Chapter XVI: Questions and Answers

As morning broke over the city of Osgiliath, a caravan of traders from the nearby fortress of Minas Tirith made its way through the city gates. In the dim light, none noticed a small, cloaked figure rising from the side of the road to join the rear of the group.

Dacil Rom, second in command of the Fellowship army, rose with the sun, as he always did. He rose from his bed and changed quickly into his mail and tunic. Attaching his long broadsword to his belt, Dacil shook his medium length brown hair back behind his ears. He opened the door leading to the streets and smiled at the sight of the rising sun.

Dacil's mind raced as he entered the city square and began to make his way to the main barracks. Several times in the past week, the city of Minas Tirith had fallen under attack by orcs from Mordor. The recent uprisings had been much fiercer than earlier attacks, and this was quite unsettling to Dacil.

Suddenly, his thoughts were shattered with a crash of metal as he collided hard with a cloaked woman. The sudden shock of the blow, combined with the force the woman hit him with, caused Dacil to fall to the cobblestone ground with a grunt alongside her.

"I am so sorry, my lord!" the woman cried, scrambling to her feet and reaching out a hand to assist him up.

"No need to apologize, my lady, the fault was..." he stopped short as he felt a piece of parchment pressed into his hand from hers.

She squeezed his hand hard, prompting him to continue, for many people had stopped to watch the spectacle.

Dacil cleared his throat, "Was mine."

"You are most gracious, sir," the woman murmured, and with a final pull, she brought him to his feet. "I take my leave." With that, the lady turned and melted back into the crowd, her hand lingering on his for a moment longer, it seemed.

Dacil watched her go until he could no longer see her, then, palming the folded parchment, he hurried on to the barracks.

After pausing to salute the guards in front of the barracks, Dacil took a moment to gather himself. He knew he had to pretend as though nothing had happened. Were the woman who he thought she was, it would be very unwise to tip his hand to the Commander in Chief of the Fellowship.

The guards opened the door to the room, revealing the Commander, Aragost. The formidable man sat in his throne-like chair, feet propped up on his desk, a black cloak draped around him. The General absentmindedly spun a dagger in his hand, and he stared off out the window at the black mountains of Mordor.

Dacil saluted with a grim smile. Aragost looked up at him and half returned the salute, "How are you this fine morning, General?"

Dacil shrugged, "I've been better, sir."

"Worried about Mordor?"

"Yes, sir," Dacil ceded with a small nod. "Though I think that things could be much worse."

Aragost raised his eyebrows and removed his feet from his desk. He reached down and pulled a large map from the ground beside the desk, placing it before himself.

"Sit, Dacil," the Commander ordered with a small gesture toward another chair opposite him.

Dacil obliged him.

"What have you to say on this matter, General?" Aragost asked him.

I feel that things could be worse because, luckily for us, the orcs are not acting alone."

Aragost exhaled slowly, "And this makes you feel safe?"

"Orcs are mindless," Dacil replied. "They would throw their full weight against us and shatter our forces if there was nobody to control them. But, because they are following orders, they will wait. The Drow will want to gather their strength. They will attack the Venyarohirrim first, thus buying us time to prepare. We will not get away without heavy losses, but we will have a lot of time to prepare."

Aragost smiled, "It is no wonder that you have risen through the ranks as you have."

"Thank you, sir."

"So what do you propose we do, Dacil my friend?"

"Strike at the head," Dacil responded with a glimmer in his eye. "An offensive at the Drow would throw the Remnant into disarray."

"And, anger them," Aragost added, "Causing them to change their plans and assault us first."

The Captain let out a long breath as he considered this. "And that, sir, is why you are in charge," Dacil acknowledged finally with a small laugh.

Aragost chuckled, "I say we wait for the Venyarohirrim or, better yet, the Dunedain, to take them on first. This will draw attention away from us, and allow us to destroy both the Venyarohirrim, the Drow, and the Dunedain all in one sweep."

Dacil nodded slowly, "That sounds good to me, sir."

"Thank you. I will need you to probe the Drow defensive line, as well as the Venyarohirrim's. Will that be okay with you?"

Dacil set his jaw, stood, and saluted. "I serve the Fellowship, sir."

With that, he rose, spun on his heel, and marched from the room, fuming to himself.

Dacil stalked down the streets of Osgiliath back toward his quarters. He flung his door open, hurled his sword in the corner, then stormed into his house, slamming the door behind him.

"Damn!" Dacil swore as he threw himself onto his bed.

He balled his fists and closed his eyes. When he had been drafted into the Fellowship eight years ago, he had made them promise not to make him fight his own people, the Venyarohirrim, if it came to war. The Commander had agreed, but had apparently disregarded his promise.

And then, as if that was not enough, that girl had to show up. Dacil's mind reeled. Could it really be her, after all this time? But what did she want?

Dacil opened his eyes suddenly as a new thought entered his mind. Was it a test by Aragost? Surely he would not dare...

Abruptly, Dacil realized that he had not yet even looked at the note the woman had given him. Reaching into a pocket in his tunic, Dacil pulled out the parchment. Holding it up to the light from the window with trembling hands, he read the five words that were scrawled on it, obviously by somebody writing with their subdominant hand.

'5 leagues west. Mid-day. Alone.'

The confused Fellowship General sat up and looked out his window; the sun had nearly reached the center of the sky. He sat, pondering for a moment, then plunged the parchment back into his pocket. Rising, Dacil returned his sword to his side, set his jaw, and strode out of his barracks, a man on a mission.