The Dark Companion

by Speaker-to-Customers

Cierre, Ranger of Faerûn, is transported to Middle Earth and meets Aragorn at Amon Hen. She wins a place in the Fellowship and tries to help; unfortunately she's a Drow and her black skin inspires fear and hatred in everyone they meet.

2. It's all fun and games

Chapter Two: It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye

Cierre groaned, opened one eye, and struggled to raise her head. Her other eye refused to open. For a brief moment she was stricken with fear, remembering what she had done to the rivvil iblith and believing that the same might have been done to her in revenge, but the pain she felt was surely far less than she would be feeling if her eye had indeed been gouged out.

Raising her left hand to her face, and exploring with tentative fingers, confirmed that it was only bruising and swelling of her eyelids, and their surrounding flesh, which was holding her eye shut. It also revealed to her that her arms were shackled – and so, she saw on further examination, were her legs.

Rusty chains, they were, and she guessed they saw little use. Strong, for all that, and she would not break free of them even with the aid of a Bull's Strength spell. Not that she had such a spell memorised, anyway; she preferred the more versatile Animalistic Power to increase her strength, her dexterity, and her resilience all at once – although by a lesser amount than the sheer brute strength bestowed by the single-purpose spell. It would not free her. But it would aid her if – no, she told herself, think of it as 'when' – they unfastened her chains. As would her Darkness spell; thankfully she had not cast either spell during that frantic flurry of action before they pummelled her unconscious. They would come as a surprise to those waele rivvin barbarians when she struck to exact her revenge...

She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. Her lips were cut but, thankfully, she hadn't lost any teeth. Her jaw was sore but intact. Her right hand hurt, sharp stabs of pain whenever she moved her fingers, and when she brought it in front of her one working eye she saw that one of the fingers was crooked – broken, no doubt – and the Ring of Protection that had adorned the finger was missing. And breathing was painful enough to make her suspect that at least one of her ribs was cracked. At least the injuries were only physical; there was no soreness between her legs, and the fastenings of her breeches were loosened no more than they had been when she had rammed her thumb into the rivvil's eye, and so she knew she had not been raped. It would take both her Cure Light Wounds spells to restore her, and even then some bruising might remain, but she'd be fit to fight.

Cierre opened her mouth to speak the words of the spell but then stopped herself short. No, it would be better to refrain for the moment. They'd be much more likely to unfasten her chains, and to be careless once they did so, while she was visibly battered and bruised and seemingly in no shape to give them any trouble. Let them underestimate her, thinking her helpless, and she would make them suffer for it. Gaer zhal tlu mzil elghinyrr'kheln…*

She heard noises from outside the cell door, a voice speaking in the guttural native tongue of the barbarians, and caught a glimpse of movement beyond the grille. Presumably her movements had been noticed. Nothing came of it, at least not soon, and she began to suffer from boredom. To pass the time she filled her mind with thoughts of how this barbarian 'city' would look with the thatched roofs blazing. She was just tiring of that entertainment when she heard noises at the door again.

Two voices, this time, and one of them was a woman's. Cierre didn't understand the words but from the intonations she judged that the woman was giving orders and the man was objecting. His final words, though, came in a tone of grudging acquiescence. A moment later the door was opened and a young woman entered.

She was tall, only an inch or so shorter than Cierre's five feet nine, and was slim and graceful in her movements. She wore a simple white robe with a belt of silver links, which probably counted as aristocratic finery by the standards of these primitive people. Cierre had seen the woman before, in the halls of the senile king of the barbarians, and had gathered that she was a relative both of the dotard king and of Éomer. Her voice had been almost the only voice raised in protest, other than that of Éomer himself, against the iblith's suggestions that Cierre should be stripped of weapons, and then of armour, and then that she should be confined to a locked room instead of being treated as a guest. Alas, relative or no, her words had gone unheeded and the king had backed his belbauar d'vulteth even against his own family. And human customs seemed to forbid assassinating a king who had become a liability…

Now the woman approached, across the cell's stone flags, bearing a bowl from which steam rose. Cloths were draped across her arm. She set the bowl down on the floor near Cierre, knelt down beside it, and lifted the cloths from her arm. There were tears in her eyes.

"I am sorry you have been thus mistreated," the woman said, speaking Sindarin slightly hesitantly, with the awkward inflexions of one not accustomed to using the language in conversation. She dipped a cloth in the bowl's contents – water, then, and not soup – and then began to clean Cierre's face, wiping away the smears of blood, and doing what she could to sooth the bruised and swollen flesh around Cierre's left eye. "The honour of the Riddermark is put to shame."

"Bel'la dos," Cierre said. "I thank you." She could think of seven ways in which she could kill this woman, even while chained to the wall – no, nine, for the bowl of water and the towels offered an additional two methods – and there would be nothing the woman could do to save herself unless she was far stronger than any rivvil female could be without magical aid. Nothing except for one thing; to come with kind words and kind deeds.

"I would that I could do more," said the woman, "but I am helpless. Éomer, my brother, is imprisoned also, even as are you, and they will not let me see him. Only the word of Gríma Wormtongue holds sway in the Mark now. For the moment his venomous tongue is stilled, thanks to you, but he will rise all too soon." Her lips drew back in what was almost a snarl. "I wish that you had killed him."

"I might have done, had I not been restrained," Cierre said. "Who are you?"

