Chapter 25    Simple Tasks

“Welcome to the Sleeping Dragon, sirs.  I’ll be happy to take your horses for you.”

Aragorn and Gimli had barely come to a halt in front of the inn before they were greeted by a young boy around the age of twelve.  The lad was dressed in the uniform of a stable boy, with a long, thick overcoat, and sturdy, knee high boots.  A small patch bearing the same picture as the one on the sign above the inn’s door was sown into his tunic directly above his left breast.  His smile of welcome seemed genuine, if a bit guarded as he moved forward to hold their horses as they dismounted.

Aragorn shook his head.  “We thank you for your welcome, lad, but we will take care of our own mounts.  These horses can be somewhat temperamental at times.”

Gimli snorted softly at that statement, but Aragorn ignored him.

“Of course, sir, whatever you want,” the boy replied nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders.  He was looking at Gimli curiously, and trying to peer beneath the dwarf’s heavy cloak.  “If you follow me to the back, I’ll show you to the stables.”

Aragorn nodded for the lad to lead the way, thankful when the boy turned his attention away from Gimli.  He spared a quick glance behind him as he followed their guide to a narrow path leading to the back of the inn.  The man who had been following them was still there, leaning against the front of the building across the street and openly watching them.  Aragorn felt somewhat relieved when they rounded the corner and were no longer in the man’s sight.

The stable was a long, one story building filled with the familiar scents of straw and manure, combined with the strong smell of leather from the tack.  It appeared neat and orderly, with rows of stalls lining both sides of a wide alley.  Several other horses were already in residence here, and the echoing sound of hooves striking against wood and soft nickering filled the air.

The boy, who at last revealed his name to be Kyan, led them to two adjacent stalls near the center of the long building, then stood back and watched as they worked at unsaddling their horses and rubbing them down.  Shandarell was feeling playful and was giving Gimli some trouble, but the stout dwarf had grown accustomed to dealing with the high-strung horse and handled him well.

“You’re here for the pit fights, aren’t you?”  Kyan, who had been silently watching them work at last spoke up.  “We get all kinds of foreigners here to see the fights.  My father says that is the reason Norvil is here in the first place.”

Aragorn had heard about the popularity pit fights in Khand, though he saw not the thrill.  It was siad two fighters entered a small pit cut into the ground and pounded each other until one was knocked senseless and the other was declared winner.  Crowds would gather around the outside of the pit to watch the fight and bet on their champion.  Aragorn thought the whole idea was rather pointless and foolish, but he did not believe it wise to state that fact at the moment.

“Have you ever seen a pit fight?” he asked instead, hoping to divert Kyan’s attention away from them.

The lad’s eyes brightened.  “My mother won’t let me out after dark, but my father once snuck me and my older brother out to one.  I was younger then, and there was a lot of blood, but I didn’t get sick at all.  My father was worried I would, and he was real proud of me when I didn’t.  He promised to take me again sometime.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding, trying not to show the disgust he felt at the boy’s obvious eagerness to see more violence.  “Are there fights every night?” he asked.

Kyan shook his head.  “Not every night, but almost!”  He continued to talk animatedly about the pit fights while Aragorn and Gimli finished tending Shandarell and Cierno.  Both horses were soon comfortably settled and contentedly munching on a bundle of hay.

“The nights around here sound pretty rough,” Aragorn commented lightly as Kyan led the way back up the stalls toward the doors.

The young boy nodded vigorously.  “All the action around here takes place at night.  I can always hear shouting and screaming from my room.  It’s worse on the nights with no pit fights,” he added.  “Then, it gets really bad, because no one has anything to do.”

“Why don’t they try sleeping,” Gimli mumbled sarcastically, his voice soft enough that only Aragorn heard him.

“You needn’t worry about safety while at the Sleeping Dragon,” Kyan continued.  “The stable doors are barred each evening at sundown, so no one can get in and steal the horses.  It has been almost ten years since a horse was stolen from these stables!  The inn is just as safe.  The owner is married to The Serpent’s niece, so no one dares mess with any guests here for fear of inciting his wrath.”

“The Serpent?” Aragorn asked, confused.

