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 Six

Legolas lay low against Ascallon’s neck, urging her forward, wishing the virtue that dwelt within him could lend her wings.

Ascallon lengthened her stride, catching his broadcast anxiety. Most of the people that were important to the Elf were contained within Helm’s Dike, if he could not save his friends from peril and treachery he would at least join them.

The guards in the breach of the Dike this day were his own dwarven crossbowmen, volunteered for the job to relieve the humans so they could attend to clan duties. Legolas had never been so glad to see their compact, steadfast forms.

“My Lord?” Thror, the captain of the squad had moved to intercept the flying rider, recognising this ally from afar. “Is there trouble?”

Legolas shifted his weight, and Ascallon skidded to a prancing halt.  

“Vast trouble, if the information I have been given is sooth. Send some messenger to warn your Lord, Gimli. Aglarond is attacked, as are the Kings. Some of the tribes are planning revolution, here, now.”

Legolas had earned this warrior’s trust. Thror nodded at a couple of guards and they took off at a smart trot towards their home.

“Ware Orthanc fire.” The elf called out after the departing dwarves; but just then his warning became moot as the distinctive bone-deep thud, thud of explosives shook the earth beneath their feet; shortly followed by the sounds of men calling out in anger, the blacksmith sound of metal on metal ringing down the dike towards the horrified dwarves and the elf.

“How will we know friend from foe?” Thror asked plaintively. 

Legolas peered up the Coomb towards Helm’s Gate, then looked helplessly back at the dwarf.

“Use your best judgement, Thror. Trust only those humans you know. I must go and help.”

The elf moved his position on Ascallon’s back, and the horse sprang back into motion, then they were through the gap and away. Three more explosions followed his flight, like a salute. A yellowish cloud of fine dust and smoke could be seen drifting above the ramparts of the fortress and from further up the Coomb near the gates of Aglarond.

Thror disposed his forces along the wall of the Dike. He would hold the breach and let the mighty judge him if he held it against the wrong people. 

**

Aragorn spent the morning trying to pinpoint the source of his unease. Well used to pomp and interminable ceremonial he realised, at some point in the proceedings, that the seventy nine clan heads and chiefs pledging their fealty had become blurred in his mind. He let his ‘official’ persona take over during these symbolic occasions and cultivated the ability to be seen to be doing one thing whilst actually paying attention to other details that he found more interesting. For the last half hour or so he had been mentally comparing the various clan plaids and working out how many of each clan chief’s entourage was made up of sons and how many of more distant relatives. A few of the leaders were women, supported by brawny sons; some of the male chiefs brought their fierce daughters or wives to the swearing. The diversity at least made the day more interesting.

His count of the clans that had sworn loyalty had just passed fifty-four when the itch of anxiety, that had been nagging at him, started to demand attention. 

Frealaf had just announced the Withergield clan, Wulfgarn the chief.

Wulfgarn, resplendent in moss green and brown plaid, strode forward bristling with aggression. Aragorn met his glittering eye and felt the short hairs prickling on the back of his neck His hand reached for Anduril’s hilt without his conscious direction. Wulfgarn was flanked by several black-browed, plaid clad, relatives whose eyes flicked round the company in a cold measuring way that spoke of combat experience and deep suspicion. The party was of course overtly unarmed, an impressive array of swords, pikes and daggers having been collected by the entry guards before the party had access to the Lords.

Aragorn felt his bodyguards stiffen to attention as they also felt the tension and menace generated by this small party. Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn saw the same frisson sharpen up Elfwine’s bored guards

 “Wulfgarn, head of the Withergield clan and master of Osbaston Keep. Do thou acknowledge and swear, the sovereignty and overlordship…”

Frealaf’s reading of the oath was interrupted by the boom of the first explosion, closely followed by the hissing of arrows being loosed from the curtain wall above. As a man the royal party turned to the sounds, so Aragorn saw his bodyguards fall, pierced by arrows fired by supposedly friendly forces. At the same time the earth rippled beneath his feet with the force of the explosions wracking the fortress above him. The King’s battle-hardened reflexes dropped him into a crouch, but Wulfgarn was upon him from behind, stabbing him with a blade he had concealed from the searching guards. Then someone grasped Aragorn in a strangle hold.

Time seemed to slow for Aragorn, he was aware of a searing pain in his shoulder, smoke-scented wool draped across his face, and an arm like iron cut off his air, squashing his attempts to defend himself.

His vision first sharpened, shocked faces seemed to spin around him as Wulfgarn manhandled him off the dais and onto the grass. He could feel the reverberation of hooves through the ground beneath him, then the buck of more explosions, two, and three.

His view of the trampled grass started to dim from the edges as his air supply diminished, pain swept his body, radiating from his back, along with a strong feeling of nausea. As the world vanished into darkness he heard Legolas’ distinct voice shouting tardy warning. Then nothingness took him from it all.  

