Altynai and I stood side by side, she with her scimitar, me with my ridiculously small dagger. The footsteps drew closer, and I tightened my grip on the leather wrapped hilt. I had no illusions about surviving this day; Altynai and I had used up a lifetime's worth of luck already. But I would die fighting. I stole a glance at the woman beside me. Her teeth were bared in a feral smile and her eyes shone, but I spotted the telltale signs of exhaustion- her hands were steady, but her thighs were trembling, and her breath came too quickly. She spat out something in her native tongue, a prayer or a challenge, or perhaps both. In the distance a pale light bobbed, and the sound of boots crunching sand and rock grew louder.
"Three," Altynai whispered. "There are three."
"Clad in leather and cloth," I replied, not to be outdone. "No metal armor. We can stand against three unarmored, be they men or orcs."
Altynai suddenly chuckled. "Against three men or orcs? Unlikely, as worn as we are. But dwarves, yes. Look. That is a moss lantern. Dwarves use those instead of open flame in unfamiliar passages."
I looked closer. The light was a sickly green, and held low. I breathed a sigh of relief. Orcs only ever used torches, and dwarves were unlikely to attack us.
"Oi!" came a low, gruff voice. "Who's there?" Three dwarves, two elderly and one not yet of middle age, melted out of the darkness.
"Two travellers," I called back. "Lost and in search of passage to the surface."
"Is that so?" the gruff voiced dwarf returned. He was tall for a dwarf, the height of a small man. The top of his head was bare aside from the dwarvish runes that had been tattooed into the skin of his skull. Though not armored in steel, he was heavily covered in boiled leather, and a heavy axe was held in one large, scarred hand.
"We were travelling to the Rohan king's hall," Altynai said. Her voice was weaker than I liked. "Perhaps you know the way?"
"For the king's wedding, I imagine," the dwarf replied, eyeing me closely. "Kili, Bofur, meet Eomer King of Rohan. I haven't set eyes on you in years, but there's no mistaking that hair. Who's the woman? Your bride? What the hells are you doing in a cave, boy?"
"What Dwalin means to say is Greetings, your Highness, and congratulations on your nuptuals, and we would be happy to help you find your way back to Edoras," interjected the younger dwarf. He was dark of hair and eye, with a plaited beard that barely grazed his chest.
"That's what I said, idiot," Dwalin snapped. The third dwarf slid between the two, presumably to keep them from coming to blows.
"Truth to tell, we took a wrong turn ourselves," he admitted, tugging on his drooping gray-shot mustaches. "But we'll soon sort ourselves out." He cocked his head, watching Altynai carefully. "In fact, we were searching for a place to make camp for a few hours before backtracking to the right passages."
"No, we weren't," Dwalin argued.
"Yes, we were," the third dwarf replied firmly, dropping his packs. They fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Ignoring Dwalin's muttered protests, he pulled out a thick iron pot and a roughspun blanket and bedroll, which he spread over the softer sand.
"Please, rest yourself my lady," he offered. "We'll have a fire going soon enough."
Altynai looked to me, and I nodded. She sank down onto the blanket, though I noticed that she kept her scimitar close to hand. I tucked the dagger into my belt.
"My thanks," I said. "We've been running for near on two days now. The lady is Altynai, captain of the Haradrim horse. She's kin to my betrothed. Altynai these are-"
"I know who they are," she said, a tired smile playing on her lips. "These are the dwarves who took the mountain kingdom for their prince, and defeated a dragon. Tales of your bravery are oft told among my people."
"They are?" the younger and I said together. She looked at me reproachfully.
"Of course. We are warriors, and stories of heroic deeds are well loved. Dwalin the warrior, Kili the dark princling, and Bofur, if tales tell true," she said, gesturing to his mustaches. I noticed that her hand was unsteady now, and she yawned. "It is only to be expected. The mountain king would send only his most honored as a delegation to your wedding. The warrior, the king's own kin, and the diplomat, naturally. It is said the mountain king has pledged to never leave the halls he nearly died for." She yawned again.