"I am Éowyn daughter of Éomund, sister-daughter to Théoden King," said the woman. It took Cierre a moment to interpret the unfamiliar wording. The daughter of the king's sister; Éomer, therefore, was the king's nephew as well as being the third-ranked commander of the barbarian cavalry. And yet his words, and those of his sister, had been disregarded in favour of those of the iblith! This did not fit with what Cierre knew of the habits of barbarians. Was there some enchantment at work? It seemed a distinct possibility.

"What did Gríma do that caused you to wound him so?" Éowyn asked. She lowered her eyes. "Did he try to… force himself upon you?"

"He did," Cierre confirmed. "He put his hands on my… arlyurlen, and he tried to unfasten my breeches to touch my… litarifa." She gestured, as best she could with her manacled hands, at her breasts and between her legs to indicate the parts in question. Her dealings with the surface Elves of Faerûn had never involved sexual contact, voluntary or forced, and so she had a gap in her Sindarin vocabulary. "He told me that he would make things bad for me unless I took him to bed." She grinned savagely. "And so I took his eye."

Éowyn smiled back at her. "I suspected as much. His eyes dwelt upon me often, with lustful looks, and I feared what might happen if we were ever alone together. Yours was a just retribution. And yet…" and her smile vanished, "you shall suffer for it. He swore, as his wound was being tended, that he would make you pay. And he spoke with my uncle, before the poppy juice took effect, and then Théoden King decreed that you are to be put to death once Gríma rises from his bed." She paused and grimaced before continuing. "Already a stake has been erected, and faggots gathered, for you are to be burned as a witch." She swallowed hard. "I am sorry. It is unjust, it is a great wrong, but I cannot sway my uncle from this course… nor, these days, can I influence him in anything else. I would save you, if I could… but I cannot."

Cierre's lips tightened. So she was to die by fire? Well, at least there would be flame readily at hand, to set alight the thatched roofs, when she made her break. Yet could she still carry out that plan? She would not wish harm to come to Éowyn, now, and fire does not pick and choose its victims. And Éomer, who had proven himself to be as noble as Aragorn had said, and was now locked up in another dungeon; Cierre would not wish him to die helpless, trapped beneath a building in flames, even though his mistrust of her had brought them both to this plight. She would have to exact her revenge in some different manner…

She held up her damaged hand. "Would you bind my finger?" she requested. "It was broken in the struggle." If the bone was out of place when she cast the Cure spells it might heal crooked. That would impair her ability to wield axe, sword, or bow.

"Did you not understand? You are to be put to death," Éowyn said. "Your execution is being delayed only because Gríma desires to witness it and he has taken to his bed in pain."

"That is no reason not to bind my finger," Cierre said. "I am not yet dead."

Éowyn cocked her head to one side and stared into Cierre's eyes. "You have not yet abandoned hope, then?"

"L'yibin kestal; l'gareth mora," Cierre said. "The weak hope; the strong act."

"A good saying," said Éowyn, "and by it you have raised my spirits. I will act in such ways as I can. I will tend your finger, as you ask, but I will need to fetch something to serve as a splint. I shall bring you food as well."

"There is something else with which you could help me, if you would," Cierre said. She explained a certain necessity.

Éowyn's cheeks flushed red. "I shall see to it," she said. "I shall return as soon as I can." She gathered up the bowl, and the cloths, and departed.

Cierre sat with her back against the cell wall and rested. This was a bad situation, indeed, and her death loomed. Perhaps the best she could hope to achieve, by herself, was to take some of the barbarians with her into death. Yet she was not downhearted. She, the despised exile, was being tended by the niece of a king – only a rivvil barbarian king, admittedly, but a king nonetheless. And, in this strange and primitive world, she believed she had made some true friends. Those friends would be arriving here soon and, she deemed, they would not be pleased to discover how she had been treated. Not pleased at all.

* Gaer zhal tlu mzil elghinyrr'kheln – There shall be many corpses

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Aragorn set his sword Andúril upright against the wall and then addressed Háma, the Doorward of Théoden King, telling of the sword's lineage and cautioning the man against touching it. Then, as Gimli laid his axe beside Andúril, Aragorn spoke again.

"If all who enter must first, by the will of Théoden King, lay aside their weapons," Aragorn said, his brow deeply furrowed, "then surely the same rule applied to my comrade Cierre."

"Indeed it did, lord," said Háma, "and weapons of surpassing quality they were, that would not have been out of place beside these blades of legend. Even the knives from the sheaths in her boots were of masterful workmanship."

"Even the knives from her boots were set aside," said Aragorn, nodding his head. "And yet I am told that she slew a Rider, and injured the king's counsellor, and is condemned as a murderer. Am I to believe that, alone and weaponless, Cierre attacked the Men of the Mark, in their own halls, without good cause? When a hundred armed Men were within call? Only someone rash to the point of idiocy, or someone driven to desperation, would do such a thing. And Cierre is not rash."

"Except when she has to be," Gimli put in, as Aragorn paused to draw breath.

"I thought her so, to begin with," Aragorn continued, directing a brief glower at the Dwarf, "for when first I met her she set upon twelve orcs at once. She slew almost all, it is true, but nearly perished in the deed. Yet later I spoke of this with her and saw things differently. Had she not been driven by great need, she told me, she would have lured the orcs into the woods and picked them off one by one. She fought them face to face, all at once, because she believed it to be the only way she might save Boromir – as I had implored her to do. And thus, when I am told she is a killer who must also be a fool, I simply do not believe it."

