Aulit stopped and lowered his desert scarves as he reached the hall used for the Gathering. It was half an hour past sunset, and after the passage of another half-hour, the delegates would be arriving for the second night of negotiations. With any luck, this night would be a calmer night than the previous one, but of course, that was never a guarantee, particularly in Haradhur. With a sigh, Aulit shook his head and motioned his guards to disperse throughout the hall. By now, the temperatures had cooled sufficiently that it was safe to enter.

With its domed ceiling of glass, the Gathering hall caught and held the heat of the sun during its hottest moments of the day, making the inside burn as an oven. It was a safety precaution that all tribes had agreed upon when construction of the hall first began, and it ensured that no poison or other tool of assassination could be positioned inside the hall during the heat of the day. Neither could assassins find places to hide themselves before the tribes began to converge, for the building’s soaring temperatures would not permit it.

In order to cool the hall before the Gathering, the officiating tribe would send men to the hall at sunset and they would throw open all the doors, allowing the chill of the night air to have access. Then they would stand guard, making certain that no one entered prematurely. It was a tradition that dated back to the first Gathering held in Haradhur, and it was one that had served the Haradrim well over the years. In a world of uncertainty and almost constant political unrest, it was a great comfort to know there was at least one place that was safe from the artifices of rebels and assassins during the day.

Speaking quietly with one of the door guards, Aulit received a report that all was well and that none had tried to gain entrance during the time that the doors had been flung open to cool the hall. This report was more of a formality than anything else was, because the inner halls were still quite warm, and Aulit seriously doubted that anyone would have the desire to enter. The heat was such that it could now be endured, but it was still unpleasant and there were easier ways to lay traps than by bearing the day’s collected warmth.

Loosening his robes as he entered the outer hall after his guards, Aulit made his way to the inner hall, intending to see that there were sufficient seats. He would not put it past the Lotessa tribe to have made off with a few chairs just before sunrise in the hopes that a lack of seats might humiliate the Khurintu tribe, which was notorious for arriving late to the Gathering every night after the first night. If this had happened, more chairs would have to be procured quickly, for Aulit intended to see that this night at least began without complications.

The lingering heat caught Aulit full in the face as he entered, and he closed his eyes and turned his head slightly as he tried to adjust to the shift in temperature. Once he became acclimated, he opened his eyes again, turned to the center of the room, and instantly abandoned all hope of seeing that this night got off to a smooth start.

Standing behind Aulit’s seat at the table was the Destroyer.

Reacting purely on instinct, Aulit froze. As leader of the Gartabo tribe, Aulit possessed a keen mind that was skilled in evaluating trade, ordering management, and making decisions under pressure. He was a highly practical man who put little stock in rumors and legends of the ancestors, which was something rather unusual in Harad. In fact, Aulit had viewed the entire appearance by the Destroyer as something of a curiosity but not a significant threat so long as the panic of the masses could be controlled. After all, the Destroyer was really little more than an ancient myth fleshed into life by the agents of Sauron.

But all of Aulit’s finely honed mental faculties and reasoning fled at the sight of Harad’s most feared religious icon standing before him where no man should have been able to enter. And for one of the first times in Aulit’s life, he did not know what to do.

"Cast them out."

Aulit started, not certain that he had heard correctly. It was a rare thing when the Destroyer chose to speak, and only a few of the legends surrounding the Iluh’s herald indicated that he spoke. But it appeared that the Destroyer had elected to utter words again, and eventually finding his own tongue, Aulit hastily begged for clarification.

"Who? Whom shall I cast out, honored servant of the Iluh?" His voice was shrill and had any others heard him at that moment, they might have mistaken his identity. Never before had the leader of Gartabo sounded so helpless or so vulnerable. He was literally shaking with terror, and his fear was increasing exponentially with each passing second.

"The abominations. They must not be allowed here."

Abominations? Aulit’s mind started racing as quickly as one of Portu’s prize stud horses, but he couldn’t quite seem to grasp what the Destroyer was talking about. Unless… "The elf and dwarf?" he questioned, trying to sound as humble and submissive as possible. "They are to be cast out? Shall we eliminate them?"

"The Iluh shall see to them," the Destroyer hissed. "From this desert, salvation shall spring as water from a well, and power once lost shall return. But heed not my words and thou shall be swept from the earth by plague and by fire."

"Nay, great one, I hear your words and obey," Aulit said hastily, prostrating himself upon the ground.

"See that it is so, then, and perhaps thou shalt earn a place of honor in the realm of the Iluh," the Destroyer murmured, his voice growing distant. "Go now, and do their will."

"Yes, great one. But what of Gondor and Rohan? What if…" Aulit raised his head abruptly and trailed off, falling silent as he glanced about the room. Save for himself, the inner hall was now empty.

The Destroyer was gone.

* * * *

"I will be glad to return to Aglarond when this is finished," Gimli sighed, watching the side streets and alleyways as he walked. "To my mind, the largest problem facing Harad, and also ourselves, is the weather. I fear the heat has driven these people mad. What they need is a large underground network of caves."

Walking beside the dwarf, Aragorn shook his head while Legolas laughed quietly. "If given a choice, my friend, I would rather live here than in your caves," the elf declared.

"I fear that I must agree with Gimli," Eomer said. "Not man nor dwarf nor even elf was intended to live in this weather, and I would cheerfully join Gimli in the Glittering Caves if given the choice."

Flanked by Imhran and Arhelm, Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli were making their way toward the domed hall for the second night of the Gathering. And if nothing else, this should prove to be a very interesting night, Aragorn decided. The tension in the air was so thick it was palpable. The fact that the banter between Legolas and Gimli was still going strong despite the atmosphere was testament to how severe the situation was becoming. Aragorn had learned that when either of them was uncertain or anxious about something, elf and dwarf would fall back upon teasing one another, using it as an outlet for nervous energy. It bothered Aragorn that Eomer was joining with them in this, not because it reflected on Eomer’s own mood but because Aragorn longed to do the same and was very close to giving in to the temptation. Is the unease that bad tonight? He wondered. Catching a few dark looks from venders and merchants who seemed to shy away from their company, Aragorn decided that yes, the situation was indeed that bad.

"The heat has clearly affected you both," Legolas was saying as Aragorn again picked up the flow of the conversation. "Though it is doubtful if Gimli was ever truly sane."

"I fear it is your mind that has been touched by this heat," Gimli retorted. "Of course, elves are strange creatures anyway."

"In what way?" Legolas demanded.

"Explain the preoccupation with trees and stars. Neither serves a useful purpose unless it be for firewood, yet you revere them as though they were the end all of your existence. Dwarves, on the other hand, turn their mind to things of a more practical value."

"Hence your kind’s love of gold, which is useful only for ornamentation," Legolas noted.

"Elves use it often enough in that," Gimli reminded him.

"Peace, both of you," Eomer laughed. "With regard to elves and dwarves, in my mind, the two of you are the strangest yet."

"And what cause have you to claim that you are normal?" Gimli demanded.

"But I am not normal," Eomer answered. "I am the King Eomer of Rohan and heir to the revered Eorl of old. My differences are cause for renown. Your differences, I fear, are reflections on your personalities."

"Nay, you are not the only member of a royal family, oh great king," Legolas said with a teasing smile. "For I, too, am heir to elf lords long departed and the son of he who rules Greenwood the Great. Alas, I fear now it is only Gimli who can have no excuse for his peculiarities."

"You forget that I am known as elf-friend among my kind," Gimli smirked. "If I am strange, it is your fault for making me so."

"I know of no elf-friend who refers to elves as strange creatures," Legolas said.

"Then you do not know many elf-friends," Gimli told him. "Or mayhap that royal blood in your veins has rendered you deaf to the complaints against your kind by those who suffer to be called your friends."

"Suffer? Master Dwarf, there are many who yearn to be called our friends, for in that there is great renown. It is beyond my comprehension why any should refer to your stunted frame as an elf-friend."

"How can it be, oh great Prince of Mirkwood, that your mind is so limited by such a meager comprehension?" Gimli asked. "When considering a strong, mighty dwarf such as myself, it is no wonder that the elves have begged me to accept the title elf-friend and so bring the elves renown for claiming such a friendship."

Exchanging a hopeless look with Eomer, Aragorn idly wondered whether or not Gimli and Legolas ever had any normal conversations. Even when the situation was not a stressful one, some of their speech reminded him of the time after they’d just met and occasionally had to be physically restrained from attacking one another. Of course, there was the major difference that Gimli had gradually learned the fine art of arguing with Legolas, and their verbal matches were more or less even now. Still, a casual listener might make the mistake of assuming the two were bitter enemies when just the opposite was the case. In his long life, Aragorn had never seen two such devoted friends. Nor had he seen two friends so vastly different from one another.

But as Aragorn continued to listen absently, he began to detect a note of earnestness in their voices. Both elf and dwarf were highly uneasy, and their banter was covering an unusual amount of anxiety in both of them. Something was building, and they could sense it. But it seemed neither one knew exactly what was bothering them. And I would say the same for myself, Aragorn decided. I can also sense that something looms upon the horizon, yet I know not how to describe it. Still, this banter must cease soon, for we are beginning to draw attention. Worried or not, we have an appearance to maintain.

"Then that is a wonder of this age," Gimli was saying as Aragorn turned his full attention back to their discussion. "Had my advice been sought, I would have recommended a sturdy dwarven maid."

"And such a recommendation would have been the subject of much laughter, for how can one compare a dwarf to Queen Evenstar."

Realizing that his marriage to Arwen was now up for debate, Aragorn decided that now would be the perfect time to redirect the conversation. "I have heard there will be entertainment tomorrow night during the negotiations. If the Haradrim keep with tradition, it should be a wondrous event."

Legolas and Gimli eyed one another and then nodded, a silent vow to continue the argument later. Aragorn pretended not to notice. "Would you tell us of this entertainment?" Legolas requested. "A diversion in these mindless talks will be eagerly welcomed."

"Can it be that the great elven prince has no stomach for diplomacy?" Gimli gasped with mock amazement. Legolas glared at him and jerked his head toward Aragorn, reminding the dwarf of their unspoken agreement to delay the argument. Aragorn ignored it, but he did wonder if sometimes Legolas and Gimli thought him blind to their body language.

"There will be much dancing and music, as well as singing and food," Aragorn explained. "I would caution you all concerning the food, though, for it is a favorite tool of assassins. However, the rest is harmless enough so long as one maintains one’s guard."

"I knew not that the Haradrim were so elvish," Gimli muttered. "Music and song. It seems the dwarves will have to spread their influence further if we wish to counter such nonsense."

Legolas sighed audibly, Eomer shook his head with patient amusement, and Aragorn rolled his eyes. "I think you will find this particular music and song to be unlike anything you have ever seen or heard before," Aragorn said. "Elven it is most certainly not. In fact…" Aragorn stopped and trailed off, eyes focusing on the street before him. "Legolas…"

"Budari and Arabano," the elf confirmed, his eyes narrowing. "They look as though something has gone amiss."

"We have not even begun the proceedings this night," Gimli muttered, tightening his hold on his axe.

"Welcome to Haradhur," Aragorn sighed, stepping forward and composing his face. "Does not the Gathering begin soon?" he asked when Budari and Arabano drew near. "You are moving the wrong direction."

"Honored ones, we must speak," Budari said, his eyes focusing first on Aragorn and Eomer but then straying to Legolas and Gimli. "Gartabo’s watchmen around the hall have orders to seize the Legolas and Gimli on sight and take them outside the city to be held until a sign from the Iluh releases them or kills them."

Aragorn blinked and Eomer murmured something beneath his breath that would probably not have been said in the presence of ladies. "I trust that Aulit has good reason for ordering his guards to take the seconds of Gondor and Rohan," the king of Gondor said, keeping his voice low.

Budari glanced over at Arabano, who reluctantly took the cue and began to explain. "Our information is not the best, but rumor has it that when Aulit entered the inner hall earlier this evening he found the Destroyer waiting for him."

"Impossible," Aragorn hissed. "The hall is too hot for anyone to enter during the day."

"Or so we thought," Budari said quietly. "But however it was accomplished, apparently the Destroyer warned that the elf and the dwarf must not take part in the Gathering."

"They have been branded as tainted, and all who deal with them are tainted as well," Arabano added.

"What of Gondor and Rohan, then?" Eomer spoke up. "And how does this affect our recent alliance?"

"Once given, the word of Lotessa is stone," Budari said. "Our alliance stands as long as I live. And since I live still, we have come to aid you. Legolas and Gimli must not attend the Gathering tonight, for they shall be taken outright. In the event of a struggle, they may even be killed. Perhaps we may unravel this tangled web of deceit so that they may take part tomorrow night, but for now, it would be best if they left Haradhur entirely."

"We are prepared to offer you our men as guards for those whom you choose to stand in their place," Arabano said. "You will not want for protection, honored ones, but we must move quickly."

Aragorn glanced over his shoulder at Legolas and Gimli, both of whom were completely silent and both of whom looked far too casual considering their lives had just been threatened. "What say you?" the king of Gondor asked.

Elf and dwarf exchanged glances and somehow discussed the matter through a series of minute facial expressions that Aragorn didn’t attempt to translate. He could usually get most of their silent communication, but tonight his head was already grappling with too many other things. At length, Legolas and Gimli turned back to Aragorn and Eomer, the decision made. "If it is your wish, we shall depart," Legolas answered. "However, we would not be confined to camp. Have you another mission we might fulfill?"

"The elf is bland company," Gimli explained, neatly ducking a half-hearted swipe on the part of Mirkwood’s prince. "And we would leave the city as is counseled."

"Those who are patrolling the desert are probably on the western side," Eomer mused. "You could join them if you so wish. The eyes of an elf would probably be of much use to them. Perhaps you shall even discover the whereabouts of Asbad."

"Faensul shall be glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs," Legolas agreed with a nod. "He was restless earlier this evening."

"Then if you are going to depart, you must do so in haste before the Khurintu tribe realizes what has happened," Budari cautioned. "For undoubtedly it is their hand at work in this."

"Do the two of you think you are capable of returning to camp without causing too much of a stir?" Aragorn asked with a pointed gaze at elf and dwarf. Both looked offended and Gimli drew himself up straight.

"We shall leave Haradhur with the speed and silence of a hunting Warg," he promised. "None shall even know that we are gone."

"I pray you are right," Aragorn sighed. "Let us depart, then, for if we linger it will seem suspicious."

"Beware," Budari added as a warning. "We here in the city may deal with the brunt of spies and deceivers, but the desert beyond Haradhur can be just as perilous."

* * * *

Lingering just outside the Gathering’s domed hall, a shadow watched and waited. Most of the delegates had already entered, but there were a few key players who had yet to show themselves. And Dashnir was quite content to sit outside and wait until he was certain that these key players would be in attendance. So much now depended on so many little things. In a way, it was now a fool’s game that he and Asbad now played. One step too far to the left or the right might well be the undoing of years of plans and preparations. But such was the way of all good schemes, or so Dashnir had learned. The greater the risk, the greater the reward, and those who could successfully orchestrate such risks became the leaders and the rulers.

So far, all was working according to design this night. The spies had reported in just before sunset with the news that Portu’s raiders had done their job and that the rumors of the Destroyer could be heard in all of Haradhur. Elf and dwarf now signified death and destruction in the minds of many Haradrim. Asbad had successfully slipped into the hall before Aulit arrived, thanks in part to a Gartabo guard at the west entrance who had long accepted money and goods from Khurintu. He was now marked for death later in the night, and the secret of the Destroyer’s true identity would soon be a secret known only to Khurintu and Lotessa. Beyond that, the men were all in position, and it was down to the last tidbits of preparations and the last moments of waiting.

But these last moments were perhaps the most dangerous and the most difficult. Members of the Soltari tribe were an unpredictable lot and Fastahn more so than most. If he failed to tell Lotessa of Aulit’s intentions and elf and dwarf arrived at the Gathering only to have Gartabo’s men attack them, all was lost. King Elessar and King Eomer would protest, a great argument would ensue possibly climaxing in bloodshed, and Khurintu would never enter the picture. All would be for naught. Of course, there were contingencies set up should this happen, but the situation would become extremely complex and the chance for victory would dim considerably.

But Dashnir was now reasonably sure that this would not happen. Neither the Lotessa tribe nor the delegation from Gondor and Rohan had arrived at the Gathering yet, which probably meant that they were together. And if Budari and Arabano had taken the trouble to search out Elessar and Eomer and risk making their alliance with them known, then undoubtedly Fastahn had fulfilled his role.

Dashnir shook his head and smiled slightly. Fastahn was a fool in so many ways. He had no suspicions that his "agent" in the Khurintu tribe gave him only information that was carefully selected and doctored ere it ever reached his ears. Nor did Fastahn suspect that he was monitored closely after receiving his information to ensure that he did what he was expected to do with his "secrets." Such a predictable fool, Dashnir sighed. A danger, to be certain, but a predictable danger. In truth, he is among the least of my concerns.

Having reassured himself that elf and dwarf were alerted to their danger and that the contingency planning was unnecessary, Dashnir was now concerned about the possibility that elf and dwarf would go ahead and face Aulit’s guards rather than choosing discretion. For the entire journey into the desert, Dashnir had attempted to solve this mystery by learning the minds and hearts of his adversaries, yet in the end, he had been forced to admit failure. It was not total failure by any means, for he strongly suspected that discretion would be the choice of Gondor and Rohan in this instance, but that was still only a guess and in no way did it approach certainty. But there was nothing to be done for that now—as Asbad was fond of pointing out—and so Dashnir tried to put such thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing again on the streets.

A few minutes later, his wait was rewarded. Hushed voices caught his ear, and peering through the shadows, Dashnir’s heart skipped a beat. They were coming. Moreover, he could see no sign of either the elf or the dwarf. Hope and adrenaline began to race through his veins as the figures drew closer, and it was only with great difficulty that Dashnir managed to still his breathing and slide even further back into the shadows so as not to be seen. They had done it! Khurintu had done it! The rest was academic, for victory was at hand. So close was it, in fact, that it could be tasted.

With euphoria rushing through his mind, Dashnir watched as King Elessar and King Eomer walked into the hall bereft of their seconds. They were as other men now, with no control over unnatural beings such as elves and dwarves. They could be challenged without the fear of destruction looming over Harad, and they could be kept within the hall while the rest of the Khurintu tribe did its work.

It was no easy task for Dashnir to still his voice and quiet the cries of victory that demanded release, but somehow, he managed it. With a smile that might have made Sauron shiver, Khurintu’s second waited until the entire group had disappeared into the hall, and then he stepped out of the darkness. His job was now a simple one, and it was one he could do in his sleep. He had, in fact, done something similar to it many times before when he couldn’t sleep. It would be a joy and a pleasure to do it now with a purpose to back it. Straightening his robes and assuming an expression of affronted dignity, Dashnir made his way to the hall and stepped inside.

The game was afoot.

* * * *

"And so it is just the two of us," Gimli murmured as they wove through the walls and structures that comprised Haradhur.

"May the Valar have mercy upon me," Legolas sighed to the stars above.

"If you despise my company so much, you are more than welcome to leave," Gimli said, relaxing his guard slightly since the elf did not seem to be overly concerned for their safety. "But it will be your loss, for at this time there is no better company to be had than the company of a dwarf."

"If that is indeed the case, I shudder to think of what Middle Earth will come to," Legolas answered. "Its ultimate fate will be evil beyond all measure if things do not change."

Gimli scowled. "Do you wish to know what I believe, Legolas?"

"No."

"I believe you envy my natural ability. I believe you are jealous."

Caught off guard by this remark, the elf snorted despite himself and started to laugh. "Jealous? My friend, it is as I said before—the day’s heat has made you mad. But indulge me, if you will. Of what am I jealous?"

"To begin with, a strong, compact body," Gimli said, trying to ignore the fact that Legolas was now doubling over with laughter. "One might also add an intelligent mind to that list as well as incomparable skill with the axe." The laughter grew and Gimli wondered whether or not he was actually advancing his cause through this tactic. "Eloquent speech, swift reflexes, keen senses…" He trailed off as he watched Legolas clutch helplessly at his stomach. "Composure, too," the dwarf finally added. "I believe that you could do with that as well."

Legolas howled at this, laughing so hard that it brought tears to his eyes, and in light of all they’d been through, Gimli decided that the elf probably needed a good laugh. And so he sighed and tried to wait patiently for the elf to calm himself.

"Are you finished?" the dwarf asked pointedly after a minute or so. "We should reach camp, collect Faensul, and be off. The mood of this city is not a good one, and I have no wish to be caught in whatever political storm breaks tonight."

"Ai, my apologies," Legolas breathed, still holding his stomach but managing to regain his perfect posture. "I know not quite what came over me."

"No one ever does," Gimli muttered. "Think you that you can control your emotions until we are free of this city?"

The elf nodded rather breathlessly and began walking once again. "It is good that none are currently about or they might have wondered at our actions."

"Our actions?" Gimli shook his head. "I had been taught that elven memory is long, but apparently it is also selective. I was doing nothing that warranted attention. Any foolishness that may have taken place was solely your own doing."

"Ah, but how can I help myself when I walk in the presence of such comedy?"

The dwarf decided to let that comment slide for now, though the elf would certainly pay for it later. Gimli had found the fabled scorpion within one of the buildings that surrounded their camp, and he intended to put it to good use come morning. "So tell me, Legolas. What do you think of the Destroyer and the fact that we are now both heralds of destruction?"

"I think they judged correctly in your case," the elf retorted.

Gimli sighed and sent a long-suffering look up at Legolas. "I did not ask in jest."

Legolas’s mood altered almost immediately, and he nodded. "I know, and for my answer I apologize. But my own feelings are uncertain, and I am reluctant to speak of them. It is strange, actually. I feel…it is as though…" The elf trailed off, his eyes distant and troubled.

"What?" Gimli pressed. "What do you feel?"

"In truth, I cannot say," Legolas answered quietly. "I have a…a vague sense of foreboding. Yet it is a strange foreboding, and very unlike the general sense of unease I have had for most of this journey. This new feeling whispers of a coming darkness that be neither avoided nor averted. We are powerless before it."

The dwarf frowned. "That is strange indeed. Perhaps there is some merit to the tradition of the Destroyer, even though the Destroyer is merely a man in this instance. What do you make of your feeling, Legolas?"

"I know not what to make of it, my friend. But I do know that I have felt like this once before."

"When?"

The elf grimaced and hesitated a moment before answering. "During the Council of Elrond, do you recall hearing that Aragorn gave Sméagol into the keeping of the Mirkwood elves?" At Gimli’s nod, Legolas continued. "It was the night before Sméagol escaped. The night before the orcs attacked. I could not sleep that night, and darkness seemed to cloud my thoughts like a thick blanket made for a heavy winter. All the next day, the feeling grew that something was amiss. I could not label what, nor can I now. But it is the same. Something is brewing, Gimli, and it is not something that is easily stopped."

They had now reached Gondor’s campsite and were making their way toward the tents that housed both the men and the horses. And as Gimli pondered the elf’s words, he noticed the extreme silence that had fallen over their encampment. Which is only normal, considering there is likely to be no one here save a few guards walking about the perimeter, the dwarf told himself. But still…it was very quiet.

"Gimli?"

Gimli shook himself back to reality and wondered what had just been said. "Pardon?"

"I asked for your thoughts on the matter," Legolas said, moving to the main tent and pulling the flaps aside so that they might enter. "A moment, if you will. I wish to take my whetstone with us."

"By all means, proceed." The dwarf stepped into the tent after the elf, and as Legolas began searching through his pack, Gimli considered what he thought about the elf’s words. "Your senses are keen, my friend," he said at length, pausing to light a small lantern when it seemed that Legolas was having trouble finding his whetstone. "And I will admit to being strangely anxious myself this night, yet I wonder how an evil can be inevitable. The future is an untried road, and upon its pages, many lines can be written. But until tomorrow becomes today, it is still an unknown land."

"I agree with you, Gimli, yet my instincts say otherwise," Legolas murmured. "I know not how to interpret this." A pensive silence fell, each lost in his own thoughts, until Legolas spoke up rather abruptly with underlying tension lacing his voice. "In many ways, this is like Amon Hen."

Gimli blinked. Amon Hen? Perhaps I was right about the heat. He has gone mad. He turned to give the elf his patented stare of incredulity, but he froze at what he saw. Legolas was no longer shifting through his pack but instead watching one of the entrances to the tent closely, his bow in hand and an arrow already set to the string. Now recognizing the reference to Amon Hen, Gimli seized his axe and moved behind the elf, facing the other entrance to the tent. "Yes, I suppose it is like Amon Hen," Gimli responded, trying to keep his voice light and conversational. "Many of our actions then may apply to our actions now."

"But there are some differences. For example, I see only two main options."

"You speak truly," Gimli said, keeping his eyes fixed on the tent flaps before him and trusting Legolas to guard his back against the only other way in. His hands gripped the haft of his axe even tighter as he caught the sounds the elf had heard earlier. Hushed whispers outside in the shadows, muffled by the tent’s heavy material, became audible to even the dwarf’s ears. A shiver of anticipation raced up his spine at the same time that a cold dread settled over his heart.

Behind Gimli, Legolas suddenly shifted slightly. "Perhaps I was wrong," the elf said, his voice a little too casual. "Perhaps this is more like Moria. You remember when I identified at least nine different causes to the problems that we faced there? And even they were not enough for a sufficient explanation."

Gimli froze at his friend’s words. Shortly after the War of the Ring, he and Legolas had aided Aragorn and Eomer in clearing much of the Ephel Duath around Ithilien of Orcs. It was during this time that elf and dwarf had developed a language of codes that could be used when listening ears might be lurking about. Using this language, Legolas had just informed Gimli that he could hear at least nine different enemies—possibly more—moving outside the tent. The dwarf tried to silence his breathing and so that he might also hear the different voices and so count the forces that drew near, but his ears were not acute enough. "Think you that we should treat this situation as we treated Moria?" Gimli eventually asked, hating the idea of running even if they were facing the possibility of far superior numbers.

"The elves keep their grudges long, but even we have been known to forgive and forget. Sometimes we do so quite suddenly."

He wants to leave immediately? Gimli frowned, wondering if his dwarven pride would allow such a thing and eventually deciding that it wouldn’t. "Elves may forgive, but dwarves are creatures of the earth and we stand fast in its strength," he said at length. "In any case, I am unconvinced that this is a situation similar to Moria." And with that, Gimli moved forward, giving himself room to swing. The voices had drawn very close and then abruptly stopped. It wouldn’t be long now.

"Then I fear it will become like Moria ere long, and we may greatly rue the strength of the earth and the grudges of the elves," Legolas sighed, shifting all his weight to the balls of his feet. "A plague upon the stiff necks of dwarves."

"And a plague upon the stiff necks of elves," Gimli returned with a grim smile.

No sooner had Gimli spoken these words than the tent flap before him was ripped open. Eight men came barreling toward the dwarf, and the familiar adrenaline rush of battle took hold of Gimli, granting him a strength known only to the dwarves. He felt Legolas moving behind him and realized that men had also entered from the other side of the tent. They were alone and surrounded, but at the moment, that fact did not faze the dwarf. He was Gimli, son of Glóin, Lord of the Glittering Caves, renowned warrior, hero, elf-friend, and member of the Fellowship of the Ring. Beyond that, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Barak khazud!"

The dwarven battle cry rang loud within the tent, and with a speed seemingly at odds with his short, stocky frame, Gimli leaped forward and put his axe to work. The men had clearly been briefed as to the ways of their opponents for they bore metal shields and carried them high to deflect arrows. With a slight shake of his head and the rather belated thought that perhaps Legolas had been right to classify this as a Moria battle, Gimli attacked.

Axe met shield and a man cried out as his arm broke under the force of the blow. Without pause, Gimli swept on to the next man, knocking shields and bodies aside as he wove a path through his enemies. He heard two arrows ricochet off metal and knew that Legolas would be hard-pressed to hold the men on his side of the tent at bay. Deciding to backtrack, Gimli knocked down one more shield and swung back toward the elf.

"Legolas, turn!"

Ducking under a swinging club, Legolas leaped away from the men he had been fighting, rolled to the center of the tent, and came up on one knee with bow ready. Three quick arrows flew over Gimli’s head, and the dwarf reflexively ducked when he felt one of them whistle next to his ear. Looking back, he watched in satisfaction as the first two bolts found their mark, but the third was deflected when a shield was hastily jerked back up. But the preoccupation with the arrows was enough for Gimli to come in from the side and bring his axe down with such force that he drove it through both shield and man.

"Back!" Legolas yelled, bringing out his knife and spinning as the men streamed into the tent and attempted to get behind him. Hearkening to his shout, Gimli sidestepped one blow and hit the ground rolling, coming up next to the elf.

A quick count on the part of the dwarf revealed that eleven men now surrounded them. Not bad, Gimli reflected, watching his opponents carefully during the lull that had fallen upon the battle. Certainly not nine as Legolas thought, but not bad. We have faced worse and lived to tell of it. "The Morannon," he hissed to Legolas. The elf shifted slightly behind him and the dwarf knew the plan had been considered and accepted. Now they only waited for the men to make the first move. It was during this time that Gimli abruptly noticed the curious dearth of knives and swords on the part of the Haradrim. There a few scattered here and there, but the men carried primarily clubs and staves. Murder is not their intention, Gimli realized. But if they do not seek to kill us, then what do they—

"Surrender."

The sudden command broke through the dwarf’s thoughts as well as answering his questions, and Gimli glanced over his shoulder to see who might be speaking. He found himself looking at a tall man with eyes as black as coal. The loose robes of the desert concealed his form, but he held himself with the air of one in whom there is much strength. Nor is his strength untested, Gimli thought to himself, watching this man take a step forward and assume a battle stance that would befit a large warrior. The man was not unlike in appearance to Dashnir, and as Gimli began to consider this, he began to receive the same feeling of ominous nobility that Dashnir could convey. This was a powerful man, and shadows seemed to gather beneath the folds of his robes. Asbad, his mind whispered, and judging from the way that Legolas was watching this man, Gimli guessed that his instincts were correct.

"You cannot win," the man continued once he was certain he had the attention of both elf and dwarf. "Save yourself the dishonor of defeat."

"And opt for the dishonor of capitulation?" Gimli asked with an incredulous laugh. He shook his head, chuckling slightly at the thought. Despite the situation’s obvious danger, the idea was quite humorous and Gimli decided that this particular Haradrim was not terribly familiar with the ways of elves and dwarves. Never mind that he was accounted the most powerful man in Harad, Asbad still had much to learn of his opponents. "I have a better suggestion," Gimli continued, his voice conversational but threaded with an undercurrent of warning. "You cast aside your weapons, and we will let you surrender to us."

The dwarf’s words were followed by a rather profound silence, and then Asbad moved forward slightly. "I will not ask again," he warned.

"That is well, for then we will not have to answer again," Gimli retorted, shifting his weight and bending his knees. Beside him, he felt Legolas tense. Their instincts did not fail them. The moment Gimli finished speaking, Asbad cried aloud in the tongue of the Haradrim and the attack was on again.

Waiting until the last possible moment, when the raised clubs were almost upon them, Legolas and Gimli suddenly sprang apart. Their enemies crashed between them, cutting them off from one another, but dwarf and elf were not bothered by this for they knew exactly what they were doing.

On one side of the men, Gimli battled his way forward until the tent wall was before him. Once there, he turned abruptly and began fighting to get back into the center, his swinging axe clearing a wide path through the men he faced. Sensing motion from the rear, the dwarf brought his axe haft up to serve as a shield for his head and leaped forward into his next opponent’s blow, feeling the air part as a club was brought down just behind him. Knocking the end of the axe’s handle into the face of the enemy before him, he then shoved the axe blade backward over his head and smiled grimly as he felt a solid hit. Next, he was ducking beneath another strike and swinging at enemies from the side.

While dealing with his own opponents, Gimli periodically caught glimpses of Legolas on the other side of the tent, and he smiled as he watched the elf. The dwarf would never admit it to anyone, but his friend was something of a wonder to behold during a battle. Legolas moved so fluidly that he seemed to fight in slow motion, yet whenever a man moved to strike him, the elf was never there to be struck. However, there were too many men for them to fight completely without mishap, and after blocking a heavy staff and stumbling slightly from the impact, Legolas’s bow was torn from his grasp. Gimli winced when this slight distraction gave one man enough time to land a heavy club on the elf’s lower back, but the elf had lived too long to be incapacitated so easily. Immediately bringing out his hunting knife, Legolas rolled with the hit and swept his knife up at the same time. Gimli grinned as the tip of Legolas’s blade slashing deeply into his attacker’s arm, driving the man back and giving the elf enough time to readjust his defenses.

Working steadily in this manner, it wasn’t long before elf and dwarf were back to back once more in the center of the tent, and now only six battered men stood to face them. Three more men lay dead or dying, and two others were severely wounded.

"You fight well." It was Asbad again, and much to Gimli’s surprise, a tone of grudging admiration colored his voice. Khurintu’s tribal leader inclined his head in a small show of respect for the two friends, but his eyes were cold and it was clear that the attack was far from over. "In another time, you might have earned the honor of my people," Asbad continued. "But you come too late to our land and we must still consider betrayals of old. I cannot allow you to win." He whistled softly, the tent flaps parted again, and more men began to stream in.

"Moria," Legolas hissed, retreating until his back came into contact with Gimli’s head. "I would not relive Gandalf’s fall."

"Not yet," the dwarf argued. The fury of battle was upon him and, though he knew in his heart that Legolas was probably right, he could not turn tail and run until it was absolutely clear that there was no other choice. "Mirkwood Wargs."

Legolas let out a frustrated sigh, but in that sigh Gimli could hear reluctant acquiescence. It surprised the dwarf greatly, for Legolas had sounded insistent. But Gimli then remembered the elf’s earlier words of inevitable evil and wondered if perhaps Legolas thought their plight hopeless.

"On my signal," the elf whispered, interrupting Gimli’s thoughts, and the dwarf nodded, readying himself for the furious battle that was about to take place. He still held true to the notion that nothing was inevitable, and he intended to prove the elf wrong. A moment passed, the men around them tensed as though to attack, and then Legolas moved.

"NOW!"

Gimli sprang forward and the elf backpedaled rapidly after him, following the dwarf by sound and defending his back while Gimli fought furiously to reach a tent corner where they could both turn and fight together. For a while it seemed to be working, and Gimli was becoming elated with the prospect that his plan was successful. But even as talented as both warriors were, the press of men became too great for them. Reacting out of instinct, Gimli jumped forward under a blow that fell between the himself and the elf. The swing’s follow up was so swift that Legolas was driven from Gimli’s side and forced to move back toward the center of the tent as men swarmed around him.

Cut off from the elf and now unable to prevent his enemies from getting behind him, Gimli threw himself against the nearest man and sent him barreling into his comrades. Using the confusion this provided, the dwarf blocked left with his axe, dodged a blow from the right, and broke away from the main grouping of men, ensuring himself a bit more breathing room. His axe seemed to be everywhere and none could penetrate the dwarf’s guard, so fast were his reflexes. But he knew well that he could not keep this up for long.

Gimli caught a brief glimpse of Legolas, who had now been driven to the center of the tent and was currently engaged in a frantic fight within a pressing circle of men. Realizing that the elf would be unable to hold his own against such odds, Gimli adjusted the direction of his attacks and redoubled his efforts. Up, around, and forward swung the axe, and the dwarf’s hands were little more than a blur as he fought in a deadly dance, desperate to reach Legolas before aught could happen to the elf.

Just a minute longer, my friend, he mentally yelled at Legolas. Just a minute longer and I shall be at your back again. But try as he might, Gimli could not seem to break through the men and Legolas was making no progress in any direction despite his frantic attempts to get at least a tent wall behind him. With a wordless cry, Gimli began extending his axe swings well beyond what prudence would dictate in a last, desperate effort to reach his friend.

His distraction proved to be his undoing. Out of the corner of his eye, Gimli caught the dull light of the lantern gleam off its sharp edge, and in a frozen moment of time, the dwarf realized that he had only seconds to act if he wished to save his life. Turning a club on the blade of his axe and forcing one man back with the haft, Gimli attempted a dodge in the form of a frantic sideways leap, but his balance had been off and he was only partially successfully. The knife missed his chest and hit his thigh instead, sinking to the hilt as it buried itself in the main part of the muscle. Light flashed wildly in the dwarf’s vision and despite all his pride and all his strength, Gimli roared in pain.

Hearing the dwarf’s sudden yell, Legolas was almost taken out himself as he froze in sheer surprise. Never before had he heard such a sound from any dwarf, and as such it took a moment for him to recognize it for what it was it. By the time his startled mind began to think again, the fight had swept him even further from Gimli and he hurriedly sought to reverse the press, searching desperately through the swarming men for any sign of his comrade. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he did know that the dwarf was now wounded. And judging from the fact that he had cried out, Gimli was wounded badly. He would be unable to keep up his defenses, and their only hope for mutual survival lay in standing together. With a cry of rage, Legolas intensified his attacks and fought valiantly to reach the dwarf’s side, hoping against hope that he could do so in time.

But the elf was too late. Gimli did not recover fast enough from the knife lodged in his leg, and even as he straightened painfully to raise his axe in defense against the next strike, a club from behind came smashing toward the dwarf. By now, Legolas had spotted his friend and was close enough to see the blow that cannoned down upon the Gimli’s unprotected head and to see also that Gimli was unaware of the danger. Legolas started to shout a warning, but a swinging staff caught him in the stomach and robbed him of breath. His warning cry came out as no more than a whisper that was swiftly overwhelmed by the clash of steel and the jeers of the Haradrim. Gimli remained oblivious to his peril, the club descended with strength enough to have been wielded by a troll, and Gimli fell to the floor without a sound.

In the course of his long years, Legolas had seen lesser strikes kill on impact. Fear flooded the elf as a river overflowing its banks, and before he even fully realized what had happened, he had fought, stabbed, and shoved his way to Gimli’s side. While fending off the remainder of the men, he stole quick glances at the dwarf’s still form. He soon wished he had not looked, for from where he stood, Legolas could not see a rise or fall of the chest. All color had drained from Gimli’s face, and his body lay as still as stone. Complete panic and overpowering grief rushed through Legolas, and as he took in the sight of his motionless friend, something deep inside the elf snapped.

Legolas would never clearly remember what happened next. It seemed his vision filled with a red haze and the world turned into a sea of blood. Tears of mourning streamed down his cheeks, and his throat constricted with convulsive sobs. The elf threw himself into battle with an anger and a passion he had never before known. Blows rained down upon him, yet they slowed him not. He shook them off, heedless of their crippling affects as his mind filled with one life-shattering thought—Gimli was gone. And with this realization, Legolas ceased to care whether or not he himself lived. If he died, so be it. At least he would take the dwarf’s killers with him.

And with all other thoughts fleeing his mind, the elf spun, leaped, ducked, attacked, parried, and fought on instinct and anger alone, all rational thought having died with the dwarf. Never before and never again would he fight so recklessly or so successfully. Men fell before his blade as autumn leaves caught in a gale. Legolas was conscious of nothing but the swell of battle and the smell of blood. Everything he was and everything he had ever learned coalesced into a fury so tangible and so violent that a few of the men turned aside rather than facing the madness in his eyes.

But such a defense could not last, even for an elf. Numbers were against him as they had been against Gimli, and rage had robbed the elf of any semblance of caution. He over-extended his guard one too many times, and the blunt edge of a knife caught him on the side of the head. With a surprised grunt, Legolas swayed, staggered, and toppled over. The last thing he saw was a furious, blood-splattered man looming over him. Darkness swam before his eyes, the world was abruptly veiled in shadow, and then he knew no more.

Barak khazud!—Axes of the dwarves! (Dwarven battle cry)

Author’s Notes: Many of you will have recognized the title of this chapter already, but for those not in the know, it’s part of the song "The Road Goes Ever On and On." For a reference, it’s in The Fellowship of the Ring on page 58 and also on page 102 of the Ballantine 50th edition version.

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

 
Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Due to their amazing popularity, the Character List and the Tribe List are making yet another appearance at the end of this chapter.

Chapter 24: Broken Facets

Arabano decided that he had never met anyone quite as elusive as Fastahn was proving to be. The man was slippery as a serpent when he did not wish to be cornered, and Arabano was beginning to wonder if he came out of not the Soltari tribe but rather one of the tribes on the far eastern border of Harad where the desert gave way to jungles. There the tribesmen were constantly on the lookout for an attack from the east, where men road the fearsome mûmakil into battle and were said to drink the blood of their slain foes. One had to be swift and secretive to survive in that quarter of the land, and Fastahn seemed to be showing a plethora of talents in these areas.

But Arabano was nothing if not determined, and his persistence was something of a legend within his own tribe. If he took it upon himself to complete a task, that task would be finished and not even the Iluh would stand in his way. And so he spent the first two hours of the Gathering attempting to speak to Fastahn, who, in turn, was doing his utmost best to avoid Arabano. It took great patience and great fortitude, but eventually, Arabano managed it. Finding the Soltari tribesman speaking with Sarot of the Indro tribe, who had also been part of the delegation to Gondor, Arabano crept behind him and waited for the conversation to end.

Sarot was no fool and the moment he spied Arabano moving in, he began to back away, sensing that there was more to Arabano’s purpose than idle talk. Fastahn was initially confused, but he eventually turned to see what it was that had caught his companion’s attention. Upon finding Arabano, he paled almost immediately. To his credit, he recovered his composure quickly, but Arabano was shrewd, and Fastahn’s momentary lapse had given Lotessa’s second all the information that he needed. The man was afraid, and Arabano knew exactly how to put that fear to use.

"Would you give us leave for but a moment, Sarot?" Arabano said quietly, his words casual but his voice informing all that this request was in reality nothing short of a command. "There is somewhat I would say to Fastahn."

"Of course," Sarot said, moving away as though even being in Arabano’s presence was dangerous in and of itself.

"This way, if you would," Arabano said to Fastahn, moving skillfully through the crowds and sensing more than seeing the guards from Lotessa close in behind them.

"I have no more to say to you than what I said just ere the Gathering began," Fastahn hissed, eyeing the surrounding soldiers.

"I believe you do, and if you value your life, Fastahn of Soltari, then you will cooperate with me. My sword yearns for blood, and if it cannot have the blood of my enemies, then I shall give it the blood that stands in my way. And at the moment, I consider you to be an impediment to progress."

Fastahn’s eyes were stony and his jaw tightened at this threat, but he had no recourse but to follow Arabano as the man made for one of the exits. In truth, Fastahn was herded more than anything else, but Arabano decided not to parse the matter so finely. It mattered not so long as Fastahn and he were allowed to speak without fear of listening ears.

After heading into the darkened streets and weaving a confusing path into the alleys, Arabano stopped and turned. Fastahn joined him, as did Lotessa’s guards, and Arabano dropped all pretenses of diplomacy. His outer robe was pulled back to reveal the curved sword that hung at his side, and his hand rested upon its hilt, relaxed for the moment but in a position to act immediately should the situation call for it. "And now that we shall not be overheard, I would question you further on your information from this morning," Arabano said quietly, his voice hard as steel. "What did Asbad say to Aulit this evening and how came you by the information?"

"Let me begin by saying that I give this information under duress," Fastahn snapped, his voice seething with anger.

"Noted and ignored," Arabano countered, keeping his voice level and cool. "Continue."

"I was not there, nor do I know if it was truly Asbad. For myself, I do not see how it could have been since Aulit was said to be the first that entered the inner hall."

"Then let us speak in other terms," Arabano said, flexing his hand upon his sword hilt as a warning against foolish word games. "What did the Destroyer say to Aulit, and how did you know of their meeting?"

"The Destroyer told Aulit that the abominations were to be cast out of Haradhur and that the Iluh would see to them," Fastahn answered, his voice rather sullen.

"What else?"

"Nothing of importance."

"What else?!"

"He spoke of salvation rising from the desert," Fastahn muttered, glancing at the guards that still surrounded them. "A power of old shall return and all are to join with it or die."

"Mordor," Arabano murmured in a flash of realization, looking away from Fastahn. "They think to imitate Mordor. Ambitious fools. They can never hope to compete with the Lord Sauron." Turning back to Fastahn, his eyes flashed. "How came you by this information?"

"I do not willingly reveal my informants to even my superiors," Fastahn answered, his tone taking on one of stubbornness. "I shall certainly not reveal them to you."

"I asked not who but rather how. Was this information volunteered or extracted?"

"I do not see how that should—"

"Fastahn, if you do not put your tongue to good use then I shall remove it from your mouth," Arabano warned, taking a step toward Fastahn and drawing a small knife from his belt with a speed that could not be tracked by mortal eye.

"It was volunteered," Fastahn hissed, his face paling while the raging light of fury danced in his eyes.

"Then how are we to trust it?" Arabano demanded. "Surely you do not put your faith in an agent of Khurintu."

"It was both a warrior of Khurintu and a guard from Gartabo who informed me, working independently of one another," Fastahn answered. "The guard was outside when the words were spoken. The warrior had heard it from a different Gartabo guard."

Arabano frowned, thinking the matter through. "Let us suppose that your information is accurate," he said at length. "Let us suppose that your spies are not misled. I find it odd that the Destroyer would speak to Aulit. Does that not strike you as strange? For according to the legends as I understand them, the Destroyer rarely speaks at all."

"Many things about this situation strike me as strange," Fastahn said coolly. "Your own alliance with Gondor and Rohan is something of a puzzle in the eyes of the Soltari tribe. The fact that the Destroyer has chosen to vocalize his message seems rather normal when compared with other things that have happened here."

Arabano glared at the man, but he decided that for the moment, Fastahn had served his purpose. Nodding toward the guards, they stepped away and opened up a path behind Fastahn, allowing him to leave. A glare worthy of Sauron’s top advisors became Fastahn’s farewell to Arabano, and he quickly left, weaving through the alleyways and disappearing into the night. Arabano did not follow, though. His mind was now caught in a cloud of confusion. Whatever game Khurintu was playing, it was a strange one.

Despite Fastahn’s opinion to the contrary, Arabano believed that the Destroyer in the evening had once again been Asbad. It was not impossible to slip into the Gathering early. It required a bit of political maneuvering as well as bribe money, but it could be done. Lotessa had done it the year before in order to steal chairs. But if Arabano was right and Asbad had been the one speaking with Aulit, then what had he meant by his words? They were cryptic enough that they could be interpreted a number of different ways. Aulit had apparently chosen to interpret "abominations" as a reference to Legolas and Gimli, but what of the rest? What was this about salvation from the desert?

Arabano had a growing suspicion that Khurintu’s mustering forces around Lake Hajim were about to be put to use. What other meaning could there be for this strange prophecy? But surely Asbad did not think to attack the Gathering itself! Even the Khurintu tribe had not the men or the might for such an adventure. But what, then, were they planning to do?

The Iluh will deal with the elf and dwarf, Arabano repeated silently to himself. Or rather, the Iluh will deal with the abominations. Grimacing slightly at his lack of information, Arabano wished he had a firsthand account of what had happened, but Budari would have to pry that from Aulit himself. Personally, Arabano doubted that the Gartabo leader would willingly comply.

"Back to the Gathering," he eventually said to his guards, his voice so soft that the surrounding men had to strain to hear him. "And stay alert. Treachery abounds this night."

* * * *

Upon entering the inner hall with Aragorn and Eomer in tow, Budari’s eyes first moved to Aulit, and there they stayed as the leader of the Gartabo moved toward them. The manner of his walk spoke of a purpose that he was loath to undertake, and Budari soon had a fairly good guess as to what that purpose was. He has no way of knowing that his guards failed to apprehend the elf and the dwarf, Budari thought, trying now to keep his focus upon Aulit while also watching King Elessar and King Eomer. This should prove interesting.

"My apologies, honored ones," Aulit said when he reached them, apparently deciding that greetings and pleasantries were useless excesses. "If you will hearken for but a moment, I shall endeavor to explain what has happened."

Aragorn adopted a wonderfully innocent expression that greatly impressed Budari. He has done this before, he decided. Both often and successfully, judging by his seeming ease. By contrast, Eomer’s expression, while bland, was not nearly as convincing. But it was still authentic enough to fool Aulit, who seemed more intent upon ordering his next words than upon reading the faces of those to whom he spoke.

"I fear I do not understand," the king of Gondor said, his voice pleasant but somewhat curious. "Has there been a slight to either Gondor or Rohan? For we have been well served thus far."

"The deals that Rohan is brokering are most profitable," Eomer added. "Perhaps you sense that some have been less than honest with us?"

Aulit frowned and blinked, completely nonplussed, and despite the circumstances, Budari felt a small thrill of glee race through him. It was not often that someone managed to ruffle the practical, business mind of Gartabo’s tribal head. "But…your seconds, the elf and the dwarf…are you not—"

"Ah, that. Nay, we are not responding to any given offense," Aragorn said. "Rather, we felt they might better serve us on patrol in the desert. Keen senses might be useful there while others can easily fulfil their roles here at the Gathering."

Budari decided that Aulit had never looked quite so pale. Beneath his deep, desert tan, the man was a ghostly white, and once again, Budari found that he was completely enjoying himself at the other’s expense. Reminding himself that the situation was serious, Budari managed to expel most of the mirth from his mind, but he was not totally successful; the corners of his mouth kept twitching.

"They are in the desert?" Aulit asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

"Arhelm is acting as my second this night," Eomer supplied helpfully. "Imhran acts for Gondor as its second."

"And they shall return to Haradhur come morning?"

"The time of their return is a matter of their own discretion," Eomer answered, and Budari had to hide a smile at the game that Aragorn and Eomer were now playing with Aulit. It was a masterpiece of innovation, and he wondered how they were orchestrating it so smoothly. "They may return come midnight, or they might return after the sun rises," the king of Rohan continued. "Elves and dwarves are not as susceptible to the temperatures here as we are."

"But they will be in Haradhur before the continuation of the Gathering tomorrow? They shall be in your camp?" Aulit pressed, a look of fear growing in his black eyes.

"They shall certainly be in Haradhur, but they might not be specifically in our camp," Aragorn said, looking thoughtful. Budari decided that the king of Gondor was overplaying his role slightly, but it didn’t seem to matter as Aulit was so upset by their words that his powers of observation were failing him. "It is strange to me, but Legolas and Gimli have managed to make many interesting acquaintances in their short time here. There has been talk that they might stay with others for the day."

Budari now had great difficulty controlling his laughter, for Aragorn had just told a classic Harad half-truth and done so with perfection. There was clearly a subtle reference to Gartabo’s intentions of confining elf and dwarf, but Budari seriously doubted that Aulit was going to recognize it. In fact, Aulit didn’t look like he was going to do much of anything in the near future. He seemed only moments away from toppling to the floor.

"Should we not begin?" Budari said when it seemed that Aulit could no longer speak. "I know there are issues of water rights along the Sihal that I would like to discuss here ere the night wanes."

Grasping onto procedural norms as a man sinking in quicksand might grasp a thrown rope, Aulit nodded hastily and backed away a step. "I would speak with you later on the subject of your seconds," he said to Aragorn and Eomer.

"As would we," Aragorn said, his eyes narrowing and his tone cooling with a jarring abruptness. Budari had never experienced snow, but he decided that it was probably about the temperature of Aragorn’s voice. "There were strange rumors abroad tonight, and we have many questions," the king of Gondor continued. His look turned hard and he pinned Aulit with a stare that immediately reminded Budari of the servants of Sauron. "Also, your guards at the doors seemed…disappointed when we arrived. Almost as though they were expecting something. If you guards seek to assuage their disappointment, I suggest they look somewhere other than Rohan and Gondor."

It was not possible for Aulit to get any paler, but he did shiver slightly ere turning away hurriedly. Inclining his head in the direction of both Eomer and Aragorn, Budari silently praised them for their skills a verbal warfare and then moved toward his seat.

Before lowering himself into the chair, the leader of Lotessa paused briefly to run his eyes over the other delegates, attempting to gauge the general mood. There was much tension in the air, of that there could be no doubt, and more than a few suspicious glances were tossed in the direction of Aragorn and Eomer. But Budari sensed that the hostility he felt was not directed at the kings of Gondor and Rohan. At least not yet. It still lingered on the elf and dwarf, which was only natural considering that they were not men. It seems we shall have much to do both tonight and tomorrow if we wish to preserve the lives of Legolas and Gimli, Budari sighed as he took his seat.

By now, Aulit seemed to have composed himself and was calling for silence. After a minute or so, the hushed conversations around the room died away as other delegates sat down. When all had found their chairs, it quickly became apparent that someone was missing. And there could be no doubt as to whom that someone was. Budari cursed silently. This was not entirely unusual for the second night of the Gathering, but in light of all that had happened so far, it was certainly not a comforting development.

"Do any here know the whereabouts of Dashnir?" Aulit asked. "For I would begin as soon as possible."

A few long-suffering sighs could be heard about the table and Budari rubbed his temples. Khurintu had no concept of punctuality after the first night o the Gathering, almost making it their duty to arrive late for every meeting that they attended. It was actually something of a recent occurrence, but neither Budari nor any of his contacts had ever quite figured out why they started doing this. Ten years ago, when Sauron still reigned, the Khurintu tribe was among the first to be seated. But ever since Mordor’s fall, Khurintu had been coming later and later. It was beginning to be something of a joke among the other tribes, but tonight, the development was far from humorous.

"Let us begin without them," Budari finally said as the minutes began to stretch on. "Asbad is not in attendance and I see no need to wait on a second who thinks to take his leader’s place."

"The views of Lotessa concerning Khurintu are known," Aulit said coolly. "You may be impatient, Budari, but the rest of us shall wait."

"With respect, I must disagree," another voice said and Budari frowned as he glanced over at Khesva, the leader of the Soltari tribe. "We have broken tradition already in allowing a second to attend this meeting. I see no reason why that second should now dictate the times of our discussions."

Aulit blinked, clearly not expecting Soltari to stand against Khurintu. Fastahn might have aided Lotessa with bits of information, but now it seemed that Soltari was going one step further. Budari felt a flash of pity for Aulit as his expression changed to something akin to that of a caged animal, but the pity quickly died. Aulit had brought this upon himself by refusing to cast Dashnir from the council. He would have to deal with the consequences of his actions.

Fortunately, though, Aulit was saved from having to respond to Khesva. Half a moment later, the doors at the north end of the room were pushed upon, and Dashnir entered, looking rather upset. Somewhere in Budari’s mind, a warning bell sounded. He did not know the cause of the warning, but he was not one to be caught unprepared even if he did not have all the answers. His senses went on alert, one hand drifted near his sword, and he pushed his chair back slightly in the event that he would have to rise quickly. It was now up to Khurintu to make the first move. As it usually is, Budari thought bitterly. But until we know more, we cannot anticipate them.

"You come late," Aulit noted, his normally placid voice touched with anger.

"I do indeed come late, and there is good reason for my tardiness. I have just been informed of disturbing tidings," Dashnir answered. "They say the Destroyer was seen within these hallowed halls this evening and that he met with you, honored one. What say you to this?"

There was silence for a few seconds and then half of the inner hall erupted into demands for an explanation. Apparently the news of the Destroyer’s second appearance had not made it to all the tribes, and Budari wondered exactly how Aulit would handle this. He had been planning to confront the Gartabo tribesman himself and extract a firsthand account of the conversation, but it appeared that such an interrogation might no longer be necessary.

"Silence!" Aulit was shouting, but it did no good. His suspicions on the rise, Budari swept his keen eyes around the table and watched as the chaos in the room began to grow. And right in the thick of it all was Dashnir. He had joined his voice to those who clamored for information, and Budari was beside himself with frustration as he attempted to decipher Khurintu’s game. The Destroyer’s evening appearance was certainly not news to Dashnir, but he acted as though it confused and dismayed him, which was something rarely seen from a tribesman of Khurintu. In all things they hid their emotions, showing only a veneer of strength and control. Yet now Dashnir played the part of a horrified victim, and Budari did not like the implications. Something had happened or was about to happen, but he had no idea as to what that something was.

"Aulit, we of the tribes of Harad demand to be told what the Destroyer did when he met with you!" Dashnir cried out as he stood behind his chair at the table. "As the officiator of this Gathering, we look to you to hold order and peace. Yet you have failed in this, or so we deem. Have you been marked by the Destroyer? Speak, or Khurintu withdraws now!"

"Enough!" Aulit all but screamed. "I shall tell you." The room quieted slightly at this, and sensing that he now had their attention, Aulit repeated himself. "I shall tell you of what happened this evening. But I beseech you to refrain from drawing conclusions, for as is the case with many things, the Destroyer was cryptic and confusing."

"He spoke to you?!" someone exclaimed.

"If you wish to hear the tale, then be silent!" Aulit snapped, reaching the end of his patience. Budari blinked, wondering just how stressful the situation was becoming for Gartabo. He had never seen Aulit lose his temper like this.

"Aulit, the Khurintu tribe requests the right to speak when you are finished," Dashnir said, still refusing to take his seat. "For we have counseled among ourselves and have come to a conclusion that must be shared as soon as possible."

Aulit hesitated even as Budari’s heart leaped into his throat, and then to the dismay of the Lotessa tribe’s leader, he nodded. "It shall be so," Aulit sighed. "The time is yours when I have finished. Listen well, then, for I will tell this tale only once."

The silence in the hall became so thick that one could cut it with a knife, and as Aulit began to relate the story of the Destroyer’s appearance and his words, Budari caught a brief look of victory upon Dashnir’s face. It was gone quickly, replaced by an expression of anxiety and fear, but Budari was certain of his eyes. And glancing once at Aragorn and Eomer, he noted that they also had seen the flash of triumph. Their eyes were narrowed and when not looking at Aulit, they were studying Dashnir.

And so the sand runs deep this night, Budari noted as he turned his attention back to Aulit. I pray we do not flounder, for whatever Khurintu has planned, I sense that it is upon us.

* * * *

The moon was pale and the stars dim as they floated over the desert. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a sign that was yet to be given. The men left behind to guard the camps that surrounded Haradhur spoke to one another with hushed voices, suspicious of the eerie silence and fearful of what it might portend. Horses neighed and stomped their feet in restless agitation, and their human masters could only echo their concerns. Something was happening. Something that spoke of shadows and death.

The silence was broken with a shattering abruptness. On the far western side of Haradhur, a single horn rang out in warning, sounding loud and clear as it trumpeted its message to all that would listen. Voices suddenly rose up, and the ring of steel carried far over the sand. From there the chaos spread, washing across the desert and spreading out around Haradhur until it surrounded the city. Well ordered camps became madness as swift horses descended from the desert wilderness, bearing cloaked riders with swords that glowed red in the moonlight. No quarter was asked and no quarter was given. The riders simply attacked everything and anything without care for what it was that bore the brunt of their fury. To every camp around Haradhur the riders came, and the silent desert was soon a bedlam of frenzied defenses and ringing horns.

Caught in the middle of the chaos, the patrolling riders of Rohan and Gondor sought to control their mounts and regroup, not knowing what went forth save that it heralded no good for their cause. In a sea of confusion, they became the eye of the storm, and having pulled together, two were sent back to Haradhur to inform their kings of what went forth in the desert. The rest stayed to make sense of madness and mount some form of counterattack, if such a thing could be contrived in time to meet the threat. But the attacking raiders were swift and tarried not but flitted as shadows beneath the moonlight. It was next to impossible to form any kind of organized resistance against such a sortie.

And while the camps without Haradhur fought for their lives, a small group of men carrying two burdens fled northeast into the night.

* * * *

Imhran, captain of Gondor’s guard and temporary second-in-command, had decided that he did not like politics. He had endured his share of them while moving up the chain of command under Denethor’s stewardship and had never cared for the discreet arm-twisting and quiet backbiting that seemed to be inevitable consequences of political maneuvering. He had once wondered if such policies were somewhat exclusive to Gondor, given the kingdom’s tumultuous history. He knew that Rohan had the treachery of Wormtongue to speak of, but Wormtongue was a product of outside machinations. And while there was certainly competitiveness within the Rohirrim and a drive to rise in the ranks, their promotions seemed to be based more on merit rather than on rich relatives who held the ear of one’s commanding officer.

But Imhran knew better now. In speaking with Arhelm throughout the night, he had come to realize that there was a substantial amount of networking within the Rohirrim as well. And in dealing with the Haradrim, he had come to realize that the politics of Gondor were actually rather tame.

"The Portu tribe is agitated about something," a voice suddenly spoke behind Imhran. He managed to refrain from jumping, but his hand did go to the hilt of his sword as he turned. He relaxed as soon as he saw who it was, but the encounter served as a rather grim reminder that the Portu tribe was not alone in its agitation.

"How do you know this, Arhelm?" Imhran asked.

The captain of Rohan’s guard glanced over his shoulder and grimaced. "I have just finished speaking with a member of Portu’s advisory council. King Eomer asked if I would follow up on a trade deal in studs that he had brokered with Radarad, Portu’s tribal leader. I have done so and things seem to be favorable as far as that is concerned, but it seemed to me that all the members of the Portu tribe were…preoccupied. They kept looking about as though fearful of being seen. I did not understand it, and when I casually mentioned that they appeared anxious, they became even more agitated."

"Strange," Imhran murmured. "I have sensed nothing of that sort. Many of the delegates are anxious, and that seems quite natural given that a nightmare out of their ancient legends has now appeared twice. But no one is unduly upset. What do you suppose is affecting Portu?"

"Perhaps Portu is a more superstitious tribe than others," Arhelm offered, though he seemed rather reluctant to believe his own theory."

"Perhaps," Imhran murmured.

"Good evening, honored ones," a new voice said quietly, and once again, Imhran found himself repressing the urge to jump and draw his sword. He wondered how everyone was managing to sneak up on him so easily this night.

"How go your negotiations, Arabano?" he asked, turning to the second-in-command from the Lotessa tribe.

"Well enough, all things considered, but Arhelm has noticed what I have noticed. The Portu tribe is anxious. They fear something."

"Are they an overly superstitious tribe?" Arhelm asked, following up on his idea.

"In many ways, yes, they are," Arabano answered, his voice soft and thoughtful. "But not to this extent. If the Destroyer had confronted one of them, I might understand this behavior. But he did not. It is strange, and I do not like this."

"Think you that this anxiety has something to do with the plot to take Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli?" Imhran questioned. "For I cannot see a connection myself, but that does not rule out the existence of a link."

"Nay, it does not. I, also, see no connection, but my instincts tell me otherwise," Arabano said. "My instincts say rather that these things are related and that all things go back to Khurintu."

"It was Portu that attacked us while in the desert," Arhelm reminded them. "And according to both King Elessar and King Eomer, Khurintu and Warra were behind that attack."

"And Portu was the tribe spreading the rumors about what the Destroyer intended when he confronted the elf," Arabano sighed. "Yet all of these things are well in the past as far as the others Haradrim are concerned. Why does Portu possess this sudden fear now? It is almost as if…" Arabano trailed off and frowned, his attention being drawn to a growing commotion near one of the doors. "Know you what goes forth there?"

Imhran shook his head and stepped forward, sensing Arhelm move in behind him should cover be needed. "Can you see what is happening?"

"Men are entering the hall," Arabano murmured. He watched for a moment and then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Nay, not just men. Guards. Guards who would have been left to watch the camps during the night. There are guards from Soltari, Warra, Gartabo, Indro…" He suddenly moved forward and raised his hand, calling aloud in the language of Harad.

"I do not like this, Imhran," Arhelm stated, his voice tight with impatience.

"Steady for but a moment," Imhran counseled his Rohirrim companion, watching the growing chaos closely. "I doubt not but what we shall have our answers presently."

