CHAPTER 31:  CONFRONTATION

A listless sun rose on the Table that morning, its beams not trying very hard to pierce through the blanket of clouds that spread across the sky above the woods and the plain. Yet, the grey dawn seemed to Sarambaq to be a fitting herald of a momentous occasion.

For this was the day.

This would be the day – if all went according to plan – that the elven king of the Mirkwood Realm would deign to come into his domain, perhaps even beg for mercy, but certainly to fulfill a decade-old desire.

Sarambaq’s mind was fixed on nothing else but that thought, and the mid-morning meal he was eating tasted like stale boar spit in his mouth. But even if it had been the most delicately cooked pheasant in the world, he would have abandoned it as readily as he did when a shout from outside his cave disrupted his thoughts.

His heart raced when his men gave him the reason for their beckoning him.

Thranduil – golden-haired elf king and murderer of his son – was here.

At last. At last.

Sarambaq had waited for this moment so long that he was somewhat surprised at the mixture of bitter bile, nervous jitters and boundless hate that rose in his throat; he thought that by now, he would feel nothing but the utmost calm. 

No matter. He was here. The fly was walking into the web.

“Ready yourselves now!” he shouted his command to the men around the Table. A sense of nervous excitement was in the air as they moved quickly to execute the instructions he had given earlier.  

In minutes, he was mounted on a screeching Dárkil and soaring over the plain before the Table where days earlier, the son of the king had walked into the same trap.

Largely due to the skill and shrewd timing of the Ranger, Aragorn and his small company of elves had kept completely to the cover of trees in the western woods. They now turned northwards to penetrate the borders of the thick forest directly south of the Table that the Adhûnians never used, constantly shielded from the eyes of Dárkil by the mass of tall foliage.   

The three horses bearing four riders grew larger in Sarambaq’s vision as Dárkil  descended, the long, golden hair on one of the four a sight he had seen only in his nightmares for the past ten years.

Sarambaq saw them dismount, the elven king with characteristically more grace than his three unfettered guards, despite having his hands tied at his back. When the king was on the ground, he stood with legs apart, the long blades of Pöras and Bryûn planted at his neck and chest. He looked around for someone he could not see, and his eyes finally rested with undisguised curiosity and disdain on the dark figure alighting from the screeching monstrosity that had been airborne moments ago.

Sarambaq walked slowly towards Thranduil, each step deliberate and firm. He halted when he was three yards from his foe. 

In the silence that followed, the two adversaries faced each other, a hundred unspoken words between them longing to be said, but neither able to begin, for both were seething with anger and hate, one having nursed those emotions for ten years, the other having felt them gush forth just days ago, after receiving some of the most ill tidings of his life.

“So,” Sarambaq said, breaking the silence. “We meet at last, Elf king.”

“Where is my son?” Thranduil demanded without ceremony, now that the confrontation had begun. Even in his anger, his elven voice was sonorous and majestic, creating an aura of splendor that swept over the plain and the Adhûnians present.

In contrast, Sarambaq snorted and sneered lopsidedly in answer, offering no information. Adhûnians came filing onto the plain from the woods before the Table, in silent awe at the sight of the two great figures. All of them were armed with swords or bows, most knew what to expect, but none possessed complete knowledge of Sarambaq’s intentions. 

“Where is my son?” Thranduil repeated more loudly, feeling impatient at the absence of the face he sought. Every fibre of his being longed to rush at Sarambaq, but he could try nothing with his hands tied and without knowledge of where Legolas was being held.

“Patience, Elf,” Sarambaq said with mock placation. “You are no longer king here. I decide when you see him.”

Thranduil evaluated the situation, looking around carefully so that the blade at his neck would not have reason to make an accidental and fatal slash. More Adhûnians circled him and Sarambaq now, forming a barricade against any attempt at escape. Victory in a hand-to-hand combat against this many men – if his hands were free – would still be conceivable, but even with elven prowess, it would be hard to evade arrows from that many bows, Thranduil realized.  Any hope of liberating himself was further crushed when two men came and immobilized his arms within ropes tied around his torso. Banishing the possibility of escape from his mind, he turned his thoughts to his son.

Where are you, Legolas?  Thranduil wondered worriedly, recalling the vague feeling of unease he had felt last night.

