Day 59, Gondor, westbound

The men eyed the soft hills and curves in the slope alongside the mountain foothills cautiously. Since the night they had been attacked at the River Gilrain a certain nervousness had overcome them, and every league they covered could bear potential danger. The landscape was jagged, and only a path wide enough for carts had been built in long ago. There was no escape from an attack, and every men was eager to leave the mountains behind. It was already afternoon, and the sun set. They spurred their horses, but still it would be half an hour’s ride to reach the open plains again.

Faramir would have preferred to stick out a camp among the rocks to escape the cold wind, but under the circumstances it was advised to better endure the wind than an assault. The preceding day they had searched for traces of the assassin. He had ridden southward, crossed the river, and then his trace was lost on the stony ground of the southern foothills. Unwilling to let him escape they had lost valuable time searching, but finally decided to get back on route. They were alarmed now; no second assault would be that easy.

The Prince pressed his horse to gallop. Hollow echoes of the hoofs accompanied their hasty ride, but the plains got in sight. Grey clouds covered the sky; there would be only daylight for another half hour. The stern faces of his companions lightened up when they left the ominous grey mountains behind.

It was the moment the first arrow flew.

* * *

Day 59, the castle

He could carry two buckets at a time without pausing from the fountain up the stairs of the eastern tower. It was something he was proud of; finally he had gained some strength. Though he would not volunteer for another week in the mine the work had given him something he needed when he met the boys. With the pleasant thought that he would no longer be easily beaten up he entered the small room, put the buckets near the fireplace and poured one part into a big pot like he had done many times the last week. Aragorn was half-sitting in the bed while Lomac stood at the table.

“Your wounds have healed,” the healer said lowly while he stuffed weed back into a little leather sac. “There is nothing more I can do for you.”

Vlohiri glanced at Aragorn, but the man’s face was unreadable, his voice flat.

“Lt. Medros knows it?”

“Medros has been breathing down my neck for days. I cannot withhold him any longer.”

There was a long pause, and the boy hung the pot over the fire, then stacked it up with some twigs and short cut branches. Lomac handed him two bowls to rinse. Aragorn looked down upon the cover, lost in his thoughts. Vlohiri washed the bowls thoroughly and shook them to get the rest of the water off.

“When will they come?” the prisoner finally asked.

“Tonight.”

Vlohiri looked up from the bowl, suddenly afraid that something terrible would happen. Aragorn’s chin had dropped to his chest, and for a long moment his eyes were closed.

“Send the boy back to the kitchen.”

“I will not, and he will not go,” the healer answered in a tone that made any contradiction superfluous. Vlohiri was surprised, but went on cleaning the spoons as if he had not heard it.

“He should not be here.”

“There are many things that should not have happened.” The healer put his baskets together and lit a pipe. “But we live in the present time. You cannot change what lies behind you.”

Vlohiri gave back the bowls and carried the hot water to the table. The healer brewed tea, and the boy brought one cup to the bed.

“Maybe your friends come back,” he whispered when he helped Aragorn to drink.

The man stared at him with eyes full of sadness.

“There is no hope for help, Vlohiri. Éomer was here. He did not find me. Why should he come back?”

“Please, you cannot make it alone.” Vlohiri was desperate. Tonight they would take Aragorn back into that dark, damp, and cold place, and he could not think of anything else but the haunted and depressed look of the prisoner. “If you try… You know, Medros just waits to kill you.”

“He might. But my friends would only return if they got a message. If they knew where to search.” He turned away. “But I have been missing for such a long time that they might have given up.”

Vlohiri put down the cup, not knowing what to say.

“There is something a friend of mine waits for,” Lomac said standing behind him. The boy almost jumped. The cup tumbled over the floor with a hollow sound. “And I promised to bring it to him as soon as possible.” The healer looked at Aragorn, then at Vlohiri. “And at the moment I cannot spare time for a two day travel to the east.” His stare was intense, and the boy could not evade it. “It would be very convenient if I had someone to trust with this delivery.”

Vlohiri swallowed hard and bit his lower lip.

“You sure you don’t want to go yourself?”

Lomac breathed deeply.

“Too many people here are sick,” he said shaking his head. “I simply cannot leave. Well, now, lad, think about it.” After a long glance to Aragorn he returned to the table.

For a moment the boy felt numb. All his dreams, wishes, moments he had hoped for would come to happen – now he was given the opportunity. He could do something that was worth doing. Away from the dishes, from the dull kitchen work, from the mine! His heart beat fast and hard as if it would burst out of his ribcage at any second. He would be the one to leave the castle for a delivery. But not only that! He would search for help for Aragorn! Finally he raised his head to face the man. Vlohiri had never seen a man stare at him with such intensity.