"If we do not, then I—"

"Captain Arhelm!"

Arhelm blinked and frowned as two of Rohan’s riders pushed their way through the crowd. Stunned for only a moment, he quickly went to meet them, leaving Imhran to follow hastily in his wake. "What news?" he demanded.

"Captain, the camps in the desert are under attack," one of the riders reported. "Horsemen came from the west, armed with sword and spear. Their numbers are not many, or so we think, but they seem skilled at causing great confusion. They rampage all over the desert surrounding Haradhur."

"A siege," Imhran hissed, remembering well the siege of Minas Tirith.

"Nay, I think not, sir," the second rider said with a shake of his head. "They appeared to have no interest in the city. To me, it seemed as though their only objective was to create havoc, and they are achieving their objective well."

"Who are they?" Arhelm asked. "Have you any guesses?"

"We saw no badges or emblems that might signify their tribe. However, they did ride their—"

"Honored ones, I trust you have heard the news from your riders?" Arabano interrupted, appearing at Arhelm’s side.

"We did," Imhran said. "Do your guards know who these attackers might be?"

"They do not," Arabano said, glancing back at the men who flanked him and now waited for commands. "They say were veiled by scarves that carried no symbols, and the colors belonged to none of the tribes in the desert."

"Sir, I believe I might know who they are," Arhelm’s rider spoke up. "Remember you the peculiar way in which the Portu raiders sat their horses when they attacked our camp in the desert? These riders were mounted similarly. If they are not of the same tribe, then they were almost certainly trained by the same tribe."

"Portu?" Arhelm questioned.

"It would explain their unease here at the Gathering," Imhran murmured.

"Portu would not dare attack the other tribes," Arabano said flatly. "Such a move is beyond them. Their way is the coward’s way. They wait until an opening presents itself, they attack, and then they slink back into their hovels and hidden lakes. There are too many powers here in Haradhur for them to even think about staging a raid. Such an attack would be suicide if it were discovered."

"But since they carry no markings, such an attack will not be discovered," Arhelm argued. "It must be Portu."

"But they would have nothing to gain from this," Arabano shot back, frustration growing in his weathered face.

"That we know of," Imhran said. "But this conversation can wait until such time as we have the leisure to debate this. We must instead focus upon what should be done now. How fare our men in the desert?" he asked, directing his question to the two riders of Rohan.

"We have grouped together, sir, and the attackers seem to sweep around us since we are an organized threat, but they are doing much damage in the other camps," one answered.

"King Elessar and King Eomer must be told of this," Arhelm said.

"That may be easier said than done," Arabano cautioned. "The inner Gathering is sacrosanct. None interrupt it until the leaders throw open the doors."

"Surely exceptions have been made!" Arhelm protested in disbelief.

"Very rarely, and only in extreme circumstances," Arabano said.

"But if Portu is behind this raid and is working under the direction of Khurintu, then they have spread their war beyond Gondor and Rohan to all of Harad," Imhran pointed out. "Surely that warrants an extreme circumstance."

"It is a circumstances of which only our three powers are aware," Arabano answered. "The other tribes would not understand the ramifications if our guesses prove true, for they have not the necessary information. But you are right," he continued quickly before Imhran and Arhelm could interrupt. "We must try to inform the leaders, and I suspect that if we act, other tribes will join us in attempting to interrupt the inner Gathering. For an attack is rather unprecedented, especially at the Gathering. But I would counsel that we focus our efforts on the desert rather than on the inner hall at the moment. I judge we shall be more successful outside Haradhur."

Imhran nodded and turned his attention back to the riders of Rohan. "One of us shall remain and seek to inform our kings while the other returns with you to give aid to Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli. What manner of counterstrike were they organizing when last you left them?"

The two riders looked at one another, obviously confused. "We thought that Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli were here," one said. "They were not among our company when we left."

Imhran felt his stomach drop, and Arhelm stiffened. "They never arrived?" Imhran asked as a shiver went up his spine. "They were sent to join you in the desert several hours ago."

"They never came."

Silence reigned supreme within their small group while loud voices clamored around them. "I will ride out to our men," Arhelm said at length. "They will need more guidance than what their current leaders can give. Eos, stay with Captain Imhran and report to King Eomer when he emerges. Vintred, you are with me."

"If it will hasten things, my horse is outside this hall, sir," Eos said. "You may take him, for his legs are still fresh and his endurance is good."

"Then I shall do so," Arhelm said. "Valar be with you, Imhran, and I pray you can bring King Eomer and King Elessar to us quickly. I feel we shall be in need of their guidance."

"Valar be with us all," Imhran whispered as Arhelm and Vintred hastened away. He then turned to Arabano, who had just finished giving orders to his own men, and inclined his head. "Shall we see about rousing those above us in authority?"

"It will be a difficult task, yet we shall manage it," Arabano said, moving toward one of the doors to the inner halls, which was guarded by a soldier from Gartabo. "The Khurintu tribe is not the only power in this desert."

* * * *

Eomer had never been a great fan of meetings. He endured them well enough when necessary, but they almost always left him feeling frustrated and drained. His strength lay upon the battlefield, and though Eomer had a great talent for reading the thoughts behind men’s faces, he did not have the talent to put this knowledge to use. Words came easily in the form of jests and taunts intended to rattle one’s sparring partner, but the delicate dance of diplomacy was something he’d always left to Eowyn.

Nevertheless, Eomer had learned over the years to hold his own in a debate. He had become a passable orator, he’d discovered that his intuitive knowledge of what a man was really thinking could actually be quite useful, and he’d improved his logical analysis to the point where he could follow practically any political tangle, though not necessarily unravel it. But this did not make meetings any more enjoyable than before, and it was times like this when Eomer remembered exactly why he loathed them so much.

After Aulit had related what the Destroyer had said to him, there had been many questions and much discussion. Various interpretations were quickly debated, and Eomer watched from the sidelines as insult after insult was heaped upon elves and dwarves. He’d longed to rush in and defend his friends, but a warning look from Aragorn had held him back. Now was the time to listen and learn. It was something Eomer understood, but he didn’t like it. And he liked it even less now.

Eventually, Aulit had refused to answer any more questions, and the final conclusion was that the Destroyer’s words were too vague to be interpreted specifically. But they probably referred to Legolas and Gimli. Then Dashnir had reminded them all that he had been promised the opportunity to speak. That had been at least two hours ago, if not more. And Dashnir was still going at it.

He’d begun by lauding the accomplishments of the Khurintu tribe and their honorable reputation throughout Harad. Then he had begun speaking of the years during Sauron’s reign when an endless stream of supplies had come down from Mordor and young men had be taken away and trained by the best tutors that Middle Earth had to offer. Eomer had found it difficult to restrain himself during this part, but once again, Aragorn’s look held him back. Not that Eomer would have been able to do anything anyway. Once a delegate had obtained the floor, another could speak only if that delegate yielded. And Dashnir did not seem inclined to yield in the near future.

After speaking of Sauron’s rule, Dashnir had spoken of the fall of Harad, its gradual decline into obscurity, and then the shadow of Gondor and Rohan looming over all. He had then accused Aragorn and Eomer of bringing destruction and ruin upon Harad, mincing no words and directly confronting them but still denying them the time to refute his attacks. It was not long before Eomer’s blood was boiling through his veins, and his hand clasped the hilt of his sword firmly. He did not know how long he could restrain himself in the face of such slander. Judging from his hard eyes and tight jaw, Eomer judged that Aragorn was having similar problems.

"Enough of this!" Budari suddenly broke in when there was a slight lull in the speech. Eomer relaxed slightly with Lotessa’s interruption. He did not relax very much, but he did calm enough to note just how tense the inner hall had become. "Dashnir, you have wearied our ears for hours now," Budari continued. "You have insulted guests that we have invited here. Yet nowhere have you indicated a purpose to this absurdity. Come to the point, if you indeed have one. Or is Khurintu unable to save its honor by traditional means and must now resort to wordplay instead?"

"I do not recognize your comments, honored one," Dashnir answered with a slight hiss, "for I have yet to give up my place on the floor. You have spoken out of turn. The time is still mine and I shall do with it that which I see fit to do."

"Budari is right," Aulit said. "You have no purpose in this talk that I can see and this Gathering has other things to discuss."

"While we are debating the duration of Dashnir’s speech, may I request a bit of time for a rebuttal when he does yield?" Aragorn suddenly said. "And a bit of time for Rohan, as well."

"Honored ones, I say to you again that I have yet to give up my time here," Dashnir broke in. "I still hold the floor. As for my purpose, it is to convince you all of the evil that sits before you."

"And what about this evil?" Eomer demanded, unable to keep silent any longer. "I cannot vouch for the others, but I know that I have listened to the evil speak for far too long. I respectfully request that it sit down and allow its superiors to have a word or two."

Something about the way that Aragorn shifted in his chair informed Eomer that he had probably made the situation worse, but the twitch of Aragorn’s lips indicated that the king of Gondor heartily applauded the outburst. Whatever the case, it had certainly made Eomer feel better and was thus well worth it in his eyes.

"You were not recognized," Dashnir said, glaring daggers at the king of Rohan. "Not only that, but you have dared insult he who holds the floor."

"As you have insulted him?" Budari interrupted. "Dashnir, yield your place. I grow weary of this. You are not Asbad. You are not a leader. Allowing you to even participate here is a breach of tradition. I will not allow you to make a mockery of this Gathering."

"You, honored Budari, are the mockery and I will—"

"Quiet, both of you," Aulit broke in. "Budari, I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. And Dashnir, you have spoken for several hours but have managed to say very little. Are you finished?"

Dashnir drew himself up, his eyes flashing, but before he could even open his mouth, one of the doors opened and a Gartabo guard entered, shutting the door behind him quickly but not before the sounds of a great commotion without could be heard.

"Speak," Aulit commanded as murmurs began to rise within the room.

"Arabano of Lotessa wishes to speak to the honored Budari," the guard said quietly. "Also, Imhran of Gondor wishes to speak with the honored King Elessar and Eos of Rohan wishes to speak with the honored King Eomer."

"Noted," Aulit said, turning his attention to Dashnir. "Do you yield so that we may decide whether or not to adjourn?"

"I do not yield for I have yet to finish," Dashnir answered angrily. "And now if you will allow me to…" The delegate from Khurintu paused and glared at a door across from him as yet another Gartabo guard entered, once again exposing the gathered leaders to the sounds of chaos and rising voices. "One might think this was contrived to prevent me from warning you of the imminent destruction," Dashnir muttered.

"Speak," Aulit said, ignoring Dashnir.

"Fastahn of Soltari wishes to speak with the honored Khesva and Sarot of Indro wishes to speak with the honored Varilya."

"My pardon then, honored ones, but I shall be leaving you," Budari said, rising to his feet.

"As shall I," Eomer seconded. Aragorn also rose, clearly indicating his intention to depart.

"Leaders cannot leave until all decide to adjourn the session!" Dashnir cried out. "Already you defile us with your foreign ways."

"I was the first to rise," Budari answered, his voice quiet but laced with steel. "You need not blame Gondor and Rohan. And Arabano would not summon me except under dire circumstances. Therefore I shall take my leave of you and depart. It is my hope, given the noise we have just heard beyond these walls, that others shall follow in my footsteps."

"And by your interpretation, Dashnir, you would also be able to leave if you so desired it, for you said that leaders must stay. You do not fall into that category," Eomer added with a slight smile even as he felt Aragorn’s hand come down on his shoulder in warning.

"Forgive us for this break in protocol, but as Dashnir has already noted, we are not of this land," Aragorn said, pulling Eomer away from the table with a slight tug. "And I like not the words that have been said this night. Therefore we shall depart to see what goes forth beyond this inner hall."

"As shall I," Khesva of Soltari announced, rising from his seat. "My apologies to those I leave behind as well as my condolences. May the remainder of Dashnir’s speech prove more entertaining than the first part."

"I warn you for your own good!" Dashnir cried. "You do not see the danger. This is but another ruse! This—"

But Dashnir was interrupted again by yet another opening door. But this time, instead of a Gartabo guard, Arabano, Imhran, and Eos stepped in, breaking one of the most sacred and respected customs of the Gathering by doing so.

"Honored ones, forgive the intrusion as I know it goes against tradition, but the news I bring is grave. And in good faith, I could not allow you to remain ignorant of it," Arabano said, his voice hard and filled with something akin to accusation as his eyes flickered once over Dashnir. Eomer’s instincts, already jumping, began setting up a deafening clamor in his mind and he felt both Budari and Aragorn stiffen next to him.

"Speak," Aulit said after a deathly silence, glaring slightly at Dashnir out of the corner of his eye while sending a similar look in the general direction of Budari, Aragorn, and Eomer. "We will hear what you have to say."

"Honored ones, I request that this session of the Gathering adjourn immediately and that we outside be allowed to speak with our leaders."

A low murmur rose up inside the hall, and Eomer heard Aragorn’s breath catch slightly. "What is happening?" the king of Rohan hissed. "What does this mean?"

"I know not, but have your sword ready," Aragorn answered. "I fear that it might be needed quickly."

"It has been ready since we first set food in Harad," Eomer assured him.

"For what reason do you make this request?" Aulit demanded of Arabano, his tone of voice indicating that Arabano had better come to the point and do so quickly.

"Because leadership is needed elsewhere rather than here," Arabano answered. "A traitor among us has brought war to this Gathering. The camps in the desert are under attack."

"The Destroyer!" Dashnir cried. "Do you see now? You must! Only the blind could not see it! Gondor and Rohan have brought death upon us all!"

"I have heard enough of this!" Eomer exploded, ignoring Aragorn’s warning look. "There is no evidence that indicates we have—"

"Then you are truly ignorant," Dashnir interrupted coldly. "And since it seems I will no longer be allowed to finish saying what I came to say, I shall conclude with this: The Khurintu tribe withdraws from the Gathering as of this night. We shall not be caught in the path of the Destroyer. We shall not be party to Harad’s own destruction. Since you have failed to listen to reason, you give us no choice. Whatever counsels you take must needs be taken without us, for our entire tribe shall leave tomorrow as soon as the sun touches the horizon."

* * * *

Legolas was first aware of voices—harsh voices—calling out in a strange tongue. Confused for a moment, the elf wondered if perhaps he’d been severely injured and could no longer interpret speech, but after a few more minutes of listening to the talk of those around him, he recognized it as the common language of Harad. This realization was a source of great relief at the same time that it raised fears, concerns, and the blurred memory of his last moments of consciousness.

A sudden surge of nausea from his stomach alerted his senses and informed him that the waking process was now firmly underway. Along with this nausea came other sensations. His entire body ached as though he had been beaten severely by a family of orcs, and the elf decided that this was probably not far from the truth. His hands and feet also felt rather numb, a strange sensation that immediately caught his curiosity. A slight attempt to move them resulted in throbbing pain, and the elf quickly realized that strong bonds held his wrists firmly behind his back and secured his ankles tightly together. The prince would have further analyzed these restraints, but he suddenly found himself lifted into the air by rough hands, maneuvered about, and taken into a darker world. Then he was falling. Slamming into the ground, Legolas choked back a grunt of surprise and tried to maintain the illusion that he was still unconscious. About this time, he also realized—rather belatedly and with some amazement—that his eyes were closed. He must have been hit hard during the attack; otherwise his eyes would have remained open. That theory would also explain the incessant pounding in the back of his head, where it felt like Gimli’s entire troop of dwarves from Aglarond had taken up residence and were beating away with hammer and chisel.

Gimli!

The nausea intensified as blind grief overwhelmed Legolas, and he struggled to hold back the sobs that suddenly tore at his throat. A cold, numbing sensation crept over him, and elven strength ebbed away as his mind was consumed by sorrow. Gimli was gone, and the elf saw no reason why he should continue to struggle. Death would be far preferable to this crippling anguish that ripped through his immortal heart.

A muffled thud next to the elf somehow alerted his grief-stricken thoughts, and Legolas cracked his eyes open a bit. He no longer cared what went on in the world around him, but if he was given an opportunity to kill one of the dwarf’s murderers, he wanted to take it. But what he saw froze him to the very core of his being.

How he kept from crying out, he did not know. Somehow he managed to keep silent and maintain the charade of unconsciousness, but his mind and thoughts were now filled with the blinding light of hope. Gimli had been thrown to the ground next to him. From what little the elf could see, the dwarf was very still, his face was far too pale, the crude bandage wrapped around his injured right leg was soaked through with blood, and he was bound as Legolas was. But aside from all this, there was one small detail above all else that captured the elf’s rapt attention to the point of reducing all complaints and all complications to trivial irritants—Gimli was breathing.

The dwarf was still alive.

The voices were speaking again, and Legolas quickly closed his eyes, his mental faculties struggling to recover from the shock of first grief and now hope. He felt someone move above him and then came a sharp tugging at his arms. The elf guessed they were checking his bindings for strength, and his guess was confirmed when the procedure was repeated with his legs. More words were spoken in the strange language of the Harad people, and then the voices drifted away, fading quickly and causing the elf to frown. Unless these men were possessed of an inhuman ability for speed—something Legolas was almost ready to believe given what he now knew of the Khurintu tribe—he should still be able to hear them. It was almost as if…

The elf groaned as realization struck him. Ú-glîr. They had placed him beneath ú-glîr. No wonder the surrounding world had seemed so foreign and distant. And no wonder he had not heard Gimli’s labored breathing before now. Fortunately, he could still remember most of the adjustments that ú-glîr required of him and he put those into play now. The first step was to keep his mind occupied, and he did this by immediately turning his full attention to the dwarf and the situation. He needed to discover where he was and he needed to examine Gimli, but he wished to do so without interference. Forcing himself to be patient, Legolas lay quiet for a few minutes more and made certain that he was alone, using his diminished senses to search for any sign that a guard had been left. When he could find nothing to indicate another’s presence, he deemed it to be safe—a rather relative term—and with great caution, he eased his eyes open again.

Once more exercising great restraint, Legolas ignored his first impulse to immediately inspect Gimli and instead tried to determine their situation. He found that they had been placed in a small, white tent. It was still night and there was almost no illumination save for the light of the moon that glimmered dimly upon one tent wall. But the lack of light was not too great a hindrance, for even beneath ú-glîr, Legolas’s eyes could make out more in the darkness than could the eyes of a man. Unfortunately, what he could see did not comfort him. There were no rugs to cover the floor of this meager shelter, and elf and dwarf lay on sand made cold by the desert night. Beyond that, if the moonlight was any indication, then the tent had been pitched so that its broadest sides would catch the full glare of the sun. It was going to be a hot day.

Legolas shivered slightly, fighting the chill that rose up from the cold ground and managed to soak through the layers of his tunic to attack his chest. Things did not look good. Wherever they’d stopped, it was doubtless far from the Haradhur encampment. And if their attackers had traveled quickly enough, the city was probably beyond the range of mortal sight. This meant that should he and Gimli escape, they would be lost. Legolas sighed, feeling himself succumb to the hopelessness of it all, and then firmly turned his mind to other matters. There was still Gimli to see to.

Worm-like, ignoring the protests of his battered body, Legolas maneuvered himself closer to the comatose dwarf and studied his friend. Last night’s blow to Gimli’s head worried him most. The strike had been strong enough to stun an oliphaunt, and Gimli had gone down immediately without a cry. After that, Legolas’s memory of events turned into an impossible fog. He’d known great fury and had fought desperately to reach his friend, but how he’d been subdued and taken was something he could not remember, try as he might.

Legolas shook his head, instantly regretted doing so, and brought himself firmly back to the present. He had to check Gimli. The dwarf’s health was his first priority. A head wound like that could still be fatal, and there was the injured leg to consider as well.

The ensuing examination was severely hampered by the fact that both of them were securely trussed, and Legolas was eventually forced to give up after having learned little. He rolled onto his side with a frustrated groan and continued to scrutinize his best friend. Gimli’s breathing was steady but rapid, and it was far too shallow for the elf’s liking. In addition to that, the dwarf showed no signs of stirring and no signs of awareness. His pallor was a sickly gray and his flesh was clammy to the touch. Legolas did not think the wound on the dwarf’s leg was still bleeding, but it was impossible to tell how severe the injury was or how it might affect the dwarf in the future. And if infection set in…

"Gimli?"

The elf’s soft voice received no response. In truth, Legolas hadn’t really expected anything, but it had done no harm to try. Rolling off his side and back onto his stomach, the elf pushed himself against Gimli’s motionless form, hoping to transfer some of his own body heat to the dwarf. He didn’t know what he would do once the day warmed and Gimli began suffering from the soaring temperatures, but for now, Legolas could at least do something to treat the chill that crept up from the sand.

"Dartho ah nin, elvellon," Legolas whispered fiercely to the dwarf who lay still as death against his side. "Ú-bronion cuil aredh."

If Gimli heard these words, spoken with ardent fervor from the elf’s anxious heart, he gave no sign. A brooding silence fell over the small tent, and having no other choice, Legolas reluctantly settled in for what promised to be a very long wait.

Dartho ah nin, elvellon. Ú-bronion cuil aredh—Stay with me, elf-friend. I cannot endure life without you.

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

 
Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Chapter 25: Parts of Pieces

"Dashnir did not hold the floor that long without reason," Eomer growled, his long legs struggling to keep up with the even longer legs of a Ranger. "He was expecting the interruption. It fit with his announcement that Khurintu was withdrawing. He delayed long enough so that the timing fit his agenda."

"I fear you are right, but what they hope to gain from this, I do not know," Aragorn murmured, quickening his pace even more. "There are too many possibilities to even begin analyzing them all."

"Be thankful that Dashnir has not yet managed to turn Harad against you," Arabano said quietly. "If the leaders at the Gathering had been convinced that this catastrophe was the result of your presence, you would not have left the hall alive."

Flanked by Imhran, Eos, and a small contingent of Lotessa guards, Aragorn, Eomer, and Arabano were making for the Gondor and Rohan encampment. Arabano and the soldiers from his tribe were there as insurance that they would actually be able to get to the camp and then get out. Though they had yet to be identified specifically as the cause of this sudden attack, the mood in Haradhur was definitely not one of peace toward Gondor and Rohan.

"I doubt that was his purpose," Aragorn said in response to Arabano. "He was but stalling. His words were not calculated to raise feelings of hatred. Rather, he was sowing seeds for something to come."

"But what is that something?!" Eomer demanded. "Nothing less than the subjugation of Rohan, Gondor, and Harad, clearly. But how shall such a thing be accomplished? He has only succeeded in ostracizing Khurintu from the rest of Harad."

"Exactly," Aragorn said, his mind whirling. This question had been plaguing him ceaselessly, and answers were forming but slowly. For some reason, his foresight seemed to be strangely absent and he could see and sense almost nothing of the future. In some ways, it reminded him very much of Amon Hen. Foresight had failed him then as well, and he had haplessly blundered his way through a series of hasty decisions. Somehow or another, through unexpected twists of fate that could only be ascribed to the benevolent intervention of the Valar, things had worked themselves out. But now…

One of the Lotessa guards suddenly called out in the Haradric language. Too caught up in his own thoughts, Aragorn failed to catch and translate the quick words, but there was no need to for the message soon became obvious soon became obvious. Arabano stopped short, pulling Aragorn and Eomer to a sudden halt, and then started into the dark alleyways to their left.

"Aragorn?"

"You know as much as I," Aragorn told Eomer even as a chill crept up his spine.

"Valar help us, then, if we both know so little," Eomer muttered.

"Honored ones?" Arabano called from the darkness. "This was one of your men, was it not?"

The question—and particularly the use of the past tense—evoked a number of reactions in Aragorn, though he somehow managed to keep them from reaching his outward countenance. Eomer, on the other hand, was not quite as composed and anger flared in his eyes as suspicion and outrage twisted his face. The king of Rohan took a step toward the alleys and then froze as Arabano returned with the Lotessa soldier who had first called out. And cradled in the arms of the soldier was a very bloody and very dead Gondor guard.

"Valar," Eomer breathed.

"This happened several hours ago," Arabano said quietly. "The body is cold."

"He had been left to guard the camp," Aragorn whispered, recognizing the man despite the mutilated face.

"I have no doubt but what we will find all of your guards in a similar condition," Arabano said. "I have seen this before. This work was done by the Khurintu tribe. Very few in Harad know of their talents and abilities in this area, but we of the Lotessa tribe can easily recognize a Khurintu murder. Would that others were so knowledgeable, for then we might share this with them."

"We shall have to consider that later, for now we must look to our own safety," Aragorn said as his eyes glittered in the darkness and his hand moved to Andúril’s hilt. The tents were now only a short distance away, and the night had become far too quiet for his comfort. There was no way to tell if any of the Khurintu tribe still remained in the camp, waiting for an opportunity to pick off more of Gondor’s men, but it was best not to take chances. "Arabano, split your guards into two units. Have half of them journey with Eomer to the far side of the camp," Aragorn whispered. "The rest will stay here with me. Eomer, signal when you are in position."

"Are we using the plan that we employed when we fought just south of Barad-dûr?" Eomer asked.

"The same."

"Splitting up may be exactly what they wish, honored ones," Arabano warned.

"If any yet remain in camp, I would rather flank them than give them an opportunity to run," Aragorn said grimly.

"Only remember that we are pressed for time," Eomer said. "Our men in the desert are under attack."

"Arhelm is there, and I have confidence in his ability as a commander. If he cannot strike against the raiders, he will keep the men safe from harm and do as much damage as possible," Aragorn answered, deciding that the attack beyond Haradhur was now of secondary importance. "We can do no more than can he. Rather, our presence is needed here. We must discover what has happened to our own camp."

"Think you that we will find Legolas and Gimli here?" Eomer asked, his tone doubtful.

"My heart wishes to believe there is a chance of that, but my instincts tell me otherwise," Aragorn sighed, drawing Andúril from its scabbard. "In truth, I do not believe anyone to be within the camp, but it is best not to rely solely upon fortune, for she is a fickle mistress."

"As we have learned many times over," Eomer sighed, drawing Guthwinë and moving off into the darkness. Eos followed his king, and the two paused once to wait for Arabano’s guards, who were quickly instructed to obey Eomer for the time being and follow his orders. Then they were gone, and the night grew quiet again.

"I trust you have some idea?" Arabano murmured.

"Naught but a very old plan, yet it has worked before," Aragorn answered, starting to creep forward. "Orcs become very confused when they are attacked from two different sides."

"We are not dealing with Orcs," Arabano pointed out.

"It sometimes has the same effect on men," Aragorn whispered as they neared the tent. Here he stopped and indicated that Arabano should stop as well. "We shall wait until Eomer signals he is in position," the king of Gondor explained. "Then we shall charge the main tent."

"This plan lacks something in the way of subtlety," Arabano hissed with a frown.

"Subtlety can be cumbersome. In situations like this, an outright attack is often the best," Aragorn replied with a ghost of a smile.

Apparently accepting this philosophy for the moment, Arabano sighed and said no more. Silence fell thick among them and the night seemed to grow darker. Time ticked away, and though Aragorn had been raised among the ever-patient elves, it seemed that every passing minute stretched into years. Behind him, the remainder of Lotessa’s guards shifted restlessly but held their peace, disciplined soldiers that they were. Sheltered in one of the other tents, a horse whinnied loudly, momentarily breaking the stillness, but then all was silent again. More time slipped past, and Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Eomer and the others had not met with some accident when the signal came. A shrill whistle echoed through the night, rising quickly and then fading away. Aragorn lifted his hand and he heard the guards behind him move closer. Letting his arm fall, the king started forward. He might have been a ghost for all the noise his movements made. Beside him, Arabano was nearly as silent, and as phantoms they all drifted toward the darkened structure of the main tent.

Taking a deep breath and preparing himself for the worst, Aragorn readjusted his grip upon Andúril and stepped to the tent’s tall flap that served as the main entrance. He could almost see Eomer taking similar actions on the other side at the smaller back door. Filling his lungs with air and feeding off the growing anticipation of the tribesmen behind him, Aragorn let out a yell and plunged inside. From the other side, Eomer echoed his cry and the tent shook as guards leaped forward through both entrances. They were brought up short by the scene before them.

One small lantern burned faintly in a corner, but for all that its light was dim, it revealed far too much. Packs were slashed open. Supplies lay scattered everywhere as though a great wind had come through. Rugs were torn and misplaced, seeming to have been knocked aside by a desperate struggle. But most disconcerting of all, large stains of blood could be seen on the carpets near the center of the tent.

"Khurintu," Eomer spat, moving further in and studying the damage with narrowed eyes. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his countenance was dark.

"Almost certainly," Aragorn said grimly, struggling to hold his own composure. Kneeling next to the bloodstains, he quickly examined the surrounding area in the hopes that he would learn whose blood had been spilt. A gleam against the tent wall caught his eye and he walked over to investigate.

"Imhran, Eos, check the other tents and see if there are any signs of tampering or theft," Eomer ordered, his voice harsh with suppressed rage. Arabano motioned his men to follow the others, ensuring safety through numbers and they quickly departed. "What think you?" Eomer asked after the guards had left, directing his attention to Aragorn.

"I think they have done a thorough job," Aragorn sighed, standing and holding aloft the object he had found. "A dwarven axe. It bears the fresh blood of his foes. Unfortunately, I can find no evidence that the dwarf who owns this axe managed to escape."

"Then Gimli was taken captive," Eomer murmured. "But why here? They had ample opportunity to attack us in the streets. And why now? Wouldn’t waiting have better served Khurintu? They could have sat back and watched as we defied the Gartabo tribe and refused to allow them to take Legolas and Gimli."

"It seems they were seeking to gain a different objective," Aragorn murmured, looking around for other clues.

"There are always multiple objectives involved when working with Khurintu," Arabano said quietly, studying the tent with the wary scrutiny of a desert warrior. "I know not why they have chosen to make off with Legolas and Gimli or why they chose to attack now, but as for doing it here in the tent, I judge that they intended to show you your vulnerability."

"Is there hope that Legolas might have escaped?" Eomer asked, but his voice lacked any conviction.

"Not if Gimli was a prisoner. He would have refused to leave his side," Aragorn answered. "Besides that, his bow and quiver lie behind you, as well as his knife." The king of Gondor gripped the haft of Gimli’s axe tightly and firmly suppressed the rising tide of anger that threatened to burst through his calm veneer. "They fought valiantly, that much is certain. But they were overwhelmed by superior numbers, or so I read the signs." Aragorn glanced about the large tent and once again had to choke back his wrath. What was it Gimli said to me just ere they departed? "None shall even know that we are gone." Little did he know how prophetic his words would prove to be. We knew nothing of this until it was too late.

"Think you that they still live?" Eomer asked, voicing the question that was currently burning through Aragorn’s mind.

"Their bodies are not to be seen, so they were probably not killed," Arabano spoke up. "Khurintu has a habit of making an example out of those they kill, as you saw earlier with your slain guard. But since there are no bodies here—or pieces of bodies—I suspect that they have been captured."

"Pieces of bodies?" Eomer echoed, fire flashing in his eyes.

"This links with the Destroyer," Aragorn muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he set the axe down. "This links with the fact that the Iluh will see to the abominations, but I cannot grasp the connection."

"Perhaps Khurintu wishes to appear as messengers of the Iluh," Arabano suggested, his eyes dark with thought. "By controlling your friends, they control the abominations of the North."

"But why withdraw from the Gathering?" Aragorn asked, deciding that he would have a headache by morning. "If they had wished to prove their control, they would have stayed. Nay, they have something else in mind, but I cannot fathom what."

"It does not matter what they wish so long as we can put a stop to it," Eomer declared.

"In order to put a stop to it, we must first understand what they are trying to do and how they will go about doing it," Aragorn reasoned, though he felt very much like Eomer at the moment. He wished to charge into the night, seeking out the Khurintu tribe and demanding the return of the prince of Mirkwood and the lord of the Glittering Caves.

Eomer muttered something rather uncomplimentary beneath his breath, but he nodded reluctantly. "Very well, then. For the moment, let us do it your way. Why is Khurintu withdrawing from the Gathering? And what do they hope to gain by taking Legolas and Gimli with them?"

"Your friends were not killed here," Arabano said, speaking slowly as his eyes narrowed. "Therefore, Khurintu needs them alive for something. Somehow, the elf and dwarf will be of use to Asbad and Dashnir. But as for how or what…" He shook his head and trailed off. "One thing only do I know with certainty: When the Khurintu tribe takes prisoners, they do not take partial measures. Legolas and Gimli will not escape on their own."

Eomer swore softly and began to pace. "We know nothing and yet you would have us sit and ponder over our fates! There are several hours before dawn. I say it is time for action. Let us travel into the desert, rally our men, deal with the raiders, and then descend upon the Khurintu tribe."

"Would you confront Dashnir?" Arabano asked. "You would challenge his honor when he has a clear alibi. He was in the Gathering with both of you. And if you were to search the Khurintu camp, you would find no trace of your friends. Khurintu is too clever for that."

"They will have been taken away from Haradhur," Aragorn said. "Hence the attack. It was a distraction."

"Then let us follow them!" Eomer exclaimed.

"That will be easier said than done," Arabano warned. "They would have started several hours ago, giving them a good lead over you. Beyond that, you know not which direction they traveled. They may have gone in any number of directions. And as for the trail itself, you shall never find it if raiders have attacked the area outside of Haradhur. Their horses and paths shall make such a mess of tracks upon the ground that finding anything else will be an impossibility."

"I will not sit idle while my friends are held hostage," Eomer said heatedly.

"Nor will I, but we must not act in haste," Aragorn said, intervening before harsher words could be exchanged. "Arabano, would the men who took Legolas and Gimli be mounted?"

Arabano hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "I am uncertain, but they will probably travel on foot. At least initially. There are tribes here who keep careful track of the number of horses present at a Gathering in the event that anything like this should happen. Soltari and Portu are two of these tribes. No, the guards could not have taken horses. The camps will be the subject of much scrutiny this day as all attempt to learn the identity of the raiders, and the horses will be subject to inspection. If Khurintu does not have the same number of horses as it did when it first came here, then they are immediately suspect."

"On foot they will be easy to catch," Eomer pointed out.

"But only if we start in the right direction," Aragorn countered. "Still, you are correct, Eomer. We cannot sit idle in the face of this, but as for what we shall do in response, I am at a loss."

"Confront Khurintu!"

"You will be seen as reacting blindly if you do that," Arabano shouted, apparently coming to the end of his temper. "They will say that you are making assumptions based on Khurintu’s dislike of elf and dwarf. And then they will say that the Destroyer has taken your ability to reason and has marked you as either his agents of destruction or his next victims."

"Then if we cannot confront Khurintu, let us at least search for Legolas and Gimli," Eomer pressed, his voice indicating that Arabano was not the only one running out of patience. "We may take our riders, disperse the raiders, and then scour the desert. A trail might not be found, but then again, it might. We have three hours. Much can be accomplished in that time."

"The desert is vast, Eomer, and if these men are indeed on foot, they will be even harder to find," Aragorn said quietly. "But I see no better option," he said when Eomer began to protest again. "Come, then. We shall leave Imhran and Eos to watch the camp in our absence while we ride to the aid of our men. If three hours are all we have, we had best make use of them."

"Then I shall return to my own camp," Arabano said. "But I will seek information as I go and counsel with Budari when he returns from the desert. Doubtless I will come again during the day, and mayhap we shall make sense of madness."

"Mayhap," Aragorn said heavily, trying to regain control of his whirling mind. "Until then, Arabano. And may the Iluh watch over you."

"And over our enemies," Eomer muttered, his hand tightening about Guthwinë’s hilt. "For I will have no mercy when I confront them, and the Valar only know who will."

* * * *

Mohart was not a man normally given to feelings of trepidation, yet there was great hesitation in his step as he approached Imrahil. One hour ago, their company had arrived at Lake Miyarr and discovered a few of Mohart’s tribesmen also camped around the hidden lake. Mohart had been rather surprised at this since Gartabo rarely ventured so far north, but even more surprising were the furtive looks upon the faces of these men. Their style of dress had revealed them to be members of what passed for a middle class in the Gartabo tribe or else Mohart might have thought they were fleeing some crime. But they were certainly fleeing something, and Mohart had gone to discover what he could. Their answers had been glib, vague, and filled with rumors, but one older man seemed to have a better grasp on the situation than the others, and it was through him that Mohart had gained a rather chilling picture of some very disturbing events.

Armed with news that would not be well received and painfully conscious of the fact that a response to bad news was usually to kill the messenger, Mohart stepped behind Imrahil and cleared his throat slightly. A soft sigh answered the sound and Imrahil turned slightly to fix gray eyes upon the tribesman. "We are too late."

It was neither a question nor a prediction of what Mohart had come to say but rather a simple statement illustrating a simple fact. They were too late and Imrahil knew it. How he knew it was something else entirely and Mohart was rather leery about pursuing that particular topic. Instead, he decided to find out what Imrahil knew and then expand on top of that. Then the news that the tribesman bore might not seem as though it was coming from him. "Why do you say this, honored one? What do you know?"

"Before this night, my dreams spoke of impending peril and my instincts insisted that a great danger was coming that must be avoided. But my instincts have quieted now, and as my mind begins to wander, no dreams have come to haunt me." Imrahil sighed and looked out across the desert. "Whatever we had hoped to prevent has happened."

"You say it has happened as though it is finished, but it is my experience in Harad that nothing ever happens," Mohart said. "If our fears are bearing out, then it is my belief that things are still happening. Nothing is ever completely finished in the desert, honored one. Surely there is time remaining to us!"

"Perhaps," Imrahil murmured. "Indeed, I believe you to be right and that time does remain to us, but something that should have been avoided has happened. A grave threat has descended, and its consequences shall continue to play out until we arrive."

"Yet still there is time," Mohart insisted, wondering at Imrahil’s sudden despondency. "Honored one, are you well?"

Imrahil laughed quietly and shook his head. "Well? Nay, I am not well. I fear for my friends, and I fear that already we are too late to save them from much pain and much sorrow. But more than that, I miss the sea. I miss the waves. I miss the crash of the surf. I am something of a strange creature, Mohart, and this desert is telling upon my spirits. But you did not depart from your kinsmen to seek me out and inquire after my health," Imrahil said, swiftly changing the topic. "Come. What have you to say? What news do you bear?"

"Nothing good, honored one," Mohart said. "But perhaps you would rather here it this evening ere we depart. You are wearied and I—"

"We are one night’s ride away from Lake Nurnein, and after that we are one night’s ride away from Haradhur," Imrahil interrupted. "That is two nights in which I am given time to order an attack and unravel what political tangles I may find. If I am to effectively complete this work, I must know what you know, and I must know it now. And fear not for my health," he added with a slight smile. "A bit of elven blood runs through my veins, and at times it is able to keep me from weariness and other mortal failings that might be brought about by an extended journey. Now come and tell me of this ill news."

"Based on what my tribesmen have said, something odd has befallen the Gathering." Mohart grimaced slightly and tried to find words in Westron to explain himself. "My tribe controls lands in this region, and these men as well as others have been receiving messages by hawk since the Gathering began, more to be informed than for any other reason. But the messages they received at the end of last night spoke of a grave threat that had come to the desert, and the messages of this night are no better. They are fleeing north in the hopes that they may escape the storm."

"And of what storm do they speak?" Imrahil asked, his gray eyes narrow.

With a shiver and a sigh, Mohart decided that the best way to approach this was to simply get it out into the open. "Honored one, know you of the Destroyer?"

Imrahil’s face remained impassive, but something flickered briefly in his eyes, though it was gone too quickly to identify. "I have heard some of the legends regarding the Destroyer. He was a tool of Sauron, if I am not mistaken."

"So some say, though we know not if all the appearances were Sauron’s will," Mohart said. "The Destroyer is a creature of legends and a messenger of the Iluh, or the Valar. He heralds death for large groups of people, sometimes for entire tribes."

"What has he to do with the Gathering?" Imrahil pressed, a slight note of impatience creeping into his voice that was very much at odds with his elven heritage.

"He appeared and confronted your elven friend," Mohart answered. "Or so say the messages. There are rumors now that Gondor and Rohan have brought destruction to Harad. And the messages that came this morning tell of a great battle outside Haradhur."

"How certain are these sources?" Imrahil asked, his voice sharp.

"Nothing is ever certain if it has not been witnessed by one’s own eyes," Mohart replied. "But the men report that many messages have come from many unrelated sources. Beyond that, the Destroyer is not a being mentioned lightly or in jest. If word of him has come, we may be assured that he has again appeared, though the manner of his appearance may be a subject of some debate."

Imrahil cursed quietly and turned his eyes away from Mohart, focusing them instead upon the waters of Lake Miyarr. "Two more nights," he murmured. "Two more nights until we can reach them." He turned back to Mohart, his gray eyes darkening with suppressed anger. "Know you of any way to speed the journey? Perhaps we can bypass Lake Nurnein and seek another place of water, shortening the ride to Haradhur in the process."

"There are places of water within the Sihal, but they appear sporadically and if we missed one, it might take us several hours to find another. Only those who are very familiar with the volcanic Sihal dare to trust to its shelter. If we had a guide from the Warra tribe then perhaps we might chance it, but I would not trust to my own direction. It would be folly, especially once the sun rose. Even in the early morning, the heat collected by the Sihal’s black rocks can be deadly if caught in it while above ground."

"And so we must stay to the tried and true trail," Imrahil sighed, once again turning to gaze at Lake Miyarr. "I thank you for your news, Mohart. Have you any more to say?"

"Nay, honored one. The men could tell me no more."

"Then I bid you a good day and wish upon you pleasant dreams. I suspect the men have finished setting up the camp by now."

The words were clearly a dismissal, but Mohart hesitated a moment, his dark eyes studying Imrahil’s silent form. "And what of you, honored one? Shall I wish pleasant dreams for you, or shall you be having dreams this day?"

"Concern yourself not with me, Mohart," Imrahil said quietly. "I shall see to my own health."

"As you wish, but if I may counsel you on the ways of the desert, sleep is man’s greatest weapon against the heat."

"Well do I know that. Good day."

Hearing the finality in Imrahil’s voice, Mohart sighed and inclined his head in lieu of a bow. There was no response to his formality and so the tribesman left. Imrahil might not have been inclined to sleep this day, but Mohart was not about to let ill tidings keep him from his rest. They were two days away from Haradhur, and brooding about matters was not going to change them. There was still time to create plans, particularly if they learned more about what they faced at Lake Nurnein and received proper rest.

As Imrahil had predicted, the men were indeed finished with camp, and some had already entered the tents while others milled about, speaking quietly and eating rations. Mohart went directly to his own tent, having no desire for company at the moment, but he paused ere he entered and glanced back at Imrahil, who was still watching Lake Miyarr. A strange man, he thought to himself as the stars above began to dim. The eastern horizon was beginning to glow and the sun would make her appearance soon. A very strange man, he repeated to himself when Imrahil made no movement to return to camp. I pray he finds some peace this day, for if this continues, he will bring his own destruction to Haradhur.

* * * *

Imhran and Eos were waiting with bared blades when Aragorn rode back from the desert at the head of the Gondorrim early in the morning. The sun was beginning to clear the horizon and already the heat was starting to rise. But a cloud of darkness had settled upon Aragorn’s heart, and he did not feel the heat as he might have. Swinging down from Arnor, Aragorn allowed Imhran to take his mount’s reins as his own eyes swept the camp.

"Report," he ordered quietly.

"We found all the guards assigned to the camp last night, sire. None were alive. We have set aside a tent for them where they may lie until they can be taken back to Gondor. We felt the heat and dry air would keep them well," Imhran concluded with a sigh.

"I thank you for your troubles," Aragorn murmured. He was silent for a moment and then shook himself slightly. "Did aught else happen?"

"Nay, my liege," Imhran answered. "All was silent."

Aragorn nodded. He had expected as much. Those who had taken Legolas and Gimli would not have lingered once their deed was accomplished. There had certainly been no trace of them in the desert. He and Eomer had ridden out and found their company of men as the last of the raiders were being driven away. Sensing that the danger was fading and hoping to find some clue that might lead them to Legolas and Gimli, the Rohirrim and Gondorrim had parted company, with Aragorn going west and Eomer going east. Aragorn hoped that the king of Rohan had discovered something in his half of the desert, for Aragorn had found only chaotic camps and a few dead raiders who yielded nothing in the way of clues. None of the Haradrim with whom he spoke could identify the bodies, and there were no markings to indicate their tribe.

"Imhran, I shall be going to my tent. See to Arnor and inform King Eomer of my whereabouts when he arrives. Also, I will be assigning double watches this day. Inform and prepare the men for that."

"It shall be so, my liege," Imhran promised with a slight bow.

"Good. I will find you after a bit and discuss further the watch schedule. Dismissed."

Imhran bowed again and then began leading Arnor to the tent where the horses were kept, calling to the other men to follow him. Alone for the moment, Aragorn took advantage of the opportunity and quickly entered the privacy of his tent. He immediately noticed that the bloodstained carpets had been taken away and replaced with new ones. Gimli’s axe and Legolas’s knife had been cleaned, and both lay neatly next to a pile of baggage in one corner of the tent. Aragorn appreciated the gesture and mentally thanked Imhran and Eos for their troubles, but the shadow of what had happened still lay heavy over the tent. Small touches such as this could not erase it.

But why has this happened? Aragorn asked himself, dropping down upon his sleeping pallet and rubbing at his temples. His head ached as he tried to fathom the reason for this sudden attack, but the politics made no sense. Rarely had Aragorn ever felt so lost or so confused. Trying to decipher the madness that seemed to have fallen upon Haradhur, Aragorn rested his head in his hands and went over the recent events, hoping that his memory might bring something to light.

The Destroyer had branded Legolas and Gimli as abominations. The Gartabo tribe had then attempted to seize them. Somehow, the Lotessa tribe had received word of this and warned them before Gartabo could achieve its goal. Legolas and Gimli had returned to the tent where they had apparently been captured by the Khurintu tribe. Meanwhile, Dashnir had confronted Aulit at the Gathering and then gone on for several hours about the dangers of associating with Gondor and Rohan, breaking off when news came of an attack in the desert by raiders who did not seem to belong to any tribe, though Arhelm and Eos both insisted they rode their horses like those in the Portu tribe. After that, Khurintu had announced its intentions to withdraw, the Gathering had broken up, and the raiders had also retreated, having been the cause of much chaos but little destruction.

"None of it makes sense," Aragorn whispered aloud, deciding to try voicing his thoughts aloud. Elrond had occasionally done that when things troubled him. "Dashnir’s actions at the Gathering I can understand," the king of Gondor murmured. "He was waiting for dramatic emphasis, which means that he knew of the attack beforehand. This is plausible since we believe Portu was behind the attack and have noted that Khurintu seems to hold sway over Portu. Why that is, I cannot fathom, but it worked at Lake Supt." Aragorn sighed and rubbed his brow. "But though I understand Dashnir’s long speech, I do not understand why Legolas and Gimli were taken or why the Khurintu tribe is withdrawing. This all connects to the Destroyer, I can sense that much. But how?!" Aragorn slammed his fist onto his pallet, knowing he was missing some vital detail that lay before him but unable to grasp it.

Movement and noises outside the tent caught Aragorn’s attention, and he straightened slightly upon hearing Eomer’s voice. Orders were being issued and the general tone seemed to be calm, but Aragorn detected an underlying air of despondency and anger. The king of Gondor grimaced and shook his head. It seemed Eomer had also found nothing in the desert.

Then the voices died away and silence fell upon the camp for several long minutes, during which time Aragorn assumed that Eomer was seeing to Shade, for no king of the Mark would ever give his horse into the charge of another. Knowing he had yet a bit of time to himself, Aragorn turned again to the problem of deciphering what was happening in Haradhur. He doubted he would be able to learn anything else without more information, but it never hurt to try. Besides, at the moment, Aragorn had naught else to do.

Why the elf and dwarf, and why the decision to withdraw? Aragorn demanded silently. His mind began to twist and fold the problem, attempting to see it from several different angles in the hopes that he could uncover that one missing detail that eluded him, but it was to no avail. After another fifteen minutes had passed, the king of Gondor was no closer to answers than he had been when he first returned to camp.

The folds of material that made up the main entrance to the large tent suddenly parted and a harried-looking Eomer entered, brushing sand from his tunic as he did so. Deciding to let the problem alone for the moment and return to it later, Aragorn sat back and looked up at Eomer expectantly.

"Nothing," the horse lord said without preamble. "Legolas and Gimli are not in the encampment or the city. We searched everywhere. We found no trails leading away from Haradhur save for the trails of the raiders. None in the desert confessed to having seen either Legolas or Gimli. We even paused at the Khurintu camp and found it to be in just as much disarray as other camps in the area, though I believe that such a thing could have been a ruse."

"Did you learn anything of the raiders?" Aragorn asked.

Eomer shook his head and muttered something rather foul in the tongue of the Mark. "We found none that could identify the raiders as coming from any tribe. But I do not believe this to be necessary anymore, for having seen the last of them riding off myself, I must concur with my guards. They were from the Portu tribe. I have never seen any other people who ride so high upon the horse’s shoulders."

"Then I shall take you at your word, for we are in desperate need of information," Aragorn sighed. "We have little enough as is."

"What of you?" Eomer asked. "Did you find anything?"

"Nay, nothing save for a few slain raiders. And like you, I found none who could say from what tribe these attackers had come," Aragorn answered.

"Then we must work with what information we have," Eomer sighed. "And as you have already observed, that is little enough." The king of Rohan pulled Guthwinë from its scabbard and ran his hand down its sharp blade as he took a seat on his own pallet. "Why the raid, Aragorn? Why did Portu attack again? And why did Khurintu withdraw from the Gathering?"

"I have no answer for your last question," Aragorn said. "Not yet. As for the attack, there are two purposes that I can see. I doubt not that there are more, yet at least we have something of a place to start. For one, I suspect the raid was something of a warning. The Destroyer’s prophecies are beginning to come to pass. For another, it was a discreet way to slip away from Haradhur with Legolas and Gimli. In that confusion, no tribe would have noticed a group of warriors carrying two unconscious forms. With all that went on, there were probably many unconscious forms in the desert last night. And our men would certainly have noticed nothing, being too occupied themselves in keeping out of the way."

"Perhaps a delegation should be sent to the Khurintu tribe," Eomer said grimly. "I stopped briefly with my men, but they were in no condition to tell me anything. I suspect that will have changed by now."

"And what shall a delegation accomplish?" Aragorn asked. "What would be our purpose?"

"We could ask them to more clearly define their reasons for leaving the Gathering," Eomer said. "Or better yet, we could confront them with our slain guards and demand an accounting of their actions last night."

"We would go to them with no evidence and challenge their honor," Aragorn answered with a shake of his head. "Dashnir would be well within his rights if he were to force us from their camp at such an accusation. And as for stating their purpose in leaving Haradhur, they gave it to us as the Gathering broke apart last night."

"But that is certainly not their true purpose."

"No, and I doubt that Dashnir will tell us the true purpose if we were to ask."

"I said not so, but mayhap he will let slide some hint or suggestion if we were to pressure him," Eomer reasoned.

"I doubt that very much," Aragorn said heavily. "We journeyed here with Dashnir, and not once did I see his composure falter. He will have drafted an answer to every inquiry. Even should we turn instead to the men serving beneath him, I doubt that they could tell us much either. They probably know no more than we do."

Eomer sighed and sheathed his sword. "Khurintu stated that they were leaving Haradhur and the Gathering because they wished not to be caught in the path of the Destroyer. They took with them Legolas and Gimli. Does this not defeat their purpose?"

"What do you mean?"

"Clearly something is planned. Perhaps another attack, or mayhap something else, I know not. But the Khurintu tribe would not have left the Gathering claiming they did not wish to be part of the Destroyer’s wrath if some form of that wrath were not planned. Yet they have taken with them the agents of the wrath. Legolas and Gimli are not here to be blamed, but they are supposed to be the heralds of doom. Does this not work against their plans?"

Aragorn frowned, wondering why this had not occurred to him before now. He had looked at every other aspect, but he had failed to actually take Khurintu at its word. I am looking for too many hidden motives that go untouched by speech or action. Eomer, on the other hand, is sifting their words and finding truth. Running a hand through disheveled hair, Aragorn decided to follow in Eomer’s footsteps and look at other words that had been spoken. "No," he said quietly at length. "No, it does not."

"I do not follow your reasoning," Eomer said.

"I am not certain that I follow it myself," Aragorn confessed. "But think back with me. What were the Destroyer’s exact words to Aulit?"

"He was told to ‘cast them out,’ referring to the abominations," Eomer answered. "Or, as the interpretation now runs, Legolas and Gimli."

"But they have not been cast out," Aragorn said. "For all Aulit knows, they could be lingering upon the edges of Haradhur. He has failed in his obligations to the tribes, and they know it. If he had actually succeeded in casting out Legolas and Gimli, he would have had it announced so that all would see that he was maintaining safety at the Gathering."

"So whatever happens, it shall be blamed upon Legolas and Gimli," Eomer said. "But…why should Khurintu take them alive? If it is discovered that they are in Khurintu custody—"

"But it won’t be discovered," Aragorn said as things began to fall together. "They made certain of that with the raid. And when larger things—things more deadly than the raid—begin to happen, then Legolas and Gimli shall be blamed. And this explains yet another thing I have pondered. Khurintu’s sudden move for power must come with backing, for otherwise they would not have acted and severed all ties with the other tribes as they have done. They are too cautious for that. They have something or they know of something. But what?" Aragorn groaned and his hands became fists. He was so close now, yet he was still missing vital details.

"Then perhaps Legolas and Gimli are not alive," Eomer said quietly. "Perhaps they were killed in the attack and then removed so that Aulit and the Gartabo tribe would think them to be the cause of whatever is to come. They would certainly be easier to transport if dead."

"No," Aragorn said flatly. "I will not believe that. Something tells me otherwise. They are alive and there is a use for them yet. But I cannot see it, and I cannot see how this shall all resolve itself. Nor can I see what Khurintu might use now as an agent of destruction. But it shall have to be something significant if they wish to cow all of Harad and bring them under their heel."

"How shall we prevent this if we know not what it is?" Eomer asked, his voice soft. "Perhaps we should also withdraw from Haradhur and encourage others to do likewise."

Aragorn frowned and glanced at the king of Rohan. "You would retreat?"

"I would regroup until I better know my enemy. And I would also give us more time and more freedom to find Legolas and Gimli."

"No," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "Your idea is wise and were we anywhere else I would follow your counsel, but in Harad, I think it might be taken as a sign of weakness. We cannot afford to appear weak. Not now. That is one thing Khurintu did not do. They did not turn the other tribes against us."

"And here is yet another puzzle," Eomer exclaimed. "Why should this be? Why should they spare us this?"

"Because they do not want the other tribes to drive us out," Aragorn murmured, hoping he was on the right track but wishing he could be more certain of himself. "Whatever happens, they want us here for it."

"Should this not be cause for us to move?"

"As I said before, it would be seen by others as a sign of weakness. Khurintu would have won."

Eomer sighed and shook his head. "Then we sit here and calmly await the stroke of doom?"

"As we waited upon Mordor," Aragorn confirmed. "Until we know more, we can do nothing else."

"And in the meantime?" Eomer questioned.

"We wait and we rest. I am going now to assign double watches after which I shall be going to sleep. I suspect all others will be doing the same, for the night was a long one and rest will be required on all fronts. Khurintu is not leaving until this evening. Thus we have until then at least before anything happens. I intend to use that time for sleep."

"If you so counsel," Eomer said heavily with reluctance in his voice. "I will follow your lead, Aragorn, but I think we should force Khurintu’s hand. Rohan waited under Saruman, and it nearly cost us our kingdom."

"But you knew not from whence the evil came," Aragorn said. "You did not fully understand just how involved Saruman had become in the day-to-day affairs of your government. But we know now who the enemy is. We know that something is coming. In this, we have an advantage."

"A very small one," Eomer muttered. "Pleasant dreams, then, Aragorn, if there be any pleasant dreams left for you. And may your gift for foresight return with clarity, for I would not wait upon the stroke of a sword only to find that the sword has already fallen."

Author’s Notes—At Ithilien’s request I have added Khesva to the Character List, but I would like to point out that Khesva will not play a significant role in the story. Well…he himself will not. His tribe will and Fastahn will, but nothing Khesva says or does will have a huge impact. Something that happens to him might leave impression, though… (Look out! Hint dropping! Everyone watch your step!)

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Chapter 26: Sun and Shadows

Waves of heat scorched their way across the forsaken land, robbing the burning sand of any semblance of moisture or relief. Temperatures soared as the sun reached its zenith, and the life that struggled in this desolate wasteland came to a grudging halt. Cowering in meager shelters, man and beast waited out the day with the knowledge that nighttime would bring a respite from the sun’s scornful gaze. Most of Harad’s inhabitants slept, finding refuge from the heat in dreams. But there were also those who did not sleep, much though they longed to, and of those, there were even a few who did so by choice rather than by force.

Asbad, ruler of the Khurintu tribe, was one of these. For the past few hours, sequestered in his tent, Asbad had been carefully planning the final moves that would see him successfully on the way to complete control of Harad and eventually the northern countries as well. But that planning was now drawing to a close, and it was nearing the time when he should seek rest and sleep. The day was already quite warm, and ere long, it would be too hot for him to function properly.

He smiled slightly as his thoughts took him beyond his tent toward the elf and the dwarf in their own small tent, which lay with its broad sides facing the sunlight. One of the easiest ways to cow and subdue prisoners was to subject them to the heat of the day. Asbad would never be so foolish as to leave anyone out in the desert unprotected if he desired them alive for later purposes, but there were things that could be done to make a captive’s stay highly uncomfortable. Arranging a tent so that it collected the day’s heat was one way. Those caught within would still be protected from the murderous effects of direct sunlight, but they would be greatly weakened and discomfited. Resistance usually dropped dramatically after such lessons, and captives were much easier to control. Of course, there were some prisoners who did not survive this treatment and died, but Asbad was fairly confident that his elf and his dwarf would endure.

Still, it was best to err on the part of safety in such situations where safety was permitted. Glancing at the sides of the tent and noting the position of the sun, Asbad decided that water should probably be sent to the two prisoners. Dehydration was desired since it made captives disoriented and weary, but dehydration to the point of death was not the objective this day. Khurintu could utilize the corpses if the elf and the dwarf died, but the overall plan would be better served if they remained alive for now. With this in mind, Asbad motioned to the guard who stood at one of the entrances to the tent, picked up a skin of water, and handed it to the man.

"Takes this to the captives and see that they drink it. If they are awake, they may refuse. Force them. If they are yet unconscious, wake them so that they do not choke and then give them the water. Are my orders to you clear?"

To his credit, the large guard did not hesitate in barking an affirmative, but his eyes clearly showed his distaste for the assignment. This duty was the work of servants and water boys, not renowned soldiers. Beyond that, the desert was currently an oven, and the tent holding the prisoners was in no way an effective shelter. But the loyalty of Khurintu’s tribesmen was legendary, and despite his feelings of reluctance, the guard took the water skin, turned smartly on his heel, and left the tent.

With this last problem out of the way and the remainder of the plan worked out in sufficient detail, Asbad stretched and moved to his pallet. He had no intention of remaining awake any longer. The day was growing hotter, and after another hour or so, his own tent would offer little in the way of protection. And so the leader of the Khurintu tribe lowered himself to his bed and shifted until he found a comfortable position. He fell asleep almost immediately, welcoming with open arms the dreams that came to greet him as he was carried into a new age in which his power was uncontested.

* * * *

Within a small white tent, arms and legs still firmly bound, Legolas tried to think of a time when he’d felt more miserable or more wretched. It was a rather grim testament to his plight when, after searching several centuries of existence, he decided that he had not been in a worse situation. His head still throbbed, he’d lost all sensation in his hands and feet, and his throat felt as though it had been dragged over the volcanic Sihal and then laid out to dry for a few days. The heat in the air around him was stifling, and the rising temperature of the sand was sapping his strength. And beyond that, there was the dwarf…

Legolas shook sweat out of his eyes and turned to examine Gimli as he had already done many times that day. The dwarf was still far too pale, and his breathing had become increasingly labored as the temperatures rose. But other than speaking to him and offering unheard words of encouragement, the elf knew of no way to aid his best friend. And so he was forced to watch in helpless frustration as Gimli went from bad to worse, all the while wishing vainly for a change in fortune that might somehow see them through this trial.

If only he would say something, the elf thought desperately, watching his friend closely as only an elf can. He had a vague hope that Gimli—always slightly uncomfortable under the prince’s intense scrutiny—would move away or tell him that if he were to chisel a sculpture it would last longer. But the dwarf remained deathly still, and the elf remained, for all intents and purposes, alone in his misery.

He was not alone for much longer. Noise outside the tent caught Legolas’s dulled hearing, and he turned his head toward the flap curiously. What madness would drive anyone into the sun at this hour of the day? He received his answer when the door of his shelter was thrust open and a large, burly man entered. Dark eyes flashed angrily beneath a sheen of sweat, and the man surveyed the tent’s occupants with a curious mixture of fear and disdain. Seeing that Legolas was awake, the man advanced, flipped the elf onto his back before Legolas could even think about resisting, and shoved something into his mouth. Despite the protests of his back and his bound arms, Legolas was hurriedly running through plans of attack when something trickled across his lips. Frozen in shock, he almost allowed the precious liquid to run down his chin before he gulped greedily. Soon more water flowed from the flask, which the man now tipped upward. Pride thrown to the wind, Legolas closed his eyes and sent up multiple prayers of thanks for the lukewarm drink that was a balm to his mouth and throat. But far too soon for the prince, the flask was taken away and he was shoved back onto his stomach.

Despite the fact that he was wheeling in sweet ecstasy, the elf tried to keep an eye on the man. The guard was now bending over Gimli and seemed to be trying to rouse the dwarf. Legolas’s blood boiled when he heard two hard slaps, but an accompanying groan put a stop to his ensuing protests. The flask containing the life-giving water was placed against Gimli’s lips, and Legolas’s breath caught as he watched the dwarf open his mouth and reflexively swallow the water that started to flow. Then the flask was taken away. The man rose, shoved Gimli back to his stomach, and left the tent with a low grumble in Haradric.

Hardly daring to hope, Legolas immediately forgot all about trying to track the man’s footsteps outside the tent and instead kept his eyes glued to Gimli. The dwarf was moaning slightly and seemed to be on the verge of waking. Fearful that he would destroy the moment but anxious to hurry the process, Legolas hesitated and then called the dwarf’s name.

"Gimli?"

Another moan was his answer, and then blurred eyes fluttered open so slowly that Legolas felt he might go mad with impatience, a feeling as foreign to the elf as snow was to Orodruin. The prince grimaced when he noticed the fixed, dilated pupils, a clear indication of a head injury. Of course, considering the blow that felled him, Legolas would have been amazed had there not been some injury, but it was still painful to see the evidence of that hurt. At least the dwarf was opening his eyes and responding to his name. Those were good signs, and Legolas was hoping for more.

"Gimli, can you say speak?"

A seemingly infinite pause was finally followed by a very tentative voice. "Legolas?"

The dwarf was blinking his eyes as though trying to clear them, and Legolas surmised that his vision was blurred. He doubted that Gimli could see little more than vague lights and shadows. But he could hear and he could respond. These two accomplishments were priceless, and Legolas hurried to encourage his friend to even greater achievements.

"Yes, Gimli, I am here. How are you feeling?" Even as he said it, the elf realized how ridiculous the question was. He could easily see and guess for himself how Gimli was feeling, yet what else could he ask? What else would the dwarf be capable of answering? Was he even capable of answering this?