**

The elf could see archers on the curtain wall draw and loose into the crowd, and then he saw the King’s bodyguard fall to a man. Legolas felt he was in a bad dream as Ascallon made her best speed through and around struggling knots of suddenly fighting humans. Still he could not get to his friend, but he saw the clansman drop an unconscious Aragorn to the ground, then rush up to assist the struggle around King Elfwine, who still had two of his bodyguard fighting for him.

Legolas glanced up and saw a company wearing the colours of Rohan advancing on the renegade bowmen on the wall. He looked back to the group near Aragorn and saw the struggle was now thickest around Elfwine. The elf swung Gimli’s axe off his back and threw it. It buried itself in the back of one of the clan chief’s henchmen with a horrible meaty sound, the man dropped without another noise but it was enough to draw the attack away from Elfwine, who was clutching his arm.

Legolas vision seemed to narrow to only take in the crumpled form of his friend, laying like a discarded garment on the grass.

“Aragorn,“ he yelled.

Ascallon finally managed to bring her master through the melee and stopped by the fallen King. Legolas flowed off her back and gathered his friend in his arms. “Aragorn?”

Aragorn’s head fell back limply and Legolas could feel a spreading wetness from the wound in his friend’s back. The elf looked around frantically for help and spotted a determined wedge of black and silver clad guards fighting their way towards him.

 Legolas bent his head over his friend, leaving Ascallon to defend them both with her weapons of teeth and hoof. He moved his hand to feel for the pulse in the man’s neck, and was comforted to find it.

A last, echoing, blast rang around the cliffs, the ground shuddered again and then the noise of fighting seemed to die down as fast as it had risen.

Legolas looked up again to see a ring of soldiers in black and silver eyeing him and his horse warily.

“My Lord?” the Captain said at last.

“He lives, but is sore wounded. Can you see what is happening?”

“The forces of Gondor and Rohan hold from here, ” the Captain indicated the wall, “ to the camp. The tribesmen seem to have mostly got themselves out of the way and are making their way down to the Dike.

 Legolas nodded. “The Dwarves?”

“They hold the Dike, my Lord.”

Elfwine came into view, supported by two of his guards, one arm all over blood.

“The King?” he asked.

“Wounded.”

“Poisoned.” Elfwine swayed and sagged in the arms of the brawny guard that was holding him up. “The knife merely grazed my arm but I can feel it. Frealaf is dead, from a scratch on his chest.”

Legolas spread his hand over the skin on Aragorn’s throat and closed his eyes.

The elf seemed to sag slightly, and then he opened his eyes again and addressed the Guard.

“How fares the camp?”

“I cannot tell from here, my Lord.”
”We must get both kings to the healers.” The elf scanned the battlefield. “Send a man or two to find out how things fare. We must subdue this rebellion and sort friend from foe. Trust no-one not vouched for by your men personally.”

The Captain saluted, grateful for the Elf’s leadership.

The silver thread of Aragorn’s life ebbed and waned under the elf’s determined grip.

“You will not go now, my friend. “ The elf murmured in Sindarin, “I will spend my own life first.”

He bent over Aragorn again, sharing his strength.

*-*-*-*

The inhabitants of Aglarond gathered by ones and two’s, coughing and blinking the ubiquitous dust from their eyes. The Great Hall was mostly undamaged, only the windows shattered and causing hazard underfoot, the afternoon sun cut shafts of gold through the rock dust and illuminated the grazed and bewildered dwarfs, as they searched for relatives and friends.

Gimli was sitting propped against the wall beside the windows, a grey, bloodstained rag bound around his head. Gliver stood in front of him.

“My Lord, you can see they are all coming together here. Please let me look at your head.”

Gimli glared at the younger dwarf. “Its but a scratch, made me a bit dizzy, that is all. Now, have the search parties in west three returned yet?”

Gliver peered into the smoky gloom. “I have had no report. East shaft and the entrance to the Hornburg have been cleared of wounded and two parties have ventured to see if anyone was caught in the Glittering Caves. The kitchen reports they have the fire under control now, and Siri has sent a bucket chain to refill the second cistern so we will have some drinkable water soon. The large cistern is cracked.”

Gimli had rested his head back against the wall during this recitation, he felt sick enough to vomit, but there was no time for weakness. His people needed to feel their leaders were in control.

“Are any of the main entrances open?” Gimli closed his eyes, it stopped the image of Gliver swaying in front of him and adding to his nausea.

“Nay. My Lord, are you truly well? You look terrible.”

Gimli forced his eyes open again, “Gliver, stop fussing. I have a hard head. It is but a scratch and just needs binding more tightly.”

 He levered himself up to his feet and then stood for several seconds waiting for the blackness to recede so that he could see his heir in front of him again. Gliver wordlessly lent his support by steadying Gimli’s shoulders.

Gliver looked around and saw that the great table had been righted and Gimli’s chair also. Once again forestalling argument by action, he guided the older dwarf over to the table and sat him down.

