Chapter 31    Desperate Rescue    

Gimli sprinted down the long hall, barely giving a second glance to the numerous doors branching to his left and right, his whole attention focused on the stairs at the end of the passageway that would lead him to his friend.  The loud pounding of his booted feet upon the floor, and the harsh sound of his breathing were the loudest things to be heard in the silent and abandoned corridor as he dashed toward the stairway.  His axe was gripped tightly in his right hand, and his face burned with the fierce fire of determination and rage.  He was not only ready for the fight that lay before him in order to free Legolas: he was eager for it.  Four guards would not make for such a difficult battle, yet even if the man Aragorn had questioned had been lying and there were twice that number guarding the elf, Gimli was prepared to fight his way through all of them in order to free his friend.

He reached the stairs and began bounding up them, his short legs moving with remarkable speed.  Something within him was urging him to move faster, to make haste before all was lost.  Normally he might have moved forward with more caution, making more effort to hide his presence so that he might have the element of surprise on his side when he attacked.  Yet he somehow knew that this was not the time for caution, but speed.  Legolas was in danger, and if he did not hurry he would lose his friend forever.  He did not know how he knew this, yet it was a certainty that grew stronger with each wild thump of his heart.

He reached the top landing of the stairs with a final bound, then at last came to a stop as he surveyed the short hall before him, his axe raised and ready.  The corridor seemed to be completely deserted of any living being, and for a moment Gimli feared that he had somehow been led astray.  Then his eyes fell on the stiff and cold bodies of two dead guards lying sprawled in front of a door at the far end of the hall.  The men’s throats had been expertly splayed open, their wide, staring eyes revealing their surprise and terror.  Their weapons had not been drawn from their sheaths, and it appeared as if neither man had been given a chance to defend himself.

Gimli slowly moved down the hall toward the dead men, his axe still raised cautiously before him.  He was not sure what to make of the scene.  Whoever had killed the guards had definitely been an expert with the blade, and for a moment Gimli wondered if Legolas had somehow found a way to free himself.  He dismissed the thought almost immediately however.  The scene before him was too gruesome, too coldly violent for Gimli to believe Legolas was responsible.  The elf treasured life far too greatly, and though Gimli knew Legolas would kill if given no other alternative, he also knew his friend would not choose such a brutal and cold way to dispatch his adversaries. 

Still, that left the question of who had done this and why?  Gimli felt the cold fingers of fear twist within his stomach, and again the urge to hurry was upon him.  He quickened his steps, wincing slightly in disgust as his boots tread through the sticky pool of blood surrounding the two dead guards.  He reached for the handle of the door the two men had obviously been guarding, then hesitated when he realized it was already opened by a crack.  Finding a firmer grip on his axe, he took a deep, steadying breath, then pushed the door open and entered the room.

His gaze took in the scene before him in one swift glance.  Two more guards lay at his feet, their throats slashed in exactly the same manner as their companions without.  Gimli hardly noticed them, however, for all his attention was focused on the limp figure on the far side of the room.  Legolas was half sitting, half lying slumped against the wall, his long golden hair falling in a curtain that hid his features, the hilt of a sword lying only inches from his limp right hand.  The left side of his tunic was heavily stained with blood.

Gimli stood motionless, his breath caught somewhere in his lungs and his heart frozen within his chest.  For a horrible moment he thought for certain that Legolas was dead.  He could not see his friend’s chest rise and fall!  He had not been fast enough!  He had come too late!  The panic and grief that seized him then was almost enough to send him to his knees.

But then Legolas groaned, shifting slightly, and Gimli’s body gave a start, as though he had just been struck by lightening.  His mind still numb with fear, he stumbled forward, reaching out for his friend.  His rough and work-worn hands were strangely gentle as he knelt beside Legolas and lifted the elf’s head into a more comfortable position.  Legolas’ body jerked at his touch, the elf’s eyes flying open and his body stiffening as Gimli brushed away the strands of hair from his face.

“Easy, Legolas,” Gimli murmured gently, moving his body so he could better support the elf’s limp form.