"Stupid question," Gimli mumbled.

Legolas smiled slightly and shook his head, which—thanks in part to the water—had stopped throbbing and currently only sported a dull ache. "I should have expected such a response from a dwarf," he answered even as relief filled his heart. If Gimli could jest, then things could not possibly be as bad as they seemed to be.

The elf watched with a mixture of hope and fear as Gimli sighed and closed his eyes, wincing unconsciously at the pain that Legolas knew must have been crippling. "What happened?" the dwarf whispered.

It was a simple enough question, but Legolas did not have a simple answer. Or any answer, for that matter. He was still trying to piece together the puzzle himself, and he was also lost as to the motives behind abducting the two of them. Power, to be certain, but the elf sensed something larger was at stake. Something larger than any of them suspected. But as for what that something was, the elf could not say. He had pondered on it for much of the morning, but the increasing temperatures had slowed his thought processes and he had been unable to reach an answer or even a vague guess. "What do you remember?" Legolas finally asked, turning the question back on his friend since he could not seem to put his own thoughts in order. Besides, this would help him uncover the extent of the dwarf’s head injury.

"Night…tents…" Gimli trailed off and his brow furrowed.

"Do you remember leaving the company of Aragorn and Eomer?" Legolas asked when the dwarf’s pause began to stretch into minutes.

"Aragorn?" Gimli’s voice was becoming faint, and the elf sensed he was about to lose consciousness again. "Is Eomer…where are they?"

"Not here, Valar willing," Legolas said. "What do you recall of them?"

"I…I do not know," Gimli murmured. "I cannot remember…"

Watching the dwarf closely, Legolas saw his body relax and his labored breathing deepen slightly. "Gimli? Gimli?!"

There was no response and the elf sighed heavily. He did not know what to make of the dwarf’s broken speech and he could not tell how much damage had been done by the Haradrim’s blow. Gimli’s ramblings might be the direct result of an injury to his brain or merely the side effects of semi-consciousness in the midst of paralyzing heat. Legolas was sorely tempted to wake the dwarf again and see if he could push him to greater coherency, but he eventually decided that sleep would probably be best for him. At least that way, he could remain unaware of the blistering temperatures.

"Rest well, Gimli," the elf said quietly. "Perhaps when you wake again, I will have the answers for which you seek and you will have the answers for which I seek. But until then, rest well." And with that, the elven prince returned to his own confusing thoughts, once again alone.

* * * *

Weaving through the alleys and buildings that protected Haradhur’s wells, Arabano and a small group of guards dared the deadly heat of the early afternoon and hastened toward the area where Gondor and Rohan camped. It had been a hazardous journey through the burning desert to reach even the walls of Haradhur, but strange things were happening and Budari had felt the risk was necessary. Arabano concurred with his leader, but he almost wished that someone else had been chosen to make the journey. Not that anyone else really could have gone. He and Budari knew the most about the situation, and no one else could be trusted to handle matters as convoluted as these had become.

"Arabano!"

Arabano froze, and at his side, the Lotessa guards all reached for their daggers. A wave from Arabano relaxed them slightly, but the feeling of alarm and warning continued. As one, the group turned to watch as Fastahn of the Soltari tribe, accompanied by two guards, approached.

"Honored one, I would speak with you upon a matter of some importance," Fastahn said, his voice quiet but firm.

Studying Fastahn closely, Arabano eventually nodded and motioned his men back. "Speak quickly, then, for I have much to do this day."

"As do we all," Fastahn sighed. "But I would know what has become of the elf and the dwarf. Our spies reported that they never left Haradhur, but it seems they are no longer within the camp of Gondor and Rohan."

"Have the vaunted spies of Soltari faltered at last?" Arabano asked with mock dismay, neatly avoiding the question at the same time that he began wondering about Fastahn’s purpose. "Surely they did not fail to keep track of the abominations within Haradhur."

Fastahn’s eyes narrowed marginally, but he did not rise to the bait. "Our spies observed members of the Khurintu tribe advancing on the camp of Gondor and Rohan. This was shortly after the elf and dwarf had entered. There were sounds of a struggle, but then all fell silent again. After that, word came of the attack in the desert and our spies were recalled to aid in driving off the raiders. So I ask again, honored one, what news of the elf and the dwarf? What has become of them?"

"Why does this matter interest you?"

"They are not within Haradhur, are they? Khurintu has taken them."

Arabano was rapidly losing what little patience he had left. "Why does this matter interest you?" he repeated through gritted teeth.

"It does not interest me specifically, but the welfare of the Soltari tribe is in a precarious position," the man answered. "For this reason, honored one, I seek information. And your refusal to answer is answer enough. I thank you for your help."

Arabano felt the iron control that held his temper in check begin to slip. If pressed much further, he would be unable to restrain himself. "Listen well, Fastahn, and then consider well your answer. Why does this matter interest the Soltari tribe? How does the location of the elf and the dwarf affect you and those beneath you?"

Seeming to sense the imminent explosion in Arabano, Fastahn backed away slightly. "Asbad, using the guise of the Destroyer, has labeled the elf and the dwarf as abominations," he said after a moment of silence. "The interpretation has come to mean that they shall bring doom upon Harad unless the Gartabo tribe is able to contain them and hold them without Haradhur. But this has not happened, and that is also the work of the Khurintu tribe. They have opened the way for destruction, they have absolved themselves of blame while placing responsibility upon the tribe heading the Gathering, and they are leaving so that they are not caught in the path of doom. And you wonder that the Soltari tribe is concerned?"

"The power of the Khurintu tribe is less than what rumor makes it," Arabano said firmly.

"But rumor has a way of becoming reality if left uncontested," Fastahn countered. "Can you stop the rumors, honored one? Can you stop the fears? For out of fear is born submission, and already there are tribes who speak of following in the footsteps of Khurintu. Some are thinking of departing after tonight’s meetings."

"Then let them depart," Arabano spat. "They are of no importance to us."

"You are not strong enough to stand alone," Fastahn warned.

"Gondor and Rohan stand with us."

"Most of Harad will stand with Khurintu."

Arabano let out a frustrated sigh and leveled Fastahn with a dark glare. "What is your purpose? You ask concerning the whereabouts of elf and dwarf, and then you speak of politics and Khurintu."

"My purposes are the purposes of the Soltari tribe. As for its purposes, we seek only to maintain the balance of power within the desert. Khurintu is looking to upset that balance," Fastahn answered. "One more question, though, ere I depart. Know you the identities of the raiders who attacked last night?"

"What binds me to tell you anything?" Arabano demanded.

"Because I warned you of the plan to take Legolas and Gimli."

"The warning did more harm than good."

"I also explained to you the rumors and interpretations of the Destroyer that were spreading yesterday."

Arabano sighed and shook his head. "My tribe does not know the identity of the raiders," he eventually answered. "However, King Eomer and the Rohirrim believe that they were of the Portu tribe."

"Were they certain?"

"When I spoke with them, they were," Arabano said. "Does this information mean something to you?"

"Perhaps," Fastahn murmured. "I thank you for your time, honored one. If you will excuse me, there are now other matters I must attend to on behalf of my tribe." And without another word, the advisor from Soltari walked away, leaving Arabano to puzzle over their conversation.

"Honored one?" one of the guards asked hesitantly.

"Come," Arabano said quietly, still wondering about Fastahn’s intentions. Now that he thought about it, without Soltari’s warning, Legolas and Gimli would never have fallen into Khurintu’s hands. But had Khesva and Fastahn known that? Were they truly seeking to maintain a balance, or had they aligned themselves with Khurintu? Shaking his head, he decided this would have to wait until he could consult Budari about it. "Come," he repeated, turning and resuming his walk toward the camp of Gondor and Rohan. "There is much to be done this day."

* * * *

If there was one thing Dashnir hated, it was cleaning up after other people’s messes, even if those messes were necessary. This particular mess had even been expected, but it still gnawed at Dashnir’s temper.

He had cleared out one of the larger tents in the Khurintu encampment for use as a place of healing as well as a morgue. Not wishing to be burdened with bodies, Asbad had left behind all that had been wounded or killed during the capture of the elf and the dwarf. Consequently, they were Dashnir’s responsibility, and it was his duty to see that no one else noticed that Khurintu seemed to have suffered an inordinate number of casualties during the night’s attack. Eleven men had been killed by elven blade or dwarven axe, and seventeen had been wounded, some grievously so.

Dashnir sighed and rubbed his head. The dead tribesmen would have to be given proper rites, and that could certainly not be done here. There were far too many of them, and the required ceremonies were far too conspicuous. Thus, they would have to be disguised as baggage and carried out on the horses. With a grimace, Dashnir wondered if it would have been easier had Asbad taken the bodies along when he left with the elf and dwarf. But then, Asbad had been unable to take horses because of the havoc caused by the Portu tribe and the numbers kept by the Soltari tribe. And without horses, eleven dead men would have been a terrible burden.

The number of wounded was also going to be a problem. Dashnir had known that both elf and dwarf were capable fighters, but their abilities had surpassed his expectations. And now he was forced to care for seventeen wounded men. Nine of these men could no longer walk, and of those nine, three would never be able to do so again. There were but two hours left until sunset, and Dashnir was still trying to devise a way of getting these wounded men out of camp without calling too much attention to them. Fortunately, almost all other preparations for departure were completed, and Dashnir could devote his attention solely to this.

"Honored one?"

That is, I can devote my attention solely to this problem if I meet with no other interruptions, he sighed, raising his head and glaring darkly at the guard who had poked his head into the tent. "Report."

"The honored Radarad of Portu is demanding a right to speak with you. I would have turned him away, but his status as a tribal leader—"

"Yes, I know," Dashnir sighed, releasing the poor guard from his sharp gaze. "Send him in."

The man nodded smartly and disappeared. Voices could be heard outside the tent, and then the flaps parted to reveal a rather upset tribal leader. Radarad was not even attempting to mask his anger, and Dashnir wondered what was bothering the man. "Where is Asbad?" Radarad demanded.

A slight tremor of uncertainty crawled through Dashnir’s stomach, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "He is not here, honored one, as I explained on the opening night of the Gathering," Dashnir answered, wondering if Lotessa was no longer alone in its knowledge of the Destroyer’s true identity.

"Then where is he?" Radarad demanded. "Surely he would have arrived before now. And I do not think he would bestow upon you the power to withdraw your entire tribe from the Gathering."

Relief swept Dashnir. It seemed Radarad did not know about Asbad’s role as the Destroyer but rather was working from assumptions based upon standard protocol and procedure. "The honored Asbad and I have conversed through hawks," Dashnir explained, gesturing toward some of the perches near the back of the tent where a few hawks were sleeping through the day’s heat. "In leaving Haradhur, we are acting upon his orders. And since we are leaving, he saw no reason to make the journey here but rather to await our coming and join us at a rendezvous point."

Radarad looked less than pleased with this news, and his countenance darkened significantly. But after a short pause, he seemed to come to a decision of sorts and began speaking again. "Then I shall address you, Dashnir, as the resident authority, and I pray that you have the wisdom to handle this responsibility. Call off the Warra soldiers who guard the hidden lakes. My people are dying."

Ah. So this is what so vexes you, dear Radarad. Wondering why he hadn’t seen this before now, Dashnir made his face carefully neutral and studied the Portu leader. At length, he shook his head slowly. "With all due respect, honored one, I fear that we cannot do that. I know not if I have the authority to order those guards, nor do I know if such a policy would be a wise one."

Radarad’s eyes narrowed. "And in what way is this an unwise policy?"

"If we allow your people access to the water, what assurances have we that you will not go crawling to Gartabo and confess all?"

"It would be foolish for us to confess!" the tribal leader exclaimed. "It was my tribe who attacked the Gathering. Such an offense would alienate us from all in Harad. We will not go before them. We cannot go before them. You may rest easy in this knowledge."

"My apologies, honored one, but we simply cannot take chances in this area. After all is said and done, we shall certainly allow your people access to the hidden lakes again."

"My riders have done the work you requested of them!" Radarad exclaimed. "Your plans are set in motion, and none can stop you now. I demand that you uphold your end of the arrangement. Release my people!"

"Prudence is often a kindly master, and though we do not always hearken to its counsels, we heed it as often as we can," Dashnir answered. "As I have said before, the Warra tribe shall guard the hidden lakes until our goals have been accomplished. Yours is not an entirely trustworthy tribe, honored one. I fear we cannot afford to take risks such as you would have us take."

"And is this also the policy of Warra? For they are not represented in this tent. Surely Joranen has better uses for the men that guard hidden lakes from women and children."

Dashnir froze and his eyes became dark. "For your own sake, Radarad, I urge you to never bring this matter before the honored Joranen. The Warra tribe wishes to keep their ties to us quiet and secret in the event that something may go wrong. He will refuse to see you, and he will deny all that you say, for they cannot afford to be caught in a web of deceit. Should aught happen and our plan fail, Warra wishes to remain untainted. And in exchange for their help, Khurintu has allowed this. Do not go to them, or the Portu tribe shall suddenly find itself bereft of its leader."

Radarad’s look became hard, and Dashnir prayed that his improvised speech had worked. The entire plan would become far more complex if Joranen learned that a rebellious faction in his own tribe was working for Khurintu under the assumption that they were still operating beneath the deceased Garat. Should Radarad inform Warra of this, it would throw enough doubt onto the Khurintu tribe that the Lotessa tribe might be able to convince others that Asbad had been the Destroyer.

Eventually, Dashnir’s hopes were realized as Radarad muttered something highly uncomplimentary under his breath and looked away. "Remember our agreement, then," he growled. "You have promised to let my people drink."

"And we shall keep our promise," Dashnir said firmly. "You need only wait a few more days, honored one. I trust that your people shall be able to ration their remaining water accordingly?"

"Do not seek to placate me," Radarad snapped, his eyes flashing. "I will be watching, Dashnir. And if you fail in your word, or if Khurintu fails in its promise, all of Harad shall know of the dishonor." And with this, the man fixed Dashnir with a parting glare and then swept out of the tent.

And a moment ago, he was saying how he could never bring this before all of Harad, Dashnir sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump and thanking the Iluh that Radarad was too dense to see what was actually happening. Another leader would have seen the situation for what it was in minutes, but the Portu tribe was not renowned for its intelligence. They were cunning, devious, and sly upon the field of battle, but in the political arena, they were as children playing with weapons far too sophisticated for their abilities.

Still, something would have to be done about the Portu tribe. They did not know enough to ruin the plan, but they knew too much for their own good. Perhaps the same surprise that was planned for Lotessa and key points along Haradhur’s wall should be extended to Portu. It could be done easily enough before the time came to depart. Two of Khurintu’s guards could deliver a message of apology, and while there, they could—

"Honored one, Fastahn of the Soltari tribe is here to speak with you."

Startled out of his thought process, Dashnir looked up and frowned. First Radarad, now Fastahn. This day was becoming unpredictable, and unpredictable things always made Dashnir extremely nervous. More than that, the Soltari tribe had no pressing business with Khurintu. Radarad’s interruption was understandable, but what could Fastahn possibly want? It made no sense, and given the fact that Dashnir was about to depart into the desert where he would rendezvous with the rest of Khurintu’s warriors, these unexpected interruptions were very disturbing.

"Tell him that I am unable to meet with him," Dashnir said at length. He would set agents upon Fastahn and discover his intentions later. At the moment, he had more important items of business.

"Honored one, he insists upon speaking with you," the man said, his eyes nervous. "He said that if you refuse him an audience, I am to tell you that he knows the color of the robes that the honored Asbad wore on the first night of the Gathering."

Dashnir’s jaw dropped. Things did not usually catch Dashnir by surprise, for he was a man of great planning. He studied his moves carefully, he studied his opponents carefully, and when the time came to act, he had a very good idea of what would happen as well as most of the possible twists and turns that a situation could take. But this… It was impossible for Fastahn to know that Asbad had been the Destroyer. Arabano knew, and the Lotessa tribe now knew, but beyond them… Even if Lotessa had spoken with Soltari about it, Soltari would never have believed them.

"Show him in," Dashnir hissed. His mind felt as though it was now tumbling through the thorn bushes that grew in the eastern part of the desert. How could this have happened? And why hadn’t Fastahn acted on this knowledge earlier? Why hadn’t he gone before the Gathering with it? What game was Soltari playing? Dashnir’s fists clenched at his sides while his teeth ground together. The Khurintu tribe was the one that did the maneuvering. It did not work the other way around!

"Honored Dashnir, I present to you Fastahn, a member of Soltari’s advisory council."

Dashnir looked over, his face now a mask of casual curiosity. But beneath that façade he was burning with anger, rage, hatred, and above all else, fear. "You asked to speak with me?"

"I did, honored one," Fastahn answered. "Yet before we begin, I would make plain some things which, until now, have been hidden. I know where Asbad was on the first night of the Gathering. I know where he was during the second night when Aulit entered the hall alone. I know he wore red robes, and I know that he confronted an elf in the name of the Iluh. But this is not all, honored one. What I know, my tribe also knows. If I do not return to them this day, then the honored Khesva shall take my knowledge to all of Haradhur and your tribe shall be disgraced beyond any hope of ever regaining honor." Fastahn gave Dashnir a thin smile. "So kindly remove your hand from your dagger. You cannot kill me without inviting your own destruction. How ironic it would be if the Destroyer’s prophecies turned themselves upon you."

"What business have you here?" Dashnir demanded, dropping the veneer of politeness and twisting his face into a threatening scowl. If Fastahn was going to hide nothing, Dashnir would return the favor.

"We of the Soltari tribe know much of your plan, honored one," Fastahn said with a slow drawl. "We know that you have taken the elf and the dwarf. We know you are amassing significant forces to the northeast around Lake Hajim. We suspect that you have great plans for Harad, and we suspect you wish to hold power over other tribes. We ask only one thing of you, Dashnir—if your plans give you success, then spare the Soltari tribe. You may use us as a vassal tribe if necessary, but allow our people to live as they have always lived."

It took Dashnir a moment to realize that he was staring. It took him another moment to realize that he was only seconds away from lodging his knife in Soltari’s throat. Eventually, he mastered himself and took one slight step forward. It was not much, but it was enough to tell Fastahn that this was Dashnir’s tent and that he would control the flow of their conversation. "And what have you to offer in return?" he asked, his voice cold as the desert sand under the moonlight.

"For one, we offer discretion," Fastahn said. "Many tribes would be very interested to learn of your recent activities, particularly insofar as they relate to a certain religious figure traditionally clad in red robes. But we offer more than simply discretion, honored one. The Soltari tribe knows many secrets and tricks in convincing the desert soil to yield crops. We know methods of irrigation that would enrich your own tribe if you were to rely upon us for agriculture. But if you were to subjugate us as you plan on subjugating all else, then we would hide our secrets from you and the desert would not produce enough to sustain your warriors as you marched them upon Gondor and Rohan."

Last minute surprises were not good, especially on the eve of a plan that would either lift the Khurintu tribe to heights it had never known or bury it beyond any hope of glory. No longer able to hide his emotions, Dashnir scowled at Fastahn even as he considered what was being asked. In truth, Asbad had been planning to make Soltari a vassal tribe anyway, but Khurintu could not grant it upon request. Such a move implied weakness, and weakness could not be allowed. Perhaps the fate of the Soltari tribe should be adjusted to parallel the fate of the Portu tribe. But this would mean the loss of a valuable agricultural base that Khurintu would need as they began to build their empire. There was always Gartabo, of course, and they would be completely at Khurintu’s mercy, especially given their disgrace in losing the elf and dwarf. But would Gartabo alone suffice?

Dashnir mentally raged at the choice placed before him. He could not allow Soltari to coerce Khurintu like this, for such a weakness was unprecedented. But could he destroy the tribe? Did the risks warrant such an action? Their lands will be open to us if we destroy them, Dashnir reminded himself. Techniques can always be learned. We can sift their records and force their survivors to talk. For a moment more, he wavered between the options presented him, and then he made the only choice that he could. Soltari would have to be destroyed. There were other agricultural bases to be found, but a perceived weakness could not be allowed.

Decision made, Dashnir fixed Fastahn with a deadly glare while Fastahn casually examined one of the hawks in the tent as a means of passing time. Sensing Dashnir’s gaze, the tribesman from Soltari straightened and turned, his nose wrinkling slightly as though from an unpleasant odor. His dark eyes took on a questioning look, but other than that, he betrayed no emotion.

"Your wish is granted," Dashnir said coldly. "If our plan is successful, your tribe will become a vassal of Khurintu." What’s left of it, that is, he mentally added to himself. "And now if you will be so kind as to leave…"

"My thanks," Fastahn answered, wrinkling his nose slightly once more and then smiling. "You have been most helpful. Now that a place has been assured for Soltari, we shall step back and allow this drama to unfold. May the Iluh guard your feet, honored one."

Dashnir offered no response but turned his head pointedly toward the door, hoping that Fastahn would take the hint and depart. Reading the message with ease, Fastahn smiled slightly and bowed before turning away and exiting. Left alone, Dashnir nearly collapsed, his mind spinning into a state just short of a full-fledged panic. With victory so near, they could ill-afford to have something like this happen. The fact that Soltari, Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan all knew the identity of the Destroyer was a risk that could not be allowed to persist. The list of tribes slated to become examples of the Destroyer’s power would have to be expanded.

Lotessa was actually already on the list, and preparations had recently been made to ensure their destruction. The alliance that Gondor and Rohan had managed to construct with the Lotessa tribe had been unexpected but ultimately very beneficial for Khurintu. It gave Dashnir the perfect place to plant the last surprises that the Khurintu tribe had to offer before leaving Haradhur. But extending the same courtesy to the Soltari tribe…that was a fairly large risk. It seemed that Soltari had outlived its usefulness and could no longer be controlled with misinformation, but that did not mean they could be wiped from the map of Harad. They knew too much, and if even one member of the ruling and advisory councils survived, then the knowledge they held would be all over Haradhur.

But to let them live… Dashnir shook his head. It could not be allowed. Khurintu was being blackmailed, even though their plans did not have to be altered. Soltari had gone too far this time. Had they kept to themselves as was their wont, all would have been well. But they had not, and so arrangements would have to made to ensure that Soltari received the same gift that Lotessa and Portu would receive.

This gift was quite possibly the crowning jewel as well as the inspiration for the entire plan and was born of a message sent from Asbad’s kinsman, the Mouth of Sauron, almost five years ago. It had traveled first by horseman and ultimately by hawk, originating from the ruins of a fortress identified in the message as Isengard. There were many incomprehensible things in that particular letter—among them some rather strange references to very peculiar trees—but one bit of information had stood out above all. The Mouth of Sauron had spoken of a weapon created in this fortress of Isengard, and Asbad had set much of Khurintu’s extensive resources to the task of learning more about this strange thing. The effort had been long but very fruitful, and the Khurintu tribe now had the ability to topple even the mightiest tribe with a single stroke. So it would be for Portu, Lotessa, and now Soltari. There were great risks in this, but there were now great risks in everything that Dashnir did. And he felt confident that Asbad would agree with him that Soltari should be a recipient of the Khurintu tribe’s greatest asset.

Mind made up, Dashnir stepped to the entrance of the tent and spoke a few quiet words with the guards outside. A short time later, other men arrived and instructions were quickly given. By the time all was finished, the sun was very close to setting, and Dashnir knew his stay at Haradhur had come to an end. He had arranged things to the best of his ability, and it was now in the hands of the Iluh, or so the saying went. Dashnir smiled. Before long, Khurintu would be hailed as the messengers of the Iluh. And after that, all of Middle-earth would bow before them. The saying would have to be altered, for things would no longer be in the hands of the mythical Iluh. Things would be in the hands of Khurintu.

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Chapter 27: To One Side of Comfort

The dancing shadows upon the walls of the tent informed Eomer that the sun had set and lamps had been lit within the encampment. With a sigh, the king of Rohan ran his hand along Shade’s broad back and wondered how things had gotten so off course. Sensing his rider’s despair, the dark gray horse turned black eyes upon Eomer and gently whickered, almost questioning.

"My mood is no fault of yours," Eomer said quietly, stroking his stallion’s neck as he turned back to his task of grooming the horse. "Pay it no heed."

A soft snort answered this and Shade turned his head away from Eomer, but his ears flicked back as though waiting for the king to speak again. But silence suited Eomer’s mood well this evening, and so he stroked Shade’s sleek coat without a hint of the usual quiet song that accompanied him in this chore. But though his voice was still, his mind was very active. The last time he had been this obsessed with a political problem was the day that Wormtongue somehow convinced Theoden to dispatch a full eored northward when the true threat clearly lay in the west. And on that day, much as he was doing now, Eomer had sought out his horse, for he found solace in the seemingly mundane chore of grooming. And as Shade aids me this evening, so Firefoot aided me then. But in this is yet another parallel: Both then and today, I cannot fully escape the misgivings of my heart.

Arabano and a few guards had arrived in the camp of Gondor and Rohan during the mid-afternoon, drenched in sweat and filled with many questions but very few answers. He, Aragorn, and Eomer had held a long discussion, but ultimately they only confirmed that they knew next to nothing. They all agreed that the Portu tribe had been the attacking tribe during the night, they agreed that it had been done under Khurintu’s orders, and they agreed that Khurintu had been the tribe to take Legolas and Gimli. More than that was sheer speculation. They all suspected that Khurintu had yet to unveil the crux of their plan, they suspected that something traumatic would happen during this night, but they knew neither what nor when nor how. Arabano had informed them that Budari intended to have some of Lotessa’s riders trail the departing Khurintu tribe when they left Haradhur, but he did not know how long they could follow them or if it would do them any good. Of course there were spies watching the Khurintu camp throughout the day from various vantagepoints, but according to Arabano’s latest information, nothing of note had yet happened. Eventually, Arabano had left, making mention of urgent matters he needed to discuss with Budari. But before he had done so, he had left a strange warning concerning the Soltari tribe. Aragorn was almost as surprised by this latest bit of news as was Eomer. So far as he knew, save for supporting the interruption in the Gathering the previous evening, Soltari had remained a neutral party in all proceedings. And according to Aragorn, such was their custom, for their livelihood depended upon neutrality within the desert.

Giving Shade a final pat and setting aside the brushes he had used, Eomer sighed and moved away. He had lingered here far too long, for there were yet many things to be done. He and Aragorn were still debating whether or not to send out a few riders in pursuit of the departing Khurintu tribe or whether one of the kings could afford to miss the Gathering and lead a search for those who had abducted Legolas and Gimli. Eomer’s personal preference was to take the entire Rohirrim company and conduct a search on his own terms, a plan that involved storming the Khurintu caravan and leaving them much as they had left the Gondor guards on the previous night. Aragorn was rather reluctant to sanction this action, but Eomer has a suspicion that the king of Gondor was of half a mind to do the same thing.

A commanding whinny suddenly snagged his attention, and he turned to find himself looking into the large, black eyes of Faensul. The elven stallion whinnied again, causing the other horses within the tent to shift nervously. "Has no one been to see to you, my friend?" Eomer asked quietly, making use of a tone that managed to calm even the most restless of colts. Raising one hand cautiously, he ran it along Faensul’s strong face, making his movements slow and deliberate for the horse was clearly skittish.

In response to this, Faensul snorted and tossed his head, but he did not move away. He turned his eyes to the tent’s entrance and then looked back at Eomer, his ears lying flat upon his head momentarily.

"I can see that you have been groomed already, great one," Eomer said quietly, now stroking the horse’s neck. "And you do not lack for food or water. Why this fear and anxiety? Perhaps you miss Legolas?"

At the elf’s name, Faensul threw back his head and whinnied a third time, but this whinny turned into something akin to a keening wail, its eerie sound rising into the night air and startling the other horses. A few neighed and some pulled sharply against their stakes. It was a sound that Eomer had never before heard from a horse, but then, he had never before worked with elven horses. Uncertain of what to do, he resorted to a trick that had never failed to calm Firefoot. He began to hum.

Faensul seemed startled by this development and he ceased to keen, but the look he turned upon Eomer was not friendly. Stomping his back foot, he tossed his head and his ears went back. Still Eomer continued to hum, never ceasing to stroke the horse’s neck. After a few minutes of this, Faensul dropped his head and whickered quietly. It was almost as though he had given up for the time being. Eomer did not know what to make of this strange behavior, but since Faensul was no longer agitating the other horses, the king of Rohan judged it safe to leave him.

"Peace, my friend," he whispered, giving the horse a final pat. "I shall come to see you again shortly. And if it is within my power to do so, we shall find your rider. That I promise."

If Faensul understood these words, he did not show it. He now seemed utterly dejected, a far cry from the spirited stallion that had splashed and played in the Anduin before crossing on the barges. With a sigh, Eomer shook his head and turned away, quickly leaving the tent. Faensul was not the only one possessed of a pessimistic mind this night. He was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed himself, and the lack of both answers and action was telling on Eomer. He did not truly mind waiting out a situation so long as there was an objective to the wait. But stalling because one knew not what else to do…that was something else. Eomer shook his head as he pulled aside the flap to his own tent. If things did not change soon, he might well face a mutiny. The Riders of Rohan were not accustomed to sitting quietly and waiting. They did so with an ill grace.

"How fare the horses?"

"Well enough, all things considered," Eomer answered, spying Aragorn sitting in a corner and sharpening a knife. Legolas’s knife, the king of Rohan realized with something akin to despair. It seems that I am not the only one at a loss for things to do. "Faensul does concern me, however," Eomer continued, praying that Aragorn would stop playing with the elf’s knife in the near future. "His behavior is not that of a normal horse, and I do not know how to interpret his actions."

"That was his cry, then?" Aragorn asked. "I wondered. Elven steeds form very strong ties to their riders. It does not surprise me that he misses Legolas’s presence."

"Is there anything that can be done? I know not how to handle him, and he is vexing the other horses."

"We must find Legolas," Aragorn answered with a slight shrug. The king of Gondor held the elf’s knife up to a lamp that flickered nearby and nodded slightly, apparently satisfied with his work. "As for how we shall do that, it remains yet to be seen."

"Would the break in tradition be too great if we decided to avoid the Gathering tonight and instead spend our time in the desert?" Eomer asked. "Or is tradition a moot point by now?"

Aragorn gave a rather humorless laugh and ran his thumb over the edge of Legolas’s blade. "Tradition is never a moot point in Harad, but customs are certainly changing during this Gathering. Of that there can be no doubt."

"Then we are free to go?"

"Somewhat, I suppose, but would it be wise to do so? Would we be playing into Khurintu’s hands by leaving Haradhur?" Aragorn rubbed his brow and sighed. "Let us run through our speculations and the situation again. What do we know so far and what do we fear?"

"We know that the Portu tribe is working for Khurintu," Eomer said, running through a growing mental list of facts and theories. "We know that Khurintu has used the legend of the Destroyer to turn much of Harad against us. Or at the very least, they are suspicious of our motives and our intentions. We know that the Gartabo tribe was commanded to apprehend Legolas and Gimli and to hold them outside Haradhur, but the Khurintu tribe got to them first. And now they are missing. We know that Arabano suspects treacherous dealings on the part of Soltari, and we know that the Khurintu tribe is leaving Haradhur within the hour. We also know that there are a substantial number of Khurintu tribesmen located northeast around Lake Hajim. What else do you wish me to list?"

"This seems a fair place to begin," Aragorn murmured. "Now what of our fears for the future? We believe that Khurintu has a weapon or plan of some kind that will reinforce fears that the Destroyer is about to live up to his name. We believe they will use this weapon tonight. We believe that Khurintu’s objective is supreme power in the desert and ultimately the capture of northern lands. They wish to obtain Mordor’s glory."

"And they shall start with the overthrow of key tribes such as Gartabo," Eomer sighed. "Because Gartabo has failed to capture Legolas and Gimli, they have failed to obey the Destroyer’s commands. Whatever happens, they shall be held responsible."

"Which is probably why Khurintu wished to capture Legolas and Gimli for themselves. They are now the agents of the Iluh. They shall be the ones to obey the Destroyer’s commands"

"But it does not explain why they wanted Legolas and Gimli alive," Eomer pointed out, rubbing his temples. "Nor does it give us any clue as to what they plan to do that will incriminate the Gartabo tribe."

"But it does, in its own a way," Aragorn said quietly, seeming to speak to himself. "Khurintu cannot afford to destroy the Gartabo tribe, for they will need them as an agricultural base. One cannot feed warriors upon the blood of their slain enemies unless one is an Orc, and even then, something more is required."

"Then they shall do something that causes a stir, is highly visible, but leaves valuable tribes intact," Eomer concluded. "Which means that whatever they do, it will undoubtedly be a localized occurrence. Perhaps they shall target key tribes or groups."

"And those groups will have to be kept under careful watch," Aragorn sighed. "So who becomes a target?"

"Ourselves," Eomer answered with a shrug. "That much is obvious."

"Is it?" Aragorn grimaced and shook his head. "I fear that I must disagree with you. I do not think that we are a target. Not yet. That is not how Khurintu operates. They will slide around the bush and eliminate all subordinates who stand in the way, but when confronting their primary opposition, they prefer to do it directly. Nay, we are not a target yet. We shall be in the future, but for the moment, our encampment at least is safe. I suspect that this is one of the reasons for our being inside the city rather than without its walls. We are shielded from the desert and from angry tribes. We are being protected against the time when Asbad and Dashnir will come to claim us themselves."

Eomer thought this logic over, but while it made sense, he was still unconvinced. "Would it not be easier to destroy us when we were unawares?"

"It would, but it would not further the plan. If I were placed in Asbad’s role and had his desires, I would wish to make an example of the kingdoms from the north. And I would wish to do it in such a way that none would doubt my supremacy after their defeat. Of this much I am becoming very convinced, Eomer. We are being spared for a later date. Our time will come, but it is not yet here."

"As you say," Eomer said, still feeling rather uneasy about this idea but lacking the necessary knowledge to debate it. "Then whom shall we watch? And whom shall we warn?"

"Lotessa," Aragorn said, conviction beginning to grow in his voice. "They shall be among the first. They are a rival but not a direct one, nor have they done aught during the Gathering that might merit Khurintu’s ill will. Thus, a quick end to Lotessa’s power suits Khurintu’s needs. The Portu tribe, also, may become a target. Khurintu cannot risk their telling the other tribes of their participation in last night’s raid. More than that, though, I cannot say. If Khurintu specifically singles out all their rivals, it will look suspicious. Perhaps one or two is all they require."

"What of the Warra tribe?" Eomer questioned. "Upon the journey here, Garat seemed to be working with Dashnir, yet I have not seen anything in the way of partnership between Joranen and Dashnir."

"I have also wondered about this," Aragorn murmured. "It makes no sense, for you are right. There was an alliance between Dashnir and Garat. But between Dashnir and Joranen, I have seen nothing. I wonder if we should not look into the structure of the Warra tribe. It may be that there are rebel factions within it. Perhaps Garat was operating independently."

"And in addition to this, we must also discover how Khurintu’s bid for power will take shape. We must discover what they shall unleash upon us tonight." Eomer sighed and rubbed his temples. "This takes time, Aragorn. All of this takes time and research as well as resources. May I point out that we are lacking in every one of these requirements?"

"I am well aware of our limitations."

"Then may I also point out that Legolas and Gimli are somewhere in Harad and that we must also devote time, research, and resources to finding them?"

"How would you draw the line, Eomer?" Aragorn asked wearily. "We have requirements that must be met. We need to maintain a presence of some kind at the Gathering. We need to prevent an unknown disaster from taking place tonight, and to do that we must discover not only the targets but the nature of this unknown disaster. We must rescue lost comrades, and to do that we must discover their whereabouts and their captors. We must also fathom why live captives would be better than corpses and how long live captives will be esteemed useful. Additionally, we must investigate the Soltari tribe and the Warra tribe, but we must do so quietly. Where shall we start, Eomer? And how shall we divide ourselves?"

"Aragorn, what troubles you?" Eomer demanded, deciding that he had endured quite enough of this. "This is unlike you. You act as one lost, and yet we have discussed possible answers. Are they not enough for you? Come, what is truly the problem?"

It was a rare day when the king of Gondor was caught off guard by a question, but a look of surprise flashed across his face. Normally, Eomer would have been greatly amused by this, but at the moment, it only added to his conviction that something was very wrong with his friend.

"Usually, I can sense things before they happen," Aragorn eventually said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. He raised Legolas’s knife and studied the weapon, seeming to find comfort in the delicate workmanship of the silver haft. "Only rarely does this foresight fail me, and when it does, I am sometimes at a loss for direction. It does not help that my mind and thoughts have already been tampered with upon this journey. Perhaps it is taking longer for my foresight to recover from this. Perhaps I simply lack the confidence I once had. Whatever the cause, though, I no longer sense where destiny is leading us. And without the guidance that foresight once provided, I seem to be plagued by indecision."

Eomer blinked and stared at the king of Gondor. He had never expected such a detailed answer, but as he studied Aragorn, he wondered just how long his friend had been dealing with these feelings and misgivings. Gondor’s king was a very private individual, and as he had learned more of Aragorn’s past, Eomer had come to realize the reasons for this privacy and its extent. Thus, he was quite surprised to be told so much so quickly by a man for whom secrecy had once been equated with survival.

His confusion must have been evident upon his face, for Aragorn suddenly gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. "My apologies, Eomer," he said with a slight smile, though the mirth did not quite reach his eyes. "I fear you were expecting something different."

"Nay, my apologies," Eomer said hastily, trying to compose himself. "I did not know how deeply you had been affected. I should not have spoken as I did, for it seems that I have stirred memories which are less than desirable."

"Then I account us even," Aragorn said. "But though we may now be at peace with one another, there are still decisions to be made. I did not jest when I asked for your counsel. How would you divide us, Eomer? Where would you place your priorities? For I do not trust my own judgement at the moment."

Eomer grimaced and turned the problem over in his mind, attempting to see it from as many angles as possible. "You know my desires, Aragorn," he said after a minute or so. "You know that I wish to lead a search party into the desert after Legolas and Gimli. But your words have caused me to reconsider, and though my heart still yearns to ride, I think such a task would be better left in the hands of Arhelm. He is a capable captain, and the searchers will not be lacking for want of their king." Eomer pursed his lips, thinking a bit more, and then sighed. "This, then, is my counsel. You and I shall attend the Gathering for a brief period only. We shall send Arhelm out with fifteen riders to search for Legolas and Gimli. We shall keep Imhran at the Gathering Hall to act as a second on behalf of both Rohan and Gondor. We shall send warnings to the Lotessa tribe at least and perhaps to the Portu tribe also. Finally, we send a small team of Gondorrim scouts around the camps without Haradhur to search for anything that might be connected with Khurintu."

Aragorn nodded slowly, thinking through Eomer’s suggestions. "Your plan matches my own with but one exception. I would not send so many riders after Legolas and Gimli. I had envisioned Arhelm’s party as more of a reconnaissance team. Should they find our friends, they would send one back to alert the rest of us. By doing this, we keep more men here in Haradhur."

"By why should we wish to keep them here?" Eomer asked. "We have ample protection, and you have already theorized that we shall not be the first targets. What better use for them than to send them out upon a rescue operation."

"Too many trackers leads to too many trails," Aragorn argued. "Arhelm is not out to rescue Legolas and Gimli. Not initially. His first task is to find them, which shall be daunting enough. Once they are found, we can spare a large quantity of troops as well as ourselves for the purposes of liberating Legolas and Gimli. I would recommend that Arhelm’s group contain no more than five."

"If Arhelm chances upon the prisoners and sees a window of opportunity in which to act, he cannot do so unless he is properly supported by other riders," Eomer protested. An awkward pause fell, and then the king of Rohan smiled slightly. "Ten. Ten riders."

Aragorn returned the smile and sighed, shaking his head. "Ten, then, though what good ten shall do in battle I know not."

"They are Rohirrim," Eomer pointed out with a cheeky grin. "What is there that ten Rohirrim cannot accomplish?"

"My confidence wanes already."

"You do not know the Rohirrim well enough, then."

"Perhaps we should keep it that way," Aragorn said with a faint glimmer of a smile. "But now that we have concluded our business, let us give our orders to our men. Arhelm will wish to start early so that he may examine the desert ere the Khurintu caravan departs."

"Then we shall send him out now," Eomer said. "And Valar willing, Legolas and Gimli we be with us again ere sunrise."

"Valar willing," Aragorn murmured, but he did not sound as though he shared Eomer’s optimism.

* * * *

By nature, Imrahil was an exact, precise, and demanding man. He kept his records in perfect order, his own quarters were never anything less than scrupulously clean, and though he did not require such rigid standards among his men, he did see that his troops acted with order and discipline in all things. Because of this, Imrahil rarely found himself confused or uncertain. Things were almost always carefully planned out well in advance. Even upon the field of battle, most strategies that the prince of Dol Amroth employed were strategies he had formulated ahead of time in an attempt to account for all eventualities. And though his touch of elven blood did give him a penchant for foresight, he usually did not find forebodings to be distressing. They were merely omens sent to warn him, and he arranged his affairs accordingly so as to better meet whatever impending disaster loomed.

But this evening as his men prepared to set out on the journey to Lake Nurnein, the last stop before Haradhur, Imrahil found himself adrift and lost. It was a disconcerting feeling that further unnerved the prince, but there seemed to be naught that he could do about it. He could identify the cause of this unease, but he could not alleviate it.

What is wrong with me? Imrahil demanded of himself, rubbing his temples in a gesture of frustration that would have shocked his men had they seen it. When the Swan Knights had arrived at Lake Miyarr, Imrahil had told Mohart that his dreams and forebodings had quieted. He had told him that they were too late to stop a great catastrophe. Imrahil still believed this, but he had not been entirely truthful when he spoke of his dreams. They had not quieted, but they had certainly changed. And it was this change that was now puzzling Imrahil and occupying his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. Before this day, Imrahil’s dreams had contained images of Aragorn, Eomer, Gimli, and Legolas in the desert. He had seen smoke and flame, both of which were very rare in Harad since fires were scarce. He had seen darkness reaching out over the land, and he had heard voices pleading for help. But this morning, all that had changed. He no longer saw the desert in his dreams. Instead, he saw the sea.

Ere he entered Harad, Imrahil had created a point of reference for his dreams. He had fixed in his mind an image of the place where grass became desert and water met sand. This image was to act as a reference for Imrahil when his sleeping mind tried to recall memories of Dol Amroth. The prince’s dreams were strange in that they took his present surroundings and attempted to make them a part of his remembered experience, and so he often needed a reference point so as to better order his dreams. His perfectionist idiosyncrasies extended even to his sleeping world. But this past day, when Imrahil eventually did sleep, he had not retraced his route over the sand until coming to the castle walls lined with crushed seashells. Instead, he had skipped the desert entirely and dreamed of the open ocean. He had seen ships. Many ships. They had rowed their way toward the mouth of Anduin. He had been unable to identify the boats, but he had sensed no good will from them. And as the ships drew near the shore, Imrahil had seen a small group of people waiting for them. Here the dream began to make more sense, for within this group of people were desert tribesmen. But with these tribesmen was a figure that was not from the desert. He was bound with strong ropes, and they had carried him to one of the ships. After that, the dream was filled with the sound of waves smashing against the shore while the shadow that had risen from the desert was joined by a darkness from the sea. Together, they crept forward, devouring all that stood in their path.

"Honored one?"

Such a thing should not be! His dreams should have returned him to Dol Amroth. Even if they had not made it that far, they should at least have stayed in the desert. But the sea…why the sea? Nothing and no one in his current surroundings had reminded Imrahil of the sea, and yet he had dreamed of it. How did the sea fit into this picture? Imrahil missed the vast waters of his harbor, that was true enough, but to dream of the ocean with no reference…

"Honored one!"

Finally registering that someone was talking to him, Imrahil shook his head slightly and turned his eyes to the side. "You have somewhat to say, Mohart?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded more composed than he felt.

"Nay, but I sense that you do," the tribesman answered, running narrowed eyes over the prince. "This morning and this past night you have not been yourself. What ails you, honored one? If something troubles you, would it not be better to share the burden rather than letting it fester?"

Imrahil stiffened slightly and studied Mohart. His men knew far better than to pry into his personal affairs. When Imrahil deemed information should be forthcoming, he gave out that information, but not until then. He knows not my methods, the prince reminded himself, forcing his hands to unclench and his visage to soften. He does this out of concern. Taking a calming breath, Imrahil centered his thoughts and then turned his attention back to the conversation. "I have received strange omens of late," he answered, making his tone one of finality. "Take no thought for it. I shall be well."

Mohart looked less than convinced, but the prince’s voice seemed to deter him from further questions. "As you wish it, but remember that it is a dangerous thing to be alone in Harad. You are isolating yourself, honored one."

"I shall remember," Imrahil murmured, casting his eyes upon the still waters of Lake Miyarr. "Mohart, know you of any tribe within the desert that deals with sailors or those living upon the seacoast?"

The tribesman frowned, somewhat surprised by the question. "None come to mind. Perhaps in the far south they have dealings, for it is difficult for trade caravans to reach so far without coming to grief along the way. But to my mind, none of the northern tribes have ties with those near or upon the ocean. We are two different kinds of men, honored one. Sailors live upon waters. Tribesmen can only dream of them. It is difficult for our two cultures to understand one another."

"That was my impression as well," Imrahil said quietly, his brow furrowing. Mohart’s words made sense and matched what the prince of Dol Amroth already knew, but the lingering image of open waters would not leave his mind.

"Honored one?"

"Let us depart," Imrahil said, shaking his head and deciding to think on the matter as they rode. The crisp night air in his face might do much for calming his thoughts and so enable him to piece together the puzzle that currently troubled his mind. "The sun has almost set, and it is time for us to be away."

* * * *

Sharp, jabbing pain was Gimli’s first warning that consciousness was returning. Lost in muddied shadows, the dwarf tried to thrust the pain away, but it seemed that the more he battled, the stronger it grew. Eventually, the throbbing pain began to consolidate itself in his head and in his right thigh, slowly releasing the rest of his body from crippling agony. Gimli wondered if this was a good thing and decided he was probably better off not knowing. With that out of the way and firmly stowed deep in the back of his mind, the dwarf moved on to a different set of problems.

Where was he? What had happened? Surely Legolas hadn’t allowed him to drink that much. During the past few years, the elf had developed an uncanny talent for knowing exactly when Gimli had been given just a little too much to drink, and he usually intervened in time to save the dwarf from embarrassment. Of course, there had been times when Legolas’s mischievous side had allowed the dwarf to make a complete fool of himself before the elf had stepped in. But still, something about this hangover—if it was a hangover—felt different.

And hadn’t he woken already? Why did he have to go through this again? It seemed very unfair, but then no one had ever said life was fair. Most, in fact, claimed just the opposite. With a sigh, Gimli concentrated on opening his eyes. Maybe he could speed the waking process along by doing so. Fuzzy memories were beginning to dance through his mind, and with them came growing feelings of fear and bewilderment. His headache had completely isolated itself and now ruled the back of his skull by means of a mithril fist that seemed to have an obsession with pounding. The throbbing from his thigh was more distant and easier to ignore, but it was still a very real agony. Gimli heard himself release a small groan and he cringed at the weakness that plagued him, working harder to open his eyes and achieve full consciousness.

"Gimli?"

Ah, there was Legolas. And there also lay answers, or so Gimli hoped.

"Gimli? Gimli, can you hear me?"

The dwarf frowned. Legolas wasn’t usually this impatient. In fact, the elf sounded anxious. Why should that be? What could cause the normally composed elf to sound…well…frightened? Gimli gave himself a mental shake and continued with the waking process. He was now growing more aware of his body as well as the sand beneath him that served as a bed. It was comfortably warm in contrast to the rapidly cooling air around him. He was lying on his stomach, and the dwarf winced as he thought about how long it would take to get the sand out of his beard. But he quickly forgot that problem when he realized he had another, more serious, problem. His hands were tightly bound behind his back and his feet were roped together.

That elf is dead, Gimli thought, clinging desperately to the outside hope that this was an elaborate prank.

Unfortunately, he finally managed to open his eyes at this point and discovered that Legolas was probably not responsible for this. The elf was lying partially on his side with unblinking eyes fixed on his friend, and from what little Gimli could see, Legolas’s arms were also bound behind his back, and a thick cord wound around his ankles as well.

"This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into," the dwarf mumbled blearily, unable to think of anything else to say.

Legolas closed his eyes and a wave of relief seemed to sweep over his entire body. Then it was gone, and the elf was composed again so quickly that Gimli wondered if he had imagined it. "I believe I was the one urging for flight rather than fight, my friend," the prince said with a tight smile. Bright, elven eyes studied Gimli in the last of the day’s light, evaluating his condition with frightening scrutiny. "How do you feel?"

There it was again. To anyone else, Legolas would have sounded calm, poised, and collected, but to his best friend, the fair elven voice was pitched a little too high, revealing hidden distress and concern. Of course, given the fact that we are both securely trussed, there is probably good reason for that distress and concern, Gimli thought bitterly. "I think I am none the worse for wear," the dwarf answered aloud, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts. "What happened? Wait…I asked that before, I think. Or did I?"

Legolas nodded slightly. "You did. You asked that question earlier today when you woke briefly, but then you fell asleep again. I was unable to give you an answer."

"How long…how long ago was that?" Gimli asked, trying to account for the fact that the sun seemed to be setting.

"A few hours, perhaps," Legolas said after a thoughtful pause. "Possibly more. You have been unconscious for most of the day, and I have had difficulty in keeping track of the time."

"Ah. I see." In actuality, Gimli didn’t see anything, but at least he now more or less understood how he’d missed the passing of time. He’d been unconscious. But he still didn’t know why, and Legolas had still not told him. "So, must I ask a third time today or are you going to grace me with an answer?"

"An answer to what?"

Gimli sighed and wished his head would stop pounding so he could better match the other at word games. "Legolas, what happened?"

The elf shifted slightly, a sign that Gimli instantly recognized as uncertainty. "What is the last thing you remember?" Legolas eventually asked.

Gimli had to search his mind for that one, and the process was hampered by the fact that his head had turned into a practice hall for the drums of Moria. "I remember Budari and Arabano coming to warn us," he eventually said. "That Destroyer of theirs had come again and apparently convinced Gartabo that I was also a herald of doom, so we were going back to camp before journeying into the desert. Afterward…" The dwarf frowned as his memories became choppy and confused. "We were at the tent. I know that. And you…you said something to me about…about Amon Hen. And I thought that strange until I noticed you’d set your bow and…I think I had my axe…and then…there was mention of the Morannon, but…" The dwarf attempted to recall something more substantial than those meager details, but after a few more minutes of struggling, Gimli was forced to admit defeat. "I have no memory beyond that," he confessed with a sigh.

"It is a wonder you remember that much," Legolas murmured. "I feared the blow to your head had done irreparable harm. It was a great relief to hear you speak a few hours ago."

"You have always told me that dwarves have thick skulls," Gimli said with a smile.

"And I am thankful that I spoke truly," Legolas said, his quiet voice filled with relief.

"Well, as true as that may be, it is also true that elves have wandering minds. You have still not told me what happened. Shall I now ask a fourth time or shall you speak?"

"There is not much to tell," the elf answered with a small shrug that caused him to wince. "And in truth, my own memories are jumbled. I was rendered unconscious not long after you fell. Still, I think I can better your story. We had arrived at the tent and entered when I sensed we were not alone. That was when I warned you by mentioning Amon Hen. Fifteen men attacked. You and I held our own for a time, but more arrived and they managed to drive us apart. That was when you were struck. At first, I thought the blow had killed you." Legolas shivered, apparently still haunted by that memory. He was silent for a moment before continuing, his voice softer and more solemn now. "I cannot recall with any certainty what happened after you were injured. Somehow I was rendered unconscious. I woke later to find that we had been taken captive."

"By whom?"

"Who else, Master Dwarf? The Khurintu tribe. Asbad, their leader, was among the men we confronted last night. I recognized his face."

Gimli cursed quietly, trying to coax his muddled brain into a higher state of alertness so that he could begin deciphering what the Khurintu tribe would want with an elf and a dwarf. "Have you been awake long?" he asked at length.

"I woke when they were pitching camp for the day. It was not long after they captured us."

The dwarf frowned. "And you have not slept since?"

Legolas shrugged again, this time managing to do so without wincing. "I thought it useful to evaluate our situation. And I was not hit as hard as you were. It was easier for me to stay awake. Also, I was concerned for you," the elf added, examining his friend again with piercing gray eyes that never seemed to miss anything. "You are still in pain," he stated.

Gimli grunted as he rolled off his stomach and onto his side, recoiling briefly as the world tilted crazily and then righted itself. "It is nothing," the dwarf managed. "Tell me of our situation, Legolas, since you put your time to good use and evaluated it. Tell me how we fare."

"Not well," Legolas sighed. "Our captors know their craft and they will not linger in one place for long. We will probably be moving once the sun fully sets. They had us in tents during the day as a means of shelter from the sun, though our own shelter left much to be desired. Samwise would doubtless have much to say about their concept of shelters, were he here." The elf was silent for a moment before shaking his head slightly and continuing. "If their intent was to weaken us, it was successful. I fear that, physically, I am at a severe disadvantage. And my mind is only now recovering from the heat it endured during the day."

"What are the men doing now?" Gimli asked. "And what do they plan to do next?"

"They broke camp not long ago and are packing yonder." Legolas looked over his shoulder and Gimli followed the gaze until he spied a group of men working with a collection of baggage. "As I said before, I suspect that they mean to travel soon. And I suspect that we shall be asked to accompany them."

The dwarf studied the men, which he had only noticed after Legolas had practically pointed them out for him. Apparently his mind was still not up to par, but it was becoming clearer. More or less. And as he observed his captors, he saw something rather odd. "Are they not watching us?" Gimli asked, noticing that he and the elf were being ignored for the moment.

The prince gave a small, mirthless laugh. "Do you think to escape? You, who have barely regained consciousness, can you break through the bonds on our wrists and ankles and restore feeling to our hands and feet? And even if you can, what then, Gimli? Can you navigate a way for us across the pathless desert sand? Can you find where the hidden lakes lie that would supply us with water? Can you lead us back to Haradhur, or even to Lebennin and Gondor? Because I cannot, my friend. I cannot."

The dwarf frowned. "Surely we have not moved so far that Haradhur is beyond your…" Gimli trailed off as realization slowly dawned. "Someone has placed you beneath ú-glîr again."

"So it would seem," Legolas murmured, looking away. "I think now that the first time was merely a test to see if it was possible. Then they freed me from ú-glîr so that I might not become too familiar with the use of limited senses. I fear, Gimli, that they were successful in their ploy. This has clearly been planned for some time, and we are but a small part of some larger scheme. We are pawns, my friend. Pawns to move at will, and we are now under the control of the enemy. And given the complications they faced the last time I was put beneath ú-glîr, I do not think we are pawns destined for a long life. So long as we remain in their clutches, our days, nay, our very hours are numbered."

"You seem to have given this much thought," Gimli observed with a sigh.

"I have had little cause to think of anything else," Legolas answered quietly. He was about to say something else, but he stopped and looked over his shoulder again. His elven ears, impeded though they might be, had caught the sound of advancing footsteps.

Gimli glanced up and saw a large man walking toward them. It was the same man who had led the attack the night before. The last of the sun’s light reflected off the sharp tip of a long knife, and the man’s eyes gleamed above the wrappings that protected his face. Behind this man, falling into an orderly procession, the remainder of the group followed with the packed tents and baggage. Four unburdened, doughty men walked at the head of this line, and their eyes were fixed on the elf and dwarf. Our guards, Gimli predicted, glancing over at Legolas. Judging from the set of the elf’s jaw and his intense study of these four men, Legolas had reached the same conclusion.

Gimli felt a flash of pity for these men who were now the subject of elven scrutiny. The dwarf himself had more or less grown used to said elven scrutiny after years of friendship with Legolas, but even he sometimes felt the urge to turn away if the elf watched him too closely for too long. Though Legolas would never match Galadriel, Gimli had learned that practically any elf had the power to make mortals feel utterly worthless. Being pinned beneath the gaze of an immortal who possessed both wisdom born of countless years and the unrivaled power of elven curiosity was enough to make anyone blanch. What made it worse in Legolas’s case was that the prince had grown aware of exactly how disconcerting this ability could be under certain circumstances, thanks in part to Gimli, and could now successfully employ it as a devastating weapon. And despite the crippling effects of ú-glîr, Legolas was still quite capable of making almost any man cringe.

A knife suddenly flashed before Gimli’s face and his thoughts were interrupted when Asbad stepped forward and dropped to one knee between the dwarf and the elf. The man carefully studied first one and then the other, evaluating their condition and their mindset. Gimli noted with a small degree of satisfaction that the leader of Khurintu was unable to meet Legolas’s unblinking eyes for long.

"We are traveling this night," Asbad said in Westron, his harsh voice breaking through the dark stillness. "Your legs will be free so that you may walk, but you will both be guarded. And know this: I do not need you alive. It is easier if you remain so, but it is not a necessity. Should the circumstances require it, I will not hesitate to kill one or both of you."

Legolas narrowed his eyes slightly—a motion imperceptible to anyone but Gimli—and the dwarf interpreted it as a sign that the elf had swiftly reevaluated their plight and didn’t like his conclusion. Gimli was also doing some rapid thinking of his own, and he had to agree with Legolas. Things did not look good.

But before Gimli could get very far with his foreboding ideas, the bonds on his legs were cut and he was hauled upwards. He floundered for a moment as blood resumed its normal flow to his feet and almost toppled over when the world began to spin violently. The stiff, torn muscles from his wounded leg cried out in protest and he doubted for a moment whether or not his injured limb would be able to endure his weight, though he finally managed to steady himself. At the same time, Legolas was also raised to his feet. In contrast to Gimli, the elf did not stumble but continued to watch the humans around him with an intensity that could only be surpassed by wizards.

"One final item of importance," Asbad added as two of his men stepped to either side of Legolas and the other two repeated the maneuver with Gimli. "A wrong move by one will result in punishment for the other. I thought you should be made aware of that." Watching the prisoners to make sure they understood, he eventually nodded to his men, and they took their captives by either arm. "Forward!"

Author’s Notes: A question has been posed concerning Imrahil. He is NOT my own character. He is Tolkien’s and he appears in Return of the King as the prince of Dol Amroth, leader of the Swan Knights (who seemed to be Minas Tirith’s only real cavalry until Rohan showed up). He is Denethor’s brother-in-law and the major political authority down in Belfalas, though he does answer to Gondor. He also takes control of Minas Tirith when Denethor dies, Faramir is struck down, and Aragorn decides to play Ranger for a bit longer. And according to Legolas, he has quite a bit of elven blood in his veins. Go Imrahil.

Budari, tribal head of Lotessa, had seen quite a few Gatherings in his lifetime, and Iluh willing, he would see quite a few more. But he could not remember a Gathering ever being quite this…tense. Or unpredictable. There had been occasions when Lord Sauron had sent advisors and observers to the Gathering, and during these times, a definite air of fear and hatred could be felt. The southern tribes, especially, had no great love for Sauron. They had no great love for Sauron’s enemies, either, but at least Gondor and Lebennin had not made a habit of stealing away young men for the sake of stocking an army. The northern tribes also contributed great numbers of men, but because they were closer to Mordor, they received a greater share of the benefits for their willingness to serve the Dark Lord. The southern tribes rarely saw anything in the way of compensation, and so a great dislike for anything to do with Mordor had been cultivated in the southern portions of the desert. And this dislike came to the forefront when the southern tribes were forced to deal with Sauron’s representatives at the yearling Gathering. Yet even then, the tension at the Gathering had almost always been at a manageable level. And there were no surprises such as a sudden attack, for Mordor prevented such things from happening. But now, that was no longer the case, and the air of uncertainty that pervaded the room had tainted this particular night beyond any reasonable hope of reclamation.

With a sigh, Budari noted that someone on the other side of the table was ranting about tradition and the possibility of yet another tribe withdrawing after this night. So far, five different tribes had come forward and announced their intentions to depart, a complete break with protocol and custom. Three others had hinted that they were considering such action. All the tribes were clearly ill at ease, something Budari could well understand, but what he could not understand was why so many were ready to flee rather than confront the problem.

There were reasons, of course. Budari knew that. The appearance of the Destroyer, the disappearance of an elf and a dwarf who were said to be the cause of the Destroyer’s anger, the withdrawal of one of the most powerful northern tribes, the strange attack in the desert the night before…they were all disconcerting. Put together they were nothing short of terrifying. And yet…Budari shook his head. Perhaps he was aided by the fact that he was not a superstitious man. Perhaps he was aided by the fact that he knew much of what was actually happening. But what good was this knowledge and this grounded practicality if his tribe stood alone? He and his kinsmen were not here at the Gathering in full force. Many members of the Lotessa tribe had stayed in the south so as to maintain holdings on hidden lakes and carry out the odd raiding and pillaging mission. If Khurintu came with the bulk of its force and descended upon the Gathering, there would be no stopping them. Lotessa could not defy them without aid. Gondor and Rohan did not have enough men. But who else was willing to help them?

With a sigh, Budari glanced over at Aragorn and Eomer, neither of whom had said a word during this session. Eomer, in particular, seemed unusually quiet. Budari’s first impression of the king of Rohan had indicated that Eomer would sooner argue a point than listen to the reasoning behind it even though that reasoning might be sound. Yet now he was silent, his eyes fixed on the table and his brow furrowed as though in deep concentration. Perhaps that is why he does not seek to interrupt or contradict, Budari thought. He is not paying attention to the conversation but rather to his own suspicions.

This led Budari to yet another topic, and he frowned as he studied the two kings. Before the start of the Gathering, while everyone was collecting within the inner hall, Aragorn and Eomer had come to him and expressed grave misgivings about this night. They felt that Khurintu would unleash something that could be read as a sign from the Destroyer, and they felt that Lotessa might well bear the brunt of this attack. While Budari could not fault their logic, he had no way of preparing himself or his tribe He did not know what form an attack might take or when it would be carried out. He agreed that his tribe was at risk and he agreed that the Portu tribe would also be a likely target, but he could not fathom what Khurintu might do. By necessity, it would have to be a demonstration of great power and authority, yet what would that entail? And how did one prevent it when one did not know what it was?

I must search for something out of the ordinary, Budari decided. Khurintu is not following their usual methods, and therefore something in this Gathering shall strike me as odd. Budari sighed. This reasoning really didn’t help because quite a few things at this Gathering struck him as odd.

Still, there was one oddity that might be worth pursuing, and that was something that had happened just prior to sunset. According to Lotessa spies, Fastahn of the Soltari tribe had been seen leaving the Khurintu camp an hour before Dashnir and the Khurintu tribe left Haradhur. That was unusual. Soltari kept its dealings in the open so that they might never be accused of favoritism or treachery. It helped maintain their carefully constructed position of neutrality. Yet now the picture seemed to be changing. Fastahn’s meeting with Dashnir had been a rather secret encounter, and this raised the possibility that the Soltari tribe had become an agent for the Khurintu tribe. Perhaps they would be the ones behind the fulfillment of the Destroyer’s prophecies.

But Budari didn’t like that idea. The Soltari tribe had invested too much into their neutrality for them to abandon it now. There was another possibility that Fastahn was acting independently and a rift of sorts had formed within the Soltari tribe. But if that were so, then it came as a complete surprise to Budari. And while it was certainly not impossible to keep factions within a tribe secret, the Lotessa tribe kept a close watch on Soltari, for they were Lotessa’s primary source of agriculture. Budari felt rather confident about his sources on Soltari, and they had said nothing of any kind of a rift or a faction, much less one led by Fastahn.

