Cadenza

Chapter Two

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green. Many thanks.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Tolman Gardener’s merry song faltered and died as Bess pulled the cart around a long bend in the road, bringing into view a still distant arm of the forest that stretched down from the hills to touch the road like a finger. A plume of black smoke rose from the middle of the trees, bending to the west as it cleared the wood.

“That’s a large fire for a campsite, Bess, this early in the afternoon. I think we might stop for a moment.”

 He pulled Bess to a halt, and reached under his seat for his metal-shod staff. His groping fingers found its comforting weight and pulled it into the light. The afternoon sun struck highlights off the elven decorations etched into the silver metal of the ends and gave depth to the surface carving twining up the ebony shaft. His most treasured possession and the most deadly in his trained hands. Tom twisted round and reached into the back of the wagon. He pulled out his leather belt with its serviceable long knife, and strapped that over his tunic as well. He thought, as he pulled his warm cloak out of the back of his belt, that it was better to be safe than sorry. He hadn’t forgotten the tales of bandits that had been flying in Edoras.

He stood on the wagon seat and peered into the distance. He could see no movement on the road, or under the trees.

“Well faint heart never won dinner,” he remarked to Bess bracingly. Bess flicked an ear at him. Tom released the brake lever and clucked the donkey into motion again.

As he neared the trees it was apparent that his misgivings had been well founded. Carrion birds could be seen circling and calling above and around the plume of smoke.

“This looks a bad business, Bess.”

Tom clambered out of the wagon and lead Bess a few paces off the road. He fished in the back of the wagon and came up with Bess’ nosebag, and settled her from wandering. Cautiously he started towards the trees.

A thundering of hooves coming from behind made him automatically assume a defensive crouch, but when he turned it was to see Legolas’ horse, Ascallon, charging up to him, rider-less. She was terrifying enough to the hobbit, and he stood very still as the great animal circled him, then stopped, her eyes wild and rolling, her sides streaked with sweat.

“Ho, ho there Missy, what ails thee?” Tom leaned himself on his staff and spoke in as calm a voice as he could manage.

The mare pawed the ground and snorted at him. Then shook herself all over from her nose to her quarters, like a dog, setting all the bells on her neck strap clashing disharmoniously and finally dislodging the balanced saddlebags she was carrying. They fell to the ground with a double thud and she shied away, and then trotted towards the trees, her head turned back to look at the hobbit.

“Can’t be much clearer than that, Girly.” Tolman followed as he was bid.

As he approached the trees Tolman was worried by the continued absence of any hail or challenge. He did not need Ascallon to tell him something was very wrong. Holding his staff in two hands he entered the ring of trees.

If he lived to be as old as Bilbo Baggins he would never forget the sight and the sickening smell of charred flesh that greeted him in the clearing. It was as if a giant hand had swept all before it, throwing bodies and equipment away from a central point near the tipped-over wagons. Bodies of dwarves and men lay like so many puppets with cut strings, in obscene abandonment around the greasy smoke rising from the remains of the fire. Great black crows flew up, cawing in outrage, as the white horse picked her way over obstacles, making her way to the far side of the devastated campsite.

Ascallon whinnied pitifully and lowered her nose to the ground; Tolman saw a slight movement beside her.

Swallowing his horror, he hurried to where the horse now stood.

**

Gliver thought his last moment had come as the soup plate sized feet of the horse moved up beside him. He had always thought horses were tall, and had felt like he was flying when he had travelled on Ascallon’s back with Legolas last year. But that impression was nothing to the one he got when he found himself at ground level looking up at the animal.

“You daft beast, don’t stand on me. How will that help your master?” He growled.

Ascallon’s velvet soft nose approached and snuffed at first his middle and then her master’s unmoving form. She bumped the elf with her muzzle, but Legolas responded no more for her than he had for Gliver, or the vicious bandits that had caused all this.

“Ascallon, you must move, my dear. I need to get to them.”

Gliver looked at the hobbit with some respect as the horse picked her way backwards without treading on anyone.

“Gliver, Heir of Aglarond. At some disadvantage, as you can see, master Hobbit.”

Tolman gazed at the bloodstained and dishevelled dwarf, then knelt down beside him and held out his broad hand. “Tolman Gardner. How can I help you, Gliver? Can you sit up?”

Gliver grabbed the hand and suited action to suggestion, and then swayed alarmingly. Tom’s strong hands steadied him and the world stopped spinning after a space. Gliver could see the hobbit scanning the scene anxiously looking for other survivors.