Háma lowered his head and fixed his gaze upon the floor. "It is not my place to offer opinion on the judgements of my King," he said, "and I know nothing of what transpired within the hall. And yet I saw the dark-skinned woman, when she laid down her weapons, and she stood tall and proud and, though her countenance was strange, her bearing was that of a shield-maiden. I will say no more."

"Your reticence speaks in itself," said Aragorn. He turned his head to face Gandalf. "There is something deeply wrong here. This is not Rohan as I remember it."

"Things that are wrong need to be set right," said Gandalf.

"Indeed," said Gimli. "Now then," he said to Háma, "if all is as you wish, let us go and speak with your master."

Háma raised his head and looked at Gandalf. "Forgive me," he said, "but your staff, too, must be left at the door."

"Foolishness!" Gandalf said. "Prudence is one thing, but discourtesy is another. If I may not lean on my stick as I go, then I will sit out here until it pleases Théoden to hobble out himself to speak with me."

"You parted a woman alone from her only means to defend herself," said Aragorn. "Will you now part an old man from his support?"

Háma sucked in his lower lip and bit on it. He shook his head. "The staff in the hand of a wizard may be more than a prop for age," he said, "yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom. I believe that you are friends, and folk of honour, who have no evil purpose. You may go in."

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"And what of my companion Cierre?" Aragorn demanded of the white-haired, age-bent, King Théoden. "She gave herself into Éomer's custody on the understanding that it was to be temporary, only until we returned the horses that we had borrowed, and that she would be treated well. Now I am told that she is locked in a cell under sentence of death."

"She assaulted my trusted counsellor, my only friend," answered the king, "and savaged him like a wild beast. She attacked one of my guards, too, and slew him. It was an ill deed to bring such a creature, whose very skin shows her to be a servant of the Dark Lord, into the peaceful realm of the Mark."

"Her account is different, lord," Éowyn spoke up from her place at the king's shoulder. "He assaulted her and she did but fight back. Thus she says, and I saw no falsehood in her."

Aragorn nodded. "So I thought," he said.

The king shook his head. "I tire of this," he said. His voice was indistinct and his head sagged. "Where is Gríma? I would have him speak for me."

"You do not need Wo… Gríma to speak for you, lord," said Éowyn. "You are the King of the Mark!"

"I am old and tired," said Théoden. "Bring Gríma to me. I need to rest."

"I am here, lord," called a voice from the doorway. Into the chamber came a pallid-skinned man, his left eye and a good portion of his head covered by a blood-stained bandage, and his clothes somewhat dishevelled as if he had dressed in haste. His visible eye seemed to glitter with malice as he looked at Aragorn and his companions. "These strangers have no right to tire you with their demands."

"We have demanded nothing, as yet," Aragorn said, "only brought warnings and offered counsel. But I have a demand now. Release Cierre."

"What right have you to make demands of the King of the Mark?" Gríma demanded, his voice almost a snarl.

"The right of law," said Aragorn. "Does not the law of the Mark provide that no-one can be condemned without a trial? And Cierre speaks not your language, and has only a smattering of Westron, and few in this land speak Sindarin. Perhaps you do, Théoden King, as I know that your father Thengel spoke that tongue."

"I do," Théoden said, "although I have not done so in many years."

"Did you question her yourself?"

"I saw no need," said Théoden. "Gríma related her black deeds, with his eye still streaming blood to confirm his testimony, and he is my trusted advisor."

"Then it was no fair trial," Aragorn declared.

"She gouged out my eye from my head!" Gríma spat out.

"And what did you do to push her to that extremity?" Aragorn responded. "I insist that she be brought forth to speak for herself."

"Battle looms, Théoden son of Thengel," said Gandalf, "and you will have great need of all the aid you can get. And one comes to your hall who, by Aragorn's account, is as mighty a warrior as anyone could wish on their side – and you throw her into prison. That is not wisdom."

Théoden raised his head and stroked his long beard with his fingers. "All this argument is wearying me," he said. "Bring out the black woman, as they ask, so that they can see her evil for themselves."

"There is no need, Sire," said Gríma. "Let her stay shut away in the dark where she can harm no man."

"Are my commands not to be obeyed in my own halls?" Théoden snapped. "Do as I say!" Gríma recoiled, his face twisting in shock, and as he moved a glint of silver showed at his throat.

Gimli's gaze sharpened and he stared hard at the glimpse of metal. He uttered a low growl, deep in his throat, and his fingers formed themselves into shapes as if he was gripping the haft of his absent axe. Legolas put a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed lightly, barely hard enough to be felt through the Dwarf's coat of mail, but it was sufficient to cause Gimli to relax slightly.

"I shall fetch her, lord," Éowyn volunteered, and she scurried off before Gríma could gather himself together sufficiently to protest.

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows moved up and down and a half-smile came to his lips. "Perhaps your influence is not what it was, Gríma son of Gálmód," he said. "I begin to see what has been going on here. Saruman has taught you certain techniques, has he not? Ways to sway the thoughts of those to whom you speak. Yet it must be hard to use them when the pain of an empty eye socket throbs and burns, distracting you, and weakening your control." He saw Gríma flinch and his smile grew broader.

