A/N: Yup, that lazy-bum of an author is posting late again... -throws herself upon the mercy of her readers- -...and attempts to look faaar too pathetic to refuse- Really, I'm sorry, guys. And to compound it all, I haven't finished responding to everyone--but I shall! Thanks for sending the feedback. ;)

Chapter 34: Knowledge is Power

The size of his following hadn't really decreased by a noticeable amount, but it still made Ecthelion feel somehow lighter not to have any servants, advisors, valets, or cooks swarming around him. He'd left them to go back to Minas Tirith with a safe-guard of as many soldiers as he could spare.

Of course, the advisor who'd been accompanying him had strongly advised against any of them going at all, suggesting they all return to Minas Tirith, and send a real army to Rohan's aid. Ecthelion knew he didn't have the time for that. By the time he got there, and more soldiers were sent out, anything could have happened. Heolstor wanted him to leave Rohan alone, and even if he was only leaving temporarily, who knew what plan Heolstor could have prepared to put into action immediately? Besides, it wasn't as if what he had with him now was a pathetic number. This same advisor who suggested retreat had suggested he bring a veritable horde to the meeting as a precaution.

That was the problem with advisors, you never knew when they were saying something paranoid but brilliant, or paranoid but…paranoid. In this case, he thought it was more a case of the advisor giving paranoid but unintentionally brilliant advice. Certainly, the advisor had meant for his accompanying "army" to be used more defensively then aggressively.

One self-confession Ecthelion had already made was that he was enjoying this more than a little. Not the reason for this journey, but definitely the excuse to play an active role again. It felt like forever since he'd commanded soldiers out in the field, actually there, with his men, in the middle of it. Denethor wouldn't like this when he found out, but he could enjoy himself for the present. And someday his son would discover exactly what being a Steward entailed, and how the urge to do something rash, regardless of the risks to himself it might involve, was occasionally reasonable.

No…Denethor wouldn't like this at all.

However, Denethor didn't know yet, and he was going to do this. Strange, it wasn't long ago that Denethor had been the one "rebelling," and now it felt oddly as if their roles were reversed. Well, he could always blame it on old age.

They had waited until Heolstor and his party had moved some distance, taking their time packing up their own supplies, and following several hours later. With a handful of men, covertly traveling directly behind them might have been an option, but not with a group of their size. If noticed, he doubted Heolstor would believe they'd simply gotten their directions confused. When they actually arrived at Edoras, that would be when the real challenge began. He just hoped Thengel and Morwen would have something figured out by then.

Calls were reaching him from the front of the line, and he urged his horse forward to find out what was the cause of the commotion.

"My Lord, over here!"

Several men had dismounted to the left of the road, and were crouching around something. Ecthelion dismounted as well, striding over.

"We just found him here, like this, my Lord," one of the men explained.

"Valar above…" Ecthelion took the sight in with dawning horror, and sadness.

It was Ceryn, the young man who'd come to his tent the previous evening. He was half-slumped against a tree, as if he'd just sat down for a rest. His skin was ghastly white, and even in unconsciousness he was clutching a dark length of cloth—a shirt or possibly a cape—wrapped around his lower torso. With further inspection, it turned out the cloth was not so much dark as bloodstained.

One of the men was already feeling for a pulse. "He's still alive. His pulse is very weak… But he is still alive."

It had been a long time since he'd had the need to put to use his emergency medical knowledge, so many years since he'd actually been called upon to treat a wounded comrade. But the knowledge was not quite as lost as he'd expected, bits and pieces of it were coming back to him one at a time, as he thought through the process. And he had more than enough willing men crowding around him.

"Move back, all of you, except you." Ecthelion singled out, first all, the man who'd initially taken Ceryn's pulse, assuming he was at least a man of action and common sense, even if he wasn't a healer.

"I have had some little training as a healer," the man said, confirming his hopes.

Ecthelion nodded, and they both began by easing the man to the ground and elevating his legs on top of a pack. Ecthelion gave a few brisk orders to some of the other men, now standing further back, but still watching with concern. "Some of you, go prepare a stretcher."

Ceryn didn't respond as the two of them checked him over for any other injures. If you omitted the serious stab-wound in his side, which had obviously already caused him much blood loss and sent him into shock, he appeared to be doing just fine. On the bright side, the bleeding appeared to have stopped now. On the not-so-cheerful side, Ecthelion wasn't certain whether it would be better to remove the cloth and clean the wound to stave off infection, or if the risk of restarting the bleeding was the more dangerous. He posed the question to his impromptu assistant, but judging by the man's wry expression he'd been debating the same problem in his own mind.

