Chapter 8        At the edge of the storm

Lightning cracked and thunder rumbled overhead as Dar quickly made his way down the stone streets of Minas Tirith toward the House of Healing.  It was the end of what had been a long and hard day for him, and after sitting idly within the barracks for over an hour, loneliness was driving him to seek out the company of his friends.  He missed his father more than he had ever thought possible, and the events of the last couple of days had him confused and somewhat frightened.  All the soldiers within the city were tense and alert, and as a new recruit, he was feeling the pressure acutely.  He hoped that talking with Legolas, and perhaps Gimli if he were awake, would help settle his nerves.  He wanted to find out what progress had been made in finding the one responsible for shooting Gimli, but even more, he just wanted this whole thing to be over and done with so life might return to normal.

A loud boom of thunder directly overhead made him start and pick up his speed.  The first drops of moisture were beginning to fall from the sky, and he didn’t want to arrive at his destination soaking wet.  Arwen would most likely fuss over him if he did.  He smiled just thinking about her motherly concern over him.

He turned a corner in the street and suddenly stopped in his tracks, frowning slightly.  A small wagon, still attached to a single horse, stood motionless several yards in front of him.  The horse was stamping his feet anxiously and shifting around in the harness, obviously impatient to be moving out of the growing storm, but Dar saw no sign of the driver.  Nor was the horse secured in anyway, which immediately drew his curiosity. 

His frown deepened and he slowly began moving forward, squinting into the darkness as he tried to decipher where the driver might have gone.  The rain was beginning to fall harder now, and he brushed the moisture from his eyes impatiently, blinking to keep them clear of water. 

He was so intent on his search for the driver of the wagon that he paid little attention to where his feet landed until his boot struck something soft, causing him to stumble forward.  He glanced down for the first time to see what had tripped him, just as another bolt of lightening lit up the sky.  His heart skipped a beat as his breath caught in horror at the sight that the light revealed

A man lay spread-eagled across the street, his sightless eyes staring vacantly upward into the falling rain, a bloody hole where his throat should have been. 

Dar’s hand automatically flew to the hilt of his sword.  The dead man was wearing the uniform of a palace soldier.  He jerked upright, his eyes warily searching the surrounding shadows.  The street appeared deserted, but he could not stop the slow chill that crept up his back.

Carefully stepping over the dead soldier, he slowly approached the wagon once more.  As he drew closer, he at last managed to make out the slumped form of the dead driver.  This man also had on the uniform of a soldier, but this knowledge barely registered as Dar at last got his first close glimpse of the wagon and he found he recognized it.  Several times in the last few days he had seen either Arwen or Eowyn boarding this very same wagon for a trip outside of the protection of the palace walls.  A cold feeling of dread washed over him, even as he yanked his sword free of its scabbard and ran around to the back of the wagon, peering desperately inside.  It was empty.

Dar whirled, his eyes quickly scanning the dark and deserted streets, his breath coming out in heavy, panicked gasps.  Had either Eowyn or Arwen been present when the wagon was attacked, and if so, where were they?  He prayed desperately that they were both safe and unharmed at the House of Healing, but his gut instincts told him differently, and his father had taught him long ago to always trust his instincts.  The thought that either of them might be lying dead, murdered like the soldiers, was almost too much for him to bear, and he had to forcefully choke down a sob.

Movement to his left, several yards down the street at the entrance to a dark alley, suddenly caught his attention, and he turned in that direction, frustrated at the rain that impaired his vision.  Another bolt of lightening lit up the sky for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Dar to see clearly what had drawn his attention.  His heart froze and his blood ran cold, and he stood motionless for the barest of seconds.  Then, he began to run.

******

Kiesco Janavary leaned back calmly against the alley wall, watching as his men continued to ruthlessly kick at their helpless victim.  Tervanis would be pleased over their success this night, and as his top general, Kiesco would get most of the credit.  Four nights of silently waiting and closely watching the House of Healing, had at last produced results, just as the assassin had promised it would.  He had urged his men, who had all become frustrated and restless from the long stay in a country so different from their own, that patience was the key to success, and he had been right.  The queen had walked right into their trap.

A brief smile pulled at the heavy scars on Kiesco’s face, each mark a testament to his years as champion in the fighting pits in Norvil.  In those dark holes, fighting for the pleasure of the bloodthirsty crowds, he had longs since lost any semblance of a conscience, a fact that made him the perfect person to work with Tervanis.  Beating a woman, even a woman reported to be with child, did not bother him in the slightest.

Kiesco glanced down at the bloodied figure at his feet, then raised his hand, signaling for his men to back off.  They did so reluctantly, moving back further into the alley behind him, as he moved forward to kneel down next to the unconscious elf.  He reached out and roughly rolled her onto her back.  Even bruised and bleeding, her face was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he smiled cruelly as he briefly caressed her cheek.