"Aye, Thorin is as stubborn and bullheaded as any," Dwalin grunted approvingly. "A proper dwarf, he is. He'll not leave his kingdom, in this life or after. Not after stealing it from that bloody dragon. But don't let the tales fool you, lass. It was a lot bigger than you'd think. Bloody great lizard."
Kili dropped a load of driftwood at Bofur's feet.
"It's true," he said, pulling flint and steel from his belt pouch, while Bofur filled his pot from the river. "Damned thing was enormous."
While Bofur threw dried meat and tubers into the warming water, I settled myself on the blanket beside Altynai. I tried not to show it, but I had reached my limit. Two days of battle, injury, flight, and fear had stripped me of all strength. I wanted nothing more than stretch out on that scratchy bedroll and sleep for a week. The fire was cracking cheerfully in the gloom, and the chattering of the three dwarves put me at ease. My eyes began to flutter, until Altynai spoke.
"Sleep," she said quietly. "I will keep watch."
I forced myself to wakefulness and tried to shake the sleep from my mind. Duty came before rest, and it was my duty as king to watch over those weaker than I.
"You sleep," I replied. "You're the one nearly dead on her feet. I'll keep watch."
"You are every bit as tired as I am," she argued, her chin lifting haughtily. Gods save me from stubborn women.
"I wasn't the one nearly gutted yesterday!"
"That was merely a flesh wound!"
"Aye, and you nearly bled out from that flesh wound!"
"Ith-kil atun askak!"
"I don't know what that means!"
"Blessed Mahal," Dwalin snapped, wedging his moss lantern into the side of the cave wall. "Children, the pair of you! We three will take turns keeping watch until you are fit to travel again. Now shut it!"
Pride pricked, I started to argue, but Altynai placed a hand on my chest and pushed me down.
"What is with you and shoving me around, woman?" I exclaimed. "I am a king, you know."
"Yes, but you are not my king," she replied, mounding sand under the blanket to form a pillow. "And right now you are an over-tired warrior who will be of no use to me in a fight." She wrapped the tatters of her overtunic closer about her and closed her eyes, ending the discussion. Nearby, I could see Kili and Dwalin unpacking their bedrolls as well, while Bofur hummed quietly to himself and stirred his pot of soup.
Fine, I said to myself, admitting defeat. I'll allow myself just a few minutes of sleep, no more...
xxxXXXxxx
Burok slipped into Mayaya's chambers, and winced. Ever had she had the taste of a colorblind campwhore. The surfeit of color and textures burned his eyes, and he thought wistfully of the dim light and dark woods of his own chambers. Even as a small child his lady had lusted after bright colors, the more eye searing the better.
He moved through the first room, lifting a pillow here and moving aside a carpet there, always careful to place the item back just as it was. He knew his lady well, and every instinct told him she was plotting something. Despite his soothing words to the contrary, he knew Mayaya would not be content as the wife of the horselord of a backwoods country, powerless over anything more than the ladies of the court. Not that there was much of a court to speak of in Rohan. The women of the horselords did not hold much with such civilized constructs. They were far too practical.
Which was why he was astonished at her insistance on being the one to wed Eomer. His Chieftain had other daughters of a more suitable nature, but Mayaya had demanded the honor for herself, and her father was ever indulgent. No, his lady was up to something. He could feel it in his blood.
Determined, Burok carefully rifled through the belongings of her servants, finding nothing more than silly love notes and sentimental trinkets. Altynai's chest revealed only clothing, candlemaking tools, and a slightly disturbing array of weaponry.
It was in Mayaya's chest of clothing, hidden amonst her smallclothes, that he found a tightly rolled piece of parchment. He smoothed it out on the bed to find it a well-detailed map and he frowned, his finger tracing the red ink marking a route from Harad to a land to the north and west.
I do not recognize this place, he thought, mouthing the name of the marked city. But if it has aught to do with Mayaya then trouble will come of it. I must think on this. I wish Eomer were here to lend counsel, but King Aragorn may suffice when he arrives.
Burok hid the map back in Mayaya's clothes, and with a last glare at the gaudy decor, he slipped back out into the welcome gloom of the hall.
xxxXXXxxx
Up amonst the rafters, hidden by swaths of diaphanous silks, a black clad figure watched the chamber door close.
This will not do. No, this will not do at all.