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Chapter 9

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The thin, piercing wail of a newborn infant shattered the ominous air.

Aragorn's hands flew immediately to his sword, while three sets of elvish hands drew bows and nocked arrows more swiftly than the eye could see.

Áirúlas and Belthan flanked Thranduil on either side while Aragorn tensely scanned the area. His sharp grey eyes could make out the general area from which the babe's cry hailed. He started forward cautiously, on edge and fully aware that something here was very wrong.

The three elves rotated in a slow circle, their hawk-eyes piercing the grim scene and its surroundings. They were deadly warriors, every inch of them was tense and ready to spring into action at half a second's notice.

"Praha?" Aragorn called, his tone low. He did not expect to find her; he knew no mother in her right mind would ever abandon her own babe. He moved very carefully towards where the child's screams seemed to be coming from. Reaching a clump of particularly dense bushes, he stopped, listening. There was only muffled whimpering now, and it seemed to be coming from directly in front of him...

He bent slowly, reaching a hand forward, when a sharp bark from Thranduil made him stop still.

"Aragorn!" the elvenking snapped harshly. The proud blue eyes were narrowed to slits.

"What is it?" Aragorn breathed, straightening and backing off quickly.

"Someone is close." Thranduil's answer was terse and flat. "Do not near the cries...they may be a trap. Attention to our pursuers is now imperative."

"Are you able to sense where?" Aragorn asked, straining his own senses. He thought he might sense something a distance away...but it was very far away...even with his keen Ranger sense, he could not be certain...

He pointed silently, questioning, and looked at Thranduil for confirmation that it was another intelligent being he sensed. The king nodded once.

"I am going to seek them out," Aragorn breathed nearly silently; none but an elf could have heard his low Sindarin words.

"We stay," Thranduil replied in a tone only a little louder. Indeed none but an elf or a Dunedan as skilled as Aragorn could have made out his words.

Aragorn nodded and, in attribution to his elvish bringing-up, leapt nearly silently into the closest low-hanging tree branch. Whoever was nearing them was not likely to expect a human to advance from the trees...

He made his way swiftly yet quietly through the thick branches.

Twenty yards...thirty...forty...after sixty yards he dropped lower to spy upon whoever might be advancing upon them...

There was nobody there. He couldn't even sense anyone in the vicinity. Puzzled, he dropped to the ground and began cautiously scouting the surrounding woods.

And then suddenly, seemingly from out of nowhere, a large and heavy body slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Quicker than any human should be able to Aragorn leapt to his feet, but it was not quick enough. The man was muscular, and wore a mask. His attacker slammed into him again and Aragorn's breath sharpened suddenly as he felt the sting of a blade sweep across his arm and down. He sensed the other human rushing towards him again but this time he was ready. Sidestepping deftly he parried and thrust. The other man was quick. He dodged and leapt around Aragorn so the Ranger was forced to spin to meet him. Easily he blocked the blow crashing towards his head, and forced his way forward.

But something did not feel right here. Something about the man's approach was setting off alarm bells in his head.

This fighter was too easily forced back. The skill with which he had sneaked up on Aragorn spoke for him; no one whose stalking skills were so great could be so poor a fighter.

One step, one fatal step was all it took as he realized his error seconds too late. As he raised his blade to bring down the enemy his opponent ducked suddenly as a second man burst from the foliage and full-force tackled the Ranger onto the ground. Aragorn, in the act of stepping forward, was caught off-balance and with a cry, tumbled to the side, sword flying out of his hand as the bulky weight of the second man pinned him to the ground. Silently cursing his inattentiveness, he wrestled with the other man, trying to get a hand to the knife in his boot when cold steel at his throat made him freeze mid-struggle.

Rough hands of the first attacker flipped him forcefully onto his stomach and wrenched his hands together. Coarse twine was wrapped viciously around his wrists, and a boot on the back of his head forced his face into the muddy ground.

"Stay real still if you want to live," breathed the second man into his ear. Aragorn refused to answer. His mind was whirling, and he could not help cursing his foolishness.

A distant elvish war cry caught his attention and he stiffened.

A diversion.