At the sound of his voice Legolas immediately relaxed, his dazed and pain-filled eyes searching for Gimli’s face.  A small smile graced his fair features when his gaze at last met Gimli’s.  “Elvellon,” he whispered softly.  “What took you so long?”

Gimli only grunted in reply, not trusting his voice to speak.  Legolas began attempting to struggle into a more upright position, and Gimli tightened his hold on his friend, growling for the elf to remain still. 

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Legolas said simply, his voice soft and weak, but still full of annoying elven authority.  “There is cloth on the bed.”

Gimli’s eyes traveled to his friend’s left side, and the gaping wound that was even now gushing blood.  He quickly steadied Legolas, then rose to his feet and moved to the bed, impatiently ripping free a long strip of cloth.  Balling the cloth into a thick wad, he moved back to Legolas and pressed the makeshift bandage tightly against the elf’s side.  Legolas’ winced and instinctively tried to move away from the pain the pressure caused, but Gimli placed a hand on his shoulder and firmly held him in place.

“You look horrible, Legolas,” Gimli remarked gruffly, running a critical eye up and down the form of his friend.  Legolas’ long golden hair was tangled and stained with blood, framing a face that was far too pale.  Two long vertical scratches, along with numerous bruises marred the elf’s facial features.  Gimli did not even want to guess what other injuries were hidden beneath Legolas’ tunic, but he suspected their would be many.

Legolas gave him a small smile.  “Thank you, Gimli,” he said simply, “I was not certain you would notice.”

Gimli shook his head in mock disgust, but he could not hide his own small smile as a feeling of intense relief swept over him. The fact that Legolas was feeling well enough to taunt him made Gimli feel certain that the elf would somehow be fine.

“What happened here?” he asked softly, refusing, for perhaps the first time ever, to respond to Legolas’ baiting.  He wasn’t in a playful mood at the moment.  Seeing his friend in such a condition was filling him with conflicting emotions of anger and worry.  Whoever had done this to Legolas was going to pay dearly.

Legolas’ smile faded, and he let out a soft sigh.  “An assassin,” he responded simply, “by the name of Tervanis—”

“The one who attacked us in Minas Tirith?” Gimli broke in.

Legolas’ looked surprised.  “You have heard of him then?”

Gimli hastily nodded, not wishing to explain about Delran.  “Is he the one who did this?”

Legolas gave a brief, short nod.

“Why?” Gimli demanded.

“He wanted to fight me,” Legolas said simply, as if this explained everything.  “As you can see, I lost.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Gimli muttered sarcastically, as he once more ran a critical eye up and down Legolas’ limp form.  “Where is he now?”

“He is gone,” Legolas replied, waving his right arm dismissively in the air. 

Despite this show of nonchalance, Gimli had the sudden feeling that Legolas was keeping something from him.  He opened his mouth to demand further explanation, but Legolas distracted him with a question of his own.

“Where is Aragorn?”

Gimli gave a small start, ruefully realizing that he had forgotten all about Aragorn in his worry over Legolas.  “He sent me to find you,” he explained quickly, “while he went in search of Servius.”

It was Legolas’ turn to give a start, and suddenly he was struggling against Gimli in an attempt to rise.  “Servius?!” he exclaimed, “We have to find him, Gimli.  Hurry.”

“We?” Gimli repeated, too stunned for a moment by Legolas’ actions to move to stop him.  “What are you talking about fool elf?  You aren’t going anywhere!”

But Legolas had already managed to push himself to his feet, and he was now stumbling toward the door.  “We have to find Aragorn,” he repeated.  “He is in danger, Gimli.”

Gimli let out a loud curse, easily catching up to Legolas before he could reach the door.  “Aragorn can take care of himself,” he argued, trying to grab one of Legolas’ arms and push him back toward the bed.

“You do not understand,” Legolas growled, wrestling his arm free of Gimli’s grasp with a surprising show of strength.  “Servius wants Aragorn dead.  He has likely set a trap for him.  He will need our help!”

“Fine,” Gimli snapped.  “Then you can stay here and I will go and find him!”

