The sun had long since set in the west and even the light of dusk was slowly failing when the walls of Pelargir finally came into view.
With relief, Aragorn noticed that there was no sign of fires or smoke rising into the air. The city seemed peaceful, quiet. They might yet be too far away, but there was a chance that the city had fought off the attack, had weathered the onslaught by the corsairs.
Once they were closer he would be able to see if any enemy ships still lingered in the harbor, but for now he allowed himself a breath of relief and hurried his horse forward for the final stretch. At his side, Elladan and Egrahil matched his speed.
"Hoi!" the guards at the city gate called to them a short while later. "Who approaches?"
"Captain Thorongil from Minas Tirith. We have come to aid you against the corsairs." The guards exchanged a quick glance and nodded to each other.
"Just the three of you?"
"The rest of my company was delayed, they will join us in the morning."
"Then come." The guards beckoned them get off their horses and step into the city. Together they opened the heavy gate that had been shut for the night.
As the doors parted in front of them, Aragorn shivered. There was something not quite right, he decided, and it wasn't only the lack of visible damage. The guards were unhurried, showed no sign of having seen battle or feeling concern over the well-being of possible comrades or family members. He wished he could glimpse the harbor from where they were, wished he could assess the damage to the Pelargir fleet and the quay, but the city was built around the harbor and shielded it from view from all sides but the river itself.
He glanced at Elladan, recalling the feeling of foreboding his brother had mentioned, the very feeling that had made him join Aragorn on this excursion. Elladan looked tense, like he expected something to happen, but Aragorn had no inkling of what it was that he was waiting for. Hoping that they were both mistaken, he addressed the city guards. "What of the attack? Have the corsairs retreated?"
One of their guides glanced over his shoulder. "That's right. They retreated," he replied noncommittally. "The captain will tell ya more. Just wait."
Little appeased by the morsel of information, Aragorn exchanged another glance with his brother. Elladan clearly held the same misgivings he was feeling.
'Be prepared', he mouthed, and placed a hand on his own dagger as inconspicuously as he could. Their journey continued through twisting alleyways, never close to any of the main thoroughfares through town but following the rough direction of the outer wall along which, presumably, the watch captain's post would be located.
"Capt'n," one of the guards called eventually as they stopped in front of a dimly lit watch house. The shutters had been drawn and little light passed from the inside to illuminate the dark road they were on. They stood in the shadow of the city's wall, the slick cobblestone path reflected only a glimmer of the moonlight above.
When the answer to the guard's shout came, it was not from the guardhouse. Instead, a group of a dozen men erupted from a divergent path, blades drawn, teeth bared.
There was no mistaking their intent and it was all Aragorn could do to draw his dagger and bring it up in time to deflect a killing blow from one of the men. Dodging to the side he narrowly escaped the swing of another of the attackers and gained himself some valuable breathing space.
He was dimly aware of Egrahil and Elladan drawing their weapons, engaging the enemy, both surrounded by a wave of the attackers in moments. But any thoughts he might have had of coming to their aid were short lived as he had to side step yet another attack. He barely escaped the sword that fell this time, ducked and rolled and jumped back to his feet, finally drawing his sword and dropping his dagger to the ground.
The sight of the glimmering steel made his attackers hesitate. They had him cornered but none of them were willing to be the first to feel the bite of his steel, now that they had lost the element of surprise.
He did not give them the opportunity to ponder long as he lunged forward, making the decision for them. Seeing an opening and pressing the advantage, he engaged the nearest thug. The man blocked the thrust of his sword but Aragorn had counted on that. The meeting of their swords gave him the leverage he needed and he shoved the man backwards, right into another one of his companions.
The two men stumbled and one of them fell as they tried to maneuver in the limited space of the alleyway. Sometimes larger numbers did not hold the advantage. Using the room he had created, Aragorn charged another man to his left, who was too slow to bring up his own sword to parry the blow. Aragorn's sword sank deep into the man's side, cutting through flesh and sinew. The attacker dropped his sword as he reflexively reached up to slow the flow of blood from the wound even as he listed to the side. He would not be a threat any longer.