Before he could ask again, Brûyn called out to Sarambaq. “Speaking of being king, Master…” he began hesitantly, meaning to reveal what they had learnt about the true identity of the healer they had called Hama. But he paused to clear his throat, uncertain what to say.

“What?” Sarambaq prompted impatiently.

“The healer…” Brûyn continued, looking almost embarrassed “…he is not really a healer. I mean, he is not just a healer. He…”

“Graaah, just spit it out, oaf!” Pöras cut in, casting an irritated scowl at his companion before facing Sarambaq. “We found out the truth about the healer; he is not who he said he was.” He drew himself up to show how apparently undaunted he was as he announced the discovery they had made. “His real name is Elessar, and he is the king of Gondor.”

The sharp intakes of breath at those words were audible as shock manifested itself on the face of every Adhûnian present, save the three who had just come from the City. Seconds later, after dropped jaws had been hastily picked up from off the ground, the astonished silence was broken by loud voices as the name of Elessar sizzled in the air. Some men expressed anger that they had been beguiled, others smirked with satisfaction that their earlier suspicions about the healer’s story had been right, and the remainder merely voiced wonder that a king had been among them and treated their wounds.

To Närum, who stood a little behind and to the right of the man he served, all that the healer had hinted at and promised suddenly became clear.

You may find out when the time is right, Närum…

I beg you, please, in my absence, to take care of the elf prince… you shall receive my gratitude when the time is right.

Närum shook his head slowly, recalling the regal bearing he had noticed on the stranger at their first encounter, the compassion and loyalty he had shown his elven companion, and the skilled hands of the healer as he saved wounded Adhûnians from death, despite their being his foes.

There indeed is a king worth serving, he thought a little sadly. 

Ködil now told his tale of captivity and all that he had learnt during that time, about the little prince they had poisoned by accident, and how the Gondorians had all been mistaken about the true target of their assault on Ithilien.

Thranduil watched and listened in silence, for he had heard it all before. His eyes focused with grim satisfaction on Sarambaq, who – unnoticed by all save the elf king – had turned a shade paler at the news about Aragorn. But pride and blind resolve were still etched in every line of the man’s face, a face that quickly darkened when his men continued to murmur volubly among themselves.

“Silence!” he shouted, startling everyone into the state he called for as the murmurs died immediately. Taking on as nonchalant a tone as he could, Sarambaq declared to no one in particular: “So, this Elessar must have told them everything, but it matters not now.”

“Are you certain of that, man of Adhûn?” Thranduil questioned him unexpectedly. “Do you not realize by now whom you have offended?”

Sarambaq threw him a glare so sharp it could have sliced through iron, but the elf king was not intimidated.

“By your foolish acts, you have incurred the fury of two kingdoms,” Thranduil pronounced in a firm voice, “for the elf you hold is not only my son but also the treasured companion of the king of Gondor, whose armies could – at a word from him – send you, your men and your dominion in Adhûn into the abyss of nothingness!”

A murmur – one of fear this time – arose among the men again when they heard the warning of the elven king, while Sarambaq himself schooled his features to hide any trepidation that he felt.

But even in his utter fury, the wise king was still willing to seek a less perilous solution for all involved.

“The elves of the Greenwood realm, the men of Rohan upon whom Elessar will call, and even the dwarf companion of my son, by whom he is much loved, would also descend upon you till nothing of yours remains,” Thranduil continued, looking around at the men gathered to impress his threat upon them. “The only thing that stands now between that fatal end and your continued existence is the life of my son. As long as he lives and is returned to me, we can still conceive of a less dire conclusion for all. But if anything should happen to him – ” a shadow flitted across his face as he said this “ – if his life should be forfeited, fire and brimstone shall be visited upon you, that I can promise you with certainty.” 

And indeed, it was as if the very fire and brimstone he spoke of smoldered now in the bright, intense eyes of the elven king, so that the all the Adhûnians – save their dark master and the ones holding the king – unwittingly took a step back, nervousness tingling in their veins.

A deafening silence reigned over the group for the next few moments, till it was broken by the arrogant tones of Sarambaq. “Kings may have had dominion over me once,” he said, looking pointedly at Thranduil, “and one in particular was able to take from me something of far greater value than my dignity or my domain.” A flash of pain crossed his features as he said this. “But no longer. Not any more. Today, it all ends. Today, I have the final say, I decide the outcome.”

