Chapter 3. Pelargir.

By the time the great city and haven of Pelargir opened before their eyes, Aragorn had managed to temporarily alienate Morlum, gauge the mood of each of his forced guests as they paced restlessly –or remained still- aboard the other boat, provoke Baranor’s curiosity by unsettling the captain of their small fleet with several intense glances and earn Hirgon’s approval – and the crew’s- by shooting a fat duck with an arrow that trailed a long thin fishing line, and dragging it on board in time to serve as welcome dinner. He had then stood watch for most of the night, pondering what he knew, until Baranor came to relieve him.

“The current is strong,” he warned his companion. “We will reach Pelargir by noon. I will explain it all to you tomorrow.”

“It will cost you a jar of good white. Now go and get some sleep.”

And there they were and it was noon, the bell in the shipyards let them know as they approached the harbour mouth. The docks were barely visible amidst a forest of naked masts sticking out from deserted decks of graceful brigs, large barks and tall galleons crowding the waterfront, yet the hustle and bustle was distinctly lesser than what one would expect in Gondor’s busiest and most populated port.

“Odd!” the captain spat. “The spring market should be booming… Watch out, now!” he warned as the oarsmen sighed with the last effort. “The channel is traitorous even in high tide!”

“Trade has been quite unsafe for the last year,” Baranor explained, joining them on the prow. “Merchants won’t risk the Bay of Belfalas unless… Watch out!”

The boat groaned and shook violently, sweeping them all off their feet.

“Hirgon!” Aragorn shouted, flailing at the dangling rigging as he struggled to stand and keep an eye on the other boat, which glided smoothly into the narrow channel.

“Fine, Captain! I can see the castle! And the mountains to the north!” the boy returned merrily from somewhere up the main mast.

“What’s wrong with your eyes, you blind gull!” the captain thundered to the pilot. “I’ll tear them out and spit in the holes, since you don’t seem to have much use for them! That was a sandbar if I ever felt one! Cursed horseman! Unsafe, eh? Been ferrying supplies from Cair Andros to Ithilien and back for the last two years,” he said brusquely, turning his attention back to Baranor. “How would I know? No market, then?  Damn!”

“You will have your chance for business, I am sure, unless you intend to anchor us here in the middle on the harbour mouth,” Morlum interjected in his soft, subtly threatening manner. The captain frowned at the sudden apparition and spat again over the board.

“To the outer breakwater and the docks is it, then?”

“The citadel’s jetty, for now. The Steward will have undoubtedly sent word of our arrival in advance,” the spy added in his unctuous manner, turning a quick glance to Aragorn. “But surely Captain Baranor would like to oversee the disembarking of our priso…our guests?”

Barely managing to conceal his disgust at the little man, Aragorn nodded at his friend and pointed at Hirgon, then stepped aside so as not to interfere in the manoeuvring.

“A dark viper you are saddled with!” the captain sputtered, then catching Aragorn’s cold glance he shrugged and went to vent his annoyance on the oarsmen and the sailors, while the boat slid ungraciously among tall hulls and past the fishermen’s wharf towards the interior basin.

A patrol of city guards were already standing by a plank, signalling the berth for the two boats to moor.  Aragorn observed with satisfaction that aboard the other boat each of the noblemen was followed by a couple of Baranor’s men.

“Isolated, Baranor. I will need to talk to them separately,” he whispered as his friend stumbled past him in a hurry to reach his men as they disembarked. “Follow Captain Baranor, Hirgon,” he added with a nod. The boy had dragged his saddlebags from the cabin and awaited instructions in an unobtrusive manner.  “I will join you shortly…”

“You will find your quarry at the shipyards, Captain.”

“And you may find yourself spying on the fish in the bottom of the river if you do not keep your distance, Master Morlum,” he retorted harshly. “Stick to your orders, and I will stick to mine. The commander of the garrison will surely expect to be informed of our arrival,” he added in a more conciliatory manner, waving for the spy to move along. He, in turn, leaned against the mast with arms crossed over his chest and waited. He had a matter he needed to settle before anything else. While the crew in the two boats and the people at the quay watched in fascination as the heavily guarded noblemen disembarked, heads high and eyes fixed in the distance, Aragorn dragged the captain aside.

“You carry something you shouldn’t be carrying.”

The man did not even try to pretend. He twisted his long moustache and cast him an insolent, smug grin. Aragorn held his glance until the other began to squirm. “I have done nothing!” the mariner whinged. “You cannot threaten me!”

