Twilight of the Gods

Chapter 20
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MISTY MOUNTAINS



Aragorn could rush now, push forward without looking left or right to gain on the ones they were desperately searching for, or he could proceed slowly, carefully and risk falling behind the group. Determined to not let the chance slip through his fingers he marched on, hand on the hilt of his sword, vigilant, watchful, and tensed to be ready if anything unexpected should happen. The clanging of chain mail and the drumming of boots behind him on the stony path made it hard to distinguish between the sounds echoing from the walls and those stirred by others. They had reached the narrowest place yet on the path when a crackle, no more than the rolling of small stones across an incline, made him strain his senses even more while the group proceeded. Unwillingly they had slowed down; they all were tense to their core.



All of a sudden there was movement six feet above them on both sides of the wall. The men drew theirs swords immediately, but not quick enough.



“Nets!“ Fáred shouted at the top of his voice.



A dark mass of thick and tight-knotted nets, encumbered on their outer edges with wrapped stones, rained down on them, smashing some of the screaming soldiers to the ground. Others stumbled back under the weight, raising their arms and trying to get rid of the ropes at once. Blades clanked on the hard ground. Aragorn hacked his sword through the tethers surrounding him, but his weapon got stuck. The ropes were drenched with a liquid that hampered the blade from cutting through fast enough. The men got entangled in the mass and with every move the ropes wrapped them up even more. The king shouted orders to cut through the ropes with knives without too much movement and was still fighting his way out of the tight embrace when screams came from above: Men jumped from the steep ledge where they had lain hidden. Dunlendings, dark-haired, bearded, wild-looking men in rough garments with clubs in their hands rushed the trapped soldiers. Fáred cursed, spiked the first in the leg with his sword, but the same moment he lost his weapon to two other attackers tearing it from his hands. He rewarded them with heavy blows to their dirty faces, shoving them out of his reach. Shouts echoed through the narrow passage; more men poured from their hideouts, gaining on them, overwhelming those who could not cut themselves out quickly enough. Tarés counted fifteen, then twenty. They were outnumbering them!



Aragorn hit the Dunlending standing next to him with his fist, still entangled in the sticky rope, hardly able to see. Since a sword was useless he had drawn his hunting knife. Pushing aside two enemies with his shoulder he managed at least to cut the two ropes right in front of him to gain more range. Waving their clubs more attackers appeared in his view. Aragorn was hit on his right shoulder, but still stood, forcing the hunting knife into the man’s upper arm and shoved him into the next one coming up to him. Behind him Tarés held the swinging arm of a Dunlending to save the king’s head from being cloven by a club, when a second foe tore at his legs, bringing him down with a crash. The Dunlending fell upon him, and Tarés struggled ferociously to push him away and get on his feet again. He had to protect the king's back! Aragorn spun around, blocking the arm of yet another enemy going for Hilberon, who defended Dumarin lying already on the ground. The young soldier was bathed in sweat, but still on his feet, bleeding from an arm-wound, and aiming his dagger left-handedly for a very broad, troll-like man, who, when the stab went ill, simply grabbed his shoulders and pushed him backwards with a roar. Hilberon fell against Halamin, and they both went down, unable to get up again. Within the minute the fight lasted the enemy’s intention was obvious: none should be killed. The king knocked out another man close to him, saw the captain stab his dagger into a Dunlending’s throat with an expression of grim satisfaction, but that ended the moment Fáred was torn aside and fell, dropping his weapon. Aragorn tried to move forward, tried to aid the captain who was immediately held down by four hands. A strong blow to his back knocked the air out of his lungs. He stumbled, tried to turn, and tripped over the heavy net. A club hit him on his left temple, forced him onto his knees. In a flash of light the king saw Hilberon’s face, wide-eyed and shocked, then -- nothing.