But his other opponents had found their footing. The first was already running at him, leaving him no time to adjust his strategy or even catch his breath. The man had raised his sword high in the air, seeking perhaps to dominate and to intimidate. But there was a reason that Glorfindel counseled every novice against ever using the move - Aragorn had no qualms and no trouble exploiting the vast unguarded area of the man's chest. The attacker fell with a gurgle of his own blood.
Blood slickened the handle of his blade and Aragorn fought to maintain a steady grip, every brief hesitation, every uncertainty could be his undoing. His chest was heaving with his heavy breathing. He was down to one opponent. The last man looked uncertain, his gaze flickering over his downed comrades for a moment, but he hefted his sword and drew his eyes up to meet Aragorn's. There was a challenge in that look.
The man was no fool, and clearly this ambush was not going the way he and his men had been expecting. Yet, whatever the motivation for these brutes to spring the trap, it was increasingly clear that they could not back out. One did not attack a captain of the citadel of Gondor and leave witnesses.
Showing more training and calm than either of his comrades, his last opponent attacked Aragorn relentlessly, meticulously. Never giving him an opening to exploit, he, at the same time, pushed Aragorn further and further from the guard house, from the place where Egrahil and Elladan were still fighting.
Aragorn parried another blow, the echo of it reverberating through increasingly tired muscles. He could not let this continue much longer. There were more attackers left, the analytical part of his mind warned, if he wasn't careful some of them might loop around and attack him from behind. Yet the pressure from the man in front of him did not let up, and he had little chance but to continue to parry, to deflect and to search for an opening in the man's form. He could not allow himself to be pressed further back, farther away from help or from offering assistance.
He looked up briefly, past the manic glint in his attacker's eyes, just in time to see Egrahil get hit by an errant sword stroke. The lieutenant stumbled back with a suppressed shout and clutched his side.
No!
This was not how it should be! They had come here to help Pelargir, not be attacked in her streets like unwanted dogs, no one the wiser, no one caring. He would not let his men, his brother, be butchered!
Aragorn grit his teeth and fought his own assailant with renewed vigour. He had to dispatch his attacker, had to end this fight and quickly. Lifting his sword to parry another attack he twisted his own blade along that of his opponent, drawing the two weapons into a tight lock. When he thrust his blade to the side, both swords were ripped from their owner's grasps, landing in the corner of the dark alley with a clutter.
He was unarmed now, but so was his opponent, and this time he had the element of surprise. Aragorn rushed the man with bare arms, packing all his strength in one mighty cut across the man's jaw. The attacker crumbled in a heap, unconscious.
Fetching his sword from the ground Aragorn ran back to the guard house, back to the site of this ill-begotten ambush. A part of him was weary lest he be attacked from the shadows, but most of the remaining attackers had been dispatched or fled. He made it back to Egrahil and Elladan without incident.
His lieutenant was sitting on the ground, leaning back against a wall, his teeth pressed tightly together in a grimace of pain as he fought valiantly to cling to consciousness.
Elladan was still fighting. Two of the thugs that had attacked them were hacking at his defenses, their eyes crazed, emboldened by the fact that one of them had drawn blood. His lieutenant's blood.
Aragorn felt his own rage burn hot at the thought and he hurried to Elladan's side, his sword a solid, reassuring weight in his hand. These men would pay. But whether it was the look on his own face, or just the shifting odds, the men hesitated. The faster of them turned, fleeing down a nearby alley.
"Twain!" the other man shouted after him. "You weasel! Alert the others! We cannot let ..." He died with Elladan's dagger embedded in his chest. And as his words faltered mid sentence, a sudden, deep silence settled over the alley. Only they were left standing.
It bought them but a moment to recover, even without the call for back-up, it was clear that they were marked. The support the man had spoken off would come for them, or someone else would. This attack had been too well planned, too carefully executed - he and his men were never meant to walk out of it. And whoever had set the plan in motion would certainly try and make it succeed.
All those thoughts fled from his mind as he reached Egrahil's side. His lieutenant had been stabbed. A deep gash in his side was bleeding profusely, despite his best attempts to stop the flow of blood with his hands. Aragorn's heart sank. He had seen injuries as these before and knew that they would have precious little time to stem the flow of blood and close the wound if Egrahil was to survive.
He grit his teeth, cursing their luck, the messenger that had delivered a wrong message to Minas Tirith and the men that had attacked them all in one eloquent, elvish tirade.