“I’ll make it,” the boy said, his voice only a breath.

The prisoner looked as if he was struggling for a decision that he would never have made without the urgency. And that he still might regret.

“Are you sure? This will be a long way. If you do not find Éomer on his way you will have to go to Minas Tirith.” Vlohiri’s mouth was too dry for words. He nodded still facing him. Aragorn bent forward. “You have to ask for Lady Arwen.” He let go his breath, breaking the eye contact. Thoughtful.

“Lady Arwen, all right,” Vlohiri repeated to make Aragorn speak again, take away his hesitation. He was so eager now to leave that he thought he could not wait any longer.

“You need something to prove that you were sent by me.”

Vlohiri gaped at him.

“What… what are you thinking of?”

Lomac had put some of his belongings into a sack and left the room, closing the door firmly shut behind him. Vlohiri heard the lock being placed in the eye. But he had no feeling of being locked in. It was more like being protected. Aragorn looked the boy up and down.

“Give me your belt.”

“My… belt?” he echoed disbelieving.

“And I need a sharp stone. Hurry!” Vlohiri ran to the window. He knew from his climbing that some of the smaller stones were loose. It was quite easy to rip one out. He stepped back to the bed. Aragorn had turned to his right side, as far as the shackles allowed. He grimaced with frustration. “Put a piece of wood under the belt so I can reach it.” The boy handed him the stone and hurried to oblige.

“What are you going to do?” he then dared to ask, holding the belt on the wood so Aragorn could scratch the first fine line.

“Put my name on it.”

“Your…” He frowned and, twisting his head to read it, frowned even more. “But… these are just… lines.”

Aragorn eyed the boy impatiently.

“These are Elvish runes,” he explained. “You will have to dye it to read it.” He finished the last scratch. A smile tugged at his lips when Vlohiri took back the belt with a mixture of pride and disbelief. “Do not show it to anyone. Do you hear me?” The boy showed no reaction. “There are men out there who might not be friendly to you. Are you sure you would recognise Éomer?” The boy nodded, closing his belt. “When you will have delivered that package for Lomac you will be on your own. Do you still think you can do that?” Again a nod. Aragorn sighed deeply. The thought of sending the boy away in a matter of such urgency left the bitter feeling of exploiting the innocent child. His chances of surviving the weeks of marching to Minas Tirith were slim – and yet the best he had. Aragorn’s hatred of the Lady suddenly flared. He tore at the chains, clenched his teeth and would have screamed. But Vlohiri’s frightful wide-open eyes forced him to control himself.

“Are you… are you all right? Aragorn?”

The prisoner let his chin drop to his breast. He looked wretched. When he spoke his voice was low and depressed.

“I fought Orcs and Trolls in Moria. I fought ten thousand Uruk-hai at the fortress of Helms Deep. And I battled with my friends at my side the armies from Mordor… And now, by a twist of evil fate that none of my predecessors would ever held possible, I cannot help myself.”

“I will leave Deromonor as soon as Lomac sends me.”

With an effort Aragorn raised his head again.

“Do not come to the dungeon again, no matter when you will leave.”

“You cannot forbid it,” Vlohiri obstinately replied.

“No… I cannot. But you should not risk it. Will you listen to me?”

It was a hard decision, and Vlohiri did not want to promise it. Finally he nodded.

* * *

Day 59, Gondor, westbound

One of his men was hit, fell from his horse, and Faramir did not know how many attackers lay hidden when they suddenly broke out of the bushes. He counted seven, eight, with bows and arrows, some with swords. No time to evade. Spurring his horse he drew his own sword, rode straight into the man, giving him no change to bend the bow. He hit him forcefully. The man toppled over, lay flat on his face without moving again, but Faramir felt the blow up to his arm. The weapon seemed to vibrate in his hand; he could barely hold on. Another arrow missed him by chance. He turned, facing the foe, taking the sword into his left hand. Two of his men lay on the ground, their horses gone. One was fighting from the saddle, the other two had beaten their opponents, but the fight went on. Faramir swung his sword, slashing the robber’s right arm. He went down screaming. When the Prince bent again from the saddle he was torn down, thrown on the grass. His horse suddenly jumped, startled, and raced off. The man with the hood grimaced, a dagger shone in his hand, raised to stab his heart. In the last moment Faramir brought up his sword to pierce the man’s side. He ended his life quickly. Turning he saw his men on the ground, motionless. The robbers took their belongings faster than Faramir could reach them. Two on one horse, spurring them, four of the eight men left the field, galloping south. The others remained motionless on the cold and hard ground.