A stir in the conversation around him drew Budari’s attention back to the Gathering, and he noticed that Eomer also seemed to be focusing on the meeting. Aragorn was impossible to read, and Budari wondered what thoughts had come to the king of Gondor. The ruler of the Lotessa tribe prided himself on his ability to judge thought and intent from faces, but he had met his match in the northern king. Budari had never before seen a man who hid his emotions so well. It was simply uncanny, and Budari wondered if there was a trick or two that Aragorn might be willing to teach him. Such a skill was invaluable during negotiations.

"Since there seems to much turmoil and much doubt, we shall adjourn for this evening," Aulit announced, effectively capturing the attention of everyone within the Gathering. Budari stiffened and managed to keep from protesting only with great effort. "I strongly urge all of you to consider your future actions well during this night. Together we are strong. Divided we become weak."

Nay, Aulit, that is not what we need to hear! Budari mentally groaned. If Aulit’s hope was to inspire others to stay at Haradhur and finish the Gathering, he was more foolish than Budari had ever dreamed. To maintain order and calm, traditions had to be followed. Ending a session of the Gathering early—especially when it had ended early the previous night due to a sudden attack—was an indication that something was wrong. It would do nothing to calm the nerves of already-frazzled leaders. It might even prompt more of them to leave.

But the damage was done now, and many of the leaders were already heading for the doors, no doubt intending to discuss events with their councils. If Budari were a betting man, his wager would be that at least one-fourth of the tribes would make plans to depart the next night.

Still, there was some good that came out of this. Granted with extra time, Budari might be able to decipher what was happening with Fastahn and the Soltari tribe. Quickly glancing around for Soltari’s leader, Budari was disappointed to see that Khesva had already left. But there would be time to search him out later in his own camp. If there was a rift within Soltari, Budari would be able to sense it in the encampment. And perhaps by openly confronting a rift, it might heal in such a way as to guarantee Soltari’s aid for the inevitable battle. It was a shot in the dark, Budari knew, for Soltari rarely involved itself more than necessary. Yet it had been strangely active this particular Gathering, and military aid might not be beyond them. At the very least, they might be willing to solicit other tribes for assistance on Lotessa’s behalf.

But there was another side to all of this that worried Budari. If Soltari had aligned itself with Khurintu—something that was still a remote possibility in Budari’s mind—then he might be walking into a trap by journeying into the Soltari camp. It would probably be best to travel with an armed escort. And it wouldn’t hurt to flex some muscle before Soltari, either. They had played with Lotessa enough. It was time to show them what a tribe of warriors could do.

"Perhaps it would be wise if you moved the bulk of your delegation into the city for this night."

Budari blinked and turned his head to meet Aragorn’s calm but concerned gaze. Hiding was exactly what tribes of warriors did not do. "I do not think I heard you correctly," Budari said, giving Aragorn a chance to redeem himself. Perhaps he had been jesting.

"Yes, you did hear me correctly, and no, I did not jest when I spoke."

Aragorn was either exceptionally good at reading minute facial expressions or he had a talent for reading minds. Considering what he had seen from this man already, Lotessa’s leader was half-willing to believe that the latter of the two might be possible. Frowning, Budari studied the king of Gondor and then shook his head slowly. "You would have us cower in the city as a lizard beneath a rock?"

"I would have you survive the night," Aragorn countered.

"We have survived countless years in the desert while at odds with both other tribes and the will of Lord Sauron. We will survive a bit longer."

"What is it that we discuss?" a new voice questioned, and Eomer stepped up beside Aragorn.

"I was advising Budari of the prudence of taking shelter within the walls of the city," Aragorn answered, studying the tribesman through narrowed eyes.

"Ah," Eomer murmured. "Were I in his saddle, I believe that I would refuse such a request. I suppose that he is doing likewise?"

"Indeed he is," Aragorn answered.

Budari deepened his frown and attempted to send two glares in two different directions. He was not especially appreciative of the fact that Eomer and Aragorn were talking about him without really acknowledging him. It was almost as though they were working together to maneuver him into a trap, which would have been acceptable except that Budari had never faced a trap like this and so did not know how to avoid it.

"You say you would also refuse such a suggestion?" Aragorn was asking as Budari turned his mind to possible escape routes.

"Initially, yes," Eomer said. "The Rohirrim do not take well to hiding and slinking. However, after you had explained to me the plan to muster forces within the city and then to ride forth with those forces and meet Khurintu in the desert, I would reconsider my refusal. I would wish to keep my horses fresh, my men safe, and the morale of my company high."

"Interesting. Perhaps we should try explaining this to Budari," Aragorn said, glancing at the Lotessa leader.

"That would be good counsel. I do not see how he could then refuse our offer to accommodate his tribe within our camp," Eomer agreed.

Budari stifled a laugh and shook his head. They were strange, these men from the north, and their methods of persuasion were even stranger. It was quite humorous, actually. Aragorn and Eomer sounded very much like children looking to obtain some favor or gift from intractable parents. But then again, perhaps he should not take their efforts so lightly, for despite his pride, they were beginning to convince him. "What is this of mustering forces?" Budari asked, attempting to sound as though he was only reluctantly considering their ideas.

"Having discussed this matter at length before the Gathering commenced this evening, King Eomer and I have reached several conclusions," Aragorn answered. "First of all, Khurintu shall act tonight and attempt to capitalize on the disappearance of Legolas and Gimli. We know not what form their actions shall take, but whatever the result, it will be powerful and devastating."

"And you believe Lotessa to be one of the targeted tribes," Budari finished for the king, feeling a slight bite of impatience. "You spoke of this earlier."

"It has occurred to us that Khurintu will then ride back tomorrow night," Eomer said, picking up where Aragorn left off. "They shall wish to show their invulnerability to the prophecies of the Destroyer. And having an elf and a dwarf within their grasp, they shall undoubtedly wish to show their power over the so-called abominations."

"Which is why Legolas and Gimli were captured alive," Aragorn concluded. "When Khurintu returns, they will kill Legolas and Gimli before all the other tribes and in some grand fashion, leaving no doubt as to who has been granted power within the desert."

"So they will fulfill their own prophecy that the Iluh will deal with your elf and dwarf," Budari sighed. "And who would dare to challenge them after that? They shall be seen as agents of the Iluh and the saviors of the Haradrim. If they choose to claim power and make all other tribes vassals to them, none will stand against them. The Lotessa tribe and all other potential threats shall have been destroyed by whatever calamity comes this night. The kings of Gondor and Rohan will be dispatched as your small forces attempt to fight Khurintu without allies. The superstitious populace of Harad shall look upon Asbad and Dashnir as men nearly equal to the stature of Lord Sauron. The Gartabo tribe will have lost its standing by its failure to capture those it was commanded to take. Khurintu will rally the desert to unification and ultimately expand their empire northward." Budari gave a mirthless laugh. "Tell me, my friends. Have we forgotten anything of this grand plan? Or does the confusion caused by whatever they did to your elf still linger?"

"It lingers still," Aragorn murmured, his eyes clouding momentarily. "And because of this, we are unable to discover the final pieces of their puzzle. I cannot see beyond what we have discussed here, but there is more to their plans than this. Harad is not prepared to face a prolonged war in the north. Khurintu knows this. Even bereft of its kings, Gondor and Rohan will stand strong. Imrahil leads from Dol Amroth, Faramir and Arwen command the forces of Minas Tirith, Lothíriel can muster Rohan, the elves of Ithilien and the dwarves of Aglarond will to our aid by force of alliance…" Aragorn trailed off and shook his head. "They are planning something more, but as for what that something is, I cannot say."

"Beyond that, we still have not solved the mystery of the Warra tribe and the Portu tribe," Eomer added. "We do not yet understand their role in all this."

"Still, even with the mystery unsolved, I see that Asbad and Dashnir are well on their way to making Khurintu a successor to Mordor’s might and power," Budari sighed, rubbing his temples. "Iluh take their Númenórean tricks! Had your minds and Arabano’s mind been able to function on the ride to Haradhur, you might have seen some of this in Dashnir."

"All of that is in the past," Eomer broke in, his voice indicating that he was eager to move on to other matters. "Brooding over it accomplishes nothing. Let us instead focus our talents and thoughts on what can be done now. We can gather within Haradhur, protected by the city from the forces set against us, and we can rally other Haradrim. You have told us that the Soltari tribe knows the identity of the Destroyer. Let us force them into sharing that knowledge with others. Khurintu can stand before a single tribe, but it cannot stand before the desert. We must all unite against them."

"Your suggestion is good, but it remains to be seen if we can convince Khesva and the Soltari tribe to share their knowledge," Budari cautioned. "There are recent developments that cast doubt upon Soltari’s willingness to assist."

"So Arabano warned us," Aragorn said. "Yet he did not tell us the origins of his suspicions."

"He had no origins at the time he spoke to you," Budari said. "We have had more information since then. But in one thing at least you have convinced me, honored ones. I shall move my tribe into the city for this night and the following day. I also know of other tribes that are beholden to Lotessa. I may be able to convince them of the need to ride to war with us. We shall seek them out and bid them join us. And as we walk to my camp, we shall discuss what preparations are needed to accommodate us within the city."

"And then you shall tell us what you know of Soltari," Eomer added, his eyes flashing. "We have been kept in the dark far too long, and at this point, secrets do not assist anyone."

"Nay, they do not," Budari agreed quietly. "Come, then. We shall find Arabano and depart for the camp of my tribe. And when we reach them, all shall be explained."

Gimli could never clearly recall the forced march through the desert during the first part of that night. His headache quickly escalated into extreme regions of pain, and his mind seemed to be cloaked in a perpetual haze. His injured leg buckled continuously, and he wondered how much damage was being done as he forced it to hold his weight. In truth, only the strong grips of his guards kept the dwarf upright, and only their constant shoves kept him moving forward. But as the night began to wear on, his faltering feet grew slower, his wounded leg throbbed harder, his guards became more impatient, and his mind grew ever darker.

He was dimly aware that Legolas kept throwing him concerned looks. The elf had spoken up once for the dwarf, and for his troubles he had earned a violent blow to the side and a stern warning from one of his guards. He had not called out since then, but his eyes were constantly locking onto Gimli’s as though he could ground the dwarf to reality with his gaze alone. And for a while, it seemed to work. Looking into eyes that had been trained to command an elven army with a single glance, Gimli was steadied and his world ceased to spin so quickly. But when the elf was forced to look away, the shadows returned, and the dwarf found himself swimming against swirling currents of darkness and pain that threatened to swallow his consciousness.

Legolas was also surreptitiously attempting to slow the march on the dwarf’s behalf, something for which Gimli was intensely grateful in spite of the outcries of his stubborn pride. The dwarf was all too aware of his own diminishing strength, and he knew that a faster pace might require more than he had to give. And yet, after a time, Legolas’s small efforts were no longer enough. The all-anvil orchestra in Gimli’s head refused to die down and even intensified as time ticked away. His vision began to fade in and out, and all clarity was lost in a foggy dream. Equilibrium failed, and sometime during the night, despite all attempts to keep his balance, his wounded leg refused to take any more. He stumbled and fell, bringing down the guards who had kept a firm grip on his arms. A halt was called, he heard Legolas’s voice rise up in sudden protest, and then darkness overcame him. For a time, he knew no more.

He was next aware of a gentle touch on his brow and hushed, urgent words pleading with him to wake. Deciding that waking was the last thing he wanted to do, Gimli initially ignored the commands that filtered through hazy layers of consciousness. But the voice that called to him was nothing if not persistent, and eventually the dwarf gave in just to be rid of the constant encouragement. Struggling for a minute or so, Gimli eventually managed to open his eyes, something that he considered a rather noteworthy event. The next step was getting his eyes to focus.

"Gimli?"

What had happened to his sight? He couldn’t see a thing! His vision had tunneled, and all peripheral objects were lost. Even those things straight ahead of him were vague and blurred.

"Gimli?" the voice asked again, and there was a note of fear in the deceptively smooth tones.

The dwarf could make out that someone was bending over him now, and despite the fuzziness of his vision, he could dimly see two glittering gray eyes peering into his own. A flicker of relief passed through those expressive orbs, and then they closed momentarily before opening again, this time with more composure.

"It seems that the legendary hard-headedness of the dwarves is falling short of its renown," Legolas whispered. "You have been unresponsive for some time."

"My apologies," Gimli grunted, the memory of their current predicament swiftly coming back to him. How long had he been unconscious? Why hadn’t he been killed after falling and stopping the march? More than a little baffled, Gimli started to sit up, but Legolas held him down before he could even begin to rise. At this point, Gimli belatedly realized that neither his hands nor Legolas’s were bound. Now thoroughly bewildered, he shot the elf a look of complete and utter confusion. What was going on?

"They released me to care for you, and in turn, I released you," Legolas explained quietly.

Gimli frowned. "They do not fear that you will escape?"

"They know our hearts well," the elf answered with a sad smile, "and my own heart has bound me as surely as any chains. I have not the strength to carry you. The heat and ú-glîr have seen to that. And they know that I will not leave without you."

"Foolish elf," Gimli muttered.

"You would do the same for me, elvellon."

"That is different," the dwarf grunted. "But why am I still alive? I would have expected them to kill me."

"It seems the original claim that we are still useful if dead was somewhat exaggerated," Legolas answered. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and then turned his attention back to Gimli. "They did threaten to kill you because you slowed our journey, but I was able to convince them that I could wake you. Asbad agreed to the attempt. He needs us, Gimli. He did not lie when he said that our lives were not completely necessary; I am certain of that. But we are far more valuable to him in the land of the living than we would be in the realm of the dead. If he can keep us alive, he will. For now, at any rate."

"You are fortunate, then," Gimli breathed, a twinge of fear and guilt squeezing his heart. "If it were not so, speaking out might have cost you your own life."

"I judged the risk to be worth it," Legolas said with a slight shrug as if to dismiss the matter. "But I had almost lost hope of rousing you until now. Will you be well enough to travel soon?"

"I will manage," Gimli said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The world still had a precarious tilt to it, and he wasn’t certain he could remain vertical were he to stand.

"I will stall for more time, but I can not stall for much longer," the elf warned. "I do not understand their speech, but I believe there is some rendezvous for which they are making. They are growing anxious to travel, and they will not wait indefinitely."

"Nay, you need not stall. I am able to travel now," Gimli assured him, attempting to sit up again, but once more, the deceptive strength of the elf held him firmly to the ground. The dwarf blinked and glared at his friend "What are you—"

"You are not able to travel now," Legolas said sternly. "Your leg wound reopened when you fell and the bleeding did not stop easily. More than that, you are starting to run a fever, and your thigh has become infected. I told you that I can obtain more time, and I wish for you to use that time wisely. Continue to recover. If you collapse again, I do not think I can prevent them from killing you. Asbad will have tolerated too much. And to kill you, elvellon, they will first have to kill me."

Gimli blinked at this. "Legolas, I—"

Legolas clapped a hand over his friend’s mouth and gave him a look that would silence a wizard. "Rest, dwarf!"

At times like these, Gimli was sharply reminded that Legolas was a prince among his people and accustomed to getting his own way when he set his mind on something. Though normally content to step back and let others take the lead, Legolas had inherited a strong stubborn streak from his father, and he would not hesitate to employ his authority if push came to shove. And when faced with an angry, resolute elven prince, even Gimli would back down. It was usually safer that way, and now was no exception.

Relaxing back into the sand with some reluctance, Gimli couldn’t help but allow his eyes to slide shut when he felt a gentle elven touch on his temples, and he sighed softly. Much of the shooting pain in his head slipped away under Legolas’s ministrations, and the dwarf drifted into a blissful realm somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. The earth ceased to roll and buck beneath him, and he felt his equilibrium begin to right itself. Then a soft song in the Sindarin tongue filtered through to his hazy dream world, further quieting him. Despite the fog within his mind, Gimli heard and translated enough of the words to know that Legolas was singing of the sea. It was a sobering reminder that his friend was never truly content, nor had he ever been since hearing the gulls in the fair fields of Lebannin while they rode behind Aragorn and before the hosts of the dead.

His thoughts were interrupted when other voices—voices far less fair than the voice of Legolas—entered his dream. Then he heard the elf again, but the soothing tone from the song had been replaced by the tone of an affronted prince. There was much satisfaction in hearing the elf make use of his royal upbringing against others. The other voices answered his friend now, harsh and demanding, but once more, Legolas countered with all the authority of an incensed elven lord. Even Gimli, lost in vague dreams, trembled at the sound of the elf’s anger and was thankful he had made friends of Legolas rather than staying his enemy. He would not wish that voice to turn upon him.

More fleeting dreams swept the dwarf away from reality, and then the world shifted again. Gimli wondered what was happening and then recognized that Legolas was speaking to him. This time the elf was neither comforter nor prince but an anxious friend who struggled to hold back worry and panic. Full awareness was slow in returning, but the dwarf tried to hurry. Legolas sounded urgent, and this spurred Gimli on to greater efforts at coherency. Eventually he could make out the words of the elf’s speech, and he shivered at the hidden fear in the elf’s voice.

"Gimli? Gimli, open your eyes. You must open your eyes. Gimli? Gimli, hear me. You must wake. My friend, you must do this for your own safety. Open your eyes. If you value your life or mine, son of Glóin, open your eyes!"

With great effort, Gimli worked to comply with the request. It would mean leaving behind his peaceful sanctuary of semi-consciousness, but it would also mean that Legolas would stop calling him. Eventually, after a few failed attempts, he lifted heavy lids and met Legolas’s concerned gaze.

"It is time," the elf said quietly, fear and uncertainty lurking in the gray depths of his eyes. "The men will wait no longer. I have done what I can for you, but I fear it is not enough. Do you feel ready to travel?"

"Ready or not, I have little choice," Gimli grumbled, but in truth, he did feel somewhat better. His head did not ache so much, and for now, at least, the world had decided to stand still. He did not have much hope that this would last long, but it was still a welcome respite from the previous chaos that had made the ground rock beneath him.

"They have agreed to let me support you as we travel, and this means they will bind my hands in front rather than in back," Legolas said with a quick glance at the captors that were surrounding them. "But they will not do you the same courtesy. I tried to convince them otherwise, but I have already pushed our fortune too far. I am sorry."

"I am amazed you talked them into allowing even that much," the dwarf said quietly, ignoring his pride that insisted he needed no help whatsoever. "It is more than I would have been able to accomplish." He closed his eyes and sighed, wondering if he would be able to accomplish anything in the near future other than burdening his elven friend.

"Gimli? Gimli, listen closely to me," Legolas pressed. The dwarf opened his eyes again and looked obediently at the elf. "Do not struggle when they bind your hands," Legolas instructed, his voice so soft that it was almost inaudible. "Act as though you do not know what is happening around you. The more delirious you seem, the better."

"That will not prove to be a difficult task," Gimli assured him, wondering what the elf was planning. It was obvious that he had something in mind and the dwarf could see a curious gleam in the prince’s eyes, but he knew that the plan’s details would not be forthcoming until Legolas worked them out more fully.

"Move him away!" someone behind Legolas ordered. Hands seized the elf and he was pulled away from the dwarf, having only time to send one apologetic and yet strangely confident look. Then Gimli was being hauled to his feet and his arms were wrenched behind his back. It did not require much effort of will to refrain from struggling, for Gimli was too concerned with remaining upright. All his efforts were focused on the need to stay vertical, and it proved to be a great challenge.

"Easy, my friend." Legolas was back now and Gimli felt the elf catch and steady his swaying body. "Stay awake if you can. Lean back against me and take the weight off of your wounded leg. Good. Now rest for a moment. We will start the journey again soon."

Gimli sighed wearily as he relaxed, using the elf’s slender frame for support. He knew that dwarven honor should have been forcing him to stand on his own, but he had neither the energy nor the will to make even a slight protest. After a moment of subduing his inner voice of pride, he gradually became aware that Legolas was whispering hushed words in the elven tongue. Gimli had no understanding of them, but it seemed his pain and nausea diminished as Legolas continued. Then nimble elven fingers were attacking the ropes binding his wrists. There was a slight awkwardness in the movements and he decided that Legolas’s wrists were probably tied together by now, but this didn’t seem to be too much of an impediment to the elf. A short time later, Gimli felt his own bindings loosen slightly, and then Legolas stopped, apparently satisfied.

"Stay with me, Gimli. Stay with me for now," Legolas whispered, his voice pitched so low that it was nearly impossible to hear. "We must bide our time, but I promise you that you will not have to endure this much longer. I believe I might have discovered something that could be of use to us when we choose to make our escape."

"Don’t risk yourself," the dwarf managed to hiss in response. "One of us must survive this ordeal."

"I risk what I must," the prince said in a tone that flatly forbade any further discussion on the subject.

Gimli fell silent and let the argument slide, knowing that in his present mood, Legolas was beyond common sense and reason. Instead, the dwarf tried to make the world hold still long enough for him to get his balance. He couldn’t tell if he was leaning too far forward, too far backward, or if he was floundering to the side. He only knew that were it not for the elf’s support, he would be flat on his back in the sand. Or perhaps on his stomach. Or would he fall on his side? And if so, which side? And just how many sides did he have, anyway?

Then the voices of the Haradrim surrounded them, creating a clamoring din that was anything but intelligible to the fading dwarf. Fortunately, these voices were comprehensible to Legolas, and gently but firmly, he pushed Gimli forward, all the while keeping a tight hold on the dwarf’s right shoulder and trying to take some of the weight off his friend’s injured leg.

And so the forced journey continued. Gimli felt as though he walked in a dark dream with the elf’s firm grip upon his shoulder as his only anchor to the outside world. At times it seemed that voices intruded upon his darkened reality, always angry and always demanding. Then Legolas would answer these voices, his tone sharp, argumentative, and filled with all the authority of an indignant elven prince. Gimli would shiver at that sound, but pressure from the elf’s hands assured him that Legolas’s anger was not directed at the dwarf. And then Gimli would fade back into his dreams of shadows, conscious only of the strange need to keep moving forward and the constant, crippling pain that throbbed in his leg and enveloped his head in a suffocating grasp. Sometimes the pain was so near and so great that it became almost unbearable. But at other times, it was a distant curiosity, present but feeling as thought it belonged to someone else entirely.

Gimli was vaguely aware of a time when he stumbled hard and fell to his knees. Legolas was hauling him upward again before he truly realized what was going on, all the while whispering quiet words of encouragement. He then heard the harsh voices of the men who herded them as sheep. For a small moment, Gimli felt a flash of rebellious anger, but it was immediately swallowed up by concern when he heard what sounded like the impact of a club followed by an elf grunting in surprise and pain.

"Legolas?" His voice was weak and strained and the formation of simple words had become a daunting ordeal, but Gimli’s fear for the elf would not allow him to stay silent. How many other blows hat Legolas taken when the dwarf’s feet faltered?

"Keep moving," Legolas whispered in response to Gimli’s query, almost lifting the dwarf into the air as he forced them both forward. "Think of nothing else. Only move."

And so Gimli moved, obedient to the elven presence that kept him grounded in Middle Earth. And thus his dream continued, a mass of shadows and darkness with a single light behind him to hold it all at bay. But as the darkness grew darker and the shadows grew greater, the light slowly dwindled and faded until the dwarf could barely see at all. Then the world tipped, spun, and ultimately collapsed. The single light now flared brightly above him, demanding attention, but Gimli no longer had the ability to focus. Everything continued to fade until all that remained was darkness. And then he knew no more.

Eomer stopped cold on the outskirts of the Lotessa encampment and turned to stare at Budari. "Fastahn went to see Dashnir?!"

Equally startled but hiding it for the moment, Aragorn quickly went through the plans he and Eomer had made while waiting for the Gathering to begin. It seemed that a few of them would have to be altered, particularly the methods of "persuasion" they had chosen to use in order to elicit Khesva’s support.

"Our spies saw him enter Dashnir’s tent and then leave after some time had passed."

"Were there any others in the tent at the time?" Aragorn asked.

"Nay, our spies say that the two of them were alone," Budari said. "Radarad of Portu had been in earlier, no doubt discussing his tribe’s involvement in the surprise attack, but he left before Fastahn arrived."

"Valar," Eomer murmured, rubbing his temples.

"Know you what Fastahn wanted there?" Aragorn asked, clinging to the hope that Soltari’s intentions had been honest.

"Our spies were not close enough to hear anything in the way of a conversation, honored ones," Arabano answered. "However, judging from his questions to me earlier in the day, it is possible that the Soltari tribe is reconsidering its position of neutrality."

"Or Fastahn could be acting independently," Budari added with a sigh. "His actions might not be sanctioned by Khesva. There is a possibility—albeit a remote one—that there is something of a rift within Soltari. Perhaps the tribe is splitting apart."

"Is it possible that we are jumping to conclusions?" Aragorn asked. "Your spies did not overhear the conversation."

"Even if we are wrong, it is best to act with prudence in this case," Arabano advised. "Alliances are tenuous at best, even the strongest ones. Soltari should be treated with great caution."

"Let us say that you are right, then," Aragorn said, deciding to play the game. "There is still the possibility that a part of the Soltari tribe would be willing to help us." Having finally gotten his mind working again and having hit upon a plan that seemed to promise success, he was not about to let it fall to the wayside. They had delayed too long, and they needed to act now. And given his present state of his mind and his limited foresight that was returning only reluctantly, Aragorn did not trust himself to engineer a second workable plan within the next few hours.

"But how shall we tell?" Eomer challenged, his frustration apparently getting the better of him. "Much of our plan lay in the coaxing of Khesva to join us and share with others his information. But can that still be done if Soltari has elected to move to Khurintu’s side?"

For some reason, Budari found this notion rather humorous, and Arabano could not quite keep back a chuckle. "Northerners. You are all alike," Budari said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You think the world can be divided into sides. Perhaps that is true in your lands, but in the desert, there are multiple aspects to every problem. Even we are not altogether on the same side, as you put it, for we each have our own agenda and our own desires. For the moment, they happen to coincide. However, were we on opposite ends of an issue that led to bloodshed, I would not hesitate to slit your throat."

There was a rather awkward silence for a moment or two until Eomer finally spoke. "I see," he murmured, his tone one of uncertainty.

"If it eases your mind, I would regret the action," Budari added, almost as an afterthought.

"My thanks for your concern," Aragorn sighed with a shake of his head. Budari’s statement might be unexpected for Eomer, but it did not surprise Aragorn. It was a logical extension of basic desert philosophy. There was a saying in Harad that alliances were like hidden lakes. They were few and far between, they were coveted and guarded jealously, and they could be stolen away by other tribes. Nothing in the desert was ever permanent. But this mindset did not help solve the current problem. Aragorn still thought they were drawing hasty conclusions, but if Budari and Arabano were right and if Soltari’s "side" was closer to Khurintu than to Gondor, then much of their planning would have been for naught. To use a dwarven phrase, they would be back at the drawing slate.

I fear that we must become certain on the point of Soltari’s alignment before proceeding to anything else, Aragorn decided at length. Too much rides upon it. Perhaps it would be best if we confronted them openly… It would certainly make Eomer happy. He has endured enough of secrecy.

"I would not regret slitting the throat of all my allies. You may count yourselves singular in that," Budari was saying when Aragorn turned his attention back to the conversation. It seemed that they were still discussing desert philosophy, and apparently Budari had sensed that his comments had stirred feelings of unease in Eomer. For his part, Arabano looked confused as to why such comments might elicit an unsavory reaction.

Deciding to redirect the conversation toward more pertinent matters, Aragorn cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him. "My apologies," he said, "but I feel there are other areas that better deserve our scrutiny. Budari, is it possible to relocate your tribe to Haradhur in such a way that leaves you free for a short trip."

Budari raised one black eyebrow. "And where would I be going?"

"By your leave, I would take you with me to see Khesva. The Soltari tribe is not far from here and I would hear what they have to say in response to the reports of your spies. I would also have Eomer come with us, if he feels so inclined," Aragorn added with a nod toward the king of Rohan.

"I am grateful for the invitation," Eomer said, nodding back. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you."

A small smile crept over Budari’s face and he shook his head. "Ere you convinced me to join you in Haradhur, it had been my intention to travel with armed escort to the Soltari tribe myself and learn the truth of the matter. By all means, let us depart. Arabano, you shall be charged with the affairs of this camp. We shall take the southern perimeter guards with us to Soltari, so you need not be concerned with recalling them."

"As you wish, honored one," Arabano answered with a slight bow. "Though I will confess that I had wished to confront Fastahn myself."

"And doubtless you will have opportunity for it," Budari replied. "But for the time being, the welfare of our own tribe must come first."

"Then if we are finished here, let us depart," Aragorn said, feeling a touch of his old confidence returned. This action felt right. His instincts had returned and he was beginning to trust himself again. Translating word to deed, he began walking away, looking expectantly at Budari.

Following Aragorn’s lead, Budari nodded a farewell to Arabano and started moving. "We shall certainly give the poor Soltari guards a shock. I doubt Soltari sees much in the way of visits from kings and tribal leaders."

"Shock may be exactly what we need at this point," Aragorn said quietly. "We have been far too predictable in our actions, and such a thing can only play into Khurintu’s hand. We need to make bolder moves." The king of Gondor flicked a glance over his shoulder to see if Eomer was smirking—for such a statement would seem far more natural coming from him than from Aragorn—but he stopped when he noted that Eomer was not following them. He was still standing next to Arabano—who looked rather confused—and staring at two soldiers near Lotessa’s main tent. "Eomer?" Aragorn called, questioning.

Eomer turned slightly, and at the look on his face, Aragorn felt his blood chill. "Budari, what is it that your guards hold over yonder?" the king of the Mark asked, his voice carefully neutral but his eyes flashing with sudden fear.

A rather puzzled Budari looked in the indicated direction and frowned. "I know not. Do you wish me to investigate?"

"If you would," Eomer answered in a tone that would not be countermanded. Had he not been so alarmed, Aragorn would have been impressed. Such a tone might make even Thranduil sit up and take notice.

Budari nodded—though he looked as though he desired an explanation—and obligingly walked toward the guards that had earned Eomer’s undivided attention. Noticing his approach, the men turned quickly and bowed, awaiting instruction. "That bag you carry," Budari said. "What is it?"

"We know not, honored one," one of the guards answered. "It was found near your tent and we were debating as to whether or not it should be brought to your attention." Having said this, the guard presented Budari with a rather lumpy sack.

Standing slightly behind the tribal leader, Aragorn studied the sack closely, but he could see nothing about it that would attract Eomer’s interest. It was a fairly ordinary bag made from what appeared to be mûmakil hide. There were no unusual markings on it, and nothing about it indicated it could be a threat in any way. It was certainly not out of place within a desert camp. Shooting Eomer a questioning look, Aragorn was startled to realize that Eomer was not watching the bag but rather the guard’s hands. They were coated with a fine layer of black powder, which was strangely familiar for some reason, but Aragorn could not remember where he had seen such a thing before.

"There are more of these bags, honored ones," the guard was saying. "A few lie further out while others are near some of the tents on the northern side of camp. We cannot remember their having been here before tonight."

"Strange," Budari murmured, opening the bag and allowing some of its contents to spill out onto his hand. "I have seen nothing like this before."

And that’s when recognition hit Aragorn like a charging Balrog. He felt his stomach drop into his knees, his throat went dry, and his eyes immediately went to the desert beyond the camp, searching the darkness for—

"Aragorn!" Eomer cried, pointing toward the north. And quickly turning this direction, Aragorn gasped. Almost beyond the range of sight, he could see a tiny flicker of red. A glimmer of flame.

"Fly!" Aragorn cried, seizing both Arabano and Budari and propelling them forward. "Tell all to leave the camp. We must—"

But Aragorn was not allowed to finish his sentence, for a sudden blast of pressure, heat, and sound slammed into him. All air was forced from his lungs, and when he gasped for more, it seared its way down his throat. The world tumbled head over heels around him, and time seemed to slow into eternity as a wave of fire exploded outward from a point on the camp’s outer edge.

His ears ringing and his skin blistering, Aragorn abruptly realized that he was airborne and flying forward. Behind him, a blinding light roared up from the ground and the world was filled with a deafening sound that was like and yet unlike the clap of nearby thunder. Sand and fire rained down, a plume of flame shot skyward, and all of Arda shook and clamored as though being overrun by a battalion of trolls. Then the ground rushed up to meet Aragorn’s falling form, but there was no time to even raise his aching head off the sand ere a second explosion did it for him. Flung sideways into the air, Aragorn did the only thing he could do; he pulled into a protective ball and sent up pleas to the Valar for help. But his cries were in vain, and he had not even hit the ground again when he saw a third wave of light and fire erupting next to one of the guard tents while a fourth explosion went off behind him. Caught between two colliding waves of pressure and flame, Aragorn’s consciousness fled, plunging his world into blackness. His last sensation was one of fire, and then everything went silent.

Elvellon—Elf-friend

Author’s Notes—In my defense, may I say that the last two paragraphs of the chapter were NOT inspired by the Two Towers movie (though I have now seen it twice). The plot has been outlined almost completely for quite some time and this particular section has actually been written for quite a while. It’s just been waiting for the other sections to be finished. Anyway, I came up with this on my own.

"Gimli?" Legolas’s panic reached fever pitch as he crouched protectively over his fallen friend. "Gimli?!" Around him, the elf could hear the sounds of a halt being called as well as the ring of drawn blades. But Legolas studiously ignored them, instead concentrating all his efforts on the dwarf who moaned feverishly in the sand. "Gimli!"

"You claimed that you could support him," a voice called out, and Legolas looked up with wild eyes as the man he assumed to be Asbad stepped forward. "You were warned about the consequences should you fail. Step aside."

"I will wake him," Legolas said firmly, putting into his words every ounce of royal authority that he could muster. Had Thranduil been there to see him, the king of Mirkwood would have been proud. "Leave us be for a moment. I will rouse him."

"You were already given that chance," Asbad answered, countering royal authority with harsh reality. "You failed." He nodded toward the surrounding men and they closed quickly, knives and swords brandished. "Stand down and things may go easier for you."

But Legolas had no intention of letting these men carry out their orders. Waiting with all the awareness and all the latent energy of a coiled viper, the elf hovered above Gimli’s form, his eyes measuring each guard and promising death should they continue to advance. To his credit, a few of the men paused, uncertain. But some braved the threat lying within the elf’s eyes, and when the foremost man was within striking distance, the lord of Ithilien leaped into action.

Had Aragorn been there to see it, he would have stared to see Legolas so sluggish. Had Gimli been awake, he would have cringed at the elf’s complete lack of fluidity and grace. Had any of Legolas’s mentors and trainers from Mirkwood been present, they would have shaken their heads in dismay at such sloppy fighting techniques. But the soldiers of the Khurintu tribe were the only witnesses of Legolas’s desperate attempt to save Gimli’s life, and they had no experience with elven warriors. As such, they were completely unprepared for what happened next.

Remembering to keep his balance centered as Gimli had taught him during their sparring sessions, Legolas flung his shoulder into the first man’s midsection. Startled and winded, the guard’s grip on his knife loosened, and the elf’s bound hands quickly wrested the blade away even as he lashed out with his foot, catching the man in the chest and forcing him back onto the point of another knife. Then two more guards were lunging, and Legolas dodged while bringing up his newly acquired weapon. He caught one man in the head with the hilt and buried the blade in the other man’s neck.

Springing backwards and resuming his position above Gimli, Legolas wondered if he had time to reverse the knife and cut through the bonds on his wrists. But the answer to that question came quickly when a fourth man seized him from behind and raised him off the ground. Acting almost without thought, Legolas jerked his head to the side and flung the knife over his shoulder, praying that his aim would be true. A sudden gasp informed him that he had succeeded. The restraining arms dropped away, and Legolas threw himself back over Gimli as the man who had seized him dropped to the ground, the knife lodged in his face.

The surrounding men raised an outcry and charged forward, murder now their objective. Knowing his end was near and that he had failed both himself and the dwarf, Legolas gave a weary sigh and prepared to make his final battle one that would cost the Khurintu tribe dearly. But just before the first sword swung down, a shout from outside the circle of men stopped them all cold. The cry was repeated, and the men started to back away, though there was great reluctance in their faces. Other men who had not been initially involved now stepped forward with drawn bows, training their arrows on both Legolas and Gimli.

Watching the archers warily, Legolas shifted until most of Gimli’s body was covered by his own and then turned his eyes toward Asbad, who was stepping back into view. Something in the man’s countenance had changed, but whether this was a change for the better, the elf could not say. He wondered if he should be thankful for the fact that he and Gimli were still alive. Their ultimate fate was less than certain, and if some torment was devised as retribution for his rebellion, the elf would much rather perish now and perish quickly by the bow. He could not speak for the dwarf in this, but he suspected that Gimli would feel the same. It seemed they were fated to die anyway. Why not die quickly in battle?

After a few moments of tense silence, Asbad stepped closer to the elf, his eyes wandering over the forms of the fallen men. "You still refuse to leave his side?" he asked, though it was actually more of a statement than a question. Legolas’s position made it abundantly clear that he was not going to move.

"Would honor and friendship compel any less of you?" the elf returned, watching the man’s movements closely through narrowed, stormy eyes. "Or perhaps you know nothing of such things."

There were angry murmurings in response to this, but Asbad raised a hand and his people fell silent. "Bold words for a captive," he said, dark eyes flashing in the night. "You are either very brave or very foolish. Perhaps both. In any case, neither is to your advantage now. Tell me, elf. Do you realize who I am? Do you know who it is that you defy?"

"It matters not who carries the evil so long as I am able to fight it," Legolas said quietly.

"Do you truly believe that?" The leader of Khurintu stepped even closer and Legolas tensed, readying himself to repel an attack. Seeing this preparation, the man stopped and smiled slightly. "You are more naïve than I first thought. A small evil can be easily dealt with. A great evil requires more force than you possess. Do you still say it matters not whom you face? And what is the nature of evil? How can you be certain that I am evil? Why not you? Are you not a stranger in our land sent to intimidate our people into submission?"

Legolas made no response, but his level of alertness increased, sensing that Asbad was coming to a conclusion of sorts.

"Well, then, if you will not answer, I shall speak of what is to be done." Asbad stopped and watched the elf closely as though expecting a reaction. Legolas met his look with elvish inscrutability and his own piercing stare. It was a small satisfaction when the man was forced to drop his gaze, instead focusing his eyes on the dwarf sheltered beneath the elf. "There are four hours before dawn," he said slowly, drawing his sentence out as though relishing the power he had over his prisoners. "If you can carry your friend and match our pace for the next four hours, we will spare his life. If not, we will kill the dwarf and I will allow my men the freedom to visit their anger upon you."

Four hours?! Legolas’s heart fell with despair. He did not think he could carry Gimli for five minutes, much less four hours. The day spent in nearly fatal temperatures had sapped most of the elf’s strength, and ú-glîr as well as fear for Gimli had made recovery slow.

"Do you have a response?" Asbad asked when Legolas hesitated. "Or shall we kill you both now?"

Though I may be shadowed, I am still an elf, Legolas told himself firmly, glancing down at Gimli. I can do this. I must do this. There is no other choice. Releasing the breath he’d been holding, the elf looked up darkly and nodded his agreement.

His face showing something that might have been read as amusement, Asbad signaled one of his men forward. Bowstrings were drawn taut when the bindings upon the elf’s wrists were cut, but Legolas harbored no hopes for escape at the moment. Any attempt would be futile at best and fatal at worst. Bereft of weapons and burdened with an unconscious dwarf, he might manage two steps before the arrows brought him down. So the elf instead knelt by Gimli and slid his arms beneath the dwarf’s sturdy frame. With a stifled grunt, Legolas lifted and closed his eyes against the strain.

When we return to Minas Tirith, Gimli, you and I shall begin a fitness regimen, the elf vowed as he struggled to raise his heavier companion. Slowly and with great effort, Legolas managed to stand with the dwarf in his arms. Gingerly, fearful both of disturbing the injured leg and of dropping Gimli, he began shifting the dwarf’s weight about so that it would be at least somewhat manageable, though he strongly suspected that no matter what he did, his left arm would be numb ere long. But at least they had a chance again, albeit a slim one. Steadying his burden and composing his face, Legolas opened his eyes and turned them toward his captor. "It seems you will not be rid of us so easily," he said quietly, praying that the abrupt increase in his rate of breathing would go unnoticed.

"We shall see if your words are as brave after we begin traveling," Asbad retorted, sounding as though he knew exactly how much of a strain the dwarf was for the weakened elf. "And by your leave, I would make up for my lapse in manners. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, I am Asbad, ruler of the Khurintu tribe, descendent of the Númenóreans enlightened enough to serve the Dark Lord, and kinsman to he who was known as the Mouth of Sauron. You would do well not to cross me, for as you have already discovered, our talents can overcome even the fading elves."

To his credit, Legolas’s face betrayed nothing, and only a flash in his eyes revealed any emotion. But within his heart, anger and rage flared to life. Fading elves, indeed, he thought darkly. Remove ú-glîr, cease to threaten Gimli, and then we shall see how you deal with this fading elf. But none of these thoughts appeared in his countenance, and he kept his expression placid.

Asbad seemed to be disappointed at the lack of reaction, but he quickly shook it off. "Now that we are better acquainted, my lord prince, I think it is time for us to be off. But you have pressed your luck far this night, and I advise you to more humbly submit to captivity in the future. My men have no affection for either you or the dwarf, and they will happily slit your throats at my command."

"I cannot submit to one who holds no sway over me," Legolas said, shifting Gimli’s weight as his predictions about a numb arm began to bear out. "As a prince, I answer only to a king, and you, mortal, are not that king."

"Then learn to pretend that I am that king," Asbad warned, his eyes flashing with hints of anger, "or your friend’s life is forfeit. As for holding sway over you, it is not necessary. The dwarf does that for me." He then turned to his men and spoke orders in their own tongue. When he was done, he gave the prince a mocking bow, gestured with his hand, and began walking.

Legolas felt the point of a spear scratch against his lower back while another brushed against his side. The elf obediently moved forward, but his temper was flaring dangerously. Had he been alone, most of the men would have died right then. Only Gimli’s weight in his arms kept him grounded, and for the sake of the dwarf, he bit his tongue and held his anger in check. Yet it was a hard thing, and Legolas’s elven pride was screaming for action. Trying to adopt a calmer frame of mind, Legolas took a deep breath and concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other. But he would not be able to endure either the physical strain or the injuries to his pride for much longer.

Grimacing, Legolas shifted Gimli yet again, trying to get the dwarf partially over his shoulder and so relieve his arms. But that only made him stagger to the side, and deprived of a balance that had once been certain, Legolas eventually decided that Gimli would have to stay cradled in his arms. Their future was taking on a rather bleak outlook, and the elf wondered just how long they had left to their lives. Elven stamina was considerable, but so was the dwarf. Gimli’s weight was at least the equal of Aragorn’s for all that he was half the king’s size, and Legolas was already weak. And there was another problem that Gimli’s state of unconsciousness brought. The prince’s plans for escape depended upon an alert and at least partially active companion. He could not escape while lugging his friend about.

And so with a deep sigh and a shake of already tiring muscles, Legolas trudged onward, very conscious of the unsheathed weapons behind him and desperately hoping that the dawn would grant him new strength. But then, that was dependent on whether or not he lived to see the dawn. At the moment, it seemed doubtful.

Sensation and consciousness were slow in returning. Struggling upward through hazy layers of thought, Eomer wondered what was going on. His short-term memory seemed to be absent, and his long-term memory was strangely reticent to relinquish specific information about his predicament. He had only vague details from events long past with which to judge his body. Still, something was better than nothing, and thus armed with what little knowledge he had, Rohan’s king attempted to decipher what had happened to him.

The first possibility that came to mind was that of drugging, for drugging might render one bleary and unconscious. It had also been one of Wormtongue’s favorite tricks if he needed someone to arrive late for a particular council meeting. But then again, Eomer couldn’t rule out less sophisticated methods, such as hard blow to the head. But…wasn’t Wormtongue dead? Confused, Eomer started listing other probable causes of his apparent unconscious state. Drowning was a possibility. So was hypothermia. Extreme exhaustion, perhaps, but Eomer doubted that such was the case. In fact, now that he was recovering somewhat, he could detect a shooting pain in his left shoulder as well as a burning sensation up and down the right side of his body.

Which means that drugging is probably not the answer, Eomer reflected even as he fought the urge to moan. If he opened his mouth now, it would probably emerge as a scream. I can also rule out drowning. And even if I was hit on the head, something else has happened to me. Perhaps a fight? A war? Was I in a battle? With a frustrated mental sigh, Eomer attempted to open his eyes and rise to a sitting position. His first try was pitifully unsuccessful, but he did manage to move his right arm. This elicited a fresh burst of piercing agony, but it proved that he was still capable of movement. At the moment, Eomer was very thankful for that.

"Eomer?"

And in addition to proving he could still move, it had apparently attracted attention. As well as telling me that Aragorn is here, he added, attempting to subdue the voice of his pride. Normally, Eomer would shrink at the thought that someone was tending to his fallen form, but given his current condition as well as the sudden feeling that danger was lurking nearby, the king of Rohan decided to submit to Aragorn’s ministrations. He still could not open his eyes and he did not quite trust his voice, but with his ears he followed the sounds of Aragorn’s feet until they stopped next to his side. He heard the king kneel and then he felt a tentative touch at his throat.

He is looking for a pulse, Eomer realized, wondering if the situation was indeed that dire. Does he think me dead?

"Thank the Valar," Aragorn murmured somewhere above him. The hand at his throat moved to hover over his mouth, possibly feeling for breath, and then it came to rest on his left shoulder, gently prodding. Something about the entire process felt very odd to Eomer, but he could not say what was odd until he realized that Aragorn was only using one hand.

Suddenly concerned for his friend, Eomer renewed his efforts to open his eyes. Like previous attempts, he met with failure, but the king of Rohan would not be daunted. Trying again and again, he struggled past the holds of unconsciousness, and by so doing he gained an even greater awareness of his surroundings. There was a crackling sound coming from his right that indicated a fire of some kind. At first, Eomer did not appreciate the significance of this detail, but something about it troubled him. There should not be fire here.

Why? he demanded of himself, his frustration rising to the forefront of his thoughts. Why should I not be hearing fire? What is it that…Harad! Memory started returning, and along with memories came Aragorn’s words about the scarcity of fire in Harad. But then, what is burning? he asked, his brow furrowing as he attempted to understand this puzzle. Gathering what energy was left to him, Eomer once again tried to open his eyes. And at long last, he was rewarded with success. Dark, blue eyes opened on a devastated world, and the king of Rohan could barely keep back a gasp as the last of his memories returned in a disorienting and nauseating rush.

"It is very good to see you awake, Eomer," Aragorn murmured behind him, his voice filled with relief.

Eomer turned his head—he was not yet up to moving his body—and studied the other king, having heard a tremor of pain in Aragorn’s voice. He inhaled sharply at what he saw. One side of Aragorn’s face was red and burned with blisters already rising. Blood welled up from a gash in the king’s brow, and his hair was badly singed. There was no way to discern what hurts might lie beneath the charred and seared clothes, but if Aragorn’s posture was any indication, there were wounds that could not be seen. "You are injured," Eomer observed at length, deciding to stick with the obvious since his own condition was probably no better.

"As are we all," Aragorn answered shortly.

"The blast…" Eomer whispered, closing his eyes. "Orthanc Fire. I had never thought to see such a thing again."

"Then we agree that this attack was similar to the attack in Helm’s Deep after Gimli and Gamling had blocked the culvert?"

"Identical," Eomer answered. "I still remember the gaping hole in the Deeping Wall, and I remember well the blast that caused it. It was my hope that Orthanc Fire had become a weapon of the past." Deciding to test the limits of his body, Eomer attempted to sit up, but he was stopped by Aragorn’s hand on his good shoulder.

"Not yet," the king of Gondor cautioned. "Lie still. You were hit by flying metal which laid open a wound in your left shoulder. I am about to clean it, and I will ask you to brace yourself while I do so. There may be splinters yet within the wound, and I will need to remove them."

Eomer nodded wearily and forced himself to relax. It was difficult, for the warrior within him wished to be up and seeking retribution, but the logical part of his mind told him that such a thing could wait until he was better prepared to dole out his wrath. "What of Budari and Arabano?" Eomer whispered, wincing slightly as Aragorn worked on his shoulder.

"They lie unconscious behind us," Aragorn answered quietly. "They seem to be in better shape than we, but they both hit their heads on something. They have yet to show signs of waking"

"The rest of Lotessa?"

"I do not know. I see guards scattered about, and some are beginning to stir. But I believe the bulk of their force is now gone."

Eomer swore quietly. "How is it that we survived?"

"We were caught between explosions. Others not so fortunate were caught within the blasts themselves."

Trying to comprehend the consequences of this latest development, Eomer suddenly become very aware of the fact that his companion was far from well. "Aragorn, would not this process be faster if you used both hands?" he eventually asked.

"It probably would," Aragorn answered laconically, winding a torn strip of tunic around Eomer’s shoulder.

The king of Rohan scowled and directed a pointed look toward Aragorn’s left arm, which, insofar as Eomer could determine, had not moved at all in the time he had been awake. "Then why do you insist on making this a slow ordeal? I am not enjoying it, and I daresay you are not enjoying it, either."

"Because some things are beyond my reach."

Rolling his eyes at the pun, Eomer refrained from hitting the other king only because he knew that he would seriously regret moving his shoulder so quickly. "Aragorn, what is wrong with your arm?" he demanded, deciding that the direct approach was called for in this case.

"I cannot say with any amount of accuracy," Aragorn said quietly. "It is difficult to evaluate one’s own health."

"Then what do you suspect is wrong?" Eomer asked, hoping that persistence would eventually award him answers.

With a sigh, Aragorn finished wrapping the shoulder and secured the bandage tightly. "I suspect that both bones of the forearm are broken. The wrist, too, is either broken or badly sprained. More than that, I cannot tell." Aragorn then moved back and studied Eomer for a moment. "Let us see if you can stand. It would be unwise to linger here."

Allowing the conversation change to stand since he had succeeded in eliciting information, Eomer slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and grimaced at the throb in his head. "Think you that our enemy might come into the Lotessa camp?" he asked. "My first suspect would be the Khurintu tribe, and I doubt they shall risk a public appearance."

"I agree, but there are unscrupulous men from many tribes in the desert, and they would not hesitate to take advantage of our misfortune. We must be up and moving quickly." Aragorn’s right hand then found its way beneath Eomer’s unijured arm, and he tugged gently. "Come. All the way up. But slowly! There may be wounds we have yet to find."

Eomer obediently struggled to his knees. The world spun briefly, but it was not enough to give cause for alarm. Wincing and feeling almost every muscle ache as it was asked to move, Eomer gathered his feet beneath himself and rose, swaying slightly. Aragorn steadied him, and ignoring the protests of an already indignant pride, Eomer allowed it. He wasn’t certain that he could stand on his own, and he had no desire to discover what falling down would do to his pounding head.

"How do you feel?" Aragorn asked.

"Better," Eomer answered, pulling his thoughts together and taking a few experimental steps on his own. "Yes, much better."

"Good," Aragorn murmured. "Now, if you would assist me, we will see to—"

"Before we do anything else, we are going to see to your own arm," Eomer interrupted. "If it is indeed broken, as you say, it must be splinted. And the sooner, the better."

"The bones need to be set," Aragorn warned. "And I cannot set them myself."

Eomer nodded. "I can set bones," he said, looking for something with which to form a splint. "I learned much in the way of medicine on the battlefield. This is not new to me. Sit, Aragorn. It is now your turn to brace yourself."

With a quiet laugh that seemed rather devoid of real mirth, Aragorn lowered himself to the ground while Eomer picked up a length of broken metal and tore apart the sleeve of his tunic. "Do not enjoy your role as a healer too much, son of Eomund," Aragorn cautioned with a wry look. "You will need further treatment when we return to camp."

"As will you," Eomer returned, kneeling beside the king of Gondor. Moving slowly, he picked up Aragorn’s left arm and tried to ignore the wince that accompanied the act of unlacing the gauntlet. With a grimace at the odd bend of the forearm, Eomer looked up and caught Aragorn’s gray eyes with his own.

"I am prepared," Aragorn said in answer to the unspoken question.

Eomer nodded, and with a firm grasp on both the upper and the lower forearm, the king of Rohan pulled. A sharp hiss and a sudden pallor were the only indications that Aragorn had felt any pain, and taking this as his cue to proceed, Eomer began to adjust the bones until they slipped back into place. Working quickly now, he pressed the metal against Aragorn’s arm and wound his sleeve around the limb, binding it tightly. "We might find something more suitable in camp, but this will do for now," Eomer said, tying it off.

"It is more than adequate," Aragorn said, his voice trembling slightly. "My thanks."

"I am not yet finished," Eomer warned. "Save your thanks for later." He then examined Aragorn’s wrist, probing gently and watching Aragorn grimace in response. "It is very swollen," he said at length. "I cannot tell if it is broken or not. To be safe, we should splint it now and check it again later."

The king of Gondor nodded his acceptance of this proposal and Eomer stood to search for something short but stiff that might be used as a second splint. "You said you believed this to be Khurintu’s work," Aragorn called after him. "Have you any other suspects?

"Have you?" Eomer challenged, returning with a tent stake.

"Not many," Aragorn conceded. "But Khurintu would have needed archers to stay behind in order to ignite the Orthanc Fire. Such a move is rather dangerous, as they might have been discovered. I wonder if another tribe was persuaded to take upon themselves this task."

"The Portu tribe?" Eomer questioned. "They have now attacked us twice."

"Perhaps, but I do not think it was them," Aragorn said, his voice quiet as though he were still organizing his thoughts. "The Portu tribe does not know the true identity of the Destroyer, yet in carrying out this particular attack, they would be doing things that only the Iluh and their messengers should be capable of doing. As I said before, fire is very rare in the desert. Orthanc Fire would be seen as an unmistakable sign from the Iluh. No, the Khurintu tribe would not entrust this task to a tribe who did not already know that the Destroyer was actually Asbad."

"Then you believe Soltari is to blame," Eomer guessed, trying to ignore Aragorn’s hiss of pain as he firmly bound the swollen wrist.

"Fastahn told Arabano that he knew the Destroyer’s true identity. What if he did so to stall us? What if Soltari has been working for Khurintu all along? Thinking we had other allies, we refrained from acting until it was almost too late. The whole of the Lotessa contingent could have died here, Eomer. It is only by the good graces of fortune that some are still alive."

"But you were suspicious of this idea earlier," Eomer reminded Aragorn, moving back and helping the other king to his feet. "You did not believe that Soltari would abandon its position of neutrality."

"And I still have my doubts concerning that," Aragorn answered. "But at the moment, given the fact that Fastahn visited Dashnir ere Khurintu left, the idea of an alliance between Soltari and Khurintu seems far more credible."

Eomer shook his head with a rumble of frustration. "Always we are one step behind the enemy! And things that should be clear to us are hidden. What shall be our next step, Aragorn? For Lotessa’s survivors will be in no condition to fight, and if our guesses prove accurate, we shall face a war with Khurintu very soon. Our own men will not be enough! We were counting on Soltari’s information to aid us. What now?"

"As for that, we must counsel with Budari when he wakes," Aragorn sighed, "and hope that he has other allies we might use. Until then, we can only hope that the attack does not come soon, for you are right. Most of Lotessa is lost, and we cannot stand alone."

Eomer shook his head wearily and looked out across the dark desert, turning his eyes away from the flames in the Lotessa encampment and allowing them to adjust to the black night. Looking to the stars, he wondered how it was that elves found comfort in the darkness when the land lay veiled in shadow. The tiny points of light could not overcome the void of black that Eomer saw.

Turning away from the heavens, Eomer’s gaze wandered to the horizon in the hopes that he might find something close at hand from which to draw comfort. But instead, he found something that froze him. Gasping softly, he squinted and then issued a muttered curse "Aragorn, is not Soltari’s camp almost directly south of us?"

Aragorn frowned and nodded, turning his eyes in that direction. "Valar," he swore quietly.

Eomer could only echo the sentiment. Far down in the south, in the area what Soltari’s camp should have been, fires of destruction were burning brightly. They were identical to the fires currently burning in the ruins of Lotessa’s camp where Eomer and Aragorn stood. "They were also attacked," Eomer hissed. "Soltari was also attacked."

"But what does this mean?" Aragorn asked. "Why? Khesva would not be foolish enough to make Soltari a target of Khurintu’s ire. More than that, Khurintu would need them as an agricultural vassal. Why would they be attacked?"

"We are still one step behind our enemy," Eomer muttered darkly. "Our future grows ever more uncertain, Aragorn."

To this, Aragorn made no response, and Eomer watched with sinking heart as the fires roared skyward and the smoke of their burning moved to blot out the twinkling stars.

The night was cold and dark, which suited Asbad perfectly. There was a complete absence of wind, and all the world seemed to hang in a silence that begged to be broken. Unease rippled through the sand, and the very air of the desert reminded the tribal leader of a bowstring pulled too tight. Another man might have been nervous and uncomfortable in this environment of tense waiting, but Asbad relished it. He was at his best when pressured, and now more than ever, he needed the use of every talent he possessed.

Something was happening that he could not quite explain, and Asbad did not appreciate unexplained things. Out of the corner of his eye, Khurintu’s ruler sneaked a glance at the staggering elf, who walked only at the insistence of two spears against his back. Precious drops of moisture beaded upon the creature’s brow, and it seemed that the latent power of the Eldar had been compromised. The elf was diminished, of that there could be no question. Yet despite his situation and despite the shadow of ma’awnwa, Legolas still had an aura of dignity that was strong enough to make a mortal man pause for thought. It was this dignity and the authority in the elf’s eyes that had earned the other prisoner a second chance. Nay, not a second chance. A third chance. By all rights, the dwarf should have been killed when he first collapsed several hours ago. He was a hindrance, and at this point, keeping him alive was probably not worth the effort. It was doubtful that Gimli could last the day in his condition. But the stunted being still lived, and now the elf was being forced to carry him.

Asbad shook his head, wondering at himself. He was risking the lives of both captives by allowing this. Khurintu could do without the dwarf. He was meant for a demonstration, and while a live subject would be extremely effective, a corpse would also serve. The elf, on the other hand, was destined for something else, and his fate called for a living body. Asbad once again sneaked a glance at Legolas, and he grimaced slightly at what he saw. Things did not look good. The elf had fallen to his knees, and though he was struggling back to his feet, it was plain that he could not endure this for long.

Do I really need him alive? Asbad suddenly wondered. In truth, I did not agree to deliver a living elf. It was understood within the arrangement, but the actual words were never spoken. Perhaps Garat had it right all along. Perhaps his actions just ere he died run parallel to the course we should now take. Perhaps the elf must be killed.

With a shake of his head, Asbad signaled to his guards that the march was to be slowed slightly. He received some very odd looks at the change in pace, but he studiously ignored them. Things were becoming…complicated. Asbad didn’t know how else to put it. He felt that he should be more confident at this point in time. The plan had gone forward almost without incident so far, and yet…why this indecision? Why this questioning? It was strange, and strange things did not sit well with Asbad. And until he knew more about the source of his unease, he would keep the prisoners alive. Both of them, if possible. It gave him more options in the future. If he should act in haste and kill one or both of them now, then he might regret the decision later.

By all the sacred powers of the Iluh, what is happening to me? Asbad demanded. Even this decision to delay irreversible actions was unlike him. He had cut many a throat in the past without any hesitation whatsoever. Why this sudden reticence? Why should he balk at the thought of committing himself to killing these captives ere the appointed time of their deaths? For they were now his to do with as he pleased. He owned them, body and soul, and they bowed to his wishes. He was the master, not the other way around! His word dictated their destiny, and his hand decided their fate.

A snarl twisting his face, Asbad turned angrily toward the elf. He noted that Legolas seemed to be doing much better at a slower pace, but his feet were still faltering and sweat was beginning to trickle down his neck. The elf was losing too much moisture, and the chill in the night air would not be good for him.

There! It is happening again! Barely refraining from throwing his hands into the air as a gesture of frustration, Asbad swore softly to himself and turned away from his captives. He could not keep his thoughts focused long enough to form any kind of coherent strategy for dealing with this situation. He couldn’t even concentrate on the situation itself for an extended period of time.

He wondered if this might not be a strange case of nervousness such as young, inexperienced men might have ere their first raid or battle. But Asbad was neither young nor inexperienced. The future of Khurintu hung in the balance this night, that was true, but he had known of this night’s coming for quite some time. He had prepared for it. He had laid his plans and had made the necessary contacts. He had adjusted and adapted accordingly as circumstances changed. All was going as was intended. He should not be doubting himself. Not now. There was no room for misgivings this late in the game.

Once again, Asbad glanced at the elf. To his surprise, he discovered the elf returning the look, and the tribesman found himself shivering at the gray eyes that hardened into flint. Determined to meet this harsh gaze and feeling as though the elf was reading every thought that passed through his mind, Asbad held up a hand signaling for a stop.

The halt was unexpected, but Asbad’s guards had learned long ago to never question his orders. And so they stopped, watching their leader and wondering what was happening. For his part, Asbad ignored their stares and concentrated on his quarry. This prey should have been wounded and whimpering. It should have been docile and submissive. It should have been exhausted and pleading for relief. But instead, it was staring at him with unblinking eyes that had a power great enough to rival the sandstorms.

Eventually, unable to tolerate the growing sense that defeat was only seconds away, Asbad advanced on the elf and backhanded him hard across the jaw. The blow drove Legolas to his knees, and he clutched the dwarf to his chest as he struggled to keep from falling over.

"You will show me more respect," Asbad hissed, stepping back slightly.

There was a pause and then the elf looked up, his eyes filled with a defiant fire that seared Asbad’s heart and mind. "My respect must be earned," Legolas answered, his voice low and dangerous. "You have not proven yourself worthy of it."

Filled with rage, Asbad raised his hand to strike again, but the elf’s next words stopped him.

"So easy, it is, to clout a fallen captive who is burdened with the body of a companion." Legolas’s voice was as cold as the bitterest nights in the northern desert and filled with a sneering disdain that sent shivers down Asbad’s spine. "Use me as a target for your anger, then. I cannot retaliate. I cannot offer you a challenge. I can only endure your frustration. Strange is it not?" the elf continued, his gray eyes taking on a sly look. "Strange that a mere prisoner should incite so much rage. Do you truly have as much control as you think? Earlier, you asked if I knew what I faced. I believe I do now. Can you say the same? Do you know what you face?"

Against his will, Asbad stepped back. He was shaken by this speech, which seemed to hit the very center of all his uncertainties and fears. He was losing control over his actions and allowing emotions to govern his thoughts. Glaring daggers at his rebellious prisoner and promising to make the dwarf’s death a gruesome enterprise of which the elf would receive full details, Asbad lowered his hand and gestured to the guards that watched the elf. "We move on. Any delays are to be met with punishment."

The surrounding men blinked, confused as to why Legolas’s words had not been met with a cruel execution at the very least. "Honored one, are you—"

"We continue," Asbad snapped, taking no note of who had questioned him and resuming the journey.

In silence, the men obediently hauled the elf to his feet and pushed him onward, prodding with spears when it seemed his pace was too slow. And ahead of his prisoners, Asbad marched in stoic silence, attempting to identify what was happening to him. I am hearkening to the voice of prudence, he decided at length. Nothing more. I wish to have room to maneuver should the situation become difficult. And as this is not my usual course, I am not behaving in my usual manner.

