Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all its locations belong to the JRR Tolkien estate. The main characters belong to me and are copyrighted. I do not claim ownership of anything of JRR Tolkien's, and I bow down to him in thanks for his wonderful creations which act as inspirations to us all. *bows solemnly*

A/N: Sorry about the long wait on this chapter! I'm not quite happy with Ch. 13 yet either, so both of these might be revised later. Featuring: a duel to the death, an angsty emotional crisis, a deus ex machina, hints of a murder, twisted family relationships, a hallucinatory Elfit, a morose wolf with a French name (it sounded wolfy, alright?), and an unexpected appearance!

Grey Skies

          At the same moment, Trotter bounded to his feet and made a dash for his sword. Drekgreth's howl of rage and Anna's startled shriek rang through the night as his hands closed on Nyéra.

          Trotter yanked at the scabbard as hard as he could. To his utmost dismay, nothing happened. Gulping, he looked up – into the smirking green face of the Orc to whose belt Nyéra was attached. The Goblin grinned in smug triumph, reaching with spidery fingers for the dagger on its other hip. In desperation, Trotter pulled once more, with all his strength. Suddenly, the leather belt snapped and he tumbled back, yelping. The Orc fell forward with a squawk, reaching for him, but its paws were too slow to catch a scurrying Hobbit.

          Trotter rolled away and drew Nyéra, ready to fight despite the unfavourable odds. But there was no need; the Wargs and Goblins, though raising a horrific shrieking cry, made no move towards him. They had drawn back, forming a large circle – around Beleg and Drekgreth. The Warg and the Elfit were circling each other, apparently unaware of their surroundings. Drekgreth had dropped the Starflower and had his great fangs bared; the necklace had disappeared somewhere on the uneven ground.

          Anna still lay stunned in the brittle grass, though her goblin tormentor had withdrawn with its companions. Hardly pausing to think, Trotter grabbed her hand and pulled her away, to the tree where Beleg had been bound moments before.

          "Quickly," he said, pushing her against the rough bark, "Climb up!" It was a poor place of safety, but there was no better alternative. Anna, however, refused even this paltry protection.

          "Beleg..." she said as if in a dream, staring past Trotter's shoulder.

          Trotter gazed back apprehensively at the circling figures. He felt torn in two. What could he do? Part of him wanted to rush to his friend's aid; but this was not his battle, and he had the feeling that Beleg would not appreciate his interference.

          "I call you to answer now for your deeds!" Beleg cried, his voice echoing across the clearing. The howling and shrieking of the watching Wargs and Orcs stilled suddenly. The torchlight swelled, as if flickering in answer to the challenge, feeding off the reckless words.

          "For my father, Peric Deepdweller," Beleg continued, "And for every other innocent who has suffered under your claws!"

          "You challenge me to a duel?" Drekgreth growled disbelievingly, "I remember you now, Elfling. What did I say then – that you would be unhappier alive than dead? It seems I spoke truly, for now you seek death as a refuge! Well, I am not unkind; I will grant your wish."

          "I wish only to face you in an honest combat," Beleg said grimly, skin starkly pale under the smudges on his face. He looked small and frail, standing before the black tidal wave of muscle and fur, a slender whiplash facing a rolling boulder. Through the tears in his clothing raw cuts were visible; he was all grey raiment, white skin, black hair, robed already in death colours.

          "Very well!" Drekgreth yowled laughingly, "You have your dagger, and I my claw. Let it be an honest combat!" He grinned for a moment in confident anticipation of a game he knew he would win. Then his powerful haunches bunched beneath him, and he sprang into the air, a dark bolt of claw and fang. But Beleg was too quick; the Elfit slipped away.

          "You are grown old and slow!" Beleg laughed, "My aged grandmother was fleeter on her feet!"

          "Perhaps she would have been," Drekgreth replied, "If I hadn't eaten her." And he leaped once more.

          Then it began in earnest, and Trotter and Anna could only cower at the roots of the tree and watch. Again and again Drekgreth sprang at Beleg, snarling and howling as if he had gone mad. The air rippled with the force of the Warg's passing, and the ground trembled beneath his paws. Yet always Beleg dodged away, and his larger foe could not capture him. On and on it went, until Trotter wondered if neither of the two would ever tire; both were panting quickly, and sweat drew grimy trails down Beleg's face. And yet neither had touched the other.

          Finally, Drekgreth paused, red eyes smouldering above his curled lips. "Why do you flee?" he spat, "Did you not wish to fight? Or has your courage left you already? It is too late to draw back now!"

          "Afraid? Not at all," Beleg said, dagger glittering in his hand, "But when one is lunged at by such a clumsy behemoth, what is one to do? I wish to battle, not to be crushed by a wooden-footed obesity."

          "Clumsy, you say?" Drekgreth said, "I have been too easy on you. We will see what good your stunted feet can do you now."

          As suddenly as a lightning strike, he sprang. But this time Beleg did not dance away; he ducked beneath the giant Warg, and thrust upward with his dagger at the softer flesh. Drekgreth twisted away to avoid the blow, but too slowly; a long, shallow gash appeared on his abdomen. He howled, but had no time to vent his anger fully, for in the same moment Beleg struck again, aiming for the Warg's maddened eyes. But Drekgreth would not be caught twice; he swiped at the dagger with his great claw. Metal grated on metal; then the knife snapped, and Beleg stood defenceless before the Warg King. Drekgreth wasted no time in snapping after the Elfit with his greedily glistening teeth, and it was all Beleg could do to stumble away unscathed.

          "It seems you have been robbed of your sting, my little wasp," Drekgreth said, "Will you laugh at death, Elfling?"

