I would like to once again lavish praise upon my beta reader, Ithilien.  She has done so much for this story!  Thank You!!!  And for those of you who might not have already read it, I STRONGLY recommend her fic “The Hunting Trip.”  Prepare yourself for an incredible read!

Chapter 11      Unanswered Questions

Dusk was descending upon Minas Tirith, casting the city in long shadows that foretold of the coming of night.  The night watch already moved throughout the city, lighting the tall lanterns that lined the streets in preparation for the approaching darkness.  The streets were slowly clearing of people as the citizens of the city hurried home or to the nearest tavern, their cloaks pulled tight about them to ward off the biting wind.  Merchant and shop owners moved slowly about their stores, seeing to the nightly duties of cleaning up and preparing for the next day’s activities.  Music and loud laughter drifted from the lighted doorways of numerous taverns, and somewhere in the city a mother called out loudly for her children to come in and wash up for supper.

It was another typical evening in the city of Minas Tirith.  Or at least, this is what the guards at the city gate believed as they watched a lone farmer drive his wagon laden with goods up the street towards them. 

“Good eve, sir,” one of the guards called out kindly as the wagon rolled to a stop before the closed gates of the city.  “Have you need of assistance?”

“I wish to leave the city,” the man replied brusquely, straightening slightly on his perch on the wagon’s bench.  “I came to purchase supplies for my farm, and now I desire to begin the journey home.”

“Fine, fine,” the guard answered, stepping forward to peer up curiously at the farmer.  “You may leave if you wish, but you might be better served to find yourself a nice warm inn for the night and return home on the morrow.  It shall be dark soon, and the night promises to be chill.”

“My family is expecting my return,” the farmer answered briskly, his eyes glinting with impatience.  “As you have said, it shall be dark soon and I wish to be on my way.”

The guard shrugged in surrender, then turned and motioned for one of his companions to begin opening the gate.  “You have a strange accent, friend,” he remarked casually as he moved around to glance into the back of the wagon.  “You are not from around here?”

“Up north,” the farmer answer shortly, his eyes watching the guard closely as he moved around the wagon.  “I moved here several months ago.”

The guard nodded, then reached out and traced a hand over several flat bales of straw in the back of the wagon.  If he had been paying a little more attention, he would have seen the farmer stiffen at the action, his hand nervously shifting beneath the fabric of his cloak. 

The gates swung soundlessly open and the guard finally stepped back, his gaze moving back up to meet that of the farmers.  “You are free to go,” he announced, motioning forward with his arm.  “May you arrive at your destination safely.”

The farmer nodded briefly in response, then slapped the reins against his horse’s back.  Without a backward glance, the wagon rolled out through the gates and down the rode, bearing a cargo much more precious than the city guards could ever have imagined.

*****

Tervanis stood cloaked within the heavy shadows of the wall, watching silently as the city gates swung closed behind the receding form of the “farmer” and his wagon.  He loosened his tight grip on the hilt of his dagger and allowed himself to breathe a slight sigh of relief, a small smile crossing his features. 

That had gone well, despite the brief but tense moment when the guard had reached out to touch the straw.  The final pieces of his plan were falling smoothly into place, and Tervanis felt the sure thrill of victory near at hand.  Already all of his men had safely exited the city, moving out one by one to avoid attracting notice.  Mastano and the wagon had been the last to leave, and now that Tervanis had seen them safely on their way it was time for him to leave as well.  He intended to be out of the city, reunited with his men, and well on his way to Norvil before dawns first light.  He had only one more matter here that needed his attention.

Tervanis turned from his study of the gate and glanced at the small, wiry, cloaked form beside him.  “Five days,” he whispered softly, causing the man to glance up at him.  “Do not forget.”

“I know my duty,” the man answered just as softly.  “There will be no mistakes.”

“That is good,” Tervanis replied coolly, “For I do not accept mistakes.  In the meantime, keep yourself out of sight.  I suspect the city guards shall soon be alerted that something is amiss.  The search will begin shortly after, and the city will be in an uproar for a time.”

“Aye, sir, but you shall be far from here before that time, and even farther before they think to search outside of the city.”

