Chapter 35

Ruins of Dol Hamoth, Tovennen

9 March TA 3016

Medlinor sat in the darkness, hidden within thick shadows cast against the cliff side by an overhang hundreds of feet above. Since Umbar, he'd more and more taken the night watches, knowing his wounds left him fit for little else. He could not mix with their enemy while hobbling about.

Frustration simmered, but he pressed it back. He lived. It could have been much worse. Keeping watch permitted his fellow Rangers to sleep in peace.

Eru knew they needed it. Rubbing shoulders with their enemies wore on each of them. Medlinor had heard nothing specific of the atrocities they witnessed when scouting the Black Númenórean territory and planting seeds of doubt, but he noted the grim cast that grew in their eyes.

So, he watched. The Black Company had located the ruins of an ancient cliff dwelling in one of the dozens of valleys carved out of the hot, crusty desert. Though crumbling and dusty, this village's bones remained true—the dwarves were adamant about that—and by hiding here, the Black Company could be certain that should any foe discover them, reaching them would be well nigh impossible.

He'd give the Black Númenóreans' ancestors this—they knew how to craft defensible strongholds when of a mind to do so. Seated at the top of the crumbling stairwell carved into the cliff side, the only access point, Medlinor took satisfaction in knowing his enemies' skills were now being utilized to undermine them.

Not far away, he saw a flicker of movement. The dwarf hunter, Dár, and Ranger Anuon stepped into view, easing their way from the dense vegetation that dominated the lush valley below. Then Medlinor stiffened when another body followed them.

By Eru. "Thannor?"

A sound propelled Dís from sleep. Her hand grasped her brother's sword as she rolled to her bare feet, her unbound hair tumbling across her shoulders and chest.

From outside the stone structure the Black Company shared, Medlinor's voice rose in shock. More of the Company roused and woke the rest. In seconds, an armed host filled the night blackened hall, each silent and intent upon every sound.

With Death-Bringer in a loose grasp, Dís slid into position between Lord Hlein and Barhador, foot crossing over foot. If the enemy had found them, Dís was ready. She grinned toothily in anticipation.

That was when Ranger Thannor strode boldly into their midst, as if he'd not been left in Dol Amroth to search for the dwarves' Saldís. A handful of the Company exclaimed in shock.

An alarmed Nori displaced Hlein at her side. Finnin was but a step behind. Dís placed her free hand first on Nori's arm, then Finnin's, compassion welling up.

Once again facing forward, Dís studied the Ranger as he marched towards his father. By Durin, Thannor appeared haggard. It did not bode well for his news.

"Father," Thannor greeted. The Ranger's gaze swept among them, and his visage seemed to harden. "Bifur, Bofur, and Dori. They are not here?"

"Here?" Dís barked, one hand lashing out to halt Nori from moving. The ex-thief had lost Ori. Though Nori did little to betray it, she'd seen how protective he'd become of his older brother.

With a short bow her way, his gaze sliding to Nori and Finnin, Thannor said, "I found evidence that Saldís had come to shore. She's alive."

Mahal. Dís did not melt in relief, for there was more to this tale written upon the Ranger's face, but she noticed when Finnin swayed. One big hand pawed at his eyes.

"Go on," she said above the instant flood of chatter that erupted among the Company. A curt gesture silenced the ruckus.

Thannor continued. "She washed ashore in Harondor." His voice dipped as he informed his father, "I tracked her into Haradrim lands."

"Haradrim lands?" Barhador asked with eyebrows high. Dís did not like the sound of that, either. Saldís couldn't have been in any shape to attempt such a journey.

Thannor nodded perfunctorily. "I sent word to Dol Amroth, telling Bifur's group to join you here. I told them that I would bring Saldís to the Company."

Finnin's voice cut through the resulting rumbles. "Where is she, Thannor? Where's our lass?"