          The Warg stepped forward, teeth bared, and in that moment Trotter saw his opportunity.

          "Stay here!" he whispered to Anna, and dashed out of the protective shadow of the tree. He raised Nyéra, trying to aim carefully. Then he hurled the sword.

          Nyéra hissed through the air, a black streak too fast to see, like a diving hawk. But even as he watched, Trotter's heart sank. The aim was bad. Instead of flying to strike Drekgreth's chest, the sword fell short, connecting only with the Warg's mithril-protected paw. Trotter cringed in expectation of the clang that would herald his failure.

          It did not come. Nyéra struck the bands of truesilver that held the claw to Drekgreth's paw, and sliced through it without a sound. The thick shining wires parted; the claw fell to the ground, freed at last from its loathsome owner. For a moment Trotter could hardly believe his eyes – was his sword truly that powerful? He had thought nothing could cut mithril, nothing in the world. The thought occurred to him, forgotten for months now, that he knew nothing of the origins of Nyéra. What magic might be imprisoned in the black blade? An angry spirit, perhaps, thirsting for any blood it could get?

          Drekgreth stared in disbelieving incomprehension at his scored and bleeding foreleg, devoid now of its accustomed protection. Making use of the moment, Beleg made a grab for the sword, but Drekgreth came to his senses in time and knocked the blade away.

          "Robbed of your sting," Beleg said, staring up into the Warg's eyes with a fatalistic smirk, "And now of your life."

          His fingers closed on the mithril claw, and he thrust upwards with it, driving it with all his strength into Drekgreth's breast. The Warg shrieked in surprised rage; then he snapped at Beleg. The long fangs found the Elfit's shoulder and closed tightly. But Beleg refused to let go; he held his grip on the claw, pushing relentlessly even as Drekgreth's fangs pierced his own flesh. Slowly, the Warg king's growls grew fainter, and his body began to sink to the ground. Finally he collapsed, crushing the much smaller Elfit beneath him.

          Silence reigned in the clearing as every creature held its breath. Neither Drekgreth nor Beleg moved. Blood began to seep slowly from under the Warg's body. And then it became clear to everyone that the King of the Wargs was dead.

          An ear-piercing howl rose from the assembled Wargs. They had been cheated of their victim, and now their own leader lay slain instead. In blinding fury, they turned on the one person they could take their anger out on: Trotter.

          As one, the Wargs and Goblins made a collective leap for the empty-handed Hobbit in their midst. And as one, they stopped in their tracks, overtaken suddenly by a terrible doubt. For clear horns rang wildly among the trees, and from every side armed riders burst out of the surrounding forest.

          Trotter remembered little of the ensuing battle except for a constant fear of being mistaken for an Orc and cut down, or trampled by a heedless horse. None of the strange Men who had overtaken them seemed to notice him, busy as they were with darker matters. He caught some glimpses of the attackers; they were not so tall and fair as the Dúnedain, and he guessed they were of another race of Men, less lofty and noble, but obviously not thanes of the Witch-King. They fought like demons nonetheless, with a hatred born of long suffering.

 Through some lucky chance, he found his sword; then he tried to return to Anna. But when he reached the tree where he had left her, slipping and dodging around and under battling Orcs and Men and Wargs, she was gone. He turned to scan the writhing mass of armed enemies, just in time to catch sight of a long sword coming to behead him. He ducked reflexively, yelping in surprised desperation.

"Stop, stop! I'm not an Orc!"

He peered up at his attacker fearfully, but the rider made no further move to harm him. He was middle-aged, short and swarthy, with a black beard and squinting eyes. He rode a chestnut horse; it pranced nervously, impatiently, as the battle continued some distance away. The Man looked down at Trotter as if he could not fathom what he had found: a Hobbit among all these dark creatures.

"A Halfling!" the Man exclaimed, "We haven't seen your kind in years! A captive, are you?"

"Yes, I was," Trotter replied, beginning to hope that their fortunes had taken a turn for the better, "My name is Trotter Calacolindo; I come from the North. Who are you?"

          "I am Mathwes Auricon, leader of the fighting men of Tharbad."

          "Tharbad!" Trotter cried, "That's where we were headed – before the Wargs found us."

          "'We'?" Mathwes frowned, "Are there more Halflings, then? Where are they? I am afraid some of my men might harm them mistakenly, thinking them Goblins."

          "No, not Halflings," Trotter said, "But I have two companions. One was here, but she has disappeared. The other is on the battlefield somewhere, injured most likely – I must help him!" He made a move as if to run back into the middle of the clearing, but the Man stopped him with a gesture.

          "Stay!" Mathwes said, "Do not move! I know nothing of you, and I will not let you out of my sight for now. You will have to wait and search for your comrade later."

          By this time, the battle had died down to a few last Orcs who were mostly attempting to flee. Staring past Mathwes, Trotter could see that few of the enemy had escaped; the clearing was littered with corpses, visible in the light of the few torches that still burned. Anxiety gripped him as he wondered what had become of Beleg and Anna. He was about to run onto the field and look for them in spite of Mathwes, when two other Men galloped up and blocked his way. They were indefinite shadows in the dark night; most of the torches had been overturned and extinguished in the dirt, and the light was faint.

          "Sir!" said the first rider, "We have routed the enemy! Their numbers were smaller than we anticipated, and we took them by surprise. It is very odd, sir... they seemed to have no will to fight, but yammered and scattered before us like sheep."

          "That is because my friend killed their leader," Trotter interrupted, "Drekgreth, King of the Wargs. If the Iron Claw had been alive when your men arrived, your task would have been a great deal more difficult! And the Warg King's slayer is still there – somewhere – probably in need of help!"