“That is my hope,” Tervanis answered dryly.

“You have been lucky,” the little man added.  “The guards at the gate do not yet know of what has happened or Mastano would not have left so easily.”

“I do not believe in luck,” Tervanis replied absently. 

“Do you believe in fate, then?”

Tervanis turned to regard his companion, the intensity of his gaze causing the man to shift nervously.  “I believe in myself,” he hissed softly. 

The little man swallowed hard, then nodded, unable to meet the intense gaze of the assassin.

“I must go,” Tervanis said abruptly.  “My men will be expecting me shortly.  See that you do your job correctly, and there will be a handsome reward for you upon your return to Norvil.”

The small man nodded once more, then opened his mouth to ask a question, yet Tervanis was already gone, slipping soundlessly down the wall toward the position he had marked out earlier.  The shadows reached out and embraced him, and he melted into them until he became all but invisible.  In less than five minutes, he had scaled the wall and was moving at a fast clip away from the city, leaving not even a trace of his passing behind him.

A quarter of an hour later he caught up with Mastano and the wagon just as the last faint rays of light completely melted away into the darkness of night.  Tervanis waved the man to a stop, then used some flint and steel to light the lantern hanging at the side of the wagon.

“You may come out now, Kiesco,” he called out softly, watching as one of the bales of straw shifted, then moved to the side, revealing a hidden base to the wagon and the scowling face of his captain.

“About time,” the man grumbled loudly, pulling himself from the wagon and then moving to rearrange the bales of straw to hide the little niche. 

Tervanis smiled humorlessly at the man, realizing that Kiesco was still upset at having to be smuggled from the city in the uncomfortable confines of the back of the wagon.  Tervanis really couldn’t have cared less about his captain’s comfort, or in this case discomfort.  He could not have risked the possibility of Kiesco being recognized and apprehended as he tried to leave the city.  This had been the only other option, and Kiesco had been forced to accept that.

“How fair our prisoners?” he asked calmly, glancing at the two other bales of straw hiding similar niches in the wagon.

“They are secure,” Kiesco replied shortly.  “However, I do not doubt that they will begin to rouse soon.”

Tervanis nodded.  “That is well,” he replied.  “In another hour, we will meet up with the rest of the men and the horses.  We will abandon the wagon then, and if the prisoners are awake and able to ride, it will save us the trouble of binding them to the horses.”

******

Faramir was running out of time, and this fact served to frustrate him no end.  He was currently seated in a rough chair at a dirty table in a smelly tavern, watching as the man he had followed for close to an hour downed his third tankard of ale and sang a bawdy song at the top of his lungs, much to the amusement of all those sitting near him.

Faramir was not amused.  In fact, he was growing more and more angry with each passing moment.  He knew that Aragorn had commanded him to merely follow and watch, but as the seconds slipped away, he was finding it more difficult to sit idle.  He was not sure what part the man before him had played in the events of the last several days, but it was quickly becoming apparent to Faramir that unless he took some action he was going to learn nothing of use except the increasingly crude words to the extremely rowdy tavern songs.

Faramir hoped that Aragorn and Legolas had managed to discover more than he had.  He was indecisive as to what his next move should be.  Should he merely continue to sit and watch as commanded by Aragorn, or should he try to find out some information?  He didn’t have much time before he would need to leave to meet with Aragorn and Legolas, and he desperately wanted to have some information to bring with him.

After several more minutes of indecision had slipped past, Faramir finally rose and moved over to the tavern’s main counter, careful to keep his hood pulled close.  He waved his hand to get the attention of the barkeeper, a fat man with an ever-present smile and a deep laugh that seemed to always hint at a slight state of intoxication.

The man noticed his motions and quickly moved over, a big smile splayed across his wide features.  “What can I do for you, sir,” the man boomed, causing Faramir to wince slightly as several eyes in the tavern turned toward him.  “Finally decided you wanted a drink a bit stronger than that wine you been sipping on the last hour?”   The fat man stepped across from Faramir, his eyes for the first time piercing the shadows cast by the heavy cowl of his cloak.  The man’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

“I have no wish to draw attention to myself,” Faramir ordered quickly before the man could declare his identity to the entire tavern.  “I merely have a question I wish to ask you,” he added softly, leaning forward so those nearby would not overhear him.