Harishdane stood on a projecting stone four feet away from the fight, which was over more quickly than she had expected. All the training lessons -- some of them more frustrating than she now liked to recall -- and her flawless planning had worked out to her satisfaction, though one Dunlending had been killed and already been taken away. The last of the thirteen men in the king’s company was overwhelmed. Most of the soldiers lay motionless on the ground, but not for long, as she knew. Her allies and the women in her service quickly freed them from the nets and bound the soldiers’ wrists. The first men stirred already, and Harishdane shouted a short command in her tongue to gag those soldiers at once. The plan consisted of speed and little noise, though she had to admit that in the latter the Dunlendings were not open to reason. Now speed was their worthiest ally. The soldiers the king had left with the horses waited a mile beyond the gorge's entrance, but within the mountains sound travelled far. The very eager Dunlendings and Harishdane’s followers had to leave this path as fast as possible. She would not want the Gondorians to become suspicious and follow their ruler. Until now too short a time had passed to disquiet the soldiers. She looked down on the King of Gondor. The net was lifted, but he did not stir. While two Dunlendings grudgingly bound his hands in front of his body, Sisune, a female soldier of her own tribe, bent down to grab the shining silver chain with the attached pendant the king wore. With catlike grace Harishdane left her lookout and stopped Sisune with a sharp command.



„That belongs to me,“ she growled menacingly, and the young woman retreated with a bow though her yearning glance at the jewel betrayed her humble obedience. When her leader looked away she quickly grabbed the hunting knife that lay near the king's left hand and hid it under her tunic. Harishdane knelt beside the king. Over his left temple blood trickled down to his eye and cheek; the blow had been harder than she had thought from her viewpoint, which made her curse the fool who had done it, but she did not utter any accusation while the Dunlendings gagged their valuable prisoner with a piece of cloth. They did not know who they now called their captive. Only Harishdane herself and her second-in-command, Asentis, knew now – with the leaders of the Dunlendings gone – who that man on the ground was. With grim satisfaction Harishdane took the jewel and added the ring he had worn to the chain to put on her neck. The simple tribesmen eyed her silently; Harishdane knew that they would not have befriended her were it not for the skill and the weapons they urgently needed to fulfil their goal. She shot a quick glance to the men in her company. “Don’t leave the weapons or anything else behind!“ the tall slender woman ordered. She took Andúril and its scabbard for herself, and the way she handled it betrayed the impression that she was weak due to her slender appearance. Getting up she watched Url, the Dunlending who headed the group, remove the loose stones guarding the secret pathway. It was narrow, and the way behind the entrance dark and stifling. Two Dunlendings went in first, pulling in the struggling captives, and lifting those over the threshold who were still unconscious. Harishdane was satisfied when the king at last was carried to the entrance. She looked around. Two of her kinsmen wiped the ground with long fresh branches to hide the traces of the fight, took knives and bows and the last net the Dunlendings had forgotten. Then all they hurried to the path in the mountain.



Url closed the entrance and scurried after them.




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“There are two of his men! They left their horses behind!” Thor indicated the distant shapes at the foot of the mountain they had been riding alongside. The éored followed his lead, their thunder echoing from the granite walls.



Éomer’s gaze went up the cliffs above their heads in search for a sign of his ally or the hillmen he had followed. He half expected an attack from above, another rockslide grinding its deadly path towards them, but nothing happened. Reining in Battleaxe, he signalled his men to slow down and came to a halt next to the waiting Gondorian soldiers.



“Where is your king?”



“They took that way, sire,” one of the men answered, indicating a steep narrow path that went up into the mountains. “The king and his guard. They were close behind our foes!”



“Then they might need our aid,” Éomer determined, turning his stallion in a tight circle to address his men. “I need fifteen men to accompany me! Thor, Arnhelm, you are coming along. Elfhelm, Fráccas, you will remain here with the rest of the men. If we are not back in two hours, you come after us. ” His gaze became persistent when he saw the silent protest in the older warrior’s eyes, and he directed Battleaxe next to his friend’s long-legged bay and lowered his voice. “Elfhelm, I need you to question Galdur. Tolgor says his wounds are mortal, and I need to know what he knows before he dies. I need to know whether there is a bigger conspiracy behind him. Question him, but do not let our men know about it. Only you can do this for me.”



Reluctant, but seeing the wisdom behind the younger man’s words, Elfhelm gave him the nod he had been waiting for.