          The man stared down at him. "What is this? A Halfling?"

          "Yes," Mathwes said, "He says he is from the North – the Wargs had taken him captive. It is a strange tale, and I know not what to think of it, nor what to do with him now that he is here."

          "With your leave, sir," the other rider said darkly, "Do nothing with him, but leave him to find his way back to where he came from. There are no Halflings left in Tharbad, and we do not need any more refugees, even if they are just passing through. The times are hard enough without more burdens. Besides, he may be a spy, for all we know."

          "Spy?" Trotter said indignantly, "I am no such thing! I am a messenger in the service of the King of Arnor, and you are obliged to aid me in his name!"

          To his chagrin, all three men laughed. "The King!" Mathwes said, "What, the King of Arthedain? The old man sitting in his chilly castle while the Witch-King knocks at the gates? He has no power here, little fool. This is Cardolan, and only the three Lords rule here. Arnor no longer exists, no matter what your king believes."

          Trotter could find nothing to say to that; it was all new to him. Suddenly, unforeseen and very unpleasant difficulties presented themselves – how could King Arvedui hope to defend Arnor if Arnor had already broken apart? Did the King know how much his influence had declined in the further reaches of Eriador? And what good was it to defeat the Witch-King when the battle continued among their own allies? Doubts crowded his mind, things he had never considered before. It seemed that matters were yet more complicated than he had expected.

          Suddenly, he realized that the Men had been talking while he wandered lost in his own thoughts.

          "Good!" Mathwes was saying, "Gather the men! We will return to the city tonight; I do not wish to stay long in these lands."

          "Sir," said the other Man, "We found something else as well." He gestured to his companion, who had not spoken yet. The rider urged his horse forward, and as he came closer Trotter realized that he was not alone in the saddle. Anna sat in front of him, looking as grim as he had ever seen her. At the sight of her, Mathwes' eyes flew open.

          "You!" he cried.

          "Yes," said Anna, "Me."

          "What?" Trotter gasped, shocked, "You know each other? Anna, what..." He trailed off as, at a sign from Mathwes, Anna's captor began to tie her hands. She put up no resistance, looking almost bored. Only a slight tightening of her lips gave away any emotion, and the unnatural shine of her eyes in the faint torchlight.

          "What does this mean?" Trotter asked angrily, "You have a strange way to greet travellers! This is one of my companions!" He could feel his friends and their quest slipping away from him, and it was a most unpleasant sensation.

          Mathwes' face darkened as he looked down at the Hobbit. "If this woman is one of your companions, then you are no friend of mine," he said, flicking his horse's reins as if to ride off, "You may fend for yourself, Halfling, and be glad that I do no worse than leave you here!"

          "But – wait!" Trotter protested, "Why are you taking her? What has she done?"

          "She is a murderess," Mathwes replied. He laughed as Trotter's jaw dropped in surprise.

          "That's impossible!" the Hobbit said, "She is no such thing! I know her well – you have the wrong woman!"

          "I do not," Mathwes said coldly, "And it appears you do not know her as well as you think. Be more careful of your choice of companions in the future!"

          And with that, he called to his men, and the whole company assembled quickly and rode away into the trees, leaving Trotter alone on the battlefield.

          Trotter stared after the disappearing riders numbly. He had thought they were saved, miraculously, beyond all possibility of rescue. And now Anna was a captive and Beleg... he didn't know where Beleg was. His companions were gone; he was alone. Their quest had crashed to dusty ruins. And yet that almost seemed trivial compared to what he had just heard. Anna, a murderess? It was impossible, it was preposterous. Anna would not even touch a weapon, how could she be... Then suddenly a strange realization burst upon him like a wizard's firework, along with a memory of a Man's words. Falathor's voice rang in mind – what was it he had said, at the Last Council?

          "...Lomin's child had been banished from the town for murder, and no one knew where it had gone."

          And it all made sense: Anna's appearance in Bree, her avoidance of Men, her fear of returning to Tharbad. It could mean only one thing: Anna was Lomin's child.

          He wanted to deny the thought. Could one of his best friends really...? Had he misjudged her that much? Trotter had always thought of himself as a rather good judge of character. He had never understood before why many of the Big People considered Hobbits to be rather naive and trusting, if not downright slow. But now it seemed that all that was true, and that Men really were as untrustworthy as some Hobbits claimed. Was there any point in all this, then? A black bitterness stained his thoughts that he had never experienced before. What was he trying to save this kingdom for? It deserved to be destroyed. If the Witch-King and the Orcs were no better than the race of Men, at least they did not claim to be anything other than evil. And if Anna could be a killer... well then, what were truth and friendship and everything he thought he had been working to save? A dream that only his own people clung to?

          He looked around at the silent clearing. A few torches still flickered; the night was an inky canvas sprinkled with fiery drops of blood. Trees towered around the little meadow, frowning like the walls of a morbid shrine. Strewn before his feet lay the evidence of a sporting game with death. It seemed oddly appropriate. Everything was a game... why had he taken it seriously? Men killed each other carelessly. And so did women, it seemed. One kingdom or another, what did it matter? He couldn't change anything anyway. He couldn't stop battles or make people be kind to each other. He might as well go home, or to the Shire, or far away to the Great River were many other Hobbits had fled to. He could find Beleg and they would go...

          But even as the tempting thoughts whispered in his mind, another voice answered. It was the voice of a being wiser than he could guess at; wise enough to know that sometime on this journey he would falter, and would need a memory of words to guide him.

          "Sometimes the smallest person can make a difference."