“I can. But I am not. Not yet…”

“I’m in private business for Lord Denethor, the Steward’s heir-”

“And I am in command of a mission appointed by the Steward, and I answer to him alone. Now, unless you want a permanent commission ferrying supplies from Osgiliath to the other shore of Anduin, you will surrender whatever Lord Denethor’s squire delivered to you: parcels, messages, instructions, whatever…and right now, Gorlim!” he snarled, shoving his face into the captain’s.

“You are overstepping your authority, Thorongil; this is the heir’s personal correspondence... he will have your hide!”

“I cannot see him around to make your life –or mine- difficult right now… Do you want to take a risk with me?”

With a last enraged glance the man searched his sagging trousers and after some mumbling produced a leather container like the ones the messengers used, sealed with Denethor’s own sigil.

“Is that all? Whom are you supposed to deliver this to?”

The man gritted his teeth and growled menacingly, but finally spat out a name. “Húrin. Húrin son of Galdor.”

Aragorn managed to keep an impassive face. “I will make sure that he receives it. My thanks, Captain. Your orders are to remain here and wait until we are back. They say nothing about what you can or cannot do in the meantime.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I send a message to Denethor, then?” Gorlim called out nastily to his retreating back.

Shrugging and waving a hand in dismissal, Aragorn tucked the still-sealed message inside his tunic, stepped onto the bowsprit, ran lightly along its length and jumped to the wharf, then disappeared into the crowd of men-at-arms, sailors and citadel servants gathered around the boats. He walked at a fast pace towards the market and the old town, then stopped to ponder his way. It was three no, four years since he had last been in Pelargir, and there had been a different Harbourmaster then. He wondered briefly where the current one would be more likely to be found at this time. Surely not at “The Ship and the Maid,” he hoped, recalling how fond the former Harbourmaster had been of the most renowned tavern in the old town. He shook his head. The current one had not been raised to look for entertainment in taverns, he was quite sure, so he finally chose the city shipyards over the citadel’s to start his search.

His course decided, he turned his steps even further from the citadel and into the maze of narrow streets and alleys shadowed by three-storey wooden houses leaning on one another and brightened up by colourful booths and stalls offering everything; from fishing lines to brass pots to coloured ceramics to bright silks to assorted vegetables to fresh fish starting to reek. After taking a wrong turn twice in the tangled web of passages and alleyways, he finally found the arch he had been looking for, a passage leading to a wide, open yard where sailors and fishermen obtained most of their supplies and then discussed them around pitchers of good ale at the wooden benches of “The Sea-maiden,” the second most frequented tavern in the old city.

On the farthest corner of the sunny and unexpectedly quiet square, a narrow street -almost too narrow for two men to walk abreast- twisted its way down the hill straight into the city’s shipyards. Absurdly proud of himself for having remembered that shortcut, Aragorn crossed the square at a fast pace, walked past the half hidden workshop that sold the best hand-woven sails in all of Lebennin and the dingy pub in which sailors who would never set foot in the other two gathered at sundown to mumble about sea monsters and pirates and dark affairs. Jumping lightly, he descended several mossy steps and walked around warehouses to find himself, unannounced, right into the dry dock.

A group of men busied themselves around a graceful vessel that looked naked and vulnerable without her sails and mizzenmast, and chattered animatedly as they worked.

“I saw them!” one of the men said, then let escape a bitter chuckle. “Taken to the citadel, our good lords were! And little Morlum was with them, but also soldiers from the City!”

“Sure?”

“As sure as you owe me half your wages!”

“And the Master?”

“He was not there…but surely Gorlim can tell us more…”

Well, apparently the news had taken a boat across the haven from the citadel’s docks while he stumbled his way across the old town, Aragorn admitted worriedly, searching the surroundings. He really didn’t want to think that the Harbourmaster had fled before him.

“Enough. There is still much work to do!” a dry voice interjected. The tall man Aragorn had been looking for stepped from the other side of the hull and levelled a hard look on the workers. “Leave your gossiping for the tavern! You heard me, Gorsad… We’ll need more planks up there.”

The man looked rebellious for a moment then shrugged in reluctant acquiescence, picked up an axe and walked towards one of the workshops. Aragorn chose that moment to step closer to the gathered workers.