“I will see it done then. But watch out on that mountain path. This terrain is treacherous. We do not know our way here, and it may be full of traps.”



“Thor will know them.” The king slid from the saddle and gave the reins to one of the Gondorians, also shedding his helm as he made for the narrow path with great strides. Once again his gaze went up to the Lord of Westfold, who was still looking uncomfortable at the separation of their forces. “And Elfhelm? Keep an eye out for the Dunlendings. I do not know what they are up to now; they may follow us and dare another attack.”



“If they do, they shall regret the attempt. I cannot promise I will be as merciful as you if they attack us twice in one day.” He did not waver at Éomer’s stern expression, and his gaze stayed on the young king as he and his men strode over to the beginning of the path. Hands on the hilts of their swords, ready for whatever would await them, the Rohirrim climbed up into the mountains.



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Hilberon had watched the king go down, but his shout had ended with a thick piece of cloth in his mouth. Though he had struggled with all he had the young soldier had been no match for the tall and broadly-built Dunlending who had bound his wrists at last. Now he was pushed into the narrow path through the mountain. He had hit his head at the entrance trying to look back and find out what had happened to the king, but the Dunlending had at once poked him with a primitive looking knife, and since Halamin was before him Hilberon followed the older man into the dark and endless tunnel that seemed to breathe the mouldy stench of decay. The young soldier felt miserable, and though he should not fear anything his heart beat in his throat, and he could only breathe shallowly. He shivered involuntarily. In the distance he could make out a man with a torch. Around him it was too dark to see anything, and more than once he hit his forehead on a projecting stone and stumbled back, only to feel -- more than he could see -- the presence of his captor right behind him, pushing him forward with even more determination, growling threats in his tongue. Again he turned his head and saw the entrance being closed with the last fitting stone. In the last rays of daylight he recognised the limp figure of the king being carried in by two Dunlendings, then all the lights went out. Hilberon swallowed trying to recall what Halamin had told him – that courage was good and fear was good. One needed both to survive. While trudging through the darkness, bound, gagged, and in pain, Hilberon knew that at this time his courage was struggling with his fear.



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After a march in the utter darkness Halamin came to a halt, and Hilberon stumbled into him. The pain in his right arm from the inflicted wound had grown since he had hit and ripped it at the rough wall. It had been the moment he had almost fainted, and only the stab in his back had propelled him further. More blood had oozed out; he could feel it like a worm wriggling over his skin. Now he touched and smelt the hard leather of Halamin's jerkin in front of him, and from behind shouts he did not understand resounded. One of the hillmen was bellowing back, and Hilberon craned his neck to see more. Some feet ahead a torch lit the tunnel and the rocks which had fallen from the ceiling, blocking their way, leaving not enough space for a boy to crawl through. More clamour, angry and commanding, echoed from the walls, and since they could not go on, the strong hand of one of the captors pressed Hilberon down. He sat, leaning against the wall, and Halamin was forced down beside him. A swarthy hand tested if the gags were still in place before the man moved on. Another shout to the Dunlendings followed, whereupon a second and third torch appeared nearby. Two men approached, dragging the unconscious king with them and putting him down on the left side of the path. A short, bellowed conversation followed, and while the broadly-built men moved forward some slender persons, whose faces Hilberon found strangely familiar, guarded the prisoners.



Halamin pointed with his chin to their ruler lying opposite to them. They could see his face in the dim light, but he was still unconscious. Halamin looked up to one of the strangers, clad in a dark tunic and trousers, which were quite simply sewn, but not ragged as the Dunlendings' clothes. The lower half of his face was covered by a red scarf, and the dark eyes did not give away whether it was a man or a woman. From the outer appearance Halamin assumed that he was of the same race as the woman Captain Fáred had shot in Eastern Ithilien, but then he dismissed the thought: What should an Easterling do in Dunland? The stranger watched the prisoners intently, and it was simple enough to see that from this position no escape was possible. Then he stooped over the unconscious king to take the knife's scabbard from his back and hide it under his tunic. Hilberon watched in stunned disbelief, but when the stranger pierced him with his stare, he shivered and looked down upon his hands. What had they gotten into? Where were those men heading for? What would happen to Halamin, Fáred, and all the others he could not see in the darkness behind them?