They decided to work slowly, but clean out the wound as best as they could. Clean cloths and water were both brought quickly to them. One on each side, they gingerly began to peel the cloth away from the wound. They exchanged shaky glances of relief when the wound didn't begin bleeding again. There didn't appear to be any fibers of the cloth caught in it, and with some more nervous cleaning and dabbing, and the careful application of an herb-laden poultice, they decided not to push their luck any further.

A makeshift stretcher was presented to them just as they were finishing wrapping the wound with the clean bandages, and with the assistance of several of the men Ceryn was moved onto it with minimal jostling. His legs were elevated again, and enough spare blankets were gathered to all but smother him. Ecthelion lingered, checking his pulse—which was stronger, if a bit fast—and his skin, which was pale but seemed less clammy. Then he motioned for two of the men to take the stretcher, and remounted his own horse as they moved out once more.

Curious glances were given to Ceryn, the obvious question, "Who is he?" behind each one, but it was evident by the Steward's tight-lipped expression that there was no question about whether he should be brought with them.

Now that the immediate danger was past, Ecthelion's mind turned to wondering what this could mean. It was easy enough to think of several scenarios which could have gotten Ceryn into this condition, all of which were connected to the part he'd played in helping them, and involved Heolstor and a dagger.

The question was, did Heolstor know he knew now? He couldn't see any way for Heolstor not to know that, if he knew Ceryn had betrayed him. Unless Heolstor hadn't stabbed Ceryn because he'd betrayed him, but for some other reason. Or maybe, although Ecthelion doubted it, Heolstor hadn't stabbed him, or even had him stabbed by someone else, maybe he'd been "killed" for an entirely different reason.

Ceryn didn't seem to have many friends, but also didn't seem like the kind of man to pick up an excess of enemies either. But, perhaps, in betraying Heolstor he'd created more than one new enemy? Ecthelion's attempts at theorizing only became more and more confusing.

They had gone some miles before Ceryn showed any signs of awareness. Ecthelion had positioned himself behind the stretcher, so he was alerted the moment the injured man began to moan, immediately calling a halt and hurrying to his side.

Ceryn's face was twisted with confusion and pain, and Ecthelion hastened to answer the questioned he knew would be foremost in the man's mind, at the same time motioning for the men who'd been carrying the stretcher to lower it. "Do not be concerned, it is only I, Ecthelion. My men and I found you in the woods, a little…worse for wear." He was gratified to see some of the confusion lessen. "Two of my men have been carrying you on a stretcher. You were stabbed." A small nod of acknowledgment of the fact. He asked again, "Heolstor?"

"Yes."

Hearing how the man's voice cracked and wavered, Ecthelion quickly pulled out his flask and offered him some water. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"He found out." Ceryn drew a shaky breath, letting it out slowly with a wince, but continued stalwartly, "Heolstor has been using Crebain, for a long time, as messengers…as spies. He's on very good terms with one in particular. I didn't think I'd been seen. And I hadn't been, not by any man."

"I see."

"Apparently Heolstor doesn't appreciate ideas that differ from his own."

Ecthelion raised any eyebrow at the attempt at humor, despite the circumstances. "Apparently not."

"For ten minutes I thought I'd gotten away with it… Until I walked into the tent and it looked at me, like I was so much carrion already... Beaten by a bird, would you believe it?" Ceryn spoke somewhat breathlessly.

"I am sorry you had to pay the price for this," Ecthelion said, unable to laugh yet over something he knew he could have prevented. Should have prevented. Wishful thinking, considering that not letting him go would have ruined everything. Bloodless wars were what rulers like him always dreamed of. When you were looking at one of the possible casualties, killed by your choices, one life was no longer just a statistic. "How did you come to be here? You are some distance from where we were camped."

"I fell unconscious after he stabbed me, but apparently he had some of his men get rid of the 'evidence'." He paused a moment to gather his breath. "I woke up in the woods, lucid enough to know stopping the bleeding was probably a good idea. By all rights, I suppose I should have been dead by then, but I'm new to this whole…being mortally-wounded thing," he let out a shuddering laugh, "and I suppose I just didn't know I was supposed to be dead." Ceryn's voice was slightly slurred with tiredness and lingering disorientation. "I remember blacking out several times, but… I must have stopped the bleeding after all."