Asbad was only partially convinced that this was indeed the case, but it was the best idea he could offer. Thus the company moved forward, slowly but surely making their way across the sands while the moon traveled its starry path and eventually began drawing toward the horizon.

Prudence, Asbad told himself firmly. These doubts are only the warnings of prudence.

Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for ú-glîr, which is explained at length in Chapter 10 and 12.

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

It was the crackle of fire that first roused his dazed senses. As consciousness crept back to him, Arabano found it strange that he would even recognize such a sound, for fuel was scarce within the desert save around some of the larger hidden lakes to the east. As such, fires were quite rare and Arabano could count on one hand the number of times he’d had either the fuel or the need to light one. But nevertheless, it was definitely the sound of a fiercely burning flame that caught his ears. And as he hesitantly blinked his eyes open and found that he was face down in the sand, the memory of exactly what had happened came rushing back to him in graphic and horrific detail.

He remembered that Aragorn had shouted a sudden warning and that Eomer had reacted instantly as though he knew already what was to be feared. After that had come the screams. He remembered those most vividly, but they had not been what overwhelmed his ears and his eyes. There had been a sudden pressure, a blinding light, a deafening roar, and then the feeling that he was being thrown through the air. But after that, his mind drew an unnerving blank, and he could not remember anything of what had happened next. Nor did he know what was currently happening. This greatly disturbed Arabano, for he was accustomed to knowing what went on in the world about him. But his body and mind both were greatly shaken, and if someone were to tell him what was going on, he wondered if he would even comprehend their words.

Still, he could not lie here in ignorance. In the desert, ignorance was an open invitation for death. With this idea ringing through his thoughts, Arabano closed his eyes and managed to roll over onto his back. He spared a quick moment in which to celebrate this small but important achievement, and then he moved back to the task of learning what was going on. And of learning why a fire should be burning, he added, his face twisting into a concerned frown. Mustering his energy once again, Arabano concentrated on getting his eyes back open. It was a rather difficult challenge as much of his strength had gone into turning over, but the desert breeds great persistence in the men that survive its dangers. Eventually, Arabano forced shuttered lids open and turned his head toward the crackling sound of flame. He was met by a ghastly sight.

Almost nothing remained of his camp. The main tent was completely gone, and all the tents that had stood next to it were burning rapidly, sending columns of smoke into the sky and hissing as the fire devoured what little now was left to it. Blackened bodies that had been flung into the air by the force of the explosion lay scattered and broken. Some who had survived the blast were beginning to stir and there were those among them that cried out in terrible pain. It was a scene that would haunt Arabano’s dreams for many years to come, and he could never look upon fire the same way again. But neither could he look away, and for long moments he stared at the hungry flames that seemed to have taken on a life of their own.

My kinsmen, he moaned within himself, feeling something in his gut twist and churn. The Lotessa tribe was a tribe of warriors. They were employed in guarding caravans from mercenaries, and they rounded out their living with a few mercenary activities of their own. In order for this system to work, trust and brotherhood were essential, and Arabano had formed strong ties and strong friendships with almost every warrior that had come to the Gathering. These men were not only bound by ancestry but by word and by deed. They lived together, struggled together, fought together, and died together. Oh my kinsmen, what have I brought upon you?

Arabano was not a particularly religious man. He had been duly schooled in Harad’s ancient lore and he did believe in the Iluh, though he saw them more as guardians and watchers than as active participants in the lives of men. But many of the other legends, such as the Destroyer or the desert drake, he had taken to be but the fluff of fancy. Yet he now began to reconsider everything that had happened since he’d aided in escorting Gondor and Rohan to Haradhur. The ball of fire that had exploded upwards and momentarily blinded his eyes had been larger than anything he’d ever witnessed before. It had been greater and more powerful than anything the messengers of Sauron had been able to do when they were sent to intimidate the more independent tribes within Harad. The heat and the blinding light might have been likened to the sun at noon, while the blast’s tremendous power alone was enough for Arabano to seriously rethink the way he viewed legends of the Destroyer. Perhaps the rumors were right. Perhaps Gondor and Rohan were cursed and had brought doom to Harad.

But even as these thoughts crossed his mind, his practical side fought back, reminding him that he had seen Asbad’s face beneath the Destroyer’s cloak and that Aragorn and Eomer were as ordinary men. Well, perhaps ordinary was not quite the term needed, but they were certainly neither agents nor enemies of the Iluh. The battle between his sudden fear and his intellect raged hard within Arabano, and in his confusion, he began looking for others around him in the hopes that they might be able to tell him something.

He saw Aragorn and Eomer first. Both had regained their feet and both were staring at the destruction with horror and shock upon their faces, much as Arabano had done. But there was something more in their eyes than simply grief. There also seemed to be a strange look of remembrance. Arabano narrowed his eyes, struggling to gain a firmer handle on his reaction to the situation and carefully locking his emotions away for safekeeping. There would be time for sorrow later. Now was the time for questions and for answers. And as his mind eventually began to clear, Arabano became more and more convinced of his impressions. This was not the first time that Aragorn and Eomer had experienced this phenomenon of fire and light.

"Blood of the sand!"

Arabano turned his head to the side and felt a great surge of relief sweep his body as Budari slowly pushed himself up. Arabano had not seen Lotessa’s leader until now, and he was grateful that Budari seemed to be in relatively good condition. He was heavily favoring his right side, but he was alive and not only was he alive but he was on the verge of achieving a standing position.

"What has happened?" Budari demanded, his voice trembling slightly. It was the most emotional reaction that Arabano had ever seen his leader give, and this was cause for great alarm. Though he certainly has good reason to fear, Arabano conceded, watching as Aragorn moved to help Budari. The king’s left arm was heavily splinted, and a growing stain of blood dirtied the crude bandage upon his head.

"Orthanc Fire," Eomer spat in answer to Budari’s question. His eyes were narrow and his left hand was clenched tightly about the hilt of his sword, seemingly oblivious to the tight wrappings of his left shoulder that were soaked with blood.

What manner of men are these? Arabano found himself wondering as he studied the two kings. Both seemed severely injured, yet both were on their feet with the fires of vengeance burning in their eyes as brightly as the fires that consumed the remainder of the Lotessa camp. My kinsman, he moaned again. Sorrow and pain threatened to pound their way back to the forefront of his thoughts, but ere they could take hold, Arabano sternly pushed them back. Now was not the time. "What is this Orthanc Fire?" he asked aloud, deciding to involve himself in the conversation. It would help keep his thoughts in order as well as giving him a focus.

"Do you recall the black powder that the guards found" Aragorn asked.

"That powder is capable of causing this?!" Arabano exclaimed, failing to conceal his skepticism.

"You should behold what it can do to fortresses of stone if there is a sufficient quantity present," Eomer murmured angrily, shifting closer to Arabano as though preparing to assist him to his feet.

"But how…" Budari trailed off and stared at the remains of the camp that had housed the leadership of his tribe.

"We have never discovered how the powder works," Aragorn said quietly, "but if enough of it is gathered together and fire is set to it—or a flaming arrow, as was the case here—this is the result. A wizard by the name of Saruman, who had fallen beneath the shadow of Mordor, engineered the powder and employed it against us when he sought to destroy the kingdom of Rohan."

"We named it Orthanc Fire after the tower where Saruman dwelt," Eomer added, his voice also soft. "We found much powder hidden there after the war as well as some of the secrets for creating more. But we lacked the resources, the desire, and the need to produce it."

"Harad also lacks the resources to produce it," Aragorn said quietly, releasing Budari as the leader of the Lotessa tribe took a few faltering steps toward the burning fire. "If this is indeed the work of the Khurintu tribe, then they have traded for their resources. It may be that we face a larger and more dangerous alliance."

Arabano was now getting to his feet—having grudgingly accepted Eomer’s unspoken offer to help him—but he froze at this latest statement and turned a sharp look upon Aragorn. "A larger alliance, honored one? Believe you that Soltari is an even greater aid than we suspected?"

"Nay," Eomer answered with a dark shake of his head. "We believe Soltari was not an aid at all, for their tribes burns as does Lotessa."

Arabano blinked and turned his eyes to the south where the Soltari tribe had established their base. A gasp from Budari informed him that he was not alone in his shock. "Who else?" Arabano demanded, watching the distant flames and fighting the nausea that clutched his stomach.

"We have not had time to investigate," Eomer answered wearily. "But there is also a glow to the east beyond Haradhur. Someone there might have been struck."

"You spoke of a larger alliance, honored ones," Budari murmured, still shaking his head in disbelief. "Yet given what I see now, I cannot find it within myself to believe that another of Harad’s tribes had this knowledge and yet managed to keep it a secret. What, then, do we face? With whom has Khurintu allied?"

"With someone who has access to charcoal," Aragorn answered quietly. Seeing the puzzled expressions directed his way, the king of Gondor elaborated. "Charcoal. I know not what it would be in your own tongue—or if such a word would even exist—but it is a black substance that can be found after burning wood. Great quantities of wood, in fact."

"Harad does not have great quantities of wood," Arabano said, his brow furrowing with thought.

"That is why Khurintu would be forced to trade for it," Aragorn said. "But this would not be a trade with another tribe. The resources could not be found any part of Harad. This would need to come from outside."

"If you required wood, to whom would you look?" Eomer asked, allowing Arabano to move away from him as he struggled to regain his balance.

"Lebennin, perhaps," Budari murmured. "Or we might go through one of the eastern tribes, as they have contact with men who live in the jungles."

"Nay, word would leak of the transaction," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "To maintain secrecy, there could be no one acting as a diplomat and negotiating the deal."

"Umbar," Arabano said quietly, feeling as though something in his mind had just clicked. "I would go to those who sail the sea. We have traded for wood with the corsairs before, for they have great stores of it for the building of their ships. And if it was to be a secret arrangement, a member of our tribe could meet them at a fairly accessible location. They have ports up and down the entire northern and western edge of Harad where the desert meets the water. Or one could travel to their country, which sits almost due west of Haradhur."

"Moreover, Umbar bears no love for you or your northern kingdoms," Budari added. "If this trading partnership included a military alliance as well, they could be trusted to keep it secret."

Aragorn and Eomer exchanged looks, and Arabano had the uncomfortable feeling that they were sharing information he could not understand. Glancing over at Budari, he noted that his leader seemed to have the same misgivings. With a jerk of his head, Budari signaled Arabano forward.

"Honored ones, if you would, we must decide our next course of action," Arabano said, causing both Aragorn and Eomer to turn his direction. "But ere we do…" he shot a look back at Budari, and the man nodded his approval. "If you would, what other ingredients would Khurintu have needed to obtain for the making of this Orthanc Fire?"

Eomer’s jaw tightened marginally and Aragorn’s brow furrowed. "The remainder of their needs could have been found here in the desert," Aragorn answered at length. "They would not have been forced to trade for it."

"That is well and good, and we shall watch for shipments of this charcoal in the future," Budari said, stumbling slightly over the foreign word. "But we are coming quickly to a crossroads, and we must decide our direction now. We have an alliance, my friends, but more is needed. You require our aid. You require more allies to stand against Khurintu. We offer you this, but in exchange, we would know what else is needed for the creation of Orthanc fire."

A thick cloud of silence descended upon the small group, and Arabano found himself tensing as though preparing to repel an attack. Yet what else could they do? Gondor and Rohan clearly had knowledge of a weapon capable of devastating all of Harad. A true alliance could not exist so unbalanced. If Aragorn and Eomer wished for aid, they would have to even the scales. For the sake of its own safety, the Lotessa tribe could not risk continuing with them without getting something valuable in return. In the desert, those who gave and did not take were fools, and fools were ultimately destroyed. Up until this point, Lotessa had done much in the way of giving, holding to the promise of future stability and possible leadership with the downfall of Khurintu. But things had become far more complicated, and this future goal was growing dim. The time for giving without immediate reward had passed. It was now time to take.

"Sulfur," Aragorn said after what seemed to be an eternal pause. "And saltpeter. Both can be found in your strips of volcanic rocks, such as the Sihal, and in the beds of your hidden lakes. Be advised, though, that it is important to know the proportions in which these things are mixed. Without such knowledge, the results can be disastrous."

Arabano smiled slightly and mentally complimented the king of Gondor. Aragorn knew Harad’s customs well. He had given Lotessa the requested information without giving away the secret to the weapon. And though it hurt the pride to be beaten at one’s own game, Arabano was a gracious loser. If Aragorn could bend the rules to his own benefit, he was a worthy ally.

"And now if we are finished, I suggest we gather your people and move them into the city," Aragorn continued. "I know not if other attacks are planned, but the city itself seems to be safe. I do not think Eomer and I were supposed to be here. For the moment, it behooves our enemies to refrain from openly attacking us."

"The injured will not be easy to transport," Arabano said quietly, looking out over the devastated camp and struggling to mask the grief that once again welled up.

"Our forces shall aid you," Eomer promised. "Unfortunately, we have had much experience in moving those who are wounded."

"The city may be safe from Khurintu and its agents, but it will not be safe from other tribes," Budari warned. "This…act…will brand you as symbols of destruction in the eyes of the Haradrim."

"Join us, then, and by your show of trust turn their hatred to sympathy," Aragorn said. "For why would a tribe struck down by the fires of the Destroyer seek refuge with those who brought doom upon them?"

"That would be the logical question to ask, but the tribes will not be reacting with logic, honored ones," Arabano pointed out. "These fires and this ruin…it has never been seen before in Harad. It is a power greater than anything the Lord Sauron ever used in the desert. For those who know not what goes forth, it is nothing short of a demonstration of power on the part of the Iluh. Logic and reason do not come into play when dealing with such things. We shall have panics and riots on our hands."

"I doubt any shall stage an attack upon us in the heat of the day, and morning is coming quickly," Eomer reasoned.

"Moreover, we plan to be out in the desert by the time night falls," Aragorn concluded. "None shall be given opportunity to surround us in the city."

"And once again we play into Khurintu’s hands," Budari sighed. "For doubtless Asbad and Dashnir wish to meet us in the desert where they are strongest. We cannot use Haradhur as a fortress for they have turned it against us. We are forced to ride forth and meet them." The tribal leader sighed and looked to Arabano. Arabano frowned darkly and turned back to watch the consuming flames. Eventually, he glanced again at his leader and nodded slightly. In truth, there was very little else that could be done. This option of relocating seemed to be the lesser of the evils they now confronted. "We will come," Budari said wearily. "And if you would lend us your aid in moving the wounded, we would welcome the assistance. But I counsel that we move your camp away from the open squares and take up residence within the buildings, preferably those with wells. The injured will need water, and if we are attacked, a cooler campsite will give our men the advantage."

"We will heed your counsel, then," Aragorn said. "And we shall take further counsel once all has been settled. Let us depart, my friends. We stand now upon the edge of ruin." He nodded toward burning the camp as he said this, his eyes darkening and his jaw tightening. "It would behoove us to move away."

Just outside the protective walls of Haradhur, Fastahn stood and stared with unblinking eyes. He could not say how long he had been standing there, but if the stiffening muscles in his legs were any indication, a significant stretch of time had passed. But Fastahn did not seem to know this, and he continued to stand and stare. Twin columns of smoke obscured the stars in the west, and a third column was rising in the east from the direction of the Portu tribe. The Soltari tribe had been expecting Khurintu to act. For his part, Fastahn had been counting on it. But in all his wildest imaginings, he had never expected this. It was as though the fires of the Iluh had somehow been turned over to the command of Asbad and Dashnir.

Around Fastahn were other men, similarly shocked and dismayed, while even more were filtering out the gates of the city to stare in wonder and awe at the destructive forces that had been unleashed. Those who had been privy to the explosions themselves were still speechless and pale, trembling as they tried to absorb the shock of what had happened. Whispers and rumors were starting to fly. Accusations and predictions of doom were running rampant. A few of the tribal leaders who had tarried in the city for private talks among themselves were vowing to leave the Gathering unless Mohart did something to appease the Iluh. Others were suggesting they drive the foreigners from the city while still others protested this, deeming that such revenge would only anger the Iluh and show them that the Haradrim were unwilling to accept just judgements.

Had he been in his right mind, Fastahn would have listened and watched all of this with great interest. Not only would it benefit his tribes and his schemes, but he had always been fascinated with how paranoia and superstitions spread. But Fastahn was not in his right mind, and he could only stare in horror at the remnants of his tribe’s camp. He could see very little movement, and judging from the evidence before his eyes, survivors would be few.

I brought this upon us, he thought to himself, feeling a surge of guilt and shame sweep through them. I thought only to prompt us to greater action. I never intended for this to happen. I never intended for—

A sharp oath behind Fastahn interrupted him, and then a commanding voice was ordering men aside as Aulit, leader of the Gartabo tribe, stepped forward. His face was grim, and his hands shook slightly as if from fear. And Aulit had reason to fear, for it had been his duty to see that all went as ordered at the Gathering. Yet now it seemed as though the world was tumbling down around them all. Legends of the past had come to life before their eyes. Fires raged in the desert. Men from the north defied their greatest leaders. An elf and a dwarf had been marked for destruction and had then disappeared. Fastahn shook his head slowly, marveling at how far they had walked into their own destruction without ever knowing the extent of what threatened them. Khurintu had played its cards very well. The Haradrim were frightened and losing faith in their current leaders. All it would take to claim their loyalty would be an act of control that restored the normal order of things. After that, Khurintu’s standing would be assured in the desert as men flocked to their banner and shunned the leaders that had brought death upon them.

"They come!"

The shout drew immediate attention, and Fastahn pulled his gaze away from the ruins of his own tribe to watch as a slow procession made their way to Haradhur from the direction of the Lotessa tribe. And walking near the head of this group, supporting wounded as they came, were Aragorn and Eomer.

"Kill them!"

Fastahn didn’t know who gave the order, but the reaction was instantaneous. Swords flashed silver beneath the stars, and a great cry went up from all gathered. But the Lotessa tribe seemed to be expecting this, and those still hale closed around the northern kings while Budari and Arabano stepped toward the raised blades.

"Let us pass," Budari called, his voice calm and commanding despite the situation that surrounded him. "You cannot prevail without bringing death upon yourselves. Cease this foolishness and step aside!"

"Where are you going, Budari?" Aulit challenged, managing to shoulder aside some of the men so that he might better confront the other leader. "And why do you shelter those that have been called abominations?"

"By your own words, Aulit, the abominations were not specified. Your own best guess identified them as the elf and the dwarf. As you can plainly see, we do not have the elf and the dwarf with us. We bring no doom here. And now allow us to pass so that we might seek the wells in Haradhur. Our wounded need water."

"But you do have those that brought the elf and dwarf!" someone in the crowd shouted, and an angry murmur voiced its agreement with this statement. But Budari chose to ignore the undercurrent of noise, instead focusing his attention solely on Aulit.

"You have trusted my judgement in the past," Budari said, his voice lowering as though he and Aulit were the only two people in the desert. "I implore you to trust it one more time. There is much about this that you do not understand, nor am I able to explain it to you now. But for the sake of your own tribe, let us through."

For a moment and an eternity, no one moved. Watching with a mixture of despair and fascination, Fastahn could not help but feel suddenly isolated and excluded. His desires and his wishes had no bearing on what would happen. All that mattered was the contest of wills that now sparked between Budari and Aulit. A tense silence settled upon the people until Aulit suddenly blinked and stepped back.

"I cannot guarantee your safety," he finally said.

"I have never asked you to do so," Budari answered. "Lotessa looks to none for its own protection."

There was another stretch of waiting and then Aulit turned, his eyes flashing out over the people who had gathered to watch. "Let them pass into the city. The Lotessa tribe is welcome here. They, at least, have a claim to sanctuary. And some of you go forth to aid Portu and Soltari. Their wounded must also be brought within the city."

At first, there was no response to these words. But after a dark glare from both Aulit and Budari, men reluctantly began moving aside. A few began walking toward the remnants of Soltari’s camp, some continued to hover near the gate, and still others turned back into the city. Budari favorite Aulit with a crisp nod and then called to his men, commanding them forward.

For his part, Fastahn was torn. As one of the members of Soltari’s advisory council, his place was with his kinsmen and his camp. He needed to discover who had survived and what was left of their leadership. He needed to gather the Soltari tribe members who had been within the city. He needed to assist with the wounded and the dead. But he found that he could not move. He could not look at the fires without an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame taking him. It was so powerful that his stomach twisted and wrenched at the very thought of what he had done.

But I cannot now abandon what I began, he sighed wearily, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away from the desert. I must continue on this course, or their sacrifice shall have been for naught.

Stifling a strangled sob, Fastahn collected himself as best he could and began walking back into the city. Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan might have been able to enter the Haradhur without coming to grief, but this temporary peace would be over all too quickly. At the moment, most of the Haradrim were still in shock. They had not recovered enough to take independent action, and so their actions had been swayed by Aulit’s words. But that would change come evening. Budari, Aragorn, and Eomer were probably well aware of this, and they were certain to have plans of escape. But escape was not what was needed. The Khurintu tribe had to be confronted, yet with their diminished forces, Lotessa, Gondor, and Rohan faced certain destruction were they to take that path. Fastahn grimaced and shook his head. It was time to play out his last gamble. The results of his previous gamble were the fires in the Soltari camp, but Fastahn was rapidly running out of both options and time. He only had until evening. After that, the time for action would pass, and for better or for worse, it would all be over.

The moon was low in the west as Imrahil, Mohart, and the Swan Knights rode into the oasis around Lake Nurnein. The stars were slowly winking out as the sun’s light began to edge its way over the horizon in the east. For a moment, the interplay of light between the east and the west transformed the desert, and Lake Nurnein became a vast body of water, spanning the horizon as far as the mortal eye could see. Imrahil felt his breath catch in his throat as he was immediately reminded of not only the sea but also of his dreams from the day before. Something deep within his ordered mind clicked, and he grasped desperately at it, knowing that a clue had been found but failing to understand what that clue meant. And then the image was gone, lost in the cruel laughter of the sand as it tucked away a reminder of life. Lake Nurnein shrank back into what would be considered a small pond in Gondor, though it was one of the largest bodies of water within Harad.

Sighing quietly as he felt the fleeting insight slip away from him, Imrahil tried to turn his mind to other things. He had been unable to find answers to his dreams during the night’s ride and had eventually decided to let the answers come to him at their own pace. This required a great deal of patience on his part, but though he normally possessed patience in affluent abundance, he now seemed strangely short of it. Perhaps it was the growing feeling that time was running out. Perhaps it was simply all the unknowns with which he was forced to work. Perhaps it was the sense that something ill had already been set in motion. But whatever the reason, Imrahil was unusually anxious, and waiting did not sit well with him. But there was truly nothing else to be done, and so disciplining himself as firmly as he might discipline a wayward soldier, the prince began examining the many tents around Lake Nurnein.

Mohart had explained that Lake Nurnein was one of the boundaries that marked the northern edge of the Gartabo tribe’s territory, and running his keen eyes over the tents and people that hovered about the lake, Imrahil noted that most wore Gartabo’s colors. But there were many others also around this lake from various tribes, and Imrahil received the impression that this was not entirely normal. Nor was the feeling of tension in the air a normal phenomenon either, and glancing at Mohart who rode abreast of him, Imrahil could see the fear and suspicion flying across the tribesman’s face.

"Consult with your kinsmen," Imrahil said quietly, his soft voice somehow cutting across the sound of hooves and horses to attract Mohart’s attention. "Learn what you can and report back as quickly as possible. Have you a recommendation for a campsite?"

"Near my own tribe," Mohart answered, his black eyes pouring over the scene before them as they began to slow their horses. "There is great suspicion in the air, and I fear that some of the prejudice we faced at Lake Miyarr might be alive and well here. They will not trust you, honored one. My presence in your company should ensure us the protection of the Gartabo tribe, but it would be best if we were near their tents."

"It shall be as you counsel," Imrahil said. "Do you see that area over there, where the sandbar extends into the lake? Shall that be adequate?"

"A good choice, honored one," Mohart said. "And by your leave, I will depart now to speak with my brethren. I sense that something has happened during the night, and it may take long to sort through the rumors."

"Go, then," Imrahil said. "We shall see to your arrangements and belongings in your absence."

Mohart nodded and then spoke softly to his horse, drawing the mare away from Swan Knights and galloping toward the greatest concentration of Gartabo tents. Watching him go, Imrahil continued to slow the pace of his own company, hoping that a gentler approach might be a lesser cause for alarm than a full gallop. But even as he took these precautions, he was forced to wonder if they aided at all. The previous night, many Haradrim had looked upon the Swan Knights with apprehension and wariness. Now, there was naked fear upon their faces as well as hatred. At the approach of their horses, men moved away and averted their eyes, but not before Imrahil was able to catch horror mixed with a burning desire for vengeance. What was happening in the desert?

They reached the intended campsite without incident, but Imrahil could feel many hostile eyes upon him. Calling the captain of his guard over, the prince gave quiet orders that camp was to be assembled and a double watch posted. The captain nodded smartly and began to organize the men while Imrahil backed his mare away from the others and let his eyes drift out over the lake. If the situation had not been so tense, it might have been amusing. The people were trying very hard to avoid the prince’s gaze, but at the same time they sought to keep watch upon him. Something ill has happened this night, Imrahil sighed. Something that has frightened these people so much that they fear even a glance from me. But neither can they ignore my presence as some did yesterday.

Continuing to survey his surroundings, Imrahil’s eyes eventually chanced upon a small group of men several camps away who did not seem to be experiencing the same anxiety and tension as the others. They were restless and wary, Imrahil could sense that much from where he sat, but it was a different kind of wariness. Almost it seemed they did not care what the other Haradrim were doing. In fact…

Imrahil frowned, his eyes narrowing. Their clothing did not exactly match traditional desert garb. It was certainly serviceable for travel in Harad, but there was no marking of tribe or trade. At least, none that Imrahil could find from his position. And while it was not entirely unusual for lower caste members to dress plainly, the leaders almost always wore something to indicate their tribe. But those who seemed to lead this party dressed as plainly as their subordinates. Nor did they seem to have a problem meeting Imrahil’s gaze. One man stood apart from the others, supervising as they broke camp and erected tents against the sun that would soon make an appearance. And at one point, apparently bored with supervision, this man allowed his dark eyes to sweep outward where they met with Imrahil’s questioning gaze. The man started and stared, apparently surprised that he was being watched, but he did nothing else. And that alone was enough to pique the prince’s curiosity.

This is worth investigating, Imrahil decided at length. Looking over his shoulder, he noted that a few of the guards were occupied with grooming and watering the horses. Nudging his mare over, he called two of them to his side and ordered them to mount and follow. "Teril!" he called out as he prepared to leave.

The captain of his guard looked up, and his eyes seemed to harden slightly when he saw that Imrahil was still mounted. "My lord prince?" he asked, walking over.

"Teril, there is a matter that I must see to," Imrahil said quietly. "Watch our journey, and when Mohart returns, send him to us."

Teril’s mouth tightened and he looked ready to protest this act, but Imrahil’s stern gaze warded him off. And the captain had served Imrahil long enough to know that there was no changing his mind once he had decided upon something. With a slight sigh, Teril saluted and backed away. "I shall have men mounted and waiting should you meet with any trouble, my lord," the man said. "Do not hesitate to call for aid."

Imrahil smiled slightly, recognizing the tone in his captain’s voice. Even should he fail to call for assistance, Teril would send the guards if he felt the prince was in danger. Satisfied that they had come to a satisfactory arrangement, Imrahil nodded his agreement and then kicked his mare into a gallop. The two knights accompanying him were quick to follow, and together they set off to greet the men who did not seem to belong in the desert. Thinking about it further, Imrahil was forced to admit that this was a rather impulsive move for him, but something deep within his mind was telling him that this action was necessary. Nay, not just necessary, he amended. Vital. And I have come to trust my instincts far too much to ignore them now.

Nearing the strange camp, Imrahil watched as the man whose eyes he had met earlier began wandering out to meet him. The fact that Imrahil’s coming was not greeted with terror and suspicion only further served to cement in his mind that a clue lay here. They were almost upon the man when Imrahil raised his arm and made a fist, signaling his two knights to drop back but to remain mounted should the need arise. Imrahil himself kept his mare moving forward, stopping only a few feet from the other man.

"Akhlan, sahdiini," Imrahil offered as a greeting, dismounting and inclining his head slightly.

"Akhlan biitak," the man replied after a slight moment of hesitation. He studied Imrahil, his dark eyes betraying a strange mix of caution and impatience. Then the eyes went to the knights saddled behind Imrahil, and he seemed to make a decision of sorts. "Hul intar an Khurintu?"

Though he showed no outward reaction, Imrahil’s mind suddenly went into a whirl of swift conclusions. Within Harad, certain colors or certain patterns of embroidery upon the traditional desert robes marked the identity of different tribes. And this far north, no one should have been unfamiliar with Khurintu’s markings, as they were one of the dominant groups. Beyond that, Imrahil himself was clad in loose-fitting robes that did not come from the desert but rather from Belfalas. No native of Harad should have mistaken him for a member of the Khurintu tribe. His earlier guesses were correct. This man was not from the desert.

But he was also not from any of the northern realms. Before crossing Anduin, Imrahil had purposefully left behind his banner and any symbols that would identify him as being from Dol Amroth, hoping that his company would be mistaken as travelers from Belfalas and thus left alone. The temptation to strike against one of Aragorn’s strongest allies—an ally not escorted by men from leading tribes across Haradhur—would be too great a temptation for many to resist. Thus, Imrahil bore nothing marking him as the prince that he was. But even without distinguishing symbols, any man of rank from the northern lands would have at least recognized him as being nobility from Dol Amroth. Thus, this man could not be from the north. Beyond that, his complexion was too dark, and his voice…there was a strange accent in his Haradric. Imrahil knew he had heard this accent before, but at the moment he could not place it. Studying the man as other suspicions began to rise, Imrahil took a gamble and decided to play along.

"Na’am, anar an Khurintu. Wa intar?"

"If we are to speak, let us do so in a language with which we are both familiar," the man growled, abruptly switching to Westron and further startling Imrahil. "I trust you are here for the charcoal?"

Charcoal? By the Valar, what does the Khurintu tribe want with charcoal? "How much did you bring?" Imrahil asked, opting for a neutral answer.

"As much as I brought the last time," the man said curtly. "Now, have you the sulfur and the saltpeter?"

Something clicked in Imrahil’s mind, and his brow furrowed as he searched for a link between these three items. There was something familiar about them, and yet… "They were to have arrived here earlier, but they have apparently met with delay," Imrahil eventually answered.

"We grow weary of waiting for them," the man growled, his eyes darkening. "If you truly wish for our participation in the assault, you must give us the promised materials. And where is the prisoner you wrote of? I see no elf, yet your most recent message clearly promised us one of the elves. We will not act without first testing our weapons."

"As I said before, there seems to have been a delay," Imrahil said, hoping to stall while his mind frantically processed what had just been said. Vital information was landing in his lap, but it was coming too fast and he did not have a context in which to place it. He knew nothing of the situation at the Gathering, nor did he have any idea as to what Aragorn and Eomer were currently doing. But judging from this man’s statements, they were in trouble. Quite a bit of trouble.

"Perhaps we have not made ourselves clear," the man growled. "We will not join you in attacking Minas Tirith without assurances that you have control in the desert and that we can neutralize the elven threat in Ithilien."

"Might I know your name, sir?" Imrahil asked as sudden revelation hit him like a battering ram with mithril plating.

"Aeri-eluwn. And yours, tribesman?"

Umbar! Imrahil nearly cursed aloud. He should have recognized the accent, particularly after the switch into Westron, but he had been too busy trying to track all the information that was suddenly being offered. Still, the name made it absolutely clear. These men were from Umbar. Dol Amroth had dealt with the Corsairs far too often to fail at recognizing their names. But what was Umbar doing so deep in the desert?

Realizing that the man was still waiting for a response, Imrahil quickly cast about for a name that he might give in return, but before he could do so, another man—who seemed just as uncomfortable in the desert as the first—approached them. "Aeri-eluwn, nhvon hadrit…" The second man trailed off and stared at Imrahil, his eyes showing signs of uncertainty. When the uncertainty abruptly changed to startled recognition, Imrahil knew the game was up.

Acting before any could raise a cry of alarm, Imrahil seized the second man, drew his sword, and laid it to the man’s neck. Aeri-eluwn started forward, but he was stopped by a warning look from the prince of Dol Amroth. "The alliance is over," Imrahil hissed quietly, tightening his grip on his hostage as the man began to squirm. "You will depart with your goods and never again set foot in the desert. Gondor has been privy to your communications. The Khurintu tribe is being dealt with. If you value your necks, corsairs, then you will leave well enough alone lest we turn our eyes to you as well."

"Imrahil! Dol Amroth!" the captive man hissed to his companion before Imrahil could stop him. At these words, Aeri-eluwn froze and stared at the prince, rage and fury swiftly overtaking his face.

"I advise you to hold your tongue," Imrahil warned. The sound of hooves behind the prince informed him that the two guards accompanying him had joined the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their spears trained on Aeri-eluwn. "Tell your men to back down," Imrahil commanded as the rest of the Umbar party realized what was happening and began to advance. "There are many more of us in the desert. Spill blood now and you will never lay your eyes upon the sea again."

"Twaqf," Aeri-eluwn ordered reluctantly. More hoof beats were sounding, and Imrahil realized that Teril had sent knights after his prince. Which was probably for the best, as Imrahil was outnumbered without them.

"A wise decision, my friend," Imrahil said, continuing to hold his sword firmly at the other man’s throat. "And now I will offer you a choice. Make me an oath to take your men and leave for your own country the moment the sun sets come evening. Refuse this and we will kill you where you stand, beginning with this one." The prince jerked his sword just enough again his hostage’s throat to draw blood, and he heard the ring of steel behind him as other swords were bared.

The man named Aeri-eluwn hesitated, conviction and rage fighting a fierce battle within his dark eyes, and then he nodded slowly. "We will depart at sunset."

"For your own lands," Imrahil reminded him, taking no chances. "Swear it!"

"Upon my father’s house, I swear we will depart for our own lands at sunset," Aeri-eluwn spat.

Imrahil lowered his sword and pushed his prisoner forward, forcing the other man to catch him. "Then I hold you to your word," the prince said, sheathing his sword and reaching for the reins of his mare. "And may I offer a parting word of advice? Do not act against us during the day. If you do, then there will be none left to return to Umbar with tidings of your deeds." He held the other’s eyes for a moment after saying this, letting him know that this was not an empty threat, and then he turned away. Mounting quickly, he backed his mare up and signaled to his men. As silent ghosts, they turned away from the Umbar camp and followed their prince back toward their own camp.

"My lord?" Teril questioned, guiding his horse next to Imrahil’s. At the prince’s gesture to speak, he continued. "Sire, why did we not kill them?"

"There is something foul at work here," Imrahil answered, "but until I can discover what, we will take no hasty action. I will not risk inviting war with Umbar when we do not understand all that such a war would entail."

"They will not submit easily to your demands, my lord prince," Teril cautioned.

"And that is why the double watch shall be maintained throughout the day," Imrahil replied. "Fortunately, the men of Umbar value their word as they value their own lives. We can at least trust them to depart at sunset as they swore to do."

"Honored one!"

Imrahil looked up as Mohart galloped toward them, his face a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Have you discovered aught of what has caused such unease here?" Imrahil asked when the man neared them.

"The rumors are scattered and fragmented at best, honored one," Mohart answered. "None seem to truly know what is happening. But at the moment, I am more interested to learn what you have been doing. With whom were you speaking? Those men are not of the desert."

"Nay, they are not," Imrahil murmured. "They are of Umbar."

"Umbar?" Mohart repeated incredulously.

"It seems they have a trade arrangement with Khurintu. And an alliance, as well." Imrahil turned a sharp look on the delegate from the Gartabo tribe, his eyes accusing. "Did you know of this?"

Mohart drew himself up indignantly as they rode back into Dol Amroth’s camp. "I knew nothing of such an alliance, honored one. And I find it difficult to believe that such a thing could go unnoticed, especially if they are trafficking in weaponry."

"They are not," Imrahil answered, signaling his men to halt. Dismounting, he handed the reins to a nearby guard and drew Mohart aside, barking a dismissal to the other men. "What use would the Khurintu tribe have for charcoal?" he asked the moment the others withdrew.

"Charcoal?" Mohart echoed, his eyes flickering with confusion.

"A black substance that can be made from the burning of wood," Imrahil explained. "What use would Khurintu have for it?"

"I know nothing of such things," Mohart said. "What uses would any have for it?"

"It can be used as a writing implement," Imrahil said slowly. "But aside from that…" He trailed off as he was once again struck by the familiarity of all this. "Come, tell me what you have discovered," he said, deciding to change the topic for now. "What news from your kinsmen?"

"The reports I have received make no sense, honored one," Mohart answered with a helpless shrug. "There are rumors that the Iluh have sent a destroying fire upon the Gathering and that judgement hangs above us all. Yet I can make no clear sense of their words. They are confused and fearful. And they say that it is the northern companies that have brought this doom upon us."

"A destroying fire?" Imrahil asked, feeling as though he was sitting atop one of the keys to unraveling this mystery. "Can you be more specific?"

"Nay, for they could not be. They had not witnessed it themselves but rather have received their reports through Warra’s hawks. They say a great noise shook Haradhur, and when men turned to look, fire erupted from the sand. Several camps were at the centers of these fires, but I could not confirm which camps were affected. There are too many rumors for that."

"Orthanc Fire," Imrahil suddenly murmured, his mind flashing back to a conversation with Eomer when he and Lothíriel had visited Dol Amroth. Somehow the subject of Helm’s Deep had come up, and Eomer had mentioned that the ingredients for a blasting fire had been translated from one of Saruman’s scrolls. He could not remember all the specifics—and Eomer had been rather vague, as well—but he seemed to recall that charcoal had been upon the list of requirements for producing this destructive fire.

"Honored one?" Mohart questioned.

"If my guess is not far afield, I believe Khurintu has learned the secret of producing a weapon that was used once in the north," Imrahil said slowly. "When struck with flame, there is a substance that will erupt into fire. By Elbereth, I should have pressed those men for greater details!"

"It seemed to me that you were holding one hostage," Mohart commented, his voice carefully neutral but with an undercurrent of curiosity.

"My face is familiar to some of the corsairs, for Dol Amroth has battled them in the past. One recognized me and it was necessary to take action quickly." Imrahil shook his head, running a hand through dark hair. "Yet even so, I believe I can now hazard a greater guess as to what goes forth here. Khurintu and Umbar have been working together in the hopes of overthrowing Gondor. Khurintu was to seize control of Harad. I suspect that this process involves the disposal of Aragorn and Eomer. It is what I would do should I desire the overthrow of the north. With their kings gone, Gondor and Rohan are thrown into chaos. My realm is too far removed to act swiftly enough if Khurintu and Umbar press the attack. Belfalas and Ithilien are then the only obstacles, and Belfalas will be hit too quickly to react. Faramir will take command and the elves of Ithilien will join him, but those men said something about a weapon that they might use to neutralize the elven threat. Which leaves the men of Gondor and Northern Ithilien to defend the realm against a swift attack from both Umbar and Harad."

"Yet how would Khurintu seize control of Harad, honored one?" Mohart challenged. "Most tribes have no wish to rise against the north."

"Have you lost your sight, Mohart?" Imrahil demanded. "Look about this lake. Look at what is happening to your people. Rumors are flying swift and strong, and it seems that Khurintu is creating some great calamity in Haradhur. And did you not speak of a figure from your legends? The Destroyer, I believe? When suspicion, doubt, and legends mix, can you guarantee that common sense will prevail? Nay, you cannot. And we see only parts of what is happening, for we are removed from the center of this. Who knows what goes forth in Haradhur where the leaders of this desert sit in council!"

Mohart was silent for a time, his eyes downcast and his brow furrowed. "Your words have the ring of truth to them, honored one," he said at length. "And perhaps you were right several nights ago when you spoke of our being too late. It seems that events have been set in motion that cannot be easily stopped."

"Perhaps, but perhaps you also had it aright," Imrahil mused, his glance straying southward in the direction of Haradhur. "Events are still happening in Harad, and I have seen victory snatched from the jaws of defeat before. It takes but one slip to turn a revolution back on itself. Mayhap we can cause that one slip."

"What, then, is your counsel?"

What, indeed? Imrahil took a few steps away from Mohart and looked toward the lake. Aeri-eluwn had asked about an elven prisoner. As far as Imrahil knew, there was only one elf in Harad at the moment, and it seemed that he was expected to arrive at Lake Nurnein in the near future. Should they wait for Legolas and hope that by freeing Southern Ithilien’s lord they might put a stop to some of the plans and learn more of what was happening at Haradhur? Nay, for these plans have already been altered. The men of Umbar shall depart at sunset, and the Khurintu tribe shall arrive with none here to greet them. My apologies, Legolas, but I fear I shall have to leave you to your own devices and trust that you shall be well. The threat to the realm is greater. My place is beside my king. "We ride for Haradhur tomorrow night, and we do so with such speed that it will make the horses stumble," Imrahil answered firmly, his mind made up.

"It may be that we are already too late," Mohart cautioned. "Or it may be that we will arrive only to witness the fall of your kings. Perhaps it would be prudent to wait for events to play out and then seek to thwart them."

"Nay, I will wait no longer," Imrahil answered, clutching the hilt of his sword as his eyes glittered with the fires of a warrior. "If we do arrive to witness the fall of the kings, I view it as my duty and my pleasure to die with them. But Khurintu will not win without cost. If they are victorious, then we will make them pay for every step with their own blood."

Akhlan, sahdiini—Greetings, my friend. (Haradric)

Akhlan biitak—Greetings (the response). (Haradric)

Hul intar an Khurintu?—Are you from Khurintu? (Haradric)

Na’am, anar an Khurintu. Wa intar?—Yes, I am from Khurintu. And you? (Haradric)

Aeri-eluwn, nhvon hadrit...—Aeri-eluwn, we are prepared to…(A local dialect from Umbar)

Twaqf—Back (local Umbar dialect)

Author’s Notes: For the "Orthanc Fire" (a name I more or less made up, but it seemed fitting to me) I went with the traditional recipe for early forms of gunpowder, specifically what was used by the Ottoman Empire. For most of their sulfur and saltpeter (also known as potassium nitrate or niter) they raided the deserts of Qatar, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and other places. Charcoal was another matter, though, and they had to look elsewhere for that. Thought you might want to know. And FYI, did you know that ancient peoples used to call the Dead Sea the "stinking sea" because of its huge sulfur despots? Random fact for the day.

Anyway, almost all of the cards are now on the table and the counter-plots are starting in earnest. So if you’re still confused with what’s happening, separate out what Khurintu and Umbar planned together and what everyone else is planning as a response. Most (not all, but most) of the former is now known. The latter is still being revealed.

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Khesva—Tribal head of Soltari (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

A sharp, ripping pain in his thigh as well as an incessant pounding throughout his head informed Gimli that he was once again returning to the conscious world. The dwarf was less then enthused. The fact that his first sensations were those of pain was a good indication that all was not well, and at the moment, Gimli was quiet content to remain blissfully ignorant of his surroundings. But in spite of these wishes, something was drawing him from his strange and shifting dreams, and though the dwarf fought this pull valiantly, it continued to drag him into the waking world. In the end, he decided that struggling against it was futile and reluctantly settled back for the ride.

The next sensation he experienced was almost as bad as the pain. His mind became aware of a slight rocking motion about the same time that his stomach did, and even as he tried to learn the cause of this movement, his gut decided to twist and knot with rolling waves of nausea. His stomach was empty, which was something of a relief to the dwarf, but that didn’t stop it from violently protesting movement of any kind. Deciding that he should probably do something about that, Gimli began attempting to open his eyes. Perhaps he could hold reality steady for a moment if he gave it a good glare.

Unfortunately, opening his eyes proved to be a daunting task because he couldn’t seem to remember how to do it. Gimli’s mind was not functioning correctly—perhaps because of the enormous headache that plagued him—and he slipped from one thought to the next with almost no direction or control. Physical movement was next to impossible. Vocalization was also forbidden. It seemed that the only thing he was capable of doing was quietly submitting to whatever was going on and analyzing the things his befuddled senses were able to pick up. Naturally, this was a great toll on Gimli’s pride. Dwarves did not stand idle while the world went by around them. They were the architects and builders of Arda. They had to know what was happening in their realms, and they had to participate in it if circumstances permitted. Very few outsiders knew it, but among their own kind, dwarves had a unique penchant for gossip and nosiness. Thus, Gimli’s nature demanded that he open his eyes and learn of his situation. But at the same time, his weary mind and aching body begged him to fade away again and ignore the outside world. It was a conflict of self that the dwarf was in no condition to handle, and it was further complicated by Gimli’s next discovery.

He was being carried.

Pride and honor roared to life, nearly eclipsing the pain in his leg and head as they screamed for self-sufficiency and independence. But his body rejoiced in the fact that someone else was seeing to his needs because this meant that the dwarf was justified in resting a bit longer. But as Gimli struggled between these two opposing forces and tried to find a logical solution, something clicked in his brain that started moving him even closer toward total consciousness.

He was not safe here.

He did not know why he was not safe here and he did not know where here was, but he did know that he was in danger. Rising above the clamor of pride and pain, warrior instincts began to dominate, and it was in these instincts that Gimli put his trust. He knew better than to question feelings of danger or unease, for such feelings had saved his life many times in the past. And so ignoring both honor and broken body, Gimli tried to discover more of the peril he sensed around him so that he would better know how to deal with it when it chose to attack.

By this point in time, his brain was beginning to work better, and muscle control was coming back. His thoughts, though still hampered by a perpetual headache, were clearing, and memory was also returning. I should be dead, Gimli suddenly realized as hazy facts filtered through his mind. I collapsed again. I should not be alive. Our captors should have killed me. How is it that…Legolas?

It had to be the elf. It was the only possible explanation. The elf was the reason that Gimli was still alive. And it was undoubtedly the elf who now carried him. Legolas had promised to protect Gimli with his own life should it come to that, and it appeared that the gamble had paid off. Rather than killing the dwarf, the guards had allowed Legolas to carry him. But…how long had the elf been doing this? Gimli could now sense that he was cradled against a chest that heaved for air, and if he didn’t know better, the dwarf would have said that he smelled perspiration. But elves did not sweat. Or if they did, they did so in a way that was not noticeable to others. Yet Gimli could not deny the evidence that his clearing senses were relaying. Legolas was breathing hard, the elven arms that supported the dwarf were trembling, and there was a definite smell of sweat in the air.

Water! Gimli suddenly thought with horror. Legolas is losing water. I must get down. He cannot lose water, for who knows when our captors shall give us drink!

But getting down was a rather improbable goal at the moment since Gimli still couldn’t open his eyes. But he was gaining the ability to move his arms and legs, and he put that ability into play, struggling weakly against Legolas’s restrictive hold. It didn’t help that the dwarf’s arms were still bound behind his back, but his movements at least attracted the elf’s attention. He could sense Legolas’s eyes coming to rest upon him, the power of the elven gaze transcending even the murky barriers that kept Gimli from opening his own eyes. Surely Legolas would now see that the dwarf was waking and would subsequently put him down.

But his hopes were dashed when he heard a weary sigh that carried heavy overtones of frustration and despair. And while Gimli pondered on what this sigh might mean, Legolas shifted his arms, clutching the dwarf even tighter against the heaving chest that continued to gasp for air. "Peace, my friend," the elf soothed quietly, his voice coming across as rather breathless. "Hush and lie still. We have not far to go."

To the dwarf’s ears, it sounded as though Legolas was repeating something he had been saying often, for it had a very practiced feel to it. Then he has been carrying me for quite a while, Gimli decided, thrusting down a surge of guilt. Well, we shall certainly change that! And with this vow, the dwarf renewed his efforts to open his eyes and prove his consciousness so that Legolas would set him down upon his own two feet.

A small and extremely cynical voice in the back of the dwarf’s head informed him that even if Legolas did put him down—which was unlikely—he would probably be unable to walk. His right leg felt as though it had swollen to the size of a hobbit’s stomach after a large meal, and though Legolas had positioned his arms carefully so as not to disturb the wound, it was still quite painful. But Gimli felt that the risk must be taken. Aside from his dwarven honor—which was still stinging sharply—and his warrior instincts—which were still clamoring about danger—Legolas seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

Once again, the dwarf began to struggle, and as before, his efforts proved completely ineffective. Legolas shifted him yet again, turning him so that his face was pressed into the elf’s shoulder and his bound arms dangled in the air away from the elf’s chest where the weak struggles would not disrupt Legolas’s hold on his friend. "Hush, Gimli. Hush. You are safe," the elf whispered, again sounding as though this was something of a litany.

Had Gimli been able to scream with frustration, he would have done so. Nothing he did seemed to register with Legolas. The elf spoke to him as though soothing one who was delirious. And I am certainly not delirious, the dwarf growled to himself, trying to muster enough strength for speech. If he could communicate, then perhaps the elf would believe that he was awake. Putting all his energy into this new endeavor, Gimli’s efforts were eventually rewarded with a quiet groan. It was not much, but it was progress.

"You are safe, elvellon," Legolas murmured, apparently having heard the noise. "I shall see to that. Peace, now. Rest."

He must think me daft, Gimli decided. Peace? Rest? I shall do no such thing. Not until he sees to his own welfare, stubborn elf. His thoughts were becoming even clearer now, and his ears were beginning to pick up muted conversation around him. His stomach was not nearly as fitful as it had been minutes ago, though it was still protesting the rocking motion caused by Legolas’s stride. Bolstered by these improvements and feeling even more confident in his ability to make coherent contact, Gimli once again pooled his resources and tried to speak. This time, he managed to get out a name. "Legolas?"

There was a slight break in stride, and the dwarf felt Legolas’s eyes upon him once more. "Gimli? Are you awake?"

Summoning as much energy as his broken body was capable of mustering, Gimli managed to lift his heavy eyelids and turn his head upwards. His vision was blurred, but at least his eyes were open. "Awake," he hissed, only now noticing just how parched his throat was.

"Thank Elbereth," Legolas whispered. "I had nearly given up hope."

"Legolas, I—

"Hush," the elf interrupted quickly, his words no louder than a sigh. "Speak more softly. They will hear you if you raise your voice."

"Doesn’t matter. Put me down."

There was something that sounded like a stifled laugh from Legolas, though if it was a laugh, it was hauntingly devoid of mirth. "Gimli, were I to set you down, they would kill us both. You are completely unable to support your own weight."

"But—"

"Nay, my friend. Cease your talk. I am not so far gone that I cannot carry you yet a little longer."

"So you say now," the dwarf grumbled, wondering when his throat had become so dry. He debated about continuing with his insistence that he be allowed to walk on his own, but he knew well that Legolas was right. He would topple over the moment his feet touched the ground. Beyond that, the elf’s statement about their captors killing both of them were it to be attempted had been made with chilling certainty. It was probably best to drop the subject for now in favor of gaining more information. Clearly much had been happening.

With effort, Gimli turned his head around, attempting to look at something other than Legolas’s shoulder. Seeing his struggles, Legolas shifted his arms and Gimli soon found his hazy eyes were now staring up at blurred stars. "Where…" Gimli trailed off and licked his lips, deciding that Legolas wasn’t the only one who had lost a significant amount of water during the night. The dwarf felt he could drain the Anduin. "Where are we?" he asked quietly.

"Harad."

If Gimli had been strong enough to do so, he would have given the elf a solid clout for such an answer. "I know that," he rasped.

"I was uncertain if you did."

There was enough honesty in that response to give Gimli pause for thought. How far gone was I? he wondered. Aloud, he asked, "You did not think that I knew we were in Harad?"

"I was uncertain," Legolas repeated.

Unable to find a good response to that, the dwarf eventually returned to his original line of questioning. "Where in Harad are we?"

"Somewhere to the north and the east of Haradhur. More than that I cannot say."

Gimli sighed and closed his eyes. "We do not know much, do we?"

"Nay. I fear that we do not." Legolas fell silent for a moment, and then he began speaking again, his voice even softer than before. "There was a line of volcanic rock to the south not long ago. We skirted it for some time, but now I can no longer see it. It was not unlike the Sihal."

"There are probably many areas of volcanic rock here," Gimli murmured.

"It is my understanding that one could find water there. Do I err in this?"

"There could be water there," Gimli confirmed hoarsely, wondering what Legolas had in mind. "But you would need to find a cave with access to an aquifer."

There was another stretch of silence in response to this, and Gimli frowned, trying to get his eyes to focus. He could not see Legolas’s face clearly enough to read the subtle emotions that would indicate what the elf was thinking. The dwarf had become very good at discerning what went on behind his friend’s expressionless façade, but he could only do so if he could see the elf’s face with complete clarity of vision.

"Legolas?" he eventually prompted when his eyes refused to cooperate.

"They intend to separate us," Legolas murmured. "Earlier this evening, I listened to their speech. We are meeting others at sunrise. They come with horses for faster travel, and Dashnir is expected to join us as well. At that time, we will be separated, but for what purpose, I do not know."

Gimli digested that for a moment, thinking through the ramifications. "You may have a chance to escape after we are separated."

"I do not intend to let them separate us."

The elf’s forceful tone immediately put Gimli on alert, and he frowned. "You have something in mind."

"You will not be allowed to live once I am gone. They will kill you and so ease the burden of carrying you, for they would not have to see to your comfort or welfare. I will not allow that. We will escape ere it can happen."

"What is your plan?" Gimli whispered, wondering how any escape attempt could be made given his current condition.

"Take no thought for it," the elf answered, his voice now so low that it was almost impossible to make out the words. "I only ask that you stay conscious enough to grip the mane of a horse."

Gimli still didn’t have a good view of the elf’s face, but judging from his words, the plan for escape had not been thoroughly planned out. Turning away from Legolas, the dwarf directed his attention to those around them. His sight was still quite blurred, but he managed to find many shadows and silhouettes. They were completely surrounded. What was this talk of holding a horse’s mane? Legolas would never be able to get close to a horse, especially if he was carting about a wounded companion. The elf was too weak. "You will not make it," Gimli murmured.

"Hush."

"You will not escape if you take me with you."

"I will not go if it means leaving you behind."

"This is folly," Gimli hissed.

"Your mind is wearied. Rest."

"Why should two die when one could live?"

"Because two can also live. Now hush. We are drawing attention."

Gimli’s first inclination was to blatantly ignore the request to be quiet, but the conversation had taken far more out of him than he’d anticipated. Exhaustion claimed him once again, and his mind could no longer keep up with the turns of phrase necessary for enduring a debate with Legolas. Deciding that it would be best to resume this argument at a later time, Gimli squelched the qualms of his pride and fell silent, closing his eyes as he tried to regain his strength.

A moment or two later, he felt an elven gaze lock on to his face, and he surmised that Legolas was startled by his acquiescence. "Gimli?"

"Still here," the dwarf mumbled.

The arms around Gimli shifted a bit, and he was forced to bite back a cry of pain as his wounded thigh pressed against Legolas’s hip. The elf’s stride slowed and a hand came down upon Gimli’s brow. "Your fever is growing."

"I know," Gimli whispered. "I can feel it." Now that he wasn’t worried about proving his consciousness or arguing with Legolas, the dwarf had noticed that he was feeling flashes of heat as well as enduring periodic chills. It was disturbingly similar to a bout of pneumonia that he’d endured when he was still living in the Blue Mountains, except that his lungs did not ache and he was not coughing up mucus. At least not yet, but who knew what would happen to him next. Fortune was a notoriously fickle mistress, and she did not seem to be favoring him of late.

Gimli felt himself shifted, and then the pressure on his leg was relieved as Legolas once again supported him with two arms. "I have no way to treat you here," the elf murmured. "I have neither medicines nor herbs."

"I know," Gimli said again, wondering why Legolas had asked him to be still but then continued to speak to him.

"I am sorry, elvellon."

Ah, so that was it. Legolas was feeling helpless. The dwarf grimaced and wondered if there was anything he could do about that. Legolas did not deal well with feelings of helplessness or vulnerability. Gimli supposed it came from a long history of serving as a prince and a captain in one of Arda’s darkest forests. One could not afford to feel helpless there, for such a feeling meant almost certain death. One had to maintain complete control over both surroundings and forces. At the moment, Legolas had no control whatsoever. He had no ability to change his own fate, and he could certainly not alter anyone else’s fate. But I am as helpless as he, Gimli sighed. I have no words of comfort to speak and no counsel to give.

The dwarf was still mulling over how to best aid his friend—and still finding no answers—when Legolas stiffened. It was not enough to be visibly perceivable to any of their guards, but pressed against the elf as he was, Gimli immediately sensed it. Something had changed. Then their forward motion ceased. Legolas had come to a stop. And as Gimli began to pay more attention to his surroundings, he noticed that the noise level had increased. And not only had it increased, but new sounds had been added. He could hear hooves. Horses. Horses had come.

"Legolas?"

"Hush," the elf commanded, a note of authority entering his voice. "Be as still as you can."

Gimli, however, had other ideas. If he allowed Legolas to go through with this foolish plan, neither one would ever leave Harad alive. Alone, the elf had a slim chance of surviving, and at the moment, it was absolutely imperative that at least one of them escape and tell Aragorn of what had transpired. And since Legolas had more of an idea as to what was happening than Gimli did, he should be the one to go. Even noble elven sentiments had to give way before logic. "Legolas, I—"

But as powerful as logic was, there was yet a stronger force in the desert that night, and it was brute strength. Shifting Gimli’s weak form, Legolas pushed the dwarf’s face into his tunic and held it there, quite literally smothering any further complaints.

Barely able to breathe, Gimli immediately began fighting the elf, which only caused Legolas to hold him tighter. Strangely enough, though, this was actually more of a help than a hindrance for the dwarf. His growing need for oxygen triggered a surge of panic that lent him additional strength. He did not know where this strength came from and he suspected it would cost him dearly in the future, but he was so desperate for air that he threw caution to the Wargs and began struggling in earnest. It was not long before his attempts to free himself garnered a response, but it was not exactly the response that Gimli was hoping for. An elven face leaned close to his, and he managed to catch a glint of flashing gray eyes filled with such frustration and anger that a dragon might have stepped back. "If you do not cease and lie quiet, I will take no care to keep you awake and so attempt an escape while you are unconscious."

Gimli had known Legolas long enough to be able to determine when the elf was serious and when he was jesting. At the moment, he was completely serious. The dwarf was not exactly graceful in accepting this defeat, but he did still his struggles slightly, though he could not quite prevent himself from attempting to get his beard out of his face. Aside from making it difficult to breathe, it was tickling his nose. Fortunately, Legolas did not seem to mind these smaller struggles, and loosened his hold on Gimli’s head. But he did not allow the dwarf to move away from his shoulder. He was apparently taking no chances.

Eventually deciding that trying to move his beard was a rather futile endeavor, Gimli sighed and forced himself to relax so as to regain his lost energy. Mahal, but he was tired! The fever was sapping what strength he had left, and he longed to slide back into darkness where he had been ignorant of reality. Beyond that, he seemed to have developed a pulse in his thigh. He could feel his heart pounding away beneath the torn muscle, and he suspected that it had begun bleeding again. Though why I should be concerned with such things is beyond me, he sighed wearily to himself. It seems I can do nothing for myself. Even my thoughts are beginning to slip away again.

In an attempt to ground himself, Gimli began listening to the talk going on around him. But this also proved to be a rather pointless undertaking since all the talk was in Haradric. The dwarf knew almost nothing about the language, but it was doubtful that even a rudimentary knowledge might have aided him. His head was spinning, and it was becoming difficult to keep his concentration on one thing. But he was determined in his efforts, despite the pounding hammers in his skull, and eventually he did catch a few words that he recognized. Haradhur was one. Nurnein was another. Nurnein was the lake located a night’s ride north of Haradhur. Yet this told him nothing. He had no context in which to place these things, and the rest of the talk was gibberish insofar as he was concerned.

Bereft of any type of anchor and still finding it difficult to obtain enough air, Gimli was on the verge of loosing his hold on consciousness when Legolas suddenly moved, bringing the dwarf’s head up so that whispered words might be passed unnoticed. "Have you steel and flint with you?"

Gimli blinked, confused. What in Arda did Legolas want with steel and flint? Even the most creative warrior would be hard-pressed to use such tools as an effective weapon when contending with spears, arrows, and swords.

"Gimli?!" Legolas hissed, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

"Left side," the dwarf answered, shaken by the amount of effort now required to form words. "In the lining of my tunic is a pocket. Should be there."

"The Haradrim did not take them?"

"Nay," Gimli muttered. "No reason to, I suppose."

"Then perhaps fortune still favors us," Legolas whispered.

The dwarf gave a mental frown, wondering if his friend was finally caving under the pressure of captivity and fear. Gimli had ample imagination, but he could not quite see how their current situation might in any way be construed as a favor from the hand of fortune. He began working up the energy to voice his concerns about the elf’s state of mind, but before he could do so, a low, gentle hum caught his attention.

"Legolas?" he questioned, wishing he had enough energy to pull back and study his friend.

The elf did not respond but continued to hum softly, his quiet song strangely compelling. There were moments when the notes did not seem to carry as well as they should have, and Gimli shivered to think of the effects that ú-glîr was having upon the archer if Legolas could not keep a consistent tune for so simple a melody. But even with ú-glîr shadowing him, the elf was still very gifted and his song was soothing. Some of Gimli’s pain drifted away as he listened, and the confusion in his mind died down, fading to a mumble in the background that could be ignored with effort.

This song also seemed to affect those standing around them. Still listening to the speech of his captors, Gimli noticed that conversations were diminishing and a silence was falling as Legolas continued. But what do you plan to do with this? the dwarf silently demanded. This song is calming, yes, but surely you do not think to lull these warriors to sleep. They are not so easily fooled as that. What is this madness, my friend? Why do you draw their attention to yourself?

Yet despite his questions—and questions were now breeding as rapidly as Orcs in the shadows—Gimli could not bring himself to interrupt the elf. It seemed that none could. All other talk had now completely ceased, and only Legolas’s voice broke the night’s stillness. The hum was slowly growing into a wordless, voiced melody, chillingly beautiful as its volume grew. Gimli had heard his friend sing before, and it was always a cherished moment for the dwarf—though he would sooner start breeding his own horses than admit his love of elven music to anyone—but this song…this song was different. There was something else hidden beneath the notes that Gimli could sense but not quite grasp. Words were being issued, but no words were spoken. A command was being given, yet the dwarf could not fathom to whom this command was addressed. Nor could he understand it, but he suddenly felt a pull of obedience surging through his breast. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it caused him to take a mental step backwards and reevaluate this being he considered a well-known friend.

Louder and louder Legolas’s voice grew, and men began to shift nervously as the tone of the song began to change. Gimli felt himself released from something, though what that something was, he could not say. But the shock of being freed was so sudden that he had a very real sensation of falling. Then Legolas broke forth into words, his voice ringing strong and clear with only a slight tremor to betray that he had been weakened by the ordeals of the night. Gimli nearly jumped in surprise, but he was not the only startled one. In answer to these words, the clear whinnies of horses suddenly trumpeted in the waning darkness. And the previous calm abruptly became a bedlam of chaos.