Thranduil knew then that it was no longer possible to reason with the Adhûnian.

“Cease speaking in riddles then,” Thranduil demanded, deflating the man’s ego. “If you will not accept a more peaceful solution, make your intentions plain. Where is my son? If you have harmed him…”

“Harmed him?” Sarambaq echoed, a wild look returning to his eyes. “You speak of my harming your son after you slaughtered mine?” His voice rose dangerously.

“It was war, and it must have been his life or mine; there could have been no other reason for me to take a life,” Thranduil insisted.

“Too late to tell that to my son!” came the furious retort.

“Your son died a warrior. You dishonor him by doing this,” Thranduil echoed the words Legolas had voiced in the cave four days ago. “Overcome your grief, man of Adhûn. That is the battle you should fight!”

“You are as insolent as your son. Do not insult me by counseling me on grief, Elf! You have not borne mine.”

“You are truly mistaken if you think that I would not have known grief at the hands of others in the thousands of years I have lived,” said the elven king, making one last attempt to reason with the man. “All of us have loved and lost at some point, but it is our choice whether to let it consume us and bind us in chains of hate and revenge, or to rise above it and gain wisdom from what should not have happened.”

This advice of Thranduil, instead of prompting Sarambaq to reconsider his vengeful plans, nettled him even further, so strong was their grasp on him. 

“Release my son,” Thranduil continued, controlling his tone despite the storm beneath. “He was not part of that last battle, and you have brought me here now. He has played his part; release him.”

To Thranduil’s consternation, Sarambaq laughed. “Played his part?” he asked tauntingly. “Blind and prideful elf king – he has not even begun to play the most important part of all! Bring him here!”  

As soon as his words were out, two men dragged into Thranduil’s vision a bound and tightly gagged figure who had been hidden behind a throng of men before this. The king’s heart gave a painful lurch.

“Ion nin, my son!” he gasped, trying to move to Legolas before being pulled back roughly by the men holding him with iron grips on his arms, the blade still dangerously pressed against his neck. He was overjoyed to look into the face of his beloved son again, but aggrieved to note that something was wrong.

Legolas was not standing as strongly erect as he should be, there was a weakness in his limbs, and his face was flushed and damp with sweat. His blue yes, usually so radiant with elven light, were also a little dulled. It wrenched his father’s heart to see the clear sign of a bandage underneath his shirt, and the small patches of dried blood stains on other parts of the shirt and on the bare parts of his arms – a reminder of his earlier fight with Sarambaq.

But what alarmed the elf king most were some other strange blood stains on the front of his son’s shirt: they looked like two lines crossing at the center of his chest. The sight of them made the father’s own blood run cold.

My son, what have they done to you? the heart of the elf king called out in fear and sorrow.

“Legolas,” he said aloud in a strangled voice, unable to say more. The query ‘are you well’ would sound hollow and useless, he thought.

Legolas had heard the earlier exchanges between his father and Sarambaq, weak with frustration that he had not been able to call out, but now, at the sight of his father and the sound of the beloved voice addressing him, his eyes came alive again and filled suddenly with gladness. Understanding his father’s concern, he nodded, trying to reassure the older elf that way, for he could struggle little against the strong arms holding him back.

“What have you done to him?” Thranduil’s voice was hard now as he addressed the Adhûnian.

“What would you like me to tell you?” the man offered, enjoying the torture he was inflicting on the stricken father. “Perhaps I could tell you about how he has been kept captive in a cave, without the comforts of a royal home,” he said jeeringly. “Or I could tell you about he has not received much of our hospitality for the last three days, for we grew tired of feeding him.”

Thranduil seethed in silence, knowing the man had more to say.

“But I did give him a treat last night,” Sarambaq continued, “one I had great pleasure in delivering myself. Aaaah, you wish to know what it was?” He paused and smirked before he answered his own question. “Your son was given yet another taste of the poison of our river folk, very effective in rendering the fish helpless... for, after all, was he not my catch?”

The elf king gaped in disbelief and horror, and locked his eyes on his son’s weakened form.

“Oh, it was not an extreme amount,” Sarambaq explained with mock reassurance, “it was just enough to weaken him. You see, I merely had to add to what was still in his body.” The man paused to gloat at Thranduil’s expression of helpless wrath before he spoke again. “I could have killed him, but I reduced the potency so that he can still be on his feet today. Your son, however, was an ungrateful wretch, and he struggled. Oh, how he struggled… before he became numb.”