          "Gandalf..." Trotter whispered wonderingly into the night, "But I didn't know this would happen. I didn't know Anna..." Before he could finish the painful sentence, another voice swam up out of his memory; one he had heard so many times before, and always trusted.

          "Not everything is what it seems."

No, he decided suddenly, not everything was. Perhaps Anna was Lomin's daughter, but she could not help that; in fact, she could not even know. She believed herself an orphan still, as she had for years. And it would be unjust of him to judge her a murderess at a stranger's words. Trust and friendship had to start somewhere, after all, and if no one else would hold those ideals sacred then he would do it himself. In his heart of hearts, he told himself that Anna was not a murderer, that he had not misjudged her, and that if anyone wanted to say differently they would have to answer to him. Personally.

          With that decision, Trotter felt his determination returning to him. His friends were gone, and he was alone, yes, but he was not helpless. He led their quest, and it was his task to pull them back together. He knew where he had to begin.

          Trotter squared his shoulders. He picked up a torch that lay on the ground nearby, spluttering but still burning, and sheathed his sword. Then he stepped into the dark clearing to search for an Elfit among the corpses.       

          The cold, grey morning had already dawned when he finally found Beleg. Trotter's heart lightened with the weak autumn rays, seeming to shiver themselves under the gloomy clouds. He had searched for hours in the foul, bloody darkness, unable to distinguish even Drekgreth's bulk from the other bodies on the field. Only when the sky began to lighten was his search rewarded. It was not a pleasant discovery.

          Beleg lay unconscious, still half-crushed beneath the giant Warg. Drekgreth's teeth were locked onto his shoulder, clamped shut even in death. The two of them made a twisted tableau: Beleg with his pale, delicate face, marked cruelly by suffering and exhaustion, held in a merciless embrace by what could have been a murderous piece of detached night. Trotter had great difficulty prying open the Warg's jaws, and when he saw the deep gouges in Beleg's flesh he had to fight a powerful urge to look away. The wounds were raw, an angry dark red in colour; they looked as if they had festered.

          It proved a yet more difficult task to free his friend from the dead weight he lay under. Only after much pushing and panting did Trotter manage to move Drekgreth enough to pull Beleg out from beneath him. He was afraid that all the jostling would hurt the Elfit, but Beleg did not so much as mumble. He was far down in the depths of oblivion, beyond physical feeling of any kind.

          Trotter half-dragged, half-carried the Elfit to the edge of the clearing, where the mostly dead grass was at least still clean, not fouled by the stench of blood. There he leaned Beleg against a tree and sat down beside him, trying to catch his breath and decide what to do next.

          Beleg did not look very well, Trotter reflected unhappily. The Elfit slouched bonelessly against the grey tree trunk. Everything seemed grey, Trotter's mood most of all. The dreary sky lowered heavily above, looking like an overhanging blanket of dirty wet wool; the trees dripped with accumulated moisture as if weeping at the destruction that had taken place before them. A drop fell onto Beleg's face, sliding mournfully down the pale skin. It drew a clear path through the grime and blood; it could not, however, wipe away the livid bruises. The Elfit looked a good deal younger with his eyes closed and the caustic expression absent from his face. His face was a battlefield of misery now, distressingly white beneath his jagged charcoal hair. He could have been a statue, or a corpse, save for the barely visible rise and fall of his chest beneath the Orc shirt – and the blood. Beleg's garments were stiff with it, Warg blood and his own. Trotter grimaced; he could not even clean his friend's wounds without water. With that thought, he found that he was thirsty and hungry as well.

          He was just wondering if he should go search for water when Beleg began to stir. The Elfit's eyelashes fluttered lightly as Trotter leaned closer, hoping he had not just imagined the movement.

          "Beleg," he said, "Can you hear me?"

          Beleg opened his eyes groggily, blinking at him with a blank expression. His gaze seemed unfocused, and his eyes unnaturally deep and dark.

          "Beleg?" Trotter repeated cautiously.

          Beleg's eyes wandered dazedly over the death-littered clearing, boxed in by grey trees and overcast sky.

          "Who...?" he murmured, "What is... where is the gold and silver sleeper?"

          "What?" Trotter asked, rather distressed at this nonsensical question, "What sleeper? You're awake now, no one's sleeping. You killed Drekgreth. The Wargs are all dead. Some Men came and..."

          "...a lost star on earth, a star to guide me to the shining land," Beleg rambled on heedlessly, "One star like no other, a silver shell on the soft sand... for me... for me... footprints by the sea..."

          "I don't understand you," Trotter said bleakly, shaking his head. Beleg was obviously delirious. Not that that stopped him from composing excellent, albeit somewhat indecipherable poetry, Trotter noted with a passing stab of wry jealousy. He wondered what he could do to help his friend. How serious was the Warg's bite? He had heard that werewolf fangs were sometimes poisonous. Was there an antidote? A cure? A treatment, at least? If so, how could he get his hands on it? He might be able to make inquiries in Tharbad, but the city was miles away, and he could not carry Beleg there. Nor did he dare leave the Elfit here alone. Trotter felt frustratingly helpless, and time was passing.

          Finally, he decided to see if he could find any food or water among the ruins of the enemy camp. Orcs had to eat and drink as well, after all. He tried not to think about what kind of food Goblins would enjoy. At least there had been no sign of previous prisoners... most likely there wouldn't be any food that had once been sentient. So he hoped, anyway.

          "Stay here," he told the oblivious Elfit unnecessarily before trotting back to the heart of the clearing. He stepped cautiously over the scattered bodies, trying not to look too closely at them: torn bundles of pasty flesh and skin, splattered with blood in shades of red and black. It made him shudder, but he kept on determinedly. A quarter hour of searching finally found him only a single unharmed water-skin, and no food whatsoever. It was better than nothing, he reflected as he headed back towards Beleg, but would not solve their problems for long.