“Such a beautiful face,” her murmured softly.  “A pity I must ruin it!”

He reached down and smoothly yanked a long and cruelly curved dagger from its sheath on his belt, placing its tip lightly against the elf’s cheek. 

A shout from behind him was the only warning he got as something hurtled from the darkness and slammed into him with enough force to send him sprawling back in the alley, his knife flying from his startled grasp.  He instinctively rolled, barely managing to miss the blade that crashed into the stones where he had just been.  He sprang to his feet, flinging his hands out to either side of him to stop his men from rushing past him.

Calmly, he assessed his new opponent, a young soldier who stood firmly before his fallen queen, his feet squared and his sword raised, a look of pure determination and rage on his youthful face.  The young man did not advance toward Kiesco down the alley, but instead remained firmly planted where he stood, effectively blocking him and his men from reaching their victim.

Kiesco smiled coldly.  “He’s mine,” he grated out harshly to his men, reaching down and pulling his own sword from its sheath.  Slowly, he began his advance.

******

Dar’s heart pounded so wildly within his chest that he was surprised the entire city did not hear it and come running.  The man advancing on him was huge, with thickly corded muscles and a face that showed the scars from many such encounters.  He was smiling, a cruel lightless smile that spoke of evil anticipation, and Dar could not stop the shudders than ran up and down his spine.  Still, his grip on his sword remained firm, the blade unwavering as rage and desperation brought him strength and courage.  This man was not going to touch Arwen again, even if he had to die to prevent it!  He shifted his stance on the wet stones and prepared for the battle that was coming.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, boy,” the advancing man taunted, his scars making his grin appear more like a grimace.  “I am sure your mommy is worried about you.  Run along home, now, and maybe I will forget your little interruption.”

Dar’s jaw tightened, but he gave no response.  This man had no way of knowing that he had grown up without a mother, that in truth, Arwen was the closest thing to a mother that he had ever known.  Through the last several days, she had always been there for him, always encouraging, and offering him company whenever he felt the loneliness and homesickness become too much.  Despite her own problems, she had not forgotten him, and Dar would never know how to repay her kindness.

“I can see you are scared, boy,” the scar faced man continued.  “Well, you should be.  I am going to tear you to pieces.”

Dar ignored the taunts, his mind remembering in clarity everything his father had ever taught him.  He firmed his stance, forcing his breath to calm, and his body to relax.  He might not survive this night, but he most definitely wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

Scar Face suddenly leapt forward, feinting to the left before sweeping his blade back sharply to the right, obviously attempting to end the fight quickly.  Dar responded easily, smoothly shifting his weight onto his right leg and sweeping his blade up in a graceful arc.  The two swords met with a loud clash.   The ringing had not even faded from Dar’s ears before the man was attacking again, this time sweeping in low, his blade angled for Dar’s side.  His movements were lightning quick, a fact that somewhat startled Dar considering the man’s size.  He barely had time to twist out of the way of the blade and settle his stance before the man was on him again.

The heavy clash of their blades sang out into the night a second time, and then a third as Dar continued to meet and counter each of his opponent’s attacks.  The close walls of the alley kept the battle somewhat confined, but Dar still knew that he was facing a very talented and much more experienced man than he was.  It was only a matter of time before one of his opponent’s attacks slipped through his defense.

Dar decided to change tactics.  His father had long ago taught him that in a battle where the odds were stacked against you, sometimes the only way to win was to do the unexpected.  His father had also taught him that his sword was not the only weapon available to him.  Catching a thrust toward his stomach on his blade, he swept both weapons out wide, then smoothly stepped into the gap, closing the distance between him and his opponent.  He saw the man’s eyes widen slightly at the bold move a second before he slammed his fist into the large man’s face.

It was like hitting a rock wall.  Pain flared through his fist, but the large man barely seemed to register the blow, only taking a slight step back and blinking once before resuming his attack.  Blood poured from his nose, but he didn’t even seem to notice it.  Dar gasped in shock and leapt back, knowing he had to move quickly to regain his defensive stance before his opponent’s sword found him.  The quick move turned out to be a mistake, though, for the ground was wet, making footing slippery and treacherous.  He stumbled, sliding on the rough stones as he tried to find his balance.  He flung his sword out desperately, just managing to block a killing thrust, but the tip of the blade still dug deeply into his left shoulder, tearing a long gash.

Dar gasped in pain, and only his fierce discipline allowed him to regain his balance in time to face the next attack.  Despair tugged at him, and he had to force himself to remember that he was the only thing standing between Arwen and this killer.  Remembering his brief glance at her bruised face, Dar felt the anger return and with it, his determination.  He met the next attack with renewed strength.

