Chapter 32      An End to Evil           

Aragorn never heard Legolas’ shout of warning, nor did he hear the snap of the crossbow bolt being released.  He was too busy fending off two of Merton’s guards, while trying to keep his third opponent from circling around behind him.  His concentration was focused completely on his adversaries, and the ring of steel on steel rang loudly in his ears, muting all other sound.  He had just managed to forcefully drive back his first two opponents and was whirling to face the third when he hesitated, all his senses suddenly screaming out in warning.

It was too late though.  He gasped in shock and pain, his eyes widening slightly as the crossbow quarrel found him, cutting a long, deep welt along the top of his forearm, the tip tearing through skin and muscle and grazing bone, before flying away to burry itself deeply in the wood of the floor.  His right arm went almost instantly numb, and his sword slipped from his limp fingers with a loud clatter.  He stumbled forward, all color draining from his face as blinding waves of agony raced up and down his arm.

The three men he had been fighting were quick to take advantage of his dropped guard, lunging forward with upraised swords.  Aragorn saw their approach and stumbled back, helpless to stop the blows he knew were coming.  But before any of the swords could reach him, Legolas was there, appearing out of nowhere to stand before him, his own sword sweeping out in a fierce arc that deflected all three of the guards’ blades.

The men were as startled by Legolas’ sudden appearance as Aragorn, and they hesitated, their faces showing their uncertainty.  Legolas did not give them time to regroup, but leapt toward them, his sword a whirring blur as he drove them back, away from the injured and dazed Aragorn.

Aragorn shook his head, trying to clear his mind.  Legolas’ unexpected appearance had served to buy him some much needed time in which to regain his wits.  His right arm was useless now, the cut from the crossbow bolt running from just above his wrist up to his elbow.  The gash was extremely deep, slicing clear down to the bone and bleeding heavily.  His arm was throbbing in agony, and his body seemed to suddenly be protesting his slightest movement.

Yet there was no time to either succumb or see to the injury.  Legolas was now locked in a fierce struggle with the three guards Aragorn had been battling, and it was obvious the injured elf would not be able to keep the fight up for long.  His movements were much slower, much less graceful than normal, and Aragorn knew it was only a matter of time before the elf faltered, perhaps with a fatal result.  Gimli was too busy fighting off his own three guards on Aragorn’s other side to be able to offer aide, and so it was up to Aragorn to help his elven friend.

Aragorn tucked his injured right arm protectively against his stomach, then began looking around desperately for his dropped sword.  His vision was somewhat blurred, and the burning agony in his arm was a distraction, but in his desperation to help Legolas he was able to push away the pain.  His friend had saved his life, but unless Aragorn acted quickly, the elf would die for his sacrifice.

Aragorn had just reached his sword and bent down to retrieve it when a loud roar from across the room distracted him.  He turned just in time to see Gimli fling himself forward, his axe swinging wildly before him.  The three guards facing him fell back in surprise and alarm, the force of the dwarf’s blow knocking the sword from one man’s hand, and snapping the second man’s weapon clean in two.   Both men fell dead a moment later as Gimli’s axe slashed for a second time. The third guard attempted to dash out of reach of the raging dwarf’s axe, but in so doing, he put himself in range of Gimli’s fist.  The dwarf sent him crashing to the ground with a single, fierce blow to the side of the head. 

Gimli’s path lay open then, and the dwarf charged forward, his destination clearly the spot behind the large desk where Merton and his two advisors were still huddled.  Merton was busy trying to wrestle a second bolt into the stubborn crossbow, so his two advisors, in a surprising show of bravery, moved forward to block Gimli’s path.  Their faces were twisted in anger and hatred.  Gimli met them in the narrow space between the large desk and the wall, his own face filled with rage and determination.  Unfortunately, the small area did not provide him much room in which to swing his axe, and the two advisors fell upon him with wild abandon, their ferocity and enthusiasm making up for any lack of skill.  Even as Aragorn watched, he saw one of the men pick up what looked like a heavy block of iron from the desk and hurl it at Gimli.  The object slammed into the dwarf’s face with a sickening crunch, and Gimli stumbled backward, dazed. 