Breathlessly Faramir sheathed his sword and knelt beside one of his men. He found him unconscious but alive as well as three others. The fifth man had died from an arrow wound to his back. He rose again, knowing he could do nothing for him but grief, for he had to take care of his companions who were still alive. But the strange attackers had left them nothing more than the clothing. The sacks with food and flint stones were gone as well as their horses. The Prince squinted into the setting sun where the men had ridden. It was all too obvious that even this ambush had been set up to kill him. It was a dreadful thought that an innocent man had lost his life instead.

In the fading light Faramir trod through the place of the fight when suddenly he found one dead man with a familiar face. He squatted and shoved away the hood. His clothing was that of a poor man from the plains, but Faramir knew he had seen him in Minas Tirith. He was one of the noble men who left shortly after the coronation of the King. He could not put a name to his face as much as he thought about it.

“My Lord, we should go back to the foothills as long as we have light.”

Faramir rose slowly, nodding.

“We bury our friend tomorrow.”

“But, sire…”

“We will not leave him like this.”

* * *

            Day 59, the castle, evening

Bayonor and Lanar followed Medros upstairs to the small room in the eastern tower. They had waited for this day to come, and Medros was more than eager, almost jolly, to fulfil the task that had been taken out of his hands two weeks ago. Upon entering his face was unreadable; he strictly kept his feelings for himself. He had brought the chains and harness, and not even the stare of the prisoner spoiled his mood. He glanced at the healer and the boy, both standing to his left, and while the healer’s expression was hidden behind beard and bushy eyebrows the boy looked as if would cry any moment. He stepped closer to him and bent down.

“We will take him back now where he belongs, and you, boy, will not ever get near the dungeon. Did I make myself clear?” The boy was too frightened to answer, and Medros swiftly turned, joined his men at the bed.

“There is no need to threaten him,” the prisoner said.

Bayonor sneered, but Medros cut him off.

“I still ask myself how that bucket came toppling down the stairs that night, and I think…” He glared at Vlohiri, who shrunk beside the healer. “…I think I have the answer to it.” He nodded to Lanar, who pulled the stick out of his pocket to gag the prisoner again, while Bayoner was fastening the foot chains after having thrown down the cover.

Vlohiri was about to step forward, to do something – anything – to make the men stop, but Lomac grabbed his shoulder, held him back at his side.

“You cannot help him anymore,” he said softly.

Medros glanced back. He had known all the time that the boy was pure trouble, and he would punish him with more than ten days in the mine if he ever caught him near the dungeon. This was his second pleasant thought of the day. He pulled the rough woollen tunic over the prisoner’s head, and only when they had him blindfolded he dared to open the handcuffs. Quickly they pulled the sleeves over the arms and fastened the harness to shackle the prisoner again. He did not resist, and Medros was disappointed, wondering what changed the man’s mood. Bayonor and Lanar grabbed him under the armpits to raise him from the bed. Aragorn stumbled the first steps under the sheer force when they tore him to the door.

Medros pierced Vlohiri with his stare.

“As I said, if I see you in the eastern tower, you are done for.” Then he left.

Vlohiri would not have borne another second. He trembled so hard he sat on the ground, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Lomac waited until the footsteps of the guards were gone, quickly checked if the floor was empty, then closed the door and squatted at Vlohiri’s side.

“So you will leave?” he asked lowly, but the boy only cried. “Pull yourself together, lad, he will not die from another week in the dungeon! He is stronger than that!”

“He will kill him. I know it.”

Lomac grabbed the boy’s arms.

“No, he will not! Lord Sadur made himself very clear. The prisoner will survive. Maybe longer than you when you cannot refrain from visiting him.”

Vlohiri drew up his nose, finally facing the healer.

“I won’t.”

“So you will deliver my package, very well. And did he give you a message for his friends? Don’t look at me like this! He knows that he has no chance to escape alone. The way they took him downstairs is the way it will be. Medros will chain him upright to the wall if he has to, but he will not be sloppy again.”

“How…”

“How I know of it? Now, ill news travel fast, my friend. And I get around in the castle. I hear this and that. That friend of yours escaped Medros when he opened the door and a servant found him and two of the guards unconscious on the floor in the dungeon. If the prisoner had taken time he could even have locked them up.” A little smile tugged at his lips, and somehow the boy felt proud of what Aragorn had done. “Well, he is a very trained poacher, is he not?” Vlohiri swallowed. He was afraid. He did not know what the healer meant. Slowly Lomac rose. “As I said I have a friend, who is also a healer, in the little village two day-rides eastwards from here.” He eyed the boy sternly. “Do you think you can make it?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Now that this is settled, you can carry some of that stuff to my study. You cannot go right now, anyway, and I have to take some time to, well, collect what I will hand to you.” Whistling he opened the door, put half of his belongings into Vlohiri’s hands, took the rest and marched down the stairs. It seemed that his knees did not ache anymore.

