched free of her impulsive grasp but his eyes when they met hers were cloaked and level. “I am sorry for what you endured…”

“No, you’re not. Why are you so unafraid? Did you kill them?” Her eyes gleamed blackly with a terrible hunger that he could see even in the dark. “Did you slit their throats like you always dreamed you would?”

The railing let out a wail as his fingers clamped around it, his eyes fixed on the scratched and water-logged wood. His world funneled down until all he could see was the grain. “You are mistaken. I am afraid.”

She glanced at his white-knuckled hands. “You wouldn’t be anywhere near us if you hadn’t found some way to escape. One way or the other.”

“It is not humans that I fear. And I have been traveling with Strider these past two moons. Does he not count?” he put in mildly, still without lifting his eyes from the twining grain.

“You know that ranger is more elf than human. Unnatural wanderers like him are unusual enough. I meant men like us, like Zaren. And Yyrin,” she leaned in close until her breath brushed a gold lock across his cheeks. “Remember, you swore me an oath to protect these girls. And the men. The only way they can ever be safe is if this monster is dead. If I can’t get a clear shot and you get half the chance, you’re the only one who can bring him down.”

“I cannot.” Helping them track him down was hard enough. Haldir knew he could never raise a blade against his former friend and commander, let alone kill him though in all actuality such an act might be for the best.

“You will,” she hissed. “Or you’re a coward and an oathbreaker.” Her tone added—though not aloud—“along with everything else.”

He walked away. Off the platform, down the narrow stairs, he strode through the sleeping campers. All lying stretched out, pale and lifeless in the fading firelight. He slowed then stopped. Backtracking, he found himself at Estel’s bedside again. With a resigned sigh, he seated himself on his bedroll but did not lie down, having already abandoned the futile hope of sleep. The note and its puzzling message still lingered unread at the bottom of his satchel.

He didn’t look up when Carlóme passed him.

----------

Some miles away, dawn was just beginning to filter through pine needles.

In the growing light, wide green eyes watched the blade hiss back and forth, back and forth, rasping over the whetstone. The knife stilled as with a soft rush, Arenath appeared. He stopped short under his commander’s severe gaze.

“Where have you been?”

“I…Tracking their movements,” the younger elf shed Yyrin’s cloak and tossed it to the floor. “As you told me too.”

“You were gone overlong. I already know where they are.”

Arenath glanced at him warily, flinching and raising a hand to ward off the light reflected as the knife resumed on the whetstone. “Was that wise?”

Rising with sinuous grace, Fedorian glided to a pair of cuffs suspended from darkness overhead. Ignoring the frantic creaking of the ropes, he ran the blade down a white cheek, drawing a razor thin line of crimson under the pale jaw. The being whimpered, its voice muffled by a tight gag, and tried to pull away from the cold, lethal touch.

“Now they will know the true cost of revenge.”

Fighting the sour fear taste in the back of his throat, Brenn shuddered and closed his eyes.