All of this had happened in the space of a few heartbeats, and for the barest of moments Aragorn stood motionless, unsure of which direction to go.  Both Legolas and Gimli were in need of aid, but if he went to one, would that mean the loss of the other?

Blood was pouring down Gimli’s face from a deep cut above his left eye, but the dwarf was still fighting, the swings of his axe perhaps slightly more wild than usual, but still effective in keeping the two advisors at bay.  Still, how long would it be before the blood flowing down into the dwarf’s eyes blinded him to a surprise ending, like the single, lethal slash of a blade.  And yet on his other side, Legolas too was in serious danger.  It seemed that only desperation and rock hard determination was keeping the elf alive, and how long could that last?

Aragorn was not given the chance to decide who was most in need of his help, however.  He was saved from having to make the decision by a loud shout of triumph from behind the desk.  Merton had at last succeeded in loading the second bolt into the crossbow, and with a look of uncontained glee, the Guildmaster raised the weapon and pointed it directly at Aragorn’s chest.

“You lose, King Elessar!” he screamed in mad glee.  “Throw down your weapon!”

Aragorn stood frozen, his mind whirring in desperate search of a plan.  He knew whether he threw down his weapon or not, Merton would still kill him, and a rebellious part of his mind screamed at him to fight!  Merton might shoot him, but if he acted quickly enough, perhaps he would be able to bring the Guildmaster down with him.  Even if he died, he would at least die fighting.   But then, if he did as Merton ordered and dropped his sword, the Guildmaster was likely to take time to gloat over his victory.  This would give Aragorn more time in which to come up with a plan.  Either way his chances were slim.

Aragorn at last decided to try and buy more time, and for the second time his sword slid from his fingers to land with a clatter on the floor.  Around him, Legolas and Gimli continued to battle with their opponents, and if they were aware of what was happening, they were obviously unable to do anything about it.  Aragorn and Servius faced one another from across the room, the only two people not locked in a desperate struggle for survival. 

Just as Aragorn had suspected, Merton began to taunt him, secure in his surety of victory.

“Would you say my hate is killing me now, King Elessar?” he crowed, his voice full of disdain.  “No, indeed it is your love that has killed you! If you had not come after the elf, I would not now be given this opportunity to kill you.”

Aragorn made no response, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this situation.

“No bold words now that you are facing death?” Merton asked derisively, waving the crossbow in tantalizing little circles.  “Ahh well, I always knew you to be a coward beneath your proud play at heroics.  Perhaps you will have something to say after I have killed one of your friends.  Which one would you like me to kill first, Elessar?”

Aragorn’s heart gave a sickening lurch as Merton shifted the crossbow from him to the still battling Legolas.  He took a step forward, but then stopped, knowing he would never be able to reach Merton before he fired.

The Guildmaster was watching him gleefully, obviously enjoying the panic he saw reflected in Aragorn’s eyes.  “You will all die eventually,” he said dismissively, “But which of your friends should go first?”  The crossbow now moved to Gimli.  “Which one would you like to watch die?  The one you came to rescue, or the one who has so foolishly stood by your side?”

Aragorn’s heart was hammering wildly within his chest, and his mouth had suddenly become so dry he could not speak.  He stared fearfully at the crossbow, waiting for Merton to make his move, and dreading what that move might be. 

Merton seemed to have at last grown tired of his game with Aragorn, impatient to move along in his plans of revenge.  His gaze moved from Aragorn to fix on the struggling form of Gimli.  His aim steadied; his fingers drifted toward the trigger.

Aragorn had no time to think, only act.  His left hand plunged inside his tunic, desperately seeking out the hilt of the tiny dagger Elrohir had given him as a gift years before.  The dagger was much too small to use in a normal battle, but Aragorn had developed the habit of carrying it with him wherever he went.  The small knife was extremely useful in other tasks, as Aragorn had discovered in his years as a Ranger.

He was thinking of none of this, however, as he wrenched the small blade free.  All his attention was focused on Merton’s right hand, which was beginning to tighten upon the trigger of the crossbow.  Aragorn did not hesitate, but hurled the tiny dagger with all his strength.  His throw was somewhat awkward, due both to the fact that he was using his left hand and he had not taken the time to properly aim.  Still, the knife found its mark, burying its tiny blade deep in Merton’s shoulder.