"I know not what you mean, Gandalf Stormcrow," Gríma replied. He turned back to the king. "There is no need for you to concern yourself, Sire," he said. "Retire to your rest and I will relieve you of the cares these ragged wanderers bring."

"The threats on your borders will not diminish for being ignored," said Gandalf. "And I think, Théoden, that you are not so much in need of rest as Wormtongue would have you believe. Tell me, do you not feel more alert, and stronger, now than you did yesterday?"

"Perhaps I do," Théoden admitted.

"I thought as much," said Gandalf. "While Gríma Wormtongue lay abed, unable to pour his words of envenomed honey into your ears, you began to recover yourself. You are neither as old, nor as weak, as he would have you believe."

"Sire! My concern is only for your welfare," Gríma protested. "This wizard will have you weary yourself to no-"

"Silence!" Gandalf roared, and Gríma quailed before his wrath. "I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man. Hold still your lying tongue!" He raised his staff. There was a roll of thunder, the sunlight from the windows was blotted out, and the hall grew so dark that only Gandalf's white robes could be seen in the gloom. Even the fire in the hearth had faded to a sullen glow from dim embers.

"His staff should have been taken from him," Gríma said. "That fool Háma has-"

"Be silent!" Gandalf commanded, cutting Gríma off in mid speech. A flash of light from his staff lit up the room for an instant. Gríma cowered back, raising a hand to cover his good eye, and silence fell over the hall. From somewhere far-off came the faint sound of metal clinking on metal. Gimli cocked an ear and then nodded, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face, but did not speak.

The clinking ended. For a long moment all was quiet and then Gandalf spoke once more. "Now, Théoden son of Thengel, will you hearken to me? Too long have you sat in shadows and trusted to twisted tales and crooked promptings. There are dark times ahead, it is true, but not all is dark." He raised his staff and pointed to a high window through which could be seen, high and far off, a patch of shining sky. "Take courage, Lord of the Mark, for help is with you, and better help you will not find. My counsel is not for those that despair; yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you, that will be of great use. Will you listen?" The darkness faded, the fire roared up again, and light returned to the hall.

"I will listen," Théoden agreed. He was sitting noticeably more upright in his chair than when the party had entered the hall. "Speak, Gandalf Greyhame, and I will take heed."

"No, Sire," Gríma said, "listen not to this wizard. He does not understand that you are ailing."

Gandalf swung to face him, beginning to raise his staff again, but Gimli was ahead of him.

"You would have been wise to stay silent," the Dwarf growled, advancing across the floor with quick short steps, "and hope to be overlooked. I see around your throat a necklace that rightfully belongs to my companion Cierre. Take it off, and at once, or I will silence you with blows of a Dwarven fist." Gimli brandished the fist in question, made even more formidable by its mailed gauntlet, in front of Gríma's nose. As he did so Éowyn re-entered the hall, stopped, and stared at the confrontation. A smile spread across her face.

Gríma's hand went to his throat. He hesitated, for a moment, but then Gimli's fist drew back as if for a punch. Gríma began to remove the necklace with trembling fingers. "I took this as wergild for my eye," he claimed.

"It was taken from her before she was even shut away in the room where you later molested her," Éowyn contradicted him. "Are you a seer, that you foretold your injury and took the wergild in advance?"

"I gave you no leave to take the prisoner's possessions for your own," Théoden said, from his carved wooden throne. He rose to his feet and began to descend the steps that led down from the dais. Éowyn rushed to his side and offered him her arm. Théoden accepted her support, completed his descent, and stepped out onto the hall's stone-flagged floor. With every step he took his posture straightened further and he made less and less use of his walking-stick. "In what other ways have you exceeded your authority?"

Then, as Gríma stammered out a denial, Cierre entered the room. Gimli's eyes widened as he saw her, and his fist clenched still tighter, but he stopped himself before he swung. "Bah! You are not even worth striking," he growled. He took the necklace from Gríma's trembling hand and headed for Cierre. Two guards stood behind her, with swords pointed at her back, and they raised questioning eyes to the king.

"Let her take it, if it is hers," said Théoden. His snow-white eyebrows descended low. "I did not command that she be beaten. Who did this?"

"She was not beaten, lord King," one of the guards answered.

The king's eyebrows reversed their course and climbed up his forehead. "Do you contradict the evidence of my own eyes?" he asked.

"No, my lord," the guard replied, a slight quaver in his voice. "I meant only that no-one has laid a hand on her since she was chained in the cells. Her injuries were received in the fight."

"Fight? I was told of no fight," said the king.

The guard shook his head, an expression of utter confusion on his face, and explained. "But, my lord king, surely you must have known? It was in that fight that Déorthain son of Derngar was slain."

"How many did she fight?" Aragorn asked.

The guard looked to Théoden for approval before answering. "Six of us," he said. "We came to the rescue of Gríma and she resisted us mightily. She drove Déorthain's head into the wall and shattered his skull. All of us felt her fists before we felled her." The other guard, who had a purple bruise showing through his beard along the side of his jaw, nodded his agreement.

"This is not the tale as Gríma related it to me," Théoden said. "My judgement would have been otherwise had I known this."

"It is the tale I would have expected to hear," said Aragorn. He turned to Cierre and spoke in Sindarin. "I would say 'well met', my comrade, but this is not how I would have wished to find you. Had I known you would be treated thus I would never have allowed you to be taken away."