Hooves pounded against the sand, and men cried in alarm as the powerful steeds broke free of their handlers. A rush of wind swept over Gimli and he sensed horses moving all around them, driving the men away. Arrows whined and skipped, coming so close that Gimli felt one graze his cheek. But then Legolas was running, staying close to the horses even as his arms shook and his chest gasped for air under the strain of their flight. With an audible groan that indicated just how weary he was, the elf’s muscles bunched and Gimli suddenly found himself flying through the air, coming down heavily on the back of one of the horses. A hard thump indicated Legolas’s arrival behind him as the elf landed awkwardly onto the leather saddle that he would never use himself. Not a moment later, Legolas had placed Gimli’s hands on the horse’s mane, forcing them to clench the coarse hair while whispering instructions to hold fast. Then the elf reached into the dwarf’s tunic and seized the flint and steel for which he had asked not long before. Greatly puzzled, Gimli started to question these actions, but before he could do so, the horse beneath them screamed in pain and stumbled violently. Legolas’s arms snapped around Gimli’s waist in a desperate attempt to keep them both mounted, and the elf cried aloud to the steed, urging it to ignore the pain and continue onward.

For his part, Gimli was now immersed in a world of excruciating pain. His head pounded violently from sudden jolt, and wild colors were now creating a nauseous menagerie of images in his mind. He dimly heard Legolas saying something about an arrow in the horse’s hindquarters, but he could not be certain of that. He only knew that if he had his axe to hand, he would probably use it to cut off his own head. At least then it would stop throbbing. His thigh slapped wildly against the side of the horse, and he felt blood trickle down his leg even as his pain rose to new heights.

The sharp sound of metal striking against stone somehow caught Gimli’s attention despite the growing confusion and agony. It was a note of familiarity in a sea of chaos, and he clung to it as though it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning sailor. Then Legolas’s weight shifted and jerked to one side as though he was throwing something. Steel struck flint again, and the turning motion was repeated, this time to the other side. Through all of this, the horse continued running, but its gait was awkward and faulty. Like Legolas, Gimli thought, his mind beginning to wander as it tried to escape the grasp of pain. He still presses forward, but he is not entirely whole. He cannot endure this for much longer.

His musings seemed to take a prophetic turn, for no later had he concluded this thought than Legolas lurched forward, pressing hard against the dwarf and grunting in shock and pain. Accompanying this came another scream from the horse, and it faltered yet again, wheeling drunkenly to one side and tipping precariously as hooves slipped and skittered across the sand.

"Legolas?!" Gimli managed to rasp as he used the rest of his strength to clutch wildly at the horse’s mane.

"Brace yourself," Legolas answered through gritted teeth, still leaning heavily upon the dwarf. The elf’s hands had now fastened themselves upon the horse’s mane, and he gripped so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

Frustrated by this answer but in too much agony to repeat the question, Gimli swallowed a moan of pain and tried to turn his head so that he could see Legolas. But before he could do so, a sudden blast of light and a wave of heat hit him. The ground dropped away and a deafening roar sounded in the desert. Their horse careened forward madly, miraculously managing to keep its feet as it was pressed onward by a rolling wind that blistered skin and rattled bones. Legolas was shouting encouragement to the horse once more, but Gimli was perilously close to losing consciousness. He could feel his hands relaxing and he was beginning to slide to the right as his head nodded. He was falling…

"Gimli!" Legolas’s arms were once again around the dwarf, and he pulled him back onto the saddle with a strength so slight that it frightened Gimli enough to drag him back to the conscious world. The elf sounded even weaker than before, and Gimli remembered that he still did not know what had happened to the prince.

"What was it?" he croaked, working to get his eyes back open. He could not remember closing them, but then, he couldn’t seem to remember much of anything at the moment. His head felt as though a herd of oliphaunts had decided to invade and stampede.

"Orthanc Fire," Legolas whispered. "I recognized the powder in bags attached to some of the saddles. I do not think we need worry about immediate pursuit. Our captors shall be occupied with other things."

Gimli hissed as he continued in his efforts to open his eyes. That was not what he had meant in asking the question. But fate conspired against him when he sought more information, for as he was about to repeat the question, their horse stumbled again, emitting a keening bray that echoed throughout the desert.

"Noro lim, mellon bain," Legolas cried out. "Le bell. Noro lim."

Finally managing to open his eyes—but unable to drive back the pain that was crippling his thoughts—Gimli found himself looking down at an arrow lodged deeply in the side of the horse. Blood flowed heavily from the wound, but the horse ran on, obedient to the commands of the elf. "Legolas, the arrow—"

"A flesh wound, Gimli. It will not affect me greatly."

"You?" the dwarf questioned, brow furrowing in confusion. "What…you were struck with an arrow?"

There was a pause and then Legolas’s hand fell upon Gimli’s brow. "My friend, are you—"

"You were shot!"

"Yes, Gimli. I thought—"

"Where?"

"The shoulder," Legolas answered, his voice filled with both confusion and concern. "Gimli, how do you—"

"When?"

"Before the Orthanc Fire was triggered."

"Are you—"

"Peace, Gimli," Legolas interrupted firmly, his hand leaving the dwarf’s brow. "I am well. The bolt struck high. I will draw the arrow the moment we reach safety. This injury will not interfere. I promise you that."

Gimli nodded slightly, grimacing as this sent his headache raging again. At least now he knew what had happened to Legolas. But their mount… "Legolas, what of the horse? It was shot."

There was another pause before the elf answered. "Yes, she was shot."

"Are you not going to tend to the wound?" Gimli demanded, struggling to master his swirling thoughts.

"If we stop to pull the arrow, the blood loss will be too great," Legolas said, sorrow weighing heavy upon his words. "I will be unable to staunch the wound and the mare will die when we force her onward. But if I leave the arrow where it is, she can carry us further before she collapses."

"You are killing her," Gimli murmured, blinking with this realization.

"Yes, I am," the elf replied quietly.

"But—"

"Gimli, we must find shelter and water. The sun rises soon. The horse is our only chance at survival. We must use her."

The dwarf lifted his eyes to the horizon, which now displayed the telltale signs of the coming dawn. His bleary eyes looked long and hard, but nowhere could he see any sign of something that might protect them during the scorching heat of the day. His addled mind began to comprehend the utter hopelessness of it all, and he shook his head in disbelief. He stopped the movement immediately when his headache flared up at him, but he could not stop the feelings that now rose from his heart. There was no chance for them. They would be unable to find a place to hide from the deadly rays of the sun. They would be unable to find water to replenish what they had lost during the night. They would die in the desert after all.

"You should have left me. You would have moved faster."

"Such actions are in the past," Legolas answered. "Besides, as I told you before, I could not leave you in their hands. They did not intend to keep you alive. And I would not be able to live with your death, Gimli. It would destroy me."

"You would survive," Gimli mumbled, hissing as the horse stumbled again. His thigh was slapping against the mare’s side and the pain building within it was muddying his thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate. "You would learn to go on."

"Hush," the elf ordered gently. "Let us speak no more of this. Rest and conserve your strength. The infection still holds you, and you must find energy enough to fight it."

"But—"

"Sleep!"

For the second time that night, Gimli was startled into obedience by the stern note of command in his companion’s voice. The dwarf could remember only a handful of instances in which Legolas had ever turned unbridled royal authority upon his friends, yet within the space of but a few hours, he had done so twice. It was a sign of just how upset the elf was. Under normal conditions, Legolas covered his frustration and despair with a mask of cynicism, but when cynicism could no longer shield him, he sometimes resorted to hiding behind his identity as a prince. The fact that Legolas was currently doing this and had already done so earlier in the evening worried Gimli greatly. But he said nothing, knowing that any words of his would be brushed aside and that he would once again be told to lie quiet and still. At the moment, it was probably best to humor Legolas in this. Their chances for survival were slim, in any case. What harm could it do to cater to the elf’s last wishes? And so Gimli closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax, turning his safety over to Legolas’s care with rare abandonment of dwarven honor and pride.

They rode on in silence, and Gimli drifted to and fro in his thoughts. His thigh was pounding, but he now seemed to be removed from the pain and he did not truly feel it. The same could be said of his aching head. It did not matter anymore. Precious little did. He could sense that he was uncomfortably warm, and he suspected that his fever was again on the rise. But such problems were no longer his to deal with. He had no care for them, and the outside world began to fade into a vague oblivion as Gimli started to fall into darkness.

A sudden scream of pain and a hard jolt managed to drag Gimli back. He felt himself flying through the air, and then he met the ground with an abrupt shock that nearly destroyed any sense left in his mind. Opening his eyes, he turned his head just enough to watch as the horse they had ridden breathed her last. A long exhale of air and a shudder marked the coming of death, and expressive eyes dimmed to vacant orbs that stared at Gimli as though foretelling that he would be next.

Movement to the side attracted his attention, and the dwarf looked toward Legolas, who was groaning and clutching his shoulder as he struggled to rise. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his left shoulder and a stain of blood coated his tunic. Worry filled Gimli, but he had no means to express his concern. Strength had left him, and he could only lie quietly and watch in helplessness. Then, from beyond Legolas, a blinding light shot outwards from the horizon. Its piercing rays slammed into Gimli’s head, and he felt himself reeling. Darkness closed back in, and his muddled mind, unable to handle anything more, plummeted into unconsciousness, mercifully shutting down before the dwarf could realize what had happened.

The sun had risen.

Elvellon—Elf-friend

Noro lim, mellon bain. Le bell. Noro lim—Ride on, fair friend. You are strong. Ride on.

Having lived most of his life in the Wilds—and therefore having lived most of his life in constant danger—Aragorn knew well just how powerful the feelings of relief and perceived safety could be. He also knew that these feelings were extremely dangerous, for they tended to lull one into a sense of security when sometimes such security did not exist. As a result, Aragorn had learned to guard against relief and to view feelings of safety with a certain amount of suspicion. Still, it was hard to maintain his wariness when his head was pounding in time to the beat of his heart and his broken arm seemed to have developed a pulse of its own. Shock and exhaustion were also setting in, and as he reached the Gondorrim and Rohirrim camp, Aragorn almost allowed relief to wash over his caution.

Almost.

But Ranger instincts came into play before relief could gain the upper hand, and though weariness threatened to drag him to the ground, Aragorn swept his eyes over the encampment, making note of anything that seemed out of place or unusual. Guards were rushing to greet them, their faces startled and fearful as their eyes came to rest upon the king of Gondor. Their reaction came as no great surprise, for if Eomer, Budari, and Arabano were any examples, he probably looked as though he had just fought a Nazgûl and lost. Still, Eomer could have given me a warning of some kind, he mused with a glance toward the king of Rohan, who was rubbing his head as though it pained him.

"My king!"

The sharp cry caused Aragorn to turn a little too suddenly, and the onslaught of pain in his head almost took him to the ground. He recovered quickly but not quickly enough for the Lotessa tribesman he was supporting, who cried out weakly at the abrupt movement. Cursing his own weakness, Aragorn waved one of his guards over and passed off his wounded charge, making a mental note to personally examine the man later in lieu of a proper apology.

"Sire, are you—"

"I am well, Imhran," Aragorn interrupted his captain, looking about for Eomer. He quickly spied the king of Rohan speaking with his own men, and as though sensing his gaze, Eomer looked up and nodded, signaling that he would join Aragorn shortly.

"Honored one, we must move your camp into the safety of the buildings, for the sake of the wounded if for no other reason," a voice murmured behind him.

"We will do so at the earliest possibility, Budari," Aragorn answered, glancing over his shoulder at the leader of Lotessa. "But there are things that must be seen to first. If you wish to facilitate the process, choose a building that would be defensible and settle your men within it. We will join you shortly."

"Do not tarry, for the sun is rising and the day grows warmer," Budari warned before calling to his men in his own tongue and moving away.

"Sire, what—"

"Explanations will be forthcoming," Aragorn interrupted, turning his attention back to the captain of his guard. "But first I would hear your report. Have the scouts that were sent to observe the camps about Haradhur returned?"

"All from Gondor are present," Imhran answered, the slight frustration in his voice indicating that he still had many questions. "I cannot answer for the Rohirrim, though."

"We will let the Rohirrim answer for themselves, then," Aragorn said. "What say the scouts, or have you had time enough to listen to them?"

"All returned when the fires awoke in the desert," Imhran answered, "and since then, I have done nothing but question them. The mood of the city is foul, but at the moment, their anger is directed outward rather than inward. They have not yet sought to attack the camp, but it is only a matter of time before they do, sire."

"I am aware of the danger," Aragorn said. "What have you learned from the reports of the scouts? What connections to Khurintu were found?"

"I fear they found nothing, sire," Imhran said. "But we were given only half the night in which to search, for we returned quickly upon seeing the fire. Sire, the Rohirrim are saying that these blasts are similar to the fire used against them in the siege of Helm’s Deep."

"Orthanc Fire," Aragorn confirmed quietly. "It was used to destroy Lotessa’s camp and the camp of the Soltari tribe, as well. How many fires did you witness?"

"Two in the west and a third in the east, sire. Our best guesses place the location as the camp of Portu," Imhran said. "But sire, how can this be? It was my understanding that Orthanc Fire was a device of Saruman."

"It would seem we underestimated the resources of our enemies," Aragorn murmured. He was silent for a moment and then shook himself, turning a keen gaze upon Imhran. "The Lotessa tribe has requested sanctuary within our camp, and I have agreed. Their men are to be given every courtesy and their wounded are to be cared for. Additionally, we shall be breaking camp and moving into the buildings so as to take advantage of available water and cooler temperatures. With the addition of Lotessa’s hale men, such a location should be defensible. Have some of your company see to moving camp. Enlist the Rohirrim’s aid when it comes to moving the horses and finding suitable arrangements for them. Have others assist with the survivors of the Lotessa tribe. All those that remain shall stand guard."

"I shall see it done, my king," Imhran promised, saluting quickly. "Have you any other commands?"

"King Elessar, Arhelm and the riders we sent into the desert have not returned."

Aragorn blinked and Imhran jerked slightly, both surprised by Eomer’s arrival. Holding up a hand to indicate that Imhran should stay for a moment, Aragorn looked toward the other king "You have received no word of them?"

"None. Moreover, some of the Rohirrim were upon the eastern side of the city awaiting their return and witnessed Orthanc Fire rising from Portu’s encampment. They returned to report this, but two still linger upon the outskirts."

"They are not safe there," Aragorn murmured. "We were not assaulted in the streets because we walked with Lotessa. They have not that protection, nor will the riders that have yet to return from the desert." Aragorn cursed and shook his head, ignoring the sudden escalation in headache that this caused. "Imhran, ere you carry out your orders, find Budari and bid him meet with me. Then see to the men."

Eomer watched silently as Imhran bowed in response to these commands and left before speaking again. "Aragorn, it could be that Arhelm and his men have found Legolas and Gimli. If they did, they would have waited until an opportunity arose for escape."

Aragorn frowned. "I thought they were under orders to observe and send back word only."

"They were under orders to observe, send back word, and act if there was a possibility that they might free our friends."

Aragorn sighed and shook his head. He remembered well his own years among the Rohirrim when he’d served beneath Thengel, and he knew that even the slightest chance of success would be reason enough to act. The Rohirrim had a talent for snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, but sometimes their leaps of faith into the arms of fate earned them a rather rude awakening. Bold actions were not always successful, and in the desert, failure was usually rewarded with death. I should have sent my own men, save that we had need of Rohan’s swift horses. "Would they wait so long as to risk being caught by the sun?" Aragorn asked, hoping that the Rohirrim had learned prudence in the years since Thengel, though given some of their actions in the War of the Ring, he rather doubted it.

Eomer frowned, his lips pursing with thought. "Arhelm would wait as long as possible and perhaps even a little longer. He will his press his men and his horses as hard as they can be pressed. And he would certainly attack if given the opportunity to free Legolas and Gimli, which would further delay them."

"In other words, Arhelm and his men may or may not be injured, they may or may not be coming back with the rising of the sun, and they may or may not be bringing with them two beings that most of Haradhur considers abominations." Aragorn grimaced and gave Eomer a look of exasperation. "How is it that your people have survived for so long?"

"Fortune favors the bold," came the somewhat indignant answer.

"And the foolish, too, or so I am told," Aragorn sighed as he absently rubbed the splint upon his left arm, his mind churning. "There is also the chance that Arhelm has found nothing, correct?"

"That would account for a delay as well," Eomer said with a nod. "If he and his men lost Dashnir’s tribe or if naught of note happened, Arhelm would wait in the desert in the hopes that something might present itself. And he would put off his return until the last possible moment."

"So we have no idea what to expect when Arhelm comes back, and we have no idea when to expect him," Aragorn concluded grimly.

"Nay, but I thought to inform you that he had not returned so that we might take the necessary precautions. He and his men will need a guard of some sort so they might pass through the city, and if they do have Legolas and Gimli with them, they will need even more protection."

"Honored ones, your captain said you wished to speak with me."

How is it that everyone is moving so silently today!? Aragorn demanded even as he firmly stifled his surprise at Budari’s presence. He decided that injuries were probably dulling his senses, which would be a normal symptom of shock but it could hardly be afforded at a time like this. "We do," he said aloud, turning slightly so that Budari and Eomer were both included in the conversation. "Some of our riders have yet to return from the desert, and we would beg a favor of your tribesmen that are still hale."

"You wish your men to have an escort to the camp," Budari guessed. "A wise precaution, honored ones. I shall see what men can be spared. At which of the city gates should they wait?"

"The eastern gate," Eomer answered. "They will come in with the sun directly behind them."

"Then I shall make arrangements to have my men meet them. How many do you think will be needful?"

"Your judgement would serve better than our own," Aragorn admitted reluctantly. "I have been in the desert before, but I have never seen a city so filled with suspicion and turmoil. Would a few of your warriors be enough to prevent an outcry, or would more be needed?"

"It would depend upon your own men," Budari said, fixing Aragorn with a shrewd gaze. "Would I be correct in assuming that these riders were sent after your missing elf and dwarf?"

"What of it?" Eomer challenged.

"The elf and dwarf will not easily be allowed into the city. Such a task might well prove to be impossible. But if only men and horses seek entry, I suspect that only a few men should be needed as escort."

Aragorn hesitated and looked toward Eomer, but the king of Rohan seemed to be at a loss. Going back over all he knew of the Khurintu tribe as well as all that had happened, Aragorn eventually sighed. "They will not have Legolas and Gimli with them. It will be only the men."

Budari watched Aragorn closely for a moment as though sensing his uncertainty, but then he nodded and stepped back. "Then I bid you farewell for the present, honored ones, while I send men forth to meet your returning riders. But I counsel that we meet again soon, for there is much to discuss. Khurintu will return soon to make their claim upon the desert. We must be ready."

"And we shall be," Aragorn answered. "My thanks for the escort you are providing."

"The need for thanks shall be determined when they have accomplished their mission," Budari said, inclining his head and then moving away.

"You think Arhelm has not found Legolas and Gimli?" Eomer asked quietly, a slight note of challenge entering his voice.

"I think it extremely unlikely, and in light of the odds we now face, it would be best to keep more men here. Khurintu has planned their moves too well to afford losing prisoners now. We are several steps behind their game and until we can begin to break free of the pattern they are forcing us to follow, we will be unable to deal them any serious blows. The risk of attack upon this camp is greater than the possibility that Arhelm has succeeded in liberating our friends." Aragorn sighed and looked at the king of Rohan. "I have played this game of odds many times before. It is never pleasant, but it is necessary. My apologies if I caused offense."

Eomer was silent for a moment before shaking his head. "I felt that our abilities as Rohirrim have been slighted. My apologies in return. I see now that such was not your intent."

"If nothing else, this trip has given us much to think about," Aragorn offered.

"Much indeed," Eomer agreed quietly. "Some things, though, are more pertinent than others. What can we make of the fact that Khurintu targeted the Soltari and Portu tribes with Orthanc Fire? And what of our suspicions concerning Umbar? Beyond that, I am also curious as to how Khurintu came by the knowledge of how to create Orthanc Fire."

"As am I," Aragorn said. "Unfortunately, I doubt we will learn such a thing unless we can convince Asbad or Dashnir to inform us. The chances of that happening are rather slim."

"Yet the knowledge could be important," Eomer pointed out. "If Khurintu knows the secret to Orthanc fire, then it is possible that Umbar also knows. And such knowledge would be dangerous in their hands. Somehow, this information has been loosed, and until we know how, it is possible that a number of groups can now create Orthanc Fire."

"We cannot deal with this problem now, Eomer," Aragorn said. "You are right. Something or someone has managed to slip information past the guard of the Ents and we may very well face an even greater threat than what is currently posed by Khurintu. Yet Khurintu’s threat is dangerous enough, and we must concentrate on that before moving on to other things."

"Meaning Khurintu’s next step," Eomer said.

"And for that, I fear we shall once again have to rely upon the expertise of the Haradrim," Aragorn sighed. "It is not so much what Khurintu will do but rather when. Timing is the problem. And we must learn why Soltari and Portu were attacked. I suspect the Portu tribe simply knew too much and was eliminated in order to hide information, but Soltari is another matter. I do not see how Khurintu could view them as a threat, yet Soltari obviously posed a danger of some kind. And if Khurintu feared them enough to destroy them, we must learn whatever secrets they possessed."

"How could Soltari threaten Khurintu, then?" Eomer murmured. "We suspect that Khurintu will use Legolas and Gimli as proof of their power over abominations. They will be seen as fulfilling the will of the Iluh. And they shall rally the desert against us. They have destroyed our allies in Lotessa, making us too weak to meet them in the desert. Whatever confrontation they plan, it will happen near the city where all can witness it. How would Soltari pose a threat to these plans?"

"Soltari knew that Asbad was the Destroyer," Aragorn said. "But they would have never shared this knowledge with the Khurintu tribe. Khesva is too cautious for that. The Khurintu tribe should have had no reason for attacking them."

"Unless someone betrayed the Soltari tribe," Eomer said, his eyes flashing as though remembering more personal betrayals within the state of Rohan. "Perhaps someone who visited the Khurintu camp during the day."

"Someone like Fastahn," Aragorn murmured, his brow furrowing. "As Soltari’s agent in the city, he would have had both means and opportunity to betray his tribe. But we lack a motive."

"It seems that treachery runs thick in this land," Eomer said. "Perhaps the motive is as simple as power."

"This matter must undergo further investigation, and it must be done soon," Aragorn said. Categorizing Fastahn as a suspect felt right, but there were still too many unanswered questions for him to view this latest theory as anything more than speculation. "We shall have to once again ask Budari to send forth his own men, for we cannot risk our own guards in the city now. And doubtless Khurintu intended this to be so."

"Then let us seek him out and request that information be gathered," Eomer said. "And I would also see you moved inside. The sun is growing warm, and I still wish to examine your wrist. We do not know yet if it is broken or simply sprained."

Aragorn sighed and then nodded, surrendering to the other’s request for the moment. "You could bear further examination yourself," he said as Eomer led the way toward one of the buildings.

"I doubt it not, but you are privileged to be first," the king of Rohan answered firmly.

"And how came you by this conclusion?" Aragorn challenged.

Eomer smiled, though his smile was sadly lacking in real mirth. "Because I have heard many times that Gondor is first in all things. I see no reason for that to change now."

In spite of himself, Aragorn chuckled quietly at this and shook his head. "My thanks, Eomer," he said quietly, appreciating the other’s forced attempt at levity.

"You are welcome, Aragorn," Eomer answered. "And now come. I meant what I said earlier. The sun is growing warm, and it is best to withdraw from its glare."

As the first rays of the morning sun brushed across his skin in cruel parody of a caress, Legolas shivered and attempted to rise. His shoulder throbbed fiercely and his limbs shook from exhaustion, but somehow, despite these things, Legolas managed to get to his knees. It was a rather noteworthy accomplishment that had succeeded in stealing his breath, which did not bode well for future actions. Pausing to collect his scattered thoughts as well as to restore a rather shaky sense of balance, Legolas looked around and winced at what he saw.

Gimli lay sprawled in the sand several feet away, unmoving and seemingly unconscious. He lived, for Legolas could see the rise and fall of his chest. But his breathing seemed shallow and difficult, and his skin was a sickly gray in color. The horse they had stolen lay slightly behind the elf, her black eyes vacant and staring. Judging from her position, Legolas suspected that the sudden fall had broken her neck. The arrow had brought her down. Their own momentum had done the rest. The three of them were surrounded by a sea of sand. Far away to the south was a shadow that might indicate the presence of darker rocks, but it was difficult to judge distance in this flat terrain, particularly since Legolas was unused to working with limited sight. The sun was also beginning to play tricks, and the air shimmered slightly, further obscuring vision.

With a grimace and a sense that time was flowing swiftly now, Legolas started to rise to his feet, but he stopped as pain ripped down the left side of his back. Realizing that he would have to deal with his own injury before seeing to anything else, Legolas sank back to his knees and cursed softly. He had not lied to the dwarf when he had said the injury was merely a flesh wound, but it was still a great inconvenience and one that he could not afford right now. Steeling himself, Legolas reached back with his right arm, groping about until he discovered the arrow’s shaft. The head had struck his shoulder blade and was not buried deeply, but pulling the bolt would hurt, nonetheless. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, Legolas loosed a long breath of air as his hand closed around the smooth shaft. Not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he jerked his arm back, ripping the arrow free and crying out weakly in spite of his efforts to stay silent. For a moment, the world spun wildly around him, and Legolas braced himself, hissing sharply and willing his mind to stay focused. He could not lose consciousness now or he would never wake up. The sun would see to that. His hands clenching into fists and the shaft in his right hand snapping beneath the strain of his fight, Legolas willed himself away from the tempting void in the back of his mind. And after a few painful moments, the darkness receded, and Legolas was able to open his eyes again.

Mustering what little strength remained to him, the elf took a deep breath and staggered to his feet. He first moved to the dead mare, kneeling and allowing one hand to brush against her neck. A pang of guilt stabbed his heart, and he bowed his head, murmuring quiet words of thanks to the horse that had given her live for the two friends. Time was of the essence and he could feel the sun’s rays growing in strength, but Legolas could not quite bring himself to leave without at least giving the mare this shallow acknowledgement of respect for her deeds. She had carried them as far as she was able, and for her sacrifice, Legolas was grateful.

Lingering for a moment more, Legolas eventually shuddered and moved back, his eyes searching for saddlebags or anything that might prove useful. But fortune seemed to be working against him; the two water skins he found had split open, their contents emptied onto the sand. And that was all. He found no food and no weapons. With a quiet murmur of despair, Legolas rubbed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He did not know how he was going to save either himself or the dwarf from this situation, but somehow, he would. He had driven the mare to her death for Gimli’s sake, and he was not going to allow her sacrifice to be a vain one. Once again summoning his waning strength, Legolas regained his feet. Turning his back on the horse, he pushed all feelings of guilt and sorrow from his mind, much as he had when he’d commanded her to ride on regardless of her injury. They were not yet out of danger, and they had to move on quickly.

Making his way to Gimli’s side, Legolas knelt and ran gentle hands over the dwarf’s head, checking for injuries and ignoring the pull in his shoulder as his own wound protested the movements. "Gimli?" he called, cringing at the raging temperature he felt beneath the skin. The dwarf’s fever was even higher, but Legolas had no means to bring it down to safer levels. "Gimli?" he tried again.

A slight moan was his only response. Trying to ignore the fear that slowly wormed its way into his heart, Legolas ran his hands down Gimli’s arms and over his chest, searching for breaks that might have been caused by the fall from the horse. Every now and then he would call the dwarf’s name, but if he received any answer at all, it was in the form of a quiet groan. This was certainly not a comfort to the elf, and by the time Legolas’s hands reached Gimli’s wounded leg, his panic had fanned itself into a raging fire. This blaze became an inferno when he discovered that the stab wound on Gimli’s thigh had split open and was bleeding profusely. The thought occurred to him that perhaps this would drain the infection, but Gimli’s pallor coupled with the moisture the dwarf had lost during the night immediately came to mind. Gimli could not lose any more fluids.

Wasting no time, Legolas shed his tunic and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his left shoulder. Quickly and efficiently, he ripped away the sleeves, and armed now with what would have to pass as bandages, he bent over Gimli’s injured leg. One sleeve he wrapped tightly about the wound itself, grimacing at the slight whimper of pain that his actions caused as well as the fact that he was unable to offer comfort to his friend. The other sleeve he wrapped higher upon the dwarf’s thigh, drawing it gently against a pressure point that Aragorn had once shown him so as to slow the flow of blood to the dwarf’s leg. He made this second bandage rather loose, for he knew that too much pressure could stop circulation altogether and possibly kill the leg. But he could think of no other way to stave the bleeding. It was an act of desperation carried out with a touch of common sense, and Legolas prayed that it would work.

Having finished this, the elf looked toward the eastern horizon—noting with despair the progress of the sun—and then turned back to the dwarf. His quick examination had revealed that the dwarf could be moved. Indeed, moving Gimli was the only way to keep them both alive. Neither would survive the day unsheltered from the sun. Both were too weak, and both had lost too much water. Yet the act of moving itself…that was another matter.

Legolas knew his limits, and he knew he was fast approaching them. He was weak, dizzy, exhausted, and injured. He had carried Gimli for much of the night, and he had endured the previous day in the confines of scalding tent. He was shadowed by ú-glîr and he was not completely certain that he could find shelter in this wasteland. There was a shadow to the south that might be the volcanic rocks he had seen earlier, but he could not be certain of this. Moreover, his vision as beginning to tunnel, and he knew that this would only grow worse as the day wore on. He needed water, rest, and medical attention. None of which I am likely to find by sitting here, Legolas told himself sharply, attempting to redirect his wayward thoughts.

With a firm shake of his head, the elf slid his arms beneath Gimli and lifted. His left shoulder cried out sharply in protest, and Legolas grimaced before freezing, a new thought entering his mind. Somehow managing to get to his feet, he began shifting Gimli so that his injured shoulder was actually taking more of the dwarf’s weight. Concentrate on the pain, he told himself, recalling an incident that had happened many years ago in Mirkwood. A large party of archers led by Legolas’s older brother Taerorn had been beset by Orcs. Though the elves defeated the attackers, their victory was not without cost. They had been far to the south—within sight of Dol Guldur, actually—and many were wounded. Legolas had been one of the fortunate elves on that trip, for he had received no injury. Taerorn, however, had been severely hurt, and there were times on the long journey home when they had feared they would lose him. But when it seemed that Taerorn could go no further, he had done something that shocked them all. He had taken his knife, and before any could stop him, he had cut open the palm of his left hand, opening and closing the hand so that blood flowed freely. It had become a throbbing, infected wound that required several weeks of treatment after reaching home, but Taerorn would claim afterwards that this self-inflicted wound had saved his life. Legolas had never truly understood this—at the time, they had all assumed Taerorn to be delirious with fever—but now, the youngest son of Thranduil had a very different perspective. He felt that he knew exactly why Taerorn had done what he did, for he was about to do something very similar. He was going to turn all of his focus onto the pain, ignoring the other complaints of his body as he put one foot ahead of the other.

Feeling his shoulder wound tear slightly at the strain he was placing upon it, Legolas smiled grimly and started walking in what he hoped was the correct direction. If Taerorn was right, then his body would continue to move long after his mind was convinced that it could not go any further. And remembering his brother’s condition and their endless journey home from the fastness of southern Mirkwood, Legolas was willing to believe this. He had to believe. If he did not believe, there was no hope, and if there was no hope, he should give up now, lie down, and accept the coming of death.

It was ironic, really. When he began this escape attempt, he’d harbored no hope whatsoever. His idea of success had been a quick death for both himself and the dwarf. He did not understand the Haradric language, but as an elf—even though shadowed—he could pick up nuances contained within speech that were hidden from other beings. And through these hints and clues, he had come to understand that he was to be separated from Gimli. Legolas’s instincts warned that separation meant execution for the dwarf, and so he had decided then that if it was Gimli’s fate to die, he would join his friend in that fate. And perhaps in this way he could foil some of Khurintu’s plans. They had been keeping them both alive for a reason. Death might set things back for Asbad and Dashnir. He had reflected once that Gimli might not approve of such a plan, but Gimli had been in no condition to approve or disapprove of anything.

And then Legolas had seen the black powder. A bag of it on one of the horses had been torn, and he had seen the streaks of powder upon the animal’s fine coat. This had sparked a series of fragmented ideas in the elf’s mind, and the beginnings of an escape plan that did not end in death had begun to form. It was still a plan with limited potential, but it certainly offered a greater opportunity than his initial plan. The chance of victory was even greater when coupled with the fact that the shadow of ú-glîr was spreading over the men and dulling their senses. Even Asbad had seemed troubled, something Legolas had decided to test. And so the elf had acted, recklessly running one horse to the ground and killing two other horses outright because upon their backs they carried the powder that would produce Orthanc Fire. Legolas did not know how many others he had killed, nor did he care. All that mattered now was reaching safety.

Moisture upon his face suddenly caught Legolas’s attention, and his mind snapped back to reality. He was sweating, and then sun was rising even higher in the sky. Stopping for breath and readjusting his hold on Gimli, the elf glanced down at his feet and blinked to find that his legs were shaking grievously. Exhaustion was creeping upon him, and the dwarf’s dragging weight in his arms was pulling him off balance, requiring that his back compensate for the change to his center of gravity. It was an effort he did not have the energy to make, and Legolas found himself stumbling forward.

Good, he told himself, his thoughts tinged with desperation. Use the weight. Let it pull you forward. And direct your mind back to the pain. Think only of the pain in shoulder. Feel it throb. Feel it ache. Walk in time to that pounding. Walk in time to the beating of your heart. Forward now. Forward. Faster. Feel your heart pound. Run. Run, you fool, or you will share the fate of your horse!

And so Legolas ran, his gait awkward and stumbling while his mental promptings and the constant pain from his shoulder acted as a source of energy. His staggering feet wove a twisting trail in the desert sand, but he was too caught up in his own world to notice. And had he stopped to notice, he would have probably collapsed. His lungs burned and his throat was on fire. Pressure behind his eyes was making it difficult to see. His tongue had swollen from thirst, and perspiration trickled down his neck and his back, salting the arrow wound and making it throb all the more. And Legolas needed all the distraction he could get, for he had reached his limits and was moving past them. His entire focus became the pain in his shoulder, and he took no measures to lessen that pain. It occupied his mind to the extent that he did not hear the pleas and complaints issued him by his failing body. He did not know how long he ran. He lost all sense of time and space. He did not see where his feet took him. He forgot the weight in his arms. He was alone in a world that pounded his senses with exquisite agony, blinding them to anything that might stand in his way.

And then his foot struck something hard that did not shift beneath him as the sand did.

Startled back into reality, Legolas almost lost consciousness as he once more became aware of burning heat and glaring light. His limbs trembled, threatening to collapse beneath him. His head pounded, his heart raced, and his lungs screamed. But all these things were forgotten as the elf stared in wonder at the sight before him.

He had done it.

He had reached the rocks.

Yet just as quickly as elation hit him, it died. Staring at the rugged outcroppings and the jagged pathways that led into the heart of these dark rocks, Legolas realized he had just exchanged one set of problems for another. The glistening black surfaces were absorbing the sun’s heat, and the elf could feel the fiery blast sweeping outward, hitting him even upon the outskirts. In some ways, this area was be even deadlier than the open sand.

Watching the air waver above the volcanic ground, the elf felt his heart sink as he berated himself for not anticipating this. He should have known! The black slopes of the Ephel Duath did the same thing during the height of summer. But Legolas’s fraying mind had not looked far enough ahead to foresee this development. Had he been conscious, Gimli would have certainly expected to find such a thing. A dwarf was always looking ahead when matters of the earth were concerned. But Legolas was not a dwarf, and despite Gimli’s best efforts, he would never be able to think like a dwarf. He had not seen this coming, and now that he faced it, he did not know what to do about it. To venture into the rocks without a clear destination was nothing less than suicide.

But then, so is remaining in the desert, Legolas thought despairingly, glancing behind him at the sea of sand. Our only chance is to trust the hand of fate and move forward. The idea of trusting fate brought forth a rather insane laugh from the back of the elf’s mind. But if Gimli was to have any chance at all, there was no other choice. They had run out of both options and time. And Legolas was nearly out of strength.

Closing his eyes, the elf murmured a brief plea to Elbereth for her assistance, and then he started forward. This time, he could not afford to concentrate upon the pain in his shoulder, for he needed to be aware of his surroundings. He needed to find shelter and he needed to find it quickly. He was only beginning the journey into the rocks, but already he could feel the heat from their black surfaces burning through the soles of his shoes. For the first time in his life, Legolas paused to think that perhaps mortals did have the right idea in fashioning their thick, clumsy boots. Such boots would be a much better means of protection for his feet.

But there was nothing he could do about that now, and so Legolas stoically continued, feeling his energy drain from him with every step. He knew instinctively that if he went down, he would not be able to rise again. He knew that if he stopped to rest, he would not be able to start again. Any halt in his progress at this point in time would be the last thing he ever did, and so despite his stumbling feet and shaking legs, he continued his desperate search for a cave. A cave! he thought wryly, a bit of maniacal humor entering his thoughts again. To think that it has come to this where I, an elf, should be longing for a cave! Ai, Gimli, my father was right. You have changed me so much that I am beyond the capacity for rational thinking!

And as he finished this thought, Legolas fell.

He did not know what caused his fall. He did not know if he tripped or if weariness finally conquered him. All he knew was that he was suddenly flying toward the ground. Using the last bits of faltering strength, Legolas turned, shielding Gimli from the impact and positioning his right shoulder to absorb the brunt of their weight. And much to his surprise and discomfort, the maneuver worked.

Legolas had no strength left to cry out, but he did gasp in pain as he crashed onto the burning surface of the rocks. The gasp left him desperate for air, which caused him to inhale sharply. This action came with another set of consequences, and he found himself choking upon the heated air as it scorched its way into his lungs. And as the desert sun continued to beat down upon him, an overwhelming sense of shame and failure filled his mind. He was defeated. He could go no further. At his side, he felt Gimli shudder, perhaps sensing the inevitable. Placing a hand upon the dwarf’s brow, he whispered a broken apology through cracked lips that hungered for any semblance of moisture. The surrounding world blazed white as Legolas’s senses failed him, and as a last act of defiance, the elf turned his head away from the sun, not allowing its fiery gaze to witness his death.

It was then that fortune finally decided to pity him.

Through dimming eyes, Legolas saw what looked to be a shaded place, hidden from the sun by an overhanging cliff. The thought entered his mind that if he could reach the shadows, he might be able to lose himself in unconsciousness before the heat took him completely. Legolas did not know why this would be a better way to die, but he found himself strangely drawn toward the darkness. And as his mind continued to unravel in the heat, he became unable to ignore this sudden prompting to seek the shade.

Somehow, he managed to take Gimli in his arms again and rise to his feet. He did not know where he found the strength to do this. Possibly it was the last he had to offer. His muscles were cramping and his entire body was shaking, but he stayed upright and he staggered toward the enticing shadows. And as he neared them, he felt a stroke of cool air upon his cheeks.

Gimli, perhaps, would have recognized this flow of cooler air for what it was, but Legolas only knew that it was comfort. He followed this stream of relief, not caring where it would lead. He closed his eyes in sweet ecstasy, feeling the chill brush against his face and stir tendrils of golden hair matted by sweat and exertion. He stumbled into darkness, reaching the shadows, and still he walked. The cool air beckoned him onward, and on the verge of collapse, he followed it until a surge of instinct suddenly bid him stop and open his eyes. And what he saw would forever remain emblazoned on his memory as an eternal symbol of hope.

He had found a cave.

With a choking sob, Legolas stumbled toward the entrance, pausing for a moment as his mind reeled at the thought of salvation. Readjusting Gimli in trembling arms that were moments away from losing all strength, he stepped further into the darkness and stopped, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light. This took longer than it should have taken under normal circumstances, but Legolas barely noted the delay for something along the back wall of the small cavern—and it was small, barely half the size of Meduseld’s main hall in Edoras—caught the elf’s undivided attention. There was a wavering glimmer reflecting the tiny slivers of light that graced the dark cave. At first Legolas was certain that his mind had succumbed to his trials and was playing a cruel game. But as he focused upon this glimmer, he eventually realized that it was no trick, and tears unbidden filled his eyes. Exhaustion forgotten, Legolas raced toward the back of the cavern and fell to his knees, heedless of the sharp rocks beneath him. Laying Gimli flat upon the ground beside him, the elf flung himself forward and wept unashamedly with joy as he dunked his head into a pool of water.

The cold liquid received him with welcoming arms and began to drain the heat from his body. It soothed his parched throat and roused his wayward mind. It caressed his brow and soaked into the top of his tunic as he all but submerged his upper body. The shock of this sudden temperature change made him shiver, and Aragorn might have warned him to take care. But Legolas was beyond caution. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he finally lifted his head from the water, mixing with the cool droplets that now trailed down his hair and over his face.

His body clamored for more water, and Legolas readily obeyed its demands, once again lowering his head to drink. His entire being exalted in his relief, and the ashes of hope flared back to life within his heart. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was not yet free from danger. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that Gimli still lay perilously close to death. He knew that the Khurintu tribe would not easily forgive him for what he had done. He knew there would be pursuit come sunset, and he knew that he needed to return to Haradhur, for Aragorn and Eomer would be in danger. He knew that an attempt to find the city might well prove impossible, for he was not certain of his location. He knew that he could not carry the dwarf another night, and he knew that Gimli would not be able to move himself for quite some time. But even as these doubts began to nag him, Legolas pushed them aside. For the moment, he was lost in an impossible realm of bliss as he sated his thirst and splashed water over his face and onto the back of his neck. For the moment, there was hope.

And for the moment, that was enough.

The sweet chill of night vanished swiftly when the sun cleared the horizon. The day was barely begun, but already temperatures began to climb sharply. The winds that had wandered the desert in the company of shadows died away, feebly stirring up a few pockets of dust ere vanishing completely. They would return in the evening to create twisting columns of flying sand, but until then, the sun and the heat held sway. None could contest their authority, and any that dared—men, beasts, and elements all—soon learned the folly of their actions.

Wiping away the growing sweat on his brow, Arhelm whispered quiet words to his straining mount, urging the gelding to even greater speeds as he and four other riders raced across the desert wasteland. None of them had yet said a word of dismay or concern, but spirits were dropping quickly. Even the horses could sense it, and the proud arch of their necks was disappearing as a sense of desperation began to creep over the group. They were too far from Haradhur to make for the city, and their only hope for survival this day lay in following the dim trail that had led them north and west during the night.

When Eomer had sent ten riders into the desert with Arhelm as their commander, he had not been overly explicit in his instructions. They were to head northeast and look for signs of the men who had taken Legolas and Gimli. Any possible leads were to be followed, if possible, a rescue was to be staged, and they were to return to Haradhur come dawn. These rather broad orders had gifted the riders with a certain amount of latitude in what actions they chose to take, and most Rohirrim had a knack for creative interpretation of vague directions. Arhelm was no exception.

Halfway through the search for Legolas, Gimli, and their captors, one of the riders had discovered a trail of hoof prints leading west. A quick debate had been held, for the point was raised that Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli might have been transferred to horseback so as to facilitate transportation, especially if the elf and dwarf were unconscious. But the Rohirrim could not be certain of their theory, for the faint imprints in the sand only gave numbers of horsemen, not types. This trail might have been made by traders who had nothing to do with Khurintu, Gondor, Rohan, or anyone else. But the possibility still existed, and such a possibility could not be ignored. After all, Eomer had ordered that all opportunities be explored.

In the end, Arhelm had divided the company evenly, taking four riders with him and following the new trail while the other five continued along the original path under Eos’s leadership. This decision would probably not meet with their liege’s approval, for the king had authorized a group of ten riders with the idea that ten could mount adequate defense in addition to possibly creating an opportunity for rescue. But Eomer had never directly forbade them to separate; therefore, it could be justified. If there was one area of creative interpretation in which the Rohirrim excelled, it was pushing the limits of their commands.

Unfortunately, it seemed that fate had turned against them this time. The gamble had not paid off, and now Arhelm was not entirely certain of their location. Even if they tried for Haradhur, they might veer too far to the east or the west and miss it completely. And their steady gallop had born them many miles along their current path. They were too far away for any to see them or for any to find them and come to their aid. If search parties were dispatched—a rather unlikely possibility—they would not stray more than a mile or so from the city during the day, particularly with temperatures so high already. No, their only chance at the moment was the dim hope that somewhere along this trail they would find water and shelter. If they didn’t…

Arhelm flicked a quick glance over his shoulder and evaluated the condition of his riders. They were tiring, as were their mounts, and the heat was sapping their remaining strength quickly. The horses were breathing much harder than they should have been, and sweat was beginning to trickle down their legs. And as for the men, two seemed dazed and were becoming pale while the other two looked as though every ounce of water in their beings was now devoted to perspiration. It was only a matter of time before someone hit the sand, and once they stopped, they would probably be unable to resume the journey.

Shouting meaningless words of encouragement, Arhelm gave his horse his head, hoping against hope that the gelding would find what they needed. His mount snorted and tossed his head, confused by this new tactic, but he seemed to realize what was happening and picked up his speed. The other horses followed, for they were well trained and did exactly as the lead animal did. Even though their riders were now faltering, they would not. It was their duty to bear their masters as far as they were able, and if they sacrificed their lives in the process, so be it.

Thus, they continued beneath the morning sun as the desert began to burn with heat. Reaching for his saddlebags, Arhelm found his water skin and brought it toward his lips. It was warm to the touch and very little water remained in it. The Rohirrim had traveled light in the hopes of quickly catching those who had taken Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas. Now it seemed that this gamble had been a poor one, and fate continued to frown upon them. With a sigh, Arhelm uncorked the skin and drank the last of his water. It was unpleasantly tepid and did almost nothing to quench his thirst, but at least it was something. He heard similar actions being taken behind him, and judging from the sounds made, he decided that all the riders had just exhausted or nearly exhausted their water resources for the night. It was now up to the horses.

Strangely enough, that thought gave Arhelm some comfort. In truth, his stocky gelding was the one creature in whom he felt he could place absolute trust. No matter how the forces of chance and misfortune had arrayed themselves against him, he and his mount were together. Together, they could overcome. And even should they die together, neither would have to be alone afterwards.

"Captain! Ahead!"

Arhelm blinked, wondering exactly how his thoughts had managed to stray from what was happening around him. Still, as he focused his mind once more, it was really little wonder that he had lost touch with himself. The world was beginning to turn into a white blaze that both intrigued and chilled Arhelm. He was no longer hot but clammy. He did not feel sweat trickling down his back. In a rather abstract sense, he realized he was probably only moments away from blacking out due to the heat, but he was powerless to do anything about it.

"Captain!" the same rider called, sending his horse abreast of Arhelm’s. "Captain, look ahead!"

It required a great effort of will for Arhelm to turn his eyes forward. The sheer monotony of the desert landscape had eliminated his desire to see more of the land that was about to witness his death. But somehow, marshalling the legendary pride and tenacity of the Rohirrim spirit, he managed the feat. The horizon was blurred and shapes seemed to be leaping about through the narrowing tunnel that was his vision, but despite this, far in the distance, he made out what appeared to be several small shapes on horseback riding away from them on the trail that they’d been following. It was such dramatic change from hours of nothing but endless wasteland that he nearly cried aloud in surprise. And beyond these tiny shapes, he could swear that he saw…

"Water," Arhelm murmured, the word barely escaping his parched lips.

"Sir, it could be an illusion," the rider warned.

"Illusion or not, we are spent," Arhelm answered. "There is no other hope for us. Onward!" he called, his raspy voice somehow carrying to his men. "Onward, for we are nigh unto relief!"

How they did it, Arhelm never knew. He lost all sensation of movement, and even the faltering strides of his horse went unnoticed. Later he would learn that his men felt likewise, some more and some less. None were in any condition to be riding, and were it not for the loyalty and wisdom of their horses, all would have been lost. But after a time, it seemed to Arhelm that they were gaining upon the travelers before them. And as they began to draw closer, he made out markings and colors upon their flying robes. Markings of the Khurintu tribe. It also occurred to him that the water he’d seen was not an illusion but rather a lake. A rather familiar lake…

"Nurnein!" one of his men hissed. "Captain, it is Lake Nurnein!"

Arhelm froze, and the gelding beneath him slowed his gallop to a canter in response. Nurnein? It seemed impossible. Nurnein was the last hidden lake on the north-south road before one reached Haradhur. Had they really come so far from the city? Granted that it was difficult to judge distances in this desert. Endless stretches of sand had a tendency to baffle the eye, and there was also the fact that those living here used time as a standard of measurement rather than the physical length between landmarks. Beyond that, their journey between Lake Nurnein and Haradhur had been interrupted by a sandstorm, which made the distance even more difficult to judge. But Nurnein…

Still, Arhelm could no longer deny the evidence before him. They were clearly approaching Lake Nurnein. But if this was indeed the case, then they were far too removed from Haradhur. It would be well into the middle of tomorrow’s night ere they could return and report to their king, and the command to report this night had been one of Eomer’s few specific orders. Their liege would not be pleased with them, and that was assuming they could even survive the day. No shelter awaited them at Nurnein, and even with the presence of water to soothe their parched throats, they would be without shade from the sun unless some of the Haradrim were willing to take them in. And considering the current attitude toward foreigners, that seemed an unlikely prospect at best.

"Captain, your orders?" one of the riders in back asked, his voice sounding weak and distant.

My orders, indeed… Arhelm closed his eyes and murmured a quiet curse. Because they could not return to Haradhur, the Rohirrim forces in the city would be diminished. Moreover, it might be assumed that Khurintu or another tribe had attacked and killed the missing riders, which would only make an already volatile situation worse. But at the moment, there was no help for any of that. Arhelm’s choices had been poor ones, but they could neither be corrected nor atoned for. Not yet. For the moment, he had to consider their own situation as well as the fact that they might not live to see nightfall.

"Captain?"

"We ride for the lake," Arhelm said quietly. He had not the energy to make his voice any louder. "When we arrive, we drink our fill despite the traditions of the Haradrim, and we seek what shelter we may find. Should we live to see the close of the day, we will to return to Haradhur with greatest haste, leaving before the sun has set completely."

"The king will not be pleased, sir," one commented.

"Nay, he will not," Arhelm murmured. "Let us hope we might live to endure his wrath."

"Sir, what of those we are following? They bear the colors of Khurintu."

The captain fixed his eyes upon the distant riders and sighed. "It does not appear that they transport prisoners. We will continue to follow them, but that is all we can do, for none of us are in any condition to confront them. At the moment, our own safety is paramount." Arhelm shook his head wearily and then nudged his horse back into a gallop. "Ride! We have not much longer ere we can continue no more."

And so they rode, steadily gaining upon those they had been following but neither noticing nor caring. The heat and the sand had subdued them more thoroughly than any opposing army had ever managed to do. Not even the dark whispers and maneuverings of Saruman had so completely conquered the proud Rohirrim. Their only thoughts were of water, shade, and rest. Loyalty to the king and honor for the realm had disappeared as their minds deteriorated beneath the onslaught of the sun. In every sense of the word, they were defeated, and all that remained for them to do was to retreat and regroup as best they could.

Had they kept watch upon the Khurintu tribesmen before them, they might have taken comfort in the knowledge that their quarry was as weary as they. By now, the pursued could clearly see the pursuers, but like the Rohirrim, the riders of Khurintu were too exhausted to worry that they were being followed. Their only aim was also the lake, for the sand was becoming as hot as coals beneath their horses’ hooves and the animals were beginning to stumble with weariness and haste. Both groups had spent too much of the morning in the open desert.

Several minutes later, Arhelm’s gelding suddenly snorted and shifted to the side mid-gallop. Blearily, Arhelm summoned his exhausted mind back from the brink of unconsciousness. Looking around, he managed to clear his eyes long enough to discover that they were now less than a mile from the lake. Relief filled his mind at the thought of the water that waited, but relief did not last long when he turned his eyes to the Khurintu tribesmen. They had reached the lake, and some were filling water skins and quenching their thirst. But others, having already tasted the water’s sweetness, had turned to meet the coming Rohirrim, their hands near the sword hilts and their mounts dancing.

Arhelm heard the murmurs of his men as they also saw what was coming, but there was naught that could be done. They were outnumbered, and they were too weak to force their way through. To turn aside and seek another portion of the lake would be fruitless, as Khurintu was certain to follow. Having reached the water first, they were more than prepared to prevent the Rohirrim from gaining access, and the Rohirrim were in no condition to contest them.

Hope died in Arhelm’s heart, withering away as a drop of water caught in the unforgiving glare of the desert sun. But as hope died, resolution grew. The Khurintu tribesmen would be victorious, of that there was little doubt. But Arhelm intended to see that they sorely regretted the price they paid for victory. Drawing his own sword, he raised it defiantly and cried aloud in the tongue of Rohan. Behind him, his men did likewise, shouting challenges as their mounts picked up speed in a last, desperate charge. And at their cries, there was a sudden stir in the many tents that surrounded Lake Nurnein.

His face was grim, but inwardly, Arhelm smiled. Let the Haradrim come forth and see his final battle. He would show them the power of the Rohirrim, and perhaps he would raise doubts in their minds. Perhaps he would gain respect for his king. Perhaps in this small way, he might make amends for failing to return when he was ordered to do so. It would certainly not remedy all the problems that his disobedience would cause, but it would help. And at this point, that was all he could do for his king and his country. Now that there was no hope for survival, the desert held no power over him, and his desires for water and rest were eclipsed by the resurgence of his unswerving loyalty. With his dying breath, he would make these Haradrim pay!

So caught up was he in these thoughts that he almost missed what happened next.

The tribesmen that faced the Rohirrim suddenly turned, and cries of battle echoed behind them near the lake. A group of men had emerged from one of the tents and had commenced an attack on the Khurintu riders. Fresh from shade and water, the newcomers quickly overwhelmed the weary Haradrim. Rested horses, silver lances, and bright swords caught the light of the morning sun, and the group of Khurintu tribesmen scattered even as they were cut down. The confused Rohirrim arrived just in time to see the last of their would-be attackers flee toward a collection of tents further down the shore of the length. Dumbfounded, Arhelm could only watch in weary disbelief as a protective circle formed around the staggering Rohirrim, preventing any of the distrustful Haradrim from taking advantage of their bedraggled state.

"Well met, captain," a voice called out, and a tall rider broke from the encircling group. "Arhelm, is it not? Yours is a welcome face in this land. Mayhap you can explain some of the rumors that have reached us."

Arhelm blinked and stared, his sluggish mind attempting to comprehend all that had happened. Heat and thirst were once again manifesting themselves in his body, and he could no longer hold them off. "Prince Imrahil?" he whispered, feeling that disbelief could go no further.

The prince’s eyes narrowed and he moved as though to speak, but at that moment, Arhelm’s body gave out. He dimly felt himself toppling forward, and he heard voices rise in sudden alarm. A few embers of pride flared to life, informing Arhelm that Rohirrim warriors did not fall from their horses, but he decided that pride was simply not worth the effort. Too weary to respond to the voices that called him, Arhelm slipped into blissful darkness.

His last thought before succumbing to the oblivion of night was the hope that someone would take his horse to the water.

His hair drenched and his eyes filled with tears, Legolas slowly lifted his head from the cave’s pool and murmured his thanks to the Valar. Water ran down his neck and beneath the collar of his tunic in long rivulets, spreading its healing touch to his chest and back. It raced over his bare arms, soothing the burns caused by the harsh strokes of the sun, and worked its way down to his legs, ensuring that its cold touch caressed every part of his body. Yet even that did not seem to be enough after the heat he had endured, and he moved as though to throw himself completely into the pool’s embrace and sink beneath the surface.

But before he could do so, a quiet moan beside the elf drew him back.

"Gimli…" Legolas whispered, guilt rising swiftly as he realized that he had all but forgotten about the dwarf. Taking no more thought for himself, he hurriedly turned to his friend and laid one hand upon his brow while the other immediately felt for a pulse. As sick as Gimli was, the heat might have killed him, and this thought filled Legolas with such terror that his stomach turned within him, threatening to expel the water that had moments before provided him with such joy.

But beneath his shaking fingers, Legolas found the rhythm of Gimli’s racing heart. The pulse was erratic and weak, but it was there. However, the dwarf’s skin was uncomfortably hot to the touch. Burning, almost, and it was not from prolonged exposure to the sun. His fever had grown dangerously, and it alone might be enough to send the dwarf into a sleep from which he would never wake.

Panic seized the elf. If circumstances remained unchanged, Gimli would not last much longer. The dwarf needed proper food and rest. Food was out of the question at the moment, and lying upon a cold, rocky floor did not seem like rest to Legolas. Beyond that, he needed medical attention. Not just basic field medicine, but the care of a skilled healer, and for that, he needed Aragorn. Legolas knew the rudimentary procedures for broken limbs and shallow stab wounds. He knew how pull an arrow and set a dislocated shoulder. But he did not know the first thing about treating mortal ailments, and given the severity of Gimli’s illness as well as the conditions…

Whatever relief the elf had once felt upon finding the cave was now gone, and feelings of claustrophobia and creeping shadows began to take his heart. He glanced with longing toward the cave’s mouth where a small amount of light revealed the burning rocks beyond the safety of their shelter. Some of this light reflected off the black surfaces and managed to give Legolas a bit of light with which to see, but it was not nearly enough to thoroughly examine Gimli. But he could not take the dwarf toward the light, for the heat grew as one approached the entrance, and Legolas would rather keep Gimli as close to the water as possible. But here in the back of the cave, he might as well have been working blind, and this, coupled with his feelings of fear and ignorance, only served to make his growing panic worse.

Focus, he told himself firmly. Throughout the entire frantic escape, he had managed to keep his concentration, allowing for almost nothing in the way of distracting emotions. He could not afford to lose that edge now. For Gimli’s sake, if not his own, he had to remain completely and utterly calm. But it was so difficult with the return of hope. They had a chance at survival now, and this chance was destroying Legolas’s poise. Earlier, when it seemed that fate had appointed them to die in the desert, the elf had felt that there was nothing to lose in using extreme measures. But against all odds, they still lived, and there was a possibility that they could both continue to live. Yet that shall not be if I cannot control myself! Legolas scolded furiously.

Taking a deep breath, Ithilien’s lord stilled his thoughts and slowly exhaled. He felt the tension drain from him, and he collected himself within the center of his mind as he had been taught to do while training as a warrior. Fear and doubt still existed, but they could be ignored for the moment while he tended to other things. And having regained some of his focus, the elf turned back to Gimli.

The first thing to be done was to cool the dwarf’s temperature, for it was dangerously high. Legolas had never felt a fever so violent, though he hoped that this might be because he had so little experience with fevers in general. Still, he had seen enough to realize that Gimli’s greatest peril at the moment was his burning brow. Reaching down, Legolas seized the lower portion of his tunic below his belt and tore off a long strip. He dipped it into the pool and then placed it over the dwarf’s forehead. He then tore another strip of cloth from the base of his tunic and also submerged it in the cool water. Pulling it back out, he began to wash Gimli’s face and neck, working primarily from memory and touch as there was too little light for anything else. Loosening the dwarf’s shirt, he opened it and began to wash the chest before moving on to the arms. He did not know how much this helped, but he could think of nothing else that might aid his friend. He considered the idea of submerging Gimli in the water, but he discarded that thought when he remembered the infection in the dwarf’s leg. Should that contaminate the pool, they would lose their only source of drinking water.

Legolas ran his rag over Gimli’s upper body a second and a third time before he was satisfied that he had managed to lessen the fever slightly. The dwarf was now too wet to accurately measure his temperature, but his breathing was no longer quite so labored. The cloth on Gimli’s brow was beginning to warm, though, which meant that the fever still raged. After removing this cloth and soaking it in the pool once more, Legolas placed it back on the dwarf’s head before steeling himself for what he knew he had to do next.

The cause of the fever had to be treated. There was no way around it. Regardless of Legolas’s ignorance in the ways of healing, he had to care for Gimli’s leg or the fever would only grow worse and the infection would spread until it could not be cured. The thought of attempting to heal the dwarf frightened Legolas more than he cared to admit, for he knew well that his hapless bumbling might cause more harm than good. Beyond that, the lack of light in this cave meant that everything would have to be done by touch. Even Aragorn might flinch before such circumstances, and he had the training of Elrond to back him. Legolas had only his desperate desire to see that Gimli survived this experience, and he had very little hope that this desire would compensate for his lack of skills. But that could not be helped now. The dwarf was running out of time.

Moving his hands to Gimli’s swollen right thigh, he loosened the tunic sleeve that he’d tied around the leg just below where it joined with the hip. Then he placed his hands upon the bandage that covered the wound itself and carefully began to unwrap it. Leery of ripping away protective scabs or of further tearing the skin, Legolas forced himself to have patience and to move with painful slowness, but it was difficult thing. By the time he completely removed the bandage, he felt he would go mad. But he was compensated when he could detect no trickle of blood from the wound. Somehow, his desperate efforts in the desert had managed to staunch the bleeding. A spark of confidence crept into his mind, and feeling slightly better, he moved to the next task.

His confidence died with painful abruptness when he put a hand on the dwarf’s uninjured leg so that he might compare the size of the two limbs. The right leg was now twice the size of the left, and the swelling felt as though it extended to the knee and the calf. Legolas could also feel heat emanating from the wound, and with a surge of fear, the elf realized that the leg should probably be lanced.

Lanced?! I am barely able to set a broken bone! How shall I go about lancing such a wound when I cannot even see the leg!? Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. He had never seen it personally, but he had heard stories of infections that were not lanced and consequently spread until they corrupted the entire body. But he had also heard stories of infections that were lanced improperly and resulted in the patient’s death. What if the same happened here? What if Legolas could not control the bleeding? What if he cut too deeply? Or what if the infection did not drain? What if it had already spread too far and lancing would cause greater complications? What if there was nothing to do but wait because Gimli was already past—

The elf stopped himself before he could get much further with that thought. Redirecting himself onto things he could control, Legolas once again ran his hands over the wound and grimaced. He was not entirely certain of his judgement, but he felt that the odds were against Gimli’s survival if the wound was not lanced. It needed to be drained, and hopefully the infection would be drained with it. But he would not act when the dwarf lay unconscious. Without light, he had no reliable way of monitoring the effects his actions would have. He could listen to Gimli’s breathing and keep a close watch upon his pulse, but these indicators were already compromised by weakness. They were no longer reliable measures of the dwarf’s condition. If this was to work, Legolas would need Gimli conscious and coherent. He would have to lance the wound while the dwarf was awake.

Waves of guilt pulsed through the elf as he laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and shook it gently. He had no right to ask this of his friend. Aragorn would be able to do this while Gimli slept, sparing him further pain. But Legolas was not as skilled, and because of his lack of training, Gimli would be forced to suffer needless torments. Yet the elf could not chance doing this any other way. It was simply too dangerous. He was already doing much of this based on guesswork and vague memories of having seen similar procedures. Though this would involve adding to Gimli’s agony, Legolas’s fear of making a deadly mistake would not allow him to do anything else.

"Gimli?" Legolas whispered gently. "Gimli, can you wake?"

There was no response.

Fear crept into his throat and formed a lump, making it difficult to swallow. Once again, his treacherous mind posed the question as to whether or not it was already too late. But Legolas shook these grim thoughts off and continued his efforts to rouse the dwarf. "Gimli, you must wake," he said. His voice was level, but he was unable to hide the note of desperation and urgency. "Gimli!" he tried again, shaking the dwarf’s shoulder a bit harder. "My friend, answer me!"

As before, the dwarf did not answer nor give any sign that he had heard. A greater fear began to take Legolas’s heart, and a strange heaviness weighed upon his chest. Unnatural darkness swam before his vision and his stomach began to churn, rejecting the water that had saved his life.

"Gimli!" he shouted, his cry echoing off the cave’s walls. "Gimli, if you can hear me, you must respond! In the name of Ilúvatar, answer!"