The Guildmaster let out a surprised shout, jerking back, his hands slipping on the smooth wood of the crossbow.  The weapon began to tumble from his hands, and Merton made a wild grab for it as it fell.  As he did so, his hand bumped the trigger.  There was a loud snap as the bolt was released, followed almost immediately by a loud wail of pain. 

Aragorn watched in stunned surprise as Merton’s arms began to windmill at his sides, his face contorted in agony.  The crossbow had been aiming downward, and the bolt meant for Gimli had instead pierced deeply into the top of Merton’s foot.  The Guildmaster tried to jerk his leg away from the stinging pain, only to find that his foot was pinned to the floor by the bolt.  Overbalanced, he let out a cry and tumbled backwards, straight into the gaping mouth of the hearth and the hungry flames waiting within.

A horrible shriek filled the room as the fire blazed angrily, dancing flames reaching out to embrace the figure thrashing wildly amid the ashes.  Merton’s screams echoed throughout the room, growing slowly louder in pitch as the raging fire consumed him.  Ugly black smoke poured from the hearth, filling the room with the sickly stench of burning flesh.  When Merton’s screams cut off abruptly, the silence that replaced it was almost deafening.

Aragorn stood transfixed, staring at the fire, his face showing a mixture of relief and horror.  The other occupants of the room also stood frozen, their weapons still raised, but their eyes locked on the burning remains of the body in the fire.  All fighting had ceased, and no one seemed to dare even breathe.

It was Merton’s two advisors that finally broke the silent spell that had fallen upon the room.  With loud cries, the two men lunged forward, knocking Gimli backwards before racing past him and through the doors of the office, the pounding sound of their retreat echoing back up through the hall.  The remainder of the guards quickly followed suit, some of them even dropping their weapons in their haste to get out of the room.

As soon as he had regained his balance, Gimli made to go after them, but Aragorn stopped him.  “Leave them, Gimli,” he ordered, his gaze fixed on Legolas, who had slumped back against the far wall, his face completely ashen and his arm gripping his side tightly.  The dark stain of blood on his tunic had spread even farther, and the elf seemed to be trembling slightly.

Aragorn stooped and retrieved Anduril, then quickly moved to Legolas’ side, Gimli a step behind him.  He reached out his left arm to steady the elf, ignoring the screaming pain in his other arm.  “Legolas?” he whispered worriedly, fearing that the elf was about to pass out from pain any moment.

“I…I will be fine, Aragorn.  Just give me a moment,” Legolas requested, his eyes sliding shut for a brief moment before re-opening.

“We need to get out of here,” Gimli murmured, watching the elf with unveiled apprehension.  “Both of you have serious wounds that need tending to, and if we do not hurry more guards may return.”

“If they do, Gimli,” Legolas said wearily, “I’ll let you deal with them while Aragorn and I watch.”

“We need to stem your bleeding before we go anywhere,” Aragorn announced, struggling to tear a long strip of cloth from his cloak with his good hand.  Gimli moved to help him, and they soon had the wound on Legolas’ side tightly bound, stemming the flow of blood.  Another strip was then cut from the cloak, this time to be wound firmly around Aragorn arm.  They moved quickly, ignoring their pain in the rush to be gone.

 “It is not the best, but it will have to do until we reach the inn,” Aragorn announced when they had at last finished.  He let out a soft laugh then.  “We all look horrible.  Perhaps we are losing our touch”  The sickly stench of burning flesh was beginning to turn his stomach, and the pain in his arm seemed to be growing with each passing second. 

Aragorn and Gimli helped Legolas ease away from the wall, then supported him as they moved out of the office and down the hall.  “A dwarf never loses his touch, Aragorn,” Gimli said staunchly when they were well away from the office and heading down the stairs toward the main hall.  “Perhaps these skills are fading from Legolas and you, but mine will stay with me until my dying day.”

It was a measure of how weary they were that neither Aragorn nor Legolas had an answer for this.

“We will rest at the Sleeping Dragon for one day,” Aragorn informed them as they moved toward the doors leading out of the guild.  “I don’t want to stay in this place a moment longer than we must.  Captain Jeralk will be worried, and the sooner we return to him, the better.”

