It was nearly dawn by the time Legolas got his turn in the tub. He had drawn the shortest straw and still could not help but wonder if there was a conspiracy among his friends.
Even though the room had been kept heated by a fire all night, the air had a chill to it. Veils of steam rose from the warm waters of the tub. Legolas watched them as he pulled his soft boots on over deliciously dry socks.
The feel of his long wet hair falling over his shoulders, down his back and dripping down his bare skin, annoyed him. Picking up the blanket he had used as a towel, Legolas tried to wring more water from his soaking locks.
The door opened and Aragorn entered, quickly closing it behind himself. He was breathing hard, as if he'd just exerted himself, and there was snow on his boots. Legolas' weapons harness and bow were in Aragorn's hands.
"The marauders are here." He spoke in Sindarin, moving closer. "They are downstairs in the common room, as yet unaware of us." He held out Legolas' weapons harness. It carried his white knives and quiver. Legolas' bow was in Aragorn's free hand. It struck the Elf that this Man had gone through some difficulty to bring them to him and he met the other's blue gaze with gratitude.
"I thank you, Aragorn." Legolas slung the harness on over his bare skin. "How did you manage to get past them?"
"I went out the window."
Legolas took the bow. "We shall greet them warmly when they enter."
The door handle moved. Legolas drew his bow. Aragorn readied his long sword. Dwalkin Skipkey looked inside. Seeing them, he came in saying: "It's only me."
Legolas lowered his bow.
"Are you planning on hiding in here?" Aragorn asked, reverting to the common tongue.
"No. I'm going into the root cellar." Dwalkin walked to a large square trunk against one wall. "I hid the entrance a few years ago, after they..." His words trailed off. "Never mind. There's room for all of us."
"I prefer to fight," Legolas told him.
"And I," Aragorn agreed.
Dwalkin opened the lid to the trunk and reached inside. "You should reconsider my offer. This rabble is not concerned about who they hurt. You and your friends all have handsome faces, they may mar you for the sport of it, or make you wish you were dead, if you get my meaning."
"How many did you see?" Legolas asked.
Dwalkin lifted up the fake floor on the inside of the trunk. "A couple dozen. Good luck." He stepped over the edge of the trunk, disappearing downward, the fake floor going down behind him. "Would you mind closing the lid?"
Aragorn kicked the lid shut. He sensed Legolas stiffen beside him.
"They are coming," Legolas whispered in Sindarin.
The door burst open. A man dressed in a dirty coat with the fur turned inward stood in the doorway eating a chicken leg. His long black hair was flying in every direction. Throwing blades hung from crisscrossed straps across his chest.
Dark eyes rose to take in the sight before him. A new hunger came into his eyes. "Fresh meat," he said gleefully. He tossed the chicken leg aside. One hand moved to draw a knife. Legolas' bow sang. A green-fletched arrow sprouted from the man's throat. He fell dead in the doorway without a cry.
Two more of the marauders came to the doorway, one behind the other. The rear one yelled something Aragorn did not catch. The front one charged at him. Aragorn stepped forward to meet him.
Legolas' arrow hit the rear man. The Elf stepped back and to the side so that the two combatants weren't in his line of fire.
Metal clanged on metal as Aragorn's sword met the marauder's. These men were from the East, Legolas observed as he drew another arrow. Easterlings. Perhaps deserters. They wore pieces of armor, but not full suits.
As Aragorn and his foe parried, it was not obvious to Legolas who had the advantage. Aragorn was taller, his sword longer and better made. Yet the Easterling was fast. Legolas had never seen Aragorn fight before. As Aragorn blocked and swung, Legolas recognized the fighting style of Elladan and Elrohir, yet the Man added touches of his own and his sword was the sword of the Men of Westerness.
More alarmed voices came from the kitchen. The doorway filled with two more men. As soon as they saw Legolas, they reached for their weapons. Two more deadly arrows flew. Four bodies lie piled in the doorway.
Jerking aside from a snake-quick trust of his opponent, Aragorn continued around, his sword held backwards by his right hip. The turn brought his back right up against the man's chest. Aragorn's sword pierced through the ineffective armor.
"I trust our friends are taking care of the balance of our foes inside the main building," Legolas said casually, yet he still had an arrow knocked, his eyes and hearing focused on the doorway.
***
The dawn sun crept up over a winter landscape carpeted in white. Its beams glittered off the new snow like carelessly scattered diamonds. Elrohir took the beauty in, even as he moved silently alongside the barn.
The sword he held in his hands was made by his people over three thousand years ago. Its blade was as sharp enough to split hairs. His Elven hearing could detect only two voices over the noise of several horses. The Men had discovered the Elven horses inside the barn.
His face relaxed, his breathing even, Elrohir held his sword almost loosely as he circled around to the open doors of the barn. There were three men. They were all about Mr. Skipkey's height, wearing thick coats and boots of fur turned inward, bows and quivers full of arrows across their backs, swords at their hips. One man had a long-handled axe.
"We can take these and sell them," a man with his black hair in a long braid down his back said.
"I say we keep them." The man with an axe across his back moved forward. "They're larger than our horses. Pretty things."
"You were not thinking of stealing my horse, are you?" Elrohir asked, lazily. He leaned against the barn door, his sword point down.
The three men turned. None of them had ever seen an Elf and they mistook Elrohir as a young man.
"And a youth like you is going to stop us?" The man with the axe asked, laughing. His comrades joined in.
"Precisely." Elrohir smiled pleasantly. He reached to flick a piece of dust off the bracer of his right wrist.
"There's better uses for someone with such a face," the man with the axe retaliated. "Come on boys, let's get him and try not to hurt him too much."
The silent man stood closest to Elrohir. He drew his sword and almost swaggered with confidence forward. He lifted his blade to hit Elrohir and, faster than human eye could follow, the Elf struck, his blade biting deep into the chest of his foe. With a stunned expression on his face, the man's knees gave way. Elrohir raised a leg to brace the body as he pulled his sword free. Dead, the body fell to the snow.
With an angry growl, the man with a braid drew two swords and circled around to Elrohir's right, while the other man pulled his axe free and circled to the left. The Elf did not wait. He faked a lung to the left, then went right. He blocked a blow from the swordsman's right hand with his own blade, then kicked up at the inside of the man's left arm.
Crying in pain, the man's arm went numb. His sword fell from his left hand. Elrohir continued with the momentum, swinging around so that his back was to his opponent, he shoved his left elbow into the man's neck and was rewarded with a satisfying gurgle.
The axe bearer came toward him, hatred in his eyes. "So, this delicate piece of work can bite," he said. "So can my axe." He swung sideways. Elrohir gracefully danced from the axe, swinging his sword in a short arch, catching the man in the neck. It was not a fatal blow, but it drew blood and seemed to further infuriate the man.
Turning, Elrohir moved back toward the swordsman, jabbing with his long Elven blade, careful not to let it sink in too deep as he hit the man between neck and shoulder.
The swordsman fell, crimson staining the snow. Elrohir looked over his shoulder at the one still-standing enemy. Confidence had gone from the man's demeanor. He was now fighting for his life against a foe who moved like the wind.
As he stood, axe in hand, staring at this tall stranger who had killed his two comrades, the man remembered that over a dozen of his party were inside the inn. All he had to do was call for help. He took a step back. His opponent took two steps toward him. He carried a strange sword with a slight curve to it. The blood of the man's fellows dripped from the highly polished blade.
"Your time of killing has come to an end," Elrohir said to the man. "Surrender or die."
"To you? Never!" Determination came into the man's eyes. "Susai!" he called. "Susai, we're under attack!"
"No one comes," Elrohir said after a few moments. "Do you not hear it? They are fighting my friends. None of you shall survive. Do you still refuse to surrender?"
The man answered with a growl as he raised his axe and charged forward. Elrohir deflected the downswing, twisting his own blade to cut the man's hands. Bleeding, the man still clutched his weapon.
With sadness in his heart for the waste of life Elrohir realized it was time to end this. His blade whistled through the air before landing in the man's neck. He fell to his knees, his bloodied hands reaching for his ruined neck, then collapsed onto the snow.
Wiping his blade on the man's coat, Elrohir remembered young Aragorn. Was he still with Legolas? They might need help. He looked up at the inn. It was strangely quiet.
Even though the room had been kept heated by a fire all night, the air had a chill to it. Veils of steam rose from the warm waters of the tub. Legolas watched them as he pulled his soft boots on over deliciously dry socks.
The feel of his long wet hair falling over his shoulders, down his back and dripping down his bare skin, annoyed him. Picking up the blanket he had used as a towel, Legolas tried to wring more water from his soaking locks.
The door opened and Aragorn entered, quickly closing it behind himself. He was breathing hard, as if he'd just exerted himself, and there was snow on his boots. Legolas' weapons harness and bow were in Aragorn's hands.
"The marauders are here." He spoke in Sindarin, moving closer. "They are downstairs in the common room, as yet unaware of us." He held out Legolas' weapons harness. It carried his white knives and quiver. Legolas' bow was in Aragorn's free hand. It struck the Elf that this Man had gone through some difficulty to bring them to him and he met the other's blue gaze with gratitude.
"I thank you, Aragorn." Legolas slung the harness on over his bare skin. "How did you manage to get past them?"
"I went out the window."
Legolas took the bow. "We shall greet them warmly when they enter."
The door handle moved. Legolas drew his bow. Aragorn readied his long sword. Dwalkin Skipkey looked inside. Seeing them, he came in saying: "It's only me."
Legolas lowered his bow.
"Are you planning on hiding in here?" Aragorn asked, reverting to the common tongue.
"No. I'm going into the root cellar." Dwalkin walked to a large square trunk against one wall. "I hid the entrance a few years ago, after they..." His words trailed off. "Never mind. There's room for all of us."
"I prefer to fight," Legolas told him.
"And I," Aragorn agreed.
Dwalkin opened the lid to the trunk and reached inside. "You should reconsider my offer. This rabble is not concerned about who they hurt. You and your friends all have handsome faces, they may mar you for the sport of it, or make you wish you were dead, if you get my meaning."
"How many did you see?" Legolas asked.
Dwalkin lifted up the fake floor on the inside of the trunk. "A couple dozen. Good luck." He stepped over the edge of the trunk, disappearing downward, the fake floor going down behind him. "Would you mind closing the lid?"
Aragorn kicked the lid shut. He sensed Legolas stiffen beside him.
"They are coming," Legolas whispered in Sindarin.
The door burst open. A man dressed in a dirty coat with the fur turned inward stood in the doorway eating a chicken leg. His long black hair was flying in every direction. Throwing blades hung from crisscrossed straps across his chest.
Dark eyes rose to take in the sight before him. A new hunger came into his eyes. "Fresh meat," he said gleefully. He tossed the chicken leg aside. One hand moved to draw a knife. Legolas' bow sang. A green-fletched arrow sprouted from the man's throat. He fell dead in the doorway without a cry.
Two more of the marauders came to the doorway, one behind the other. The rear one yelled something Aragorn did not catch. The front one charged at him. Aragorn stepped forward to meet him.
Legolas' arrow hit the rear man. The Elf stepped back and to the side so that the two combatants weren't in his line of fire.
Metal clanged on metal as Aragorn's sword met the marauder's. These men were from the East, Legolas observed as he drew another arrow. Easterlings. Perhaps deserters. They wore pieces of armor, but not full suits.
As Aragorn and his foe parried, it was not obvious to Legolas who had the advantage. Aragorn was taller, his sword longer and better made. Yet the Easterling was fast. Legolas had never seen Aragorn fight before. As Aragorn blocked and swung, Legolas recognized the fighting style of Elladan and Elrohir, yet the Man added touches of his own and his sword was the sword of the Men of Westerness.
More alarmed voices came from the kitchen. The doorway filled with two more men. As soon as they saw Legolas, they reached for their weapons. Two more deadly arrows flew. Four bodies lie piled in the doorway.
Jerking aside from a snake-quick trust of his opponent, Aragorn continued around, his sword held backwards by his right hip. The turn brought his back right up against the man's chest. Aragorn's sword pierced through the ineffective armor.
"I trust our friends are taking care of the balance of our foes inside the main building," Legolas said casually, yet he still had an arrow knocked, his eyes and hearing focused on the doorway.
***
The dawn sun crept up over a winter landscape carpeted in white. Its beams glittered off the new snow like carelessly scattered diamonds. Elrohir took the beauty in, even as he moved silently alongside the barn.
The sword he held in his hands was made by his people over three thousand years ago. Its blade was as sharp enough to split hairs. His Elven hearing could detect only two voices over the noise of several horses. The Men had discovered the Elven horses inside the barn.
His face relaxed, his breathing even, Elrohir held his sword almost loosely as he circled around to the open doors of the barn. There were three men. They were all about Mr. Skipkey's height, wearing thick coats and boots of fur turned inward, bows and quivers full of arrows across their backs, swords at their hips. One man had a long-handled axe.
"We can take these and sell them," a man with his black hair in a long braid down his back said.
"I say we keep them." The man with an axe across his back moved forward. "They're larger than our horses. Pretty things."
"You were not thinking of stealing my horse, are you?" Elrohir asked, lazily. He leaned against the barn door, his sword point down.
The three men turned. None of them had ever seen an Elf and they mistook Elrohir as a young man.
"And a youth like you is going to stop us?" The man with the axe asked, laughing. His comrades joined in.
"Precisely." Elrohir smiled pleasantly. He reached to flick a piece of dust off the bracer of his right wrist.
"There's better uses for someone with such a face," the man with the axe retaliated. "Come on boys, let's get him and try not to hurt him too much."
The silent man stood closest to Elrohir. He drew his sword and almost swaggered with confidence forward. He lifted his blade to hit Elrohir and, faster than human eye could follow, the Elf struck, his blade biting deep into the chest of his foe. With a stunned expression on his face, the man's knees gave way. Elrohir raised a leg to brace the body as he pulled his sword free. Dead, the body fell to the snow.
With an angry growl, the man with a braid drew two swords and circled around to Elrohir's right, while the other man pulled his axe free and circled to the left. The Elf did not wait. He faked a lung to the left, then went right. He blocked a blow from the swordsman's right hand with his own blade, then kicked up at the inside of the man's left arm.
Crying in pain, the man's arm went numb. His sword fell from his left hand. Elrohir continued with the momentum, swinging around so that his back was to his opponent, he shoved his left elbow into the man's neck and was rewarded with a satisfying gurgle.
The axe bearer came toward him, hatred in his eyes. "So, this delicate piece of work can bite," he said. "So can my axe." He swung sideways. Elrohir gracefully danced from the axe, swinging his sword in a short arch, catching the man in the neck. It was not a fatal blow, but it drew blood and seemed to further infuriate the man.
Turning, Elrohir moved back toward the swordsman, jabbing with his long Elven blade, careful not to let it sink in too deep as he hit the man between neck and shoulder.
The swordsman fell, crimson staining the snow. Elrohir looked over his shoulder at the one still-standing enemy. Confidence had gone from the man's demeanor. He was now fighting for his life against a foe who moved like the wind.
As he stood, axe in hand, staring at this tall stranger who had killed his two comrades, the man remembered that over a dozen of his party were inside the inn. All he had to do was call for help. He took a step back. His opponent took two steps toward him. He carried a strange sword with a slight curve to it. The blood of the man's fellows dripped from the highly polished blade.
"Your time of killing has come to an end," Elrohir said to the man. "Surrender or die."
"To you? Never!" Determination came into the man's eyes. "Susai!" he called. "Susai, we're under attack!"
"No one comes," Elrohir said after a few moments. "Do you not hear it? They are fighting my friends. None of you shall survive. Do you still refuse to surrender?"
The man answered with a growl as he raised his axe and charged forward. Elrohir deflected the downswing, twisting his own blade to cut the man's hands. Bleeding, the man still clutched his weapon.
With sadness in his heart for the waste of life Elrohir realized it was time to end this. His blade whistled through the air before landing in the man's neck. He fell to his knees, his bloodied hands reaching for his ruined neck, then collapsed onto the snow.
Wiping his blade on the man's coat, Elrohir remembered young Aragorn. Was he still with Legolas? They might need help. He looked up at the inn. It was strangely quiet.