Chapter Four - Grim Deeds

Halbarad dropped to one knee and looked at a large bloodstain, larger than any they had yet encountered. "He fell here, as well." He sighed heavily as he looked toward the north. "How much farther did you go, Aragorn?" he whispered.

Denlad examined the ground for twenty paces all around the tracks. "No other tracks. In that, at least, it seems luck is with us."

"I am not sure that brings me any comfort," Halbarad said. "I have had the feeling, for some hours now, that we are being watched."

Denlad looked at the seemingly empty lands. There were endless places for a man to hide; certainly not a lot of woodland, but there were small copses of trees along springs and streams, thick patches of gorse, even slight swells and dips in the land itself. "I can’t say with certainty that no one else is tracking us, true. But if they are, they must be well behind us and not worth worrying about. Finding Aragorn must take precedence over who might be on our back trail."

"Still, keep your eyes moving on more than just Aragorn’s tracks. We will be no help to Aragorn if we let ourselves be waylaid from behind. I do not like the feel of this."

Denlad nodded, and they moved off again, almost running, for it seemed as though Aragorn was making straight for the Weather Hills, away from any dangers that might lurk along the Great East Road. There were caves there, Denlad knew, caves where an injured man might find safety to light a fire and tend to his wounds. He swallowed hard. Or to crawl into to die.

They hurried on. The land here, though well past the Midgewater Marshes, was still by turns marshy and dry, broken by outcroppings of rock and small thickets of scrubby trees. To the southeast behind them, visible on the horizon yet still some leagues away, was the hill called Weathertop, that in past ages held the Watchtower of Amon Sûl. Denlad momentarily looked back at the ruined contours of its top, at the jagged stones that were the only remnants of the great tower that marked the site where King Argeleb the First was slain, and that once held a palantír, a seeing stone through which Elendil watched for Gil-Galad. So many great and often terrible tales surrounded that hill. He did not wish for Aragorn to add his own tragic end to its history.

He turned his eyes back to the path before him, wishing desperately he had his own watchtower to climb, to look over the land around them and find in its vastness one man, wounded, alone.

--o0o0o--

Another place of flattened grass and dark-stained ground. Denlad ran his finger along a hand print. He placed his own hand in the depression. His hands were larger than Aragorn’s, but it was not the difference in size that gave Denlad the need to curl his fingers deep into the drying mud to match the mark. He looked up at Halbarad. "He must be in great pain. This mark was made by his clenching fist."

Halbarad rested a hand on Denlad’s shoulder. "He is strong. See here? He regained his feet and continued on. Try not to let fear take your heart." He gave Denlad’s shoulder a slap and a slight shake to encourage him, then continued along the trail.

Denlad followed, but his thoughts strayed back to that hand print. It was not fear that he felt. Not exactly. It was... it was an almost overwhelming sense of compassion. He felt as though he need only concentrate and he would feel Aragorn’s pain in his own body. It was a feeling he had experienced before, many times, when he saw someone ill or wounded. Seeing such suffering gave him the feeling that he had been emptied out inside, drained of all that gave him strength and that unless he did something to help, he must surely wither and die himself. He told Aragorn once about it, and Aragorn told him that he had the heart of a healer. That may be, he supposed, but fate had decreed he wield a sword instead. Studying herblore and leechcraft seemed something ever beyond opportunity. But from that day, he had paid close attention to Aragorn any time he worked as a healer, and no greater satisfaction did he know than during those rare times when he was working alongside his Chieftain in the healing wards.

He chased away his reverie. He could not afford to gather wool while such danger lurked around them. Still, there was no sign anywhere that he could see that enemies were near. He stopped again for a moment to look behind them, but the land stretched empty and quiet to the southern horizon.