“Harbourmaster…”

The men turned to him as one, but the tall one seemed unsurprised, or at least did not let surprise show on his youthful face, Aragorn noticed. Instead, he gave a wide, honest smile. “Captain Thorongil! I didn’t know you were coming! Did you arrive with the Seagull?”

Aragorn grimaced. He had expected fear, not open welcome. It made his task more difficult. “At noon,” he confirmed vaguely. “Is there a place where we can talk, Harbourmaster? I bring news…” He caught the quick, worried glances exchanged by the workers as Húrin hesitated and then pointed to a shed not for from where they stand.

“My headquarters,” he said with a wry smile, leading the way calmly and standing aside as he allowed Aragorn to enter the place.

“Good to see you, Captain, how long it’s been, three, four years?” he asked cordially, offering Aragorn a battered chair and settling himself on another behind a very old- looking desk.

“Four,” Aragorn said, then let escape a deep sigh. “Old Gaenir was still Harbourmaster and he didn’t relish the fact that he had been sent a replacement, and such a green one, but you seem to have fit in,” he added, casting a look around and studying the austere place before meeting the serious, thoughtful glance.

“And what brings you here now, Captain? I assume that this is not just a visit…”

“Sharp as always,” he commented, rummaging in his belt. “I bring orders from the Steward, Harbourmaster,” he said awkwardly, handing the sealed parchment to the young man, who still kept an impassive, polite face. Relaxing against the hard chair, Aragorn braced for what would come next, as the other studied the sigils then tore open the parchment and proceeded to read carefully. And then his composed front slipped away.

“But this… this is madness!” he blurted, lifting angry, questioning eyes to Aragorn.

“Madness, Harbourmaster? You are questioning the Steward’s sanity?”

Húrin scowled at him. “Of course I am not,” he said angrily. “You know what…”

“What I do know is that you are an educated man,” Aragorn snapped in his coldest, most official voice. “One among the few able to read without moving their lips and still understand what is written, so, tell me again, what part of your orders you do not understand?”

Húrin took a deep breath and even close his eyes briefly, but managed to rein in his temper. He glanced again at the long parchment and then lifted grey eyes to Aragorn. “Ships and shipyards are under your command, no cargo enters or departs without your authorization, and I am to provide whatever you might need for your unspecified mission,” he pronounced slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to read between the lines. “Am I under arrest, then?” he asked levelly.

“Why would you?” Aragorn retorted, as relieved by the fact as he had felt since reading his orders two nights ago. “But you are under my orders and strict supervision, Harbourmaster. For now I require that you give me all the logs and records of the ships that were attacked in the past three years...”

“My lord?” There was sincere confusion on the serious face now. “I sent all those to Minas Tirith months ago, by the Stewards’ request…”

Aragorn nodded. “But I am sure that you at least keep a list of vessels, freights and how much those were worth… that will suffice. I will also need the scheduled freights for the next weeks, incoming and outbound, with cargos, owners and destinations… and one, no, two of your best trading ships, you know, I want those with the extra secret hold space and the double bilges…Do not play innocent with me, lad!” he snapped menacingly, seeing the questioning expression on the young man’s face. “I heard your men gossiping, you were all expecting this to happen, I want a couple of those ships that have been used to smuggle goods everywhere and avoid taxes under your very nose, and I want them tomorrow!”

He leaned forth over the table, closing in the distance between the two and studying the young man’s face intently. There was genuine surprise there, which shifted quickly to worry, before the blank mask of an officer being seriously reprimanded took hold of Húrin’s face.

“I will do my best to comply, Captain,” he said woodenly, his eyes fixed on a point to Aragorn’s left.

“Good!” he said angrily. “And get ready for a trip. We will be departing in three or four days…”

“May I ask where for, Captain?” Húrin asked in the same tight voice. Aragorn sighed and stood, bringing the young Harbourmaster to his feet in stiff respect.

“To Dol Amroth, and then to Umbar. Have all those reports sent to the citadel to my attention.” He turned at the door and then relented at the genuine worry painted all over the young man’s face. “Your father sent fond regards,” he added softly. And then there was fear, plain in the quick glance that searched his face pleadingly.

“My father? How is he?”

Aragorn sighed, and leaned against the doorframe. “Worried, Húrin. He is very worried.”And with that he stomped away, not really wanting to see what Húrin –no, the Harbourmaster, it hurt less that way- would do next. He nodded briefly to the workers, who had stopped pretending they were busy around the ship and watched him with frowning curiosity and took the same way back through the dusty alley into the sunny square, wondering furiously why all this dark mess really did not seem to fit.