“I am as anxious as you are to leave this place behind,” Legolas assured Aragorn, his face twisted in a grimace of pain he could no longer hide.

“We will rest longer at Del and Fandon’s homestead,” Aragorn said, watching Legolas with mounting concern.  “They took excellent care of Dar, and I am sure they will be more than willing to have us.”

Legolas nodded wearily, then suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his head jerking up.  “Dar?” he said, obviously startled.  “Aragorn, Dar is alive?  He escaped?”

Aragorn nodded, giving Legolas a small grin.  “His injuries were grave, but thanks to the kindness and care of a wonderful family, he will be fine.”

A look of joyous relief swept over Legolas’ face, and when he again moved forward, his steps were much lighter.  “It seems there is much you must tell me,” he said softly, his eyes glowing bright.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, “But not until we get back to the inn and I tend to your wounds.

They were outside the guild now, the first bright glow of dawn lighting the eastern sky.  Legolas’ face revealed his disgust as they moved through the jumble of bodies littering the ground, and they all picked up their speed slightly in their anxiousness to be free of the gruesome sight.  Even more rats had come out to feast, and their beady red eyes followed the three companions as they hurried down the alley.

Aragorn kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, and his gaze swept the shadows before them in search of any signs of ambush.  He knew they were not free of danger yet, and in fact would not be completely safe until they had left Norvil far behind them.  He had to admit, that like Legolas, he would be more than a little relieved when that time came.

They had gone about halfway down the dark alley when Gimli suddenly stopped, his abrupt halt causing the others to stumble.  Legolas moaned softly, and Aragorn turned to face Gimli questioningly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Gimli’s eyes were unnaturally wide, glinting softly in the darkness, and what Aragorn could see of the dwarf’s face seemed to be twisted in horrified realization.  “Oh no, Aragorn,” he whispered softly, “We forgot the medallion.”

Aragorn winced, his eyes sliding shut for a moment at his own stupidity.  How could they have forgotten the medallion?  Gimli’s life rested on that tiny trinket, and yet they had almost walked off without it.

“What medallion?” Legolas asked when Aragorn opened his eyes again.  “Of what do you speak?”

“The medallion used to buy your life, my friend,” Aragorn answered softly, then, as Legolas looked about to question him further, he said, “I will explain everything later.  But now, we have to go back for that medallion.”

Gimli was shaking his head, and when Aragorn looked at him he cast a pointed look at Legolas.  “You need to get Legolas back to the inn, Aragorn,” he said firmly.  “Perhaps I can stay and look for the medallion myself—”

“No!” Aragorn immediately overruled the dwarf’s suggestion.  “We stay together.  Perhaps we can take Legolas to the inn, and then you and I return together to search.  It is likely the medallion is in Merton’s office somewhere.  It should not be too hard to find.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, “But what if the Guild is crawling with guards by the time we return.  You are hardly in the condition to fight any more battles, Aragorn.”

“I could…” Legolas began, but then quickly cut off, his gaze locked on something at the end of the alley.

Aragorn swung around, awkwardly drawing Anduril from its sheath with his left hand.  Gimli removed his axe from his belt, and the two friends immediately moved to stand protectively in front of Legolas, their eyes locked in the direction Legolas had been staring.  “What is it?” Aragorn asked in a whisper.  “What do you see, Legolas.”

“Men,” Legolas answered simply.  “Several of them.  Down near the end of the alley.”

“More of Servius’ guards no doubt,” Aragorn said grimly, glancing wildly around the alley for a place the three of them might hide.  None of them, save perhaps Gimli, were in any condition to fight, and if they could hide until the men passed…

“Aragorn, one of them approaches,” Legolas whispered hurriedly.  “I do not think he is a guard, for he is rather richly dressed.”

Aragorn barely had a chance to nod his understanding before the man had reached them.  He stopped perhaps a yard from where they stood, his face cloaked in shadow, his casual stance revealing that he was not at all surprised to find them standing there.

“You may put your blade away, Strider, ranger of the north.”

Aragorn immediately recognized the voice, but it was not until the man took another step forward that his facial features were revealed.  It was none other than the richly dressed and pompous aid that had questioned them outside Thorbis’ guild before taking them to see the Guildmaster.