"We found you close to the road. You must have been confused, and wandered." Ceryn's face was wan and drained, his body still battling to replenish the blood he'd lost. The last thing Ecthelion wanted to do was interrogate him on what still might easily turn into his deathbed, but once again, there were more lives at stake, and there was a perplexing question he had left to ask. "If Heolstor knows, why aren't we under attack?"

"You mean you went through with everything? The meeting went as planned?"

"Yes. To all appearances, Thengel and I are now indifferent, if not entirely hostile toward each other."

Ceryn closed his eyes in relief. "Then he believed me. I told him you hadn't."

"And more than that. I was able to pass a message to the Lady Morwen through a servant, without Heolstor's knowledge."

"We are heading towards Edoras?"

"Aye. And I'm afraid you'll have none but a few soldiers' rudimentary healing skills, and what pain-killing herbs we have with us. We shall have to keep moving. I am sorry," Ecthelion repeated.

"My Lord…I'm just getting over being alive. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Questions answered, and as assured as he could be for the time being of Ceryn's health, Ecthelion encouraged him to rest, giving him some more water just before he dropped back into the painless realm of sleep.

Ecthelion remounted his horse, jaw clenched unconsciously in anger. Heolstor left a trail of pain and destruction everywhere he went—and he probably wasn't seeing the half of what was going on.

---o—oOo—o---

"Can you do it?"

Neylor gave Araedhelm a quelling look, and resumed his steady questioning of Thorongil, as well as his inspection of the vial of antidote he held. "Do you know any of the ingredients in this, or the poison?"

Thorongil was reclining on a bed, something he'd been forced to do under much duress from Araedhelm and Neylor. He'd been all for Neylor coming to have a look at the antidote, and even agreed that the healer should probably have a look at him, but laying down like this felt an awful lot like admitting he wasn't fit to be upright. He wasn't about to be left behind in the conflict that he knew was going to take place soon. But, he also knew conserving his strength was in his best interests, and being helpful to Neylor in his search for the antidote's ingredients certainly was. So he answered each question as well as he could.

"Heolstor didn't actually mention any specific ingredients. He did have some herbs out on a table that I saw, but I very much doubt those were used in it, since he made it clear I wasn't his first 'subject', and that he'd been working on developing the poison for a long time." Thorongil ran over the list, as well as he could from memory, anyways, adding his own insights from his training as a healer as to possibilities and likelihoods where he could, Neylor scrupulously writing the names down. "He called it Ethalomyn…and something with an 'H', I can't remember exactly. Things became…blurry."

"Can you elaborate on any of the symptoms?"

Thorongil's mind cringed away from even thinking about the symptoms. Every time he did so, phantom aches and pains would start up, and he'd have to keep reminding himself that no, the antidote couldn't possibly be wearing off yet. "The symptoms set in quickly, but their severity developed more gradually, over several days in my case. He referred to them as 'stages'. For me, I was first dizzy, nauseated, and then numb."

"Numb?" Neylor asked, still writing. "What kind of numbness?"

"Numb inside and out, like being extremely…cold. It was as if I was paralyzed. I thought I passed out, but apparently, and if I am to take Heolstor at his word, I was at least conscious, even if I don't remember being so."

"Did Heolstor mention what, exactly, this poison of his was intended for?"

"On more than one occasion. You'll recall with Eothald he used some kind of mind-controlling herbs, or at least something that made him more…open to persuasion?"

"Yes. I don't know what he used, but I do know, on certain people, there are herbs that can be surprisingly effective in that way."

"And Heolstor is very well versed in the uses of herbs, especially ones with such surprising, not to mention useful, effects. This poison of his… I'm sure it has bit of everything in it. Primarily, I believe, he intended it as another tool for 'persuasion'. Each stage, or level, was twice as bad as the last. Each time I came back to consciousness, or at least awareness, it appeared I had—as Heolstor put it—'talked'. Though I have no memory of what I talked about."

"Interrogation made cleaner and easier," Neylor mused.

"Precisely. And on the plus side, for the interrogator, it appears to be more effective, more painful, and more prolonged, than any 'truth-serum' I have encountered before. Of course, your 'subject' is prone to be a little less relaxed, and might need a little manhandling while the seizures are in effect, and unless you have enough antidote would die at the end… But those aren't usually important factors for men like Heolstor."