The two opponents broke apart briefly, both breathing heavily as they eyed each other warily.  Both had scored hits on the other, and though Dar guessed that his own was the more serious, he could not help but feel a flash of pride at the wary respect he saw on his rivals face.  The moment lasted only a second and then the large man was approaching once more.  Dar tensed and waited for him.

Suddenly, the street behind him erupted with the sounds of shouts and the ring of blades being drawn from their sheaths.  Dar didn’t dare turn around to see what was happening, but he could guess well enough.  Someone else had stumbled across the wagon and the dead soldiers.  Hope flared through him, and he began to shout as loudly as he could, not caring about the words, only hoping to gain some attention.

His opponent hesitated, his eyes flickering past Dar to the street beyond, his face darkening with frustration.  Dar continued to shout, but now scar faces’ own men joined with him, calling to their companion in a strange language, obviously urging him to flee.  The large man’s eyes met with Dar’s, filled with a cold hate, and then he turned and fled back up the alley, his men racing before him.

Dar stopped shouting, turning as he heard the heavy slap of running feet echo behind him on the street.  Five soldiers were racing toward him, their weapons drawn.  

“They went down the alley,” Dar called to them, pointing in the direction the men had fled.  Four of the soldiers raced past him with barely a glance, but the last one stopped, eying Dar suspiciously.

“What happened here, soldier,” The man demanded, the patch on his uniform identifying him as a captain.

Dar never got a chance to answer, for just then, the captain’s eyes fell on the unconscious Arwen.  He let out a cry, dropping to his knees beside the queen, his eyes filled with horror.  Dar also knelt, fighting back tears as he once more viewed Arwen’s tattered form.  The captain looked up, his gaze sweeping over Dar, noting the drawn blade and the bloody shoulder.

“Can you get her to the House of Healing?” The captain suddenly asked, his eyes locking firmly on Dar’s.

Dar nodded silently.

“Then go!” the man ordered, rising to his feet and starting down the alley after his men.  “Hurry!”

Dar nodded even though the captain was already racing away.  Shakily re-sheathing his sword, he reached out and carefully slipped his arms beneath Arwen.  His left shoulder flared painfully as he lifted her limp form, but he ignored it.  Rising awkwardly under his burden, Dar began to stumble down the street, the falling rain mingling with his tears.

*****

Aragorn stepped into the House of Healing and violently shook his head, sending water droplets from his hair flying in all directions.  He ran a hand over his wet face, then unclasped the leaf shaped brooch—a gift from Lothlorien—that held on his cloak, and shed the sodden material.  Legolas and Faramir entered behind him, also shaking the water from their hair and shrugging out of their wet cloaks.

Wordlessly, the two men and the elf walked down the long hall toward Gimli’s room, their faces showing their silent contemplation over the information they had received this night.  As Aragorn neared the room, he heard the soft murmur of voices drifting from behind the closed door. 

Legolas obviously had also heard the voices, for his face broke into a slight smile.  “Gimli is awake,” he stated softly as Aragorn reached forward and pushed the door open.

A blast of warm air greeted them as they stepped into the room, and Aragorn noticed that someone had built up a fire in the room’s small hearth.  He turned toward the bed, expecting to see Arwen, and was startled to find Eowyn rising to greet them instead.

“Good evening, my lords,” She said calmly, straightening from her chair and moving around the bed to join them.

Behind her, Gimli lay back against a mound of pillows, his face showing more color than it had in many days, his hands curled around a goblet he held in his lap.

Aragorn was aware of Legolas as the elf brushed past him and moved to the bed, quietly asking Gimli something and receiving a simple smile in response.

“Where is Arwen?” Aragorn asked Eowyn.

“She has returned to the palace, my lord,” Eowyn replied quietly.  “She was so weary she was about to fall over, so I insisted she go to bed.”

Aragorn blinked at the slight tone of reprove in Eowyn’s tone, and behind him, he heard Faramir chuckle lightly.  He shook his head, realizing that he probably should have returned earlier, or at least sent word that he would be late.

“Thank you, Eowyn,” he replied sincerely, receiving a warm smile in response.

He glanced past her toward the bed.  “I see that you are awake, Gimli.  How do you feel?” he asked.

“Better,” Gimli replied shortly, his voice weak, but cheerful.

“Good,” Aragorn replied.  “Now I think…”

He never got a chance to finish what he was going to say, for suddenly, out in the hall, a door slammed, followed by desperate calls for help. 

Aragorn shared a frown with Faramir, then turned and opened the door, peering out into the hall in an attempt to discover what all the commotion was about. 

A young soldier stood just inside the main door, his voice filled with desperation as he continued to call for assistance.  Aragorn gave a start when he realized the soldier was Dar, and he took a step out into the hall.  Then, he saw who Dar was holding in his arms, and his entire body froze in shock.