Thranduil called out to his son, “Legolas, are you in pain?” and received a feeble shake of the head in response, but he did not quite believe the claim.

“There is only a mild fever upon him now, but I could easily send another shot or two of the poison into his veins… or perhaps a fatal dose,” Sarambaq threatened coldly.

Thranduil went weak in the knees, and the fear of a father laced his voice when he protested. “He does not deserve that; he has done nothing to you.”

“Are you begging me to stay the treatment, great king? Would you discard your pride, get on your knees and beg it of me?”

The elf king swallowed and looked at his son. Legolas was shaking his head vigorously, his wide eyes telling his father not to bow to Sarambaq’s demands, for he had read the man’s intentions last night. The Adhûnian’s true desires were not yet revealed to the elf king, and he would not abandon his plans so easily; he merely wished to humiliate the king in the process.

Thranduil perceived the meaning in his son’s eyes and sensed the urgent warning from his mind. The elf king turned back to the Adhûnian. “I would do anything, even beg you, if I believed that you would truly stop harming my son,” he said. “But I do not know your full intentions.”

A look of disappointment claimed Sarambaq’s face immediately, and it was quickly followed by anger that he tried to mask behind forced laughter. “So, Woodland king, you refuse to bow even now. But no matter; your son is still in my hands, and I will do as – ”   

“Why have you done this?” Thranduil demanded, cutting him off. “My son has done nothing to you. He – ”

“Do you feel helpless, elf king?” the Adhûnian interrupted Thranduil in turn, surprising him and taunting him. “Does the great ruler of Mirkwood feel that he is watching something which pains him but which he cannot do a thing to stop?”

At Thranduil’s silence, Sarambaq stated, “If you do, high and mighty one, that is my answer.” 

As the elf king kept staring at him in perplexed ire, the man continued. “Helplessness, elven king, is the name of the game. As I was once helpless to stop you from destroying everything that meant something to me, you now suffer the same feeling of powerlessness as you watch me torment bit by bit that which is most dear to you.”

The man’s malice both stunned Thranduil and fanned into fresh fury the flames of his anger, so that any earlier desire the elf king had had at ending the feud amicably quickly vanished.

“But his torment will soon be over,” Sarambaq declared, to the surprise of both elves. A spark of hope lit in Thranduil’s heart, only to be cruelly snuffed out by the man’s next words: “After all, what torment would an elf feel when he is dead?”

“What?!” Thranduil yelled, struggling against the strong grasps on his arms. “What do you mean? Were you not merely using him to bring me here? I have come as you wished, now let him go!”

“Yes, Elf king, I did need him to lure you here, but he is not merely my bait,” the man stated coldly. “He is also the instrument of the retribution you shall make.” 

“What do you mean?” the king repeated, his heart threatening to stop. “It is my life you desire. I fought and killed your son; he did not. It is I you want. My son had no part in it.”

“That it was you who killed my son, I will not deny, you murderous wretch!” said Sarambaq, his voice rising. “But did you think your quick death here is the justice I seek? I have felt keenly the tragic loss of my son for ten years, and in no other way will I gain fulfillment unless I see you suffer the same painful, wretched existence for the rest of your immortal life!”

Father and son listened in mute horror as Sarambaq finally revealed his dark and chilling desire to them, and Legolas knew then that his suspicions from last night were, alas, correct. The malice in Sarambaq seemed to emanate out of him now, drifting about him like black vapor and cloaking him in an aura so vile that even the very air seemed to shrink from his presence. He continued to speak, enunciating every word so that there was no mistake as to his meaning.

“I have no intention of taking your life, elf king, but you shall watch me rob your beloved son of his last breath as you did mine. You will hear the blood gurgle in his throat and you will see his life force draining out and staining the grass beneath your feet. You will hear him call ‘father’ and be powerless to help him. And then, when his spirit has left his body, you will try to revive him, and you will hold him close to you and try to breathe life back into him, but in vain! You will hold only his lifeless corpse in your blood-stained hands!”