Cierre dipped her head. "It is not your fault, Jabbuk Aragorn," she said. "Éomer is indeed a man of honour, as you told me, and you were not to know that the old king had gone senile and fallen into the power of an evil counsellor." She turned her gaze to fix on Théoden and her eyebrows rose slightly. "The king stands straight, unlike before, and he no longer looks as foolish as he did. Has the spell upon him been broken?"

"You know it was a spell?" It was the turn of Aragorn's eyebrows to rise.

Cierre nodded. "Charm Person, or Feeblemind, or Suggestion," she said. "I have seen such things before."

"Very interesting," said Gandalf. "I must speak with you, young lady, but not now. There are words that I must have with Théoden."

"Later, then, Ulath'elzaren," Cierre said, bowing her head to him.

A crease formed between Gandalf's bushy eyebrows. "I have many names but that is not one I have heard before."

"I do not know the Elvish word," Cierre said, "for all on the surface of Faerûn, even the Elves, use the term from the human trade language. It is the designation for a mighty wizard."

"And you recognised me as such on sight?" Gandalf's eyebrows climbed.

"You look like Elminster," Cierre explained, "the greatest wizard of my world. Also a little like Halaster, almost equally puissant, but he is insane."

Gandalf laughed. "Yes, I definitely must talk with you," he said, "but, as I said, later." He turned back to face Théoden. "I trust you have reconsidered your sentence on this lady," he said, speaking once more in Westron. "I have heard nothing to show that she deserves death."

"If she slew Déorthain whilst defending herself against six," Théoden said, "then indeed there should be no such penalty. A payment of wergild to his family would be appropriate but that is all. What possessed me to decree such a punishment without even hearing the accused?"

"I think 'possessed' is an apt description," said Gandalf. "A shadow was cast over your mind, clouding your eyes and your judgement, darkening your spirit. That shadow is lifting and your eyes are free to see. Come, Théoden, step out from your doors and look abroad. Breathe in the fresh air and feel the cobwebs around you blow away."

"No, lord…" Gríma began. Gimli turned and punched him in the stomach, a solid blow that drove the breath from Gríma's body, and the counsellor doubled up and sank to his knees. A beaming smile spread across Cierre's battered face at the sight.

Théoden, with Éowyn at his side, followed Gandalf to the exit from the hall. Gandalf knocked loudly upon the doors. "Open!" he cried. "The Lord of the Mark comes forth!" The doors swung open and a keen gust of air swept in. "Send your guards down to the stairs' foot," said Gandalf. "And you, lady, leave him a while to me. I will care for him."

"Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter," Théoden said. "The time for fear is past." He went out of the hall with Gandalf. Éowyn hesitated, her eyes on her uncle, and then turned and went back into the hall to where Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas now stood with Cierre.

"Why have you not healed yourself, Cierre?" Aragorn asked. "Do you need more rest?"

"I had thought I might need to make an escape from this place," Cierre explained, as she donned the necklace that Gimli had handed to her, "and they would not guard me closely if they thought I was too hurt to be a threat." She was struggling with the necklace's catch, hampered by her injured finger, and Éowyn stepped up to assist her. "They would have been taken by surprise when I became fully fit to fight in mere seconds."

"Indeed they would," Aragorn agreed, "but no longer is there need for you to surprise them thus. You are free. Perhaps Théoden may require you to pay a sum in compensation to the family of the guard you slew but that is all."

"And that should be no problem to one who wears a necklace of mithril," said Gimli. "I did not know you were wealthy, Cierre."

"At the moment I own only these clothes you see," said Cierre, "for all else has been taken from me. Even the rings from my fingers. I think that is when this finger was broken, as they pulled off the ring, for I still wore it when I fell senseless and it was gone when I awoke."

"Then it was not Gríma Wormtongue who took it," said Gimli, "for had you not just taken his eye from his head? No-one could think of gold or gems at such a time. One of those guards you fought, it must have been, and we shall see that it is returned." He turned to glare at the two guards who still remained nearby.

"I shall ask King Théoden to have your possessions retrieved and returned to you," said Aragorn.

"Thank you, Jabbuk Aragorn," Cierre replied.

"Jabbuk?" Aragorn queried.

"It means 'male commander'," Cierre explained. "It is the rarest word in my language, for our leaders are women, and never before have I addressed anyone by that term."

Aragorn's eyes widened. "You honour me greatly," he said.

"No more than you deserve," said Cierre. "And now I shall heal myself." She spoke a phrase in her own language and pressed her hand to her heart. The swollen areas of her face returned almost to normal and the eye which had been shut opened once more. She repeated the spell, grinned, and began to remove the bandages from her finger.

Éowyn shook her head. "Do not do that, my lady, you will injure yourself further," she counselled, but then her eyes widened hugely as Cierre ignored her, produced an entirely uninjured finger, and wiggled it in front of Éowyn's eyes. "Béma!" she exclaimed. "How…? and your face… you are healed!"

Cierre gave a brief explanation of her healing powers, still hardly able to believe that something which was a normal part of everyday life back in Faerûn was greeted with so much astonishment here, and then went on to express her gratitude. "I thank you for your attentions, and your kindness," Cierre said, smiling at Éowyn. "You brought me great comfort and lifted my spirits greatly. I will call you friend, if I may, and I wish you well."

Éowyn smiled back at Cierre. "I would be glad for you to call me friend," she said, and she stepped forward, put her arms around the Drow, and embraced her.