"I'll kill him."

Thorongil looked up in surprise from what, to him, had been meant as a slightly humorous tirade, to find Araedhelm's face dark with murderous intent. Alright. That had been the wrong thing to ramble on about. He had to be accurate in his account to Neylor, but he would really rather not paint a more detailed picture of what he'd been through for Araedhelm. "Araedhelm, maybe while Neylor and I are discussing this, you should…"

"That good for nothing, s—"

"Araedhelm, there are children in the house, at least lower your voice," Thorongil reminded him calmly.

It didn't calm Araedhelm down, or keep him from muttering a few choice expletives to himself, but when next he spoke aloud, he was producing more intellectual insults. "Gods above, the…" He clenched his teeth to keep from digressing into language his wife might disapprove of. "He was just torturing you for the enjoyment of it, wasn't he? For entertainment. He had a hostage, he had what he needed, and he decided trying out his latest poison on you might be fun. He didn't need any information from you."

"Are you done yelling yet, Lieutenant?" Neylor asked, in his slightly nasal, and wholly practical, voice.

"No, I'm not done yelling yet."

Thorongil could see that Araedhelm was well and truly worked up this time, and he knew by experience just how hard it could be to stop Araedhelm once angered. To his relief, Neylor was doing a remarkable job. The old healer was as adept at handling irate relatives and friends as he was at healing.

"Sit down and be quiet, or leave the room. Try any combination, but quit interrupting, or I swear I'll show you what giving in to anger looks like."

Araedhelm sat down heavily, silently channeling some of his anger in Neylor's direction.

Thorongil decided to balance Neylor's words with a few of his own. "There will be a time for that, my friend. Right now, I need to focus on giving all the details I can." While I can, Thorongil added to himself.

Araedhelm's rage deflated noticeably. "I'm sorry, Captain. I know… Just, don't expect me to be calm next time I see that…slime."

Thorongil snorted at the last-minute change of word-choice. "'Slime'? That's original, at least."

Araedhelm rolled his eyes.

"I hate to interrupt," Neylor interrupted, hardly sounding like he hated to do so. "But I would appreciate a few more details about this poison before I go off and try to produce a miracle cure. You were talking about the different 'stages', Captain?"

Although he knew the healer was, really, all heart beneath the grim exterior, Thorongil couldn't help but feel momentarily like he was back at the camp, being interrogated by Heolstor. This was the second time in the last few days he'd had someone writing down every word he said. However, he took advantage of Araedhelm being temporarily cooled off to get in some more detailed description. He tried to make it as factual as possible, but he rather wished Araedhelm would just leave and make it less painful on both of them.

"The second 'stage' was, obviously, worse. More painful. After a while, I felt numb again, but it was more like I was paralyzed but, somehow, still able to feeleven though I couldn't move. And then there were the muscle spasms."

Naylor, probably out of consideration for Araedhelm, didn't ask him to expound. He nodded for him to go on.

"The third time... That would be harder to explain, I…" Thorongil hesitated to say "I had just been beaten up by one of his men," considering Araedhelm's responses thus far. To his credit, though, Araedhelm was sitting quietly in the same spot, even if he did clench and unclench his jaw periodically. Thorongil decided to aim for vague and quick. "I had previously had a…run-in with one of the guards, so I wasn't exactly…completely…aware, even to begin with." He winced inwardly, but he knew Naylor would have required some explanation for why most of his memory of his last visit with Heolstor had been all but blank.

Araedhelm gave a snort, and muttered, "A 'run-in' with one of the guards…" but at least he retained his composure.

"Do you remember anything more?" Neylor pressed, disregarding Thorongil's reluctance, and Araedhelm's cynical comment.

Thorongil was more than ready to be done with subject, so he finished as briefly as he could. "Not much, between the effects of the poison and the…"

"Effects of the 'run-in'?"

"Yes, exactly so. Thank you, Araedhelm," Thorongil traded sarcasm for sarcasm evenly, with a smile and a nod. "I think there were more spasms, worse ones, and then I was…sick, for quite some time. And after that...everything's a blur."