“That is the name of the Guildmaster who rules this section of the city,” Kyan patiently explained.  “Everyone knows this inn is under his protection, so they pretty much leave it alone.  It’s probably the safest place to stay in all of the city, and the pits aren’t too far away from here, either.  You chose a good place to stay, sir.”

Aragorn smiled.  “It seems I have.  Tell me, does The Serpent get along well with any of the other Guildmasters?”

Kyan appeared thoughtful as he considered his answer.  “He likes Corin, the Guildmaster to our North, but rumor says they are somehow related.  Other than that, I wouldn’t say any of the Guildmasters get along with any of the others.  They tolerate one another just so long as they stay out of each others way.”

By this time they had reached the back entrance to the inn.  Kyan left them to return to his chores, and Aragorn and Gimli entered the Sleeping Dragon.  They found themselves in the inn’s kitchen, where a pretty young woman wearing an apron greeted them and then led them to the innkeeper.  Gimli hung back while Aragorn spoke with the fat little man.  The innkeeper was brisk and efficient, and in no time at all Aragorn had acquired a room.  The young woman reappeared then and quickly led them up a wide set of stairs and down a long hall to their room.  After making sure they required no more assistance, she turned and left them to return to her duties.

Aragorn opened the door to the room and entered, taking a quick glance around.  Two comfortable looking beds took up the majority of the space in the room, but there were also two large trunks against the far wall and a washstand with a mirror near the door.  He tossed his saddlebags on one of the beds, then hurried over to the window looking down onto the street below.  “We have more company,” he informed Gimli softly.

The dwarf grunted, then after tossing his own bags on the bed joined Aragorn at the window, peering over the ledge.

Two others had joined the man who had followed them, and they now stood conversing in a small gathering across the street.  Two more men stood further down the street on either side of the group, their gazes fixed on the Sleeping Dragon.

“I’ll wager they have this place completely surrounded,” Gimli muttered.  “Do you suppose they are planning on attacking us?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “If they attack us here, they risk angering this Serpent fellow.  I cannot be certain, but I do not think Servius will wish to involve another Guildmaster in his plot against me.  He will have to use caution, and that will work to our advantage.”

Gimli sighed.  “I suppose you will now tell me that we must sit and wait for our enemies to come to us.”

Aragorn smiled at the dwarf.  “You know what they say about patience, Gimli,” he replied lightly.

“No, I don’t.” Gimli snapped.  “I don’t want to know, either,” he added, when Aragorn opened his mouth.  “Let’s just get this over with.”

Aragorn nodded.  “We will go downstairs to the common room.  My guess is it will not take Servius long to contact us.”

The two left the room and hurried downstairs.  They found the common room all but deserted, with only one other guest, an old man who spared them barely a glance before returning to his mug of ale.  The pretty young woman who had shown them to their room was using a cloth to wash the tops of the tables.  She smiled at them when they entered, then after they had chosen a table off in the corner of the room, she hurried over to ask if they would like to order anything to eat or drink.  Aragorn declined, and after letting out a regretful sigh, Gimli did as well.  Then, the waiting began.

They did not have long to wait.  Barely a quarter of an hour had passed before the front door of the inn swung open and a tall man with a dark mustache strode into the room.  He glanced around the common room, caught sight of Aragorn and Gimli, and immediately strode over to their table.  Without asking permission, he seated himself in a chair opposite them and leveled the two companions with a stern look, as if they were two naughty children about to be taught the error of their way.  “You’re late,” was all he said by way of greeting, then sat back in his chair and waited for their reply.

Aragorn stared at the man and tried to suppress his rising anger. He did not answer the man’s statement, but remained quiet as he calmly studied him.  His silence seemed to unnerve the visitor, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and seemed to lose some of his bluster.

“My master would know why you are late,” he finally prompted, obviously unable to stand the silence any longer.

Aragorn didn’t bother answering, but instead phrased a question of his own.  “Who is your master, and what does he want with me?” he demanded coldly.

The visitor shook his head, frowning with annoyance.  Aragorn expected him to press them again for an answer as to why they were late, but the man merely said, “My master will reveal himself in time, but first you must prove yourself worthy.”