“All the rest are dead, Master Hobbit. The bandits finished them off so none could tell tales.” Gliver spoke gruffly, tears threatened; now help was at hand, as they had not earlier. “Somehow they overlooked me. Perhaps the Elf’s cloak has some special power to turn the eye.”

Tolman picked up a corner of the Elf’s cloak and looked at its owner sadly. Gliver realised he had made the same mistake the bandits had.

“Look to Legolas, I will do well enough.”

“He lives?” Tolman’s voice was incredulous. Gliver looked over at the Elf from this slightly higher viewpoint and shared the Hobbit’s disbelief. Legolas was just all over blood, from his hair to his legs.

“Elves must be tougher than they look.” Gliver shook his head. “ He breathes still, although he has not regained consciousness these several hours.”

Tolman moved so he was on the other side of the Elf, since Gliver seemed steady enough now.

He looked across the Elf’s body to the dwarf. “This needs to come out.” He shaped his hand over the shard of metal still embedded in the back of Legolas’ thigh, “and I will set this while he still sleeps, I think.” He gently touched the arm that was so wrongly bent.

He made eye contact with the Dwarf again. “Come, I will help you out to my wagon, then come back with some supplies for him.”

Gliver shook his head. “Nay, get your supplies, and then come back. I will not leave him. He saved my life, and in my Lord Gimli’s name, for the love he bears him, I will not leave him even for a moment. I will not be the one to tell Gimli that his friend slipped alone from this wicked world.”

Tolman eyed him for a moment, as if to test his resolve, and then he was away, running.

**

In the short space of time Tom was away Gliver shifted painfully sideways so that he could lean over the Elf and take a decent look at him.

Legolas’ back was a mass of lacerations and blood, everywhere except where the ruin of his quiver had spared the skin and clothing underneath. The blast damage extended up his neck and face and into his hair. The intense heat had singed the skin on the side of his face and turned his ear a raw looking red, and his usually flowing locks were now matted into shrivelled, charred clumps.

He certainly did not look alive.

Gliver placed his had again on the side of the Elf’s rib cage under the remains of his quiver, and felt the regular reassuring movement. He took what comfort he could from it.

Tom came back with a bulky canvas roll under one arm and a double handful of stoppered jars. He quickly undid the ties of the roll and opened it to reveal an impressive healer’s kit, complete with bandages, and an array of small metal instruments Gliver did not care to inspect too closely.

“Has he stirred?” The dwarf shook his head glumly, but Tolman was intent now. “Then I will remove this first.” He indicated the metal shard, and wasting no more time, cut through the leather of Legolas’ breeches to clear the wound. Tom leaned down to look closely at the embedded metal.

“I hope it has not cut some great vessel, but we cannot leave it so.” He cast a considering look at the Dwarf. Gliver squared his shoulders and tried to look as if the whole idea was not nauseating him.

“When I remove the metal, would you hold this pad firmly on the wound until I can secure the bandage?”

Gliver nodded and scooted down the Elf’s body a little, so he could reach.

Tolman pulled, Gliver held, and then the bandage went on so smoothly that it seemed no time before the operation was over and Legolas’ leg was firmly wrapped.

Gliver sat swaying slightly, the effort of controlling his own pain suddenly becoming rather more difficult.

“Now it is your turn, Gliver.” Tolman’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.

Gliver gathered himself and tried to scowl at the hobbit. “It’s but a scratch, Master Hobbit. Do what you need to for him.”

Tom watched as the Dwarf wavered in front of him, an interesting shade of pale for such a well-coloured race.

“A scratch that robs you of your strength, Gliver. If enough blood leaves your body you will faint, and be no use to yourself, or Legolas. Come, let me bind it.”

Gliver looked at his oozing leg, then at the determined hobbit and decided he did not have the energy to pursue the argument.

“Don’t tell Gimli you saw to me first, Tolman.” He grumbled for the form of it.

The hobbit sighed, but bent to cutting away Gliver’s trouser leg to expose the wound.

“I doubt that he wants to lose either of you, Gliver.”

He found himself talking to the waiting crows. As soon as he relieved the swollen leg from confinement, the pain hit the dwarf anew, and Gliver fell back in the faint just as Tolman had predicted.

The hobbit, being of a practical nature, took the opportunity to stitch together the edges of the long slash with the boiled silk he carried in his kit for the purpose. He poured some alcohol over the wound to ward off contagion, and then quickly wrapped Gliver’s thigh in the last of his prepared bandages. The Elf and the Dwarf had both been most fortunate that the flying metal had not damaged any of the great vessels that ran down the leg. Even the mightiest warrior could fall from a slight nick to one of those rivers.