And quietly, scarce to be heard, Gimli moaned.

Legolas nearly sobbed in relief. The breath he did not know he’d been holding exploded from him in a choking gasp, and he clutched one of the dwarf’s hands tightly to his chest, bowing his head as his shoulder shook. "Thank you," he whispered. "That was a start, my friend. A good start. But now I need more. I know it is difficult, but you must wake."

Gimli moaned again and shifted, tensing slightly at the movement as though in pain. The dim light that filtered into the back of the cave caught fluttering eyelids, and after a moment, it reflected off of the eyes themselves. But there was something wrong. Legolas could not be certain—for it was quite dark—but Gimli’s eyes seemed to be drifting in and out of focus. It was almost as if…The head injury! Valar, I had nearly forgotten! And the fever shall only make it worse. Perhaps I—

"Legolas?"

The hesitant voice seemed to be torn from the parched lips, and it lacked the depth and power that normally characterized the dwarf. But Legolas did not notice this, so relieved was he that Gimli recognized him. Or rather, the dwarf recognized the elf’s voice, for it was unlikely that he could see much in this darkness. Even had it not been dark, his sight would have probably been blurred. The blow to his head only two nights previous would still be affecting him.

"I am here, my friend," Legolas assured the dwarf, taking Gimli’s hand in his own and squeezing it tightly. "Peace. I am here."

"I…I can not see you." The voice was weak, and if such a thing could be possible for one so brave, Legolas would have said that the dwarf was frightened. The very thought made him wince, and terror once again surged through his body. In the seven years he’d known the dwarf, he could count on one hand the moments in which Gimli had openly displayed fear.

"I am beside you, elvellon," Legolas assured him, fighting to control the worry in his voice. "It is dark here, and there is little light. Be at peace. You are not meant to see me now."

"Where?"

"Do you remember the rocks I mentioned earlier? The dark rocks to the south?" Legolas asked. "That is where we are. I found a cave." The elf picked up the rag he’d been using to wash the dwarf and dipped it in the pool. "I also found water."

"Water?"

"Yes, water," Legolas confirmed, running his damp cloth over the dwarf’s face. Gimli groaned at the action and relaxed beneath his friend’s touch, making no attempts to protest the attention. That by itself was enough to double Legolas’s concern.

"Thirsty," Gimli murmured, almost sending the elf into shock with this admission.

"A moment," Legolas answered weakly, attempting to keep a façade of calm and quiet while his mind staged a full-fledged panic attack. Somehow managing to maintain his focus, he tore yet another shred from the lower half of his tunic and dipped it in the water. Cupping a hand around it so as to hold in as much moisture as possible, he turned to Gimli and slid one arm beneath his back.

"Legolas?" Gimli questioned. "Legolas, what are you—"

"Hush," Legolas commanded gently, lifting the carefully dwarf as he did so. When Gimli’s lower back rose off the floor, Legolas stopped and brought the dripping cloth to the dwarf’s mouth. "Suck the water from this," he instructed. "I fear to move you more than necessary, and I have no other way to transport water."

The dwarf, though, seemed to have no qualms with this method of drinking for he instantly began draining water from the cloth, his body going limp as he did so. Legolas sat still until the dwarf finally released the tunic shred and shifted. "My thanks," Gimli murmured, his voice clearer now. "We…you said we are in a cave?"

"Yes, we are," Legolas said, lowering the dwarf back to the ground and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Would you like more water?"

"Perhaps in a moment," he muttered. He shifted beneath the elf’s hand, and Legolas could feel him tense. "How do we fare? I feel that something is amiss."

"You are correct," Legolas sighed. "Gimli, the infection in your leg has grown and is raising your fever dangerously. I believe the wound must be lanced, but…I am uncertain of how to go about this. Have you any experience in these matters?"

The dwarf was silent, and then Legolas felt him shake his head. "I know very little. I have seen it done before, but I have only done it once myself."

"Then you know more than I," Legolas confessed thickly.

"A fine pair we make," Gimli grumbled. "It cannot be delayed?"

"I fear it may already be too late."

"Then I suppose there is little to lose," Gimli said, his voice carrying a forced note of brevity.

"Gimli…"

"How did you intend to do this?"

Legolas swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to suppress his irritation that Gimli seemed to be handling the situation better than he was. "I am open to suggestions," he admitted quietly.

Stunned silent met this announcement, and then Gimli sighed. "Would that Aragorn were here," he muttered.

The elf dropped his head. "I apologize for my lack of skills, but there is naught that can be done about that now. I am sorry."

"Nay, you misunderstand," Gimli answered, and something in his voice caused the elf to look up and study as much of the dwarf’s face as he could see. "I wish for Aragorn so that I might have a witness to this. No one will ever believe me when I claim that you asked me for advice. And knowing your haughty elven pride, you will deny that it ever happened."

For a moment, Legolas could not react, so confused was he by this response. Then a flash of hot anger flared in his heart, and his hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder tensed. "I do not believe that this is the time for jests, Gimli."

"If not now, then when?"

"Perhaps in circumstances less dire," Legolas said sharply.

"Circumstances less dire have no need of jests," the dwarf returned. "The tension runs so high in this cave I could slice it with my axe. I do not want to have you lance my leg in your current condition as you are far too upset. Therefore, I sought to calm you with jests. If I cannot manage the feat, then you must do so yourself. Still your thoughts, Legolas. Release your frustration and guilt. They do not help you now, and they might harm me."

Had Legolas been in a more relaxed state of mind, the sheer irony of the situation might have reduced him to uncontrolled laughter. A badly injured dwarf was telling an elf to pause for a few moments and relax. The very idea was so ridiculous that it would have been dismissed outright by anyone who did not witness the scene for themselves. Unfortunately, Legolas was too caught up in fear and concern to see the humor in what was happening, and his anger at the dwarf only increased. "Gimli, we waste time. We need to—"

"You need to use those vaunted elven talents of concentration and cease trembling!" Gimli interrupted sternly. "Your hand shakes upon my shoulder. It is bad enough to give me doubts as to whether you could make your arrows hit the long side of the Rammas Echor."

With significant effort, Legolas closed his eyes and swallowed the angry retort that nearly escaped his lips. Gimli was right. He was far too tense to be of aid, and he needed to regain the focus he’d sought earlier. It was lost again, and until he found it, it was too dangerous to lance the leg. Withdrawing into himself, he centered his thoughts and then released a long breath of air before finally opening his eyes and looking toward the dwarf. "Why in Elbereth’s name would I be trying to hit the long side of the Rammas Echor?" he asked quietly.

"Better," the dwarf grunted, a slight moan entering his voice.

"Gimli?"

"It is nothing."

"It is not nothing! Gimli, what is wrong? Your voice is weaker."

"I…may have taxed my resources too greatly," the dwarf admitted reluctantly, his words somewhat faint.

"Nay!" Legolas cried. "Gimli, you must stay awake."

"Legolas, would you keep another awake if you were drawing an arrow from their side? No, you would not. You would let them drift into dreams before you did such a thing. Therefore, I suggest you let me sleep while you lance the leg."

"This is different," the elf whispered, cursing his ignorance over and over again. "I have some experience in drawing arrows, but not in lancing wounds. I cannot do this without your aid. I cannot let you sleep."

"What aid could I possibly give?"

"When I lance your leg, I need you to tell me exactly how you feel. And you must inform me of any changes. Any weakness or dizziness. In this light, I cannot see enough to distinguish between the drainage of sickness and the flow of blood. I fear to make a mistake."

"I am already dizzy, and I am already weak," Gimli grunted. "I doubt I shall notice any differences."

"Then for the ease of my mind, if nothing else," Legolas pleaded.

The dwarf sighed, and he could not quite hold back the tremor of pain that crept up his body. "For your sake," he agreed reluctantly, "though I think I would rather be unconscious."

"I dare not risk that," Legolas whispered, feeling the weight of guilt press hard upon his heart. "I am too unsure of myself."

"Were our positions reversed, I would probably ask that you do likewise," Gimli said quietly, absolving the elf of blame. "And now we return to a question that you have yet to answer. How did you intend to do this?"

"But I did answer that question. I asked for your suggestions."

"Ah, yes. And I wished for witnesses."

"You wished for Aragorn, who would not have woken you in the first place."

"But since Aragorn is not here, we shall do this as best we know how while ignoring thoughts that might distract us," Gimli said firmly. "And since neither you nor I know what we are doing, this should prove interesting."

"Gimli—"

"I believe the first order of business will be to find something sharp, preferably free of dirt and grime as well."

Legolas frowned but allowed the interruption to pass. "I still have the flint and steel that I took from you while on the horse," he said. "The steel has a sharp edge to it."

"Sharp for some purposes. Dull for this," Gimli muttered. "But I can think of nothing better. It will have to serve. How clean is it? Or did you make a point of dropping my tools in the sand when you engineered your haphazard escape?"

Had he not been injured, the elf might have throttled his friend. He was still quite uneasy with what he was about to do, and the fact that Gimli did not seem to be taking this seriously bothered him greatly. "You have already expressed your concerns about my uncertainty," Legolas said, his voice quiet and cool. "I have now calmed myself. There is no longer a need for your jests. Please desist."

"If I must stay conscious for your sake, then you must listen to jests for my sake," Gimli replied. "They are keeping my mind alert. And you have failed to answer my question about the steel."

Deciding that it would probably be best if he simply ignored the dwarf’s flippant attitude—or tried to ignore it, as the case might be—Legolas reached into his tunic and retrieved the steel from a hidden pocket on his left side. "The steel is as clean as can be expected. I shall wash it in the pool, but I fear it will not change its cleanliness much."

"It cannot be helped," Gimli sighed. He shifted beneath Legolas’s hand and groaned slightly. "Well, if we are to do this, let us begin. I know not how much longer I can stay awake."

"Then I shall be swift," Legolas promised, leaving Gimli’s side and moving toward the pool. He quickly submerged the steel and rubbed the sharp side that he intended to use, hoping he removed most of the dirt and grime that he could not see because of the dim light. Upon finishing his task, Legolas moved back and positioned himself next to Gimli’s leg. "I am ready, my friend, if you are."

"Legolas?" The dwarf sounded suddenly hesitant, and Legolas wondered if he was having second thoughts about this procedure. But it was necessary. His only chance for survival lay in draining the infection.

"I will be as gentle as I can, elvellon."

"I know that," Gimli said sharply, and there was a sting of indignation in his voice. Yet the hesitancy was still there, as though he wished to speak of something but could not find the words.

"Gimli?" the elf questioned.

"Legolas, you…you may have to restrain me for this. I do not know if…if I will be able to remain still."

Legolas froze, his breath catching in his throat. Closing his eyes, he swallowed and nodded slowly. "I understand. And I will try to make this swift."

"You promised me that already," the dwarf grunted. "Get on with it."

Bracing himself much as Gimli was doing, Legolas placed his right knee upon Gimli’s knee and his left hand upon the thigh just above the worst of the swelling. He ran his right hand lightly over the wound, pushing away the torn fabric of his pants so as to get better access. Taking one last deep breath to calm his mind, he placed the steel against the skin and murmured a quick prayer to any of the Valar that might be listening. "Forgive me, elvellon," he whispered, and with these words, he pressed down.

Gimli had been right in his thoughts that he might not be able to control himself. The dwarf jerked violently to the side, and though Legolas was in considerably better health than his friend, he was hard-pressed to keep Gimli still. Bearing down with his knee, he flung his upper body onto the dwarf’s hip while his right hand continued to drag the steel downward. A terrible cry the likes of which he had never heard from Gimli split the air, and Legolas longed to echo that scream with his own vocal expression of pain, but he could not lose his focus. With his heart tearing asunder, he completed the stroke and then flung the steel away as though it burned him.

"Forgive me," he whispered, catching Gimli’s clenched hands in his own and holding them tightly. "Forgive me for making you endure that."

The dwarf gave no response but went completely stiff as though trying to master his body’s reaction. His hands trembled and a long groan rumbled out of his throat, but the screams of pain were now gone, their echoes fading away into whispers.

"Gimli?" Legolas stared at the dwarf’s face, trying to make out details in the darkness. "Gimli, how do you fare? Was the cut too deep? Think you that you are losing too much blood?"

"Cannot tell," the dwarf hissed, his voice strained and his breath labored.

"Try," Legolas encouraged, hoping to distract his friend from what had just happened. "Try, or this shall have been vain."

There was silence for a moment, and then Gimli gave a sharp jerk of his head. "I believe you were successful," he whispered. "Aside from the pain, I feel no different."

"Thank the Valar," Legolas murmured. "How long shall we allow it to drain?"

A pause was his answer and then Gimli shifted slightly. "I do not know."

With the sinking feeling that perhaps they could have prepared a bit more for this, Legolas called to mind all the instances of lancing that he had ever witnessed. Unfortunately, he could not remember having ever stayed to watch the entire procedure. He never imagined that he might have to perform the act with no more help than what an equally ignorant friend could provide.

"Legolas, I think you may want to clean the wound as it drains," Gimli whispered, his hands clenching tighter beneath the elf’s hold.

"Is that wise?"

"I do not know," the dwarf admitted. "But I believe I have seen that done with other lanced wounds."

"I have no memories of such a thing, but you may be a better judge in this case than I," Legolas murmured, gently releasing the dwarf’s hands and backing away. "Yet first, I would see you drink a little."

"Nay, there is no need," Gimli murmured, and his voice seemed to become distant. "Go about cleaning the wound. I shall be fine."

"You are losing fluids!" Legolas said sharply. "And though this is what we desire, you must replace them."

"I will be—"

"You will not be fine!" Legolas snapped, moving toward the pool and wondering if all dwarves were such bad patients or if he was singularly unfortunate to have made friends with this one. "Now lie still for a moment and I shall bring you drink."

"Legolas!" Gimli moved as though to sit up but immediately cried out and fell back.

The elf was at his side instantly, one hand upon his shoulder and the other upon his brow. "Gimli? Foolish dwarf, what were you thinking?"

"I cannot take water now," Gimli muttered, his voice so soft that it was difficult to hear. "My stomach will not allow it."

Legolas blinked, not having anticipated this development. "What of the water you already drank?" he asked worriedly. "Shall that—"

"I can keep it down for now, but do not make me drink more."

"My apologies," Legolas whispered. "Rest quietly, then, and I shall see if I can clean the wound without causing you further pain. Tell me if you wish me to cease."

"I will be fine," the dwarf grumbled. "Go to work."

With a sigh, Legolas picked up the tunic sleeve that had been used to lessen the flow of blood to the leg. Dipping it in the water, he returned and seated himself beside Gimli’s leg, running his hand over it and grimacing at the feel of puss and fluid that now soaked the area.

"You will have to delve deeply," Gimli said. "I do not think that our captors cleaned the wound at all."

"Nor do I," Legolas agreed, trying to ignore the sudden queasiness that had crept into his gut. With a deep breath, he placed the cloth on the leg and pressed it into the wound, working it back and forth slowly and trying not to gag as he did so. His hand fit entirely within the wound, and the fluids released from the swelling soaked the rag he was using. He could feel Gimli’s muscles tensing around the injury, and he was forced to steady the leg when it began to shake. For several minutes, he mopped the wound free of gathering liquids and hoped he would be able to forget this horrid day in years to come. When he felt he’d done all he could, he withdrew and sat back, his eyes turning to his friend’s face.

"You are finished?" Gimli asked, and his voice had become faint and weak.

"Yes, I am," Legolas answered, putting the cloth aside and reaching for the dwarf’s brow. His temperature seemed to have dropped slightly, but it was a change so small that it might have been the work of false hopes. "How do you feel?"

A long pause preceded the answer. "Strange."

Legolas frowned. "Explain," he ordered, pushing back his fear.

"I…do not know, but I think you should bandage the wound again."

Fear exploded within the elf, and he hastened to do as Gimli had asked. "Was it too much? Are you losing blood now?"

"I cannot tell, but…I think I shall not be conscious much longer," the dwarf confessed, and this admittance only served to heighten Legolas’s panic. Once again, Gimli was not belittling his injuries but rather confirming that all was not well. His usual bravado was gone, and for this to happen…

"Perhaps this was a mistake," Legolas murmured, tying the tunic sleeves tightly around the injured thigh.

"Too soon to tell," Gimli whispered. "We’ll know by tonight. If I’m still alive, then—"

"Rest," Legolas commanded, not ready to listen to anything concerning the dwarf’s survival that began with if. "You have done more than enough."

"Legolas?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

The elf blinked and looked up, though he could not make out the dwarf’s expression in the darkness. "For forcing you to endure such torment?"

"For trying," Gimli sighed. "I do not know if I would have had the courage." And with these words, the dwarf faded from the world of the waking, his shallow breathing deepening slightly and the tension in his body fading.

Legolas was left alone in the darkness.

Within the desert, the sun was the undisputed master. Lesser beings might squabble among themselves, seeking dominion over water or territory, but in the end, the sun always had the final say. Under its blazing heat and blinding light, even the most dauntless of creatures cowered and trembled. Nothing directly opposed the sun. At least, not intentionally. Those who did challenge its authority soon found themselves mercilessly beaten and driven into the ground. No quarter was asked, and certainly no quarter was ever given. Even the elements themselves seemed to submit to the sun’s command.

But exceptions did happen.

Exceptions were rare, it must be said. Almost unheard of. But now and then, the impossible would come to pass. Something would contest the indomitable sun. Something would rise up and defy its burning presence. These exceptions did not happen often and they did not last very long, but they did occur. And this day was witness to one of these singular events as a column of smoke loomed overhead and blocked the first rays of light that crept over the horizon.

Asbad had been born in the desert. He had been raised in the desert. It was his wish to die in the desert, even if their current plans yielded success and the lands of Gondor and Rohan fell into the hands of Khurintu. But for all his many years of desert life, Asbad had never seen anything obscure dawn’s first light. Not like this. A mountain, building, or tent might act as a temporary shield, but the light was never lessened or dimmed by these things. Yet this was exactly what was currently happening. The morning sun was vibrant and hot as it rose over the sands, but its light did not completely reach many of the Khurintu tribe for they were shadowed by a cloud of ash and smoke. Moreover, the smell of burning flesh permeated the air, further clouding the senses and mitigating the sun’s power. That the master of the desert should be so defeated was not a good omen, and the ruler of Khurintu’s tribe was keenly aware of the fact that the sun’s subjection was very much his fault.

A firm believer in both accountability and punishment, Asbad ruthlessly berated himself for the night’s disastrous sequence of events. It should not have happened. It should not have even been possible. But what was done was done, and he was now forced to accept the fact that he had severely underestimated his captives. Under ma’awna’s influence, he had expected the elf to be far more compliant and submissive. He had not believed that the elf would be able to carry the dwarf for the entire night, much less successfully escape with him. The elf should not have even considered the idea, for he knew not where they were, nor did he know the direction of any nearby hidden lakes. One of the Haradrim under similar circumstances would have remained captive until learning his whereabouts. But apparently the elf had thought action could no longer be delayed. Further study into elves and dwarves should have been taken, for it was apparent now that none of them had been adequately prepared.

What had gone wrong?! Every mistake had its roots. Every mishap had a beginning. Where did the origins for this one lie? Asbad cursed furiously, pushing his mind back over the night and analyzing each and every action that had taken place. He was fairly certain that things had been on track before they struck out in the evening. It was only after they’d been journeying for several hours that Asbad had received the sense that he’d somehow lost control of the situation. But when and how had he lost control? What had been the pivotal moment?

The dwarf, he thought to himself. It was the moment I showed leniency toward the dwarf. That was where it began.

Tracing events from the moment that the dwarf had first fallen, he tried to account for the cascade of cause and effect that had ultimately led to the loss of not one but both prisoners. And as he did so, he realized that he probably should have killed the dwarf outright when the creature first collapsed. He had threatened to do so from the beginning. But he had not fulfilled his threat. That was his first mistake.

His second mistake was to listen to the elf.

Somehow, the elf had convinced him that the dwarf would rise and walk again if given sufficient rest. Asbad should not have considered such a thing. The Khurintu tribe could not afford to linger over a prisoner who did not necessarily need to live in order to serve their purposes. But the elf was so insistent, and Asbad had suddenly found himself doubting… Blessed Iluh, he had actually given his consent when the elf demanded that his bonds be released!

This had led to his third mistake, which was trusting the elf. True to his word, the elf had managed to rouse the dwarf, but then he had claimed the right to help his friend. For some reason, Asbad had granted this. He could not say why. Had pity moved him? If so, it would be a first. But then, the night had been full of firsts. Perhaps it was not so impossible to think that compassion and mercy had overwhelmed his heart. Perhaps that would even explain why he had allowed the elf to carry the dwarf after the dwarf collapsed a second time. But the insolence that the elf had shown…that had gone virtually uncontested, and such a thing was unheard of. The elf had taunted Asbad’s men, mocked Asbad himself, killed three tribesmen when they sought to subdue him, and seriously injured two others. So as punishment, they had forced him to carry his friend. But that was no punishment, for it was exactly what the elf wanted!

I have been manipulated! Asbad roared silently. No one manipulated Khurintu’s tribal head. No one. Not even Budari of the Lotessa tribe had actually managed to maneuver Asbad as thoroughly as the elf had. Yes, it was clear now that he should have killed the dwarf. That would have undoubtedly silenced the elf and sent him into a state of shock, making him easier to handle.

Still, now that he thought on it further, Asbad wondered if killing the dwarf might not have also killed the elf. There was a bond between the two creatures that both intrigued and unnerved Asbad. The elf had been more than willing to die to save his friend. Had the dwarf perished, the elf might have thrown himself onto their swords in a fit of madness and rage.

But even if I could not have killed the stunted creature, I should have kept a closer watch upon him. I see now that he was the key, Asbad berated himself. By the blood of Mordor, this changes everything! I have come so far and waited so many years, and to fall now because of a simple error…a miscalculation…a manipulation, no less!

Asbad considered placing at least part of the blame on Dashnir, for the man had not adequately informed him of the loyalty between elf and dwarf. Nor had he informed him of the elf’s abilities and just how far the elf would go in order to save his friend. But even as he toyed with this idea, Asbad recognized that Dashnir would have had no way of knowing the elf and dwarf that well. He traveled with them from Dol Amroth to Haradhur, but never had the dwarf been in such dire straits and never had the elf’s abilities been tested like this. The oversight was understandable, which made the fault entirely Asbad’s. And Asbad was wise enough to admit it.

With a despairing sigh, Asbad rubbed his hands over his face and look around. The Khurintu tribe was in disarray. Over a quarter of their horses were now dead or seriously wounded thanks to the blast of fire engineered by the fleeing elf. The rest of the mounts were skittish and frightened. It was taking the efforts of all the hale men to hold them down. Fortunately, very few of the warriors had been killed by the exploding fire, but many were injured and Asbad seethed because of their loss. This could have been prevented, and that was what gnawed at him the most. This could have all been prevented! But he had failed to act, and now they were struggling to order themselves, the sun was beginning to break through the cloud of smoke, and they had not even struck their tents or unpacked the water that had been brought!

"Honored one!"

Asbad looked up as one of his men drew near, firmly holding the halters of two horses. "Report," he commanded harshly.

"We have sighted riders approaching. We believe it to be Dashnir and those we left behind at Haradhur."

Asbad hissed slightly. He had hoped to order the camp before Dashnir arrived, but it seemed that this would not be possible. "Get the horses under control and pitch the larger tents, if you can," he ordered, his eyes turning to the horizon where he made out the small figures of horsemen. "We must get all the animals beneath the shade."

"As you command, honored one," the man said, inclining his head before hurrying away.

As I command, Asbad sighed, his face darkening as he gazed at the ruin around him. Yet my commands were as naught during the night. If only… His thoughts trailed off and his brow furrowed. With a frown, he shook his head sharply, attempting to regain control of his mind. Such self-pity was unlike him. True, he was responsible for the loss of the two prisoners, but to belabor the fact as he was doing… What was happening to him?!

Deciding to lose himself in work until he could decipher what was going on, he moved toward some of the packs that had been taken from the horses and began searching for the water skins. Dashnir’s company would have great need of fluids after traveling beneath the rising sun. In fact, now that he considered it, Asbad realized that they were somewhat late. They should have arrived just before sunrise, yet the sun was nearly an hour into the sky already.

Had they come according to the times we established, they might have prevented the escape, Asbad thought bitterly, his eyes narrowing as he watched the approaching riders. But even as this crossed his mind, he shuddered and turned away. Something was yet affecting him. Something that clouded his judgement and stole his reason. Perhaps that song from the elf… Perhaps that had done something…

"Asbad!"

Asbad jerked. Only those of equal rank addressed him by his given name, and there were none here that fit that description. Scanning the men around him—all of whom seemed to be equally startled—his eyes finally stopped upon the approaching horsemen, specifically the foremost rider. "You presume much, Dashnir," he said quietly.

But Dashnir did not seem to be listening. He was staring at the blackened bodies of horses and servants as well as the wounded who were now being assisted into the tents that had been struck. Reining his horse to a halt next to his leader, Dashnir shook his head wordlessly, his mouth opening and closing as though he longed to speak but could not find the words.

"Dashnir!" Asbad said sharply, pulling the man’s attention away from the scene of destruction.

"Your pardon, honored one," Dashnir murmured, only now seeming to realize what he’d done. "But when I witnessed from afar what had happened…" He trailed off and shook his head, his eyes returning to the charred carcasses. "How did this come to pass?" he demanded, his face showing disbelief.

"Dismount and walk with me," Asbad commanded, still somewhat incensed. The lapse in protocol was understandable given the wreckage, but understanding did not imply lenience. Dashnir would have to be taken to task. As the elf and dwarf should have been, Asbad thought with disgust as he began walking away from the men who had come to dispense water and handle the newly arrived horses. "You are late," he said when he felt Dashnir join him. "And you are out of order."

"I freely acknowledge my guilt, honored one," Dashnir sighed, the bewildered tone in his voice fading as he mastered his emotion. "And I accept whatever punishment you see fit to bestow.

Asbad grunted and stopped, glancing over his shoulder at the camp where the smoke was finally lifting, allowing the sun to once again have mastery. "Whatever punishment I bestow, it will have to wait. We have other priorities. But I will not forget this indiscretion."

"Nor will I, and it shall not happen again," Dashnir assured him, bowing his head in a manner that was appropriately repentant. "But honored one…" Dashnir looked back toward the camp, his eyes narrowing. "How did this happen? And what of the prisoners? Are we still able to use them?"

The muscles along his jaw tightened, and Asbad cast his eyes out into the desert, heedless of the sun’s reflection upon the sand that could blind a man if care was not taken. "The prisoners are no longer here. They escaped."

"Escaped?!"

"We were not adequately prepared for their abilities," Asbad said shortly.

Astonished silence met this statement, and then Dashnir shook his head, his eyes betraying his confusion. "How? What happened?"

Asbad hesitated for a moment, attempting to collect his scattered thoughts. "It was strange," he said slowly. "I do not completely understand how it was done myself. But I will share with you all that I know. We rendezvoused with the forces from Lake Hajim and were beginning to unload horses so that we might make camp. And at that point, the elf began to…to hum."

"Hum?" Dashnir echoed.

"Yes," Asbad answered, calling to mind every detail that he could remember in an attempt to explain the next series of events to both himself and Dashnir. "There was something very strange about his voice, and his hum eventually became a song without words. I thought to order the guards to silence him…but I found I could not speak. I could only listen. And then his song changed. Abruptly. I felt as though I was released from something, and then the horses reacted violently. We could not control them and they began to stampede. And at some point in the chaos, the elf leaped upon one of the horses with the dwarf, and they began to flee."

"The dwarf went with him, then?"

"The dwarf had no choice. The elf had been carrying him for the better part of four hours."

Dashnir blinked. "Why?"

"Because the dwarf had swooned and would not wake. He was injured by a thrown knife when we attacked their camp in Haradhur, and his leg was not healing cleanly. Infection set in and he became feverish. The first time he collapsed on our journey, the elf was able to rouse him and he walked on his own for a time. But the second time, he would not stir and the elf would not allow us to kill him."

"The elf would not allow you to kill him?" Dashnir stepped back and then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Did you place the elf beneath ma’awnwa?"

A twinge of uneasiness pricked at Asbad’s mind. "It was my understanding that this made him easier to control."

"Yet you allowed the elf to revive the dwarf, and when the creature could not be revived, you allowed him to carry his friend." Dashnir shook his head. "The elf was not the one being controlled, honored one. Did you not mark my words when I told you of Garat’s death? If a man remains in close proximity to the elf for a length of time, the shadow will eventually sunder his own tie to Eru’s song."

Asbad was silent for a moment. He had indeed hearkened to Dashnir’s words about Garat and the journey from Dol Amroth to Haradhur. He was very aware of the dangers presented by an elf beneath the shadow of ma’awnwa. At least, he thought he’d been aware of it. But now that he considered the night’s events with ma’awnwa in mind, he was no longer certain of himself.

"The dwarf is valuable to us alive, but he is not essential. You could have had him killed. The elf would have probably taken no measures to escape had he not been concerned for his friend."

He should have seen that. He should have known that. It was obvious now, in hindsight, but hindsight was almost always clear. Yet even so, such judgements of character were well within his ability to note and distinguish, even though he had not been acquainted with the prisoners for very long.

"And I warned you that the elf had been making adaptations while under ma’awnwa," Dashnir continued. "Honored one, he was not to be underestimated! He should have been bound and under strict guard at all times."

"You have made your point, Dashnir," Asbad said quietly, his eyes hard. "I see now what happened. You have no need for further elaboration."

"If that is your wish," Dashnir said, though he sounded rather dubious. He was silent for a moment, and then he sighed and shook his head. "Would you then indulge me by relating the rest of the escape? You say that the elf and dwarf took a horse, but that does not explain the smoke and the stench of burning."

"The horse they stole was carrying bags of the blasting powder," Asbad said, grateful for the change in topic. "The elf set fire to the cloth, and tossed it behind him. There were several horses following at that point, apparently drawn by whatever call he had issued, and some of them also carried the blasting powder. When the bags he’d thrown ignited, they were all caught in the blast. After that, the surviving horses became restless and would not be handled. We could not pursue."

"Then they are lost to us," Dashnir whispered.

"I believe that we managed to score several hits with arrows," Asbad murmured. "The horse they took was clearly wounded. Its might have been as well, but we cannot be certain of that."

"How ill was the dwarf, honored one? Is it likely that he could survive the day?"

"The possibility is slim," Asbad said with a shake of his head. "Especially if he is without shelter or water. The elf will be hard-pressed, as well. In all likelihood, they have already perished. Their horse would not be able to carry them for long. If they are not yet dead, it is only a matter of time. We should turn our thoughts to other things. The prisoners are beyond our reach."

"But we have both underestimated them already," Dashnir cautioned. "There is a line of volcanic ridges to the south. They might reach these rocks and find shelter with water. In that event, they are still a danger."

"I suppose that it is a possibility," Asbad conceded reluctantly. "But it is a remote one. The odds are very much against it."

"The odds were also very much against escape," Dashnir countered. "Honored one, we must not let this fall to chance. They could still be alive! And if they are, they will seek to return to Haradhur. We cannot allow this! We will have no control over their actions. We will lose the illusion that we are operating beneath the authority of the Iluh. And should we lose that, we lose the support of the tribes. Everything falls apart."

Asbad studied his second-in-command for a long moment. The argument was valid and the point convincing, but there was something deeper going on behind the words. Something on a more personal level. "This is not about ensuring our success," Asbad said at length. "I sense that you need to recapture these prisoners for your own sake. At the very least, you need to confirm for yourself that they are dead. Why?"

Dashnir’s jaw tightened and his eyes darkened, but to his credit, he met the challenging look in his superior’s eyes and did not back down. "I feel a measure of responsibility for the loss of the captives. It was my suggestion that the original plans be altered. It was my suggestion that we abduct the elf and the dwarf. Had we kept to our previous plans…" He trailed off and looked away as an expression of shame flitted over his face.

"You may have suggested the change in plans, but I approved it," Asbad said firmly. He was not in the habit of consoling his men, deeming that a wavering warrior was little better than a dead warrior, but Dashnir was an exception. He had never before floundered like this. Moreover, Asbad needed Dashnir. He would never admit it to anyone for it was a weakness on his part, but he would not be able to rule the Khurintu tribe without Dashnir’s intuition. Asbad could not allow his subordinate to falter now.

"Even so, I should have realized the risks when I was forced to take ma’awnwa from the elf before we even reached Haradhur," Dashnir hissed. "I should have realized then that holding the elf for any period of time was a risk. Such a thing should have been left to Umbar."

"You were still operating somewhat beneath a shadow," Asbad answered. "You could not have foreseen this. And your suggestions for change held great merit. A gift had been provided to us. It would have been folly not to take it. By capturing an elf and a dwarf, we could demonstrate our control over creatures of legend. We could have also moved up the time of our attack on Gondor by providing Umbar with an elf."

"Had we left the elf alone, we could have taken him during tonight’s battle at the same time that we took Aragorn," Dashnir hissed with a shake of his head. "The dwarf would have been killed along with Gondor’s forces and most of the Rohirrim, and Umbar would have received their elf. Then tidings of what happened would have reached the northern countries, the Rohirrim would have demanded an immediate assault on Harad for the loss of their king, and Gondor would have denied it for fear that we would kill their own hostage king. The ties between the two realms would have disintegrated, and as they bickered one with another, Umbar would have completed its research and destroyed Ithilien, giving us a base from which to launch our attack."

"But would we have obtained the honor of killing the dwarf and subduing the elf had we not abducted them? I think not," Asbad said. "They would have fallen under suspicion as agents of the Destroyer even had we not insinuated such a thing, and they would have been either murdered or confined by the Gartabo tribe. Aulit would then have received great power and respect for his ability to act against the Destroyer’s agents. He would have rallied the tribes against Gondor and Rohan, and we would have only been another force to add to his tally. We would not have been in a position of power. We would not have been able to gain mastery over the other tribes. Nay, Dashnir. When the elf and the dwarf entered the desert, they destroyed part of our plans. We did not foresee such an event. And we compensated as best we could."

"Perhaps," Dashnir muttered. "But are such compensations now moot? We have no dwarf to kill before the other tribes as a symbol of our power. We have no elf to give to Umbar. What now do we do?"

"We compensate yet again," Asbad answered. "We combine elements from both plans and we capitalize on what has already been done." He looked out across the desert and frowned. The temperatures were beginning to rise and they should probably retire to the tents, but he could not quite bring himself to move. It seemed that he had badly underestimated many things, and until he set the situation to rights, he did not want to leave. Besides, the heat was clearing his thoughts, burning away distractions and irrelevant details. "I need to know if you were followed on your journey away from Haradhur," he said. "And I need to know how many followed you."

"Yes, I was followed," Dashnir confirmed, seeming to shake himself and focus again on the situation. "But the numbers are something of a mystery. Only Rohirrim followed us, of that I am certain. But initially, we believe there were ten riders. However, toward the latter part of the night, there seemed to be only five. And before the end of the night, they turned back. Given the speed of their mounts, it is probable that they will reach Haradhur before the sun rises high enough to prevent travel. They will not be camping in the desert this day."

"You are certain?"

"As certain as one can be without witnessing it directly."

Asbad cursed quietly. "Then they will be wearied but not unduly so. If I am not mistaken, you predicted that the entire Rohirrim contingent would follow you, leaving Gondor alone in the city. Was your estimation of Eomer’s loyalty to his friends in error?"

"Nay, I think not. Rather, I believe I did not account for Eomer’s loyalty to both his kingdom and to Gondor," Dashnir said, his voice somewhat bitter. "And perhaps Aragorn was able to deduce that our next strike would be against Haradhur. He is a man of great perception. If so, he would have kept as many Rohirrim in the city as he could."

"So they will be at nearly full strength, and because of this, they will undoubtedly have endured the day well despite the hostility from the other tribes." Asbad sighed and rubbed his brow, noting the moisture that had begun to bead. It was high time to retreat to the tents.

"Honored one?"

"Tonight, just ere sunset, you will take a small number of men and trail the elf and the dwarf," Asbad said quietly, closing his eyes as the beginnings of a plan began to coalesce in his mind. "Find them at all costs. If they are still alive, kill the elf and recapture the dwarf. Following that, make all speed to Haradhur."

"But what of Umbar and their desire for a living elf?" Dashnir questioned.

"They will have to obtain such a creature on their own. Our elf is too dangerous to leave alive. He must be dispatched. And if the dwarf is not alive when you find him, take his head and bring it with you when you ride to join us at Haradhur. We will use it as a symbol in lieu of a demonstration. And keep the elf’s body," Asbad added, almost as an afterthought. "We will send it to the Corsairs. Perhaps they will be able to find some use for corpse."

"And what of you, honored one? What plans shall you make for the battle?"

"What plans I make for the battle must needs be determined by the decisions of Gondor and Rohan. They may meet us as warriors upon the desert, or they may hide in the city, using Haradhur as a shield. In either case, though, it becomes clear that we must fall upon the original strategy with perhaps a few changes. Aragorn will be taken prisoner, but we will leave no guards from either country alive."

"I thought we were to use the Rohirrim survivors as messengers of our deeds."

"Such was our intent until the realms of the elves and dwarves became involved. With their pressure, Gondor may not be able to hold Rohan at bay long enough for our forces to become ready. And because we are not giving them a live elf, we will need to buy more time for Umbar to complete their preparations. Therefore, we will send no messengers but rather allow search parties to come to us. At that point, we will give them the head of Rohan’s king and send them back with the tidings that Gondor’s king yet lives. Hopefully, we will then be able to stall their actions long enough for Umbar’s ships to join us at Pelargir."

"Our victory is not as sure as it once was," Dashnir murmured.

"Nay, but we knew our risks when we planned this. We knew there was a chance that events could turn against us. Victory may not be certain, but neither is it beyond our grasp. Come," he said with a glance toward the sun. "We must retire now and set the watch, for we shall have need of our strength this night."

"I will find the elf and the dwarf," Dashnir said quietly as the two began walking back to the tents. "I promise you that. They will not defy us again."

"Remember that I shall need you in Haradhur by morning," Asbad cautioned. "If you seek to punish them, do not be long about it."

"I will do no more than is necessary."

Asbad nodded, knowing he would have to be content with this answer. Dashnir’s tone indicated that he still felt a measure of personal responsibility insofar as the elf and dwarf were concerned, and he would not be stopped until he felt satisfied. But Dashnir knew where the priorities lay, and he would not allow himself to indulge for too long. It would be well.

Reaching the tents, Dashnir left to speak with the guards and also to select men to accompany him on their search for the prisoners. As he did so, Asbad drifted to his own tent, flicking a glance skyward as the sun beat down upon them. The shadow of smoke that had previously loomed over the camp was gone now, burned away by the consuming heat of the morning. Things were again as they should be, and the sun once more held sway. It was a good sign. Darkness and trouble might reign for a time, but in the end, the strongest was victorious.

In the end, the desert always won.

The eastern gate of Haradhur was unusually quiet. Given the fact that the sun was now rising swiftly into the sky, this should not have come as a surprise. However, the events of the past night as well as the presence of several Rohirrim guards made the stillness a bit eerie. The very air spoke of tension and growing unrest. Passing men murmured darkly to one another as they regarded the Rohirrim. Others hissed and shook their heads when they gazed out the gates toward the smoking remains of the Portu encampment. Had it not been for the Lotessa soldiers that surrounded the Rohirrim, they would have probably been attacked and seized. But since there was a guard set and the guard was comprised of one of the more powerful warrior tribes, no one had taken any action against the Rohirrim. But it was really only a matter of time before someone did.

Arabano pursed his lips and loosed a quiet sigh even as he moved into the shade of a nearby building. Budari had tasked him with waiting for the returning Rohirrim and also with gathering information regarding Fastahn. Apparently, Aragorn and Eomer suspected Fastahn of betraying the Soltari tribe. And as Arabano considered the idea, he could see and understand where such a theory might originate. The Soltari tribe held no standing grievance with the Khurintu tribe. At least, none that the Lotessa tribe knew of. Yet for some reason, they had become a target of this…Orthanc Fire, as the northerners termed it. One explanation for this would be that Fastahn—who seemed to have spent a suspicious amount of time around the Khurintu tribe—betrayed their confidence. The Soltari tribe had been privy to the information that the Destroyer had been Asbad. It was possible that Fastahn revealed this to Dashnir and that Dashnir then ordered that the Soltari tribe be eliminated. It was a logical conclusion and made a certain amount of sense.

But Arabano did not believe it.

He felt that he knew Fastahn fairly well. The man was resourceful and tenacious, if somewhat slow on the uptake at times. He was a faithful member of Soltari’s advisory council, and as far as Arabano knew, he had never betrayed his tribe’s trust. In all things, he had sought that which would be best for his people. Arabano could not see him betraying the Soltari tribe. He had no motive to do so. Khurintu tolerated spies and traitors as long as it served their needs, and then such assets were eliminated for reasons of security. Fastahn knew this, and because he knew this, he would not have participated in an act of treachery for reasons of gain or power. He would earn none of these with Khurintu. And other reasons he might have—disputes with fellow tribesmen or other leaders—could have been solved internally. There would have been no need to turn to Khurintu for aid. No, Arabano thought with a shake of his head. Betrayal does not fit with Fastahn’s desires or personality. He is many things and takes on many roles, but a traitor is not among these.

Unfortunately, Arabano did not have an alternative theory to counter the assumption that Fastahn was the traitor, so he had said little in the way of protest when Budari sent him off to conduct the investigation. Until he could offer another explanation, he would not hinder the work to prove the current theory. But he would direct this search with his own objectives in mind. That latitude was certainly afforded him as second-in-command. And so he found himself staring out the eastern gate while half of his men waited quietly around him and the other half scoured the city for Fastahn. In this way, he was able to fulfill his leader’s wishes while distancing himself so that he could think. At no point had Budari said that Arabano himself needed to be involved in the hunt for Fastahn.

Although, I suppose that was implied in the command and thus did not need to be spoken, Arabano admitted silently. Perhaps I have spent too much time around these Rohirrim. They seem to view rules as loose boundaries that can be pushed and stretched as needed.

With a sigh, Arabano firmly pushed thoughts on the Rohirrim aside and returned to his musings on Fastahn. He felt that his superiors were correct on several counts. The Soltari tribe was probably not on the list of original targets for this Orthanc Fire that Khurintu had used. There would have been nothing to gain from attacking them. They were not a military threat by any stretch of the imagination. Moreover, it would be foolish to strike against them because they controlled much of Harad’s agriculture. Offending the Soltari tribe was something that was simply not done. Yet Khurintu had attacked them, and here again, Arabano was forced to agree with his superiors’ reasoning. The leaders of the Soltari tribe had known that Asbad masqueraded as the Destroyer. Khurintu probably learned of this, and to eliminate the threat this posed, they attacked. It was the only explanation that made any sense. All that was left to be determined was how Khurintu had learned of Soltari’s knowledge. Arabano was convinced that it had not been through Fastahn, but what other way could it have been done?

Who among the Soltari tribe would have known the identity of the Destroyer? Fastahn knew, for he told me of it. But who else? Khesva. Khesva would have known, and Khesva would have told his second as well as those of the ruling council who are here in Harad. But surely they would not have allowed it to spread further than that. Such knowledge is dangerous. Therefore…either Khurintu has agents on Soltari’s ruling council and they reported the knowledge to Dashnir, or one of Soltari’s leaders dealt treacherously. And if the latter is the case…

Arabano’s thoughts trailed away and his brow furrowed. The latter option made no sense. If there were indeed agents of Khurintu that high within Soltari’s hierarchy, they would have no need to destroy the tribe using Orthanc Fire. There were other, far more subtle ways to accomplish such a thing. And these other ways could ensure that Soltari maintained reasonably good relations with Khurintu, thus ensuring a steady supply of food. No, it was clear that someone from the Soltari tribe itself had done the betraying. But if this had been an act of treachery on the part of the Soltari tribe, the evidence clearly fingered Fastahn. He was the only one to have survived the blast. He had been in the city at the time, well away from the danger. He was the suspect with the greatest opportunity for such betrayal. Almost everything about the situation pointed to Fastahn. But motive was still missing, and as Fastahn did nothing without reason, motive was essential.

A sudden stir among the men around him drew Arabano from his contemplations, and he moved away from the wall that provided shade, hoping that the missing Rohirrim were the cause for this disturbance. The sun was well above the horizon, and the temperature was rising steadily. If the Rohirrim did not arrive soon, they would not arrive at all.

Shading his eyes against the sun’s light, he stared into the desert and eventually made out the figures of approaching riders. Their speed was that of a swift gallop, but it was clear to see, even from this distance, that the pace was anything but smooth. The horses were beginning to stumble, and the men atop them seemed weary and desperate, as though they had ridden for the duration of the night and had failed to find that for which they searched. It could be no one but the Rohirrim.

Arabano barked a sharp word of command to the surrounding Lotessa guards, and they obediently fell in behind him as he strode out of the gates. The other Rohirrim who had waited near the gate were quick to join them, and together they hastened toward the faltering riders. At a signal from Arabano, the men of Lotessa spread out in a flanking pattern, guarding against any assault from the city. It was unlikely that any would choose to attack now as it was growing too warm for any strenuous physical activity, but the area around the eastern gate had been unusually quiet. Arabano would take no chances. And the riders yet had to pass several camps in the desert before actually reaching the city. This could still become interesting.

By now, Arabano could see the riders clearly enough to distinguish the colors, and he confirmed that this was indeed the missing group of Rohirrim. But…there were only five of them. Budari had said that there would be ten. What had happened to the other five riders?

His lips pressing together in a firm line, Arabano narrowed his dark eyes and quickened his pace. Ominous thoughts crowded his head, and a rather cynical part of his mind sighed in weary resignation. He should have expected this. After all, it would have been too much to ask that all the missing riders return. Their current run of misfortune was simply too good a streak to break.

"Honored one…"

The quiet murmur behind him pulled Arabano out of his despairing thoughts, and he directed his eyes to the man who had addressed him. The guard nodded to the side, and Arabano turned, quickly seeing what had caught the other man’s attention. The camps without Haradhur were beginning to stir, having also seen the approaching riders. Men gathered outside small tents, their eyes trained upon both the riders and the group that went to meet them.

"Draw your swords," Arabano murmured quietly to his warriors, pulling his own curved blade from its sheath. "Let them see our strength."

The crisp ring of metal sounded loud in Arabano’s ears, and to his relief, he saw some of the men in the camps turn away and retreat into their tents. They would not contest Lotessa. Not yet, though as Arabano had previously observed, it was really only a matter of time. But at least for now, it seemed that they would be able to escort the Rohirrim back to the city without challenge.

The riders were now very close, and they would have easily closed the distance between the two groups had they maintained their gallop. But their eyes turned south and they checked their mounts, slowing them to a walk. With a silent curse, Arabano signaled his men to hurry, and he broke into a run. The returning Rohirrim were staring at the smoldering wreckage of the Portu tribe’s encampment! Arabano was close enough that he could see the surprise and horror in the faces of the Rohirrim, but from afar, others might interpret the behavior to be triumphant and mocking. And not all of the Haradrim had retreated back into their tents.

Apparently, the Rohirrim that raced alongside Arabano came to the same conclusion, for one of them began shouting to their kinsmen. "Eos! Eos, kûlm! Fesanig!"

Arabano did not understand these words as he was unfamiliar with Rohan’s native tongue, but whatever was said achieved the desired results. The riders reluctantly turned their eyes away from Portu’s camp and urged their horses into a trot. When they were close enough to the other group that they could speak without raising their voices, the Rohirrim dismounted and questions began to fly.

"Tell me this is not the work of Orthanc fire!" a rider exclaimed, his voice laced with both weariness and astonishment. He seemed to be the one in command, for at a signal from him, the rest of the group quieted. "Tell me that Saruman’s foul weapons have not worked their way into the desert!"

One of the Rohirrim stepped forward to answer him, but Arabano pushed him aside. These riders were entitled to explanations, but not here and not now. Arabano had questions of his own—such as why there were only five returning riders and not ten—but he could wait until the safety of camp was reached to ask after these things. "I fear that any discussion must be delayed," he said quickly as his men moved to surround the group. "We are in danger here. Come! We will provide you escort to your encampment."

There were some angry murmurs among the Rohirrim at these commands, and for a moment, Arabano feared that his assumption of authority might cost them all their lives. If it seemed to others that they were having a dispute, then the weakness would surely be exploited. But fortune was with them for a change, and the rider in charge took note of their surroundings with an experienced eye. "Lead on," he ordered, taking a firm hold of his horse’s halter as he swayed suddenly. The morning’s hurried ride beneath the sun seemed to be taking its toll. "We will follow and we will be quick."

Arabano nodded sharply, sparing one grateful look at this rider, and then he turned, snapping commands at his men. With that, they began to walk, their pace swift but not so swift as to seem like they were fleeing. Appearance counted for much in the deserts, and though haste was needed, Arabano was not so foolish as to rush them all into an early grave.

By the grace of the Iluh, they reached the walls of Haradhur without incident, though certainly not without many dark and foreboding glares. Once within the city, their pace increased dramatically, for it was easy to weave in and out of the streets, passing all who might have glanced their way so quickly that they were not recognized. Arabano was even beginning to relax slightly as they neared the camp, something that immediately put him on his guard once he recognized that it was happening. Things had a tendency to spiral out of control when feelings of relief crept in, and Arabano quickly scanned the surrounding streets, half expecting to discover a horde of men waiting to attack.

Fortunately, he didn’t find his attacking horde. But he did see something that stopped him cold in his tracks.

One of the weary riders bumped into his back and stumbled away, cursing quietly. The horses snorted and some of them reared as they were also forced to stop. This caused the entire group to come to a halt, and as one, they turned to watch Arabano, who had more or less forgotten about the rest of them. His eyes were staring down a side alley, but when the others turned to look, they could see nothing.

"Honored one?" one of the Lotessa warriors prompted hesitantly.

"Take the Rohirrim and make for the camp," Arabano said quietly. "I shall join you there shortly. Also, send word to all of our men who are now searching the city for Fastahn. Have them also meet in the camp."

"What did you see?" a man from the Rohirrim asked.

"Something that needs investigating," Arabano answered, moving away from the group. "Go now. If any ask after my whereabouts, assure them that I will return soon."

"But—"

"Go!" Arabano commanded, turning and pinning the questioning tribesman with an intense gaze. "I will see you again shortly." And with that he hastened away, quickly turning a corner and vanishing into the winding maze of Haradhur’s twisting streets.

Ma’awnwa—Haradric term for ú-glîr

Eos! Eos, kûlm! Fesanig!—Eos! Eos, come! Hasten! (Rohirric)

Author’s Notes: Just a few quick notes. First of all, the list of tribes and people can be found at the end of this chapter. I have a feeling that some of you might be wanting it.

Next, for any who were wondering (which is probably none of you, but I have to put this in anyway) here is the origin for my version of Rohirric. Tolkien wanted to give Rohirric a rather archaic feel, so he derived much of it from Old English. However, Rohirric was not the predecessor of Westron, so I couldn’t just take words straight out of Old English because I’m using an English "translation" of Westron. It would feel wrong. Additionally, the development of Rohirric seems to have been strongly influenced by the Sindarin language. So I went back to the Old English, looked at the words and structure, and then made a fairly wild stab at what I thought the Rohirric language might have evolved into if Sindarin had had been a factor in its development. And I tried to keep an archaic and foreign feel to the thing while attempting to mirror the impression that Legolas had when he heard Rohirric. In the Two Towers, he describes the language like this: "It is like to this land itself; rich and rolling in part, and else hard and stern as the mountains. But I cannot guess what it means, save that it is laden with the sadness of Mortal Men."

So there you have it. That’s where my version of Rohirric comes from. Perhaps an excessive amount of work and explanation for something that resulted in two little words, but I can be a little obsessive at times. And I wanted to cover my bases. Thanks for your indulgence!

Character List
Arabano—Second-in-command of Lotessa (OC)
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm—Captain of Rohan’s guard (OC)
Arnor—Aragorn’s horse (OC)
Asbad—Tribal head of Khurintu (OC)
Aulit—Tribal head of Gartabo (OC)
Budari—Tribal head of Lotessa (OC)
Dashnir—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe (OC)
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul—Legolas’s horse (OC)
Fastahn—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (OC)
Garat—Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (OC)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran—Captain of Gondor’s guard (OC)
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen—Tribal head of Warra (OC)
Khesva—Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (OC)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (OC)
Radarad—Tribal head of Portu (OC)
Shade—Eomer’s horse (OC)

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Author’s Notes: As a result of several remarks about the multitude of characters in this story (as well as the fact that I haven’t updated for a while because I had no access to the Internet) I’ve included a new and updated character list at the beginning of this chapter. So if you warning a refresher course now, here you go. As a warning, you may need it for this chapter. We’re about to blow everything wide open.

In other news, I have to send out an apology for failing to update in so long. Like I said before, I really didn’t have access to the Internet for several weeks and I also had computer problems that resulted in my machine being sent away for repairs. Fortunately everything has been fixed now, so I’m back on track. But that’s why this story has been in stasis for so long. Sorry again, and here is your next chapter!

Character List (OC indicates Original Character)
Arabano(OC)—Second-in-command of Lotessa
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm(OC)—Captain of Rohan’s guard
Arnor(OC)—Aragorn’s horse
Asbad(OC)—Tribal head of Khurintu
Aulit(OC)—Tribal head of Gartabo (Also charged with overseeing this year's Gathering)
Bron(OC)—Member of the Portu tribe (Killed by Dashnir at Lake Supt)
Budari(OC)—Tribal head of Lotessa
Dashnir(OC)—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul(OC)—Legolas’s elven horse
Fastahn(OC)—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (Temporary ruler of Soltari in the wake of Khesva's death)
Garat(OC)—Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (Killed by Legolas in a cave while waiting out a sandstorm)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran(OC)—Captain of Gondor’s guard
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen(OC)—Tribal head of Warra
Khesva(OC)—Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (Killed by Orthanc Fire outside of Haradhur)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart(OC)—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (Inadvertantly poisoned by Imrahil at Dol Amroth, though he survived the encounter)
Radarad(OC)—Tribal head of Portu
Shade(OC)—Eomer’s horse

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Chapter 35: Fractals

Imrahil, ruler of the lush, coastal province of Belfalas, sat in a small and stifling tent three days into the arid deserts of Harad. Sharing both Imrahil’s misery and Imrahil’s tent was an unconscious Rohirrim captain who—with four other riders—had ridden a stumbling horse into camp while trailing members of what had appeared to be the Khurintu tribe. Upon arriving, the Khurintu had scattered and the Rohirrim had collapsed, leaving the men of Dol Amroth to hastily drag them in out of the burning sun. To make the situation more bizarre, Imrahil had been surprised by the appearance of Rohan’s riders but not by the appearance of Khurintu. He had anticipated this development since the unanticipated discovery of corsairs camping down the lakeshore, a discover which in turn had alerted him to a military alliance between Khurintu and Umbar that allowed both parties to create Orthanc Fire. Additionally, the corsairs were apparently awaiting the arrival of a captive elf that was to be supplied by the Khurintu tribe.

And this morning has only begun, Imrahil sighed wearily. If nothing else, the day promises to be interesting.

The sheer volume of information that had assaulted Imrahil in the past few hours was confounding, and he was desperately trying to sort through the facts in order to form a coherent picture that would guide his next actions. But the prince’s normally sharp mind seemed as lifeless and blank as the endless sands that surrounded Lake Nurnein. He was tired, for dark dreams had prevented him from finding true rest during the previous day. And the environment was certainly not helping. Imrahil’s light tunic was soaked with sweat, a rare experience as the faint echoes of a distant elven heritage usually guarded against perspiration. The complete absence of humidity burned his lungs and seared his throat. He yearned for water, but the liquid in his water skins was unpleasantly warm and only seemed to encourage his thirst.

Perhaps I should seek sleep, Imrahil thought, running the back of his hand across a brow that dripped with sweat. I cannot seem to think clearly. Mayhap rest will clear my mind.

But even as he considered this idea, Imrahil discarded it. Before the arrival of the Rohirrim, he had tried to sleep and failed. He would not sleep now. Imrahil was a veteran soldier of many campaigns and had learned to rest whenever possible, but he was also a scholar and a gifted strategist. Sleep was valuable but so was information, and at the moment, Imrahil valued the latter over the former. Earlier, he had known nothing. His only clues had been vague dreams and dark suspicions. Now it seemed as though plans were being handed to him, but it was happening too quickly for him to make sense of it. And sense was what was needed, for a tingling itch of foreboding told him that time was running out.

So he sat wearily in his tent with his eyes fixed upon Arhelm, the Rohirrim captain who had swooned and fallen from the back of his gelding upon reaching Lake Nurnein. And while Imrahil waited for Arhelm to show signs of stirring, he tried to piece together what he knew so far.

As inconceivable as it seemed, Umbar had become involved in the affairs of the Haradrim. Imrahil could not quite fathom how this was possible, especially since the corsairs were intensely scornful of anyone who did not live on or near the sea. They deemed that the open waters could be likened to a refiner’s fire that in turn created a strong and hardy people. Thus they tended to downplay the abilities of the Haradrim, for those in the desert had no wild, untamed seas to mold them into true warriors. Ironically, the Haradrim were equally scornful of anyone who did not live in or near the desert—giving the reason that the desert’s heat was more akin to the refiner’s fire than any glorified puddle—and so Imrahil was baffled as to how these two groups had formed an alliance. Nevertheless, it seemed an agreement of sorts had been forged, but as for the exact terms of this agreement…

Imrahil shook his head and pushed away the frustration that was beginning to consume him. In days past, he had been renowned for an almost elven patience that occasionally managed to wear away even Denethor’s stubborn reticence. But that patience seemed to have vanished in the heat, and Imrahil was hard-pressed to settle his mind. Some of his earlier anxiety had been quelled by the arrival of the Rohirrim, for familiar faces had lightened his heart considerably. But the restlessness that had formed during the night’s ride was returning in force as he pondered the situation. Imrahil enjoyed a good puzzle, but when time was slipping away and lives hung in the balance, he preferred to have the puzzle completed and the answers at hand. Such was not the case here.

Concentrate, he told himself. Breathe slowly and concentrate. You can do naught while the sun is overhead and neither can your opponents. Use this time wisely. It may be all the time you are given before you must act. Closing his eyes, Imrahil opened fists he did not remember clenching and firmly directed his mind back to the matter of the unusual alliance.

The only reason for Harad and Umbar to join together would be that each had something the other wanted and could not get by other means. It seemed fairly obvious that the wants in this case were charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur. Also obvious was the conclusion that both groups were making Orthanc Fire, a deduction backed by the tidings that Mohart’s kinsmen had given. And the shared weapon had in turn led to a military alliance that desired the subjugation of Gondor.

But none of that did Imrahil any good at the moment. With the exception of Umbar’s involvement, the prince might have guessed all of this on his own. Now came the hart part: details. Imrahil needed to know why the corsairs had been expecting an elf to arrive with Khurintu. He needed to know what had become of King Elessar and his company. He needed to know how far along in their plans Khurintu had gone. He needed to know if any other tribes were involved in these plans. He needed to know why five riders of Rohan on the verge of collapse were chasing an equally weary group of Khurintu tribesmen across the desert. And above all, he needed to know times and places. He needed to know when and where the next stroke would fall.

Some details Imrahil had already. An assault on Minas Tirith was planned. Before this happened, Ithilien was to be neutralized using a weapon that the corsairs had developed specifically for the elves. This weapon was untested, though, and Umbar was wary of using it. This indicated that the weapon’s success was highly questionable, for the corsairs did not usually shy away from risks. And that, in turn, explained their eagerness for a test subject: an elf.

But it did not explain how an elf—presumably Legolas—had fallen into Khurintu’s hands. Nor did it explain what had happened to that elf’s party. And as for what other tribes might be involved or whether or not the plans had progressed so far that there was no stopping them… Imrahil resisted the urge to shake his head in frustration. One reaction would lead to another, and before he knew it, he would find himself pacing the length of the tent.

A cynical voice in the back of his head noted that his guards would probably be greatly entertained if he did succumb to pacing. For some reason unfathomable to Imrahil, the men of Dol Amroth seemed to find it vastly amusing when their prince showed hints of impatience. Faramir also seemed to find Imrahil’s occasional bouts of haste to be decidedly humorous. When questioned, Faramir could not truly explain his mirth except to say that Imrahil’s look of frustration was…interesting. Faramir’s advice to his uncle was that Imrahil should maintain his stoic composure—something that the prince of Dol Amroth did quite well—and leave the impatient expressions to those that could make them without looking like a drowning troll.

A drowning troll indeed! Imrahil thought with a touch of indignation. When has Faramir ever had occasion to see a drowning troll? The boy would not know a drowning troll from a charging mûmak. Absently wiping the perspiration from his brow, Imrahil shook his head and gave a quiet snort of laughter. I must be in great need of both sleep and water if my mind has strayed to conversations regarding drowning trolls. He began debating about whether or not drinking some of his hot, rationed water would make things better or worse, but he was interrupted by a low moan from the corner of the tent.

His mind immediately snapping to attention, Imrahil hastened to Arhelm’s side, hopeful that the rider was waking. And for once, the Valar were merciful. It seemed that Arhelm was indeed waking, and Imrahil quickly seized a water skin should it be desired. The parched riders had swallowed water even in their unconscious states, but doubtless they would be thirsty again when they woke. Not that this warm water will do much for their thirst, Imrahil’s cynical side commented. Still, the gesture might be appreciated.

Wetting a cloth and rubbing it across Arhelm’s brow, Imrahil called to the man, anxious to add speed to the waking process. "Arhelm? Arhelm, can you speak?"

Silence was his initial reply and Imrahil held his breath as despair began to creep into his heart, but then Arhelm stirred and moaned again, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

"Arhelm, return to us," Imrahil encouraged. "There are things I must know, and only you can give me answers."

It seemed to Imrahil that Arhelm was now considering the idea of waking and finding it to be a prospect he did not appreciate. His struggles died away slightly and his breathing deepened as he began to slide back into the cool abyss of unconsciousness.

"Nay, you cannot so lightly abandon your duties!" Imrahil pressed, seizing Arhelm’s hand and holding it tightly. "Unless my guess is far astray, your king is in dire need. Come now. Show me the loyalty of the Rohirrim. Wake for your king!"

That produced results.

Arhelm stiffened, his muscles tensing and his brow furrowing. His chest heaved with exertion, and he seemed to be mustering energy for some great endeavor or another. Imrahil suspected that Arhelm was attempting to open his eyes. Having been knocked unconscious several times himself, Imrahil knew just how difficult it could be to force open reluctant eyelids. And as the prince of Dol Amroth continued to watch his companion, his guess was validated. With a groan of effort and a show of strength, Arhelm tensed and then slowly opened his eyes, struggling with every arduous step of the process.

"Haedin?" he whispered.

Imrahil frowned. "Haedin?" he repeated, hoping for an explanation while thoughts and fears rushed through his mind. Was this the name of the man who had brought harm to his king? Was this some form of code that another of the Rohirrim might understand? Was the captain delirious and mistaking Imrahil for someone else?

"My horse," Arhelm hissed, his voice harsh and raspy. "Is he—"

"Your horse has been cared for," Imrahil answered, shaking his head with a slight smile of exasperation. He should have realized that Arhelm’s first thought would be his gelding. Their overall reputation might say otherwise, but in this and many other things, the Rohirrim were really quite predictable. "He is well and resting," Imrahil continued. "We ensured that he received water."