“Worthy of what?” Gimli demanded impatiently, the anger in his voice obvious.

The man spared the dwarf a quick glance before returning his attention to Aragorn.  “Worthy of the elf’s life, of course,” he replied simply.

Gimli let out a low growl of fury and began to rise, but Aragorn quickly reached out and placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat.  He never took his gaze from the man in front of him, however, and his voice was low and hard as he demanded, “And how am I to prove myself worthy?”

Servius’ messenger was obviously beginning to feel slightly nervous at the dangerous undercurrent he detected in Aragorn’s voice, for he began to shift restlessly on his seat and he could not hold Aragorn’s gaze.  He cleared his throat, then began reciting the message he had been sent to deliver.

“My master is not interested in your companion, only in you.” he began.  “But first, he wishes you to prove yourself worthy of his attention.  You will do so by accomplishing a few simple tasks he has planned for you.  If you succeed in each of these tasks, your friend will be set free and my master will reveal himself to you.  However, if you should fail, your friend will be killed immediately.  He will also be killed if you refuse any of the tasks, and his death will not be painless.  I have come to reveal to you what your first task shall be.”

Aragorn did not allow him to continue, but instead raised his hand sharply in the air, halting the man’s explanation before it even began.  “You have delivered your message,” he said in a voice as hard as steel.  “Now, I have a message for you to take back to your master.  Tell him that I demand to see Legolas, and only after I know that my friend still lives will I even consider playing his foolish games.  Now go!” 

Arwen had once told Aragorn that when he was angry, his glare was fierce enough to sheer the wool off a sheep. At fifty paces.  Aragorn wasn’t angry now, he was furious, and the full heat of his rage was leveled at the tall man sitting across from him.  The man didn’t even attempt to argue with him.  He leapt from his chair and all but fled from the room.

Several moments of silence passed then, as Aragorn struggled to regain control of his raging emotions.  Hearing the man so casually threatening to kill Legolas had angered him beyond measure,  mostly because it had also frightened him.  He knew Servius would have little trouble carrying out his threats, and there was nothing Aragorn could do to stop him.

It was Gimli who finally broke the silence.  “Aragorn, if it is your wish to completely crush my shoulder, then I will admit that you are well on your way to succeeding.”

Aragorn looked at his friend in surprise, then realized that he had never released Gimli after forcing the dwarf back into his chair.  The grip he now had on the dwarf’s shoulder would have likely crushed a frail man, but as it was Gimli’s face only showed slight discomfort.

Aragorn immediately released him and mumbled a quick apology.  Gimli nodded in acceptance, rotated his shoulder a couple of times to work out the ache, then quietly grumbled, “I would ask you what we do now, but I know you will merely tell me that we must wait.”

Aragorn smiled slightly, but did not answer.  Several more minutes of silence passed before Gimli at last gave in.

“So what do we do now?” the dwarf demanded.

Aragorn was careful to hide his smile.  Gimli sounded as if he wanted to break something, and Aragorn’s arm was resting much too close to the dwarf’s meaty fists for comfort.  “We eat,” he answered simply. 

Gimli actually smiled, but a second later, Aragorn completely destroyed the dwarf’s budding good humor.

“And then we wait.”

*****

He was almost free.

Legolas gave a final jerk and his left wrist, made slick with blood and sweat, slipped free of its bindings.  His right wrist was loose only a few moments later, leaving the blood stained ropes dangling uselessly from the iron posts of the bed.  His hands felt swollen and numb, and his wrists ached fiercely, but Legolas ignored the pain as he quickly sat up in the bed and reached for the bindings on his ankles.

He immediately regretted his hasty action as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him, leaving him gasping for air.  He slowly sank back down and closed his eyes, fighting the bile rising in his throat.  Even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t completely rid himself of the sensation that the room was spinning around in circles.  Legolas knew he was close to losing consciousness, and he struggled against the shadows claiming his mind.  He knew what nightmares awaited him in the darkness, and the terror of that far outweighed any physical complaints of his body.