The Dunlendings carried the rubble past the soldiers, grunting and growling in their tongue. When they moved forward again, Hilberon saw the king stir. From his temple to his left eye and down to his bearded cheek blood had spread and clotted. When Aragorn tried to open his eyes it seemed to be with effort. And once he could see the outlines of the dimly-lit tunnel and the men standing in it he jerked up his head with a cry, muffled by the cloth in his mouth. Hilberon thought the king to be in great pain, and flinched compassionately. Aragorn lowered his head again, raising his hands to his face, touching his temple, but at the same moment realising that his wrists were bound. In the torchlight the young soldier saw fear in his ruler's eyes, but it could not be. Halamin had told Hilberon about King Elessar and the courage and stamina the man possessed. It was impossible to think of him and fear at the same time. It had to be a trick of the light, and when he looked a second time the expression had changed. Fully conscious now the king was surveying the tunnel, their captors, and the barrier which had been cleared away, with keen eyes. Hilberon thanked the Valar that the king was still with them. With him the obstacles would be overcome, and they would all return to Gondor.




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The mouldy, stifling air in the tunnel was now, after the hillmen had carried away the barrier, pestered with the sharp stench of sweat and wet clothing. The captives slurred over the stony path, bowing their heads from time to time when the ceiling turned low. They were only moving slowly, resistant to their captors, who pushed them now and then, and needlessly poked the tips of their knives into their backs, growling and menacing, but knowing at the same time that the prisoners should not be harmed. It had been a demand the strangers had made, but the hillmen would have preferred to neglect it since one of their men had been killed in the ambush. Woldro and Url had been very clear: No one was allowed to kill a prisoner. So far the agreement had worked, but with the dead body of their kinsman the lust for revenge grew.



Harishdane longed for fresh air and the clear sky above her. She despised the uncared-for paths through the mountains which were always covered with rubble and other jagged stones, but had quickly learned that it was the fastest way to reach Dunland if one needed to avoid Rohan. It was the stealthiest, too. She had walked it before many times, and together with Asentis, her second-in-command, she was the only one who knew all the secret side paths and hideouts the Dunlendings had discovered or built within the last hundred years. She could follow these trails and always find a place to hide if necessary. She knew that after the seemingly endless darkness, light shone yonder on the mountain, and that they were close now. They would reach the lowest peak before nightfall, and after another mile through the rough surroundings a small plateau would serve as a campsite. She could hardly wait to see it, and yet she did not outrun the group to reach the open range first. Too valuable was the one prisoner to leave him to these unrefined hillmen. They were good workers and, in some ways, willing to listen, but she would not trust them.



The Dunlendings had become aware of the king being awake and had pulled him to his feet. Pushing and shoving they made him walk in front of one of their comrades, ignoring that their prisoner was swaying. With a deep growl the hillman poked the king's back when he fell behind. In the darkness Aragorn was fighting the feelings that desperately wanted to surface. He had to control himself and find out what had happened after the moment he had passed out. He had to concentrate on the way ahead and remain watchful. The guilt of having misled his men weighed him down. He had known about the danger and had proceeded nevertheless. The Dunlendings’ tribal leaders had set a trap for his men, and he had foolishly stepped into it. Guilt mingled with rage when he thought about his soldiers being led like cattle through this narrow tunnel. Again he had made a choice to the ill fortune of his company, and he could do naught to change their fate at the moment. The darkness enclosed him, and the feeling of fear returned. Fear. He must not think of it. For the sake of his people Aragorn had to remain sombre and alert. He must not give into the memory of the threat that darkness and constriction meant to him. ‘Do not fear the darkness,’ Arwen had said upon his leave. He wondered if she had seen his fate, and for a short time the thought of his wife calmed him.