That was all it had been. Whoever had destroyed the cabin and left the little infant alone drew him away as a diversion. Aragorn felt sickened. He knew Thranduil and his warriors were more than capable of defending themselves, but if they faced warriors as skilled as the ones which had captured Aragorn...

"Listen to your friends cry," hissed his captor malevolently. "Stupid elves...they'll never know..."

What they would never know, Aragorn was unsure, but he merely remained silent, staring resolutely into the ground. He would not play their games.

"Time for a little sleepy time for this one," grunted the first. Aragorn stiffened as he felt a wet rag stuffed against his nose and mouth. He refused to breathe, but his captors only laughed.

"No use resisting," said one. "Eventually you'll have to breathe, won't you, lad?"

He was right. Aragorn was capable of holding his breath for minutes, but it didn't matter. His captors were not moving that rag, and finally he could no longer hold it in.

One breath of it made him dizzy, a second made his world go fuzzy and a third sent his mind careening into distant blackness.

He never saw the second captor pull of his mask, because if he had...he might have wondered at the mirror image of himself reflected in the evil face of the other.

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They were outnumbered seven to one, and the warriors were skilled. Thranduil realized that with every passing moment their odds of winning this skirmish were becoming less and less.

Áirúlas sported a long, jagged cut across the thigh, while a thin cut across Belthan's forehead bled so profusely Thranduil marveled that his warrior could keep the blood out of his eyes and continue to fight. The king himself was unharmed, at the moment. His warriors were good ones, and brave. Both their injuries had been obtained ensuring that their liege came to no harm.

There were really only two ways to kill an elf. One was to overwhelm them by sheer force of number; the other, by means of trickery. It seemed that both had been applied here: they were obviously meant to be lured into this place so they might be attacked, and when said attack had come it had been strong and unyielding. Whoever had ordered it knew what they were doing when it came to elves, a grim realization.

The three elves were easily better fighters than the men; however, the humans were sturdy and had been well-trained. Their advantage was in their numbers. Thranduil and his warriors could fight for hours without tiring; however, it would be more than hours before these humans were all defeated. Their attackers did not give at all, but pressed the three elves into a tight ring in the center.

Thranduil glanced at his two guards. He could see the fierce resolve in their eyes as they fought, the steely glare that told him all he needed to know: they would die before they saw Thranduil hurt.

But he could also see them weakening. Six men they had already killed, and four more had been greviously wounded, but eleven more still remained, at full strength and unhurt.

Belthan cried out suddenly to Thranduil's right. The elvenking looked at him sharply, and winced as he observed the black-feathered end of a cruel arrow protruding rudely from the warrior's shoulder. His gaze flew past the warrior and fell upon a masked archer who had just appeared, unnoticed. He raised his bow again. Thranduil could almost feel the malice rolling off him.

He uttered a warning to Áirúlas but it was too late. A sharp whistle signified a second arrow sailing through the air, embedding itself into the warrior's stomach. The elf's eyes widened with shock, and he fell to his knees, dropping his weapon. Immediately two of the men rushed forward and roughly seized the fallen warrior's arms, dragging him out of the skirmish and forcing him to the ground.

Belthan meanwhile was fighting valiantly for his wound, but his face had gone unnaturally pale and blood was pouring out of the injury, soaking his tunic crimson. Thranduil knew they were fighting a losing battle. Belthan managed to take out another man with a swift yet faltering blow across the throat but a second later stumbled and crashed to the ground. A second arrow now jutted from his wrist. Thranduil gritted his teeth. Whoever was attacking them wanted them alive, for an arrow to the wrist was not deadly but would indeed stop the victim from further drawing a bow or sword for a long while.

Thranduil was alone. Gripping his sword—they had been come upon far too quickly for bows to be much use—he readied himself for battle when a sneering shout came from across the glade. The masked archer had spoken.

"Put it down, Master Elf, or your friends here shall perish without hesitation," the archer ordered. When Thranduil tensed and did not reply the man drew a long, gleaming blade from a sheath at his side. He strode over to where Áirúlas lay, panting, and grabbed a handful of the long blonde hair. Jerking the warrior's head back he pressed the blade against his prone throat to show his point.

"Do not fool yourself into thinking I will not," hissed the man malevolently. "I will kill your friends and any other elf without a second thought."