“What are you doing here?” Aragorn demanded, lowering his sword slightly but not putting it away.

The man’s face darkened, as if annoyed that Aragorn would dare question him, and when he answered his tone was somewhat sullen.  “My master has sent me to learn whether you have failed or succeeded in this night’s mission.” 

“Then you may tell him we have succeeded,” Aragorn answered simply.

The man’s eyes swept quickly over Legolas, then behind them to where the shadowy hulk of Servius’ guild was just visible in the early morning gloom.  His expression was somewhat dubious as he asked, “And Servius?”

“He is dead,” Aragorn replied firmly.

“And what of the assassin, Tervanis?”

Aragorn sensed Legolas shifting slightly behind him, but he did not turn to look at the elf as he answered, “The assassin is gone.  Yet your master need not fear him now that Servius is dead.”

Thorbis’ aid slowly nodded, his gaze fixing on Aragorn with an intensity that immediately set him on guard.  “You have my master’s appreciation.  In truth, he did not believe you would be successful tonight, and he will be most pleased when I report back to him.  Most pleased indeed.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Gimli grunted darkly, and when the aid cast him a curious glance he continued, “I do not have your master’s medallion.  Yet perhaps if you will spare some of your guard, they can help us search for it.”

The man shook his head, a wide and arrogant smile spreading across his face.  “There will be no need for that, master dwarf,” he stated superiorly, “You see, I already have my Master’s medallion and will be returning it to him personally.  You need not ever bother him again.”

Aragorn and Gimli stared at the aid in surprise.

“You already have the medallion?” Aragorn asked, hardly daring to believe their good fortune.

The man nodded. “ We caught several of Servius’ guards trying to escape from the guild a few moments ago.  Among them were Servius’ two advisors.  We killed them, of course, and afterwards checked their bodies for any valuables.  My master’s medallion was one of the things we found hidden in a pocket of one of the advisors’ tunics.  Of course, it does not appear in the best of conditions, yet I am sure Thorbis will not hold you responsible for that.”

There was something in the aid’s tone that made Aragorn suspect that Thorbis would indeed try to hold them responsible for the medallion’s condition.  “I am glad that your master is happy,” he said simply, “Now if you please, we would like to return to our inn.”

“Of course,” the aid said, moving aside and sweeping his arm out in front of him.  “But I would be careful if I were you,” he added, just as they started moving past him.

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked, turning back to face him.

The aid merely shrugged, but the intensity was back in his gaze as he looked at Aragorn.  “I simply mean that you may not find yourself as welcome at your inn as you once were.  In fact, you may not find yourself welcome anywhere in Norvil.  It would be my suggestion that you leave immediately.  That is, if you still can.”

“What is this you are babbling about,” Gimli growled impatiently.  “Stop speaking in riddles man, and tell us why we will not be welcomed back to the inn.”

The aid shot a sharp look in Gimli’s direction, but he did explain.  “It seems that there is somewhat of a large mob out looking for you,” he stated simply, as though he were making some comment about the weather.  “They are led by that man you fought in the pit fights the eve before last.  He has been spreading rumors about you around town.  Wild and far-fetched, perhaps, yet that is just the kind needed to stir up the good citizens of this town.”

“What do the rumors say?” Aragorn asked, though he already suspected he knew perfectly well what Kiesco was spreading around town.

“That you are no mere ranger of the north,” the aid stated, his intense gaze returning to Aragorn, “But that you are in fact a King.  And no mere King at that, but King of Gondor.  Wild and far-fetched, as I have said, but I do not think I need to remind you that Gondor and Khand are not on the best of terms at the moment.  If this mob finds you, I do not think they will hesitate in tearing you to pieces, and your friends along with you.”

Aragorn felt a strange sinking sensation within his stomach.  He had been counting on being able to stop at the inn long enough to see to Legolas’ injuries as well as his own, yet the possibility of such a things seemed remote at the moment.  If Kiesco had a mob of bloodthirsty men looking for him, it would be best if they left Norvil as fast as they could. 

“Thanks for the warning,” he offered shortly, then turned and motioned Gimli and Legolas to follow him from the alley.  The sun had barely risen, and yet Aragorn felt certain that the day would be long and difficult.

TBC