          As he clambered over the silent Wargs, trying to avoid noticing their sightless eyes and lolling tongues, a sudden shimmer shone in his eye, like the sun reflecting off a stream. He blinked, but it did not disappear; the silver spot remained, wavering on the ground beside the corpse of an Orc. Trotter stepped gingerly closer, bending down for a closer look. Then he gasped.

          Trampled into the hard earth lay a silver necklace: the Starflower! Its delicate chain was mud-covered but unbroken, the white gem at the centre wanly beautiful. It looked forlorn, its glory ravished by the impervious violence that had passed around it. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, wondering about the silver shimmer he had seen. The Starflower lay dark and unimposing in his palm, devoid of any light whatsoever. It did not look magical, and yet Trotter shivered as he held it. It was an odd coincidence, finding the thing under the carnage. He put it into his pocket, resolving firmly to give it back to Anna when he found her again.

          He straightened up and looked up at the sky worriedly. It looked like rain; the clouds were dark and the air had that moist bite he always associated with rainstorms. The thought depressed his mood even further.

          "Well, Trotter," he said aloud to himself, "You've gotten yourself into a fine mess this time."

His voice sounded odd and out of place on the deserted field. He had the sudden feeling that the dead were listening, grumbling at this disruption of their already dubious peace. Shivers crept down his spine. The silence was absolute; it was a heavy silence that he hated, making him feel small and threatened. Even the trees looked sinister.

"I'm not doing anything!" Trotter said crossly to no one, "I'd leave this moment if I could!"

He jumped into the air and nearly fell ignominiously onto an Orc as a strange voice answered him. In a second his sword was in his hand and he crouched tensely, listening with held-back breath. His hair fell in his eyes; he pushed the strands away impatiently.

A howling, yipping sound broke the silence. It was not very loud, rising and falling like a person having a conversation with himself. It was unmistakably the voice of a wolf. And it was coming from the spot where Trotter had left Beleg.

All caution forgotten, Trotter sprang up and tore across the field, shouting as his feet flew. It was a rather foolish thing to do, as he recognized later; he could have run straight into any sort of danger, and in fact nearly impaled himself on his sword more than once in his frantic haste. But luck was with him, and in a very few seconds he arrived at the tree where Beleg lay and hurled himself thoughtlessly at the slinking shadow lurking at the Elfit's side.

 A bundle of fur and sharp bones met his charge. Suddenly he found himself wrestling desperately with a wolf; teeth snapped before his face, nearly removing his nose, and wiry muscles writhed beneath him. But his excitement and pent-up fear made him strong, and within moments he had mastered the intruder. He held the wolf firmly pinned and slid Nyéra threateningly against its throat.

"Stop resisting," he said, "Or you can join the rest of your kind here!"

To his surprise, the wolf's struggles ceased and it relaxed limply, whining like an injured child. Trotter stared down at it, panting slightly.

It was not a particularly big wolf, he decided, nothing like Drekgreth. In fact, it didn't look much like a Warg either; its eyes were quite normal, without that demon fire he had grown to know all too well over the long hours among the Wargs. This wolf was rather skinny, with scruffy grey fur and a roguish air. It was whining and yipping at him enthusiastically. Trotter frowned and tilted his head to the side. Was it trying to talk to him?

"...Fate them forged a binding chain of living love and mortal pain... fairer than are born to Men...though all to ruin fell the world... yet were its making good, for this..."* He heard Beleg mumbling meaninglessly a few feet away. Trotter tried to block out the sound, as it was really not very helpful at the moment.

The wolf looked up at him owlishly and continued to yelp and bark. Trotter's hand wavered on the sword. If he listened closely, he almost felt that he could understand what the creature was saying. It made sense somehow... like words, like a language. As he listened, the strange sounds began to take shape, and comprehension dawned on his mind.

"Confound you, blasted Halfling!" it was saying, "Can't a poor chap even skulk around in peace anymore without being jumped by overgrown mice? Bloody fangs! I can't believe a Halfling's sitting on me!" It finished its rant in a tone of plaintive disbelief.

Trotter jerked back in shock, loosening his hold on the wolf. The animal slipped out of his grasp and pranced some feet away, but it did not flee. Instead, it sat down on its thin haunches and looked at him wryly with its big golden eyes. It was fairly long, but too slender for its size; obviously its meals had not been as regular as it might have wished. Its coat was rather ragged, like a cloak that has been worn for far too many years. But it looked at him with shining intelligence... and an expression of blatant boredom, liberally mixed with amusement.

"Well, that's better, isn't it?" it said, "Thought you were going to shear me like a sheep for a moment there. Having a bad day, are we? A bit on edge? Not that I can blame you, with this kind of bloody weather." It glared darkly at the clouds, narrowing its eyes as if it had some secret vendetta against the wind and sky.

"Pardon?" Trotter said, wondering if he had heard right or was just imagining that he could understand the wolf, "Did you just make a comment about the weather?"

The wolf blinked slowly. "You understand my speech?" it asked wonderingly, momentarily surprised out of its moodiness. Then its insolent manner returned. "Of course I did – don't all civilized people converse about the weather?"

Trotter refrained from mentioning that very few of the civilized people he knew had four legs and glowing golden eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked instead, thinking it was probably the safest and most neutral thing to say under the circumstances.

Apparently he was mistaken. The wolf narrowed its eyes, making its glare even more concentrated and disturbing.

"What's it to you?" it said, rather rudely, Trotter thought.

