- Day 4 -

The Exchange

When Halbaron woke, his clothes were stacked and folded on the chair. He held up his shirt and sniffed it, it must have been washed while he slept. His boots and cloak had been returned as well.

He was getting dressed when he heard the key turn in the lock, and the door swung open with a scraping sound. The jailor came in with a breakfast tray and set it on the table. Bread and jam, cold meat, and tea.

"I let you sleep late, but you'll need to be ready within the hour," the jailor said.

"Ready for what?" asked Halbaron.

"You're going home."

-o-o-o-o-o-

A tin plate sat on the ground beside Khamûl, with the crumbs of bread, cheese, and an apple core. A jug of water sat beside it.

A group of Rangers came down the wooden steps. Khamûl sat up, and the chains clinked around him as he moved. The jailor opened the cell door, and the leader of the Rangers stepped inside. He held out a vial containing two or three fingers of amber liquid.

"Drink it," said the Ranger.

"And if I refuse?" said Khamûl.

The jailor smacked a cudgel into his palm. It sounded heavy.

"We're going to knock you out. How we do it is up to you," said the Ranger.

Khamûl reached for the vial, but the irons on his wrists held him back. The Ranger stepped forward and put it in his hand.

Khamûl sniffed the vial and his head jerked back. It smelled like aquavit and unwashed feet: tincture of Valerian, a sleeping draught; foul smelling, but not poisonous.

He brought the glass to his mouth and took a small sip. Fire exploded in his throat, and it was so bitter it made him gag.

"It looks like you get to use that, after all," the Ranger said to the man with the cudgel.

Khamûl held his breath and drained the glass.

The men took the lanterns with them when they left. It didn't matter, he could still see. He stared into the darkness, fighting the effects of the draught, determined to stay awake. His head fell forward, startling him awake. The next time it happened, it was harder to wake up. He rested his eyes for just a moment.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Footsteps from heavy boots clomped on hollow wood. Iron screeched against iron, and loud voices filled the room.

His clothing was damp at the shoulder, hip, and along the length of his leg. The chill from the dirt floor reached the marrow of his bones. He tried to remember where he was.

"It's unconscious. Take off the chains and tie its hands."

He was rolled face down, and someone bound his wrists behind his back. He tried to wake up, but wasn't able to.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Arathorn and his men arrived at the bridge with their prisoner well before noon. Arathorn left the handcart and its sleeping cargo under heavy guard beside the road.

Then he crept down the slope and paused when the Sirith Bridge came into view. It was a sturdy wooden structure, level and wide enough for two men to walk abreast. It had rained during the night, and the stream was running unusually high. Its surface was white with foam and spray, and it made a roaring sound.

Arathorn wasn't sure if the other side would show up. He looked for the rock with his threatening message under it, but it wasn't there. Good.

He scanned the underbrush on the opposite bank. There was motion in the foliage near the ground, and occasionally, the tip of an orcish arrowhead on a black shaft. They were here. He was glad they'd brought their own archers to cover them during the exchange.

Just before noon, he saw a group approaching the bridge from the opposite site. Most of them wore black with their hoods pulled low. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw another of the faceless creatures among them.

A man with his hands bound walked between two others who held his arms. He looked up at Arathorn and grinned. Halbaron! He had a purple bruise on his cheekbone, and one eye was swollen shut, but he was alive.

The group halted on the road at the foot of the bridge, and waited.

Arathorn turned to Mallor. "Time to get the creature."

-o-o-o-o-o-

They bumped along to the sound of horses' hooves and the creak of wheels. Splintery boards pressed against his cheek Sunlight filtered through the shadows of leaves, and the air smelled fresh, as if it had rained recently.

A man shouted an order, and they jerked to a stop. Boots crunched on the gravel, and someone grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

"All right, you. Rise and shine."

Strong hands gripped his arms hard enough to hurt, and forced him to sit up. His head lolled forward. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing through the sack over his head. He coughed on dust from corn and oats.

They pulled him forward until he found himself sitting on the end of the cart with his legs hanging over the edge. One push, and his feet hit the ground. He would have fallen if he weren't being held on each side.

They walked. The gravel hurt his bare feet. He tripped over every tree root and stone on the path.

They went down a slope. The air smelled fresh and clean, as if it had just rained. The ground was wet. Sometimes he lost his footing and slipped.

He heard a dull roaring sound below, and his gut twisted.

Not water, please don't let it be water.

They stepped onto a platform of some sort. Wooden planks, like a scaffold. It felt warm from the sun under his bare feet. The roar of running water drowned out all other sounds. He felt the spray from it, heard it all around him. Tons of water rushed under the boards beneath him, cold and malevolent.

He felt like it was pulling him towards it. It wanted him. And when he fell in, swirling vortexes would suck him under and hold him down. Khamûl was trembling. He didn't know what they were going to do to him. It they decided to throw him in, there was nothing he could do about it.

Voices were all around him, before and behind. He felt the vibrations of footsteps through the planks.

"Remember the terms, alive and unharmed."

"Let go of him. I want to see him stand on his own."

"Show me his hand. No, the other hand."

Someone slit the cord binding his wrists. His fingers were numb. Someone grabbed his wrist and held up his hand for display.

"On the count of three. One, two, …"

Khamûl was shoved between the shoulder blades so hard he stumbled and would have fallen, but someone caught him in his arms. Her arms. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn't obey. His whole face was numb.

"Khamûl. You're drunk," Adûnaphel said.

The voices of his captors exclaimed over another person, with greetings and glad cries.

Adûnaphel draped Khamûl's arm over her shoulder. "Help me. He can barely stand." Someone took his other arm. The sack was pulled off his head and he blinked, blinded by the sunlight.

He took a step, but his knees buckled. Strong arms lifted him up.

He knew he had just been released and should be celebrating, but he couldn't relax enough to enjoy it. Beneath his feet, a torrent raced under the planks of the bridge, tearing at the supports, kicking up whitewater, and roaring loudly enough to drown out all their voices.

All he could think about was getting off that damn bridge.