Restless, he let his feet guide him along the winding streets, barely noticing that there were indeed far less people around than what he remembered, while puzzling about the confounding affair he had in his hands. Húrin had seemed honestly clueless, and he still did not want to believe that the intelligent, brave youngster he had seen grow into a reliable officer was trapped in that obscure net of betrayal and dishonesty. And then, there was Denethor’s message still hidden in his tunic pocket…

“Yarrow! Willow! Willow bark for the fever! Potions! Potions for the lovesick and the love-bereft… Love potions, brave captain?”

The accented voice of the woman jolted him from his musings. Looking around he found out that his wandering feet had led him up the hill where the oldest part of the ancient city still stood after more than three thousand years. Up there, he knew, cluttered the traders of rarest merchandise and those less favoured by the city authorities, or those who had less coin to pay for stalls downhill, closer to the haven and the docks. A good place, Aragorn suddenly thought, to find out about trade on difficult-to-find goods and less-than-legal trade with neighbouring regions. So he turned his attention to the woman’s booth, and studied her well arranged supply of dried and fresh herbs.

“And what would you suggest, mother, as a love potion?” he asked.

“Rosemary, thyme, mint, with a touch of lemon,” the old woman answered primly, winking mischievously at him. “Why would a fine lord as yourself would need anything else?”

He shook his head and let escape a rueful, embarrassed laugh. “That will not work. The wise women in Minas Tirith already gave me that, but an old one I know told me about some southern potion with other ingredients…”

“Wise women in Minas Tirith?” the old woman scoffed. “Yes, and sweet smelling Mumakil! What would they know?” she stopped at Aragorn’s suddenly amused expression and shook her head. “Nutmeg, mumakil-horn powder and just a pinch of cinnamon would do it,” she told him with a lively wink that suddenly brightened her wrinkled, tired face. “But I cannot prepare that,” she hurried to warn, casting worried glances around. “No nutmeg or mumakil-horn available, no commerce with Harondor. I only trade in honest goods…”

“I see, I see. But I could do with some yarrow, and comfrey and …catnip,” he decided, guessing he could as well replenish his healer bags.

The woman gave him curious looks while she chose the herbs and packed them neatly in square, clean pieces of cloth. “You a healer?” she asked.

“A soldier,” he shrugged. “But better to be prepared. Would you ready that potion for me, if I somehow manage to lay hands on those ingredients?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage while he rummaged in his belt for the coin.

“There,” she said harshly, handing him the parcels and not answering his question on purpose. “You might find what you’re looking for in the old market at the other side of the river, right beside the doors,” she whispered hurriedly instead, not meeting his eyes as she did.  As soon as she counted the money she turned her back on him and pretended to be busy. But Aragorn still had another pressing question on his mind.

“One more thing, if you would,” he asked. “Is there anyone from Morthond Valley around here?”

The woman huffed, scowled, and then shrugged. “Not here,” she finally said with the kind of contempt the simply poor reserve for the utterly destitute. “Try the other side of the hill, on the tanners’ road. Not sure they are still there, though, they had little to barter with this time…”

He found them easily, beyond the end of the old town and at the beginning of the stinking line of the tanners’ workshops. Aragorn watched the shut, distrustful faces, the tattered cloaks covering rags and the dirty, sullen children sitting on the ground under half-empty stalls playing with dirt, and could not hold back a scowl. When had the people from Morthond and Lamedon become this dour, and grim and… ugly? He had ridden often across those harsh, unforgiving lands, and come to appreciate their beauty, and the austerity of their people, and the beautiful voices of its many singing waters; had fought alongside stern warriors who spoke little but sung as they went, and had learnt to respect them and even befriended some of them. But here, in the outskirts of the kingly oldtown, these people from the Uplands just looked like unsavoury beggars, the offspring of the dark lords who once betrayed Isildur and had since then been doomed to wander the many caves of the mountains Until the King returns, he thought with a shiver.

He shuffled around the stalls uneasily, picking up and discarding a dagger sheath here, a pair of woollen socks there, while searching for a friendly face with which to strike up conversation.

“Is this goatskin?” he finally asked a thin, wiry man who had the straight posture of a former soldier, lifting a backpack.