Long minutes passed before he thought it safe to open his eyes.  After taking a deep, steadying breath, he once more attempted to push himself into a sitting position.  This time he was successful, and with a sigh of relief, he reached for the ropes binding his legs to the bed.

He had no memory of being moved from his cage in the cellar to his current room, no idea of how much time had passed as he had lain deathly ill, drifting on the brink of consciousness as the fever raged through his body.  All he knew was that several days had passed, and Aragorn would soon be arriving in Norvil.  He was swiftly running out of time.

Legolas steadily worked at the knots securing his legs, cursing the trembling in his limbs that made the task difficult.  He was unaccustomed to such feelings of weakness and physical illness, for as an elf he had never had to worry about the sicknesses and diseases that plagued other races.  He wasn’t exactly certain what had caused his illness, but he had a deep suspicion that it had something to do with the drug Svellon.  He could think of no other explanation to account for his present condition.  He was recovering, but it seemed to him far too slowly.

Yet even worse than the physical damage done to him was the darkness awakened within his spirit. Legolas had fought against this darkness before, and he had believed it defeated.  Now, however, he knew he had never completely been rid of it.  It was a stain upon the light of his spirit, a blemish put there by the evil creature Malek, and like the scars that would never completely fade from his chest, the darkness in his soul remained.  He had managed to push it away once, with the help of his friends and family, and yet the darkness had only needed a single moment of fear and weakness to once again take control.  And this time Legoals was alone.

But he was stronger than he had been before.  He had managed to defeat the darkness once, and he was determined to do so again, even if he had to do it on his own.  And he would not merely push it away, as he had previously done, but this time he would destroy it.  Never again would he allow the shadow and despair to have control over him.  What had been done to him was in the past, and had nothing to do with his future.  Now, Aragorn was all that mattered.  Fear for his friend afforded Legolas all the strength he needed to do what had to be done.

His legs were free.  Carefully, but as swiftly and quietly as he could, Legolas rolled to the edge of the bed and pushed himself to his feet.  Once again he had to fight off a wave of dizziness, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as before.  He noticed with annoyance that his legs were trembling.  He felt as weak as a newborn, and had to suppress an overwhelming urge to sink back to the bed and sleep for a week.  Instead, he moved to the boarded up window and peered through a small crack in the wood.  Just as he had expected, long iron bars had been fastened to the outside of the window, blocking this particular escape route.  He cursed, then reminded himself that in his weakened condition it was unlikely he would have been able to pry the boards loose anyway, and even more unlikely that he would have been able to do so without attracting the attention of the men surely standing guard outside his door.  He would simply have to find another way to free himself.

He knew the door to his room was securely locked from outside, and he had no idea how many men stood guard in the corridor beyond.  Yet perhaps if he made enough noise, the men would unlock the door and come inside to investigate.  He had no weapons, and there was nothing in the room he could use as one, but he would have the element of surprise on his side.  He would overpower them, and then….

His planning was suddenly cut short when he heard the latch on the door click.  He had no time to react before the door suddenly swung open and Merton, followed by at least half a dozen guards, strode into the room.  The ex-mayor of Calembel skidded to a surprised halt when he saw Legolas standing unbound only a few feet in front of him.  He opened his mouth to let out a shout of alarm, but Legolas did not give him time.  Leaping forward, he slammed his fist into the other man’s nose with all the strength he could muster.   The blow was made awkward by the fact that Merton was already trying to back away from him, but it still was enough to send the man crashing backward into several of his men.

Legolas didn’t take time to celebrate the small victory.  Instincts honed from years as a warrior immediately took over, and he leapt forward without hesitation, straight into the middle of the group of guards.  He knew his only chance lay in reaching the door and hallway beyond before more men came running in answer to the guards’ shouts of alarm.

Three guards came at him at once, but Legolas refused to back away.  He ducked the first guard’s blow, then delivered his own punch to the man’s midsection before spinning around and kicking the legs out from beneath the second guard.  The third man had just managed to pull his dagger from its sheath when Legolas kicked it from his grasp, sending the weapon flying away across the room.  The man responded by leaping at Legolas with arms outstretched in an attempt to force him to the ground.  His forward momentum was brought up short, however, as Legolas landed two fierce punches to his throat.