Legolas was already shaking his head and moving once more toward the door, his left hand clasped to his side.  “You can help me, or you can try to stop me, but I will waste no more time,” he called over his shoulder.

Gimli stared after his friend in consternation, the bloody wad of cloth still clenched tightly in his hand.  Then he let out a single, explosive curse, and set out after Legolas.

******

Aragorn knelt in the small confines of a narrow hallway, facing a pair of sturdy wooden doors which undoubtedly led into the private office of Servius.  The three men who had been left as guards outside the doors now lay in crumpled heaps about him, all of them dead.  Aragorn had tried to keep at least one of them alive in order to question him as to what lay in wait on the opposite side of the large doors, but the battle had not gone at all as he had planned.  A long, burning cut running the length of his right collarbone was proof to that fact.  A few inches up and to the left, and the guard’s sword would have sliced through his throat instead of his shoulder, ending his life immediately. 

It was not that the three guards were any more talented than any of the previous men Aragorn had fought.  Fate just seemed to have decided to play the game in their favor this time.  They had come at Aragorn all at once, and the narrow confines of the hall had caused the fight to resemble more of an awkward and clumsy brawl than a true battle.  Aragorn still would have had no problem in defeating the men if it hadn’t been for the lingering effects of his battle with Kiesco.  His ribs had begun to cause him some problems, but even that was minor compared to his hands.  They were still badly swollen from the number of times he had struck Kiesco, and as the minutes wore on, he had found it more and more difficult to keep a firm and steady grip on his sword.

Still, his skills and self-discipline had won out in the end, and the guards had finally been defeated.  Now, his path lay open and unguarded before him, inviting him to move forward and at last face the enemy he had come to destroy.  Yet still he hesitated, unwilling to charge blindly into an unknown situation until he was sure of victory.  He did not know how many more guards waited on the other side of the door, and with his injuries causing him trouble, he knew he should wait for Gimli and Legolas before moving on.

The problem was, Aragorn was uncertain how long he could afford to wait.  Every minute brought dawn closer, and with the coming of day, he was certain more soldiers would return to the guild from their night on the streets and in the taverns.  Unless they finished their task quickly and were gone, they would find themselves trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.  Of this Aragorn was certain.  He had to act soon, or not at all.

He had just about made up his mind to move on without his friends, when a sound in the hallway behind him caused him to leap to his feet and turn, sword raised before him.  A moment later he relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief as he caught sight of Gimli and Legolas making their slow way toward him.  Legolas was leaning heavily on Gimli for support, and Aragorn could see that the elf’s tunic was darkly stained with blood, his face deathly pale. 

He hurried toward them, reaching out to take some of Legolas’ weight from Gimli, his face furrowed with concern.  “What happened?” he asked worriedly, eying the bloody cloth Gimli was holding against the elf’s side.  “Legolas…?”

“I am fine, Aragorn,” Legolas stated in a slightly strained voice, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. 

It was hard to judge whose snort was louder at this absurd statement, Gimli’s or Aragorn’s.

“I can see how fine you are, Legolas,” Aragorn replied dryly, moving the elf around so he could lean against the wall.

“I…merely need…a moment to regain…my breath,” Legolas panted, grimacing in undisguised pain as he leaned heavily against the wall.

“You need far more than that, my friend,” Aragorn said softly.  Gimli had just moved aside the blood soaked bandage enough to give him a brief look at the deep stab wound. 

“I will be fine,” Legolas insisted, brushing aside both Gimli and Aragorn’s steadying hands as a bit of color returned to his pale face and his breathing evened out somewhat.

“Fool elf,” Gimli muttered darkly, though his expression as he stared at Legolas was one of deepest worry and concern, and his hands wavered expectantly at his sides as if he were prepared to reach out and catch Legolas should the elf show the slightest sign of falling.  “I tried to get him to stay behind, Aragorn, but he would have none of it.  He seemed to think you were in danger.”

“It is Merton,” Legolas gasped out, ignoring Gimli completely.  “Aragorn, Servius is really Merton Fallow Candywell III.”

Aragorn stared at Legolas in surprise, his mind unable to immediately register the implications of what Legolas was telling him “Merton?” he repeated in a whisper, his mind rebelling against the absurd possibility.