Cierre flinched at first – she was not accustomed to being touched in such a fashion, and when a Drow embraces you then look for the knife in your back – but then relaxed and returned the hug. This maiden, who had tended her when she languished in chains, was not going to stab her in the back. It seemed that, in gouging out Gríma's eye, Cierre had made the perfect opening move towards winning Éowyn's favour. Not, perhaps, a conventional way of making friends but it seemed to have worked.

A smile came to Cierre's lips and her thumbs twitched. She still harboured vague thoughts of attracting Éowyn's brother Éomer, for he was tall and handsome, and Gríma had an eye yet remaining…

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Cierre donned her leather armour, now restored to her, and began to fasten the buckles. Aragorn was talking with Gandalf and King Théoden, and with Éomer who also had been set free, but Legolas and Gimli had stayed with Cierre.

"Your armour is of remarkably fine quality," Legolas said. "Light, and flexible, yet strong; as tough, I would deem, as a coat of Dwarven mail. The dyeing is marvellously subtle; the hues seem to shift and change in a manner that reminds me of the cloaks we were given by the Lady Galadriel. Your people are truly skilled leather-workers."

"They are," Cierre said, "but this is not of their make. It was made by humans, specifically crafted to serve the needs of Rangers in the wild, and it is called Greenleaf."

Gimli burst out laughing. Legolas tried to remain impassive, failed, and joined his friend in laughter.

"What did I say that is amusing?" Cierre asked. "Is 'Greenleaf', perhaps, a term used in this land for the male sexual organ?"

Gimli laughed even louder.

Legolas snorted. "It is my name," he explained. "Legolas is, after all, an alternative word for Greenleaf." Cierre had used 'Lasgalen' for 'Greenleaf' and, perhaps because Sindarin was not her native language, had not recognised the derivation of his name.

"When I speak to Men," Legolas went on, "and if a simple 'Legolas' will not suffice, I add the Westron translation," and he spoke the word, "to my first name. When formality is required I am Legolas Thranduilion."

"We do not style ourselves by the names of our fathers," Cierre said, "for among the Drow it is the women who rule. It is the names of our House that we bear – and I am forbidden to use mine, for when I refused to return to Menzoberranzan I was expelled from House Faen Tlabbar and named Dobluth, that is, Outcast. Thus I have called myself Cierre of Luruar since I took up residence in that land." She pursed her lips. "If I am to stay in this world, as seems likely, I shall need to find myself another name."

"You may yet find a way to return to your own world," said Legolas. "Mithrandir has not yet had time to consider your situation, for he has had to devote himself to the pressing concerns of the war that looms, but he will do so when he is able. He may well be able to help you."

"Mithrandir is the Ulath'elzaren, the great wizard?" Cierre queried.

Legolas nodded. "We have spoken of him to you before, but by his other name of Gandalf."

Cierre's eyes widened. "You told me that he was dead, and that there was no resurrection in this world," she said. "I take it that such does not apply to wizards?"

"Indeed so," said Legolas. "They are beyond the rules that govern normal folk."

"And, sad to say," Gimli added, "Saruman has taken that to mean that he has the right to rule normal folk for his own ends. He has abandoned the wisdom of wizards and seeks to set himself up as a Dark Lord. Well, we shall teach him the error of his ways."

"He was the master who taught Gríma to use Suggestion upon the old king?" asked Cierre.

"Aye," Gimli confirmed, "and Saruman sent the orcs that killed Boromir and captured Merry and Pippin. He has set his forces upon the Rohirrim and slain the son of King Théoden. Saruman sought to keep the king confused, and his will weakened, so that there would be no effective resistance. Well, that has ended, and the Rohirrim will ride forth to war. We will go with them."

"Are your Halfling friends captives of Saruman?" Cierre asked. "I had thought them to have escaped from the orcs but they are not with you."

"They are with the Onodrim," Legolas said, "the Ents, as they are known to Men, the shepherds of the trees."

"Ah," said Cierre. "Treants, they are called in my world. They are formidable. The Halflings will be safe with them – as long as they do not start fires or cut down trees."

"I am glad to hear that," said Gimli, "for I had never heard of Ents before. Gandalf's account of them was sadly lacking in detail and pressing him for further explanation was fruitless." He flexed his shoulders. "Well, perhaps we shall see the Ents for ourselves before long. First, however, we must help the Rohirrim destroy Saruman's orcs."

Cierre slipped on her left-hand Bracer of Archery and adjusted its fit. "I hope they will not expect me to fight on horseback," she said. "I ride but rarely and, although I can stay astride a horse and not fall, I must dismount to use bow or sword effectively."

"You would fight alongside those who imprisoned you and used you somewhat cruelly?" Legolas asked, with some surprise evident in his voice.

"I told you that I would consider myself one of your party until we agree otherwise," Cierre said, whilst donning her right-hand Bracer, "and so, if you fight alongside them, I will do so also. And the Lady Éowyn treated me well; more kindly, in fact, than any in my own world ever did. Lord Éomer spoke up for me, for he had given his word and he would not be forsworn, and he was thrown into prison himself for his efforts. I will fight for them, and gladly. Anyway," she added, as Aragorn came into the room and joined them, "fighting orcs is my trade. I look forward to fighting at your side; as long as we can get down from horseback first."