"Take him," he said to Elladan, recovering quickly "I will try to find a safe place where we can treat his wounds."
He used the opportunity to look over Elladan as well, but judged his brother not to be injured. Just like himself, he seemed to have come away without scrapes. Together they set out into the dark streets, keeping to the shadows that had concealed their attackers and that would now, hopefully, do the same for them.
But where could they turn to? The attackers had not been city guards themselves, but he, Elladan and Egrahil had been led into their waiting arms by the guardians of the gate. How deep did this conspiracy run? Someone in this city was out for their blood.
"They were waiting for us," Elladan said when he drew level with him, carrying Egrahil in his arms to avoid jostling the man's injuries.
Aragorn nodded grimly. "Aye. We have been led astray from the very moment the messenger arrived in Minas Tirith." He knew it must be so. That was why there was no smoke, no sign of damage to the city's buildings. Pelargir never had been attacked by corsairs.
"But why?"
Aragorn had no answer to that question and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly, continuing their silent march through the darkness. A slow drizzle of rain had started and soon even the city wall, not much more than an arm's length away was an indistinct shadow. He had not been to Pelargir on many occasions and the farther they walked, the more he feared they might get lost.
He stuck to the city wall, his only guide in the dark - there would be small alcoves, guard posts that offered shelter to the weary on long night patrols. If they could find one of these unoccupied, it would give them a dry space in which to tend to Egrahil's injuries.
It would also be the first place their attackers were likely to search for them, but they could not be picky. His lieutenant's life was on the line. They would have to deal with their pursuers when they came upon them.
Finally, he found one of the small spaces he had been looking for. It had no door, but the entrance was slim to shelter any man inside against the elements. Behind the door slit, a round space opened up inside the wall, forming a perfect circle, half inside the very wall itself, half surrounded by a layer of brick that jutted out into the streets of the city. Inside it held a wooden chair and a small table and, Aragorn found to his relief, a lamp hanging from the ceiling. He would need the light to treat Egrahil.
The table was too small for their purpose and Aragorn pushed it to the wall along with the small chair, clearing some meagre space on the floor. Elladan gently deposited Egrahil on the cloak Aragorn had spread on the rough ground. It was wet and cold, but at least marginally more comfortable than the bare stone.
With Elladan's aid he made short progress of removing Egrahil's coat, and cleaning, stitching and bandaging the wound. It was a clear cut, for all the good that did, not too long but deep, and Egrahil would need to keep it still or risk reopening the wound. It was another difficulty in a night that was becoming increasingly hopeless.
They could not hope to protect Egrahil should their pursuers find them in the city. Egrahil was in no condition to ride, even if they could retrace their steps to the city gate and leave without running afoul of the corrupted guards there.
Aragorn sighed. "What do we do now?" He looked to Elladan, but his brother had no answers to offer. This city of men was not his domain, their disputes and motivations were foreign to him - Aragorn himself could not figure them out. Why had they been attacked? That question returned to haunt him, whirring through his head even as he tried to find a way forward, a way out of this desperate situation.
They could not stay here, that much was certain. They could not leave Egrahil behind, but neither could they carry him through the streets indefinitely, waiting until they were discovered. If Egrahil's wound made one thing very clear it was that their attackers were not seeking to take prisoners.
Small drops of water flew dislodged from his hair as he shook his head. Things were looking grim. The small flame in the lamp overhead flickered, fighting to stay lit in the wet and cold night. Its light was dim, just like their chances of survival.
"We cannot stay", he said aloud at last. "And Egrahil cannot move. We need to find a place for him to stay, and hope that, whoever these men are, they will pay him no heed. If we can get him to safety we might have a chance at finding out what is happening." He was grasping at straws, he knew, going on a feeling rather than actual intel, but it was all he had. He had to trust that it would be enough, had to trust that it was more likely someone would set a trap for him or Elladan, rather than a simple lieutenant from Minas Tirith.
But where even to find such a place? He had no acquaintances in the city and would not know where to seek any possible relatives of men under his command. Was Egrahil even from Pelargir? Were any of his men? Suddenly, the answer came to him. "The docks!"
At Elladan's questioning gaze, he elaborated. "The harbor will be home to establishments of … ill repute. For coin they should be willing to keep Egrahil safe, at least for a night."