He stepped closer to Thranduil so that the elf could see the tumult of emotions raging wildly in his eyes. “But you will live on, elf king. You will be the survivor who has to bear the pain and misery of a life that your young should have lived. You will be the one missing his laughter and his warmth and the arms of a son for the rest of your wretched life, and you will shed tears each time you remember how his breath was snuffed out by another who did not love him or value him as you did. Then, elf king – then shall my heart be glad!”

Silence reigned over the plain for long moments after Sarambaq spoke, for his pain touched them unexpectedly. Yet, the bitterness of his vengeance and the true purpose of his plans startled them, even those who had served him long, for they had always assumed that their master’s deepest desire had been to take the life of the elf king who had ended his son’s.

Now at last, they understood why he had fought the elf days earlier. It had been a test of the elf’s strength and skill, and an indication of what he needed to do to control it so that today – today, when it really mattered – the elf would fight but not win. The elf’s unexpected victory earlier had worried and angered him, and the injection of the poison into the elf’s blood yesterday had been his insurance against another surprise outcome.

Thranduil was already shaking with fear for his son, but Sarambaq had still more to reveal.

“Behold where I will strike!” he announced in a voice full of venom and single-mindedness in its vengeful purpose. He stepped quickly up to Legolas and clutched at the front of the elf’s shirt. Legolas shrank from the touch of his captor’s hand, but the man tugged at the lacings so roughly that they tore, and the shirt fell open to reveal to the elf king the cause of the strange blood stains he had seen.

Thranduil blanched. For, in the middle of the young elf’s chest, carved into his flawless ivory skin, were two jagged lines, each drawn from below a shoulder blade to the ribs on the opposite side of his chest, so that the lines crossed to mark a spot in the center of the chest. The wounds still looked a little fresh, and mixed with the drying blood were traces of herbs that the elf had pitifully tried to apply as a remedy. Even though Närum had mercifully helped clean off much of the stain from the blood that had flowed from the wounds, the sight of the deliberate mutilation would have raked any father’s heart, as it did Thranduil’s, and Sarambaq took advantage of the elf king’s pain.  

“That, elf king, was where your murderous stroke took my son’s life!” Sarambaq said, pointing to the junction where the lines met, delighting in the horrified look on the face of Thranduil as his tearful eyes fixed on the grisly mark. “And that is where I shall take your son’s.”

There were stunned gasps even from Sarambaq’s own men when they realized that there would be no quick end for the elf prince by Dárkil’s bite or claw. Instead, Sarambaq desired to exact death using his own hands, through a re-enactment of the slaying of his son. Gruesome indeed was his plan, and so malevolent that even some of the Adhûnians shuddered at the intensity of their master’s hate.

Legolas’ blue eyes were moist as they fixed on the king’s anguished ones, seeking desperately to comfort his father in spite of his own fragile safety.

With a shattered heart, the king tore his eyes away from his son and turned to his foe. “You have let your grief and hate dement you, Sarambaq!”he spat out. “Have you no mercy or decency? Who is the senseless murderer now? And a cowardly one as well, to fight one you have poisoned to a disadvantage!”

“Say what you will, Elf king, it is too late,” came the obstinate reply.   

“And you are arrogant indeed if you think you can let me live and hope to escape unscathed, for I shall hunt you to the ends of the earth till I find you,” said the elven king. “What you propose to do is not an act of war; it is murder in cold blood. The elves will never forget.”

“Seek me if you wish to try,” Sarambaq responded boldly. “My steed will bear me so far away that I doubt you will find me before the rest of my natural life is through. And even if you do, truth be told – perhaps it will not matter to me anymore. You cannot further hurt one who has been hurt to the core.”

Another murmur of surprise rose among the company, for it was then that all of them, save one, first learnt of Sarambaq’s intent to depart on Dárkil after today.

Närum’s lips were set in a grim line as his mind tried to take in the implications of this revelation. A quick look at Dárkil showed that the beast would not only bear his master on one last flight away from the land, but also happily tear apart anyone who tried to oppose him. Only one of Sarambaq’s men had been told about his planned departure before today and kept his confidence: Pöras had been promised the occupancy of the master’s halls in Adhûn if he would see to the continued captivity of the elf king in the dark cells of those halls, for that was where Sarambaq wished for Thranduil to be held for as long as possible.

In truth, however, the demented Sarambaq cared little what would happen to the elf king and the rest of the Adhûnians after today, or whether the elven realm would seek to destroy all of Adhûn itself. He would seek a new home far away, not caring where it would be, for his heart was beginning to feel cold and dead. He sought only to make Thranduil suffer as he did, and for far longer. Nothing else occupied his mind save that wish.