Legolas was nodded, his expression serious. 

“That…that fool from Calembel?” Gimli exclaimed, his face showing his utter disbelief.  “Surely you jest?”

Legolas shook his head.  “I was as surprised as you when I found out,” he said simply, “but it is true.  Yet he has changed, Aragorn.  His hatred has become a living beast within him, and he is its slave.  He has but a single desire, and that is to kill you.  I had to warn you before you face him.  He is likely to do anything to see that you die.  You must use caution!”

Aragorn slowly nodded, his skepticism fading in the face of Legolas’ serious tone.  It was hard to believe that Servius, the man who had plotted and toyed with him all this time, was merely the banished fool of a mayor, Merton.  Yet he did not doubt Legolas’ statement, and he had every intention of proceeding with the utmost caution.  Merton had shown an amazing amount of cunning in his plans so far, and he was not about to underestimate the man now simply because he had learned of his true identity.

“It matters not who he is or once was,” he said slowly.  “All that matters is what he has done.  He will pay for his crimes.”

Legolas and Gimli both nodded in agreement.

“Tell me, Legolas,” Aragorn said in a tight voice.  “Is Merton the one responsible for your injuries.”

A strange, guarded expression flitted across Legolas’ face, and he dropped his gaze from Aragorn’s as he answered slowly, “In part, he is responsible.”

Aragorn arched an eyebrow at the vague response, but it was Gimli who explained.

“It was the assassin,” the dwarf announced gruffly.  “He and Legolas battled.” 

“I was not in my best form, it seems,” Legolas offered grimly, wincing slightly as he glanced down at the blood soaked cloth pressed to his side.

Aragorn merely nodded at this bit of news, though he shared a knowing glance with Gimli.  “And where is the assassin now?”

“Gone,” Gimli and Legolas said together, though their voices carried two very different emotions with the single word.  Gimli sounded bitter and angry, while Legolas merely sounded relieved.

Aragorn nodded.  “I see,” he said slowly, though he realized that there was much more to the tale that would need explaining later.  Now, however, they were running out of time.  “Legolas, I can do nothing for your wounds here, though I daresay they will need tending, and soon.  We must return to the inn.  But first, Ser…Merton is locked away in the office behind us.  It is time we deal with him once and for all.  I cannot risk him escaping to torment us another day.

“I will help…,” Legolas began, but Aragorn cut him off.

“No, Legolas, you will remain here.”

Legolas scowled and immediately began to argue, just as Aragorn had known he would. “Surely you will need my help.  You know not how many men guard Merton.  I am not so injured that I cannot be of aid to….”

“You will do as I say, Legolas,” Aragorn interrupted.  “In your condition you would merely get in our way if you try to help.  Gimli and I cannot afford to be distracted, and  we surely would be trying to protect you…” 

“You will not need to protect me, for I can protect myself!” Legolas interjected angrily.

“You are staying here, Legolas, and that is final,” Aragorn said firmly, his voice soft and calm, but filled with a kingly command that even Legolas could not ignore.  “You will either obey my order, or I will force you to obey, but you must choose quickly.  We are wasting time with this foolishness.”  Aragorn knew his words were harsh and would sting his friend’s pride, but he did not particularly care as long as Legolas did what he commanded.

Legolas’ eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched furiously, but Aragorn met his angry glare calmly, waiting for the elf’s agreement.  It was not the easiest thing in the world, meeting Legolas’ angry gaze, and only Aragorn’s years of practice in Imaldris allowed him the strength to stand, unwavering, against the simmering fury of Legolas’ stare. 

The tense battle of wills lasted for only a minute, but it seemed more like an hour to Aragorn.  Still, it was Legolas who first dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat.  The elf let out a soft sigh, then raised his eyes to Aragorn’s once more, though this time without the burning heat of anger smoldering within their depths.  “You are right, Aragorn,” he said quietly, “And I apologize for my foolishness.”

Aragorn nodded, but was not about to let his friend off so easily.  “You will promise me, Legolas,” he said softly, not taking his gaze off the elf.  “You will not interfere.”