"You mean to leave your lieutenant at a whore house," Elladan stated flatly and Aragorn grimaced at the bluntness.
"I see no other way."
Elladan nodded, then froze.
"What is it?" The older twin was listening intently and raised a hand to his lips, asking Aragorn to remain silent.
"Guards are approaching." He locked eyes with Aragorn, "they are looking for us. We cannot remain."
Quickly they extinguished the lamp and gathered their healing supplies. Aragorn bent to lift Egrahil into his own arms and together they moved back into the darkness of the rainy night.
-o0o-
Elrohir spun around a corner and out of view of more approaching footsteps. The tower was suspiciously active despite the lateness of the hour, and he reckoned that some event or other must have ended. Serving maids had been coming and going, stoking fires and bringing pitchers of water to the rooms in the higher levels of the tower.
Another pair of maids approached, carrying a heavy table between them, whispering in hushed voices to avoid alerting the nobility to their presence. "A table," one of them whispered, annoyed. "In the middle of the night!"
"And not just any night," the other whispered back, casting a nervous look around her that made Elrohir press himself more deeply into the small alcove he used as cover. "Have you heard what Hwithen has seen? The guards are speaking of it, too – there's a dark spirit in the halls."
"What?" the other maid all but shrieked, belatedly remembering to keep her voice down.
"Shh, it is true. Hwithen has seen it herself. She said a dark spirit has risen from the tower, striking down any that harbour foul thoughts. The guards are anxious, too, there have been attacks."
Elrohir winced.
He probably should have expected this, but that did not make it any easier. Glorfindel would have his head if he knew just how thoroughly he was mishandling the infiltration of the tower. Erestor would probably delight in lecturing him on the great scouts of the Last Alliance and their ability to stay perfectly unnoticed, uninvolved.
The chatter of the maids had stopped and there was the distinct sound of a door opening further down the corridor. Not waiting any longer, Elrohir slid out of the shadows and hurried down the corridor towards the central staircase that ran all the way to the top of the tower.
He did not make it very far. With sudden intensity the dark energy that had lain dormant during the day surged again. A malevolent force that had its own will - and evil intent. It passed through wood and stone and battered at the very edges of his mind.
Elrohir caught his breath and steeled his mind against the onslaught. It was not as intense as it had been the night before, but it was closer. Unexplainably, he could feel where the force emanated from, could see with clarity the source of the darkness: the top of the tower.
Forcing himself to focus on the present, on the red carpet under his feet, the wooden balustrade he was gripping too tightly, he locked the invading whispers and images out and followed the waves of darkness towards their source.
He reached the stairwell and climbed, slowly at first but soon with more haste as he felt his defenses slip. Already the floor seemed to morph into rough stone under his feet and the lush red of the carpet took on the colour of spilled blood. He had walked these tunnels before, in countless nightmares born of one terrible memory and he knew what he would find at the end of the hall.
No! He shook his head forcefully, trying to dispel the images. This was not real!
He hesitated, knowing that if he could not break the illusion, he could not go on. He could not face what awaited him at the end of the passage a second time. Even in his nightmares he never reached the cave where he and Elladan had found their mother, walking instead the mountainous caverns and tunnels, endlessly, always haunted by the echo of her pain-filled screams and the inescapable knowledge that he would be too late.
Elrohir was not even sure if he could truly remember the moment when they had found her anymore. Too deeply was it buried beneath pain and despair. It was different for Elladan, he knew, and he did not envy his brother the burden of that memory.
So desperately was he fighting the effects of the dark force, trying to block out hearing the whispers of incorporeal screams, he almost failed to hear the approaching footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs behind him! With nowhere to go but up, Elrohir clung to the very real sound of the heavy footfalls, to the danger of discovery to dispel the hold the evil had on him and fled up the stairs.
The steps came to an abrupt end not much higher up, ending in front of a large set of doors, slightly ajar but heavy. He gave them an experimental shove, driven now to desperation by the nearing pursuit and found, to his relief, that they opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. The room beyond them was empty. A large round chamber with windows on all sides that opened to the dark of night. The world outside was dark, the stars veiled behind heavy clouds - they would offer no solace this night.
This was a dead end.
There was no place to hide in the open study. A single table and chair stood in the center of the room that was otherwise furnished only with bookshelves along the walls. There was no second way out, no hiding place. He was trapped.