Sympathy crossed the Ranger's face. "She didn't travel alone. I do not know who is with her, but the two are here."

"Here?" Lord Hlein interrupted, finger pointed to the floor.

Thannor's lips compressed minutely. "I'd hoped to find her with you." Then to Finnin directly, the Ranger said, "I do not know what manner of man travels with her, but I tell you this—he is no common man. Some Power moved him, for despite all my attempts, I could not overtake them."

"Enemy?" Nori asked. He inspected his dagger with chilling intensity.

"I do not know, Master Nori," Thannor said. "Truly, if any of the First Born dwelled in these lands, I would suspect her companion to be one of them. Or perhaps Mithrandir."

"Could it be an Arcanist?" Berenor asked as he elbowed his way through the Company.

Thannor smiled briefly as his son reached his side. The Ranger placed one hand on his son's shoulder, the action as poignant as a close embrace. "You are well?"

Berenor's head bobbed. "Saldís. Father is she…?"

Dís, too, waited with bated breath for the answer. "She is on her feet," Thannor told them. "The man tended her wounds. That, I am sure of."

Thannor's focus returned to Dís. "I tell you, lady, your lost Longbeard is here. Somewhere."

Dís's eyes gleamed. If an enemy had Saldís, he would rue the day. "Then we will find her," Dís proclaimed. "Or," she said to her dwarves, "leave our daughter signs that will permit her to find us."

Finnin's nod was short, the flesh around his eyes pinched. Nori's eyelids dropped to half mast, that blade still in his hand.

Mahal, the Company little needed the two hotheads to storm off in search while the rest of them slept. Dís returned Death-Bringer to its sheath, then she placed a hand on both of them, facing them. "We know not what state she might be in. Both of you must be ready to move at a moment's notice."

Both readily agreed.

"But you will not do anything rash. Do you understand?" she said in a hard voice.

Finnin reluctantly inclined his head.

Nori scowled.

"Nori," she said softly, then waited for his eyes to lift to hers. "You get first right at anyone who may have harmed her."

A light ignited in his blue eyes. "That a promise?"

"On my honor."

Finnin cleared his throat.

"If you wish rights, you'll need to declare yourself," Dís informed the younger dwarf.

Finnin's arms crossed before his chest. And by Durin, did the dwarf look pleased. "Aye, I'll be doing that."

Good.

"Now," Dís said briskly. "Barhador."

"You needn't ask," the Ranger said softly, and the hairs upon her nape lifted. If she'd believed Nori and Finnin were alone the danger here, she was mistaken. "We'll find her."

Berenor nodded from Thannor's side. "Count on it."

That, Dís intended to do.

Caeldor, Tovennen

10 March TA 3019

Saldís's lips curled unpleasantly beneath the black fabric wrapped around her face, crinkling the tattooed skin beneath her left eye. Berúthiel's cats, would the scum here never learn? A week of vigilantism on her part, slaying any who would prey upon the children, and no one seemed to have realized that seeking out a child with malicious intent had become a fatal enterprise.

Except, mayhap, the children themselves.

No, Caeldor's adults attributed the bodies she left behind to inter-House strife alone. The resultant heightened security made her efforts all the more challenging, but Saldís persisted nonetheless, well aware of the consequences should she be found out. She tried not to dwell on it, but images of the brih tahn flashed through her mind.

By Durin's famed beard, this plan was risky. The problem was lack of alternatives. With only two to undermine Caeldor and attempt to save the Novices, options were limited.

She prowled along the rooftop, keeping low, her gaze fixated upon the ugrad stalking a young female Novice half his size down the night-darkened street. The man's blithe actions meant none of the Novices had betrayed her.

Yet.

She was reaching them. Though she'd only intervened to rescue a dozen or so young ones, word must have spread that they'd acquired a protector, for the last soul she'd rescued had taken one look at the Khuzdul rune upon her face and donned an expression of such trust that it had sent Akhora into fits of scorn.