"Do not, my lord," Belthan gasped, his eyes shining fiercely despite his wounds. A blow to the head, however, sent the warrior slumping forward, unconscious.

Thranduil hesitated only a second further before dropping his weapon and raising his hands slowly.

Five men instantly flew forward. Two actually tackled him to the ground while the other three pounded various body parts into the ground, including his head. He clenched his teeth and made not a noise while they jerked him roughly up, so he was in a sense standing on his knees. His wrists were bound tightly together, as were his ankles. He was thoroughly searched for any further weapons.

The masked man strode forward.

Thranduil tensed, but tilted his chin proudly up to face his captor. His grey eyes glinted like steel and every inch of him spoke royalty and pride. He was not afraid of this human, no matter what position he was in. He gave no one the pleasure of his fear unless they had earned it.

"What do you want, thou cowardly man?" He spat defiantly.

The man's eyes, the only part of his face visible, darkened. He whipped off a leather hunting glove and slapped the elvenking across the face, so his head snapped to the side. Immediately Thranduil straightened, blood leaking from his lip, yet showing no sign of remorse or pain.

"Name me not coward," his captor hissed. He grabbed a handful of the fine elvish hair and jerked Thranduil's head backwards.

"Know this, elf—I hold power over your life and the lives of your fellows. You would be wise not to cross me—name me not coward!"

"But that is indeed what you are," Thranduil said coldly, staring the man in the eyes. "You attacked us with twenty or so men, yet remained out of the skirmish until we were nearly subdued. That behavior reeks of cowardice."

The man's eyes narrowed. He backhanded Thranduil several times with the glove, until the king's head spun. Nevertheless, he straightened the second the abuse ceased and continued to stare coldly into the eyes the one who held him captive.

"You would have been wise to fetter your words," the human said softly. "Your rashness serves you ill."

From a pouch within his tunic the man withdrew a tiny, thin needle. It was clear, so Thranduil was able to observe a dark green liquid within it. The human tore open Thranduil's left sleeve, then placed the needle carefully at a prominent vein.

"This vein leads directly to your heart," the human whispered, his voice alight with glee and malice. "The potion within the needle is brewed from the seeds of a tiny plant found only in one place—my garden. It is a cross-breed of poison plants found at the foot of the Misty Mountains and near the Falls of Rauros. It only takes a few hours to kill. But first you will become blind, deaf and dumb. It is a most unpleasant drug, so I've seen. There is no antidote, Master Elf."

He shoved the needle into Thranduil's vein all the way, until not even the tip poked out.

Thranduil didn't even flinch. His steely grey eyes grew even more like iron as he felt the drug coursing into his veins. It was like ice, and it felt like it was freezing the blood. It was as though all the snow on the Misty Mountains had melted and was now rushing as a great river throughout his body. Yet he made no motion of pain, or even discomfort. If he was going to die, he would do so without giving this human the satisfaction of seeing his pain.

"Why?" he queried after a moment. "Why do you do this? We did nothing to you, yet you attack us and now, I assume, leave us to die. I also assume you are responsible for the destruction of the cabin which formerly stod here, and for the separation of the wailing child from her mother we encountered here. What gain have you made?"

"Your curiosity is misplaced. The child is none of your concern. I do not believe that information is necessary for you to know," the human said smoothly.

Thranduil's muscles suddenly felt as though tight ropes had been bound about them. A flutter of panic came across his heart.

"What is happening?" he demanded. The dispicable human before him chuckled.

"Ah, I forgot. The first effect—paralysis." Thranduil could hear his smirk.

"Are you not pleased? You, my great king, get to spend your final hours utterly deprived of your fine elvish senses, and unable to move."

"Wh..why…" Thranduil's mouth and tongue were like slugs. Seconds later any sound forced from them was a monumental task.

"Perhaps I will grant you one little bit of information…"

With these words, the human removed his hood to reveal his identity.

A jolt of utter shock electrified Thranduil's mind. His heart skipped a beat as he stared, staggered, at the man's face. Never would he have expected this. His mouth formed a silent O and his protesting vocal chords forced just one word from his throat.

"Aragorn…"