* * *

Day 60, the castle

Narana had looked at him with an unbelieving smile when he came to ask for bread and apples and the few belongings he had (not more than a spare pair of trousers and a warm jacket). After a moment she had realised that it was no joke, and she had tried ineffectively to talk him out of it. Then Lomac had entered the kitchen, and Narana had quarrelled with the healer that the boy was much too young to leave the castle alone. Lomac had remained silent until she was finished, then simply added that the boy could need some dried meat, too. It had been too much for the cook to accept the boy’s leave. She had cried silently, and Vlohiri had not known what for – his forthcoming absence from work or the fact that he might get killed.

At night Vlohiri had been too excited to find sleep. After the excitement of being chosen as a messenger and the sorrow of Aragorn’s return to the dungeon he finally heard the voice of reason in his head again. It told him clearly that this journey might claim his life. There were so many obstacles to overcome that no one could tell him how to find a safe route. Lomac had talked much during the early evening hours, but even he, experienced as he was, could not give him more than pieces of advice. He knew too well how dangerous a journey like this would be. In the end he had made him hope that the evil times were gone, and no strange beasts would cross his way. And that he should stick to the old route running from west to east.

Vlohiri sat beside the trader’s place on the cart, his sack hung over his shoulders, and while Lomac waved him, smiling with confidence, he but thought about the sudden weight of responsibility that was laid upon him. He nodded shortly. It felt… strange to leave the thick walls of the castle behind him. Even though he thought he would be safe until they reached the village he felt uneasy. The walls always had protected him – against cold and famine, against robbers and murderers. Within the castle he might have been easily neglected, but now that he left it seemed to have been a warm and cozy place.

“’Tis not for long,” Garawin murmured and smacked his lips to spur the horse. “You be back in a few days.” Vlohiri did not answer. If not much he had learned that secrecy was advisable if he wanted to reach Minas Tirith alive. Looking forward on the stony path he imagined himself meeting a beautiful woman, who would ask him what his name was and why he so desperately wanted to speak her. And then he would take off his belt and show her that her husband was still alive. And she would be grateful and embrace him – and sent a whole army to save Aragorn.

It was a beautiful thought and he sighed with pleasure. Garawin mockingly raised his eyebrows.

“Dreamt of a night in cosy feathers, eh?” he sniggered, and the boy erased the smile from his face.

“No. I have a delivery to make.”

“Yeah, I know that. Hope you’re not some spoilt lad with an attitude. Would not have taken you up if Lomac had not spoken for you. Now, be grateful, hear me? You’d walk then.”

“I am grateful,” Vlohiri stressed and tried to look as if he meant it. He could not risk being left alone in the wilderness. Not now. He would not even know where the village was. And Lomac had said that his friend would give him shelter at least for a night.

* * *

Day 63, Gondor, in the wilderness

Faramir called the small group to a rest. From the map he knew that the River Morthond was more than two day rides away, and without a horse it would take him an his wounded men four or even five days. It made no sense to try and reach the ford on foot. They had found water, a small brook coming from the mountain foothills, but they had had only one leather bottle to save some for later. And though they had not yet left the old western path they had met no one. Looking at his wounded and tired companions Faramir knew they would not last much longer without food or shelter. The barren lands did not soothe the eye. Nothing more than dry and hard grass for miles, only partly broken by rocks which stood out like the backs of giant trolls.

“Sire, there is someone coming!”

Faramir squinted. In the distance a horse with a cart could be seen, coming up from the southern plains.

“We meet him half way!” he ordered, and they trudged on, their speed even slower than that of the cart. When the coachman was close enough Faramir called him to halt. “Where do you come from, coachman?” he asked after introducing himself.

“A farm. No more than a mile.” The man eyed the five strangers disapprovingly. “Need food, hum? But it will cost you something, eh?”

“We will handle that.”

“Hope so. I will return quite soon!” The Prince did not like the look and the demeanor of the man at all, but even now he was no one to fear, and he spurred his horse as soon as they had thanked him.

Faramir turned to his men.

“One mile. We are going to have shelter tonight.”

* * *

Day 63, the castle

Medros did not want to hear Bayonor’s complaints again. He was sick of having to deal with this valuable prisoner, who bore more trouble than the rest of the men alongside the tunnels hacking and digging. He knew exactly what his friend would say when he had reached him.

“He does not work, Medros!” the younger guard hissed, trying to keep his voice under control. “He pauses so often he infects the others! What do you want me to do? Ignore it? If it goes on like this it comes to a standstill in two days! There are traders waiting, and the Lord…”

“I know all of that,” Medros cut him off, raising his hand. “I will talk to Lord Sadur about this… behaviour and hope that he will realise that we can only handle the situation our way.”