Saldís hadn't heeded her. The plan was working. Risky as it was to reveal her existence to Novices, it was working.

For how long? Akhora countered in a silken purr. You will be betrayed. You will bleed for Tagan, and I will relish—

Itkit, Saldís said without heat, acclimated to the unwanted barrage of threats. She leaned closer to the edge of the rooftop, her lips compressed beneath her head scarf.

Down the street a dozen yards away, the ugrad male's broad shoulders blotted out all sight of the diminutive girl. He drove his intended victim into an alley, his hands lashing out to rip her weapons from her, one by one. Though the girl fought with the silent intensity drilled into all Novices, she was losing this fight, and from the panicked tenor of her actions, she knew it.

Saldís had seen this too often since her return. Girls and boys both, exploited by those physically more powerful for sick amusement. It said much about the state of the attackers' souls. Wretched, pathetic things, all of them.

This one, too, would be stripped, his body left on another House's altar. It distantly amazed her that none yet had entertained the idea that perhaps the sudden upsurge in bloodshed might be the doing of an outsider. Nay, each time she'd left the would-be attacker dead, the fury and distrust between the Houses escalated, and inter-House violence ratcheted up another notch.

The two vanished into an alley one building over from Saldís's position, hidden from the eyes of the handful of smirking sentries stationed on nearby street corners. Well did those on watch know what was about to transpire. They permitted it, were amused by it because the girl was from another House. Likely, they thought this fitting vengeance for some action of Saldís's.

Her gaze flicked to the sentries, and to them she directed, You will pay for this. Instead of an altar, mayhap she'd leave the would-be rapist in the middle of the street, the sentries to be found asleep at their posts.

Such actions were made all the simpler with Caeldor so emptied, and that despite Tagan's attempts to bolster security. Ar-Tagan remained in residence as well as Ar-Nahlis (just what had happened to Kimilzor, may he rot?), Ar-Aemazia of House Berúthiel and Ar-Kavish of House Herumor. But the lords of Fuinir, Mordhalor, and Vinuir were absent, as well as all but one commander from each House. Much of Caeldor was now unoccupied, a situation she presumed Tagan regretted bitterly.

She smirked behind her scarf, but it was short lived. Despite their haste, she and her newfound ally had arrived too late to halt the Black Númenóreans from marching north to war, and the knowledge stuck in her craw and burned like acid. Too much was going wrong. By Mahal, she'd sworn to make Adâd proud, but at this rate, was there any chance of that happening?

She unkinked her shoulders. The absent Black Númenórean forces were going to be a problem. She dreaded the thought of pursuing them into Mordor. Attempting to destroy them right beneath the Dark Lord's burning Eye seemed tantamount to suicide.

She'd do it if she had to, but only as a last resort. Adâd would never wish her to throw her life away, and if there was one thing that had helped put her tattered self back together again after the storm, it was Bifur. Dead or not, he'd become her compass. She trusted his memory to point her aright.

The old man had best think of something, she mused, thoughts full of the absent Black Númenórean forces.

Dismissing such thoughts—they were a future worry, not for this night—she loped across the rooftop, keeping low with eyes in constant motion. To be spotted now wouldn't be disastrous, not entirely, but the young Novice would pay the price should Saldís be detained.

'Twas as she reached the alley and prepared to leap down that movement upon the street below froze her in place with her hands resting on the roof's lip and knees bent. Gooseflesh pebbled her arms and legs, her breath hitched, and her gaze sharpened. Even as the sounds of distress escalated in the alley below, she could not tear herself away.

Mahal. It couldn't be.

Three Weapons strolled down the street, their shoulders back, faces hard, and eyes alert. One had curly, auburn hair and a freckled-face. One possessed a sleek head of blond hair and an indentation smack dab in the middle of his chin. And the third? Black hair. Square features and long sideburns.

She stared, disbelieving, as the world seem to shift beneath her feet. The Brothers…lived?