The barkeeper took the point and also leaned forward, though his eyes remained wide with surprise.  “What may I do for you, my lord,” he asked in a loud whisper, obviously suddenly nervous at Faramir’s presence.  “I apologize if the wine was not up to your usual taste…”

“The wine was fine,” Faramir assured him hurriedly.  “I merely wish to ask if you happen to know the man seated at that table over there?” he motioned with a brief jerk of his head, his eyes never leaving the fat barkeeper.  “The one who is currently drinking his fourth tankard of ale and who is singing loudly enough to wake the dead?”

The barkeepers eyes flashed briefly in the direction Faramir had indicated, then turned back to the Steward, a slightly confused look in his eyes.

“Sure I know him,” he answered hesitantly.  “Jervice is my nephew.”

It was Faramir’s turn to show surprise at this news.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” the barkeeper asked nervously.  “He’s normally a good chap, but sometimes he does some foolish things when he gets liquored up.”

Faramir decided to answer the question with one of his own.  “Would you know of any reason why your nephew would be visiting a weapons shop with three other men this afternoon?”  He asked slowly, watching the barkeeper’s face carefully for his reaction.

The barkeeper looked startled, but he immediately answered.  “I know nothing about the three other men, but I was the one who sent Jervice to the weapon’s shop.  One of my cork knives went dull on me, and I asked him to pick me up a new one.”

Faramir frowned at this answer, sitting back in his chair and attempting to collect his thoughts.  Was it possible that mere chance had Jervice entering and leaving the weapon’s shop at the same time as Scar face and his buddies?  It seemed somewhat unlikely, and yet Faramir was beginning to get a slow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

He glanced again toward the intoxicated man, deciding that he was the only one who could provide a clear answer.  Aragorn might get angry at him for acting on his own, yet if this was indeed a false lead, Faramir wanted to know about it sooner, rather than later.

Pushing himself from the bar, Faramir carefully made his way across the tavern toward the drunk man, keeping his head lowered and his identity carefully hidden.  The last thing he wanted to do was attract unwanted attention.

He reached the table where Jervice was seated and reached out a hand to grip the man’s shoulder.  “Mind if I have a seat?” he asked calmly.

Jervice head lulled back as he attempted to focus his bleary gaze on Faramir.  “Sshure,” he answered, his voice slurred and his hand nearly tipping over his tankard of ale as he gestured across the table to the empty chair.  “Have a sheat, and we can shing together.”

Faramir frowned at the wave of sour breath that hit him, then quickly took the offered seat if for no other reason than to distance himself as much as possible from the drunken man.  He suddenly had doubts as to how much information he would be able to obtain from Jervice.

“I understand that you went to the weapon’s shop today,” he began hurriedly before Jervice could suggest a song to sing.  “Did you go alone, or with friends?”

Jervice grinned foolishly and nodded. 

“You went alone?” Faramir asked.

Jervice continued to nod, his head bobbing unsteadily.

“Was anyone in the shop with you?”  Faramir questioned.

The head continued to bob up and down.

Faramir frowned, then asked his next question purely on impulse.  “Did you go to pick up a chicken or a cow for your uncle?”

Jervice grinned even wider, as he continued to nod his head stupidly.

Faramir sighed and closed his eyes briefly.  It was no use talking to Jervice in this state.  He rose wearily from his seat and reached out to grasp the man’s arm and pull him up also.  “Come on, Jervice.  You and I need to take a little walk.”

“Wheress we going?”  Jervice asked unsteadily, weaving dangerously on his feet.

Faramir sighed, then reluctantly moved forward and slung the man’s arm over his shoulder, taking the brunt of the drunken man’s weight.  “Somewhere where you can sleep off this ale and then answer some questions,” he replied shortly, slowly moving the man toward the door.

“I’m not done with my drink,” the man protested shakily, hiccupping loudly and sending another blast of sour breath directly into Faramir’s face.

“Oh yes you are,” Faramir answered curtly, attempting to take short, quick breaths through his mouth to keep from being sick.