“There is no real hope he will see it like that.” Bayonor spat on the ground. “If we could let him taste the whip again it would force the others to work quicker. You know that too, Medros, so, I hope you can convince the Lord.” The young man turned and walked down the tunnel, while the Lieutenant breathed deeply before he left the mine to meet with the Lady’s son.

The Lord had thought about Beregor’s failure and that Tebenor was sent out to meet Prince Faramir when he turned westwards, and still he had not heard anything from either man or a watchman along the old path. He wondered if Tebenor could have missed the Prince and if what would the Prince do when he arrived at Deromonor? Sadur had realised long ago that he might have been a son of Denethor, but never be as noble a man as Faramir, the Ranger of Gondor, a lover of fine arts, and the friend of the King of Gondor. He would always be a bastard, neglected in the row of ancestors, never be sung of for his victories and deeds. His mother had taught him that no victory was given, but must be laboured for. Nothing could be taken for granted, but had to be achieved in a process. Therefore he had learned to fight, and he had stood his ground against upcoming Uruk-hai and Orcs, Mumakil and Haradim. He had not fled into the safety of the castle. But his deeds were few in the eyes of the great victory that two Hobbits had achieved, and when the festivities were over his return was that of a tired soldier who had just survived. The King had praised them all, he remembered, but Ithilien was given to Faramir.

In a way he hated Faramir more than he could hate the King. Truly, Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, had returned from the woods somewhere in the North to claim a throne that had long been deserted, but Faramir had just been the Steward’s second son, an unloved son after all, and why should he become the Prince of Ithilien? What was he more than a man who preferred reading to fighting?

Sadur looked over the gardens of the castle. It would be very different to live in Minas Tirith again, to enjoy the brilliance and beauty of the City, the lively days and warm nights. It was what he had enjoyed during his childhood and most of his adolescent time. He dreamt of overlooking the City in its splendor in the next summer. It would be an edifying moment to be cheered, to be respected as a just leader. There was no moment he longed for more than this.

A knock on the door interrupted his musing. Medros entered with a stern face and fast steps.

“My Lord.” He bowed and stood in the middle of the small and cold room, waiting for Sadur to begin the conversation. But the noble man at the window was not yet willing to think about the little necessities of the guards or peasants. He was dreaming of Minas Tirith’s highest building, the White Tree, and a jolly crowd of followers. When he finally turned away from the window Sadur bore an expression of unwillingness.

“Medros, why do you come to me?”

“My Lord, the prisoner, who your mother ordered to work in the mine, refuses to do his share.”

“Why should I bother myself with these minor details?”

Medros swallowed a harsh reply and continued in a polite tone,

“Your order was that the prisoner should not be whipped or in another form punished severely. I would like to know if you can give me a piece of advice to make him work. His disobedience already influences other prisoners.”

Sadur turned back to the window and let out his breath. His mother’s decision could be regretted but not revised. Her hatred was stronger than he had thought of. But as with all decisions his mother had taken, he would never openly contradict it. She had a mind of her own, and she had proven that she was successful. And her order had been strict: The King should survive as long as possible. It was said that the Dunedain could become two hundred years old. He would see a long time of serving before him.

“How did you punish him so far?”

“I chained him to the wall one night, but… to no avail.”

“Threaten him,” Sadur said slowly facing Medros again. “You might not be successful punishing him with the whip, but you can hit his heart.” Medros raised his eyebrows and waited in silent ignorance. Sadur grimaced. “What was the name of that boy the healer chose?”

“Flea,” Medros answered and suddenly understood.

“Flea… Well, send this boy back to the mine, and if the King shows signs of disobedience, make clear that the boy will suffer for it.”

“Very well, my Lord.”

“And continue to make his nights uncomfortable. Maybe this will encourage him to move during the day.”

“As you wish.” He kept for himself that a man like the King would not be broken because of restraints during the night.

“But… Medros,” Sadur held him back, “there is no punishment beyond a limit. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my Lord.” He hastened to leave the room, swallowing hard about the accusation he would kill the boy to gain a victory.

Medros had frequently checked the dungeon’s entrance during the last evenings, but never found the boy nearby. When he stepped down there now he heard nothing but the soft clanging of chains, a sign that the valuable prisoner had been taken back and was still awake. No whispered words, no hasty footsteps. Would finally the warning have been strong enough to educate even a boy like Flea? He could not believe it. He had seen the boy cry like a baby when they had brought the King back into his cell. The bond between them had got strong, and he knew that a child would not endure a long absence. He did not know who his parents were, but he had never seen him with either mother or father.

He went to the kitchen. Narana was cleaning the floor and barely looked up when he entered.

“Where’s that boy – Flea?” he asked when he did not see him at once.

