As Sev stalked across the stable yard beside him, Anardil hoped she would rein in her frustrations before meeting any member of Alfgard's family. The stable master did not deserve a helping of outrage to follow-up his evening meal.
Indeed, the representative of Sev's Rohirrim family merited a substantial reward for his gracious welcome earlier that day. Going beyond his original offer to provide quarters for Russ and Nik, Alfgard had sent some of his hired men to one of the village inns; thereby making it possible for all of the Burping Troll folk to remain relatively safe from the prying eyes of curious villagers. Even the addition of the hobbit lass, Erin, to the cavalcade did not fluster the man.
"The ladies will sleep in the main house," the lean Rohirrim said with a smile upon their arrival. "Linnet and the girls have scrubbed the bunkhouse down with lye soap but still 'tis not fit for the likes of Sevil and this lively lass."
Erin's answering grin and inquiries regarding the health of Alfgard's large family, as well as the presence of his pleasantly smiling wife, left Sev little room to argue about the arrangements. However, the appearance of Ranger Captain Tarannon with an escort of Guardsmen from the garrison provided ample focus not only for her temper but also for Russ Beorning's as well. The events of moments past still rang in Anardil's ears.
"Is an armed guard entirely necessary?" Sev had snapped.
Undaunted, Tarannon replied, "It is for the witnesses' safety, lady. Your own Captain Halbarad has assured me that this event was foreseen."
"He mentioned Rangers, not great, galloping louts wearing three stones' worth of armour apiece." Her snort punctuated her opinion, before she added tartly, "I trust Lord Darien is equally inconvenienced."
A slight twitch of the cheeks was the only evidence of Tarannon's discomfiture. "Not … precisely, lady. My orders are to secure the - ah, Nik, for his own protection."
When a huge form strode from the stable, every soldier in the detail shrank back, eyes wide as teacups. A rumbling vibrated in Russbeorn's chest as he struck a glowering stance.
"Secure?" he growled. "Say it by its rightful name, captain of Ithilien Rangers. You mean to imprison Nik and deprive him of the freedom you grant to every other innocent creature. Or is his innocence declared null by some presumed power of yours?"
Before the big man's deep stare, the Adam's apple leapt up and down Tarannon's throat. "I am only following orders, ah…"
The Ranger suddenly realised he knew no proper title or form of address for Beornings, and Russ leapt into the breach.
"What justice is this," the big man thundered, "when an honoured oath is met with the threat of swords? Nik's word was enough to keep him free; is that word worth less now that he has fulfilled it?"
Another figure appeared in the stable doorway, and conversation stalled as several other sets of eyes widened. Though cast in the dark, forbidding mould of all his kind, Nik's wiry frame stood at barely half-size, and his rough features displayed surprisingly innocent puzzlement. Russ cast a quick glance over his shoulder to where the diminutive Uruk-hai stood listening. Thereupon his rumbling growl returned the soldiers' focus to the far more intimidating man confronting them.
Gamely, Tarannon struggled on. "That is not the point, Master Beorning. Your … friend's safety is in question, and we cannot guarantee that unless he is in our care and keeping."
Again the subterranean rumble, ere Russ spoke again. "Safety? How can you claim that guarantee for any man or beast? Can you swear that tomorrow your blacksmith will not slay the miller, or that the tanner will not rob the baker? I say to you that the safety of your keeping is the safety of a fish in a net."
"Teach?" Nik broke his silence to call out hesitantly to his 'teacher'. "Is something wrong?"
"'Tis naught but the folly of fools," Russ grumbled.
"But why do they want to lock me up? Didn't I do the right thing?"
The Beorning's deep-set eyes glittered as he replied, "Yes, Nik, you did. But the justice of Men is evidently a fickle thing."
"I give you my word," Tarannon doggedly insisted. "Nik will come to no harm. These men are honourable and sworn to the service of the king."
However, Russ slowly shook his heavy head. "The repentant are long since healed of their regret, and they might even rue their promises, now. I trust no Man to stand between Nik and the human foe who might seek his life."
"I merely follow orders. Given the volatile nature of the case and its possible testimony, Nik might be subject to reprisal."
Russ straightened and crossed his great arms across his chest. "Will you also incarcerate this Lord Darien and his followers? As witnesses, I presume they share Nik's peril."