"Thank you," the rider sighed, his eyes closing with relief. Then his brow creased and he forced his eyes open again, only now seeming to realize who it was that kept him company. "Prince Imrahil?" Arhelm’s jaw clenched and he lifted his head slightly as though attempting to rise. "I…I thought you were a dream, my lord."

"Nay, I am no dream," Imrahil answered, pressing Arhelm back and handing him the water skin. "And you are very much awake, my friend. Gently," he cautioned when Arhelm began gulping water in earnest, apparently heedless of its temperature. "Too much too quickly will do you no good."

Arhelm nodded with reluctant obedience and lowered the water skin. Turning his eyes back to Imrahil, he frowned and shook his head. "Forgive me, my lord, but…how did you come to be in the desert? Yours was not a face we expected to see."

"My reasons for being here can wait," Imrahil said. "They are not as important as the answers that you can give me, for it seems we have been handed a pretty puzzle. Strange rumors reached our ears this morning. Where is your king? And where is King Elessar?"

Panic surged through Arhelm’s pale face and he struggled upwards. "Why? What tidings have come, my lord?"

Somewhat taken aback by this, Imrahil frowned and pushed the man back down. "We are not sure of how to interpret the tidings. It was hoped that you could aid us. Do you not know where your king is?"

"Insofar as I know, my king is yet at Haradhur. Have you heard differently, Prince Imrahil?"

"And what of King Elessar?" Imrahil pressed, ignoring Arhelm’s question for the moment. "Was he with Eomer?"

Arhelm nodded. "Yes, my lord. But my party and I left Haradhur last night as evening fell. We do not know what has transpired since then. If you know something, my lord, then I beg you to tell me what has happened!"

"I do not know much," Imrahil answered, his earlier frustrations returning. "But I suspect that something has happened. Recent conversations have led me to believe that Lord Legolas may be a prisoner. But I have heard nothing that reveals the fate of those who were with him."

"In this, at least, I can aid you," Arhelm said, his face growing dark. "Two nights ago, the guards around our camp were murdered. Lord Gimli’s axe and Lord Legolas’s knife were discovered in their tent, but their bodies were never found. We assumed that they had been taken captive."

Imrahil blinked. "Both of them?"

Arhelm nodded, licking his dry lips and taking another sip from the water skin. "Last night, my king sent ten riders in pursuit of the Khurintu tribe, for we suspect that they were the culprits. My men and I were part of that company, but we separated when the trail seemed to split. I do not know if Eos and his group were successful, but it appears now that my men and I were not."

"Two nights ago," Imrahil murmured, his mind beginning to whirl as he called forth every rumor he had heard between now and the time he had left Lake Supt. "Do you know how or why they were taken, Arhelm?"

"Nay, I do not, my lord," Arhelm said, an unspoken apology contained within his voice. "But I do know that Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas were in danger of being apprehended by other tribes before Khurintu took them. They were sent to join our scouting parties in the desert for the city had become dangerous. But they never arrived, and we could not look for them because Haradhur was then attacked."

"And this attack was made with Orthanc Fire?" Imrahil guessed.

Arhelm’s eyes widened. "Orthanc Fire? Nay, our attackers were raiders. What is this of Orthanc Fire?"

"Word reached us this morning that a weapon similar to Orthanc Fire had been used in the desert. I assumed you would know of this."

"I have not seen Orthanc Fire since the Battle of Helm’s Deep," Arhelm said. "By the blood of Eorl…" The man trailed off, his face darkening as memories of the hated weapon rose to the surface of his mind. "Prince Imrahil, do you know if my king—"

"I know little more than what I just told you," Imrahil answered, rubbing his brow and struggling to make sense of this. Was it possible that Mohart’s contacts had been wrong? Perhaps his suspicions about the ingredients were off.

"If Orthanc Fire has been used, then—"

"Then we can do nothing here but put together what we know and what we suspect," Imrahil interrupted, focusing on something that Arhelm had said earlier. "You spoke of raiders. What raiders would attack Haradhur in the middle of the Gathering?"

His eyes still showed fear for Eomer, but to his credit, Arhelm put aside this worry and concentrated on Imrahil’s question. "We have no proof, but we believe that the raiders were of the Portu tribe."

"The Portu tribe?" Imrahil repeated incredulously. "Surely you are mistaken. They may be raiders, but they are not warriors. It is not their nature to attack even an armed camp, much less a fortified city. And they would never presume to attack during the Gathering!"

"We also found it strange, my lord, but we are fairly certain of our suspicions. Nor do we believe it to be the first time that Portu attacked our position, for we were similarly beset at Lake Supt on our first night in the desert. We believe they were ordered to test us. And some suspect that their representative, Bron, was murdered the next evening to prevent us from learning of this."

Bron? Murdered? Varda’s stars, what is happening in this land?! His mind now spinning wildly, Imrahil shook his head and closed his eyes. "Let us start at the beginning. Tell me everything that transpired beginning with the night you left Dol Amroth. And relate every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem."

"My lord, such a tale could consume the rest of the day."

"Then the day shall be consumed," Imrahil snapped, the heat and frustration finally wearing through his patience. "But I will not be taken unawares, and I will not let fall any chance to save my king. Begin, Arhelm! Time marches on, and I will have my answers now!"

* * * *

For most of his adult life, Fastahn had served in the ruling and advisory councils of the Soltari tribe. And as such, life within the winding mazes of Harad’s cities was more familiar to him than life upon the scorching desert sand. But as he hastened through the twisting labyrinth of buildings and cross streets, Fastahn began to long for the openness of the land beyond the city walls. Haradhur’s cramped, jumbled quarters reminded him all too well of the contorted web of disaster into which he’d plunged his tribe. A disaster largely of his own making.

The man walking beside him only served as a further reminder of the calamity that Fastahn had brought about. Radarad, leader of the Portu tribe, walked with a pronounced limp, a result of the explosions that had decimated his camp. His scarves were drawn snugly over his head, hiding the burns and the vicious cuts. The only visible part of his face were his eyes, black with rolling waves of anger and loathing.

It had taken quite a bit of coaxing on Fastahn’s part to convince Radarad to make this trip. Room had been made in Haradhur for the raiding tribe, but the survivors were confused and disoriented. They were filled with rage that could not be loosed for fear of harming their families far away. Radarad had been hesitant to leave his kin in such a state, and Fastahn could not blame him. He had left his own tribe in turmoil without explanation or apology. But if he was to make this right, he had to act and he had to act now. Thus his years of training as a leader and a diplomat had gone into every persuasive argument he could think of, and in the end, he had convinced a very reluctant Radarad to accompany him.

But compared to what I must do next, convincing Radarad was as simple as finding sand, Fastahn sighed. Still, I suppose that in light of my actions, the difficult road is the only course now available.

His actions. It had been the greatest risk Fastahn had ever taken, and it had been a risk he’d lost. At the time he had deemed it to be absolutely necessary. The tribal leaders had left him no choice. Soltari was going to sit quietly and watch as the Lotessa tribe battled Khurintu with only Gondor and Rohan as allies. It had been a decision debated at great length with Fastahn and a few others pressing Khesva to align against Dashnir and Asbad. They were not a military tribe, but neither were they unskilled in battle. They had not the talent that warrior tribes possessed, but they could still be an asset upon the field of war. They should have extended an offer of aid to Lotessa. They should have stood against Khurintu and helped maintain the balance of power in the desert. But they had not. Khesva had ruled against such a strong departure from their traditionally neutral position. He believed they had jeopardized their neutrality enough already.

But how can one claim to walk a middle line when there ceases to be a middle? Fastahn demanded, attempting to rationalize his actions. Lotessa’s defeat would have enslaved us to Khurintu. There would have been no balancing power to challenge them and thus there would have been no position of neutrality for us to assume. There would have been only servitude. Blood of the sand, I had to make them see! I had to turn them against Khurintu and to do that I had to force Khurintu’s hand! I had no other choice!

But now most of the Soltari tribe was dead. His gamble had backfired, and drastically so. Soltari would not rise to Lotessa’s aid in retaliation for Khurintu’s attack. Soltari would not rise anywhere! Most of the tribe’s leaders were now dead. Those few that had survived were either grievously injured or mentally traumatized. None could stand with Lotessa. And should Fastahn send for more of his tribe, it would take several days for the message to even reach Soltari’s settlements to the south.

I was so blinded by the past! Fastahn wailed, still attempting to rationalize. I never expected Khurintu to retaliate as they did. They have always planned their moves well in advance! My actions should not have made us a target on the same level as Lotessa and Portu!

Stifling a groan, Fastahn glanced at his companion and bit back a wail of grief and rage. Such emotions had no place here. All speculations about what should and should not have happened were moot at this point. The damage had been done, and Soltari’s ruling council lay dead. For all intents and purposes, Fastahn was currently the highest ranking Soltari tribe member at the Gathering, which made him the de facto leader. And as leader, it was his duty to see to the welfare of his tribe. But if his final efforts came to naught, what then? Should he stay in Haradhur and witness the triumph of the Khurintu tribe? Should he flee to his own tribe and warn them of what was coming? Should they abandon their settlements and journey east, hoping for sanctuary in the jungles?

Nay, I will not consider it, he suddenly decided. I shall not think on what will happen should I fail today, for if I fail then my tribe and my kinsmen are lost. Success this day is our last best chance, and even then, it is no guarantee. Khurintu will come with all its forces. Lotessa is now depleted, Portu has been attacked as well, and Gondor, Rohan, and Warra combined have not enough to offer Khurintu much in the way of challenge should Khurintu bring the bulk of its forces. But there is no other choice. Not anymore.

"When shall these wanderings cease?"

The gravely voice of Radarad startled Fastahn out of his despairing thoughts and he hurriedly composed himself. The Portu tribe held naught more than contempt for the agricultural tribes, and if he was to convince Radarad to listen to what he had to say, then Fastahn had to appear strong. He had to act as though he was confident in his abilities, something that Fastahn was usually able to do with ease. But his successive failures and the death of his kin had shaken him badly. And when coupled with everything that could go wrong with the alliance that he intended to forge…

"Fastahn!"

"Soon, honored one," Fastahn said, forcing his voice to be firm and calm. "We shall reach our destination soon."

"My patience runs thin today."

"Then I suggest you control your temper wisely, for if things continue unchecked, today may well be the last day you ever see."

Before he knew what was happening, Fastahn suddenly found himself pressed firmly against a wall with the sharp point of a knife digging into the skin of his neck. "If that was threat, then I suggest you reconsider your words," Radarad hissed. "Or it will be the last day you ever see."

"Nay, not a threat!" Fastahn choked out, his hands locking around Radarad’s forearms as he struggled vainly to push the stronger man away. "A warning of things to come beyond my control. I wish to aid you!"

"And what aid could the Soltari tribe possibly offer?"

Fastahn tipped his head back, feeling the knife dig even deeper. "As I…told you before," he wheezed, "what I have…to say must be…revealed in the presence of another!"

The world seemed to hold its breath for a long moment, and then something deep within Radarad’s eyes flickered. A slight breeze ruffled the scarves around his face and he stepped back, abruptly releasing his hold on Fastahn’s neck and slipping his knife back into the folds of his robes. "If I do not find your words worth my while, I will not hesitate to finish what I just began," Radarad warned.

Fastahn clutched at his throat, gasping for breath and deciding that projecting an air of indifference might have been a bad decision. Given the success of his other recent decisions, though, Fastahn could not say that he was truly surprised. "I promise you, honored one, that you will be most interested to hear my words," he assured Radarad.

"We will see."

Deciding that now would be a good time to continue their journey, Fastahn clenched his teeth and resumed walking. Radarad fell into step beside him and oppressive silence joined them as a third companion. Still, Fastahn felt that oppressive silence was better than death at the hands of Radarad’s knife, so he did not complain.

Turning a few more corners and feeling Radarad’s impatience looming over his head like the hand of the Destroyer ready to descend, Fastahn sighed with relief when their destination came into view. Eager to escape the silent streets, he hastened forward to the low building that he had chosen as a meeting place. Somewhat removed from the main wells of the city and having no well of its own, very few people used this building as a shelter during the day. At night it was a marketplace, but beneath the heat of the sun it only provided shade for abandoned stands and carts. Fastahn felt that they would not be disturbed here, and if any should happen across them, they would think twice before interrupting. Radarad was considered a powerful leader by those who did not follow politics closely, and Fastahn was also seen as one who wielded clout. Additionally, the man they were to meet was greatly feared, and Fastahn felt that these combined factors would allow them to speak freely without disruptions from others.

"We are here, then?" Radarad questioned.

"Yes," Fastahn answered, moving beneath a wide archway and under a broad cloth pavilion that sat before the entrance to the main building. "Come. I do not know if the other member of our party is present, but it would not do to keep him waiting if he has arrived."

"It does not sit well with me that you have yet to reveal his name."

Fastahn turned to discover that Radarad had slowed his pace and was now eyeing the doorway to the dark building with no small amount of suspicion. "If it eases your mind, honored one, I can tell you that he does not know your name," Fastahn said.

"Then we are both ignorant and you assume power."

Cursing both himself and the paranoia of warrior tribes—though given the night’s events, paranoia was certainly a justified reaction—Fastahn reached into his robe, drew his knife, and extended its hilt to Radarad. "I give to you my weapon and a request. If what you hear this day does not satisfy you concerning my intentions, kill me with my own blade. I care naught for dishonor and tribe, nor will any in the days ahead if we cannot avert what will happen."

Radarad was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes narrowed in thought. At length, he took the knife and concealed it within his own robes. "Let us go," he said quietly.

Grateful that his act of submission had momentarily placated Radarad, Fastahn moved forward quickly before the other could entertain any more doubts. Plunging into the darkness of the clay building, he blinked his eyes rapidly, waiting for them to adjust to the dim light. He heard Radarad’s steps as the other joined him, and then his clearing vision caught sight of a shadow detaching itself from one of the corners.

"I had begun to wonder if you would come."

Radarad stiffened and Fastahn suddenly felt the point of his knife against his back along with a steel grip upon his shoulder. "Tell me that he is not the reason you brought me to this place!" the raider chieftain hissed sharply.

Walking until he was several feet away from the pair, the leader of the Warra tribe studied Radarad and Fastahn before sniffing and shaking his head. "I see nothing of importance here," Joranen said.

Radarad hissed with indignation, and Fastahn felt the knife waver slightly as anger for the other tribe leader distracted his captor. Taking advantage of this, Fastahn lurched forward, breaking the hold on his shoulder and staggering away before Radarad could strike.

Joranen took a precautionary step back and jerked his head, at which point, more shadows moved away from the walls. Fastahn whipped around as guards from the Warra tribe stepped in front of the doorway and the windows effectively cutting off any chance of escape. "We agreed to meet alone!" Fastahn accused, turning back to Joranen.

"You agreed," Joranen said quietly. "I merely consented to attend."

"So it comes to this," Radarad spat, leveling a dark glare at Fastahn before drawing himself up to face Joranen. "It is as I suspect. You truly have no honor."

It was the wrong thing to say. The ring of metal heralded the appearance of Joranen’s sword, and he advanced quickly upon Radarad, his eyes crackling with anger. "On what basis do you challenge my honor?"

"The Portu tribe fulfilled our part of the arrangement!" Radarad shouted, sheathing his knife and drawing his own sword. "We did all that you asked and more, yet here you trap me, having already destroyed much of my tribe. Shall you next enslave our women and children, or shall you merely continue to starve them in the desert?"

The point of Joranen’s sword did not waver, but a look of confusion crossed his face and he blinked. "It seems that grief and injuries have stolen your reason, Radarad," he said at length. "Stand down and I may forget your words to me."

"You deny your actions?!" Radarad shouted, eyes blazing. "Atop your previous dishonor, you would deny that—"

"Enough!" Fastahn interrupted loudly, leaping between the two. It was a perilous move, but he had expected this development and was prepared. "Please, honored ones, allow me to explain why I have brought you here ere any hasty actions can be taken! Both the Portu tribe and the Warra tribe have been unfairly used by others, and I mean to reveal the plots and steps that have been taken against you."

"Your words are madness," Radarad snapped. "The Warra tribe has long deprived our women and children of water and food. Now they seek to destroy us all."

"Nay, in that belief you are wrong!" Fastahn answered, his eyes pleading with Radarad to listen. "It was not the Warra tribe but a rebellion beneath the direction of Garat who worked in an alliance with Asbad and the Khurintu tribe!"

A sharp prod against his spine took Fastahn’s breath away, and he turned from Radarad to find himself looking into the angry eyes of Joranen. "You would dishonor the dead with baseless accusations?" Joranen demanded. "Garat was loyal to me and—"

"Garat had planned to murder you once Khurintu’s plans came to fruition!" Fastahn interrupted, forcing himself to hold completely still even as Joranen’s sword pressed more firmly against him. "Honored one, you were naught more than a lackey to him! And you remain as such to the Khurintu tribe. They are using your own hawks to relay orders to your warriors in the north!"

"Interesting."

Everyone—Warra guards included—froze at this new voice. As one, all turned toward the door where a man wearing the colors and insignia of the Lotessa tribe stood just beyond the entryway.

"This does not concern you, Arabano," Radarad warned.

"On the contrary, honored one, if what I suspect is true, this meeting is vital to the continued existence of my own tribe," Arabano answered. He stepped forward, his eyes questioning, and after a moment of hesitation Joranen nodded to the guards, who stepped aside to allow Arabano passage.

"What do you know of this?" Joranen asked.

"Less than what I would like, honored one," Arabano said, "but I would fain hear more of Fastahn’s words. The little I heard earlier intrigues me greatly. And when he is finished, perhaps I may add my own observations, for it seems that we have all been greatly deceived."

Embers of hope flared to life in Fastahn’s heart and his glance darted back and forth between Joranen and Radarad. He had not thought to bring Lotessa into this so soon, for in Lotessa’s eyes, he was probably a primary suspect. But it seemed that Arabano had seen beyond this, and with his help, the Khurintu tribe might yet be stopped.

The tip of the sword suddenly withdrew from Fastahn’s side and Joranen took a step back. "I will listen," he said. His eyes were still dark with anger, but confusion was there as well and the anger could be redirected.

"As will I," Radarad agreed, though he continued to throw suspicious looks in the direction of the Warra guards who still blocked the exits.

A breath he did not know he had been holding escaped Fastahn, and he hurried to disguise this moment of weakness. Drawing himself up, he moved so that he could watch the faces of all involved, and as he did so, he noticed that his own hope was reflected in the shrewd eyes of Lotessa’s second-in-command.

"Speak," Arabano said, his tone holding both a command and a note of encouragement. "Tell us what you know, and hold nothing back. That which was conceived in darkness must now face the harsh light of day."

Fastahn closed his eyes for a moment, preparing himself. If he was to convince Joranen and Radarad that what he spoke was truth, he would have to reveal the entire story. He would have to speak of the treacherous actions he’d taken against his own tribe. But there was no other way and time was now very short. He had chosen this path. He now had to face the consequences.

Taking a deep breath, Fastahn opened his eyes and began.

* * * *

Contrary to a popular belief held by most of Gondor’s subjects as well as many of the younger soldiers outside of Minas Tirith, Aragorn was not always right.

Eomer would concede that Aragorn was usually right, sometimes maddeningly so. But the king of Rohan firmly believed that no one—not even the heir of Isildur—had perfect judgement. The Rohirrim’s almost blind trust of Gríma when he became Theoden’s advisor was proof enough of that, and Eomer had vowed that Wormtongue’s deception would remain a singular event. Consequently, he now guarded his loyalty and trust with great reservations, and because of this, he was able to take a good step back from the situation and decide that Aragorn had taken a complete leave of his senses.

"You want to set an ambush for the Khurintu tribe outside the walls of Haradhur?"

Aragorn nodded and then inhaled sharply, his right hand flying up to clutch at his bandaged brow. "Yes," he hissed, his eyes shutting as Eomer gently prodded his swollen left wrist.

Alone for the moment in a dark corner of the building that now held the bulk of their forces, Eomer was attempting to determine whether or not Aragorn had broken his wrist during the explosion that had decimated the Lotessa camp. Unfortunately, the swelling had still not subsided enough for either king to accurately judge if the wrist had sustained a break or a sprain, and at Aragorn’s insistence, Eomer was now feeling the joint for splinters. Possibly as a means to take his mind off the pain, Aragorn had begun to talk about their next move, at which point the king of Rohan had decided that the injuries and the heat were beginning to wear on Aragorn’s mind.

"By your own reasoning, Asbad and Dashnir shall bring with them most of their tribe when they descend upon Haradhur," Eomer stated, unwrapping Aragorn’s splinted forearm so as to better examine the wrist. "We do not have the numbers to withstand them."

"We will have Lotessa with us."

"Most of Lotessa is in no condition to ride to battle."

"But they will ride, nonetheless. Their honor demands it."

Eomer pressed his lips together and shook his head, which was thankfully not throbbing quite as much as it had been before. He had to admit that there were definitely merits to Aragorn’s plan, but half of the Rohirrim force had yet to return from the desert and most of Lotessa had been decimated by Orthanc Fire. Their forces were sorely depleted. An ambush the likes of which Aragorn sought to devise required that they separate their men. They simply did not have the numbers to do that. "While I respect the need to uphold honor, Aragorn, I also know that honor alone will not bring victory. We are too few to split our forces, even with Lotessa’s aid. We need more men for an ambush."

"We need more men if we are to do anything about Khurintu!" Aragorn snapped. "There are not enough of us to withstand a siege in the city, for were we to barricade ourselves in, the rest of the tribes here would turn against us. And Khurintu would easily surround us if we rode out to meet them in the open desert. Nay, Eomer. An ambush just outside the walls is the only option with any hope of success."

"We would last longer in a siege," Eomer argued.

"But in the end, we would be defeated," the king of Gondor returned, flinching slightly as Eomer continued to probe his wrist. "And the residents of Haradhur would suffer greatly in a war that is not of their making."

"Then if you seek to hasten our end, why not ride out into the desert and spare Haradhur all of the battle?" Eomer demanded. "That seems a wiser course in my eyes. My men and I are more accustomed to such battles. We may stand a better chance if we ride upon the open sand."

"No. Whatever Khurintu’s final goal may be, we cannot forget that we are not the only players in this game," Aragorn said, flinching once again under Eomer’s touch. "Legolas and Gimli have yet to be found. They are needed for something, and I suspect a demonstration of sorts is planned, possibly for the purpose of consolidating power. If we ride out and meet Khurintu, they will see us coming and either slay their prisoners or send them away with a detachment. If we allow Khurintu to come near the city while we wait in ambush, we may have a chance to free our friends in a surprise attack. Additionally, there is Umbar’s possible connection to be considered. If we barricade ourselves within the city, it will be difficult to send any messengers away. It will also be difficult to send messengers if we ride out to meet Khurintu, for we will not follow a path with which the men are familiar. But if we wait outside of Khurintu, the road north will not be blocked and if the battle goes ill then the survivors can retreat on a known path for home."

Eomer frowned darkly, but he did not take his eyes from Aragorn’s wrist. He had discovered a lump that was either splintered bone or additional swelling. "Let us suppose that you are right," he said at length, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the wounded joint. "Let us suppose that Gimli and Legolas are being brought to Haradhur. And let us suppose that a surprise attack will manage to free them. What then? Are we to liberate them only to have them perish with us?"

"There is a chance of success," Aragorn insisted. "There is a chance that some will survive."

Glancing up at his friend, Eomer noted that Aragorn’s face had gone white and that his eyes were sealed shut. "Estel means hope, does it not? The elves named you well. Perhaps they named you too well."

His jaw set, Aragorn opened eyes that were dark with pain and fixed a stern glare upon Eomer. "And what would you have us do, king of the Mark? Have you better suggestions to offer?"

"We send riders back to our own lands the moment the sun sets and we stay hidden within the city," Eomer answered.

Aragorn frowned. "That is not how the Rohirrim do battle. You meet your foes boldly upon the plains."

"We also retreat when overwhelmed. We are, after all, the people who built Helm’s Deep." Eomer sighed and looked back down at Aragorn’s wrist. "It is still too swollen to be certain," he said. "And this bump is not hard enough to be bone. I cannot tell if this is a break or not. But even if the wrist is not broken, it is badly sprained." Rohan’s king eyed his fellow king speculatively. "As you are a healer, it should not be necessary for me to say that this wrist should not be used in the immediate future. But I think I will say it anyway."

"And as a healer, I will agree with you," Aragorn sighed. "But as a king, I am obliged to look first to my country and my people."

"Then let us prepare for a siege," Eomer argued. "Send riders to warn Faramir and Imrahil of what has befallen and recover while we wait for our enemy to come."

"It will not take the enemy long to come, for Haradhur will turn against us, as I said before," Aragorn answered. "And though you can boast of the greatness of Helm’s Deep, Erkenbrand and his men are the only Rohirrim who seem to know how to make use of a fortress. The rest of you are essentially lost in a siege. Nay, Eomer. Time is not a luxury we have. We cannot afford to let Khurintu come to us. We must meet them, and we must meet them on our own terms. If we stage an ambush, we can set the scene before they arrive."

"Aragorn, this is folly!" Eomer hissed. "We have not the numbers for…" He suddenly trailed off, his sharp hearing catching a stir on the other side of the building.

"Numbers will be a problem no matter what plan we adopt," Aragorn said.

Eomer frowned and straightened, his eyes locking onto an area where part of the building had been knocked out to create a passage into a neighboring building. The disturbance seemed to be coming from there.

"Furthermore, if we set an ambush, we can give the illusion of many men, which may confuse Khurintu and buy us time."

Shaking his head slightly, Eomer looked back at Aragorn and abruptly realized that the other had yet to notice the growing commotion. His hearing has been damaged, Eomer realized with a flash of panic. Eorl’s blood, the signs were there. I should have seen this ere now! "I believe we are about to receive visitors," he said slowly, watching closely for Aragorn’s reaction.

Aragorn blinked and turned his head, looking in the direction that Eomer indicated. A frown momentarily settled upon his face before it vanished quickly, leaving his expression blank. "Indeed? Let us go and greet them."

"Aragorn…"

"Come," Aragorn said, rising swiftly. An involuntary hiss followed this movement and Eomer moved forward to support his friend, earning him a dark glare from the king of Gondor.

"Easy," Eomer cautioned, trying valiantly to ignore a look that might have unnerved even Sauron. "Your injuries are catching up with you. If you wish it, I will see what is happening and—"

"We will go together," Aragorn said sharply, shrugging off Eomer’s hold and moving forward somewhat awkwardly. With a resigned sigh and a quiet oath about stubborn kings, Eomer shook his head and followed.

"Honored Eomer!" a voice called out, and Eomer suddenly discovered that Budari had joined them. "It would seem that some of your men have returned."

Several thoughts flew through Eomer’s mind, but one settled heavily. "Some?" he questioned.

"Half," Aragorn said, his eyes looking at the dusty Rohirrim who were now being ushered into the building and given water. "Half have returned."

Now with a quiet oath directed toward his own people, Eomer pushed his way past Aragorn and came face to face with Eos, who was gulping desperately at a water skin. Seeming to sense his superior’s gaze, Eos hastily lowered the water and backed up a step, lowering his eyes. "Sire, my men and I have returned. I apologize for our tardiness. We would have come sooner, but as we traveled through the city we were forced to take a different route and journey through the buildings. There were too many watching eyes."

Eomer’s eyes darkened and he looked at the other four riders. "Your horses have been seen to?"

"Yes, my lord," Eos answered, still keeping his gaze directed at the ground.

"I sent ten into the desert. Why are there only five here?"

Eos blinked and his head came up, his eyes finally meeting his king’s. "My lord?"

"Where are Captain Arhelm and the other four riders?" Eomer demanded.

Eos seemed to be at something of a loss, and his brow furrowed. "We separated, my king. We thought they would have returned long before we did."

You separated!?" Eomer demanded. He would have said more, but a hand suddenly came down upon his wounded shoulder, forcing him to pause as his breath caught within him. Aragorn now stood at his side, and a quick shake of the other’s head warned Eomer about losing his temper. And somehow, despite the heat and his anger, Eomer managed to heed this advice.

"We discovered a trail of horsemen leading away west that appeared to have broken away from Khurintu’s trail," Eos explained. "We feared that Lord Gimli and Lord Legolas might have been taken with them, so we separated to follow both trails."

Taking a deep breath, Eomer closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Had he been with the group and discovered the different trails, he would have probably done the same thing. But that did not make dealing with the consequences of this decision any easier. Arhelm and his men were still missing. There was no way of knowing whether or not they had found Gimli and Legolas. Or if they were even still alive. Deciding to concentrate on what could be discovered, Eomer firmly reined in his temper and looked at Eos again. "Report on your own progress, then," he ordered. "What did you discover?"

"Naught of note, sire," Eos said quietly with a slight shake of his head. "We followed them as far as we were able and then a bit further, but for all that, we can only confirm that the bulk of Khurintu traveled northeast. We know nothing else. They traveled swiftly and stopped little."

"There was no sign of prisoners?" Aragorn asked.

"None, my lord. I am sorry."

Eomer grimaced, frustration running rampant in his mind. "If there is nothing else, Eos, then you and those with you are dismissed. Seek rest and healing. We shall have need of your spears come evening."

Eos gave a short bow, but he did not turn to leave. Instead, he hesitated and watched Eomer closely, a sliver of fear gleaming in his eyes. "My lord…we saw fires in the Portu encampment and were told it was the work of Orthanc Fire. Is this true?"

Eomer sighed. "It is."

"But—"

"Sleep, Eos," he interrupted. "I realize you have questions, and they shall be answered. But not now. Now you must recover."

For a moment there was no response to this, but then Eos nodded, his posture clearly indicating reluctance. Satisfied that he would be obeyed, Eomer turned around and found himself confronted with the troubled faces of Aragorn and Budari.

"Our numbers continue to diminish," Budari said quietly.

"Surely you have allies here," Eomer reasoned. "Surely the Lotessa tribe has clout that will persuade others to join us."

"Not after the events of last night," Budari said. "The Orthanc Fire is being interpreted as a sign that the Destroyer is seeking vengeance. And as we have allied ourselves with you, others fear to join."

"But the fires also struck Soltari and Portu," Eomer argued. "They had not allied with us. Surely the people here cannot think that we are the sole cause of this!"

"The people here are frightened," Aragorn murmured, shaking his head. "They seek something to blame this upon, and a foreign presence is easily targeted." Gondor’s king pursed his lips and looked away for a moment before turning to Budari. "What news has been gathered of Fastahn and the Soltari tribe?"

"Few of those I sent to listen for tidings have returned," Budari said, his eyes hooded. He had turned and was watching the five Rohirrim who had recently arrived. Silent for a moment, he eventually signaled to one of the tribesmen that had been accompanying the Rohirrim and had a rapid conversation in the tongue of Harad.

Eomer himself still had no understanding of this strange language, but based on Aragorn’s expression, something was wrong. "What do they say?" Eomer hissed, hoping that Aragorn would be able to provide him with a quick summary.

Aragorn looked his way and blinked. "Pardon?"

Realizing with a flash of despair that Aragorn had not clearly heard him, Eomer raised his voice slightly and prayed that Aragorn’s hearing would recover in the near future. "I asked for a translation."

"We speak of Arabano," Budari answered for Aragorn, breaking off his conversation and turning back to the two kings. "He accompanied the men of Rohan for a time but then left on an errand of his own. After that, they decided to leave the streets and take to the buildings. Arabano was expected to arrive before now."

"First Arhelm and his men, and now Arabano," Eomer said grimly. "All missing and all expected to be here."

"I do not worry for Arabano himself but rather for what he has discovered," Budari said, rubbing his chin. "He was entrusted with the guard of your Rohirrim when they arrived. He would not easily forsake such a charge unless something of vital import caught his attention."

"But until we know what that something of vital import is, we can do nothing about it," Aragorn sighed. The muscles about his jaw bunched and then his shoulders gave a small shrug. "Come, Eomer. I wish to look at your left shoulder. It was hastily bandaged in the desert. And if you would accompany us, Budari, your input would be valued. We are attempting to prepare for tonight. We suspect that Khurintu will return."

"Whatever we attempt, the fact remains that we do not have the numbers to withstand them," Budari said.

"So Eomer has already noted," Aragorn answered. "But that does not mean we shall not try."

"He wishes to stage an ambush just outside of Khurintu," Eomer said flatly.

"An ambush?" Budari’s eyebrows climbed up under the scarves wrapped about his head. "We may as well fall upon our own swords and deny Khurintu the honor. We will not withstand them for even a single night, and our defeat will be witnessed by every tribe here!"

Eomer felt a tangible wave of anger and frustration flow off of Aragorn. "As I have already told Eomer, I—"

"Hold!"

Everyone froze and looked toward the building’s main entrance.

"Hold, I beseech you, honored ones," the command repeated itself, and Arabano came forward, sweat glistening off his tanned skin. "If you speak of strategy, you may wish to reconsider whatever plans you have made."

"You were ordered to see to the safety of the returning Rohirrim," Budari said somewhat curtly. "Why were you not with them when they arrived here?"

"I was seeing to the safety of the greater whole, honored one," Arabano answered, his chin rising slightly in challenge. "And my labors have proved fruitful."

"Indeed?"

"I know why the Soltari tribe was a target of the Orthanc Fire."

A tremor of excitement rushed through Eomer, but even as it did so, despair reached up to reclaim his heart. The time for information had passed. Questions might now have answers, but in the end, it was going to come down to a final confrontation with the Khurintu tribe that they would lose because they lacked the numbers for it.

"That is well and good, but how does this knowledge aid us now?" Budari asked, the tone of his voice suggesting that he shared Eomer’s thoughts on the matter.

"Because this knowledge may provide us with allies," Arabano answered.

A startled hush fell over them, and Eomer suddenly found himself daring to hope. "Allies?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. "What allies do you speak of?"

"The tribes of Portu, Soltari, and Warra," Arabano answered, and a faint smiled curved the sides of his mouth.

"How?" Budari demanded. "With suspicion as great as it is, I do not understand how—"

"If you would, honored ones, your questions can better be answered if you accompany me," Arabano interrupted. "Fastahn, Radarad, and Joranen await your presence, if you deign to meet with them."

Eomer blinked and looked toward Aragorn. "Fastahn?" the king of Gondor questioned. "What guarantee do we have that this is no trap?"

"I swear it upon my father’s honor," Arabano replied, his black eyes taking on a look of intensity. "May death and disgrace take me swiftly should I lead you into danger."

This was enough for Budari, who nodded his agreement. "I trust your judgement now as I have in the past. I will accompany you."

"I will come as well," Aragorn said, though his voice was still slightly suspicious.

"And I," Eomer added, not about to let Aragorn out of his sights. He was still concerned about the other’s hearing and as well as the broken arm. If the king of Gondor would not look to his own health, then the king of Rohan would do it for him.

"Then come," Arabano said, and it seemed to Eomer that he loosed a sigh of relief. "It is time to learn all that Khurintu has set in motion."

Character List (OC indicates Original Character)
Arabano(OC)—Second-in-command of Lotessa
Aragorn—King of Gondor
Arhelm(OC)—Captain of Rohan’s guard
Arnor(OC)—Aragorn’s horse
Asbad(OC)—Tribal head of Khurintu
Aulit(OC)—Tribal head of Gartabo (Also charged with overseeing this year's Gathering)
Bron(OC)—Member of the Portu tribe (Killed by Dashnir at Lake Supt)
Budari(OC)—Tribal head of Lotessa
Dashnir(OC)—Second-in-command of the Khurintu tribe
Eomer—King of Rohan
Faensul(OC)—Legolas’s elven horse
Fastahn(OC)—Member of Soltari’s advisory council (Temporary ruler of Soltari in the wake of Khesva's death)
Garat(OC)—Second-in-command of the Warra tribe (Killed by Legolas in a cave while waiting out a sandstorm)
Gimli—Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond
Imhran(OC)—Captain of Gondor’s guard
Imrahil—Prince of Dol Amroth and Captain of the Swan Knights
Joranen(OC)—Tribal head of Warra
Khesva(OC)—Tribal head of the Soltari tribe (Killed by Orthanc Fire outside of Haradhur)
Legolas—Lord of Southern Ithilien and Prince of Mirkwood
Mohart(OC)—Second-in-command of the Gartabo tribe (Inadvertantly poisoned by Imrahil at Dol Amroth, though he survived the encounter)
Radarad(OC)—Tribal head of Portu
Shade(OC)—Eomer’s horse

Tribe List
Gartabo—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Khurintu—Northern based warrior tribe
Lotessa—Southern based warrior tribe
Portu—Widespread raiding tribe
Soltari—Centrally located agricultural tribe
Warra—Northern based warrior tribe

Gimli awoke to a rather strange situation.

His dazed mind blearily registered this and promptly passed it off as something to be expected.

The dwarf was used to strange situations. It seemed to be the normal state of affairs when one had an elf for a friend, as elves themselves were more or less walking contradictions. Often there were times when Gimli’s common sense would advise one thing, his dwarven instincts would say something else, and his elven companion would offer up an utterly ridiculous third plan that everyone else would seize upon as the best option available. So when Gimli eventually clawed his way back to consciousness with the conflicting senses of urgent haste and contented safety to find himself in surroundings that felt both familiar and foreign, the dwarf was not unduly alarmed.

He was concerned, certainly. It always paid to be concerned when an elf lurked nearby. But Gimli didn’t try to immediately gain his feet, as he might have seven years ago. He knew better than to react that quickly without first learning the particulars of the situation, especially since it seemed that he had been injured in some way. His throat screamed and burned while throbbing pain from both his head and his thigh threatened to send him back to the blissful darkness he’d just left. It was only through sheer dwarven stubbornness that Gimli managed to cling to his newfound consciousness, and as he struggled to stay both awake and alert, memories began to assault him.

Images flashed through his mind in a disorienting blur of color and light. His stomach churned as he struggled to slow the barrage, and his temples began pounding as sound and sensation joined the assault. Once again, Gimli saw the endless stretch of burning sand glistening beneath the merciless desert sun. He heard the shrill scream of a dying horse and the deafening thunder of sudden explosions. He felt Legolas pin him firmly to the ground while the flesh and muscle of his thigh tore beneath the onslaught of a dull blade. His heart pounded and his breath quickened as his mind roared through the recent past, and Gimli discovered that he could now order his memories. He could trace the sequence of events up until the present, an accomplishment that made him inordinately proud. He was in the desert with Legolas, and the elf had found a cave, which explained why his surroundings felt both familiar and strange. Also, the two of them were safe for the moment, but this safety was fleeting. And they were injured. Both of them. Grievously so, in Gimli’s case, and in the case of the elf…

Where was the elf?

About this time, Gimli realized that he had not yet opened his eyes, an oversight that disturbed him but that he would have to worry about later. For the moment, he had to locate Legolas. Elves seemed to be in need of constant supervision, and Gimli could only imagine what trouble Legolas had found since the dwarf had last been awake.

Pooling his waning energy, Gimli concentrated and eventually managed to drag open reluctant eyelids. At first he did not notice a change in his vision, and the horrifying idea came that he might have been rendered blind. Fortunately, he then noticed a faint light reflecting off the stone of the cave’s ceiling above him, and following this light he eventually found the entrance to their haven where even more light spilled in. He was not blind; it was merely dark. Gimli allowed himself a quick sigh of relief before realizing that he had yet to discover Legolas.

There was still no sign of the elf.

Fear began to grow within the dwarf, but he ruthlessly shoved his terror to the back of his mind, calling upon senses other than sight. Until now, his mind had been a little too jumbled to process information garnered from things such as sound and touch, but as he concentrated, Gimli began to make out what seemed to be the whisper of faint breathing off to one side. He tried to look in that direction and quickly discovered that moving his head was not among his wiser choices. Closing his eyes against the pain that erupted in the back of his skull, Gimli ground his teeth together and decided that it would probably be easiest to find Legolas if he simply called out to the elf.

"Legolas?"

Gimli waited a few moments.

"Legolas?"

A few more moments passed.

"Legolas?!"

Panic hit Gimli like a charging mûmak, but just as quickly as his adrenaline mounted, it faded again. Legolas was clearly alive, for it was his breathing that had drawn the dwarf’s attention. And judging from its light, steady rhythm, Legolas was not unconscious but rather asleep. But he should have been roused by my voice, Gimli thought as fear edged its way back into his heart. And knowing his protective nature, it is unlike him to have fallen asleep in the first place. But then…how long has it been since Legolas last slept? And what hardships has he been forced to endure on my behalf? I know that he carried me for hours during the night, and he supported me for Valar only know how long prior to that. And he somehow found caves, which meant he carried me after the sun rose. After he rode the horse to her death. After he engineered our escape. Gimli blinked in the darkness as coherency caught up with him, realizing just how much the elf had endured. Has he taken no thought for himself?! He will be the death of me yet. I do not think that he slept at all yesterday, and I am certain that he received no food since…how long have we been away from Haradhur? Two days? It feels more like a lifetime.

Gimli might have pursued these thoughts further as it seemed wholly impossible that only two days ago he and Legolas had been safe—or at least relatively so—but the damp rag that had been sitting on his brow chose that moment to shift. Gimli almost jumped, for he had not even known the rag was there until it slid down over his eyes and then fell to the ground. And as faint hints of moisture caressed his cheek, the dwarf realized that the burning in his throat was a sign of intense thirst. As though hungry for attention, his parched body suddenly chorused along with his throat, demanding water. So intense was his sudden craving that Gimli moved to sit up without thinking of the consequences. He instantly cried out and fell back, the blinding throb of his thigh and head stopping his feeble attempts to rise.

Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes, panting in agony. This would never work. He needed water. Needed it badly. The dwarven constitution was made to endure hardships, but Gimli’s body had endured far too much already. He could not hold out any longer, yet he was completely incapable of moving himself. He needed Legolas to help him. It was a galling admission for the dwarf, but even worse was the thought that he would have to rouse his friend from desperately needed slumber in order to fulfill his own needs. Legolas would not object. In fact, if he failed to wake the elf and did further harm to his body as a result, the prince would probably have his head. But the notion of bothering Legolas for something so trivial as a drink of water caused a foul taste to rise in the dwarf’s mouth.

Which, of course, only served to make his thirst stronger.

Gimli sighed, cursing his fate. Much as he hated the idea, he knew that his health was too precarious to risk waiting for Legolas to wake on his own. Besides, the dwarf did not know how much longer he would be conscious, and there were things that needed to be discussed. He wished to know their exact location as well as how they were going to return to Haradhur. There was also the matter of dealing with the Khurintu tribe, assessing Legolas’s own condition, hashing out exactly what had happened to them and why, and the list went on from there. No, it was clear that Legolas’s rest, no matter how deserved or how needed, had to come to an end.

"Forgive me, my friend," Gimli murmured, mustering his strength. "Were it in my power to do so, I would see that none disturbed you for weeks on end. You have more than earned a respite. But as that cannot be, I ask your forgiveness." Gathering all the energy that he could, the dwarf raised his arm and reached out toward Legolas. His fingers brushed bare skin on the elf’s upper arm, but he flinched back, shocked at the unnatural heat that he’d found. Fear now pressed him onward, and again he touched the elf, laying his hand on the arm and shaking it gently. Legolas had always seemed unusually sensitive to touch, and Gimli hoped that this would rouse the elf.

He was not disappointed.

Legolas shot upright, moving so quickly that Gimli’s head spun in an effort to keep up with the motion. Elven eyes flashed in the dim light of their shelter, and the dwarf abruptly realized that Legolas’s eyes had previously been closed. "By Mahal," Gimli hissed, staring at his friend. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Gimli?" Legolas’s normally soothing voice was rough, hoarse, and heavy with exhaustion. "Gimli, are you—"

"Do you have no sense of your own health?" Gimli interrupted harshly, his earlier need for water now forgotten. "Much as it pains me to admit it, I cannot look after you right now. I had thought you would look after yourself, but clearly I was mistaken."

The dwarf intended to go on, but his dry throat protested his tirade by initiating a series of sudden and violent coughs. The movement made the ache in his head explode in a burst of white agony and his body began to writhe, causing his right thigh to scream in pain. For a brief moment, he was dimly aware of frantic motion off to the side as well as a deep moaning sound that echoed off the cave walls, and then he plunged into a dark abyss of torture.

"Gimli? Gimli?!"

The insistent voice seemed to come from a great distant, and Gimli struggled to answer it. The pain was beginning to lessen a bit, but his mind could not seem to right itself. The world tipped to one side, and nausea assailed his stomach. Flashes of light went off within his head, and as he gasped as reality rolled around him. Darkness loomed above, threatening to smother him in its thick folds.

"Gimli! Can you answer?!"

Within his mind, Gimli spun and cried out, seeking the voice and the comfort it would bring. Never before had the dwarf felt so disoriented or so panicked, and his confusion made the situation even more bewildering.

"You are too stubborn for this, dwarf. You do not give in so easily. Elbereth, open your eyes, Gimli. Answer me! Pedo!"

The lapse into the elf’s native tongue galvanized Gimli into greater action. Legolas didn’t do that unless he was very frightened or very serious. His friend’s fear lent the dwarf strength, and he fought harder to break through the barriers that kept him from the outside world. And at long last, after many futile attempts, he managed it.

"Legolas?"

"Here, Gimli. I am here." The relief in the elf’s voice was a balm for the dwarf’s spirit, and the dwarf was suddenly aware of hands gripping his shoulders tightly. "I am here," Legolas said again, seeming to speak for both of them.

"Legolas…" The second utterance of the elf’s name emerged as a plea for comfort. Under any other circumstances, Gimli would have been appalled at such weakness within himself and would have taken every measure to hide it. But now, Arda had been turned on its head and he needed his friend’s presence as an assurance that there was still a measure of sanity in his world. He needed to know that he had not fallen prey to madness, which was becoming a very real fear for the dwarf.

He felt a touch on his brow, and then the elf’s arm slid beneath him, curling around his head and shoulders with infinite gentleness. He was lifted slowly, but even that motion pushed his pounding headache up a level and he could not hold back a pitiful moan. The elf stopped immediately and waited a moment before raising the dwarf slightly higher. Moist fabric was placed against his lips and Gimli eagerly opened his mouth.

"Gently," Legolas warned. "Do not rush. See how it settles."

Had it not been for the rising nausea in the dwarf’s stomach, he might not have heeded his friend, but the sudden fear that he would lose this precious water enabled Gimli to suck the water from the fabric at a slower pace. After he had drained most of the moisture from the cloth, Legolas eased his head back down and placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder as though to reassure him of his presence.

"More?" Legolas asked.

"Not now," the dwarf muttered, closing his eyes as the world spun carelessly around him. His stomach was spinning with it and he feared greatly that he should lose the little that he had managed to drink.

"You need water, my friend. Can you not take a little more?"

"Later," Gimli promised, wincing at the fear that still colored the elf’s voice. His heart pounded, his head ached, his thigh throbbed, and his stomach rolled, but his thirst was now sated. That helped immensely. Reaching up, he placed his hand over the hand that rested on his shoulder. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You are more than welcome." There was a pause, and then Legolas spoke again. "Do you remember what has happened?"

"For the most part," Gimli said, keeping his eyes closed. It seemed to hurt less if he didn’t strain to see what could not be seen in the dark. "I know where we are and what we face, so you may set aside your fears of delirium."

"I am glad," the elf said. "You have been unconscious for many hours, and I was concerned about your head."

"Well, my mind seems to be whole so long as I do not move suddenly."

"Then we shall see to it that you remain still."

Gimli grunted. "I doubt we will be given the opportunity. My memories are unclear concerning the escape, but based on what I do recall, you have surely dealt the Khurintu tribe a terrible blow. They will doubtless be furious."

"I certainly hope so," Legolas said, a hard edge creeping into his voice.

The dwarf smiled a little. "From what I recall, it was well done, my friend. I only wish I could have aided you in someway, and for my weakness, I apologize. I also apologize for waking you just now."

There was silence in response to this, and after a moment Gimli opened his eyes in time to make out Legolas shaking his head. "I should be the one to apologize. I did not intend to fall asleep."

"It seemed that you needed the sleep," the dwarf pointed out.

"That may be true, but you needed me more."

"Fool," Gimli chided. "I was unconscious. There was not a better time for you to sleep."

"Perhaps." Something akin to reluctant agreement was now in the elf’s tone. "You might be right, but—"

"Of course I am right," Gimli scoffed. "When will you learn that I am always right?" He inwardly smiled at the quick chuckle that followed this remark, satisfied that if Legolas could laugh, the situation couldn’t be too bad. "In any case, what was done is done and there is little use arguing over it now. It is time to move on to other things. How do you feel?"

"That was to be my question for you."

"I inquired first."

"I was not the one who spent most of the previous night unconscious. Your health is more dubious than mine."

Gimli grimaced and wished he could shake off his clinging weariness long enough to debate with Legolas. At the moment, he could not contest the elf’s logic. "I believe my actions have adequately demonstrated my health," he grumbled, hoping to find a compromise of sorts.

"But what of your leg?" Legolas pressed. "Did lancing the wound aid it? Do you think it is still infected?"

Knowing that Legolas would persist in this until he was satisfied, Gimli concentrated on his thigh and tried to analyze the pain he felt. "It is not worse," he said at length. "That is probably a good sign."

"Probably?"

"Legolas, I am no more a healer than you are. I do not know how my leg fares. I only know that it aches but that it does not seem to ache more than it did earlier."

"And we believe that this is probably a good sign?"

"Yes, we do. Or rather, I do, at least. Now what of you?" Gimli asked, shifting the conversation abruptly. "What of your own wound? You were shot, were you not?"

"I was," Legolas said, apparently willing to allow the change in subject. "But it was no great matter. I drew the arrow while still in the desert and it has not bothered me since."

Gimli pursed his lips. "But when I touched your arm to wake you, your skin was hot. Mayhap the arrow was poisoned, or maybe the wound is infected. Do you—"

"The wound was shallow and I washed it as best I could," Legolas interrupted. "I feel no trace of infection."

"But the fever—"

"I believe the sun to be responsible for the heat upon my skin," Legolas explained, sounding somewhat defensive. "We went without shelter for too long, and elves were not intended for this environment."

Looking back years later, Gimli could never determine exactly what set it off. Perhaps it was the way Legolas spoke. Perhaps it was the way he phrased his words. Perhaps their presence in a cave had relaxed Gimli’s mind. Perhaps stress and fatigue had finally overcome him. Whatever the reason, though, the fact that Legolas’s fever was nothing more than a sunburn struck Gimli as ridiculously funny, and the dwarf began to laugh.

These were not quiet chuckles or idle snorts of amusement. These were full, convulsive laughs that clawed their way up from Gimli’s stomach and rattled his pounding head until he felt like taking an axe to his neck. Gasping for air as loud guffaws tore through him, the dwarf tried to control his mirth but found that he could not. His laughter rang through the cavern along with his grunts of pain, and when Legolas began to call his name in an attempt to calm him, Gimli only laughed harder. Tears streamed down his face, his chest shook and heaved, and his voice became high and breathy as the laughter continued.

"Gimli!" Legolas shouted, and in the dim light, the dwarf could make out traces of panic in his friend’s eyes. "Gimli, you will tear your wound!"

Gimli was very aware that he was in danger of reopening the wound on his thigh because he could feel it stretching each time he laughed. At one point he managed to wipe the smile from his face and assume a sober expression, but that lasted only briefly and then a mad giggle escaped him that shook his dwarven pride to the very core.

"Gimli!"

The elf was frantic now, and Gimli felt something cool and moist come to rest on his brow just before a hard slap landed on his cheek. His head screamed, but the pain and shock of the blow managed to do what the dwarf could not. His laughter subsided, and his mirth faded. Seizing the opportunity, Gimli reasserted control and took several deep, calming breaths.

"Gimli?"

Winded and weary, Gimli reached up and found the elf’s hand. "My apologies," he whispered. The world was spinning again, and he felt nausea lurking in the depths of his stomach. "I do not know what came over me."

"I feared your fever was driving you to madness," Legolas murmured. "You are still dangerously warm." He gave the dwarf’s fingers a squeeze and then released them, his hands moving to the wet cloth on Gimli’s brow and adjusting it.

"A fever could not accomplish what you have failed to do," Gimli answered weakly. "Having now survived many years of your friendship with my sanity intact, I am prepared for almost anything."

"I could say the same for myself, Master Dwarf," the elf responded with a hint of relief in his voice. "Would you like more water now? The laughter seems to have tired you."

"Nay, my stomach is fitful," Gimli said. "I do not think it would be a good idea to drink."

"Then perhaps you should sleep again. You may feel better when you wake."

The idea was tempting. Seductively tempting, in fact. Even now, the wispy tendrils of unconsciousness called to him, luring him closer with the promise to release him from his pain. But he could not give in. There were reasons he had roused the elf, and he would not seek his own welfare until certain things had been discussed. "I have rested enough already," the dwarf said, attempting to sound firm. "Now that I am awake, there are things we must speak of, namely our plans for the future. What shall we do next?"

"Rest."

Gimli resisted the urge to roll his eyes, not knowing if Legolas would be able to see the gesture. "In ideal circumstances, I would be more than happy to go along with that suggestion, but we both know that these are not ideal circumstances."

"Which makes it all the more imperative that you rest."

The dwarf frowned. "We cannot stay here, Legolas. Khurintu will surely come looking for us. And even if they do not, we must find Aragorn and Eomer. Somehow, we must make it back to them."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Legolas’s voice was suddenly sharp. "I am weak, Gimli. Between the sun, captivity, and ú-glîr, I have lost what strength I had, and I am slow to regain it. I cannot carry you any further. Will you be able to walk by evening?"

Startled by the outburst, Gimli took a moment to study his companion. "You have already considered this," he observed at length.

"And you have failed to answer my question."

The dwarf scowled at the elf’s persistence. "Nay," he admitted reluctantly. "I do not think I shall be able to walk by evening."

"Nor do I."

"But that does not prevent you from seeking aid. You could go without me."

The unbridled power of a full elven glare descended upon the dwarf, forcing its way through the dark to make its presence known. Even though he could not see Legolas’s face clearly, Gimli found himself squirming slightly as the searing heat of a deadly gaze fastened itself upon him. "I will not leave you behind."

"We cannot both stay," Gimli reasoned as he mentally pleaded with the elf to look somewhere else.

"What if something should happen while I was gone? Earlier you mentioned that I had dealt Khurintu a terrible blow, and in that, you do not err. They shall be searching for us, and they shall seek retribution. You cannot hold them off by yourself. You cannot even sit upright under your own power! What would happen if Khurintu were to find you here alone?"

Gimli wondered if stupidity was a natural elven trait or if it was acquired sometime during childhood. "Pause for a moment and think, Legolas. What would happen if Khurintu were to find you here with me? Your presence would not improve my chances! You said yourself that you are weak. Think you that you would be able to stop them should they find us? They will kill you on sight for what you did to them. Better that one of us escapes rather than both perish."

Legolas said nothing for several long, awkward seconds, and then he turned away, finally freeing the dwarf from his gaze. "I will think on it," he said.

"Mahal save us," Gimli sighed. "The elf is going to think on it. I fear that fortune has truly deserted us."

The elven glare returned and Gimli wisely decided to say no more. He had pressed his luck too far already. Besides, the conversation was draining for him, and he doubted that any good would come of further discussion. It was clear to Gimli that separating was their only real option, and it was clear that Legolas knew this as well, else he would not have been so upset by it. The elf had tried to keep them together, but that was no longer possible. In fact, as Gimli considered recent events, he decided that they should have separated long before now. Legolas should have made his escape alone. He had risked much by taking Gimli with him. If it hadn’t been for that strange song…

"How did you do it?" the dwarf wondered aloud.

"Pardon?"

"When we escaped," he clarified. "How did you control both the horses and the men? You sang something, but I have never heard its like before."

"Hopefully you will never hear its like again," Legolas muttered.

"But what was it?" Gimli asked, curiosity and a desire to fight his exhaustion now pushing him. "It seemed…I do not know if I could even begin to describe it. I felt pulled away and lost, but I had no desire to return. The song was…everything."

"The song was the sea."

Gimli’s heart lurched into his throat. "The sea?"

"Yes. Or rather, something like unto it." Gimli heard the elf shift uncomfortably beside him. "For the elves, song is more than just words and melody. It is memory. And not just memory in the sense of things distantly recalled, but living memory. Many of our songs are moments of time that convey both lives and feelings. They can be windows to glory or doorways to suffering. When I sang among the Khurintu, I gave voice to the sea-longing that afflicts me. You have seen it take my mind before at Dol Amroth, so you know how powerful it can be. Mortal minds are not able to understand the sea’s call as I do, but I can give them a hint of its strength. And even diminished, that strength can be overwhelming."

Weariness had been swiftly overtaking Gimli, but this revelation pushed it back. His brow furrowing, the dwarf strained to see Legolas’s face in the darkness. "You can do this? Durin’s beard, why did you wait to use such a weapon?" he demanded. "If it is capable of so lulling our opponents, then—"

"I did not use it because I must surrender myself to the sea-longing in order to give voice to it. And when I do that, I risk losing myself to it permanently."

Gimli blinked, stunned. "And you risked this?!"

The elf chuckled. "First you were angry that I hesitated, and now you are angry that I acted?"

"Legolas!"

"Peace, my friend," Legolas sighed. "It was a risk and one I do not wish to take again, but the situation was desperate. I had hope that I would not become lost because my mind had become wholly occupied with concern for our safety."

"Our safety?" Gimli echoed. "It seems to me that you were not concerned with yourself at all."

"Your safety, then."

"And what if that had not been enough?"

"Our friendship is one of my surest anchors against the sea-longing. I believed that it would pull me back should I go too far, and I was right. Beyond that, we are in the desert. The sea-longing is less here. I would not have attempted such a thing if the sea was close by, but it is not. I was safe enough."

"Even so, you should not have done it," Gimli insisted, now spent from his outburst. "Legolas, you give too much."

"I give only what we have ever given each other," Legolas answered, his hand falling upon the dwarf’s shoulder. "I give you my friendship and trust. I ask that you do the same. Hush now, and rest. We will speak again when you are stronger."

"We should speak of this now," Gimli said, though he could feel his eyes growing heavy.

"Nay, we should not. We can do nothing while the sun is overhead save to rest, and that is what you shall do. Peace, Gimli. I will watch over us."

"But—"

"Hush."

"Legolas—"

"Hush!"

This time, Legolas’s command was accompanied by the elf’s hand passing over Gimli’s face, and the dwarf’s eyes automatically fluttered shut. And once closed, Gimli found that he had no desire to open his eyes. The weariness he’d pushed away had returned, and though he struggled against it, he could not prevail.

"Sleep," Legolas ordered quietly, and as he spoke, he removed the damp cloth from the dwarf’s brow and began wiping it over Gimli’s temples, his movements rhythmic and soothing. Gimli felt his fever diminish a bit, and his body began to seem distant and remote. He could not win this round, and Gimli was wise enough to recognize defeat when he met it.

"Wake me before sunset," he managed to say as Legolas’s presence slipped further away from him.

"Sleep," the elf whispered once more, moving the cloth down so that its cool moisture brushed over Gimli’s neck and shoulders. Finally surrendering to the darkness, the dwarf fell into a dreamless night, leaving Legolas to assume a lonely vigil.

Aragorn knew that the shock from his injuries was beginning to overcome him. He was too good a healer, too good a Ranger, and too good a king to ignore this fact. During his younger years, he had learned over and over again that survival meant acknowledging his weaknesses, whether they were in his plans, his men, or himself. Aragorn had also learned that once weaknesses were acknowledged, they had to be overcome. In the case of injuries, the wounded party either had to step up or step down, and Aragorn was well aware that he could not back away from this in order to rest. Rohan and Gondor needed leadership, and though he trusted Eomer with many things, the king of the Mark did not know nearly enough about Haradrim culture to cope with what was happening on his own. So Aragorn steeled his will and did his best to push away all the instincts of his body that demanded sleep and healing. There was simply no time for it.

Eomer, however, seemed to hold a different opinion. He pressed uncomfortably close to Aragorn as they followed Arabano through Haradhur’s winding streets, almost as though preparing to catch him should he stumble or fall. And while part of Aragorn was grateful for the concern, another part was becoming increasingly annoyed. Aside from embarrassment at being subtly coddled before the flanking Lotessa guards, the king of Gondor felt as though some kind of trust had been broken. Did Eomer really expect him to topple over? Did he have so little confidence in Aragorn that he thought him incapable of assessing his own health? Yes, he was pushing himself and yes, he should stop to rest, but given the situation, these things could not happen. And Aragorn still had strength enough to rise to the occasion. Did Eomer truly doubt his judgement so much?

Probably, Aragorn thought to himself with a mental sigh. And were I in his place, I would act no differently. Wearily, the king shook his head. He knew that part of his own irritation came from concern over his injuries, and he knew that Eomer was an easy target for his anger. He would have to assume better control of his emotions. Arabano had promised them allies, but in the desert, both promises and allies came with conditions. Aragorn needed to be alert and calm in order to see what compromise they would be forced into making. He could not allow anger to cloud his mind.

"We are here, honored ones," Arabano suddenly said.

They stood before a low building that seemed to be unconnected to any of the buildings around it. Looking at the empty carts outside and the wide doorway, Aragorn guessed that this was a market building of some kind. It was difficult to see within the structure, but it was apparent that no one stood near any of the windows or doors. That meant no one had been stationed as a guard, which did not make sense. There were guards everywhere in Haradhur, especially after the events of the previous two nights. Frowning, Aragorn turned to Arabano, wiping the sweat from his brow as he did so. "You are certain that this is no trap?"

"As certain as one can be in uncertain times, honored one."

That wasn’t exactly reassuring. Judging from the way Eomer’s hand rested firmly upon the hilt of his sword, his opinion was shared. "You said that Fastahn, Radarad, and Joranen await us," the king of Rohan said. "And you said there were guards. Have they all chosen to stand well inside? And if so, why?"

"I would not lead you here unnecessarily, honored one." Arabano’s voice had become hard, and his dark eyes flashed. "And I would not risk your safety if I did not think the venture to be worth your time. I do not know why there is no evidence of guards or watchers. Possibly they did not wish to draw attention to themselves. Have we not done likewise in our own camp?"

True enough, Aragorn conceded, thinking back to the precautions they’d taken when setting up camp within the buildings. Guards had been stationed throughout, but they had been positioned in such a way that the casual observer would not see them from the outside. Although, our guards hide because our forces are weakened and we fear to draw the attack of a greater opponent. Joranen and Radarad, insofar as we know, have no claim to such fears.

"I have come this far," Budari spoke. "I will go further. I have spoken already of my trust in Arabano. If this were indeed a trap, he would not have brought us."

"Assuming he knew it was a trap," Eomer muttered quietly. His words were soft, and Aragorn had to concentrate in order to understand what he’d said. He did not miss the fact that those around him seemed to have no problem hearing Eomer.

"Trap or no, let us go in," Aragorn said, taking a few steps forward. He would worry about his faulty hearing later. "Whatever awaits us, I would meet it in the cool of the shade rather than in the heat of the sun."

All seemed able to agree upon that, though Eomer’s hand remained tight upon his sword hilt, and they moved forward together, the guards continuing to follow them closely. Two moved up so that they walked before them, and Aragorn caught a flash of metal in their hands. If someone within the building—assuming that there was someone in the building—made any movement that might be construed as a threat, there would be bloodshed. Mayhap that will make Eomer happy, Aragorn mused, attempting to find a positive aspect. He has been anxious to draw his sword for many days.