Narana rose, grimacing with pain and leaned on the broomstick.

“He is not here.”

“I can see that!” Medros spat. “Where is he?”

“With the healer, perhaps.”

“He is not. I saw the old man at Bayonor’s place.”

“Then he is gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, woman? Where did he go?”

“He left the castle,” Narana answered sadly. “Lomac wanted him to do something for him – a package, ah, I do not know.”

“When did he go? And with whom?” Medros almost grabbed the cook’s arm to twist it, when she did not answer instantly.

“I don’t know. The healer knows. But he is gone for some days by now.”

“Damn it!” Medros turned on his heals, ran upstairs to search for Lomac. When he found him at a patient’s bed he was out of breath. “Where did you sent that boy – Flea?” he bellowed.

Lomac ended his examination as if he was still alone, spoke some friendly words, and touched the woman’s arm slightly before rising. Only then, with his little sac in one hand and a pot in the other, he turned to the fuming Lieutenant.

“I had an urgent delivery to make,” he said flat-voiced. “And the boy had nothing to do. So I chose him. Get out, please, the patient needs rest.”

Medros stepped back, so the healer could close the door.

“Where did you sent him, Lomac? He should not have left the castle.”

“I did not hear from Narana that he was bound to the castle. A friend of mine needed some herbs I could spare. He will have them delivered by now.”

Medros frowned.

“And you expect him back tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Or the day after that.”

“With whom did he go?”

“Garawin. He had the same way.”

“Garawin? That old drunkard?” The healer did not answer, and Medros hit his fist against the wall. “Where did they go to?”

“As I said… a friend…”

“I heard that,” Medros cut him off. “Where? Which direction?”

“Southeast.”

“He is gone for three days, right?”

“Could be.”

The Lieutenant turned angrily and almost ran down the corridor to find Lanar and Bayonor.

* * *

            Day 64, the castle

            Lanar left the castle with two trustworthy guards to search for the boy, while Medros hoped he could avoid meeting Sadur in the meantime. It would be unbearable to admit that he had lost the boy from under his very nose. It would be worse to be mocked for it. Still the pressure remained to make the King work again in the mine. Bayonor had been right: The refusal of one man led to the refusal of others, thinking that they would not be punished, too. It was hard to keep the mine going when a rebellion was imminent.

  With heavy steps Medros reached the dungeon. It was early in the morning, and he heard other guards pushing the prisoners out of their cells and down the tunnel to the mine entrance. Shouts and rattling of chains resounded from the corridors. The King stood at the small window, his gaze directed to the plains at the foothills of the grey and rough mountainside. It had been cloudy during the night, so the morning was not as cold as the nights before, and a fine mist lay over the landscape. It would become a sunny and clear day, ideal to ride out and hunt.

“What new kind of devilry has come to your mind, Medros?” he said without turning.

“I come to bring you back to the mine – and this time you will work.” He could see the noble man’s mouth twitch. “In case you refuse obedience again, that boy from the kitchen – Flea – will be sent to the mine instead.” He waited silently for the King’s reaction. He bowed for a moment, breathing, thinking. Medros knew suddenly that Aragorn was aware of the boy’s mission. He thought that perhaps the King had given the boy instructions where to go to, and that Lomac and the King conspired. It was outrageous to think of the consequences. He had to convince the King that the boy had not left the castle.

“How could you sink so low to blackmail me with the boy’s well-being?”

Medros kept a stern face and firm voice.

“The Lord and the Lady are interested in results. And I will make you work. I told you so before.”

The King turned slowly, and the Lieutenant tried to read his face. He found worry and determination and – curiosity. They were both treading on the edge of a knife.

“You will not send the boy back to the mine.”

“If you lie down the shovel for one moment longer than you are allowed,” Medros growled, “the boy will carry water buckets again.” He stood firm, convincing, threatening with his presence. “And this time I will not restrict it to ten days.” A long silence followed. Medros did not dare to evade the King’s stare. He knew he would lose his credibility in a flash. “Shall I send for the boy to bring him down? Right now he is cleaning the dishes.” Though the light was dim he could see the King’s reaction. He would submit to the threat; Medros had won.

“Leave him where he is,” Aragorn replied flatly.

Medros pulled the keys from under his cuirass and opened the door. Behind an expressionless face he celebrated his victory while he tightened the chains of the handcuffs and gagged the prisoner. Sadur would not know of the boy’s escape (and Medros’ sloppiness), and the prisoner would work though the threat had been a bluff.

If the boy had not escaped it could have been a nice day.