He spun about and hurried to catch up with Halbarad as the older man ran tirelessly ahead of him, running so fast that his hair whipped behind him like a banner. Halbarad wore his hair longer than most of the Dúnedain, more in the manner of the Elves. While that was not wholly uncommon among the Dúnedain, for they still held close friendship with the Elves and sometimes copied their ways, Denlad had to chuckle because he knew that admiration of the Firstborn was not the reason for Halbarad’s flowing locks. No, Halbarad wore his hair long because his wife liked it that way. Halbarad once grumbled to him, as he tried to untangle wind-driven snarls from it, that his wife had a ridiculous infatuation with Elladan, and so he had to suffer long hair for it. Denlad had started laughing, but his mirth died a quick death when Halbarad grabbed his dagger in one hand and a hank of Denlad’s blonde hair in the other and threatened to shave him bald. So fierce had been Halbarad’s anger that Denlad even volunteered to help Halbarad comb out the snarls, until Aragorn teased them both about looking like the monkeys in Harad, picking fleas off one another.

I suppose we did look a sight–

A bird exploded from the gorse to his right, startling him out of his reverie. He watched it fly off, appalled that he would let his mind wander so to trivial things. Fatigue, fear... there were any number of reasons a man’s thoughts might skip to memories of safer times, but for a warrior, such lapses were not only inexcusable, but deadly.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He eyed the clump of bushes from whence the bird had taken such sudden flight. Was that movement within? He stared harder, but whatever caught his eye did not repeat itself. He studied the area around it, concentrating so fiercely that he nearly ran into Halbarad, who had suddenly slowed. "What is it?" Denlad asked, but the bushes still drew his gaze. Had there been a movement? Did I see something or was it we who startled the bird–

"That hill yonder. I think I see something – there! A patch of blue!"

Denlad reluctantly turned his attention upward, squinting, and then saw it. Someone was up there, in the gorse, watching them. "It looks like a child. Or a hobbit."

"No hobbit would be out here."

"Nor would there be children."

"Let us head that way."

But before either of them could take a step, the bushes around them suddenly erupted. Three fierce-eyed men came at them, and Denlad only just pulled his sword in time to block the thrust of a dagger aimed his way by the tallest of the three, even as he cursed himself for not trusting his instincts and giving warning. He pushed the man’s blade up and then to the side and then drove a knee into the man’s groin. The man doubled over and found his death on the edge of Denlad’s steel. Denlad turned away to find the other assailant but he was too slow. An iron-hard arm snaked around his neck and nearly jerked him off his feet. The man’s fist slammed against Denlad’s right wrist, but he kept his grip on his sword. Not that it helped him much, for the angle was too close to bring it round to bear. The man’s arm tightened against his throat, cutting off his air. He dug uselessly at the man’s arm with his free hand, but it was like trying to pry Caradhras from Arda.

"Drop your weapon!" a harsh voice growled beside his ear.

In answer, Denlad abandoned tugging at the man’s arm. He dropped his sword, but then lifted his right leg and yanked a dagger from his boot. He drove it blindly backward and felt it sink into flesh, and the arm fell away from his neck. He whirled, but the man was on the ground, clutching his belly and out of the fight.

Denlad kicked the man’s fallen blade out of reach then turned to see if Halbarad needed help. He did not. His opponent lay on the ground, lifeless.

Denlad took a deep, shaking breath, massaging his bruised throat. "Are you harmed?" he rasped.

"No. You?"

Denlad shook his head. He turned to the man on the ground. "Who are you?"

The man spat at him. Denlad jerked his head back but the spittle landed on his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and fought back the urge the lay his fist across the man’s face. He reached down instead and pulled at the man’s coat, opening it to reveal a jagged wound that went deep into the man’s lower abdomen. Although he had been the one to deliver it, he still winced, for such a wound promised only a slow and painful death. "You have a mortal wound. Far better for you to face death with a clear conscience. Who are you, and these men? Why did you attack us?"

The man glared but remained silent. Denlad looked up at Halbarad with the smallest of shrugs.

"Leave him," Halbarad grunted. "If the wolves do not get him, he will eventually bleed to death or the wound will fester and he will die of fever."

Denlad stood and followed Halbarad. Healing compassion he may have, but he seldom lavished it on those who tried to kill him. They had gone but three paces when the man cried out. "Wait!"