"Well," he replied acidly, "I did just refrain from killing you, even though I could have done so quite easily. You owe me your life in a very real sense, and I believe the least you could do is answer a few harmless questions in return."

The wolf deflated. Its head drooped and its ears twitched. Trotter watched them flick back and forth, mildly fascinated.

"Oh, I suppose you're right, at that," the wolf muttered finally, "Harmo Code of Conduct, Rule 57: Always repay favours, especially life-saving favours. Wouldn't want to go against the old Code, would I?"

"Certainly not," Trotter agreed, "It sounds perfectly respectable, whatever it is."

The wolf grinned smugly at him, showing rows of uncomfortably pointy teeth. "Not really. Rule 58 is 'If at all possible, put off the repaying of favours until after eating the claimant.'"

Trotter gripped the hilt of his sword reflexively, his breath catching in his throat. But the wolf only rolled its eyes as if to say, "What a pathetic rodent," and he realized that this must be the animal's idea of a joke. A rather worrying joke for the listener, admittedly.

"Well," Trotter said firmly, "Now that we've agreed that you are in my debt, allow me to repeat the question: Who are you?"

"Well, I'm a wolf," said the wolf unnecessarily, "Not a Warg, in case that's what you were afraid of. My name is - " here it spit out a garbled sound that Trotter decided must be its name. It sounded like a mixture between a short howl and a loud growl, which was unsurprising, considering the nature of the person in question. He tried to get his tongue around the unfamiliar sound in an attempt to repeat it.

"Raaa....ooouu... Rooww... Raoul?"

"Good enough," said the wolf long-sufferingly.

"Right," said Trotter, "What are you doing here?" He narrowed his eyes. "Coming to eat us?" he asked suspiciously.

"Don't be ridiculous," Raoul said dismissively, "If I wanted to eat you, you would be a very tasty cutlet by now. In my stomach, I should add. No, I was just...passing by. I smelled death. So I came to investigate. There are some of my kind here..."

"Yes, I know," Trotter nodded, "They were the Witch-King's servants. Wait a minute... do you belong to the Witch-King?"

"I don't belong to anyone," Raoul snapped, "I'm a wolf. But no, I am not a servant of the Black Captain, if that is what you mean. Are you?"

"Me? No!" Trotter said indignantly.

"Not surprising," Raoul remarked, "I wouldn't have anything to do with you either, if I were him." He hunkered down onto the ground, eye-to-eye with the Hobbit. Trotter stared back fiercely; grey eyes met golden, and neither was willing to look away. Then Raoul grinned, showing his impressive row of shiny teeth.

"Relax," he said, "I'm not going to eat you. Harmo Code of Conduct, Rule 94: Never eat someone whose name you know." He paused. "Of course, for that to be technically effective, you would have to tell me your name..."

"Trotter," said Trotter immediately, "And that's Beleg." He pointed at the Elfit, who was still slumped against the tree trunk some feet away.

"...two cups of flour, a cup of sugar, and don't forget the pinch of cinnamon," Beleg mumbled, waving a hand vaguely in their direction.

"Is it?" Raoul asked in a tone of polite interest, "How very fascinating. Your company is just getting odder and odder, and I do believe I'm going to leave right about...now," he got to his feet, "And find someone else to talk to. Preferably myself, as no better company exists in this world."

"Wait!" Trotter said. A sudden idea had presented itself to him; he had thought of a way to get to Tharbad, with Raoul's help. Since the wolf now owed him his life, logically he would have to repay the debt somehow. And Trotter knew just how it could be done.

"Does the Harmo Code of Conduct justify leaving in the middle of a conversation?" Trotter asked, "That doesn't seem very civilized to me."

"Your kind lives in holes in the ground," Raoul said, "What would you know about being civilized?"

"I know that when someone saves your life or spares it, you have a debt that you have to make up. And coincidentally, I'm rather in need of help right now. My companion and I need to get to Tharbad immediately. He's ill and I have to find a healer for him."

"What do you want me to do?" Raoul asked, "I could put him out of his misery, I suppose, if you wanted me to..."

"No!" Trotter said hastily, "That won't be necessary. I want you to take us to Tharbad. Both of us. Now."

Raoul sat down with an irritated thump. His fur bristled. "You want me to carry you to the Man-dwellings?"

Trotter nodded, trusting that "Man-dwellings" meant "Tharbad" to a wolf.

Raoul sighed, half a yowl. "Couldn't you have made it something conventional, like eating your worst enemy or something? If anyone sees me with two... humans... on my back, I'll never live it up. It would be the end of my reputation!"

"No revenge eatings," Trotter said firmly, "We want to go to Tharbad. If you take us there, we'll be even."

Raoul eyed him. "Just to the Man-dwellings? Then I can go on my way and forget I ever met you?"

Trotter shrugged. "If you want. I can't say it really matters to me if you forget me or not."

Raoul seemed to ponder for a moment. His fur blended into the grey forest, so that if Trotter half-shut his eyes the wolf looked like nothing but two disembodied shining eyes, like miniature suns. It was a disturbing sight.

"Very well," Raoul said after a minute, "I will do as you ask. Let us start now! I don't want to have to smell Halfling any longer than is necessary."

Trotter stood up and pulled Beleg to his feet. He nearly collapsed under the Elfit's weight; Beleg gasped in pain, his black head lolling drunkenly. He grabbed at Trotter unsteadily.

"Anna..." he mumbled, "Where is she?"

"We're going to see her right now," Trotter said as reassuringly as he could. He turned back to Raoul, who was watching them rather sceptically. "Can we be on our way?"

The wolf shook himself impatiently. "I was only waiting for you. Just be sure not to pull my fur."