“Waterproof, too,” the man grunted after he nodded. He fixed his eyes briefly in Aragorn’s and then looked away, resuming his bored expression.

Aragorn noticed that the man missed a hand. He cringed inside. At least he is alive, he told himself, suddenly reminded of his friend Horngar, Hirgon’s father, who had been killed less than a year ago and not a month after the boy arrived in the White City. “How much?”

“Three.” 

Aragorn didn’t even think of bargaining. “And when are you going back to Morthond?” he asked conversationally as the man pointed in dismayed hope at water skins, quivers or wrist guards.  As it happened, a large group was departing in two or three days, so he spent some time convincing them to take Hirgon up with them and to his remaining family. The price they requested was so outrageously low that he had already decided to raise it before the two women entered the negotiation whining about dearth and bad crops and low prices for wool… He paid the price in advance and arranged with them the date and hour of departure, and offered to add some more money when the day came, then walked away without looking back, disgusted by the greed and necessity in those people’s faces as they counted the money over again.

He took a different way down the hill, Weaver’s street, apparently, judging by the frantic rattle of wood on wood –and the looms are not idle. The wool price was low, he remembered the women saying with sad resignation. But not the cloaks, he smirked, suddenly wondering whether this was the best course for Hirgon, or even what Horngar would have wanted for his young son. After all, he had sent for the child even before the age in which young squires started their training, so perhaps he knew there was not much for the boy in the uplands? He reasoned his way darkly as he walked past busy workshops, arguing with himself. What, if not Morthond? he wondered. Ecthelion’s stables? Or, worse, the city infantry as a common man at arms, without career or patronage now that his father was dead?

Mulling his gloomy thoughts, he almost walked past the open door of “The Sleepy Swan,” the place where people from Dor-en-Ernil met when in town. Almost, though, because a stream of exquisitely pronounced Sindarin punctuated by swift, sweetly plucked chords caught his attention and made him smile and shed the worries of the day as he plunged into the cool dark of the tavern, in time with the beginning of a new song.

Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui
In the green fields of Lebennin!

Tall grows the grass there. In the wind of the Sea

The white lilies sway…

He knew that voice well, a voice that led men to battle and women to wishful sighs, a voice that managed to sound charmingly composed even while opposing the Steward or trying to appease Ossë out at high sea. The man it belonged to, the youngest brother of the current Prince, lifted clear green eyes from the lute he was plucking with concentration and grinned wickedly when he saw Aragorn standing at the door.

“Why look at that! The Eagle that became a seagull! Come in, man, I was expecting to be invited to the citadel, but since you are here…” the singer called out good naturedly, waving for him to move in.

Aragorn obliged, immediately returning the contagious smile and sketching a bow as he made his way across half empty tables. “Your Highness…”

“Nay, Lord Captain, I am here in my capacity as Dol Amroth’s Captain of Sea and River!”

“And guest bard, Captain, don’t forget that!” crowed the innkeeper, while the patrons hit their mugs on the wooden tables and laughed along.

“I always stand by my word, my highly respected host! Two more songs and then we’ll try your renowned cauldron! Take seat, my friend,” he said to Aragorn, ”unless you want to delight us with northern, melancholy, soul-tearing lays…”

Shaking his head, Aragorn declined and sat down at an empty table, nodding briefly to a solitary figure that leaned on the wall not far from the stand where the singer now provoked the amused audience with a well-known song that recounted the numerous qualities of the southern women.  A maid brought him a mug of foamy beer and a plate with olives and bread and Aragorn waited patiently, with still a ghost of a smile on his face, while his friend finished his singing, returned compliments here and there and finally managed to get seat before him.

“To this meeting, Thorongil! Didn’t I tell you that we would still fight together again? When do we set sail?” he chuckled, hitting Aragorn’s mug with his and swallowing with a bark of laughter.

Aragorn drank to buy time. The fact that Iôrhil knew in advance that they were supposed to sail together confirmed his earlier suspicions: Everybody knew much more than himself about what was going on. He wiped his mouth and eyed the other curiously. “You surprise me, my lord… How do you know that we are sailing together?” he asked in a lowered voice.

“How do I know? You forget who I am, Thorongil?”

“I do not, Your Highness,” he repeated tensely.