Hilberon felt his right arm again, but the pain that had followed the numbness of the second hit was not easy to endure. He clenched his teeth and went on, sometimes almost falling into Halamin in front of him, sometimes lagging behind, only to be pushed forward again, stumbling on through the darkness. He knew not for how long they had been trudging through the tunnel or where it led to. He wished for nothing more than to get rid of the gag and ropes to fight those men keeping him hostage. Through his fear he felt rage growing. He wanted to do something and not be taken far away from his home in the hands of these wild men. At Edoras rumours had spread that the strange men from Dunland had abducted some Rohirrim for unknown reasons, and some peasants had said that the Dunlendings would eat their captives, but Hilberon had never thought to live through the same ordeal of being shoved around like animals in a herd. He only knew that with the king among them this captivity would not last long. He trusted his ruler, though he had never been at his side during the Ring War. He trusted in those deeds the stories told of, and the confidence Halamin and Tarés had always voiced. They would not fail. They would return home again. Another hard push and a growl from behind; he should move faster, but he just swayed and tripped over a pile of loose stones on the path. A big hand grabbed his shoulder, steadied him, only to order him harshly again. He did not understand a word. The young soldier closed his eyes for a moment, then moved on.



Not more than twenty feet away, daylight could be guessed through the narrow exit of the tunnel, and, finally, Harishdane left the company to reach it first. She climbed through the hole and, halting on a rock high enough to overlook the valleys beyond, inhaled deeply. The sun set as if it was dreading the thick clouds floating in from the south, and orange light covered them with patches of dark gold. But the clouds would not lose their rain over the mountains. Not on this evening anyway; she could always smell it when rain drew near. With her hands pressed on her hips Harishdane sucked in air, relieved and... satisfied. The first part of the always-strenuous journey to her homeland was fulfilled. Surefooted she jumped down one step from her lookout as the Dunlendings pulled the prisoners out of the tunnel one by one, caring little if they hit their heads. She could see Sisune, a rather young woman of her kin, following the first two captives, and as usual, she averted her eyes obediently as was the rule. Harishdane knew about Sisune’s loyalty, and it added to her lifting mood. Bound like this the captives were no more than cattle, and Harishdane could not wait to see the faces of her kinsmen upon delivering them to serve her tribe. It would be a day of pure bliss, a day closer to the fulfilment of their common goal, and, again, she allowed herself a moment of contemplation surveying the row of men squinting into the light. The hillmen made them walk faster since the terrain was clear to see now, and the men obeyed the continued threat though their eyes shot fierce glances at their captors. An older soldier with a mighty reddish beard shoved a Dunlending aside, and the captor pushed him forward even harder, making him fall on his knees. He got to his feet again, willing to take up the challenge again, but the next soldier, younger and rather fat but with more sense for the situation, took his upper arm and signalled him to move on. Harishdane waited for the one to come, and when he emerged from the shadow, held forcefully by Url, who almost threw him on the path, he became aware of her. She stood proud and erect in the sunset, unflinching under the menacing stare of the king. She mocked him with her glance, challenged him, so sure she was that no harm could be done to her since Asentis came after the ruler, shoving the resisting king further on the path his men had already taken. He looked back with a threat in his grey eyes, but she only returned a radiant look of victory. Then the moment was gone, the king turned the next curve, and Asentis bowed curtly to Harishdane before he quickly strode behind the prisoners.



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Thor straightened, pressing one hand against his back with an unconscious grimace, while his dark eyes swept the rugged landscape for the umpteenth time to no result. Midday had come and gone; by now they had advanced much further into the mountains than they had expected to in their search, and it was well into the afternoon. Only a few hours of daylight still remained in which to find their ally.



At first, the trail made by Elessar and his men had been easy to pick up and follow, but on their ascent, hard rock had soon replaced the last remains of soil, and no more tracks had been found for hours now. Occasionally, their entire group had halted and strained for noises that carried well in this barren, rocky territory. However, apart from birds and a few other animals, they had found nothing moving. Desperate for a sign of life from his friend, Éomer had finally shouted, and the echo had carried his voice through the mountains... to no reply other than the wind.