He had almost reached the door when the barkeeper hurriedly intercepted him.  “Please, my lord,” the man gasped out, his hands anxiously wringing his cloth apron.  “What has he done?  Where are you taking him?”

“Have no fear,” Faramir assured him gently.  “I am merely taking your nephew somewhere where I might ask him a few question in private as soon as he has recovered enough from the ale.”

The barkeeper nodded reluctantly and Faramir moved past him and out on to the street, staggering slightly under the drunk man’s weight.  Dusk was fading swiftly into night, and Faramir swore slightly when he realized that he would most likely be late for his meeting with Aragorn and Legolas.  The king would not be pleased.  Even worse, he would be worried.  

With a resigned sigh, Faramir began to struggle up the street.  Beside him, Jervice began to sing loudly, and Faramir winced as he made out the words to the song.  He closed his eyes and prayed that the journey to the palace would not be a long one.  This night was not going very well for him!

As much as Faramir was convinced that the night could not get any worse, he was proved wrong when he arrived at the palace courtyard at least a full hour late for his meeting with Aragorn and Legolas, only to find out that his friends had not yet arrived!

Faramir quickly handed off his burden to the nearest guards, leaving them with strict instructions to guard the drunk man carefully.  He had become increasingly convinced that Jervice was innocent of any knowledgeable wrongdoing, but he was not going to take any chances either.  Jervice would be questioned thoroughly just as soon as he was sober enough, and then, if he was determined to be innocent, he would be released.   Yet all that was a problem for another time.  At the moment, Faramir had much more pressing concerns.

“You are sure they did not come back here, Lanithan?” Faramir asked the soldier, though he already knew what the answer would be.

“I returned to my captain just as I was commanded,” Lanithan replied.  “We formed up a company of guards and have been waiting here for the King’s summons ever since.  Yet he has not been here, nor has he sent word for us.”

Faramir frowned.  He had been afraid that Aragorn and Legolas would be worried about him.  Yet now that he had learned of their absence, ‘worry’ seemed too tame of a word.  He fearedsomething ill had happened to his friends to delay them, and the fear inside of him was so intense he almost felt sick.

“Take the company of guards and spread out through the city,” he ordered brusquely.  “Notify all the guards you come in contact with to keep an eye out for the King.  If anyone finds him, I want word sent to me immediately.”

Lanithan nodded, then quickly moved away to do as he was ordered.  Faramir closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer up to the Valar to take care of his friends.  If anything had happened to them…

Leaving the thought unfinished, Faramir hurried after Lanithan. Perhaps Aragorn and Legolas had merely been delayed much as he had.  Perhaps, his fear was unfounded.  Yet deep in his heart, Faramir knew the truth, and that truth had him terrified.

*****

Pain and cold.

These were the first two sensations that marked Aragorn’s slow journey to the conscious world. The pain radiated from his head, a fierce throbbing at his temples that marked each heartbeat with a fiery persistence, and the cold seemed to have invaded his entire body, sinking into his flesh until he was shaking uncontrollably.  Yet there was another sensation besides these two, hovering nearby like a hungry predator waiting for a chance to pounce.  Fear.   

Aragorn groaned and fought against the foggy layers of darkness clouding his mind, struggling to defeat the heavy shadows that fought to keep him firmly ensnared.  His eyes felt like heavy weights rested atop them, and his thoughts drifted brokenly across the black void of his mind. 

An eternity passed during his struggle before he at last managed to slowly push his eyes open, blinking several times to fight off the dazzling explosion of lights across his vision. He groaned again as the pounding in his head intensified tenfold, and he was almost tempted to close his eyes and allow the blackness to pull him back into sweet oblivion. However, the niggling fear would not be ignored, and the demands of both mind and body slowly forced him more firmly into the conscious realm.

He discovered that he was lying flat on his back, staring up into the starry expanse of night sky directly above him, the sensations of rough, cold stone beneath him.  His body felt numb, and he was finding it difficult to collect his scattered thoughts in order to figure out exactly where he was, and what had brought him here.  His memory was shattered into a thousand pieces, and collecting those pieces and reassembling them seemed an impossible task.