Neylor finished writing down a few last notes, including suggestions Thorongil had made regarding likely possibilities for ingredients or the making of the antidote or poison. He had known for some time that the man had skills as a healer, but even so he found himself surprised by the breadth and insight of his knowledge. If it weren't for the fact that his mind and resourcefulness were urgently needed in planning to prevent the downfall of Rohan, Neylor might have suggested that the man himself help in the work on recreating the antidote. But then there was also the fact that supplies, equipment, and books were needed in the research, and getting either them to Thorongil or Thorongil to them involved far too many risks and complications… Ah well, the work would likely go much more quickly with Thorongil's aid, but he himself was nowhere near ignorant or unskilled in such matters. Still, the insight he had gained through this conversation into Thorongil's past training was most intriguing.

Securing the vial in a satchel he carried, he rose. "If you think of anything else, Captain—and I mean anything, no detail is too small—tell Feorh the next time she visits, and she can pass the message on to me."

"I will," Thorongil promised, lifting himself up on his elbows.

"And don't strain yourself unnecessarily." Neylor said it like a man who knew he wasn't being listened to, but continued to speak anyways because someday he might be heard. "I'll see if I can make more of the antidote."

"Thank you."

Thorongil was expecting Araedhelm to burst out with something as soon as Neylor had left, but his lieutenant only remained seated, staring off into space. It was rather unnerving. "What?"

"I was just thinking, the next time I see that…"

"Slime?"

"Yes, exactly so. Thank you, Captain." Araedhelm's smile was ominous. "The next time I see that slime, he's going to regret ever stepping foot in Rohan."

---o—oOo—o---

Mehdal hated to leave his post outside Araedhelm's house even for a minute. After all, his men had already displayed their incompetence by letting the prisoners escape in the first place. If he were honest, though, that had been as much or more his own fault, since he was supposedly the leader of this outfit. At the least the mercenary he'd left on watch had looked alert and intelligent.

He had to go, though, if he was to communicate with Heolstor, and with the men he'd left behind in the mountains. He dreaded telling Heolstor about the escape of the prisoners, but at least he had the news of their imminent recapture to temper the report with.

Mehdal, and the small contingent of mercenaries he'd brought with him, had followed Araedhelm, Thorongil, and Théoden to their new, and supposedly secret, hiding place. Mehdal had personally kept careful watch on them ever since, only taking occasional breaks when it became necessary. He was hoping Heolstor would return soon and dictate what should be done next. He knew the recapturing of the prisoners would need to be done delicately, and secretly, to keep from arousing the suspicions of the general populace. There was also the uncertainty of how Heolstor himself was doing in his endeavors to rid Rohan of the too-attentive friendship of Ecthelion.

Now, if those birds would just be there this time. His destination, the designated meeting grounds where the Crebain were to come, was in a reclusive sector of town, specifically, a room Heolstor had reserved in the upper story of an old inn. The birds hadn't been there yesterday, or the day before, and the suspense of being unable to send a message to Heolstor, and get it over with, was maddening. Especially since he had little else to do but sit and watch a house.

The inn-keeper recognized him, giving him an acknowledging glance, but nothing more by way of greeting. Whatever business he, Heolstor, or any of the other "strange" characters who used the room had, the proprietor didn't ask. After all, customers were few, and Heolstor's pay was steady and reasonable.

Mehdal went straight to the only window in the room, unlatching it and throwing open the dirt-smeared panes. It opened out onto a courtyard, with a small, communal well at its center. A few people were milling about, most of them just passing through, but near the well there were several boys. What caught Mehdal's attention right away was the current occupation of these children, which consisted of throwing sticks and pebbles at a couple of crows. The crows were cawing loudly in protest, but defiantly refusing to give up their positions.

There were his messengers.

The boys were merciless—or probably just bored—in their continual barrage. The "crows" continued their indignant cawing. Mehdal was about to of call out to the boys to stop, even knowing he'd only be adding "certifiably insane animal-lover" to his already notably strange reputation, but he was too late. One of the rocks found its mark, hitting one on the Crebain and nearly knocking it backwards into the well. There was a collective caw of indignation from the birds, and then they rose up as one, diving at the boys' heads vindictively before swooping for the skies. With much shrieking from both boys and birds, his messengers disappeared.

Mehdal rested his forehead against the windowsill. Surely his luck couldn't be this bad.

To be continued...

For the sake of drama and realism I know I really should have let Ceryn die. What can I say? I'm a sucker for poor, ignominious OCs like him (fellow Trekkies, just consider all the Red Shirts! -sheds a tear for them- :-P ). I just Do. Not. Do. Tragedy. Well...for now I don't. These artistic types are so unpredictable, ya know. -eg-