Only awareness of unfriendly eyes and ears kept her mute. Words jammed into a snarl in her mouth, desperate for voice. Every fiber of her begged to call out to them.

They lived. Against all hope and logic, they lived. She'd not been left bereft. She was not forsaken.

Like the resound of a gong, the realization reverberated through her: Adâd lives. Finnin lives.

The intimate dream returned before her mind's eye in vivid detail. Not simply memorized, it was etched into her very soul. Many a night during the journey south she'd lain awake, torturing herself with each nuance—how Finnin had smelled, the solid tha-thump of his beating heart, and the absolute sense of warmth and safety that permeated the scene.

Saldís inhaled shakily. A burning, yawning emptiness spread through her chest, demanding satisfaction. She needed to see him, to see all of them. She needed touch each one of her companions to assure herself they truly lived.

One tear escaped to trickle down her right cheek until it was absorbed by her head scarf. Soon, she promised herself. Once finished with her plans this night, by Durin she'd find the Black Company.

Adâd. So much she yearned to tell him, foremost among them words of apology. She'd been wrong, terribly wrong, and by Mahal, she'd confess as much.

I'll find you, she promised, eyes upon The Brothers' backs as they drew farther away. I swear it. She'd never take her dwarves or Rangers for granted again.

The noises from the alley persisted, reaching a crescendo that she could no longer ignore. With one last lingering look at the three Dunedain, she dropped down onto the cobbled, night blackened alley below.

The ugrad didn't even notice her arrival, too intent upon ripping the clothes from his victim. Saldís's anger turned as cold as Forochel.

For a moment, it was Gart there instead of the black-clad man. Fury and mortification returned. Her stomach churned to recall the disgusting feeling of clammy hands on her body.

She drew one of her Gondorian swords.

The rasp of metal upon metal garnered an instant reaction. The male stiffened. With one hand to the girl's neck, pinning her against one wall, he spun around. The girl continued to fight like a wildcat, scratching up his arms and kicking at his legs and privates, but his gaze didn't leave Saldís. With a grunt of annoyance, he rammed the girl's head into the wall, then he released her to fall in a heap on the ground, her head weaving woozily.

You'll regret that, filth. Saldís clucked her tongue and stalked forward slowly. "That's not the way you treat a lady," she crooned softly, keeping her voice too hushed to be recognized. "Afraid to pick on someone your own size, are you?"

Though his face remained shadowed, by the tilt of his head she knew when his eyes swept over her disdainfully. "You're out of uniform, Novice." Then a dark laugh. "If you are so eager to share in the fun, come closer."

At five-foot-six she was on the short side for a daughter of Numenor, but to assume her a Novice? Tsk, tsk, she clucked to herself. Assumptions are for amateurs. Saldís's gaze flicked to his earlobe, but it was too dark to make out his rank. Master, she guessed on a hunch. He had the arrogance for it.

"Show yourself," he demanded.

Tempting. Her lips curled upwards, envisioning his response should she acquiesce. Would he wet himself? She stalked closer.

His shoulders tensed. "I'm warning you. Put that blade down, or you'll be next, little girl."

She didn't react, only kept to her slow pace knowing it would unnerve him.

"You," he spat abruptly, his confident superiority vanishing. "So you are the bogeyman I heard a Novice whispering about. I thought you a figment of his imagination," he jeered. "Instead you sneak about like a coward."

His posture changed. It was the only warning before a column of flame flew from his hand, spearing down the center of the alleyway.

Arcanist. Saldís had expected the ugrad to do something underhanded, but she'd hoped him to be a Weapon. She threw herself to the pavement, then rolled to the right as another volley came her way.

Urkhas kûd. His fiery show would summon every fighter in town. That, she couldn't permit. A flick of the hand, and the dagger she'd filched from Caeldor's armory flew through the air, interrupting the Arcanist mid-spell.