* * *

Day 65, Gondor, north-east bound

Rohan horses had always filled their breeders with pride, but right now Éomer could not help smiling about the sturdiness and stamina the beasts showed. They had been riding with hardly any rest for seven days now, and only the foothills of the southern mountains had slowed them for half a day. His followers looked happier than before; this was their element. They enjoyed nothing more than horseback riding and could ride on for weeks. Éomer remembered the stories he had been told when he was a little kid. The people of Rohan had had the fastest and best riders who ever crossed the great plains of their lands. He estimated they would need three more days to reach the ford of the River Morthond. On their way they would again ask the peasants and traders about their missing friend. Éomer swore to himself that they would find a trace. He did not want to think that Aragorn had been missing now for more than two months, and that his survival was unlikely. He would not allow any evil thought to rip away his hope.

* * *

Day 65, Gondor, eastbound

They had made it safely to the village though Vlohiri had to take the reins for some time when Garawin fell asleep on his seat. But the mare seemed to know where they went, and without delay or meeting strangers they had arrived at dusk of the forth day.

Vlohiri thanked the still not sober coachman and asked for the healer’s home. It was easy to find, and the village was so small the boy was astonished. Deromonor’s village was much bigger. Here he only saw a few huts along a small creek. An old woman swept the floor in the healer’s house when Vlohiri entered. The room was bigger than the room Lomac called his study, but it was filled up with baskets, sacks, bowl, parchment rolls, cages with birds, which sang loud enough to be heard in every corner, and only a table with two old chairs and a bed at the wall near the fireplace.

The woman left without a word, and the boy stepped closer, insecure what he should do. Shout? Wait? In the adjacent room he heard a soft humming. His curiosity won, and he stepped closer. The moment he stood on the threshold a man entered from the other side. Startled they both stood eye to eye, not knowing what to say.

“Oh, hum, I did not expect visitors now,” the man finally said in a deep and rolling tone. He spoke Westerling with an accent the boy had never heard before.

“I am Flea – Vlohiri,” he said and stepped back. “Lomac from Deromonor sends me.”

“Oh, hum, Deromonor, yes.” They eyed each other. They were both small and slender, but the healer had a lot of dark brown hair and a wild looking beard with ends thattouched his chest. Surrounded by wrinkles keen brown eyes gleamed in the shine of the fire. He was clad in a thick grey tunic and long skirt, which overlapped the trousers, and around his neck hung a strange kind of tool, made of silver. He outstretched a small, bony hand. It fitted exactly to Vlohiri’s, only that the healer was much older, hard to say how old. “What have you got for me?”

“A package.” Vlohiri hastened to unwrap it from his sack and handed it the bearded man.

“Something else?”

“Oh, yes.” Flushing the boy added a piece of parchment, which the healer unfolded and read. Vlohiri waited restlessly. “Why do you keep the birds?” he asked when he could not wait any longer. It was such a strange place to be in!

“Now, lad, wait, will you? I am reading.” And he read the clear handwriting of Lomac again. Putting it down he said, “Now, tell me something about you, Vlohiri. Lomac says you can be trusted. Well, and even if I do not want to pry into your life, I am gleaming with curiosity.”

Vlohiri was insecure how to react.

“What did Lomac write… and what is your name?”

“Oh, did he not tell you? Well, Lomac is getting old now! I am Trossénen, and I have walked these lands for quite a long time… And to what he wrote – now, you do not know how to read?” Vlohiri shook his head. “Ah, he should have taught you! It is so essentially important! How will you tell anyone about your hopes and dreams, about your plans and wishes – and how shall all this survive you when it is not written down?” Vlohiri looked puzzled. Trossénen laughed loudly. “Forgive an old man, young boy! I have lived my life with people who could not read or write until I came. I taught many, many of them! And I must say… I like it! It is worth doing. But, please, how rude I am… sit down, I will make tea for us.”

Vlohiri chose the place next to the fire and watched the healer’s swift and precise movements, which gave him the appearance of a younger man.

“Could you teach me, too?” he then asked when the tea steamed before him in a big cup.

“Sure, sure I could! If you dare to go out in the wilderness you should be able to learn letters, hum?” He laughed again.

“Then – I would like to return – some day.”

Trossénen’s mouth broadened with a smile.

“Ah, that’s what I like! A boy that does not think about battles and horses and Kings! Yes, Vlohiri, return whenever you want. But I know, you have not the time right now.” Again Vlohiri asked about Lomac’s letter. “Yes, he wrote that you are a very trustworthy young man, and that I shall help you to get further east. Your road might be long.” The smile faded. “You were trusted with a difficult mission, I suppose. What can be so urgent that a young boy like you is sent on such a hazardous way?”

Vlohiri did not want to lie, but he could not dare to answer truthfully.

“I would… Please, do not send me away if I cannot answer you.”

