Part Two

Cry Wolf

The bed was too uncomfortable. Or the room too close. Or the rain too loud. Haldir didnÂ’t know why he couldn’t sleep anymore. Careful not to wake the snoring Aragorn, he slipped his boots on noiselessly and, looping cloak and saber over one arm just in case, padded out into the hall.

Flickers of blue lightning silhouetted him against the floor as he passed the hallwayÂ’s only window. The violent glare briefly lit his eyes as he glanced outside. No stars tonight. Swift as rain drops down a windowpane, he glided down the stairs and into the common room. It was quite silent and empty this time of night. Perfect for him.

Insomnia was no stranger to him. He knew how to pass the long hours to dawn. But since the inn was not his study and he paid by the glass, he thought it best simply to sit before the fire. After stoking the embers up with two or three sturdy logs, he sat back in a tatty armchair with his sword across his knees. For a while he stayed content watching the flames whirl and writhe while they consumed the wood, licking it up in purple, devouring strokes, here and there sparking as they encountered a knot.

Resting his chin in one long-fingered hand, the other splayed on his saber hilt, he stared at the flames, forcing all of his concentration on their colorful weave rather than on anything else. He couldnÂ’t explain it even to himself but he felt uneasy. And it wasnÂ’t just the presence of humans, their intrusive questions or the young girlÂ’s terrified story of ghosts that put him ill at ease. Something stirred at the back of his mind like a wisp of thought only half-conjured before it drops back into blackness, unobserved, untouched, unexamined. But he was at a loss as to what that something might be.

He was deep in thought but not so deep he did not hear the chair’s subtle creak as it relinquished a weight. He did not turn as he addressed the shadow behind him. “You look in the wrong place for ghosts.” He framed his words carefully. Though his mastery of Westron was flawless, his voice still retained enough of an Elvish lilt to catch the ear of a careful listener.

The dark woman leaned on the chair beside his, as cautious of him as he was of her. “IÂ’m not looking for a ghost.” Her eyes glittered when they swept over his face as though trying to pierce the shadows by will alone. “I think the creature IÂ’m hunting is far more dangerous – as well as being flesh and blood.”

“Oh?” He tried to sound interested.

“An elf.” Her answer made every muscle in his body tense but he hastily forced himself to relax as she continued. “You might think me mad if you’re as much a skeptic as Fabor. But I know it’s an elf that’s been hunting us.”

“Why would you think that? It is my understanding the elven refuges are further north. There’s no reason for them to journey south unless they seek the sea nor is there any reason they would attack Men.” Haldir tried to feign disbelief though his heart had begun to hammer.

“I saw him.”

The elf captain raised his shadowed eyes to hers but for the first time she kept her eyes on her hands, her left cradling the wrist of her right. Haldir noticed her fingertips shook slightly.

“I was up in the woods on the Ridge hunting when I saw him for the first time nearly eighteen years ago. I wondered what he was doing up there. Elves don’t belong in these woods. They live north, like you said. No reason for them to be here, taking our game. He didn’t seem to notice me so I crept closer. I’d never seen an elf before. He had something slung over his shoulder like a sack.

“It was a boy. All trussed up like a goose, crying and cringing. He couldn’t have been as old as me back then. The elf sat him down at the foot of a tree, never said a word as he… sharpened his knives. Then he started cutting him. I’ve never heard anyone scream so loud and so long. But nobody heard. Nobody came. After a while, I guess the elf got tired and stopped. He left for a bit.

“While he was gone, I killed the boy. Spared him suffering. The elf didn’t like that. He caught me out before I could get away, paid me back in full for cheating him. Before I could so much as twitch, he had strung a bow and shot at me. Pierced my hand right through.” She held up her right hand and Haldir noticed a ragged, almost circular scar on the palm. “Haven’t been able to draw a bow since. And I never did catch him. Even after all these years he’s still here. Still plaguing us. Killing our boys…”

She folded her hands over the chair back and stared at him steadily. “Ever met any elves yourself then?”