A few minutes later, Trotter, with Beleg in a state of semi-consciousness before him, rode out of the clearing on the back of a wolf.

*******

Anna was far too angry to care about the stares people kept sending her way. In fact, she could not remember ever being this furious before in her life. And the fact that it was herself she was angry at didn't help at all.

The horse jolted disconsolately along, doing nothing to improve her mood. She studiously ignored the Man seated behind her; they had had more than one argument, or rather, shouting match since the night before, and her throat was too sore to begin again. He, like every other member of the company, looked at her with a mixture of angry contempt and smug satisfaction. She could almost hear the thoughts creeping through their heads: We've finally caught you, oh yes, you little wench! There's no escape this time... no mere banishment... death awaits you...

They had all glared at her with that poison in their eyes, throughout the long night ride to Tharbad. The country was familiar to her; she remembered endless days spent in these woods, when she had fled from the putrid streets and their dark corners. No one had ever noticed her much; any stray glance she caught was usually merely dismissive. Still, that was far better than the vengeful hatred and the infamy that came later.

She hunched forward over the horse's neck, trying to withdraw back into the hood of her cloak. The streets were more crowded than she remembered; probably filled by the droves of refugees that had fled from what had once been the east march of Arthedain, the area surrounding the East Road, now controlled by the Nine-Fingered Captain. The buildings were all of wood: houses, taverns, shops, brothels, guild headquarters, storehouses, and cafes. It was a rare structure that didn't lean dangerously in some direction or other. The streets, filthy with choking dust in summer, had turned to cold, sticky mud in the autumn moisture. The whole city seemed like an oozing sore to her, a teeming hive of disgust.

"Look, do you see..." she heard someone say. She glanced toward the voice out of the corner of her eye. It was a young woman speaking, pretty, her head wrapped in a brown shawl. She was pointing a dirty finger at Anna and whispering excitedly to a young boy at her side. Anna's lip curled. Not everyone knew her by sight, but those that did would waste no time in pointing her out to their acquaintances for maximum effect. She was, after all, Anna Applethorn, and it was common knowledge that she had been banished – under the condition that if she ever showed her face in Tharbad again it would mean death. It made for a good story, and heralded an entertaining execution to follow. No wonder excitement sparkled in their eyes.

Anna closed her own eyes briefly, but opened them again after a split second. She was dead tired and she ached everywhere, but worse than any physical pain was the twisting knot in her chest. She felt cheated and guilty and heart-broken all at once. Even with her eyes open, she could see the expression on Trotter's face when Mathwes had proclaimed her a murderess. His familiar face, marked with shock, his soft grey eyes finding hers, filled with horror and disbelief and... something she could not make out. He had looked so forlorn, with his sword limp in his hand, his hair rumpled from running, his pale face very white in the darkness. He looked as if he had suddenly been struck blind.

She bit her lip, holding back tears for at least the tenth time. It wasn't fair. He was her friend, the only person in the world who truly understood her. The only person who believed in her, who trusted her... well, maybe Beleg trusted her as well, but it wasn't the same as with Trotter. Trotter was the only person she had ever known who accepted her simply as herself. And with that one sentence, Mathwes had destroyed it all. She knew Trotter too well – knew how he would start back in shock, in horror that he had associated so closely with a criminal. Not just a criminal, a killer. She had lost him beyond a doubt. The thought felt like two iron hooks sunken into her ribcage, tearing her apart with agonizing slowness.

And it was all her own fault, as usual. The bitter taste of guilt nearly choked her. She had been so foolish, letting herself soften, letting her guard down, letting herself love. She had hoped that she could leave her whole life behind her, in the narrow, stinking streets of Tharbad. But you couldn't leave yourself behind, no matter how much you tried; you couldn't just cut out your own malformed heart and expect to solve the matter. She had known all along, somehow, that she couldn't hide behind this facade forever, pretending to be so innocent and misunderstood, when there was really no misunderstanding at all. It was true about her, everything they said, and she knew it quite well. But it had been nice to forget for a while, to be the quiet, gentle person Trotter thought she was.

Anna could not help sighing, a halting, gasping sound with a whisper of a sob in it. She smoothed the horse's mane beneath her; it reminded her of the horses they had seen on the plains. It seemed like that had all happened very long ago, that short week of freedom when it had been only the three of them under the wide skies. She didn't regret the journey; in fact, in her memory it shone as the brightest part of her short life. At least she had that much, to soften the moment when they finally killed her.

The company was drawing near the river; she could smell the sluggish, polluted water of the wide, sullen Greyflood. In summer more mosquitoes than people inhabited the city quarter by the riverside, but winter eased that discomfort, at least. Soon they would cross the bridge, over to the less slummy half of Tharbad, where the halls of the three Lords were. The courthouse and gaol stood there as well, along with the scaffold, stocks, and pyre.

Anna stared dismally at the sprawling city, the drunken houses staggering blindly to near collapse at the side of the slimy-looking water. If the Witch-King founded a town, she decided, it would look like this.

Suddenly her breath caught in her throat, and she had to clamp her lips shut to keep from gasping in shock. Her hands tightened convulsively on the horse's mane. Quickly she cast her face down, staring dumbly at the ground. Had she really seen...? That face in the crowd... was it him? And, oh Eldar, had he seen her?

Her hands trembled uncontrollably. If he had recognized her, he would know everything immediately. And that meant she wouldn't be the only one with a death sentence hanging over her head.

