Cadenza

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

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

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stuff it is great.

Chapter Five

Gimli saw Legolas slip into the back of the council chamber and then quietly work his way round the walls until he was beside one of the windows by a tray of refreshments, left for the Lords’ convenience.

Aragorn and Elfwine were deep in discussion with Elfwine’s deputy, master of the Westfold, Erkenbrand’s heir, Frealaf. A large map of the Westfold, the near reaches of Enedwaith and Dunland was unrolled on the table before them, every known clan marked with either red or green ink for proven allies or known troublemakers. A few clans were lettered in blue if their status was unknown.

Gimli left the men and approached the elf.

“I envy you your ride, my friend. I fear my head is so full of ‘Harelds, Healfdrens and Headreds’ that I may give up on vengeance out of purest boredom. How these humans increase. No wonder they quarrel, they have the land parcelled between them like some maiden’s quilt. Any news?”

Legolas smiled grimly at his companion. “A rumour I would share, although it casts suspicion only. Unless the bandits are more stupid than they have proved themselves thus far, we are unlikely to be bothered while this force is encamped.” He waved at the view of ranked tents visible from the window.

Gimli climbed onto the bench below the window to see more fully, then met Legolas’ eye in agreement.

The elf poured himself a generous glass of wine, after checking the contents of a decanter, and accepted a rosy apple selected for him by Gimli from an artistically arranged display. Gimli cut himself a slice of cheese and then passed another over to the elf, who accepted it without thought much to the dwarf’s secret pleasure. Feeding up his only just-well friend was a mission Gimli persisted in at every opportunity. Legolas still looked frail to the dwarf’s eye; although he knew that to fuss was to invite the elf to try to prove to him how unimpaired he was.

“Come,” Gimli said. “Tell us of this rumour.” He led the way back to the map table.

Aragorn nodded at Legolas and Gimli as they joined the company round the table.

He glanced round at Elfwine and Frealaf. “To recap, gentlemen. We will call a general counsel, all the chiefs will be required to attend on pain of our combined displeasure and the messengers will be backed up by at least a troop of soldiery.” He glanced at the two men flanking him. “Oaths will be extracted and some sureties given, and it will give us a chance to root out discontent. It is the best we can do with the current load of escort duties and regular patrols.”

Gimli nodded, as did Legolas.

The Elf asked, “Where does the Withergield clan hold?”

Elfwine and Frealaf both frowned. Frealaf placed his finger on the western slopes of Thrihyrne high in the Adorn valley.

“Here, of old, is their home. Ever they are a thorn in Rohan’s side. Rumours spread that Wulfgarn is pursuing some ancient claim to Rohan’s throne through his descent from the traitor Wulf, Freca’s son. They nurse their grievances in those hills, but of late things have been quiet.” He turned to the elf. “ Have you heard aught other?”

Legolas shrugged. “A woman’s gossip only, but it is the first time I have heard a name in connection with the bandits that robbed the dwarves. I though we might learn more of them.”

“They will be summoned, as will the others of like mind that dwell there and in Dunland. They have no leader to unite them so should pose no threat except to each other. They wallow in their poverty in those hills, I doubt if they could find a sword between them.”

Elfwine glanced at Frealaf. His marshal sounded bitter, as if there may be a few old grudges still brewing in this western part of his land.

Aragorn also looked at the two men, then simply stated. “Call the moot, Elfwine. We will deal with what difficulties arrive when the clans are gathered.”

*-*-*-*

“Do we have the numbers?” Wulfgarn clutched Frecern’s arm, stepping suddenly out of the dark to stay the hurrying man.

Frecern half drew his sword in surprise, then let the blade snick back into its scabbard as he realised the identity of his assailant.

“It is as I told you, my Lord. The hill clans rise with us. Our allies in Dunland chafe, as we do, under the hated bridle of the horse lords. Five chiefs have accepted our gifts and promised us support. They are battle ready, they see the opportunity our enemy has gifted us by calling this moot.”

Wulfgarn peered into the younger man’s eyes, desperate for reassurance.

“But Gondor is with Rohan, and what of the dwarves?”

Frecern spat on the ground at his feet.

“Curse the dwarves, and be gone with these womanish vapours, Wulfgarn. No wonder our people have long cowered in these desolate hills. The dwarves lurk in our mountain, grubbing for the gold we will levy them. What threat is a rat in its hole? The plan will trap them. Are you deaf that you have not heard our experiments in the hills?” Frecern moved a step closer and dropped his voice. “You know the plan, old man, and you know to do your part. Are you saying me nay, now, when all is nearly ready?”

“Nay. I mean I will do my part, Frecern. But there is little honour to be had in this sneaking and hiding. We should declare war.”

“And be cut down by the fine troops of Gondor and Rohan who have fought across the land for the last hundred years. Don’t be a fool. Stealth will give us our first victory, and when the head is severed the body will fall limp. Think you Eldarion half the leader his father is, or Elfwine’s infant son. Frealaf will be no loss either. The strike will remove our enemies at a blow, and then you,” Frecern gave Wulfgarn a shake, “you can reclaim the heritage of our clan, the throne of Edoras.”

Wulfgarn seemed to grow a backbone under his hands.

“Aye, sister-son. Our time is nigh.” He walked nearer the light cast by the brazier.

“How many of our men have we already in the garrison?”

“Fifty, working as grooms and cooks and messengers, all sworn and well paid, all loyal to you, my Lord. Eohric and Cedman, working under cover of darkness, have hidden the explosives in the mouth of Aglarond and by each entrance to the caves in the Hornburg; their work as smiths gave them easy access, and the allies grow careless in their power. They think themselves so secure, those arrogant lords, they have yet to feel the wrath of the hill clans.”

Wulfgarn clapped his nephew on his velvet-clad shoulder. Money was power; the mithril traded through Lond Daer had brought wealth to leverage the resentments of the recent past and now was the time to make their move. The money was well spent but few outside of their close kin suspected their growing influence. Now to strike and trap the dwarves, remove the leadership of the two kingdoms, and fill the gap left, a position of power. His rightful heritage.

Wulfgarn gazed into the fire, happy again, and Frecern continued on his way to complete the briefing of his men, his own mind busy with plans for the inhabitants of Edoras.

*-*-*-*

The peace of Rivendell lay like a mist, permeating all thought and action. Even now, with her father gone, merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear and sadness. Arwen stood on an arched bridge, and it could have been tomorrow that she would first meet her love, her doom, her Aragorn. Or yesterday. A flight of white doves spiralled through the trees, fluttering into the sky, drawing her eye to the ridged heights that guarded the valley. She saw movement on a path leading in from the north, the sun on banners. Thranduil’s expected party from Lasgalen, she guessed. Her lip quirked up, it seemed that Legolas’ father found Celeborn’s company more congenial than that of her father, or perhaps it was that he no longer feared contamination from the influence of the half-elven. He was such a bigot, that Elf, it remained astounding that his son demonstrated such different attitudes.

Arwen let her gaze roam down the streams and falls of Rivendell’s valley, coming to rest finally in the sliding waters beneath her. A flick in the water betrayed the position of a fish dwelling in the shade cast by the bridge. She felt kin to the fish, sheltering in the security of her home. Her health was now stable; Celeborn and her brothers had sought long in the archives and managed to find meditations and healings that had cleared the paths in her mind. Her end still haunted her, but terror no longer stalked her dreaming. The promise of her mortal fate she was able to see as a gift at last, at least here in Rivendell. She looked forward to telling Aragorn; she suspected her doom was haunting him likewise.

Arwen moved then and started back to the main group of buildings, Celeborn would appreciate warning of Thranduil’s arrival, and Minuial may be with him. Arwen hoped so, she had enjoyed catching up with the March Warden last year, but she had better make sure her mortal guards were well out of the way. Minuial shared her Lord’s prejudices against humans, and was more likely to take violent offence than most. The thought of craggy Throndar, and the willowy Minuial, squaring off, was enough to destroy any peace of mind she might have gained during her visit thus far.