“A few.”

“Nasty creatures,” the dark woman sniffed, gazing at her damaged hand. “Lethal to look ‘em in the eyes. They can get under your skin, in your head…”

Haldir felt a prickle of irritation that she would judge an entire race on one alone.

“To my admittedly limited knowledge, Elves do not hunt Men. There’s no reason for it.”

“This one does. And heÂ’s getting bolder now after all this time. HeÂ’s not afraid anymore and heÂ’s getting closer and closer to our homes. People lock their doors at night – they never had to do that before. Boys wonÂ’t stay here, afraid they might be next.” She waved an arm around the empty room. “You saw how empty it was tonight – even bad storms donÂ’t keep men from a good ale.”

She fell silent and he did not speak, mulling over her words. He couldnÂ’t understand why one of his kind wouldÂ… No, the problem was he did understand. All too well. Hatred tended to cloud judgement, give way to revenge, make you do things you later regretted… The question was – for what wrong did this elf seek vengeance? What had happened to him to make him hate Men so thoroughly he was willing to risk his life by walking among them and kill their young?

“But I’m sure you’re not sitting up in the dark waiting for me to come and tell you the story of my life,” her lips twisted ironically but her gaze never once left him. “You’re up late.”

“I had more need for thought than sleep.”

“Oh?” It was her turn to question. But he shook his head. He didn’t care to discuss his uneasiness with her.

“Where are you from? Your accent’s… unfamiliar.” her eyes calculated him as she waited for a response.

“North. I am traveling with a friend. Early snows forced us further south than we’d intended.” Her constant stare was really beginning to make him uncomfortable. For a moment, he contemplated asking her what her problem was but refrained; he didn’t need to get her back up more than it clearly already was.

“Do I make you uneasy, stranger?”

Too late, he realized the white-knuckled grip on his saber. Willing himself to relax, he said after a moment of furious wracking for the temporary alias Aragorn had bestowed on him. “My name is… Halbarad. And no, you do not.”

“It makes me uncomfortable when I can’t see the face of the man I’m talking to… Halbarad.” Challenge rippled under the offhand remark. When he didn’t say anything, the tinniest smirk curled her lips as though she guessed something he had not. “In my experience men who’d rather not be known only travel through this town for two reasons: they need something or they have something to hide. Which is it for you?”

“Forgive me if I do not feel inclined to indulge your curiosity but I hardly see how who I am is any affair of yours.” He knew he roused her suspicions even more but better she think him some kind of brigand than discover he was an elf.

She tried a different tack. The knife at her waist glittered in an ornate sheath as she leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers across her thigh as though they were friends discussing a disagreement over tea. Her oil-colored eyes flickered down at his lap. “That’s an unusual blade you carry. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen before and my father was a weaponsmith.”

He mirrored her posture and folded his hands over his scabbard, the very picture of unconcern though he did not blink, an unconscious habit among elves when threatened. “I assume you have a point.”

“Where did you get it?” Her eyes suddenly burned as they snapped from the saber to his face. “And why do you cover your face though I’m not likely to know yours from a hundred others I’ve seen?”

A highly doubtful smile drew the corners of the elf’s mouth. “Did you ever hear of what happened to the curious cat?”

“She got her fur ripped off by a wolf for sticking her whiskers in its lair. You going to rip me, Halbarad, if I discover your secret?” Her hand shot out and gripped his arm with surprising strength in a woman so small. “Plenty of young men in this town got ripped. But by no wolf.”

“I am sorry for whomever you lost but that is not my problem.” The captain tugged his sleeve out of her impulsive grasp and stood.

She cursed rudely in a guttural tongue.

To her utter astonishment, he replied right back over his shoulder.

“You speak the language of the Harad, Master?” she asked, reverting to Westron with the slightest hardening around her eyes as she discovered this adversary might not be as easily dissected as sheÂ’d thought. Few spoke her native language – especially so close to Gondor and its fiefs.