Denlad moved to the side and Halbarad walked back to the man. "Speak, and my comrade will give you medicine to help ease your pain."

"We seek our brother."

"And what was your brother doing in these parts?"

"He is a trader. We are all... four of us traders."

Denlad wondered briefly at the man’s hesitation but dismissed it as due to pain. He let out a disbelieving snort. "An odd way to do business, ambushing your patrons to trade a knife in the back for their coin. This brother you speak of... is he garbed as you, in Southron raiment?"

"He is."

"Then he lies rotting not a league south," Halbarad told him. "He attacked our companion and paid for his folly with his life. But tell me, what business truly brings you to these parts and do not say ‘trading’ or I will carve out your eyes and leave you to die blinded to the last light of your evil days."

The man said nothing. Halbarad sighed in disgust and stood. "I think you a spy and not a trader, but either way, I suppose it matters not, given the doom before you. We know our enemies, and thus you would tell us nothing new. I only hope you find whatever master you serve worthy of the reward you have received for your treacherous service. Give him your magic herbs, Denlad."

Denlad dug into a pouch on his belt, one that, similar to the ones all Rangers carried, held the basic essentials of medicinal herbs. His pouch held a bit more medicine that Halbarad’s, for he had broader knowledge of herblore, thanks to Aragorn’s tutelage. He did not want to spare any for this wretch, for he feared Aragorn would need them more, but neither, he reluctantly admitted, could he leave the man to suffer. He measured out enough to send the man into a deep sleep, one from which he would likely not awaken before death from the wound claimed him. He spied a waterskin on the man’s belt. He crushed the leaves in his hand, poured them into the skin and then shook it gently. "Take this all at once and you will fall into a sleep from which you will most likely not waken. Or sip it slowly and it will ease your pain as you lay awaiting death. It is your choice. Either way, you will likely pass from Arda’s circles before the sun reclaims day from night."

The man simply stared at him, his expression unreadable. Denlad shook his head at the stubborn foolishness of such men and turned away.

Halbarad looked at the two bodies. "We cannot spare the time to bury your brothers, for we seek the one your brother injured. But if we return, we will see to it then. We are the Dúnedain of the North and we would see no man’s body, even an enemy’s, despoiled after his death."

Again, the man spat at them. Halbarad stared at him sadly for a moment, then looked to Denlad. "We will move out."

They hurried up the hill, climbing in silence, but after a time, Denlad spoke. "Forgive me... I should have seen them. I sensed something was amiss in those bushes yet I did not give warning."

"Nothing to forgive. We were both distracted by that hobbit."

"But I should have spotted them."

"How, when they were traveling parallel to us, and apparently very canny in hiding? Do not take blame when there is none to take."

Denlad fell silent but then after a few more paces, spoke up again. "Tell me true, Halbarad. Would you have carved out his eyes?"

"Of course not! What do you take me for, one of them?"

Denlad smiled faintly. He thought Halbarad had been bluffing, but he had seemed so convincing that he could not be sure. "I think those three were spies, as likely was the one Aragorn killed. That one I stabbed had me by the neck, his dagger poised for a killing stroke, yet instead of killing me, he told me to drop my weapon. He wanted information, not my coin."

"It does seem certain they were spies of some sort, likely of Sauron. Arda is better for their deaths."

They fell silent again. Denlad’s thoughts were dark as he thought of all the death he had meted out by his own hand. Would that some day such grim deeds would no longer be necessary. But evil must be fought where it is found, and if weaker men find shadowed roads easiest to travel, then Denlad had no compunction against showing those men the folly of their ways. He just wished...

He stopped the train of thought. There was no purpose in wishing. It only stole one’s concentration from the dangers at hand. He looked upward, his eyes taking in every clump of bush and every rock before them. The hillside seemed empty of enemies, and empty even of the hobbit... or child... they had glimpsed.

But even as they climbed, he saw Aragorn’s tracks, ever climbing, sometimes slipping, but going on again.

Valar, keep giving him strength, and guide our own feet swiftly to his side before it is too late!