Legolas sighed again, but he did not hesitate in offering Aragorn his promise.  “You have my word, Aragorn,” he said softly.  “I will not endanger you or Gimli.”

Aragorn felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and with a small smile he reached out and clasped Legolas’ shoulder tightly, relieved when the elf immediately returned the gesture of affection.  Legolas might still be angry, but at least he understood.

“Come Gimli, it is time we finish this nightmare once and for all!”

*****

Servius was sweating.

He told himself that his perspiration was due to the heat radiating from the blazing fire in the hearth directly behind him, and had nothing to do with nervousness.  He knew it was only a matter of minutes before King Elessar and his men came bursting into the room, and despite the half a dozen guards lined up in front of his desk, Servius was afraid.  He did not know how many men Elessar had with him, but it had to be many for the King to have so thoroughly ambushed his guild.  They would be coming for him soon, and he did not know how much protection the six guards in front of him could offer.

It was obvious that his two advisors were thinking along much the same lines.  Standing beside him behind his great desk, they were both shifting nervously, their hands shaking slightly as they gripped the hilts of their swords.

“Perhaps there is still time for us to flee,” Telfor suggested in a small voice, his eyes glued to the heavy doors leading into the office.

The only reply Servius gave to this was a low growl in the back of his throat.  He would not be running.  No matter how nervous he was, he was determined to see King Elessar die.  It seemed that most of his life had been shaped around this single goal, and he could not even fathom the possibility that he might fail, that the fates might not see fit to allow him to accomplish this single task.  King Elessar might have him outnumbered, but Servius was still certain that the man would insist on leading his men in battle.  He was still flesh and blood, still mortal, and Servius would see that he died no matter what the odds against him.

As if to punctuate this thought, the doors to the office suddenly swung open with a loud bang, causing everyone within the room to jump slightly.  Servius’ hands tightened into hard fists at his side, and his jaw clenched with a fiery determination.  He watched with cold hatred as King Elessar strode into the room, closely followed by his dwarven companion.  The King stopped only a few feet before the line of soldiers standing in front of the desk, his gaze grazing across them almost casually before lifting to meet Servius’ dark glare. 

Servius had expected the King to show surprise and disbelief at the sight of him, but Elessar displayed neither.  His expression was calm and collected, and his voice revealed absolutely no emotion as he said simply, “Surrender, Merton.  It is over.”

Rage exploded inside Merton’s head, and for a long moment he could not speak, so overcome was he with burning hatred.  His hands had balled into so tight a fist that he could feel his nails cutting deeply into the skin of his palm.  His whole body shook with fury, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that he brought his raging emotions under enough control to be able to speak.  “Surrender?” he spat, spittle flying from his lips.  “Unlikely!  I will never surrender to you!”

“Then you will die,” Elessar said simply, his voice still perfectly calm, though Servius could now see simmering fires of anger within the King’s gaze.

“Where are your men?” Servius growled.  “You make empty threats while you stand before me outnumbered.  Call your men to you, and let us finish this once and for all!”

King Elessar arched an eyebrow, his gaze flickering briefly to his companion before turning back to Servius.  “I do not know of what you speak,” he said finally.  “I have no men.  There is only Gimli and I, and our threat is far from empty.  I tell you again, surrender or die.”

Servius laughed mockingly, though inwardly he was reeling with the news that Elessar and the dwarf were alone.  “And what, o King, would you do to me if I were to surrender?”

“You would be brought back to Gondor where you would be tried for your crimes,” Elessar answered simply, his voice firm and hard.

Servius laughed again.  “And I suppose the punishment for my crimes would be death, would it not?” he asked scornfully.

Elessar did not answer, but his gaze hardened

Servius snorted contemptuously  “That is what I thought,” he said nastily.   “No, I do not think I shall be surrendering.  Yet since you have just revealed to me that you and the dwarf are alone, I am afraid it is you who will be surrendering to me.   Throw down your weapons or I will have my men cut you down where you stand.  If you give yourself up, I swear I will make your death quick and painless.  Maybe.”