He hurried back to the open door and with a quick prayer to Elbereth, hid in the small space between the open door and the wall. It was a hiding place worthy of an overconfident elfling who had not yet learned any better, but it was all he had.
The door had been ajar when he came here and with luck, whoever had left it thus would not question that it was now open all the way. He barely dared to breathe as he caught a glimpse of the man who had been following him up the stairs, watching through the small gap that ran between the door and the wall, where the hinges anchored the heavy wood to stone.
It was a watch captain, a black raven symbol embroidered on his cassock and with raven wings on his helmet. He must be the captain of the second guard company of the citadel - the man Aragorn had told him to be weary off. But what was he doing in the study here at the top of the tower? Had he followed Elrohir or was his presence mere coincidence?
The man stepped from his narrow field of view and further into the room.
"My lord", the captain was calling. Interestingly, the surge of dark power abated, as if he had interrupted something. A terrible thought flitted through Elrohir's head – could one of the Ulairi be here themselves? Had he just stepped into the very lair of a ring wraith?
Luckily his fears proved false and he almost breathed a sigh of relief when Denethor's voice answered the man. "I told you not to disturb me here."
Elrohir could have sworn the chamber was empty a moment ago, but now he caught glimpses of movement, flashes of a white robe, probably belonging to the son of the steward.
"Forgive me, my lord, but Dolenor returned," there was distaste in his voice as he said the name, "he has word from the Erui and … demands."
"Demands? What does the scoundrel want?"
"He says the guards in Pelargir are uneasy. They have heard of the great Thorongil and are scared to go against him and his men. He wants assurances for their safety."
"Money is what he wants," Denethor replied tersely. "But if it is only money, then he shall have it. Bring me the quill."
There were steps as presumably the captain did Denethor's bidding. "A writ of pardon, as well. It should put their skittish minds at ease," the steward's son mused.
"Talking about skittish," the deep voice of Denethor's man began, "the men in the tower are uneasy. They say there's a dark spirit haunting the halls. Three of my men have been attacked by something or someone they could not identify."
There was a pause in the scratching sound of pen on parchment as Denethor took this in. "Sounds like an old wife's tale. Are you sure your men have not imbued too deeply of ale instead."
"I am sure." The reply was curt, offended.
"Very well," Denethor conceded. "Set some men on this, have them secure the entire citadel. If nothing else, it should put your mens' mind at ease. We are on the eve of battle, of a glorious victory, I will not let a ghost story distract my men when they should prepare. Already the troops of Mordor are withdrawing from Osgiliath, giving up their fortifications. Now is the chance to strike."
Denethor was clearly excited, ecstatic even, and Elrohir could not help but wonder how he knew the troop movements of the enemy. Had a messenger arrived? When?
The scribble of the quill ended in a flourish and Denethor spoke again. "Here, give this to Dolenor, and make sure to stress to him that he won't get paid before he rids me of Thorongil." Footsteps indicated that the captain was about to leave, but Denethor stopped him once more. "Oh, and Balsarion, pay him double if he disposes of the elf as well."
Elrohir's blood ran cold.
Denethor planned on having his brothers assassinated!
His thoughts were racing, grappling with what he had just heard. He had to do something! But how? What?
Rough laughter answered Denethor's words. "I should pay him triple if he returns the elf here so I can do it myself." Anger surged through him as Elrohir listened to their words, and their footsteps as they passed his hiding place and into the stairwell beyond.
How dare they?
For once he embraced the dark sense of dread that lingered in Minas Tirith, stronger now that it had been so recently unleashed, and let it stoke his anger. Elrohir was no stranger to wrath and he welcomed the emotion like a long lost acquaintance, letting it guide him as he slunk out of his hiding space and down the steps. A hunter unleashed.
Funny, how Aragorn had said the men of Minas Tirith were not orcs.
-o0o-
A/N: I apologize for not posting last week, I was enjoying my vacation among forests and reindeer too much to open my laptop. But here it is: the next chapter, complete with exciting fights and sinister plots - I do hope it will make up for my tardiness. As always I would love to hear if you liked this new chapter in the ongoing adventure. My heartfelt thanks go out to anyone who has left a fave or a review - it is wonderful to know that you enjoy the story.