A knife passing through Aragorn’s heart could not have caused him more agony then the pain of seeing Arwen’s bloody and battered body held protectively in Dar’s arms.  All the breath seemed to rush out of him, and the world seemed to freeze in that one, horrible instant.  Then, with a cry, Aragorn broke free and stumbled forward, his arms outstretched toward the body of his wife.

*****

Tervanis leaned casually against the single window in his room in the rundown inn, his eyes idly scanning the deserted street below him.  Behind him, Kiesco was just finishing his report of the evening’s events, his voice low and hesitant as Tervanis continued to listen without interruption, his face revealing nothing of his reaction to the tale. 

At last, Kiesco fell silent, and Tervanis turned to face him fully for the first time, his eyes studying the large man without expression until Kiesco began to shift nervously, his face paling with fear.  Finally, Tervanis turned away, moving toward his pack lying on the bed.

“You have done well,” he stated softly, almost smiling at the surprise that flittered across the man’s face.  He rummaged through the pack silently until he found what he was looking for, pulling free a long, jeweled dagger.  From the corner of his eye he saw Kiesco jerk slightly, his feet shifting toward the door.  Tervanis ignored him and continued to rummage through the bag until he found his whetstone.  Without a single glance toward the big man, he moved back over to the window and slowly began sharpening the dagger, the soft swishing sound of metal across the whetstone the only sound filling the small room for several long minutes.

“I am sorry about the soldier,” Kiesco finally dared break the silence.  “He came from nowhere, and…”

“Forget it,” Tervanis interrupted without looking up from his task.  “As I said before, you did well.”  He at last glanced up, an evil smile playing across his features.  “Besides, I think we got our point across, wouldn’t you say?”

Kiesco returned the smile nervously.  “Yes, sir.”

Tervanis turned back to his knife, holding it up and expecting its sharp edges.  He ran a finger lightly across its edge, smiling when the blade easily cut him.

“Sir, the soldier clearly saw me, and I was unable to silence him,” Kiesco dared to interrupt once more, his voice filled with anger and frustration.  “What are we going to do about him?”

Tervanis glanced back at Kiesco and arched a smooth eyebrow.  “This soldier is not the first to have seen you.  What about the boy who delivered the message to the palace?  He too saw your face.”

Kiesco scowled, obviously only just now realizing the obvious.  Tervanis sighed.  Kiesco had been fighting in the pits in Norvil since he was fifteen years old, and it was obvious that whatever small amount of brains he had been born with had long since been knocked from him.  Of course, Tervanis had hired him for his strength, not his wisdom.

“Should I silence the boy?”  Kiesco asked, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of the blade at his hip.

“It is a little late for that,” Tervanis replied dryly, moving to sit at the end of the bed.  “The boy has already talked, and they now have a description of you.  Not a very good or detailed description at the moment, but I am sure that will change once they have spoken with the soldier.”

Kiesco shifted nervously.  “How do you know this?” he asked, his voice doubtful.

Tervanis regarded him coldly.  “I have not exactly been sitting here idle all night.  There is much to learn on the streets of a city if one only has the sense to listen.”

“What are we going to do?” Kiesco asked, frowning worriedly.

“We, are going to do nothing,” Tervanis replied calmly.  “It is more what you are going to do.”

Kiesco looked at him questioningly, and Tervanis explained.

“You will remain here, at the inn, for the rest of our stay here.  You will not venture out for any reason, or allow yourself to be seen by anyone but myself and whoever chooses to bring you your meals.”

Kiesco opened his mouth to protest, but Tervanis silenced him with a cold glare.  “We have only one more task to complete before we may return home, and I will risk nothing getting in the way of successfully carrying it out.  You have only two choices: obey my orders, or…”  Tervanis held up the dagger, its jewels sparkling in the lamp light, his message clear.

Kiesco gulped and nodded. 

Tervanis lowered the knife and smiled mockingly.  “Have no fear, my friend, your role in all of this is far from over.  I still have my uses for you.”

“What is this final task you speak of?” Kiesco asked, wisely changing the subject.  “Are we to go after the king next?”

“You, are not going after anyone, remember?” Tervanis taunted.  “Yet the answer to your question is no.  Servius made it quite clear that the pleasure of killing the king was his and his alone.”

Kiesco frowned.  “How does Servius intend to kill the king if he is in Norvil and the king is here?”

Tervanis smiled slightly.  “Ahh, therein lies our final task.  We must somehow convince the king that it is in his best interest to pay a little visit to Norvil.”

“And how do we do that?” Kiesco asked, genuinely curious.

Tervanis sat back and grinned mockingly at the large man.  “You shall soon see,” he promised.  “Soon.”

TBC