“There now everyone can see you are well, and you won’t have to disprove it by falling in a heap at their feet.” A little annoyance tinged Gliver’s voice and Gimli opened an eye to glare at him.

“Don’t bother,” Gliver stalked away from his Lord. ”I’m going to see if there is a broom left in the kitchen to clear up this glass. You sit, with your hard head, and see who makes it back here.”

Gimli met Gliver’s eye again. Then waved him away, wearily.

**

The afternoon sun baked the air in the tent and added to the discomfort of those who worked around the sick. The only person without sheen of sweat on his face was Legolas, who sat beside his friend Aragorn, deep in some elvish meditation. He had one hand resting lightly on his friend’s knee. The smell of athelas sweetened the heavy air.

Aragorn looked as if he was asleep, arranged neatly on the cot with a snowy bandage crossing his chest and the sheet pulled up to his middle. But he would not waken. The poison on the blade had dropped him into a deep coma, and Tolman thought to himself that the only thing keeping his chest rising and falling was the determination of the elf who sat beside him.

Tolman had watched the Lord Celeborn sit vigil like this, and Elrohir. He had not known that Legolas knew the technique, but supposed that given his warrior past it was not surprising he had learned.

The hobbit was worried none the less.

Legolas was not long recovered from his own grievous hurt, and seemed to be fading before Tolman’s experienced eyes.

The Captain of Aragorn’s Guard stepped into the tent and nodded to the hobbit. “Master Tolman, how fares the King?”

“He lives, Captain.”

“May I disturb the Lord Legolas?”

“Aye, I wish you would;  it is time and more that he came back to us.”

The Captain eyed the pair uneasily and Tolman realised he didn’t know how to go about attracting Legolas’ attention. The hobbit bustled over to the elf and removed his hand from Aragorn. The elf’s eyes snapped open and he swayed slightly in his seat.

Tolman handed him a goblet. “Drink.”

The elf eyed the little being, sniffed the cup, and then drained it. Strength seemed to flow back into him.

“Where on earth did you get miruvor, Tolman?”

The hobbit smiled at the elf and tapped the side of his nose.  Then they both looked at Aragorn.

“He is no worse, Legolas. The Captain here needs your attention.”

Legolas looked over at the black-clad guard, who was waiting patiently by the door flap. He nodded, then stood and stretched like a hunting cat.  His gaze flicked round the tent, taking in Tolman, the human woman mashing some herbs in a pestle, the ranked jars and potions and resting finally on his friend.

“I will see you outside, Captain.” The man bowed slightly and stepped out of the tent. Legolas regarded the hobbit, “Any change, send for me?”

Tolman nodded and walked the elf to the door flap.

“I promise, My Lord.”

**

Outside the air tasted like wine after the stuffy tent and Legolas took a moment to breathe and look around. The camp was full of disciplined activity, squads of foot soldiers and Rohirrim horse were on guard, and no clansmen were in view. From further up the Coomb Legolas could hear the sound of rocks being moved. Thror and his party, no doubt, starting to clear the entrance to Aglarond, not for the first time that day Legolas sent a thought to his friend Gimli. He chose not to believe his best friend lost or injured.

The guard led him to King Elfwine who was installed under an awning. The poison had not knocked him out as it had Aragorn, although he looked sick and weak, and he had insisted on directing the clean up operation, so the healers had moved his bed outside.

Legolas stepped lightly up beside him and bowed. Elfwine looked up, pleased to see the immortal Lord.

“Legolas. How fares the King?”

“Poorly, my Lord, but no worse than earlier. How fares the clean up?”

“We have none of the ringleaders, which is an irritation to Aragorn’s good Captain here. The clans have hurried back into the countryside, and my riders cannot tell loyal from friendly. The perimeter of the camp and the Hornburg are secure, and all locals have been sent home so we should be spared further treachery, tonight at least. The Withergield clan have been declared outlaw, but so far no one has identified the members of that group. They have vanished back into the hills, I suspect we will have to lay siege to Osbaston Keep, and even then we will be hard pressed to be seen to do justice.”

Legolas looked up towards Aglarond, where the sound of rock moving was becoming more intense. Elfwine followed his gaze.

“Things are in control here, Legolas, if you wish to find out how the dwarves are doing?”

Elfwine met the elf’s eye and could see the contrary pulls of duty and desire warring across his expression.

“Has there been word of those trapped in the caves?”

Elfwine looked to the Captain, who shrugged slightly.

“Not as yet, Legolas, but we have been distracted. Thror has been directing operations, I am sure he will be able to tell you.”

The elf eyed the King of Rohan; he sensed a conspiracy to remove him from Aragorn’s side.  He sent a thoughtful look at the two army healers who were working in the background of Elfwine’s makeshift command post. Perhaps they were right, he could not lend Aragorn any more strength without diminishing his own, this afternoon at least. He would come back after twilight had restored him somewhat, and in the meantime join the dwarves in their labours. Hard work sounded like a good prescription right now, it would stop him from worrying.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared