Disclaimer: For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.
A/N:
Well. Uhm ... hi, guys. Long time no see, huh? •readers growl and reach for swords, daggers, axes, chainsaws etc.• I won't even try to apologise. I simply forgot the fact that I had a presentation on Monday afternoon. The hours which I didn't spend working on it during the past week can be counted on the fingers of one hand, and I simply had no time at all to update. I don't really have the time to update today either, but since I am feeling very, very guilty I decided not to reply this time so I can update after all. I just got home (it's nearly 10 p.m. here), so it's either this or no post at all. I hope you're not too angry with me. •smiles sheepishly•
Hmm, let me see. Yes, about the names. Quite a few people found out the meaning of "Cuilthen" (Short-life) and Aleneth (No-Name). I would have preferred to call Aleneth Peneneth since "Al-" actually negates something rather than signifying the lack of something, but I was afraid someone would get it mixed up with the more commonly known "Pen-neth". Taurwan is "Taur-gwann"(lenited Taur-'wann) and means something like "Awfully/overwhelmingly-Dead" (poor guy). "Red-Hand" for Narucham is quite close already, even though that would have been "Narugam" ("c", when undergoing lenition, changes into "g"). It actually means "Red-Garment" (Naru-hamp - lenited Naru-champ). I took away the "-p" - call it dramatic licence. •g• So Elvynd's men were called "Short-life", "No-Name", "Awfully-Dead" and "Red-Shirt". Honestly, people, what chance did they have to make it out of that kind of situation in one piece? Just ask Captain Kirk. •g•
Alright, alright, I'm shutting up. Before I forget: This chapter title alludes to the last chapter's, "The Die Is Cast" (Alea iacta est), which were, as you probably know, the words Caesar - allegedly - spoke before he crossed the Rubicon. I thought it to be funny to keep this title "Latin", too: Canicula (Little Dog) or Canis (Dog) was the lowest throw you could get, with all four dice showing the lowest picture, the dog. I thought it was rather appropriate, since neither the evil men nor Erestor are overly happy which the results of their actions. Hmm, now that I think about it, no one is really happy in this chapter. I wonder why? •g•
Enjoy and review, please!
Chapter 11
Reod sheathed his sword with a quick, fluid movement, the fierce grimace on his face already beginning to fade. The rage and excitement that had pulsed through him for the past few minutes were abating, too, fading into the background and once again allowing him to think more clearly.
There was nothing like a battle to make you feel alive, he decided once again. Nothing compared to the addictive, enthralling combination of pure exhilaration, fear and power, nothing at all. Even though, he admitted to himself, somewhat reluctantly, this battle had been different from all the other battles he had fought in the past. As refreshing as it was to have something like that change for once, he was rather sure that he did not like it one bit.
Firstly, the man thought, deeply irritated, it shouldn't take you seventeen of your own men to kill five people. Secondly, said five people shouldn't be able to nearly escape the trap you had devised. Thirdly, the selfsame people should most definitely not been able to hold off your thirty men for a prolonged amount of time. Not even when the five people were elves.
The man shook his head darkly, quickly brushing a strand of chestnut brown hair out of his eyes and growling under his breath when that movement served to reopen the cut above his eye. He had never really believed the rumours one could hear about the Fair Folk, something he regretted by now. Had he known just what elves were capable of – or, in this case, had been capable of – he would have made sure to take at least a dozen more men.
Reod stopped for a moment, next to the body of the last elf who had fallen less than a minute ago. The dark haired being's eyes were open, seeming to stare straight at him, but Reod did not care, did not even feel the slightest hint of remorse. Those who were in his line of work lost things like remorse or, the Gods forbid, a conscience very quickly – if they were clever, that was. Otherwise, they just got themselves killed, either by their own men or their enemies.
For a few moments, he looked at the dead being with interest, his eyes wandering over the fair features and pointed ears that were barely visible beneath the long hair, but then he turned away with a slightly annoyed shake of his head. No, he hadn't felt pity for those he had killed for quite a long time, but somehow he had the rather disconcerting impression that the faces of these dead elves would return to haunt him in the night if he was not careful. He could not identify the strange feeling that was stirring in his breast; a vague feeling that he and his men had killed beings that shouldn't even exist anymore, like ancient myths. He was a superstitious man, a weakness he didn't like to admit even to himself, and he had the very distinct feeling that to kill a myth was something on which the Gods did not look too kindly.
"Captain?"
The voice of one of his lieutenants drew him out of his thoughts, and Reod turned around, very glad about being interrupted.
"Yes?"
The younger man met his gaze evenly, something which he never would have done had he been Captain Gasur. Gasur was universally disliked by most of the soldiers (including, if he was honest, Reod himself), but that dislike was dwarfed by the healthy amount of fear, if not terror, that most of them also harboured for the brown haired captain. Reod knew that he himself was more popular, mostly because he was not quite as ruthless, but he also knew that the men only regarded him as the lesser of two evils.
"Your orders, sir?" the soldier asked respectfully.
Reod hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should consult Gasur first, but then he decided against it with a small stab of anger. He had served their lady far longer than this upstart who was not even from Donrag, and even though Gasur was nominally in command of this mission he was the senior captain here. Besides, he didn't even know where that brown haired braggart was, did he?
"Set a guard on the road behind us," he ordered curtly, trying to cover his brief moment of indecision. "Then take two men and try to find the elves' horses that ran off. I am sure our lady would be most pleased about a few additional mounts of their quality."
"Yes, sir," the man nodded obediently, already turning to obey his captain's orders. "The elf, sir," he added suddenly, returning his attention to the brown haired man in front of him. He gestured over to his left, into the direction of the river. "What shall we do with him?"
"Why, Lieutenant," Reod began with deceiving friendliness, "I want to have a jolly cup of tea with him, of course! I hope the water is already boiling and the table is laid? Oh, and don't forget the honey and the little biscuits!"
The lieutenant ducked his head, already knowing what was coming. He knew Captain Reod well, as well as you could only know someone in a small town such as theirs, and he was perfectly aware of the fact that it was usually a good idea to dive for cover when Reod discovered his sarcastic streak.
Reod, completely oblivious to his subordinate's feelings, took the time to give the group of people that was surrounding the only survivor of the elven travelling party a quick look. His men had apparently managed to disarm the elf they had been ordered to bring before their lady, but it seemed as if they were having some trouble actually getting a hold of him long enough to bind him.
"What do you think you should do with him?" he finally replied incredulously. "Bring him here, of course! And don't let him get away or, by the Gods, it will be you who'll have to answer for it! Do you understand, Genrir?"
"Yes, sir," Genrir nodded again, eyeing the men who were still trying to subdue the apparently rather irate elf with renewed interest. Reod's unveiled threat seemed to have awoken a new desire in his heart, namely to secure the prisoner before he could get away and get him into any trouble. "Perfectly, sir."
"Good," Reod nodded as well and dismissed the younger man with a wave of his hand. He had already turned away and taken a few steps down the road when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned back with a rather unwilling expression on his face. "Do you know where Captain Gasur is?"
"I last saw him where we killed their vanguard, sir," Genrir answered readily. "He should still be there."
"Of course he should be," Reod muttered under his breath and turned back around without thanking the lieutenant for the information. "Where else would he be?"
Indeed, where else would Gasur be, he asked himself darkly while he picked his way through the remains of the battle and did his best not to stumble over dead bodies. If there was one thing he was certain about – and, in fact, the whole of Donrag was certain about – it was that Gasur relished death – other people's deaths, that was. He knew quite a few soldiers who did, too, but there were none who got that certain … gleam in their eyes.
No, Reod corrected himself almost immediately, that was not true. He knew a lot of soldiers who had the exact same gleam in their eyes, only not to the same extent. There were many warriors who lived for the feeling of their blades biting into an enemy's flesh and the fear in the other men's eyes, but Gasur was an extreme case. That was not really surprising, however, at least not in Reod's opinion. The brown haired captain was only one step away from plummeting into the dark abyss of madness, at least that was what he thought. No, Reod corrected himself again. Gasur was already dangling over said abyss, and the fingers of the one hand that was still grabbing the edge were beginning to slip. And quickly, too.
He abandoned that rather interesting, not to mention amusing, mental image as he sidestepped the body of yet another man who seemed to have got hit by an arrow over to the right. close to the hillside, and had dragged himself over here before he'd died. Reod realised with some surprise that he knew the dead man who was lying on his side, his tunic covered with blood and other things he made no effort whatsoever to identify. It had been that young lad, the one who had joined their small army only a few months ago. 'Ah well,' the captain thought to himself with an inward shrug, 'he never did know when to duck.'
A man who knew perfectly well when to duck and stay alive in general was right now slowly straightening back up, a long and rather bloody – no, make that very bloody – sword in his hands. Not even realising he was giving an inward, not-so-soft sigh Reod made a real effort to produce something that could have been called a smile and took a few steps forward, coming to a stop next to the brown haired man who was still staring at the two bodies in front of him.
For a few moments, it was silent while Reod waited for the other captain to speak, and when it became apparent that Gasur would do no such thing, he gave another inward sigh, this time even louder. Gasur might not be the most intelligent person ever to grace this world, but he was crafty, proud and very, very stubborn. Reod contemplated not actually saying anything, but quickly decided against it. They didn't have the time for games like these.
"Well," he finally began, giving the two dark haired elves who were lying motionlessly at his feet a cursory glance, "They're dead."
Gasur actually seemed to startle at the other's words and he blinked slowly, his eyes wandering from the two bodies to his sword and back again.
"Yes."
"Did you kill them?"
"The one, yes," the brown haired man nodded, a content smile spreading over his face. He sheathed his blood-stained sword, a satisfied air surrounding him, the air of a man who had just combined pleasure with work in a highly enjoyable way. "The other one was dead when we got here." He paused for a moment and shook his head, his eyes quickly flickering to give the other captain a puzzled look. "The first one saw me coming and didn't even try to beg."
Reod arched an eyebrow, entirely unprepared for such a conversation. Gasur and he were not on overly friendly terms, and there was no real reason why the other man should talk with him about anything other than what they would do now and how many men they'd lost.
"Would you have?"
"Begged?" Gasur asked as he returned his attention to one of his leather bracer that had come loose half an inch or so. "An elf?" He snorted, but there was a dark glint in his eyes that belied the smirk on his face. "Never."
It was always wise not to believe everything Gasur said, especially when he said things like "I did not kill these men", "I have no idea what you are talking about" or "I was a farmer in Bree before I came here". It was usually a safe bet to assume that he had, in fact, killed the persons in question and knew exactly what his conversational partner was talking about, and if there was one thing all of Donrag agreed on, it was that Gasur had been neither a farmer nor had he set foot anywhere near Bree in his entire life. This one thing was something Reod believed immediately and without hesitation, however: That he would never beg an elf for anything.
Well, he wouldn't really get into a position when something like that would become necessary, the superstitious part of Reod shrugged inwardly. If the Elves ever found out what had happened here, none of them would have to beg them for anything, because he very much doubted that they would be inclined to listen.
"Where are the rest of your men?" Reod finally asked, deciding – correctly – that Gasur most likely wouldn't want to hear this particular conclusion.
"Why, Reod," Gasur finally wrenched his eyes away from the two fallen elves and gave him a long, emotionless look. "They are doing their duty, of course."
Reod raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for patience.
"Have you set up a watch on the road ahead? And on top of the hill?" he finally asked, displaying – in his opinion – commendable patience.
"Of course I have," Gasur replied and flicked an invisible speck of dirt off his admittedly rather dirty shirt. He looked up again and met the other captain's eyes steadily, an easily visible warning in the cold, light brown eyes. "Do you think I am an amateur?"
"No," Reod shook his head quickly, an entirely instinctive reaction. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to have Gasur as an enemy. "If there is one thing you are not, Captain, it is an amateur."
The manner of address seemed to have pacified the other man, since he only nodded and turned slightly to the side, letting his eyes wander over the men, wounded and unwounded, who were busy collecting their dead and loading them on their former mounts. Gasur even had reason to take pride in his rank, Reod admitted inwardly. Donrag was a small town with a comparably small guard corps, and so there were only two captains: He and Gasur. To rise higher was simply not possible, at least not for a simple soldier.
"How many men did you lose?"
Gasur's question brought him out of his thoughts, and Reod shook his head minutely.
"Eleven," he finally said in a gruff voice. It wasn't that he was actually feeling regret for his men's death, but he was most decidedly angry that they had been killed so quickly with doing comparably little damage in return. Well, that had been at first, he added smugly.
"Eleven," Gasur repeated curtly. "I lost six."
"That's seventeen," Reod nodded, not really knowing why he had said that. Even Gasur should be able to add six and eleven, shouldn't he?
"That's actually quite good," Gasur shrugged casually. "I had expected worse."
"Worse?" Reod repeated, flabbergasted. "We lose seventeen to kill five! I don't know about you, but I'd call that a rather lopsided win-loss ratio!"
"Against their kind, it's more than decent," the other man shrugged again, unconcerned by the older captain's exasperation. "We surprised them, otherwise we'd lost ten more. At least."
Footsteps behind them drew their attention, quite a lot of footsteps, and both of them turned around. Half a minute later Lieutenant Genrir and the rest of the men stopped in front of them, most of them looking rather bloody and dishevelled. A second later the group parted, and a dark haired, bruised elf was shoved forward and pulled to a stop in front of the two captains. It looked very much as if the only thing keeping him from lunging at the humans was the ropes that bound his wrists securely behind his back.
From where he was standing next to Gasur, Reod could actually watch how the dark, anticipatory grin crept over the brown haired captain's face and into his eyes.
"Still," Gasur said nonchalantly, resuming their earlier conversation as if nothing had happened, "Seventeen dead men are a tad disproportionate. What do you think, elf?"
"What I think," the dark haired elf retorted evenly in soft, accentless Westron, "is none of your business, human. What I know, however, is this: Cut me loose and there will not be seventeen, but eighteen very dead men lying on this road."
"Will there?" Gasur asked friendly, pursing his lips in thought. "That's interesting. Then I am not going to do that, am I?"
The men surrounding them chuckled dutifully, but the elf did not seem to be amused at all, which might have been a little too much to ask, too. There was no emotion visible on his face, and only his dark eyes betrayed the anger he felt, an anger of the sort that seemed to fill the entire space around him. The self-satisfied part of Reod was shrinking faster than a plate of mushrooms at a hobbit's birthday party while his superstitious part was all but yelling "I told you so!" Dealing with elves was nothing but trouble, that it was.
Gasur's hand shot out without warning, startling Reod suddenly out of his musings, and the brown haired captain's fingers closed around one of the elf's arms and dragged him closer.
"What is your name, elf?"
If there was a way to convey to someone else that he was a disgusting, slimy, worm-like creature that had just crawled out of some murky pond by raising only one eyebrow, the elf had found it and perfected it.
"My name, móradan, is also none of your business."
Gasur's eyes narrowed, and most of the men that had gathered around them took a hasty step backwards. It was clear that the captain didn't understand what the word meant, but he was intelligent enough to put two and two together and decide that it was nothing complimentary. He tightened his grip on the other's arm and pulled him forward, jerking him to a stop in front of the two dead elves that still lay where they had fallen.
"Look at your men, elf," he hissed at the other being and shook him brutally. "Look at them! We killed five of your accursed kind already; I have absolutely no problem with killing a sixth! Look at them, your protectors, and remember this sight before you open your mouth again! Remember it well!"
"Your name, elf," Reod interjected now, apparently deciding that it was time that he said something, too. "Answer him."
"He is too high and mighty to answer us, isn't he?" Gasur asked spitefully and tightened his grip even further, his fingers digging into the dark haired elf's flesh. "Or maybe he just can't believe that we, a group of puny, simple men, killed his oh-so-powerful warriors, hm? That we killed them as easily as if they had been cattle waiting to be slaughtered?"
He said more, his voice growing ever more hateful, but Erestor was long past listening. He was still numb with what had happened in the past half-hour, numb with the shock of seeing his companions cut down in front of his eyes. He was not composed or calm enough yet to feel anything but anger and hatred, and these emotions only flared to even brighter life when he looked at the two still bodies no more than two feet in front of him.
It was hard to tell, but even with all the blood that was covering their bodies Erestor could see that it was Cuilthen and Elvynd. The older elf had slumped over Cuilthen's body, his features almost invisible under a thick layer of blood, as if he had been holding him in his arms when he had been struck down. Sadness mingled with the blazing anger, and Erestor had to force himself to keep up an emotionless façade. 'Oh Glorfindel, my reckless, loyal friend, you would have been proud of them.'
He was yanked around while he was still finishing his last thought, and only now did he realise that the dark haired, cold-eyed man had stopped gloating and was looking at him expectantly, as was the rest of the men. Well, he thought, fury and hatred colouring his vision a bloody red, if they wanted to hear what he thought, they would.
"You will die," he said slowly and very, very calmly, as thought he was stating nothing but that rain was wet. "You will die, all of you, and all of those who have aided you in this in any way. My lord will seek revenge against you for what you have done, and so will the Valar themselves. You are cursed, cursed to a death by the hands of my kin, cursed as surely as if Mandos himself had spoken these words. Your doom is wrought, and will have consumed you by this season's end, this I swear to you by Manwë Súlimo himself and by Varda Elentári his queen." He smiled thinly, a smile that held no warmth or mirth at all. "My people are known for many things, and among them is the fact that we never, ever, break an oath."
Reod did not say anything, too frozen with fear to even think clearly – a behaviour that was mirrored by most of the men present. Most of them had heard tales about the Elves since they had been children, and the claim that their race practiced dark magic was one of the more harmless ones. The elf's words, spoken in such a calm, matter-of-fact tone of voice had affected the soldiers more than any of them would have admitted.
Gasur didn't say anything for a few moments, but then he drew back and delivered a blow to the dark haired being's face that nearly would have knocked him to the ground.
"You did not listen to me," he said mildly while two of the men dragged the elf back to his feet. "But that is just fine. It's more fun this way."
He turned to the side, grinning, and nodded at one of his men.
"Take him over to the horses and get ready to leave. We'll join you in a moment."
The man bowed and obeyed without question, and a few moments later all the men were gone, some of them escorting their prisoner over to the group of trees where they had left the horses and some of them collecting the last of their dead. Gasur watched them for a moment, the grin still on his face, before he turned back to his fellow captain.
"He is that Lord Erestor or whatever his name is."
"He'd better be," Reod retorted with a pointed look at the two elves at their feet. "Or our lady will be very displeased indeed."
"He is the one," Gasur nodded confidently. "Why, Reod, don't you trust me?"
Luckily for the older man Gasur didn't expect him to answer that question but rather turned around and followed his men. Reod merely stared after him for a moment, inwardly shaking his head at the other captain and the world in general.
No, he did not trust Gasur. He did not trust him at all, he thought to himself while he was following him down the road. He trusted the younger captain about as much as he would trust a wolf not to kill a helpless fawn, or as much as he would trust the surviving elf not to kill him with his bare hands should he ever get the chance.
And that, he decided with a look at the dark haired elf who seemed to exude anger and hatred in palpable waves, was not much at all.
'Idiot.' Salir took a step forward, inwardly still seething. 'Braggart. Cretin. Moron. Show-off.' He stopped a moment, trying to come up with the exact, most deprecating word that would describe the son of an orc more commonly known as Gasur. 'Soldier.'
Salir interrupted his pacing and stepped up to the railing that encircled the northern balcony of his lady's house. Yes, 'soldier' was indeed the perfect word for Gasur. He was stupid, possessed positively no education at all and was nothing but a blundering, annoying nuisance that failed to show his betters the respect they were due. Other than that, the seneschal thought more objectively, he was also scaring the wits out of him, something that he was by absolutely no means willing to admit.
He had had more than enough time to think about it, and he had come to the rather galling conclusion that he was indeed afraid of Gasur. He was not afraid of the threats the captain had uttered a few days ago – just how should that man ever do even a fifth of what he had boasted about? – but … well, he was simply afraid.
That was nothing exceptional, especially when the person in question was Gasur. It was most people's opinion that the brown haired captain was mad or well on his way of becoming so, and every single reasonable man or woman was therefore afraid of him. For most of the time, Gasur was normal or as normal as the rest of the people living in Donrag, but there were times when he was most certainly nothing of that sort. Then, things got out of control, most of the time immensely so, just like that little incident involving the warehouses and the guards.
If he was really lucky, Salir decided darkly, Gasur would fail to capture the elf and die. There were many things that could happen in a battle, even in a minor one as the one that had most probably been fought. Men could stumble and fall into their own swords or those of their enemies (such things did happen), men could get in the way of stray arrows or a well-aimed sword stroke (such things did definitely happen), and men could turn up after a battle with a mortal wound in their back instead of their chest. Such things happened as well, in every army of this world, and most frequently when the man in question was a brutal, unpopular officer.
The only problem was, however, that he had no success whatsoever imaging Gasur being killed in a fight, not even by an elf. He knew of the captain's almost fanatical hatred for their race, but he simply could not see Gasur die in this ambush. The brown haired captain would have planned it well, he would not take even the slightest chance that one of the elves might possibly escape, and he would therefore not get into the position of being in any danger whatsoever from one of them.
The other two possibilities were also highly unlikely, at least in his opinion. He had known Gasur for roughly six months (six long, horribly nerve-wrecking months), and not once had the other man stumbled over anything, not to mention fallen into something. Least of all his own sword. And the chances of the soldiers of Gasur's guard solving the entire problem for him by simply killing their captain were … what was it they said? Slim to none.
That brought him to the very interesting question of what he should do about that annoying, perfect little soldier. He was nothing more than a nuisance, a troublesome problem that simply refused to go away – yet. Salir was old and experienced enough to know that Gasur had been right about one thing these few days ago: Things did indeed change. In his experience they very seldom changed abruptly, but rather bit by bit, almost undetected until it was too late.
He would not fall into this very obvious trap.
Salir turned around again and renewed his pacing, a part of his attention fixed firmly on the dark path that was just visible from his vantage point. But what should he do? He could attack directly, certainly, even thought that was a course of action he had never been overly fond of. Still, there were many ways people could fall into disfavour, and many things people could be accused of in front of their lady. Open attacks could be very effective, but they could backfire on you easily, far too easily.
Especially, he reminded himself, when the man you wanted to attack was Gasur. He had proven many times that he was not as stupid as he appeared to be (or not quite as stupid as he appeared to be) and that he could be a very dangerous opponent, even in what Salir considered 'his' terrain. He shuddered slightly when he remembered the smile Gasur had given him at the end of their last conversation. An open confrontation, he decided quickly, was out of the question.
That only left something more subtle. Subtlety, however, had never been something he had had a particular problem with, and he was reasonably certain that it was a trait that Captain Gasur mainly lacked. He was a soldier after all, Salir mused, and soldiers were not exactly known for subtlety or refinement.
What they were known for, however, he began once again, returning to his earlier subject, was obstinacy. Impudence. Idiocy. Presumptuousness. General mental deficiency. Impertin…
Salir stopped in mid-thought when his senses told him that he was no longer alone. Even though valiant heroes like Gasur and his fellow captain, Reod, would never admit it, he possessed keen senses and a power of perception that rivalled even their best scouts'. If you wanted to retain your position as Lady Acalith's chief advisor and her seneschal, you were in dire need of keen senses, and said keen senses were right now telling him that someone else had stepped onto the balcony and had stopped somewhere behind him.
The grey haired seneschal thought quickly. The number of people who had access to this balcony was highly manageable, and there were not many of those who were actually allowed to be here that could surprise him like this. Salir sighed inwardly, the familiar mix of loyalty and anxiety once again rising inside of him. Sometimes he was really willing to swear that his lady was part wraith.
Salir took a calming breath and turned around.
"Good evening, my lady."
The dark haired woman did not react immediately or even turned to look at him, her hands resting on the wooden balustrade and her eyes fixed on the darkness below them. It remained silent for a while, and just when Salir was beginning to try and come up with a way of making his escape in a stealthy and silent manner, she turned her head ever so slightly and gave him what passed as a friendly nod by her standards.
"Salir."
The man gave her a deep bow, but did not say anything. The silence once again settled over the balcony like a dark blanket, and the seneschal was contemplating flight for a second time when his lady's voice could be heard again, sounding low and confident.
"They will arrive soon."
Salir blinked, something that was invisible in the darkness that lay over the lands.
"Yes, my lady."
"It is a good plan," Acalith went on, seemingly speaking to her long, slender hands. "Even a very good plan. Captain Gasur and Captain Reod will be able to complete the mission without any major complications."
"Yes, my lady."
The short, obedient answer prompted the young woman to turn around and look at the grey haired man, interest flickering to life in her eyes.
"What do you think of him, Salir?"
"Captain Reod, my lady?" Salir asked innocently in a rather obvious attempt to stall.
Acalith gave him a look cold enough to chill the fires of Mount Doom.
"Captain Gasur."
"I am but your seneschal, my lady," the man bowed his head, trying his best to escape this situation without losing one or more limbs. "It is not my place to judge your warriors."
The dark haired woman raised a slightly annoyed eyebrow.
"Yes, you are my seneschal – I appointed you and can demote you any time I see fit, as I should probably mention. You are, however, also one of my advisors, are you not?" Salir nodded faintly without raising his eyes, and so she added, "Well then, advisor, do your duty! Advise me!"
Salir cursed inwardly and looked for the most diplomatic words that came to his mind in combination with Gasur.
"He is … a good soldier," he finally began somewhat reluctantly. "His men obey him without question, and the loyalty he displays to you is … convincing."
Acalith's other eyebrow rose in faint amusement. Once again Salir wondered how such a ruthless being could look so undeniably lovely.
"You do not like him."
It was a statement, not a question, and Salir knew better than to deny his antipathy.
"I do not trust him, my lady," he shook his head slightly. "Ambition can lead a man to greatness, but it can also eat him away from the inside out. In Gasur's case, it is finished with his insides and is reaching his brain right about now."
Acalith threw back her head and laughed, something that was almost unheard of. A part of Salir was captivated by the soft, lilting sound, but another part of him was simply speechless. If there was one thing everyone in this town knew, it was that Lady Acalith seldom smiled since the death of her husband. And she never laughed.
After a few moments, Acalith regained control over herself and shook her head breathlessly, amusement still shining in her eyes.
"I would not let him hear you say that," she advised him seriously. "One of things I treasure about him is the fact is that he is neither controlled nor forgiving. And he has, I am afraid, no sense of humour at all."
'I had noticed,' Salir commented inwardly. He didn't say it out loud, however. The simple fact that he was having this conversation was more than enough proof that Lady Acalith was indeed "treasuring" Captain Gasur – something that was enough to make him feel definitely nauseous and more than a little furious.
"He takes his duties very seriously," he nodded his head in what he hoped was a noncommittal, neutral and thoroughly inoffensive way.
"Yes," Acalith agreed with a tiny nod of her head. "Maybe a little too seriously, though?"
Salir didn't say anything for a few moments, trying to figure out what to say without getting himself into a thoroughly unpleasant position. Disagreeing with their lady could have … unpleasant consequences, to say the least, and right now he was not completely sure what the dark haired woman wanted to hear. The seneschal finally decided that this was an opportunity too good to miss. He had been trying to casually mention this particular subject for the past two weeks, and he would not pass up this chance.
"You read my report, my lady," he finally said carefully, referring to the document in which he had all but insulted Gasur, his ancestors and possible descendants and had called for his immediate execution. Well, he amended after a moment, it hadn't been quite that bad. That was what he hoped, anyway, since he had been really angry when he had written it.
"Oh, indeed," Acalith inclined her head with another smile. How many were that now, Salir asked himself, two or three? This had to be some kind of record. "I have been meaning to speak with you about it for a while," she went on. "It appears that you and Captain Gasur are more alike than either of you would want to admit, don't you think so? What was that word you used? 'Overkill'?"
Salir allowed himself to wonder for a moment just how his lady knew that he had used this particular word during his conversation with Gasur. It did not really matter, he decided a second later. In Donrag, most walls did indeed have ears. More than one pair, too.
"It seemed like an appropriate word at that time, my lady."
"Maybe," the young woman nodded thoughtfully, her gaze once again straying to the dark valley beneath them. "Yes, maybe it is an appropriate word."
For a few moments it was silent, her profile barely visible in what little light was filtering through the curtains which were covering the large, open doors behind them that were leading back into the house.
"It does not matter," Acalith finally said calmly, her eyes still fixed on the path leading into Donrag from the north that was almost completely hidden in the darkness. "What is done is done and cannot be changed. He might have been a little overenthusiastic, but he did not act against any direct orders, did he now?"
Salir all but gritted his teeth, already knowing in which direction this was going. He had known his lady for a long time, ever since she had arrived in Donrag as a very young woman, and knew exactly when his cause was lost. Lady Acalith did not truly disapprove of Gasur's behaviour and had never been planning to punish him in any way. The grey haired man sighed inwardly, thinking that it would have been too good to be true, too.
"No," he admitted reluctantly. It wasn't really important what he said either, for Lady Acalith was only remotely interested in his opinion anyway.
The dark haired woman turned her head sharply, her dark blue eyes looking almost black in the dim light as they fastened on the older man's face.
"No," she repeated with emphasis, "he did not, Seneschal. I have no time whatsoever for these petty rivalries."
"My lady?" Salir inquired as politely and neutrally as he could.
"You know what I am talking about, Salir," Acalith said coldly, a threatening air beginning to surround her slender figure. "I do not think that I care to repeat myself. If I wish to see intrigue and secret machinations, I will send for a group of actors. Am I making myself completely, unmistakably, unequivocally clear?"
The grey haired man bowed his head and fought off a wave of sudden fear.
"Yes, my lady."
"Good," his lady nodded her head firmly, an almost menacing gleam in her eyes. "I will have a similar conversation with Captain Gasur as soon as he returns. I expect you to sort this out, and if it appears that you haven't out of a reason I can neither imagine nor care about, I will be most displeased."
That little fact did little to actually comfort Salir. True, it was nice to hear that he was not the only one who had incurred his lady's wrath, and the fact that said other person was Gasur was something that almost made him smile (only almost, though), but that still didn't solve the underlying problem.
In fact, there were at least three problems. The most obvious was that nothing worse than a lecture would happen to Gasur. The other two were much more serious and more dangerous, too. One was that he had seriously displeased Lady Acalith, something that was never a good idea, and the other was that he had not only incensed her, he had underestimated her as well by thinking that his ... dicussion with Gasur would go unnoticed.
Displeasing her was unwise. Underestimating her, however, was just plain stupid.
"Do not think I am unaware of what goes on in my own house," Acalith's voice warned him, unconsciously mirroring his concerns. "There is too much at stake for my seneschal and one of my captains to be caught up in a fruitless power struggle. You would do well to remember that."
"Yes, my lady."
"Good," Acalith said curtly, her willingness to talk about this particular topic apparently evaporating as quickly as her patience. "I would hate to have to replace one or both of…"
She fell silent, her head cocked slightly to the side and her large eyes studying the path climbing up the hill beneath them. For a second or two, Salir was confused, but then he, too, saw the first hints of movement on the road, and another few moments later he was able to discern several figures on horseback that were slowly and stealthily moving into the town. Even from where he was standing Salir could see that there were a lot less riders visible than had left Donrag this morning.
"They have arrived, my lady," Salir said finally when it became apparent that the young woman wouldn't say anything.
"I have eyes and am quite capable of using them, Seneschal," his mistress informed him coldly. "I can see that they have arrived, and that their mission was successful."
Even despite the many riderless horses that became more easily visible by the second Salir found himself forced to agree. The group of riders was moving slowly and without any sigh of haste or anxiety, both signs that they had indeed successfully completed their assigned mission. The grey haired man sighed inwardly, realising that he had really hoped that Gasur would just spare him all the trouble and get himself killed.
"Meet them in the courtyard," Acalith went on, oblivious to her seneschal's rather bloodthirsty thoughts. "Escort the captains and our … guest to the great hall and see to it that the men know the penalty for talking about what has transpired today."
"Yes, my lady." Salir correctly assumed that this was the only answer that would satisfy the young woman and turned around to follow his lady's orders – orders that would have been better suited for a servant or a messenger, but that was completely beside the point.
The grey haired man pushed the curtains to the side with an angry swipe of his hand that went unnoticed by his mistress and entered the room, crossing it with a few long strides. It would not do to show that he was in any way displeased with the conversation he'd just had, Salir reasoned inwardly while he stepped out into the corridor. He had underestimated his lady once today; he would not do it again.
Mindful of that thought, the seneschal pushed his loathing and hatred to the side that welled up inside of him when he thought of Gasur and how much trouble that accursed soldier had already caused him since his arrival half a year ago.
Oh yes, he thought grimly, he would 'sort this out'. Once and for all, and in a way the dear captain would not enjoy at all.
Torel cursed under his breath, careful not to do it too loudly. His father, who was walking a few steps behind him, did not approve of cursing – most of the time, that was. There were times, of course, when simply nothing else could convey your feelings quite as well as a heartfelt oath, but the young man was rather sure that his father would not regard this as one of them.
The man grumbled and once again cursed himself for cutting off his hair in anticipation of the warm seasons. Vonar, his cousin, had volunteered to cut his longish hair with an enthusiasm that should have been a warning to him, really. Against his better judgement and mostly because he hadn't wanted to hurt his younger relative's feelings he had agreed, a decision he had regretted ever since he had glimpsed his reflection in the surface of the water in the horse trough. Not even his sister, who was exceptionally skilled in such things, had been able to repair much of the damage, and so he was right now looking more like a sheep that had been shorn with a very blunt instrument that had not been designed for that task in the first place.
The past few days had taught him many things, however, just like his mother had been telling him every evening since that questionable decision, namely humility, how to control his aggressive tendencies and the ability to dive for cover every time he crossed the way of one of Aberon's female inhabitants. Torel groaned softly to himself, his cheeks colouring once again when he remembered his last encounter with one of said inhabitants. The only thing that was keeping him from killing Vonar was that his hair had always grown quickly.
He hadn't realised that he had slowed his gait until he felt a hand on the small of his back, and a second later he was pushed gently but firmly forward.
"Don't fall asleep!"
Torel bit back the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of his tongue. He wouldn't have to fall asleep if his father and Hurag hadn't convinced the council that they should follow the elves' trail and see where they had gone. He understood their motives, realising that it was important whether or not the elf lord's envoy and his entourage had travelled to Donrag as well, but that did not mean that he was pleased about the fact that the council had agreed with them.
Of course the council had agreed with them, he thought darkly. Hurag had been made councilman a few years ago, and he was easily one of the two or three most important ones already. What the older man suggested was usually done, too, or at least seriously considered. Unlike his father, however, Torel grumbled inwardly, Hurag had had the sense to stay at home instead of stumbling around in the dead of night, following what their guide thought to be the elven party's trail.
There was no trail, no trail at all, the young man grumbled, his mood dropping to new, foul levels. He had always heard that elves left no signs of their passing, and their horses seemed to have adopted that trait. It had taken their guide a long time to find what he was calling a trail, and Torel harboured more than just a few doubts about the truth of the man's statement.
He was so immersed in his dark musings that he didn't notice the fallen log that lay on the road, quite visible in the silver moonlight, and a second later his left shin made contact with the hard bark with an audible thud. Torel barely bit back another curse and had to stop himself from giving the log a vicious kick. That did it.
"Somebody," he began between gritted teeth, "Somebody please tell me why we can't light a torch! Or a lamp. Even a candle would do quite nicely."
"Because," a voice to his left announced smugly, "we would be seen, cousin."
Torel gritted his teeth even more firmly. The absolutely last person he wanted to see right now was Vonar.
"And why would that be so horrible?" he asked, bending down to massage his hurting leg. "They aren't even here anymore, for the Gods' sake!"
"Are you so sure about that, my son?" his father asked seriously, having stopped next to him with the rest of their small troop. "Sure enough to bet all our lives on it?"
The curly haired youth bowed his head, embarrassed.
"They would not hurt us," he still protested.
"They are elves," another man shrugged, pulling his cape a little more tightly around his body. "What kind of man can predict what they would and would not do?"
Torel opened his mouth to point out that there were such men, namely the Rangers and even some others, but he caught his father's warning look and closed it again without saying a single word. He knew that he had a big mouth, just like his sister and little brother, and had learnt a long time ago that heeding his father's warnings was mostly the cleverest thing to do in such situations.
Vonar, too, noticed his cousin's rather obvious desire to tell the other man that he was talking nonsense and decided to intervene before Torel said something after all. He had no desire whatsoever to spend the remainder of the night out here in the cold and dark and argue like dim-witted children.
"We should get a move on," he said hastily, wiping a strand of curly hair out of his hair that looked much like his cousin's. "It's getting … colder."
Torel's father gave his nephew a strange look.
"Colder," he repeated matter-of-factly. "I see." He smiled slightly and inclined his head. "You are correct, though: We don't have the time to stand here, talking. We need to see if the trail leads all the way to Donrag."
The other men nodded their heads somewhat reluctantly and began to move again, even though Torel wasn't ready to give up so easily.
"Only because Hurag says they went there doesn't mean that they did," he once again began to grumble softly. It wasn't that he didn't like the older, grey haired councilman, but if there was something he didn't want, it was stumbling around in the darkness searching for a bunch of elves who were most likely already on their way back home.
"No, it doesn't," his father agreed reasonably next to him, his face almost invisible in the darkness. "But the rest of the council happens to agree with him. And so do I."
Even in his foul mood, Torel was no idiot. He recognised that particular tone of voice, namely the Unless-you-want-to-spend-the-next-few-years-doing-inventories-you-will-be-quiet-tone of voice. There was only one thing he hated more than stumbling around in the darkness, and that was doing inventories.
"I understand, father."
"I hope so," Toran said, a hint of a warning clearly audible in his voice. "Because I've had it with your constant…"
The tall man fell silent, and it took Torel several moments to even ask himself why. For the first few seconds he simply thought that his father was trying to think of an adequately scathing expression, but then he realised that the rest of their troop had stopped as well. The young man came to a sudden stop as well, feeling as if he had run into an invisible wall.
In front of them, on the road right where the little copse of trees that grew next to the river almost reached the steep hills to their left, lay what he first thought to be fallen trees. Torel quickly realised that they were no logs and not even wood of any kind, but rather bodies. More bodies than he had ever seen in his relatively short life, too.
The moon chose this moment to break through the clouds, and a soft, silver light bathed the scene in a decidedly unearthly light. It was a suitable setting for this scene, too, a small part of Torel's mind whispered to the rest of him that was simply shocked into motionlessness. A small, wispy cloud drifted across the bright, luminous surface of the moon, plunging their surroundings into sudden darkness, and Torel closed his eyes for a second, almost hoping that the scene that spread out in front of his eyes would be different once he opened them again.
After a few quick heartbeats, the young man hesitantly opened his eyes again, and realised with a heavy heart that he wasn't that lucky. Nothing had changed, nothing at all.
There were nearly half a dozen dead bodies lying on the road and next to it, along with three equally dead horses. One of the dead men was half buried under his mount, and even from where he was standing Torel could see clearly that his neck was broken. The others were lying on the ground, their limbs twisted and already frozen in what he instinctively identified as the characteristic of a person that was long beyond help of any kind. Their weapons lay next to them, knives and swords strewn around the still bodies as well as broken bows and arrows.
A part of Torel, the small part that was still capable of reasonable thought, noticed that they couldn't have been dead much longer than a few hours. There was no sign that scavengers of any kind had been here already, no torn clothing or any other more distasteful evidence. He was still following that particular thought when the soft breeze lifted the long hair of one of the men, blowing it over his still, stone-like features, and Torel's thoughts ground to an almost audible halt when his eyes came to rest on the "man's" pointed ear.
After a brief, shocked mental silence, Torel blinked slowly. There were only two kinds of people he had ever seen who had pointed ears. One was the orcish race, and the other was...
"The elves," Vonar said next to him, his voice toneless and shocked. "Great Ones, what happened here?"
Next to his cousin, his father blinked slowly, grey-blond hair falling into his face as he shook his head to clear his head.
"Light torches," he said in a pressed, urgent tone of voice. He turned to the older member of their party, his eyes hard and cold in his pale face. "Search the surroundings. Make sure that whoever did this is no longer here. You two," he turned to his son and nephew, "see if one of them is still alive."
Neither Torel nor Vonar protested, even though they knew as well as Toran that none of the elves was still alive. Even a half-blind or half-dumb person needed to take only a look at them to see that they were dead, and had been for some time. Still they obeyed mutely, walking over to the motionless figures and checking them for signs of life, one by one.
Vonar was busy with the elf that had fallen with his horse when Torel knelt down to a dark haired elf who had been killed by a crude spear that had been driven through his back. He was just reaching for the elf's discarded sword when his father stepped next to him, a crackling torch in his hand.
"Anything?"
The young man merely shook his head, not being able to find the words he would have to speak. He had seen dead people before, even dead people he had known and liked, like the guards in the warehouses, but this felt … different, somehow. It felt horribly wrong, in a way that Torel was at a loss to explain even to himself.
Torel's clammy fingers closed around the hilt of the beautifully crafted sword and he lifted it to his face, his eyes wandering slowly over the blood-encrusted blade.
"Red blood."
Toran's eyes narrowed and he quickly looked over his shoulder to see if any of their companions was in hearing range.
"What did you say?"
"Red blood, father," his son repeated hollowly. "Whoever ambushed them was human, unless the Little Folk have taken to waylaying travellers, which I seriously doubt."
"Nonsense," Toran shook his head quickly. "It was orcs. Who else would have left the weapons behind? Orcs do not touch anything that has been crafted by the Elves."
"Orcs?" Torel raised an unbelieving eyebrow. "There haven't been any sightings for nearly two years! The blood doesn't lie, father!"
His father looked at him, a steely, determined expression in his eyes that Torel had never before seen in his usually calm and composed father's eyes. The older man took a step forward and knelt down next to him, the torch in his hand illuminating the grisly scene.
"Listen to me, Torel," he began, reaching for the sword and taking it from his surprised son's hand. "Orcs killed them. They were ambushed and killed by orcs. Do you understand?"
"Father!" Torel whispered urgently, his eyes wide and confused. "This is not true!"
"Orcs. Killed. Them," Toran repeated firmly, slipping the blood-covered weapon into one of his bags. "For the love of the Gods, think, boy! Whom do you think the Lord of Rivendell will blame for this if he hears that humans were responsible?"
Torel might be only a little over twenty summers old, but he was no fool.
"Oh dear."
"Exactly," his father nodded grimly, getting back to his feet and eyeing the fallen elf with a mixture of loathing and pity. "We will give them a decent burial. We will even send a messenger to the elf lord to inform him of their deaths, but what we will not do is tell him what really happened here. Do you understand?"
"But … but we didn't kill them!" Torel protested. "Did we? It was those idiots from Donrag, you can bet on that!"
"Of course we didn't!" the tall man snapped at his son. "And it might have been them, but that doesn't matter. Orcs killed them, and that's all there is." He looked at the older members of their party who were just stepping into the light of his torch. "Anything?"
"Nothing conclusive," one of them shook his head. "There is not one other body anywhere in sight, so the elves were either surprised so thoroughly that they didn't get the chance to fight back or the other party took their dead with them. There are lots of trails all over the place, but it seems that those who did this led their horses up the slope. Their trail loses itself among the rocks." He shrugged lightly. "A tracker or hunter might have better luck, but that is all I can tell you. There are a few other trails leading to the west, through the undergrowth, but mostly they disappear after a few yards. Might have been a few stray horses, but it's hard to tell on this kind of terrain."
"There are no horse trails," Toran shook his head firmly. "Orcs killed them. Orcs do not use horses; therefore there are no horse trails. Do you understand?"
The other men nodded without hesitation, but Torel's cousin looked at Toran, his eyes wide and confused.
"But…" Vonar began to protest, but quickly fell silent when he saw his uncle's glare. "Oh. Yes, uncle. Orcs killed them."
"Good boy," the tall man nodded curtly. "Get their weapons, or at least those that are still whole. We will need something to send to their lord. We'll bury them over there, next to the trees. Let's hurry, before the first wolf shows up."
The assembled men nodded and soon there was a neat pile of knifes and swords on the one side of the road and an incomparably less neater row of still, bloodied bodies on the other. Torel and Vonar were kneeling next to the last dead elf, their eyes wide and fixed on the arrow that was protruding from his back. It was the young one, Torel realised with a small stab of surprise. He had seen him only a few hours ago, when he and two other elves had asked him where they could find a kitten. He had been amused then, amused by their strange request and the smiles on their fair faces, but nothing of that feeling could be found inside of him now.
"Look at all the blood," his cousin mumbled next to him while he obviously tried to figure out how they could carry the dead elf over to the others without touching him overly much. "I never knew there was that much blood in someone's body."
Torel nodded mutely, his eyes straying from the large pool of coagulated blood to the dark haired elf's white, almost serene-looking face. He didn't answer his cousin – what was there to say? His gaze wandered over their surrounding to come to rest on his father and the other men who were busy digging five graves, their figures lit by their torches which they had stuck into the ground all around them. In the dancing light of the torches, the still bodies over at the other side of the road looked even more haunting and ghostly.
"Torel?" Vonar's voice ripped him out of his thoughts. Torel turned his head to look at his younger relative who looked back at him, anxiety written all over his face. Vonar swallowed quickly, looking even younger than usual. "We're all in trouble, aren't we?"
Torel once again looked at the young, dead elf in front of him and then at the other four bodies lying close to where his father and the others were digging the graves. After several moments of tense silence he nodded slowly, his face grave and serious.
"Yes, Vonar. We're all in trouble."
TBC...
móradan - 'Man of Darkness'. One of the men who fell under the dominion of Morgoth in the First Age, like Ulfang the Black who betrayed the Elves in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad; among their descendants are the Easterlings and the Dunlendings. Generally a rather unfriendly thing to say to a human •g•
Ah yes, they're all in trouble. Just wait till Glorfindel and the rest of Rivendell hears about this... •evil grin• Okay, I won't insult you by promising to post in a week, but I really think I will be able to do so this time. Christmas is around the corner (O my God, I still need presents, lots of them! •horrified look•), so there isn't much I have to do for college. I will do my best to make sure that you see the Erestor-Acalith-confrontation (They don't really like each other) and a little surprise scene (Well, can you guess?) in a week. Really. Reviews are, as always, extremely helpful. •g•
Additional A/N:
As I said in the A/N, I really don't have time to reply to all your lovely reviews today. I'm very, very sorry about that. I truly appreciate all your kind words, but I thought an update was more important. Feel free to send me an email and insult me to your heart's content. •g•