With a small sigh, he attempted to push himself into a sitting position, hoping to get a better look at his surroundings and find a clue as to his present location.  He quickly realized, however, that the sudden movement was a mistake.  His head exploded into several fiery shards of pain, his vision disintegrating into a bright blur of dancing dots, and he immediately felt as if he was about to be suddenly, and violently, sick.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to fight off the nausea by holding perfectly still and taking deep and even breaths.  His hands were shaking violently, and several long minutes passed before the world stopped spinning and he dared open his eyes once again.

‘Here is my first clue,’ he told himself wryly. ‘Wherever I am, I am not in very good condition.’

The thought was not an encouraging one.  From the pain, and his violent reaction to movement, he could easily enough guess at the nature of his wound.  He most likely had some kind of head injury, and a rather severe one from the feel of it.  He didn’t seem to have the strength to lift his hands to his head to find out if he was right, but it didn’t really matter.  He already knew.

‘Well, unless I wish to remain lying here on the cold ground, I had better try again.’

Aragorn took a deep breath to prepare himself, then slowly began pushing himself upright, his eyes firmly screwed shut against the pain.  By moving slowly, he at last managed to make it to a sitting position, and he let out a soft sigh of relief before opening his eyes to look around him.

The darkness of night made it difficult for him to see, but the light from the heavens gave off just enough illumination for him to realize that he was sitting facing the rough hewn wall of a courtyard, the dark shadow of a squat building looming up to his side.  He turned his head slowly so he could study the building, then gasped as the pieces of his memory suddenly flew together with an abruptness that completely robbed him of his breath.

He had been attacked!  His foe had appeared out of nowhere from behind him, and he had been struck down before he had even realized who his attacker was!

This memory returned a split second before he recalled exactly why he had been in the courtyard in the first place, and more importantly, who had been with him.

“Legolas!”  Aragorn gasped, struggling to his feet despite the waves of dizziness that threatened to bring him to his knees.  His friend was in danger, and he was desperate to warn the elf before it was too late and Legolas was brought down just like he had been.

He stumbled forward, his eyes frantically searching through the darkness for any sign of his friend.  And then the truth hit him.

The sun had not yet set when he had entered the courtyard, and yet now, judging from the position of the stars, it was well into the night.  That meant that he had lain unconscious for quite some time, a fact that caused a myriad of questions to flood his mind.  Where was Legolas?  Where was the man who had attacked him?  Why had he been attacked, and then left lying like some unimportant baggage?  Where was Dar?  Had the lad grown worried when Legolas and Aragorn had not returned and gone for help?

All of these questions plagued Aragorn’s still hazy mind, and he found himself fighting off yet another wave of dizzying nausea as he leaned against the wall for support.  He needed to find Legolas.  That was the most important thing at the moment.  He felt a wave of sick fear at the thought that anything might have happened to the elf.

Stumbling forward and using the wall as a constant support, Aragorn made his way around the courtyard, his eyes carefully searching the darkness.  He knew that it was possible that his enemies might still be present, close by and waiting, and yet he could not bring himself to care.  If this was some elaborate trap, then there was little he could do about it.  Right now, he merely wanted to find Legolas and assure himself that his friend was well.  Together, they could face whatever was coming.

But Aragorn did not find Legolas.  Instead, he found the elf’s knife, lying discarded near the wall on the far side of the courtyard, the sharp elven blade reflecting the light from the stars and glowing a soft silver.

Aragorn carefully bent and retrieved the knife, a hard knot of fear and dread building within him.  His own pain was forgotten as the cold truth hit home with painful clarity.

Legolas had been taken.

Aragorn stood silently within the courtyard, confused, angry, scared, and ultimately alone.  He could sense it clearly now; the lack of any other living presence nearby.  The courtyard was completely empty save for himself.  They had taken Legolas and left him here alone.

“But why?” Aragorn whispered softly.  “They are supposed to be after me!  Why would they take him, and leave me behind?”

The questions tore at Aragorn, and he could find no answers.  All he knew was that if anything happened to Legolas, he would never forgive himself.

TBC