Walking along slightly behind her guide, Gilraen caught her leg on a low branch, stumbling as she cried out in pain. Arathorn was at her side instantly, his hands snaking about her waist to hold her upright as he ascertained how badly she was hurt. Blood was seeping through her skirt again. He gently picked her up, carrying her to the riverside once more.

As he cleaned and rebound the wound, Gilraen tried desperately to quell her rising sobs. The pain had been so intense and so sudden that she felt overwhelmed, even though it was slowly receding. Arathorn looked up, seeing her tears behind her eyes. He placed a finger to her lips, slowly tracing her jawline with his hand. Gilraen calmed, mesmerised by his gentleness.

'Thank you.'

Standing, he swung her up into his arms, ignoring her protests that she could walk, and began the walk to the inn. Since they were only two miles away, it took him a little less than an hour to reach it.

The innkeeper ran out, all concern for his daughter, though Arathorn caught his disapproval and her resentment shining through their considerate words. Walking into the inn, he saw that several of her attackers were there. They tensed as he passed through, bearing the injured girl to her chamber in the attic. He delivered her into the hands of her grandmother, and returned downstairs to find that they had all gone.

'Excuse me,' he said, catching the innkeeper's attention. 'Would it surprise you to know that the customers who just left are the ones responsible for your daughter's injuries?'

The man looked angry.

'No, it wouldn't,' he growled. 'They want her for themselves. I daresay she's told you about my marrying her off?'

Arathorn nodded, his features carefully neutral as he sipped his ale.

'I don't suppose she mentioned that it's because she's been marked by them lot who just left? If she's not married safely, in a few month's time, they'll steal her from under my nose and make her their whore, whether she wants to or not. They're thieves, and brigands, and murderers, the lot of them, and I'd die before seeing one of my own in with them!'

He reached below the bar and produced an axe, scowling at the door behind Arathorn.

'What do you want?'

Arathorn turned to see a dishevelled looking man standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted.

'I've just ridden for four days to reach you. The band are planning an attack on your inn, sir.'

The innkeeper tensed.

'When?' he asked.

'Anytime soon,' came the reply. 'They want Gilraen.'

Arathorn forced himself to calm down, his fists automatically clenching into fists at the thought of harm to the golden haired girl.

'What am I going to do?' the innkeeper demanded. 'I can't hold them off here, and no one would want to help protect me. You'd better move on, sir, this won't be your fight.'

'Then I will make it my fight,' Arathorn told him. He turned to the man by the door. 'Are you and your horse fit to ride?'

'Yes, sir.'

Arathorn gave him his dagger and sheath.

'Ride to Dunland. When you come across the Rangers, give them that and tell them Isildur's Heir needs their aid. Then lead them here.'

They stared at him.

'Do it, man!'

The man turned and fairly ran from the room. They could hear him spurring his horse away fast. Arathorn turned to the innkeeper.

'Who lives in this dwelling?'

'Gilraen, my mother, my two sons and myself,' the innkeeper replied. 'You're Isildur's Heir?'

'Yes,' Arathorn replied curtly. 'Get your sons here, now.'

As the man hurried away, Arathorn cast his eye over the bar-room. Not bad to defend, and if they had to, they could fall back to the attic. If the 'band' wanted Gilraen so much, they wouldn't risk her death by setting fire to the place. He passed his hand over his eyes. Curse his heart for leading him here!



*~*~*



'Young man, I have seen more conflict in my time than you ever will. Kindly step aside!'

Arathorn threw up his hands and let the grandmother past. She had armed herself with a wicked looking axe, and was now taking up position by the window, having refused to remain upstairs with her grand-daughter. It had been two days since they had been warned of an attack, time which Arathorn had put to good use, reinforcing the doors and shutters of the building. The rider should have reached Dunland by now, and the Rangers should only be a day or two away. However, Arathorn had seen horsemen approaching from the East that morning, and knew they were not his friends. Tonight, they would have to fight.

A creak on the stair alerted him to Gilraen making her way down to them. He hurried over to her, not wanting her involved in the fighting.

'Go back up there,' he said, barring her way.

She glared up at him.

'No.'

'You'll be safer.'

'I don't want to be safer, I want to fight. I'm the reason this is happening anyway, so I'm not going to wait up there while people risk their lives for me!'

'Gilraen -'

'No, Arathorn. I'm tired of having my battles fought for me.'

Arathorn felt an icy blanket settle over his heart. She would be killed!

'Please, Gilraen,' he pleaded. 'I couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you.'

Gilraen looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

'I'm sorry, Arathorn,' she said quietly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. 'This is my home, and I will defend it, whether you approve or not.'

This battle was lost, he could see the resolve in her eyes. Gesturing to the bow she held in her hands, he said,

'Do you know how to use that?'

She nodded, grateful that he had backed down. He led her to a window where she would have a clear shot at whoever came towards them from that side. Turning, he looked at his motley group. The innkeeper was crouched by the door, a crossbow in his hands and a sword swung across his back. His sons, both less than sixteen years of age, looked at the Ranger with frightened eyes, hefting their bows. The grandmother met his gaze head on, inclining her head to him as she turned back to the window.

Arathorn forced himself to look at Gilraen. She stood by the casement, the soft afternoon light illuminating her serious expression. The bow was strung and ready, an arrow already nocked on the string. She looked up at him, her eyes afraid. He longed to put his arms about her, protect her from what they would have to do. He doubted she had ever killed another person before. His heart went out to her as she turned away.

'They will probably come for us tonight,' he told them. 'They'll try a head on attack first, and when that doesn't work' - he purposely didn't say if - 'when that doesn't work, they'll try stealth. Good luck, my friends.'

He knelt beside Gilraen, his bow at the ready. This would be a long night.