The green eyes sparkled after a brief cloud of anger. “Wrong,” said Iôrhil with a twisted smile. “Not the Prince’s brother, but the man who has been pestering the Steward of Gondor for years uncounted to turn his stiff neck down south and have a good long look at the bottom of his stewardom…before it is gnawed out from under his feet! What would the King say, you deem, were he to suddenly return and find that the Stewards have managed to lose all that land? Oh, but we still hold Minas Tirith, your Majesty! Umbar, Thorongil,” Iôrhil said in a softer, expectant voice. “The great haven of Númenor, the place where Sauron submitted and was humiliated, the foothold towards new realms…the place where Gondor once was great and where it could be again! You did not think I would stay behind if the Steward finally decided to fulfil his duty to this part of the realm, did you?”

“I only learnt of this yesterday… nay, the night before. I didn't have much time to think,” Aragorn answered slowly, puzzled. Perhaps it made sense, that Ecthelion would check with the main lord of the realm and ensured his support for that bold move against some of his lords while keeping his most trusted captain in the dark about his intentions… Iôrhil seemed to think the same.

“I know not when Adrahil got word, but I have been here for three days, supplying the ship and waiting for you…”

“But I have messages for the Prince…”

“We will find a messenger, then…but first we must celebrate! Wine here, and food! I earned it!” The irrepressible prince called out to the innkeeper, then turned again his attention to Aragorn. “Tell me, Thorongil, what made the Steward move in the end?”

Aragorn kept his silence while the serving girl placed an earthen jar and two glasses before them, and then brought spoons and smoking bowls full of a dense fish soup that was the speciality of the house. Leaning to blow on the steaming concoction he lifted worried eyes to his friend, wondering how much he would dare let go. But before he could start skirting around the fact that he was bringing five lords of the realm, most of them southern lords, to their sure death in Umbar, the prince poured the amber wine for them and tried his.

“Apples,” he spat with a scowl. He waved for the innkeeper and growled. “Ossë’s beard, Angbor! Take this Anfalas’ piss back to Master Tarlang! I only drink Dol Amroth’s white!” He turned to Aragorn. “Don’t you think it tastes like apples?”

That gave Aragorn’s pause, as he remembered Ecthelion’s puzzling conversation about apples, and apple trees, and wine tasting of apples. He savoured it briefly and nodded.

“And why would it taste of apples?” he asked cautiously.

“It’s a long story,” the prince chuckled evilly. “Come, Gram, and eat with us!” he waved to the man Aragorn had greeted earlier, the prince’s bodyguard. “I’ve already stopped singing, no one will feel tempted to knife me now… Well, Thorongil, the thing goes as follows: The Steward sends his ships down Anduin and across the Bay of Belfalas with the few morsels he can spare from his war to trade with his distant southern subjects, who live in leisurely peace and abundance. And lo! The Corsairs, those renegades, dare stalk and pounce on his ships and steal the cargo and then sell it in Harad and even South Gondor across the River Harnen! Worst, cunning traders as Tarlang of Anfalas, on their own or through third parties, keep trade beyond the ban, and sell and buy at more convenient prices and with no taxes, and thus the Steward’s own apple-flavoured barrels are used to aging that damnable stuff Tarlang dares call wine and send up the river to the Steward’s table, if you would believe it!” he hooted.

Aragorn gave him a tight smile. “Well… there you have your answer, Iôrhil…why the Steward was prompted to act…”

“The wine?”

“Trade. Taxes uncollected. Smuggling. Extortion. Theft…”

Iôrhil snorted in a quite unprincely manner. “Of course. Taxes.” He spooned down a few mouthfuls without speaking then shook his head sadly. “Those lands are Gondor too, Thorongil, for good and for bad,” he said hoarsely, a steely glint in his green eyes. “They are our people, they have always been, and we have abandoned them, no, alienated them for too long. We have a duty towards them, a duty beyond taxes…”

Aragorn nodded in concerned sympathy. He was about to express his worries about the true scope of their mission when a sudden clangour filled the streets. Silence blanketed the common room at the inn briefly, hairs tilted in sharp attention -then chaos exploded.

“The citadel!” some patrons called out.

“The bells in the citadel! Alert, Alert!” others cried as everyone scrambled to their feet and shoved in confusion to the doors. The bells rang urgently, insistently, and Aragorn tried to elbow his way, when someone grabbed him in a firm grip and dragged him towards the counter.

“The back yard,” Iorhil’s guard whispered. “We have horses there.”

TBC

Apologies for the delay. Holidays are a busy time.