King Elessar shook his head.  “You are a fool, Merton,” he said softly, showing no signs of relinquishing his weapons.  “You have allowed hate to become your master, and now it is killing you.”

Servius’ face twisted into a grimace halfway between a sneer and a snarl of rage.  “Perhaps it is you who should be more worried about death, your majesty!  Hate is not killing me, it has made me strong.  Strong enough to defeat you!”

“If you were strong, you would have come after Aragorn and faced him yourself, instead of sending others to do your dirty work,” Gimli bellowed, hefting his axe threateningly. “You will never be strong enough to defeat Aragorn, you rotten excuse for orc dung!”

“KILL THEM!”  Servius screamed at his men, his patience snapping at the dwarf’s insult.  “KILL THEM BOTH!”

The line of men lunged forward, swords raised, their cries of battle echoing eerily within the large room.   King and dwarf stood firmly to meet them, their own weapons raised and ready.  There was a loud clash as steel met steel, followed by loud grunts of effort as Servius’ men attempted to overwhelm the man and dwarf with the sheer force of their number.  Elessar and his companion stood firm, however, refusing to back down, and repelling the men attacking them with an amazing show of strength and skill.

Servius wasn’t paying much attention to the fight, however.  Instead, his hands were scrabbling desperately within a hidden compartment on the side of his desk.  When he at last withdrew them, he held a large, already loaded crossbow in his grasp, his face shinning with triumph.

“And now you die, Elessar,” he whispered cruelly.  Raising the crossbow and aiming in the direction of his most hated enemy, he waited patiently for a clear shot and an easy victory.

*****

Legolas leaned against the wall of the hallway, his eyes closed as he listened intently to the discussion going on in the room before him.  His right hand was tightly clasping the bloody rag against the wound on his left side, yet he barely felt the pain of the injury any more, so intent was he on what was happening within Servius’ office. 

Despite the burning wound to his pride, Legolas knew Aragorn had been right in forcing him to stay out in the hall.  In his present condition, weak and unsteady, he would only be in the way.  He knew he would never forgive himself should either Aragorn or Gimli suffer injury whilst trying to protect him.  Yet still he felt as if there had to be some way to help his friends.

“KILL THEM!  KILL THEM BOTH!”

Merton’s screams from within the room carried clearly out into the hallway were Legolas was waiting.  He straightened as the first sounds of steel against steel echoed from the room.  Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself away from the support of the wall and began moving toward the doorway to the office.  He knew he could not stand idle within the hall, listening to the sounds of battle without knowing what was happening.  Perhaps he would not be able to help, but he had to at least watch.  He had to know what was happening.  Stooping down, he retrieved the abandoned sword of one of the guards Aragorn had killed, then straightened painfully and continued toward the door.

He would not break his promise to Aragorn and purposefully join the fight, yet perhaps some of the guards would notice him standing in the door and move to attack him.  Aragorn would hardly be able to blame him for defending himself.

He staggered to the doorway, peering in at the fierce battle taking place before him.  Gimli and Aragorn stood side by side, fighting off half a dozen guards, their backs turned to him.  Neither of them seemed to be in too much danger, for though they were outnumbered it was obvious that they were far superior in skill than the men facing them.  None of the guard’s blows seemed in danger of coming anywhere near them, and Legolas knew it would only be a  matter of time before they were able to reduce the enemy to a much more manageable number.  Still, he had to fight off the nearly overwhelming urge to join his friends and even out the odds a little. 

A movement from the far side of the office suddenly caught Legolas’ attention, and his gaze swung immediately to where Merton and his two advisors still stood behind the desk.  His heart froze at the sight of the object in Merton’s hands, and it did not take him long to realize exactly where the Guildmaster was aiming.

“Aragorn!” he cried, stumbling into the room, forgetting his promise to remain out of the battle in his need to protect his friend.  “Watch out!”

It was too late.  Even as Legolas lunged forward, two of the men fighting Aragorn shifted, opening up a clear shot for Merton.  Legolas’ cry of warning sounded at the exact instant the bolt from the crossbow was released with a loud snap. 

TBC