Haldir allowed the smallest smirk of satisfaction to flicker across his face without bothering to turn around. “A little. I can count, ask which road IÂ’m on and-” after a secondÂ’s consideration, he spoke a rapid series of short syllables. His syntax wasn’t quite polished but he figured he’d gotten his point across when the irritation lines around her mouth deepened.

For him, this conversation was long over. With the slightest inclination of his head to bid her a firm good night, he turned away and to his intense relief, she did not follow.

———

The stable was completely dark. Breathing lightly, he eased the door almost shut behind him, muffling the rumbling thunder. Though only a faint glimmer peeked through even the flighty lightning was better than this cloying dark. Gripping his un-cooperating leg tightly, he dragged it a few inches further inside. A blood-soaked rag wound round it barely kept him on his feet and it wouldnÂ’t for much longer if he didnÂ’t sit down. But he knew he had a job to finish. The rest of his men waited for him elsewhere; he told them he could do it alone and he would.

However, he began to regret it as his heart pounded faster in his chest. Phantom shapes swirled before his eyes, twisting into murderous shapes. Fear hammered at his temples as he fumbled for a lantern. Groping his way forward more by memory than sight he finally located one and twisted the tattered wick up, letting the feeble light wash over his surroundings.

Lintedal whickered softly and stuck her nose over her stall door as he approached. The light reflected like a mirror from the horseÂ’s chestnut coat. He limped past her. Not caring about the stench, he splashed his sweating face with water from the long trough and, tearing off a rag from his tunic, dunked it liberally to soothe the burning pain. Cursing the ghost and his own stupidity under his breath, he wrapped the fresh rag around his leg. He would have been back sooner if that boyÂ’d just handed over his horses like heÂ’d told him to and not attracted the ghostÂ’s attention. A soft rustle made him jump and drop the cloth.

But all he could see were the horses watching him curiously. He swore at them as he snatched up the tattered strip. “Stupid beasts. Quit making so much noise.” His words dropped more loudly in the stillness than any sound the animals had made and he paused for a second or two, listening. Relieved when nothing else stirred, he hastily finished off the knot and began to limp towards the inn’s side door. He hoped Carlóme had had better luck than he these last few weeks.

Fast and brutal, he didnÂ’t even hear the sound of footsteps. But he did feel the knife as it plunged between his upper ribs, missing his spine by inches. He was so shocked he couldnÂ’t even scream but he wouldnÂ’t have been able to anyway as a cold, leather-gloved hand clamped over his lips.

His injured leg buckled and his attacker let him flop bonelessly on the floor. Caleb tried to roll over but a hard pressure like a boot heel ground into his back, right above the hot wetness drenching his cloak. Like a bug under a nail, he lay pinned helplessly against the flagstones. An ice cold sliver slid along his other leg like a shard of glass. He didnÂ’t realize what had happened until he tried to get up and his legs refused to move. The gloved hand forced his face into the hay, stifling his fresh howls.

“No,” he moaned, more a breathless sob than a word, his throat choked with hay and blood. As though in response to his plea, the pressure eased up, his attacker letting him run like a cat allowing the mouse to escape just beyond reach of its paws before snatching him back again. Nevertheless Caleb crawled desperately to get out of range of the knife. His back seared like fire and every jerky movement brought a new spasm of agony. But he was almost to the door…

He didnÂ’t know it was locked.

———

Seeking solace, Haldir headed towards the stables. The side door was slightly ajar. Surprised, Haldir slid through it and glanced around. A lantern flickered on the post closest him. The elf captain pulled it down from its peg and lowered the flame a little. Who on earth would have been foolish enough to leave a flame so close to hay? A shrill whinny from Lintedal alerted him. The mare tossed her head over the stall door, distressing, high-pitched cries tearing out of her throat as she saw her master. Running to her, he clasped her head before she could hurt herself.

“Shh… shh… pen neth. Díno, híril bain nin,” he whispered until she calmed down. An odd little ridge brushed against his hand as he stroked her smooth neck.