"Aye," said Gimli, "for it is orc necks that I would hew, not shave the scalps of Men. Give me solid ground to plant my feet and I will swing my axe beside your sword and axe."

"And I will match my bow against yours," said Legolas. "Although it will not be an even contest; by day I will beat you, and by night you will outmatch me. Only if the battle goes on for a full day and night will it be a fair test of skill."

"I hope it will not," said Aragorn. He was carrying Cierre's sword-belt, from which hung her sword and axe, and her bow and quiver. "I bring your weapons, Cierre, and you have leave from King Théoden to wear them. Gríma has been banished from the halls of Edoras and from all the lands of the Mark. No doubt he will flee to his master Saruman; I doubt that he will be received kindly, after his failure in his appointed task. If he even makes it there at all, that is, for he may pass out with the pain of his injury at any time. Théoden, however, was in no mood to let him remain here – and, had he done so, Éowyn would probably have slain Gríma herself."

"Do we ride soon?" Cierre asked. She buckled her sword-belt about her waist.

"We do," said Aragorn. He now wore a coat of mail, a fine suit of gleaming steel rings, and looked a very impressive figure indeed. "We ride forth as soon as all the Riders have armed themselves and readied their horses. Have all your possessions been returned to you?"

"Most of them," Cierre replied. "A few gems are absent. They may simply be lost, but they would have been easy to hide so that a quick search would not find them, and it is odd that every one of the missing jewels is an emerald or a beryl. I believe that some of my gold has gone, too, but I cannot be certain. I have not had time to do an accurate count of the coins I found in Undermountain and can only go by eye. All of the items that I truly value have been returned."

Aragorn pursed his lips and frowned. "I hope that it was Gríma who took the coin, and the gems, for then the only evil is that you have lost that which was rightfully yours. If they were taken by the guards in Théoden's household then that is quite another matter. It is not the way of the men of the Mark to be tempted by gold. Only one who had been corrupted by the Wormtongue would steal from a guest in his lord's halls."

Gimli shook his head. "Anyone can be tempted by gold, Aragorn, except, perhaps, Frodo and Sam. Aye, it is a shame that one of the Riders might have fallen into temptation, but it doesn't mean that he was disloyal to his king. Perhaps a kinsman of the guard that died helped himself to some wergild without his lord's leave."

"Perhaps," said Aragorn, "but it is a matter that we must leave until after Saruman's army has been defeated and the threat it poses is no more. Do you truly wish to ride with us, Cierre?"

"I do, Jabbuk Aragorn," Cierre said. "I think you heard me explaining my reasons. Also, the folk of this land might think better of me once they see me slaying orcs." She slung her quiver over her shoulder. "Does the Lady Éowyn ride with us?" Cierre had noticed that Éowyn's hands were calloused after the manner of one well accustomed to wielding a sword.

"No," Aragorn replied. "The king is sending the women, children, and infirm, plus a small guard, to the fastness of Dunharrow to wait out the war in relative safety. Éowyn has been set the duty of commanding over them."

"That makes sense," said Cierre, "but I had hoped she would ride with the army, so that there would be one amongst the Rohirrim that I can call a friend, and who could speak to me in a language I understand – for many seem not even to speak Westron, and I am sure her brother Éomer will have too many duties to spare any time for me. I will say Farewell to Éowyn, if I may, before we depart."

"I will resume your Westron lessons," Legolas said, "if we are able to ride close enough together for conversation."

"I thank you, Legolas Greenleaf," Cierre said, in Westron. Legolas nodded approvingly; Gimli chuckled, causing Aragorn to glance at him and raise his eyebrows.

"It might be well to concentrate on phrases used in war," Aragorn advised. "Legolas, the Men of Rohan have armour that I think would serve you well in the battle to come." He tapped his chest. "As you see, it is of fine quality – although not, of course, up to the standard of that worn by Gimli. The same offer applies to you too, Cierre, and I am sure that the Lady Éowyn would be able to find you a mail shirt that would fit."

"Thank you, Jabbuk," Cierre said, "but I am content with my Greenleaf." She used the Westron word and Gimli laughed again.

"Her armour of leather shares a name with me," Legolas explained to Aragorn, "and Gimli finds that amusing."

"Ah, now I understand," said Aragorn. "Well, Cierre, even if you do not require any armour, you should still go to Éowyn right away if you are to bid her farewell. Soon she will be too occupied by the tasks assigned to her to spare time for conversation. Go now."

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Éowyn now wore a coat of mail, very like the one Aragorn was wearing except styled for a woman, and wore a sword belted at her hip. Her expression was solemn, and her hair was disarranged as if she had been running her fingers through it, but she greeted Cierre with a smile and warm words.

"I am glad that you have been set free," Éowyn said. "Once Théoden King was no longer under the influence of Wormtongue he was able to see the sense of your lord Aragorn's arguments. I assure you that my uncle is a good and just man when his mind is his own."

"Indeed he has been most fair, now that the Suggestion spell has been broken," Cierre agreed.

"Your lord Aragorn is a man of noble mien, wise and learned, and of commanding presence," Éowyn went on. "I understand that you entered his service only a matter of days ago. Is that right?"

It wasn't how Cierre would have described the relationship; she didn't regard herself as in Aragorn's service at all. She doubted if Gimli and Legolas regarded themselves as being in Aragorn's service either. It was close enough to the truth, however, in the terms of what seemed to be a much more feudal society than the Silver Marches. She decided not to quibble and contented herself with giving Éowyn an abbreviated account of her meeting with Aragorn and the subsequent events.