The men had stared at each other then, the worry in their expressions deepening. King Elessar must indeed be very far away to neither hear them nor be able to answer. That... or something had happened to him and his men. Under the best circumstances, they were close by and gagged, or someone was holding a knife to their throat to prevent them from answering. Under the worst circumstances... the King of Gondor and his guards were already lying somewhere on the side of these mountains, slain and left as fodder for the crows.



It was this image in his mind that brought Thor back to reality and made him take up his task with renewed effort.




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MISTY MOUNTAINS



In the waning daylight the hillmen hurried their prisoners through narrow pathways, under overhanging sharp-edged rocks, and through ancient and dry gullies which were only wide enough for two men to cross at the same time. The path wound through many curves, through gorges and under arches, and ever again even smaller paths crossed it. Hilberon did not know where they led to, but when he looked back he knew that even if he had been set free at once it would not have been easy to find the way back to the tunnel.



Aragorn had been aware of one of the slender persons who could not be of Dunlending descent a few feet in front of him, and upon seeing the tall woman on top of the hillock he knew who had taught the hillmen to fight and equipped them with the necessary weapons. The Easterlings had aided the primitive hillmen, but the reason was still unclear. Turning his head he got another glimpse of the leading woman who bore an expression of arrogance. She did not wear any armour, but only a dark red tunic with fitting trousers and soft leather boots, and from a distance she had not been recognisable as an Easterling, but he was sure to have seen her figure among the tribal leaders on the ledge. She was responsible for the ambush and the capture! Suddenly and with growing fury he realised that the Dunlendings were only willing helpers, and that the whole time Éomer and he had been looking in the wrong direction. They both should have known that another evil stood behind the hillmen's actions, but they had not pressed hard enough to find out. But what had that woman offered the tribal leaders? The expulsion of the Rohirrim? Victory over their foes? Still the king did not understand why men were abducted if those reasons applied. Aragorn could not determine how, but he would do anything necessary to free his men and end the Easterlings' conspiracy.



The wind sped up, whirling round the stones and over hillocks ahead, on which the prisoners could sometimes see the slender woman standing and peering into the distance. The gusts tangled with her black, sleek hair and billowed her loose-hanging tunic, but she seemed to enjoy being outdoors, lifting her chin and inhaling deeply. The way of the group led over the top of the lowest mountain and then, with the light almost gone, further down again, forcing the prisoners to be careful not to miss their footing, since they could hardly hold onto protruding stones. The Dunlendings did not care, but roughly pulled a soldier down when he did not walk fast enough. He fell with a muffled scream and was shoved forward, while the Dunlending huffed. In some places water dripped from a source unseen, and the captors filled their water-skins without letting the group halt or even sharing the water. Hilberon’s tongue felt as dry as the cloth sticking in his mouth. He was already weary, his feet hurt, and even more pain flooded from his arm up to his shoulder. He stumbled down the steep path and halted briefly at a corner before a hillman rushed him on. The way seemed to be filled with never ending threats and hurts. While he did not know if he could survive this ordeal, Hilberon thought about his father and what he would say if his only son did not return home. The picture in his head showed him a man in grief, waiting day and night at the gates of the White City until he finally realised that the one he longed to see would never cross the Pelennors again. Hilberon pressed his lips tight and forced himself on. He would not make his father grieve.



Halamin looked back over his shoulder, his expression likewise worried and weary. Behind them and the slender woman, who kept a shimmering token under her dark brown tunic, the king was pressed forward. Halamin grimaced at seeing him battered like the others. Though the soldier was afraid of what would happen to them, he was filled with hatred as well. As far as he had understood they had come to these mountains to parley with the Dunlendings, and now they were betrayed and captured! Far behind the others Tarés and Fáred trudged, both drenched with sweat, but at the same time vigilant and determined. The day’s march had been long already, and their captors still pushed them forward, unrelenting. Hilberon followed the king’s gaze uphill. The tall woman, who seemed to be the leader though she was of another race, stared at the King of Gondor, her face a mask. However when her eyes narrowed she revealed her hatred, and Hilberon turned away from the threat these eyes bore. His heart was pounding suddenly, and without knowing why or how, he felt a deep fear as if he could not defend himself against an evil lurking around the next corner; it was as if he were meant to lose a fight for his life. He swallowed hard, and, unbeknownst to him, the group had slowed down. Only with a sharp order from another Easterling did they gain speed again.