She started planning the words she would use to tell that worry to her husband when she wrote to him this night, as she wrote to him every night. He did so enjoy intrigue, deny it as he would. Arwen clasped her love for him around herself, as a warrior would clasp his shield, and hurried off to find her Grandfather.

*-*-*-*-*

Aethel tugged Earnulf’s sleeve. “Come on, “ she said urgently, “What if we miss him? Can’t Stybba move faster?”

Earnulf urged his chubby pony into a slightly faster trot, but the gelding was not inclined to hurry this early in the morning and Earnulf did not want to push Stybba into one of his stubborn moods. At least he was carrying them both faster than they could walk.

“He stays all morning, I told you.”

Earnulf guided Stybba through the trees, watching for low branches and obstacles. He earnestly wished he had never told his sister his secret, but it had been so wonderful he had to tell someone. He had tracked the elf to his weapons practice after seeing him returning from the woods several days in a row. The clearing was not far now, a grassy glade in a hollow where the boy had hidden himself to watch what the magical being was doing. Legolas had called him out of his hiding place after only ten minutes, and Earnulf had crept out cautiously to find out why the elf was practising novice exercises his bow master taught him on the village green on Sundays. Legolas had encouraged him to work on his own skills alongside him. It had not taken the boy long to realise what a master Legolas was, and what a golden opportunity had presented itself to him, Denulf the Carter’s son, to become an archer of skill. The elf was a teacher with endless patience and exacting standards, standards he applied to both himself and his pupil. Earnulf had told no one of his miraculous luck except his sister, clutching his secret to his heart. He felt babyish tears prickle as he realised the news they had to tell the elf would end this enchanted time.

Earnulf felt Aethel leaning forward, trying to glimpse Legolas’ horse Ascallon, or the Elf Lord himself. Earnulf twisted his head to look at her again; she looked as if she had been crying in the night, her eyes were red rimmed and her face pale. For once she did not care about her appearance, all she wanted to do was to tell what had been discussed last night, between her father and their sister’s husband Cerdic. She had crept to Earnulf’s bed in the small hours of the morning and whispered the overheard treachery. Cerdic had been warning her father to stay away from the clan moot that was continuing today, because of the violence that was planned.

Earnulf didn’t know what made him feel worse, his sister’s tears or his father’s lack of courage. Why should it be up to them to warn the high Lords? He felt too young for the responsibility. Aethel had no such doubts. So here they were, riding to warn the only Lord who was likely to listen to them.

“Are you sure he’ll be there.” Aethel fretted.

“He said he would be.  He feels it is better that men deal with oaths of loyalty to men. That is what he told me anyway.”

“Aiee, I don’t understand, Earnulf. I thought it was the dwarves that were attacked.”

“Aye, Aethel, but it was men who did the attacking, and both the dwarves and men are supposed to be loyal to Edoras and Gondor. That is why the Kings are asking for Oaths of fealty. Then if there are further attacks the bandits may be declared outlaw throughout the land and find help no-where without the clan breaking oath.”

Stybba spotted Ascallon grazing in the trees and quickened his pace a little so the two children finally arrived at the clearing at a solid canter. Earnulf pulled the pony to a halt and Aethel slipped off his back and ran into the sunlit space in front of them. She gave a cry of dismay.

“He’s not here. Oh, Earnulf, where could he be?”

She cast round to the left and right as if she could conjure the elf out of the air, finally she spun round to run back to her brother, only to see the elf drop lightly out of the branches of an oak tree to land lightly on the meadow grass in front of her.

His beauty still shocked her but she had no time for her heart’s fancies this morn. Her news filled her to overflowing and without hesitation she stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm.

“My Lord, please, for the kindness you have shown my brother, you must listen. The Kings are in great danger, and your friends the dwarves also. The clans plan treachery and murder, you must stop them.”

TBC

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Rose Sared