"You were fortunate indeed to fall in with such a man," Éowyn said. She lowered her eyes and a slight tinge of red appeared on her cheeks. "Tell me, has he mentioned aught of a family, or a sweetheart, awaiting him?"

"He has said nothing of such," Cierre answered, and she saw a smile beginning to light up Éowyn's face. "Alas, I believe that he is do'ch – I cannot think of the word in Elvish – that is, he desires only other men."

"Oh." Éowyn's face fell. "Do you really think so?"

"It is possible I am mistaken," Cierre said, "but such is my belief. I too find Aragorn attractive, but his gaze has never rested on me in the manner of a man looking at a woman. I am not as fair of face as some, it is true, but there should at least have been some sign there."

Éowyn looked at Cierre for a moment, her gaze running over the Drow as if she was assessing her, and then a smile crept over her face. "I suspect you are right," Éowyn said. "Now that you mention it, I noticed the same absence when he looked at me. Oh, well, in that case there is no use in my setting my cap at him. Perhaps my brother would stand more chance… but he is not that way inclined at all."

"That is good to hear," said Cierre.

"Oh?" There was a twinkle in Éowyn's eyes. "You are interested in my brother?"

"I regard him as handsome, certainly," Cierre said, "and he has proven himself to be a man of honour. On the other hand his first thought, on meeting me, was that he should strike me dead. Not an auspicious start to any relationship."

"These troubled times engender distrust of strangers, alas," said Éowyn, "but perhaps when the orcs of Saruman are no more then you can begin afresh."

Cierre nodded. "I shall slay them all, then," she said.

Éowyn laughed. She did not realise that Cierre was deadly serious. "I would like to talk with you more," she said, "but my duties press. And I understand that Aragorn is to ride to battle with the Eorlingas. If you are to ride with him you must go soon. There is just one matter that we need to deal with before you depart. Théoden King has decreed that you must pay a wergild of two hundred silver sceatta for the death of Déorthain son of Derngar. I will take it and give it to his family at Dunharrow, if you have such a sum, and if not then I will stand surety on your behalf."

"I have ample funds, now that my possessions have been restored to me," Cierre assured her. "I have few silver coins, however, as most of my coins are gold. I trust that will be acceptable?"

"Gold? We use gold rarely in the Mark," said Éowyn. "One gold sceatta is worth twenty silver sceatta. There is also a gold coin to the value of thirty silver sceatta but such have not been minted since the reign of Goldwine, the sixth King of the Mark. If you show me your coins I will make an estimate of their value."

Cierre produced a handful of Waterdhavian gold dragons. Éowyn examined them, her eyebrows rising as she looked at the crescent moon over water on one face and the rampant dragon on the other, and then raised wide eyes to meet Cierre's. "These are twice the size of a gold sceatta, and look to be at least as pure, although I am no expert," she said. "They are as well struck as the coins of Gondor. I deem that eight of them would make up the value of the wergild, and more, and if you give me eight I will pay two hundred silver sceatta to the family of Déorthain."

"Take ten," Cierre said. "I would not wish you to be out of pocket. If there should prove to be silver left over then donate it to the poor." Not that Cierre cared in the slightest for the poor, who were often dirty and smelly and who could not afford to hire her services, but she was sure that the compassionate Éowyn would feel differently. And Cierre very much wanted to keep Éowyn's regard.

Generosity was not a natural part of Cierre's make-up and, when she had first taken up residence in the surface world, she had begrudged every coin spent and sought to extract every possible ounce of value. In time she had learned that such behaviour was frowned upon; those who were open-handed were looked upon much more favourably and, as merchants were prone to give them better deals, they even profited overall. On the other hand those who were excessively generous were regarded as fools or as having some ulterior motive. It had been long before Cierre had got the balance right, by which time she was thought of by some as a skinflint and by others as a spy for the Drow of Menzoberranzan, and she had never been able to gain the esteem that she believed her deeds deserved. Here, however, she could make a fresh start.

Cierre was smiling as she left Éowyn and went off to rejoin Aragorn and the others. This world, so far, did not seem to be a bad place. Yes, she'd been indecently assaulted, beaten, and thrown into a prison cell, but those things had happened in Faerûn too – although, admittedly, not all on the same day. And against that experience could be set the worthwhile things she had found. True comrades, perhaps her first ever female friend, and foes to slay. Who could ask for more?

Her smile might have disappeared had she been able to understand the words muttered in Rohirric by some of the men she passed.

"What does it profit us, that the King is freed from the spell of Wormtongue," one said, "if he is now subject to the will of Gandalf Greyhame? See, that black and evil creature now walks freely among us and has put the Lady Éowyn under her spell."

"At least we are now to fight against the invading orcs," the man he addressed replied, "rather than cowering within Edoras like frightened children. If Gandalf has indeed ensorcelled Théoden King he is using his power for a worthy purpose."

"Are the Eorlingas to be used as mere tools in a war of wizards?" the first man retorted. "Saruman or Gandalf, what is the difference? Both surround themselves with creatures of Evil and seek to manipulate us for their own ends. It must not go on." He looked at the back of Cierre, who had walked past the Riders oblivious to the conversation, and scowled. "And once the threat of Saruman's orcs is no more we can turn our attention to those less obvious foes."