There was a dark spot on her coat. As he brushed at it, it crumbled away under his fingers, dark like mud but as he held the lantern a little closer, his eyes widened. Swiftly, he checked his mare over but he couldnÂ’t find a scrape or scratch on her. Where had the blood come from?

It didnÂ’t take long for his keen eyes to spot a spatter on the stall door, a drop here and there in the hay all over the floor. He eyed the long double smear stretching past the water trough into darkness. Clearly the wounded party had been draggedÂ…

Heart pounding, he followed the path of bright red towards the unlighted part of the stables where hay bales stacked three high against the wall. He took the lantern with him and kept one hand clasped on his sword hilt, listening. But only silence and LintedalÂ’s continued disquiet pressed on his sensitive ears. His light fell on a pale hand. Now certain what he would find, his stomach flipped over.

There was too much blood. For a moment, it blinded him as the light bathed it in crimson intensity. Though a witness to many strange and unspeakable things in his lengthy career, for several, long minutes, the captain of Lórien could only stare.

The man lay sprawled on his face, one cloudy eye upturned towards the one who had found him too late. A spidery hand still clutched in vain at the dirty flagstones, the fingernails ragged as though he had tried to claw off his attacker. And failed. A deep stab wound a few inches to the right of his spine had brought him low. Haldir stared at it. But his killer had not stopped there. He had torn his victimÂ’s back open all along one side, ripped through cloth, skin, muscleÂ… Haldir thought he saw a white glint under the mess. But even though the original slash was devastating, that didnÂ’t explain all the blood pooled under the body.

Avoiding the crimson slick and a curl of blue intestine glistening in the straw, Haldir knelt beside the dead man and edged aside a loose bandage, touching the trouser thigh where a neat, round hole punctured the fabric. Exactly the size and shape of wound an arrow would leave. Like the very arrow he had shot into a bandit that morning.

The elf sat back on his heels with a shake of his head. The raider had been a bully and a fool. But even he didnÂ’t deserve to die like this, in such fear and pain. No one did. As big as he was he had fallen prey to something far more deadlyÂ…

Casting a quick glance around the still-empty stables, Haldir examined the corpse with a more judicious and militaristic eye. The killer had been either very skilled or very meticulous or both. There were no footprints though blood had gotten everywhere even HaldirÂ’s boots had not escaped a little stain. No tracks, no signs, no weapon. Maybe the murderer was a ghost, Haldir thought, his lips twisting into a wry smile as he reached for the manÂ’s shoulder to roll him onto his back.

The blow struck without warning. Shooting pain slammed into his awareness as something hard smashed into the side of his jaw. Half-stunned, Haldir landed hard on his back, the stench of hay and blood strong in his nostrils. Flipping over, he gathered his knees under him but as he tried to rise another hammer-stroke caught him right between the shoulder blades.

Strong fingers fastened around his throat, cutting off his oxygen as a ruthless hand forced his head into the straw. Haldir gasped for air and inhaled dust. Black spots instantly swam before his eyes as his lungs screamed to breathe. In a blind haze, he caught his invisible attackerÂ’s wrist and drove his other elbow sharply backward. A satisfying grunt of pain and instant loosening of pressure told him he had struck flesh. Tearing himself free, he lashed out hard and his boot connected, eliciting a yelp from his attacker.

Life-giving air dragged back into his lungs as the elf drew his saber and resisted the urge to rub his bruised and stinging throat. He tightened his hold on his weapon as his assailant pulled himself to his feet, nursing his side.

“What are you doing?” Haldir rasped as Zaren slowly unfolded himself and picked up the unstrung bow he had struck the elf with.

The scarred man’s face twisted with rage and disgust as he leveled the bow like a club. “I could ask you the same thing, demon. Look what you did to Caleb!”