And now the time had come for the fulfillment of that desire.

When he was certain that Thranduil was securely fastened and unable to intervene, he ordered the release of the elf prince. As soon as the gag was removed, the younger elf greeted his father for the first time in more than a year.

“Adar,” he called fondly and sadly, and started to walk towards his father before he was stopped by the point of Sarambaq’s sword against his chest.

Despite the danger they were in, Thranduil looked upon the face of his son with a loving smile and said soothingly: “Mae govannen, my Greenleaf.”

They were almost four yards apart, but their love and affection for each other enveloped them like a warm embrace. For a few brief breaths, the men of Adhûn looked in awe upon the imposing figure of the king crowned with golden hair and the tall, slender one of his son who had inherited the distinctive feature. Their elven faces lost none of their fairness and radiance despite the ugliness of the situation they were in, and some of the Adhûnians were unexpectedly moved to sympathy for the ethereal beings.

Father and son could not hold back tears from welling in their eyes as their possible separate fates flashed through their minds, each feeling more concerned about the other than for himself. They hid the twinge of fear that they both felt and exchanged looks that gave each other courage. Thranduil, in particular, desperately wanted to let Legolas know that aid was coming, and although part of him knew there was no assurance that it would come in time, there was still a gleam of hope.  

“Help is coming, ion nin,” the elf king said quickly in Sindarin. “Our friends will be here. Hold on till then.”

Legolas took in a deep breath. The king’s words were as a sudden draught of fresh air that eased his breathing and lifted his spirits instantly. He could not imagine in what form aid would come, but a smile – albeit a sad one – crossed his face of its own accord. Now he had a reason to fight till his last breath, for even if he fell, his father might yet live.

The elf prince’s gait was unsteady from the effects of the latest injection of ipo, and he was clearly in a weakened state, but Thranduil hoped he would still be able to defend himself until… until… The elf king had never prayed so hard for the aid of the King of Gondor, nor placed so much hope on his timely arrival.

Not understanding what Thranduil had said to his son, Sarambaq ordered the elf king to cease talking, and he himself lowered his sword and turned away to prepare for the fight.

In that instant, Thranduil made a sudden strong lunge forward and away from his captors in the direction of his son. Before anyone could stop them, Legolas had his arms around his father, who could only press his lips firmly to his son’s fevered forehead, reminding him of his love. The younger elf held on tightly and kissed his father’s cheek in return, desperately savoring the brief contact of a familiar safety.

“Be brave, my son, you have my love,” Thranduil whispered quickly against the too-warm skin.

“And you have mine, Adar,” Legolas replied before he was roughly pulled away by angry men.

“Do not try that again, you fool!” Sarambaq bellowed and ordered the elf king seated on the ground some distance away. His ankles were quickly bound, and swords and bows trained on him to prevent any further movement on his part.

A moment later, a sword was placed in the hands of the elf prince. His brows knitted in puzzlement, for he had expected the use of his own knives again.

“My son’s sword,” Sarambaq declared, reading the elf’s mind, “or rather, a likeness of it. Not your weapon of choice, Elf, but mine.”

The replica of the sword his slain son had used – made years ago and kept for this purpose – was yet another detail in Sarambaq’s twisted plan for revenge. Legolas stared at it with mute revulsion, for it felt vulgar to him to have to fight a dead warrior’s father with a token of the dead warrior himself.

Sarambaq ignored the expression of disgust on Legolas’ face and looked directly at Thranduil instead, with a note of triumph in his voice:  “Witness now the beginning of your despair.”

Then he turned back to the younger elf. “And you, elf prince,” he said with confidence, “prepare for your demise.” 

Despite the hope he held, Thranduil’s heart was gripped by claws of anxiety and fear, and tears escaped the eyes of the strong elf king as he beheld his youngest son in confrontation with a mad man, paying for a deed in which he had had no part.

Legolas knew there was no further use in arguing. Steadying himself as much as he could, he took one more look at his father and gave him a resolute smile. Then, placing his hopes in the cunning of Aragorn, and calling silently upon the tenacity of the Firstborn, he faced the gleam of madness in the Adhûnian’s eyes and began battle with him once more.