What she'd meant to be a lethal strike instead left him sprawled on his back, panting with difficulty. The knife's hilt protruded two inches off-center in his chest. A killing blow, aye, but a slower one.

She strode to him briskly. Her first good look at his face robbed her of satisfaction in her victory.

What a waste. A jaded feeling stole over her, one accompanied by a measure of frustration. He was no more than seventeen years old. Young to have earned the third earring, but not unheard of. 'Twas a sure indicator of how vile this young man had become. The more powerful, the more evil. That was the rule with Arcanists.

Squatting by his side, ignoring the way he glared as he struggled for each breath, she said, "It needn't have come to this." Then softer, "Never let another chart the course of your life." A lesson she'd learned the hard way. Like this Arcanist, she'd all but destroyed herself by her blind obedience.

Confusion joined the fury in his eyes. Then with a strength she hadn't expected left to him, he reared up and snatched the scarf from her head. His eyes widened as he fell back onto the ground, chest heaving. "Ib-Ak—Akhora."

Her gaze flicked to the equally shocked blond girl before returning to the young man.

"Y—you aid Vinuir?" he managed. "Against…your own…House? You interfere…with our…Novices?"

He was of Sangahyando? She didn't recognize him.

Wishing there was some way she could save this young soul, knowing it too late, she said, "What have the Houses given you, Arcanist? Safety? Brotherhood?" A short sound of ridicule escaped her. "They use and discard you."

With a small wave of the hand, she encompassed the streets around them. "To Sauron and the Duumvirate, we are fodder. We've all seen proof of that, haven't we? We are useful but expendable. My House? It is no longer Sangahyando." A slow, sincere smile tilted her lips. They live! she thought with a surge of emotion strong enough to steal her breath.

She forced it back. "My House and my allegiance lie elsewhere. I give my loyalty to those who give theirs in return, not to despots who would bleed me for amusement." Then in a steel voice, "Or breed me like an animal."

Lofty words, aye, and too late to make a difference for this soul. Saldís wasn't altogether certain an Arcanist could be saved. The very nature of their art required a depth of evil she hoped never to fully understand. Akhora might envy their power, but Saldís never had.

And Akhora, she thought with grim satisfaction, was doomed.

I think not, her inner nemesis snapped.

Saldís lingered by the boy, aware of the danger in doing so. With one hand, she gently pushed the hair from his face, offering the only comfort she could until the life drained from his eyes. Poor fool. How different might his life have been had he been born to humble farmers? Or a simple Gondorian soldier?

Her hand trailed down to close his blank eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "For being too late to save you. For not understanding the truth sooner." So many wasted years serving the Duumvirate when she should have been protecting the young.

Movement drew her head up. The young Novice ignored her torn clothes in favor of snatching up her scimitar. She stood on shaky legs, the blade held defensively before her body.

Saldís considered the girl. "I would ask you not to betray my identity, but I suspect it would be useless."

Night darkened eyes churned with a tumultuous mix of emotions, premier among them suspicion. To be expected, she sighed to herself. The Novices were conditioned from the day they began training to distrust everyone and everything. Only the Lords and Hands received their blind obedience, and later, their commanders.

"You were dead," the Novice said at last.

Saldís's lips pursed. "I am no wraith." Then, Bofur's disarming manner in mind—He lives!—she added, "What a frightful thing, to be dripping goo and decaying this way and that." She scrunched her nose in exaggeration.

The Novice's eyes rounded.

Eh, well so had Saldís been when first reclaimed. Kind banter was unknown here.

She remained squatting, unwilling to make herself seem more of a threat to the clearly frightened Novice.

"What does it mean?" the Novice asked, fidgeting where she stood.

Following the direction of the girl's gaze, Saldís hazarded to guess what had drawn her attention. Dressing like a Black Númenórean was necessary, but it hadn't sat well with Saldís. Too, how to win Caeldor's youth to her side if nothing distinguished her from all the other adults in town? To this end, she'd drawn the Khuzdul rune for honor beneath her left eye. In Durin blue. She proclaimed her affiliation to any with the wits and knowledge to read it.

"The rune?" she asked.

"It isn't Adûnaic," the girl accused.

"That would be correct," Saldís agreed, a ghost of a smile lingering upon her lips.

"Traitor," the girl hissed.

"To whom?" Saldís cocked one eyebrow. "To Ar-Tagan? Kimilzor? Or perhaps my wonderful Arcanist half-brother who ensured not a member of our scouting team survived our trip to Dale by betraying our existence to the men there?"

"You lived." The Novice's fingers tightened upon the hilt of her scimitar. "When the rest of your team died."

By Durin, Saldís hoped she would not be compelled to silence this young one. "I was lucky," she said flatly. "Before coming here, I spent eight years as daughter to a dwarf. That dwarf stayed the king of Dale's hand before I was executed. Instead of imprisonment and punishment, I was given love. Security and loyalty. Tell me, what can compare to that? What I said to this Arcanist is true. There is no future in serving the Houses but one: an unmarked grave."

Anger vibrated from the girl. Confusion.

Saldís stood, sword limp at her side, unthreatening. Still, the girl brandished her blade. "You have a choice," Saldís told her. "Run to the Hands. Or Ar-Tagan if you are so foolish. Tell them all you learned this night, and congratulate yourself as I perish on Tagan's altar."

The Novice's eyes narrowed. "You aren't going to kill me?"

By Bifur's spear, how to reach this Novice? "I came to save you. To save every Novice I can."

The girl inched away. "From what? For what?" she spat with a bitterness Saldís knew too well. "Love and security?" She snorted. "Do you take me for an infant?"

"No." Saldís's sad smile was fleeting. "You are wrong, but I don't blame you. I, too, believed as you do." Saldís made no move to halt the girl from slowly retreating. "But I was given another chance. I've seen it. Places where people live without fear or hatred and violence. I've lived it."

"You lie," came like the lash of a whip.

"I intend to see you saved from this life. I offer you a gift you cannot even imagine. Safety. Laughter. A future full of hope where you will not die too young, your soul charred to a husk." Saldís raked one hand through her hair, bitterly aware of the inadequacy of words. How could she show these young ones…?

Saldís's gaze dropped to the boy's body. How many more of Caeldor's young would meet his end? Die reeking of their evil deeds before they were even old enough to understand they had a choice?

Without looking at the girl, Saldís said, "For your sake, for all those trapped in this nightmarish life with you, I would ask you to remain silent and consider my words. I am your way out, Novice. You won't get another."

Only by the minute scrape of soft boots on pavement did she know that the girl's slow retreat continued.

"I promise you this. If you remain silent, my sword will defend you."

"Why should I trust you?" Then as if unable to hold back the words, "Shut up! Shut up with your lies!"

Saldís gifted her with a somber look. "It's in your hands, Novice. I give you what the Duumvirate never will. Choice. Go. I have plans for this body."

As soon as the girl's footsteps faded, Saldís dropped to a squat and rubbed her face. Had she done right, or should she begin running for her life? If the Novice ran to the Hands—or, Mahal forbid, Ar-Tagan—the fury of the entire remaining Black Númenórean army would be unleashed, and all of it aimed at hunting and destroying Saldís.

Mahal. She might not be the only intruder discovered. The realization made her mouth go dry.

"A gamble, but a good one, I think," a soft voice sounded in her right ear.

Saldís startled, sword free and flashing instantly. It collided with a carved walnut staff she'd become well acquainted with in recent weeks. "Are you trying to get your head lobbed off?" she hissed to her companion.

The old man's plethora of small braids spilled over his shoulder as his head panned, presenting her with his profile. From beneath the brim of an absurdly conical hat, his expression was one of absolute vigilance.