Wildly, he swung out but this time Haldir was ready. One flick of his wrist sent the bow skimming out of the manÂ’s hands. He dodged a lashing fist and with a deft twist raked the very tip of his blade along his cheek. Any more pressure and he would have split ZarenÂ’s face wide open to the point of mortally wounding him.

As it was, the cut only startled him enough to stop him in his tracks. Like a wolf, Haldir was on him. He shoved the man backwards and pinned him against the wall by the throat. Applying pressure with the flat of his saber, he growled low. “Listen to me! I did not kill this man, you are mistaken.”

“I… saw… you…” Zaren ground out around the restrictive steel. But he couldn’t meet the elf’s incensed stare and dropped his eyes.

“You saw me standing over him, yes, I found him just as you did.” The man refused to see reason and tried to spit in the elf’s face.

The undeniable creak of bowstrings echoed loudly over Zaren’s ragged panting. “Let him go, Halbarad, or we drop you.”

Haldir took his eyes off Zaren to feel a sword blade pricking his ribs. Following the steel, he met Carlóme’s smirking face with six other women beyond her, all pointing arrows straight at his chest.

He released Zaren who slid down the wall, palming his bleeding cheek and gasping. A blonde woman moved carefully forward and helped him to his feet, never taking her eyes off the elf. Something in their fearful, anxious eyes confused Haldir. None of them seemed to want to come near him though they accused him of murder and had more than enough hands and weapons between them to do so. Then he realized.

His cloak hung off him wild and disarrayed from the fight. Despite the hard days of travel, the dust and burgeoning bruises, Haldir could be mistaken for nothing less than he was. His otherworldly eyes and long, golden hair that didnÂ’t quite manage to conceal the tips of his pointed ears spoke volumes to the now completely silent company.

Then Carlóme laughed. “Well, damn me, you’re the handsomest killer I’ve ever seen. Isn’t he, girls?”

A few of them leered and whistled cruel assent.

Haldir’s eyes narrowed. The words bit harder than she knew. “I am no killer. I already explained-”

The dark woman’s eyes and aim flickered pointedly downwards. “You have blood on your boots.”

“But not on my hands.”

A tall, rapier-thin woman with wild red hair jeered at him.

“There’s blood in here too.” The woman who had helped Zaren up peered inside the water trough which was tinged crimson.

Carlóme’s lip curled in a supercilious sneer. She gestured to her band, a few of whom carried ropes and other restraints. “Take him.”

The number of arrows pointed in his direction made Haldir rethink trying to fight his way out of this. So he did not resist when they grabbed him. But the womenÂ’s blood was up and they were merciless. One of them fisted him in the stomach while another whacked the joint behind his knees. Once he was down, they all started in on him. Too many fine men and sons had been lost for them to be anything but completely convinced they had caught their familiesÂ’ killer at last.

Haldir tasted blood in his mouth as someone’s long-fingered hand clawed his face and cracked his head against the stone floor. He struggled feebly as a hand dragged the saber out of his and wrenched his arms behind his back. Trying to get his knees under him, he heaved against the restraining hands but someone grabbed his ankle and tugged, forcing him flat again as another kick connected solidly with his side. He heard a crack and sharp pain lanced through his ribs. With a soft cry immediately cut off, he curled in on himself, nearly blacking out before Carlóme’s voice rapped,

“ThatÂ’s enough. I want him alive. Get him up and take him to the cellar – Fabor says he can lock him there until morning.”

The innkeeper stood just within the entrance hall with another lamp when they triumphantly dragged their half-conscious quarry towards the basement stairs, bound with so many ropes and cords he could scarcely move. The old man’s pinched face blenched. “You got him! By heaven…” he stared at the elf’s pale, bloodied features in the light and swore an oath under his breath. “I do believe in ghosts. And demons! And Elves! Whatever next?”

Two of Carlóme’s ladies went ahead to light lanterns while the dark leader herself guarded her prisoner with a knife against his chest. “One wrong move, elf, just one. I want you alive but I don’t need you to be.”