More guards rushed forward, replacing the first three, and Legolas faced them without fear but with a hint of worry.  His strength, afforded him by desperation, was quickly failing as his days of illness began to take their toll.  His movements were not as quick as normal, his blows weaker, and he knew if this fight lasted any length of time he would surely lose.  He had to reach the door and then make a run for it.  It was his only chance.

This proved to be somewhat difficult, however, as the guards seemed just as intent to keep him from his goal.  They were awkward in their attacks on him though, partially because he refused to stay put.  He was constantly moving, and in the small confines of the room the guards simply couldn’t keep up.  They found themselves merely getting into each other’s way as they struggled to reach him.

Legolas kept up a constant wary dance, darting in to land a quick blow on one of his opponents and then just as quickly slipping away.  He was watchful for any chance he might get to slip past the guards to the door, and at last his patience was rewarded.  Two men leapt for him at the same moment and their feet became tangled, sending them both crashing to the floor long before they ever reached him.  Legolas didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the hole in the line of guards trying to corner him.  Leaping onto the fallen men’s backs, he sprang forward, the open door standing only a few feet in front of him.

The way was open, and Legolas sprinted forward, using every ounce of strength remaining within him to force speed into his shaky legs.  He had just reached the door when a figure suddenly appeared from the hallway and blocked his path.  Legolas did not slow his pace, but attempted to use his momentum to barrel through the form blocking the doorway.  He threw a wild punch to help clear his advance, but this turned out to be his undoing.

With lightning swiftness, the figure blocking his path dodged his blow, then reached out and seized his wrist.  A second later, Legolas felt his arm being twisted around behind him.  His own momentum worked against him then, and he went crashing to his knees as sharp pain shot up his arm.  His arm was released then, but before he could rise to his feet the cold metal of a knife was pressed against his throat, and a low voice warned him to remain still.

Legolas slowly looked up into the calm gaze of the assassin.  Tervanis glanced inside the room and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he viewed the chaos Legolas had left behind him.  “Nice,” he murmured softly, before motioning Legolas to slowly rise to his feet.  The blade never left his throat as he complied.

Merton came thundering out into the hall then, blood pouring from his nose, his face a mask of rage.  “Bind him!” he screamed.

Legolas sighed as two guards stumbled from the room to do their master’s bidding and his abused wrists were once again firmly secured behind his back.

Merton was in such an obvious rage, Legolas suspected the man would strike him, or at least find some way of punishing him for his escape attempt.  He was surprised, however, when the man simply turned down the hall and ordered the guards to follow him with the prisoner.  Legolas was immediately afraid that they meant to return him to the cage in the cellar, and he had to force down his rising panic at the thought.

Tervanis, walking beside him in the center of a ring of guards, leaned close to him and murmured.  “Your friend has arrived. Now the fun begins.”

Legolas felt his stomach sink with dread as he was dragged along.  He doubted very much that what was coming would be any fun at all.

****

The sun had already set by the time Servius’ sent a messenger to fetch Gimli and Aragorn from the Sleeping Dragon.  This messenger was not the same one who had come earlier, but an older man with thick white hair.  He strode into the common room of the inn, walked over to the table where Aragorn and Gimli sat waiting, and ordered the pair to follow him.

“Follow you where?” Aragorn demanded.

“To your first task,” the man answered simply before turning to leave.

“I have already made it known that I will do nothing until I have seen Legolas alive,” Aragorn calmly announced, not even bothering to rise from his chair.

“Your friend will be there,” the white haired man called back over his shoulder.  “You may refuse to follow me, of course, but I assure you that if you do, the elf will be dead before the end of the hour.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, then exchanged a quick glance with Gimli before rising to his feet.  He had told the dwarf before that they were playing this game by Servius’ rules.  He would not do anything that would risk Legolas’ life as long as he had a choice.  If Servius wanted him to accomplish several tasks in order to prove himself, then Aragorn would do so.  He could only hope that the Guildmaster would then keep his word and set Legolas free.  Yet somehow he doubted it would be that easy.