Saldís batted a feather from his hair out of her face with a long-suffering sigh. Truly, her companion was the oddest soul she'd ever met. Powerful, aye. Both of the Blue Wizards were, and well did those in these lands know it.

But strange. If he was the lesser of the two Blue Wizards as he claimed in terms of magics, she couldn't help but believe him the superior in other ways. He moved with a careful grace she'd never before witnessed, and he wielded his weapons with sinuous ease. His ability to evade detection was unmatched, and that despite the sea-blue robes and hat.

"Pallando," she whispered, nudging him.

A thin, sun-bronzed and weathered face turned her way. Truly, he looked ageless despite his silvered gray hair and short beard. It was his eyes, she'd long since concluded. They held a depth surpassing even the impressive Lord Círdan.

"We should away," he said, again in that low voice. His habit, she'd learned. "In case your gambit fails." He rose from his crouch, the hem of his robes pooling around his feet. Then with one hand to her back, he hurried her down the alley. "But I deem this worth the risk."

"I have a body to stage," she objected.

"Not this time."

Bah, he was likely correct. Saldís detested wasting the young man's death, however. "If this doesn't work, I've just kicked this hive. We'll lose access to the children." She kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, distantly wondering (and not for the first time) how it was the wizard managed to sneak about unseen in such garish robes. "But I've other news."

"Oh?" Piercing, ice blue eyes slid her way, then returned to his scrutiny of their surroundings

Her voice shook with the fierce swell of emotions. "They live."

He stopped, his expression one of deep thought. "Your dwarves."

"The Company," she agreed. "I saw The Brothers. They are here, doing as we'd planned."

Pallando twirled his staff in a short, abrupt circle. He did not speak, but she detected his satisfaction.

Mahal knew the two of them could use the help. She hadn't dared to assassinate Caeldor's leaders—yet—since failure would spell the end of hope for the Novices. The Black Company's presence opened a veritable treasure trove of options.

By her soul, she needed to rejoin the her dwarves. The hunger grew with each breath.

"Did you hear from Alatar?" she asked as they crept from the alley.

At Pallando's directive nod, she drew the blowpipe she'd fashioned from her belt, eyes on the sentries watching the southern portion of the street. One, two, three darts flew, each laced with a new poison the odd wizard had introduced her to that left its victim paralyzed for a handful of hours while erasing his short-term memory. Her three targets collapsed in quick succession.

She smirked with pride.

Pallando, meanwhile, dealt with the four to the north, lobbing a boomerang (or so he'd dubbed it) that somehow managed to hit each target in turn before flying back towards the wizard.

"You cheat," she accused softly with a laugh as he lifted a hand to pluck his returning weapon from the air.

"Practice." Blue eyes crinkled down at her. "Thousands of years of practice." A short smile. "The Avari of the Wild Wood are particularly fond of these. Prince Rialton challenges me each time I visit their lands."

From the sparkle in his eyes, she deduced he enjoyed those challenges. "You miss them," she said. "The Avari."

He hummed an affirmative in the back of his throat. "The other wizards perhaps have more freedom. But there are only two of us in these lands, and our task is already too big. We undermine, but we are unable to utterly turn the tide." A flash of pain and frustration appeared on his face. "Despite all our efforts, the Shadow's hold is too strong, and its servants too numerous."

What to say? She couldn't imagine carrying Pallando's burden for the centuries this man had.

Before she managed words, Pallando tucked his unusual weapon into his belt and turned brusque. "Alatar is otherwise engaged. The Black Númenóreans are ours to deal with. Thinning the Varaig numbers during their march north is his. Now. What say you? How do we find these companions of yours?"

A cocktail of relief and anticipation zinged through her, carrying with them a pack mule of impatience. Hurry, hurry, hurry, a voice chanted in her mind. With chin down and a tremulous smile, she led the way. "We locate The Brothers."