It was damp and cool in the cellar. Kilderkins of ale, cider and wine were stacked in sections and on shelves all around the cavernous room. The hunters dropped the elf in a corner, a parallel guard of casks and firkins at either side. Zaren brought out another length as thick as his forearm used to secure barrels and braided this through the elfÂ’s bound arms, around his chest and the horizontal bulk of a barrel.

Dazed and still not understanding why this was happening to him, Haldir was brought rudely back to the situation as the ropes jerked tight around his chest and the first flickers of real panic sent an electric jolt through his body. Choking down a chunk of raw fear at his own helplessness, he tried not to flinch when the man roughly unfastened his sword belt and ripped the sheath away.

Tugging to make sure the knots were still tight, Zaren straightened and gave his leader a short nod. “There. That should hold him. But, maybe I should stay here… just in case…”

“Yeah,” the blonde woman agreed, testing a curved blade on her palm. “I wanna see him squeal.”

Carlóme shook her head, her eyes never leaving her prisonerÂ’s bowed head. “No, Kari. Go – all of you. I want to talk to him myself. Alone.”

“Will you be all right… alone… with him?” the man asked, his tanned face guarded and anxious. He touched her sleeve.

“Just keep watch. Don’t forget to lock the door,” she said, not even deigning to look at him.

With unsatisfied sighs, both he and the remainder of the band nodded and disappeared up the steps. The blonde woman named Kari cast a pout in her leader’s direction and spat on the prisoner before spinning on her heel and stalking after the others. Carlóme heard the lock click obediently on the other side and smiled.

“Caleb was Kari’s man. A good man, good fighter, my right hand and look what he is now? A pile of meat, giving me just one more reason to want your blood.” Her triumphant smile sharpened as she leant down and viciously slapped him with an open palm then reversed direction and slapped him again, her nails gouging a thin red line across his cheek.

She wiped her hand on her trousers and glared at him as though it was his fault he was bleeding. “Seventeen years… I’ve been waiting seventeen years to have you like this and tonight you walked right into my hands. I’m actually disappointed it was this easy. I thought Elves were keen folk, hard to catch.” She laughed, the sound ringing with anything except humor.

But she had made the mistake of getting too close. His foot shot out and his hard-soled heel caught her right in the leg. Stumbling back, she cursed then started chuckling as she rubbed her shin. “That’s it? The big, bad murderer can do no more than kick like a haltered filly?”

Her voice grated on HaldirÂ’s ears even as the ropes burned against his wrists; fingers tingled from lack of blood. The stinging blows, coupled with the one he had taken earlier to his head, made his vision swim disconcertingly and drawing in shallow, careful breaths, he felt the sting of a cracked or broken rib. But he hurt too much elsewhere to tell which. And it wasnÂ’t just physical wounds either that made his breath come faster.

Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the memories clawing to surface since Zaren had tightened the cord. Once more he was at the mercy of humans. Once more a killer. Haldir swallowed down bile at the thought. This was not the first time he had been called so. Even he wasnÂ’t so sure it wasnÂ’t true. He was a soldier after all: he killed to survive, to protect his home, his family, his life. What was the difference between what he did and what he had seen tonight?

Still he knew better than to wallow in self-pity or wishful thinking. He was a soldier, a captain of Lothlórien. He still had his renowned pride left. It wouldn’t help him if they intended to kill him but at least he would have a little dignity for his death. Shaking tendrils of hair out of his eyes, he straightened his aching back as best he could and looked his tormentor in the face.

CarlómeÂ’s dark face crumpled in a scowl. “Well, then, my pretty filly, I guess IÂ’ll have to break that proud spirit in good and proper – before we shoot you. After all thatÂ’s what happens to broken horses isnÂ’t it? You probably wonÂ’t go easy. YouÂ’re clever, I can see that. You even managed to fool the boy who was with you. HeÂ’s lucky – we probably saved his life.”