Gimli and Aragorn followed the white haired messenger out of the inn and then through a maze of darkening streets and alleyways.  They passed several different groups of rough looking men, but surprisingly they were not disturbed.  Ahead of them, they could hear a loud frenzy of shouts and screams, and as they drew closer Aragorn realized exactly where they were headed.

“The pit fights,” he whispered softly to Gimli.  “That is where he is taking us.”

Gimli nodded his understanding, but did not reply.

A moment later, they entered a large courtyard surrounded on all sides by tall buildings.  The courtyard was swiftly filling with people, and the din in the air was deafening.  Near the center of the courtyard, a large hole had been dug.  Four lanterns hanging from posts at each end of the hole provided light for the area.  The ground leading down to the pit was steeply sloped so that those standing farther back in the crowd could still see what was happening.  Already two fighters were engaged in battle within the pit, the crowd screaming encouragement from the sides.

The white haired man led them forward through the crowd to the very edge of the pit, then motioned across the wide hole to a set of stands that had obviously been erected for the more wealthy and influential members of the city.  The stands were only half full and Aragorn had no trouble at all spotting Legolas standing near the back.  Several guards surrounded the elf, and a slim man dressed all in black stood directly beside him.

Aragorn was flooded with intense relief at the sight of his friend.  Legolas’ hands were bound behind his back, and his shoulders had an unusual weary slump to them, but at least he was alive.  His friend was looking directly at him, and Aragorn smiled to assure the elf that everything would be fine.  Legolas offered a weak smile in return, but it was obvious that he was worried.

“He looks ill, Aragorn,” Gimli announced from beside him, his voice raised to a shout to be heard over the cries of the crowd.  The dwarf’s face was creased in a frown of concern, and his hand was stroking the haft of his axe.  He looked as if he was considering charging around the pit to his friend’s aid.  Aragorn could understand the dwarf’s reaction, for he felt the same way. 

A loud roar erupted from the crowd, and Aragorn glanced down into the pit to find that one of the fighters had been knocked to the ground.  It was obvious he was unconscious, but his assailant continued to kick at his prone body, much to the delight of the crowd. Two men hurried down a set of stairs at the far end of the pit and began dragging the unconscious man away as the winner began to stride around the pit waving his arms in the air.  The screams from the crowd became almost unbearable.

The white haired man grabbed Aragorn’s arm, gaining his attention, then pointed to the side of the pit where a large man with scars covering his face stood leering at them.  Although he had never seen the man before, Aragorn immediately recognized him from Dar’s description.  A wave of white-hot rage washed over him, blurring his vision of the man who had beaten Arwen and killed their unborn child.  A low growl, much like that of an injured animal sounded from the back of his throat, and his hands balled into fists at his side.

The scar-faced man grinned mockingly at him, then turned and moved down the steps leading into the pit, stripping off his shirt on the way.  The crowd screamed their welcome as the previous winner exited and Kiesco began strutting around the pit, his gaze never leaving Aragorn as he waved his muscled arms in the air.

“Your task,” the white haired man yelled into Aragorn’s ear before pointing down into the pit.

Aragorn’s eyes widened in surprise.  He knew what the man was telling him, and though he was startled, he was also more than a little eager.  He knew there was nothing more he would like to do than pound senseless the man who had dared hurt his family.

“Aragorn is to fight?” Gimli demanded of their messenger.  “That is his task?”

The white haired man simply nodded.

Gimli’s face suddenly broke out into a wide grin as he looked up at Aragorn.  “That fool down there doesn’t stand a chance,” he boasted loudly.  “Aragorn, you should have no problem winning this fight.”

Aragorn smiled at his friend’s confidence in him.  He was angry enough at the moment to agree with the dwarf.  He took a step toward the stairs leading down into the pit, but the white haired man stopped him by grabbing his arm and shaking his head.

“Your task…, “the man began, but Gimli cut him off.

“You said his task is to fight, now why can’t we get on with it!”

The messenger continued to shake his head, barely sparing a glance for the dwarf.  His gaze was fixed on Aragorn when he stated simply, “You are to fight.  Yet your task is not to win…but to lose!”

TBC