“Ho, now, my friend!” Trossénen raised his hands defensively. “As I said – I have no right to pry! I will try to keep my curiosity in check. Please, drink, and I am sure I will find something to eat for you.” He rose again and returned with bread and cheese. “Help yourself. What did you do for my friend Lomac? I did not know that he took up lads like you in his service.”

Vlohiri stuffed a big chunk of cheese in his mouth and gulped it down with the warm tea. He began to feel better.

“I had to help him… take care of a prisoner.”

“A prisoner?” Trossénen’s thick eyebrows rosein surprise. “That is something new. In the old days prisoners suffered a lot, and they never saw a healer when they needed one.” He waited, but the boy kept on eating. “With what was he sick?”

Vlohiri frowned, thoughtful.

“He had fever – Lomac said. He was really hot, and slept most of the time.” Trossénen nodded. “And then…” He stopped, not knowing if he should continue. But the healer’s look was an invitation to tell him everything. “Ar… He said to me I should turn him on the side, and I saw… He had been whipped, and all those gashes were… I don’t know the word, but it looked awful.”

The healer’s face showed deep sorrow.

“Inflamed. The word you lost: The wounds were inflamed. That hurts very much.”

Vlohiri grimaced with despair. It was dreadful alone to remember it.

“He was in great pain then… I don’t know for how long, but I …” Again he stopped. Trossénen seemed to understand.

“You stayed with him, lad?”

“Yes, the whole time. I only left the room to fetch water or wood.”

“That was very kind of you.”

Vlohiri felt uneasy being praised like that.

“I could help. That was… good.”

“Something worth doing. I know how that feels. And there will be more that you can do, I am sure. Tell me, did the noble Lady order it?” he continued knowingly, and Vlohiri, missing the undertone, nodded.

“The Lord did,” he said and looked regretfully at the last piece of bread.

“Ah, young Lord Sadur. A man of higher standing – but not high enough.” He stifled a smile when the boy looked up to him. “Well, there is some good left then.”

“He ordered it personally, and Lomac said the Lord had been down in the dungeon.” Saying it Vlohiri realised that Aragorn would now be sitting in this small, dark cell with little hope of freedom. He shivered at the mere thought the King could eventually attempt to escape one more time. What would his help mean if the King was dead long before he reached Lady Arwen?

“Very well, there is hope not everything is rotten.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh… nothing, only higher politics, nothing we have to know about… Well, you can put your blanket on the ground near the fire if you want to. I hope I do not stumble over you in the morning. I will be up at sunrise.”

“Me, too,” Vlohiri assured the healer, and they both went to get their beds ready.

* * *

Day 66, Gondor, east of the River Ringlo

They had reached the farm with their strength fading, and the woman was friendly enough to allow them to take shelter in the barn. Her two grown-up sons were suspicious and reserved about the strange guests, but as they had all come to know in the long years of war, outer appearance could deceive. So they had politely asked the men to put down their swords before they entered the main house. The woman shared a frugal meal with them, and they were grateful.

“I saw you got two horses in the barn. We want to buy them,” Faramir said when they finished eating.

The elder son turned to him instantly, and, standing up, with a threatening look exclaimed,

“So that is why you’ve come! You want to steal our horses!”

Faramir leant back, his hands open and trying to calm. But he was aware of the man’s fury.

“I said we want to buy them. We were attacked and robbed three days ago west of the foothills of the White Mountains. They stole our horses, too, before they rode south.”

“That could all be a lie,” the young man spat.

“Sit down, Calun,” his mother ordered, but Calun did not listen.

“They came into our home, knowing that our father is gone. They outnumber us, mother!”

“We will not rob you of the things you need. But as you see, two of my men are wounded, and we have to reach Lady Saborian’s castle.”

“Why should we believe you?” Calun asked forcefully. “You said your name was Faramir. The only man of that name is the Prince of Ithilien.”

“That is who I am,” Faramir reluctantly revealed, and opened his cloak. The tree of Gondor was embedded in his cuirass, and the mother gaped at him.

Calun was not so easily convinced.

“If you say you met robbers why did they leave you that cuirass?”

“We put them to flight, but they were fast enough to steal our belongings and the horses.”

“A hard to believe story.”

“I cannot convince you any further, young Calun. If you allow us to sleep in the barn we will be more than grateful.” He bowed slightly to the woman, who seemed shocked, and left the room with his men.

Outside one of his companions, a young rider from Ithilien by the name of Orilan, said:

“We could take the horses and bring them back when we return. They will never sell them, my Lord.”

“I will not steal anything from these poor people. We either buy the horses or leave in the morning on foot.”

“Very well, my Lord, but it will slow us down more than necessary.”

“Yes, but I can still sleep with my conscience clear.” He eyed the young man sharply, and Orilan bowed.

“It will be as you order.”

* * *