Gliver came round again as Tom was tying off the last bandage.

The hobbit and the dwarf made eye contact for a moment, in which thanks and apologies were given and discounted, then Tom held up a stoppered blue vial.

“Here, take a mouthful Gliver, it will help the pain and I need your strength for when I set the Elf’s arm.”

Gliver suffered the bitter draught and then also accepted Tom’s helping hand to pull him back into sitting. Tolman left the Dwarf to recover as he examined Legolas’ back.

Gliver watched as Tolman sliced carefully up the remains of Legolas tunic to inspect the red mess. “I will have to leave most of this until later, the bleeding is not serious.” It looked serious enough to the dwarf and he looked at the hobbit in surprise. Tolman anointed a couple of the longer cuts with a salve from one of his jars, then shook his head and folded the edges of the Elf’s tunic back over the cuts. “Elves heal quickly Gliver, ‘tis best to leave alone if we cannot mend.”

Tolman smoothed more salve onto the raw skin on Legolas’ delicate ears and face. The unmistakeable smell of athelas filled Gliver’s lungs; in combination with the painkiller it allowed him to feel rather more himself. The Hobbit turned finally to Legolas’ arm. Tolman pulled four stout lathes from his canvas kit and then started to undo the slender leather straps that held Legolas’ quiver to his back. Gliver helped by easing the straps out from under the Elf’s body.

Following the Hobbit’s directions he scooted round the far side of the Elf, trailing his stiff leg behind him. Then used the great strength in his hands to hold the archer’s arm bones in alignment as Tolman splinted the break by strapping the limb tightly with the straps from the quiver and the lathes from his pack.

Finally, the agony of the manoeuvre must have reached the Elf, because he convulsed under the Dwarf’s hands and groaned pitifully.

The Hobbit and the Dwarf looked at the Elf’s face anxiously, and found one pained eye looking blearily back. The other was swollen shut from the damage the side of his face had sustained in the blast.

“What?” The Elf tried to move, rolling almost onto his back. He cried out in involuntary pain, and quickly shifted his weight onto his less damaged shoulder.

“Hold, Legolas. Stay if you can.” Tolman went to Legolas’ head. He lifted the Elf’s head onto his lap.

 “Here, see if you can drink this?” He offered the same blue vial he had offered Gliver. The liquid ran mostly out of the Elf’s mouth, but Gliver was pleased to see Legolas swallow.

The Elf’s eye drifted shut again.

Tolman looked across the prostrate form at Gliver. “We must get him to my wagon, and to some help.”

“Aye and that is going to be interesting.” Gliver reached for Tolman’s staff and used it, and his good leg, to struggle up into standing.

“How will we move him?”

The two short folk considered themselves and the considerable length of the Elf.

Tolman looked around the battlefield. “I may be able to make a travois out of a couple of axes and a cloak.” He gently laid Legolas’ head back on the ground and rose to his own feet. He started over to a discarded axe, but before he found another Ascallon took the matter out of his hands.

Moving carefully she walked back to her master’s side then folded herself down onto the ground beside him, the invitation plain.

She whickered softly when Legolas made no move towards her. But she stayed on her side as the other two manoeuvred the Elf face down onto her back. Gliver slid Legolas’ good hand under her neck strap then he stood back. Ascallon stood with the utmost care and paced smoothly out of the charnel ring and towards the wagon that was still parked in the blessed sanity of the green meadow bordering the road. Bess greeted her with her raucous bray.

Tolman wrapped Gliver’s arm around his own shoulders and assisted him likewise away from the site of the massacre.

**

King Elfwine was not a happy man. Nineteen dwarves killed and the Lord of Ithilien hanging between life and death in the care of his great friend, Gimli, and all on Edoras’ doorstep, so to speak.

The Dunlendings had gone too far this time with their campaign of terror. Not only had his kingdom lost the shipment of arms and gold and mithril, but also the bandits had thumbed their noses at the rule of law so rigorously enforced, up to now, by his Eoreds, supported by his people.

He rolled up the scroll from Gimli and tossed it back on the table.

He agreed fully with the Lord of Aglarond. It was time to ask Gondor for some help to wipe out this Dunlending threat for good.

And it would give Aragorn an excuse to visit with his friends in Aglarond; Helm’s Deep would be the perfect base of operations.

Elfwine felt an excitement that had been missing for a little while in his life.

The drums of war beat again.

TBC

Rose Sared.

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