Aragorn. Haldir felt a shock which molded quickly into guilt. Not once since he had found Caleb in the stables had he thought of his friend. What will Estel think when he finds out I am dead? Will he even know? And the killer was still out there, preying on men while Aragorn slept, safe and warm upstairs. Completely unawares. A cold chill fastened around the elfÂ’s heart like the talons of a bird of prey.

Carlóme’s knife-like smile returned, half-lidding her eyes. “Not so confident now are you? You should be worried, elf. You have a lot to answer for.”

———

Watery moonlight dappled through the round panes and lit a path down the carpeted stairs as the storm rumbled its way northward. Moonlight gleamed on the banisterÂ’s dark wood until a black-gloved hand slid up it, momentarily disrupting the reflection. He hadnÂ’t achieved all he wanted but the night had still been profitable. He was pleased.

As he reached the top of the stairs, a clatter broke out below, shattering the deathly hush. Ducking swiftly away from the window, he concealed himself in a corner, listening hard as orange light shone briefly on the floorboards below before double doors swung closed and extinguished it.

“Quietly now, don’t let him hear.”

He stiffened. Did they know? Surely not. He had been quick enough. He tensed, waiting for them to come up the stairs. But they didnÂ’t.

“Where’s Zaren?”

“Waiting in the stable for Caleb as you ordered, Lady.”

“We’ll catch him tonight, Fabor. You have someplace we can keep him?” a male voice asked. The lower register made him lean forward a little but the words nonetheless carried right up the empty stairwell.

The old man sounded frightened out of his wits. “WellÂ… uhÂ… my-my wine cellar might doÂ… doesnÂ’t have bars or anythingÂ… but the door locks. Locks good and tight. You can keep him there until morning. But get rid of him – bad for business, a killer in the establishment…”

“If we stand hear yapping all night, we won’t get the chance,” another woman’s voice, this one more authoritative than the others, lashed with irritation.

The shadow smiled at her impatience and wagged an invisible finger remonstratively towards the stairs.

Their voices faded away and silence reigned again. Realizing he had tarried here too long, he slipped away to find an exit. It would be light soon and he far too visible in his bloodstained clothes. It would take a lifetime to wash them out. The man had bled all over him like aÂ… well, like a man. Someone had left a door cracked at the top of the stairs and the figure slipped nimbly through the partition without nudging it wider.

Though there were two beds only one was occupied. A young man lay on the pillow closest the door, the sheets tangled around his waist, his bare back towards the window. The figure tilted his head slightly and moved a little closer, fingering the hilt under his cloak. He glanced under the bed and a slight smile twitched invisible lips as he saw the broadsword hidden there. But on the wrong side. You didnÂ’t want your sword blade out of reach should danger come calling. He straightened and his cloak fluttered slightly as he drew the knife.

The tiniest scrape on the window – so quiet no ordinary person would have remarked it – but it was enough to alert the shadow for it drew back from the sleeping man. He had not time for this. The dark woman would be hunting him more furiously now than ever when she found the corpse and it would do no good if he got caught here. He could not afford to indulge himself yet.

Eyes wide open in the darkness, Aragorn gripped the knife handle concealed under his pillow in a tight fist. He didnÂ’t dare stir as he heard the window catch flip open and an icy gust chilled his skin.

Author’s Notes: Initially I ended this chapter with Haldir and Carlóme in the basement but it had only gotten onto the ninth page and I still felt like something was missing. Then lo and behold! I realized, Aragorn hadn’t been in this chapter at all. Though he did sleep almost all the way through it. In my first draft of this, he did sleep all the way through it but on second thought I said, “Wait. This is Aragorn. King of Men, hunter, ranger extraordinaire. He’s not going to sleep with the hubbub downstairs and a killer in his room.” So there you are: the last sentence.

It was really tricky keeping track of everybody – I actually hand-sketched a small (really pathetic) map of the stables to figure out who came in where and what everybody else was doing. ItÂ’s mad. I love it and canÂ’t wait to see what theyÂ’ll do next.

Hope you enjoyed reading,

The Lady of Light