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At nightfall they reached a plateau amid a rock formation which looked like a mass of thick spikes shooting off the ground. Between these roughly hewn pillars the northern part of the Misty Mountains could be seen, covered now by darkness and clouds. Torches were lit, and Asentis, tall and wiry unlike the rest of his kin, stacked the firewood they had carried with them to kindle a fire. The prisoners were gathered to sit on one side of the campsite, and though they had covered much ground during the long march, the gags and ropes remained in place. The Dunlendings still feared that shouts could be heard by the enemy; for in the long hollow paths an echo was carried far. But Url also did not want them to talk with each other. Had they not said that those Gondorians were dangerous? That they might use their voices like wizards? He would not take any chances. So he nodded to three of his men to guard the prisoners and turned away from them.



Though they were out in the open again Aragorn could still recall the dreadful feeling he had experienced in the long darkness. He could not escape the memory of the two days he had spent in the lowest part of the dungeon at Deromonor. He had seen nothing and had only heard the sounds of scurrying rats, centipedes, beetles, and other many-legged creatures in that room, which had been almost too small to stretch out his legs. His ribcage felt too tight to breathe and he forced his mind away from the impression, concentrating on their surroundings, pretending to examine the wound on his temple while he surveyed the campsite. Dunlendings and Easterlings were outnumbering his men, and since they were armed and most of them unharmed the king's guard would not be able to stand up against them. He glanced over his soldiers. They were weary, tired, and many of them had scratches and bruises. Another wave of guilt hit the king. Had he not been able to look through this plan? Why had he not seen it form in the beginning? The traitor at Meduseld who had killed Grodes could have been one of his own kin! The negotiations had been meant to fail from the beginning. It had been a part of the plan! But still Aragorn had believed that a change of perception was possible. He had been so willing to mediate between Éomer and Grodes that he had neglected the Dunlendings' history: the hatred was stronger than any will to overcome it.



On the other side of the fire Harishdane stood with Asentis and Sisune, both listening intently to her orders. She didn’t need to do more than whisper, and while Sisune nodded obediently Harishdane faced Asentis. The young man of no more than twenty-five winters, who was clad in a dark brown tunic with black trousers and boots instead of his otherwise impressive armour, had been her favourite partner since the plan to deal with the Dunlendings had been evolved. He was taller than the usual male and equipped with a strength that did not show for he was as slender as were all of their race. With warm affection she remembered the fights he had won for her tribe. He had been the hero of the Easterlings’ ritual fight – the scásh - against an older and far more experienced fighter from the western shore of the sea. It had been a long fight, but according to the rules neither of them had been allowed to change weapons or leave the circle once they had entered. And Asentis had finally won. ‘Asentis Henosina – Asentis the Mighty’ they had called him henceforth. Harishdane had then decided that only he would be worthy to stand beside her, and so far he had more than once proved his qualities. Gently the leader’s hand stroked over the long, black hair behind his ear, then touched his muscled shoulder. His expression softened at the contact he had missed during the entire day. He longed for more but knew it was impossible at the moment. Harishdane rewarded him with the hint of a smile for his understanding and took back her hand while she continued talking.



Url growled into his beard that he would not allow them to exclude him, and on his stout legs crossed the gap with heavy steps.



“You tell me, Harishdane, what you talk of,“ he demanded in broken Westron. Harishdane did not answer, but dismissed her followers with a short nod. “Tell me!“ Url repeated. Though Woldro had told him to obey that woman he did not wish to be treated like an outcast. He knew not exactly where the sudden rush of fear an hour ago had come from, but his instincts told him not to take his eyes off the leader of those strangers.



“We will rest only till first daylight,“ she said in her husky voice that was neither a man’s nor a woman’s. “Then we will go on. Some folk of mine await us. Rest now, Url. Don’t let anything happen. Keep the watch tight.“



Url was hardly able to restrain himself from shouting at her. He knew she was lying!



“Aye, we watch. And you?“



But Harishdane had already left.