*******

Trotter tried miserably to stay awake, crouching over Beleg with his fists clenched in the bushy fur at Raoul's neck. The Elfit had been completely unconscious for hours now, and he was worried. Beleg was still breathing, but Trotter could feel his pulse racing and the heat rising from his frozen-looking skin. Raoul was as good as his word; the wolf ran tirelessly with a loping, fluent gait. He hoped it would be enough.

"Don't pinch!" Raoul yipped over his shoulder, "How many times have I told you already?"

"Sorry," Trotter mumbled, loosening his grip somewhat. Wolf-riding was not comfortable, as he had realized very quickly, and he was plagued by a constant fear that both he and Beleg would fall off and Raoul, annoyed already by his passengers, would merely run on and leave them, no matter his strict code of honour.

They had ridden through the day, and evening was drawing close once more. It had grown colder; Trotter shivered so continuously that he no longer noticed the shudders. The trees had grown thinner around them, and now and then signs of habitation popped up in the forest: a lonely cabin or the deserted remains of a carriage. Almost as bad as the cold and worry, however, was the sheer exhaustion that weighed on him. His head kept drooping, until he finally started up again nervously, trying to shake off the fatigue. Finally, Raoul, who was apparently not as prickly as he made himself out to be, had taken pity on him and begun to talk, which amazingly did not seem to impede his running at all.

"I'm a Northern wolf," he had said, "But the North is no good anymore, not even for my kind. The Black Captain has been drafting all our youngsters into his armies for years now; I suppose he thinks that just because we have fangs and don't twitter, we must be dark creatures. It's pretty rough for a wolf in the Black Hordes – the Wargs lord it around, thinking they're so high and mighty just because they have dirty fangs and their eyes glow red once in a while. All cheap tricks, I tell you! Ha! I'd like to see one of them run from Carn Dûm to the South Downs without a rest!"

Trotter had asked, wonderingly, if Raoul had come all the way from Carn Dûm. The question seemed to please the wolf, or maybe it was just the tone of admiration Trotter expressed it in.

"Yes, straight from the Fortress itself! I was in the Hordes, you see, but I'm not much for fighting. Only kill if you're hungry, I say, and so does the Harmo Code of Conduct, so it must be true. I snuck out one night, under the noses of the Wargs – guess their eyes aren't much good except to look fierce – and high-tailed it south. Tried to take a chum or two with me, good blokes, but the sentries got 'em, blast their tails! They're hard on deserters, you see. Counts as treachery. That's why I'm on the road – figure I'll find a spot of forest somewhere or a bit of plain and start a pack. When I smelled a wolf-pack I thought I might find someone to join me – instead a found a dead heap of Wargs with a Halfling sitting on top!" He had growled a laugh at that.

Trotter was startled back to the present when Raoul began to slow. The wolf reduced his pace to a trot, finally coming to a complete halt, his long red tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"What's the matter?" Trotter asked, "Why are we stopping?"

"We're there," Raoul replied, "See, there's the Road. Just follow it into the city." He pointed with his nose, and Trotter realized that he was right; he could see an open space beyond the trees. He pushed Beleg off Raoul's back as gently as he could and tumbled after. The two of them lay side by side on the wet mould.

"My thanks for your help," Trotter said, sitting up and stifling a yawn.

"Not at all, not at all!" Raoul said, "We're even now. No need to thank me! Harmo Code of Conduct, Rule 32: There's no room for sentimentality in business." The wolf's golden eyes laughed down at him. "May you find your pack, Trotter the Halfling!" he said. Then, shaking his shaggy coat, he loped away into the trees, blending into the grey lowering evening until he disappeared as if he had never been.

"Farewell," Trotter said softly, watching the empty woods where Raoul had been. Then he sighed and dragged himself to his feet. Beleg lay crumpled where he had fallen. Trotter caught his breath at the sight; Beleg had been in front of him the whole day and he had not been able to see the Elfit's face. That was probably a good thing, he reflected. Beleg seemed to have lost half his body weight in the last twelve hours: his cheekbones stood out sharply, and dark shadows lined his closed eyes. Trotter had a bad feeling that if he didn't do something quickly, his friend would be dead before a new day dawned.

He drew Beleg's arm around his shoulders and stood up under the Elfit's weight. His guess had not been far off; Beleg was far lighter than he had been that morning. It was as if the wound and fever were burning him away. Still, he was more than a head taller than Trotter, and trying to carry him was awkward. It was only with much effort that he managed to drag Beleg over the wet forest floor to the road. He halted there, panting, beginning to feel desperate. He couldn't lug his friend all through Tharbad looking for a healer and an inn. There had to be a better way. But try as he would, nothing came to mind.

"Valar, Beleg!" he muttered, "I wish you would wake up, just long enough to get into the city!"

"I doubt he can hear you."

Trotter yelped and nearly sent both himself and his burden crashing to the earthy road. He staggered, gripping Beleg to prevent the Elfit from sagging to the ground, and looked around wildly for the person who had spoken.

From the opposite side of the road, a shadow melted out of the dusky trees. A slim, grey-cloaked figure glided toward him, lithe and gloomy as a rain-spirit. No sound of footsteps broke the stillness. The air seemed strangely liquid and time stretched out fluidly as he watched each step. Then the hooded figure bent down and he found himself looking into an oddly familiar face.

"May I be of assistance?"

* Excerpts from The Lays of Beleriand

* "Harmo" – means "wolf" in Quenya

A/N: OK, make that two deus ex machinas, two emotional crises, and two unexpected appearances. :) Up next, Chapter 15! Is Anna really a murderer? Who did she see in Tharbad? Who did Trotter meet on the Road? Will Beleg survive to amuse us with his sarcastic comments? Featuring some very powerful drugs, a stalker, the underbelly of Tharbad, and a stolen kiss!