In growing desperation, Tarannon glanced about the yard, eyes lighting on the approach of Halbarad, Celebsul and the stable yard's master. "Ah … those are not my orders. I'm -."
"You will take Nik into custody," the Beorning announced, "when I see Lord Darien and his men locked in the same cell. Is your King just, or is he not?"
He slowly turned his head and nodded once at the Uruk-hai. Nik grinned in childlike relief, clearly trusting his giant friend to speedily resolve the situation. Meanwhile Tarannon bent his head and pinched his nose as if battling a headache.
Recalling the confrontation, Anardil silently admitted Hal, Cel and Alfgard possessed levels of diplomacy he would never achieve. Thankfully, the niceties of protocol and polite discourse were seldom necessary in the course of his current duties to the King, which ostensibly consisted of hunting out those who walked the shadows and plotted evil against the citizens of Gondor.
While allowing Sev to further confront the taciturn Captain might have been enjoyable to watch, it would have resulted in only more ill will. In the event, Celebsul stepped between Tarannon and Russ, eyebrows raised in mild disapproval, and suggested a consultation between Captains. Halbarad heartily concurred, Alfgard offered a room, and the two senior Rangers withdrew to discuss alternatives. Russ meanwhile took up his own station, a giant, brooding form that stared back at the soldiers warily eyeing him.
Pursuing his contemplation as he and Sev neared the house, however, Anardil frowned. Something about the situation did not ring true. Tarannon did not like orcs, but he held to the letter of the laws he was sworn to uphold. If he truly believed Nik should be taken into custody, nothing Halbarad or Celebsul said would have changed the man's mind. And to arrive with an escort of the Guard rather than Rangers was also out of character.
Who or what had forced Tarannon to this course of action? And what consequences would the Captain face for allowing himself to be convinced that leaving a guard upon the perimeter of the stable yard was sufficient? Especially in the face of Alfgard's setting of a guard of his own to ensure that his guests remained undisturbed.
With a slight shake of his head, Anardil focused his attentions once more upon Sev, for the door to the main house stood before them. While she accepted the fact that her presence in Henneth Annûn attracted undue attentions, she could not pretend to enjoy it. Nor did she shy from letting him know her opinion of his plan to make a quiet trip to The Black Cauldron.
"Quiet," she snorted with asperity. "Slinking off in the shadows again. Why do men find such delight in playing games?"
"Games?"
Waving a hand toward the gate where a helmeted Gondorian guard stood facing a sturdy Rohirrim leaning nonchalantly upon a tall spear, she declared, "What else would you call it?"
Studying the sons of Gondor and Rohan as they bemusedly eyed each other, Anardil's crooked grin appeared. "Perhaps games they are, that even kings may play. But I, my dear, am best at shadows and slinking, as you well know. Think where you found me!"
Sev tipped her head and gave him a narrow eyed look before replying, "Surely you recall what I was doing in that alley." With a toss of her head, she stormed away.
As the door closed with a solid thud, Anardil expelled a pent up breath and muttered ruefully, "Yes, there is that to consider."
A woman willing to confront the river pirates of Pelargir in hopes of discovering information about missing kin was unlikely to retire quietly to her room. Especially if she imagined he was in the slightest bit of danger.
Only by the strongest force of will did Anardil keep himself from jumping when two voices spoke from the shadowed doorway of the barn.
"Go, my friend, we will watch over her."
"Aye, go ask tha questions."
Facing the unlikely duo of crooked orc and graceful elf, Anardil covered his fleeting sense of irritation at being overheard with a nod. "I'll not be long."
Gubbitch gave a sharp-toothed smile and jerked a thumb toward the Gondorian sentry. "Not long at all if tha's caught out by one of them lads."
"I believe I'll manage."
After a quick salute, Anardil stepped into the barn and walked rapidly toward the opposite pair of doors. A moment of listening to the new-fallen night revealed the locations of the three men Tarannon had placed along the perimeter and their Rohirrim counterparts. Two of the former chatted in low tones about a mother-in-law; the others clearly held no anticipation of real trouble.
With a private smile, he crept into the blue-dark shadows and made his way across the large field Alfgard used for training his sons and stable hands in the art of war a-horse. Slipping through the rail fence and into the woods at the eastern end of the meadow, Anardil waited silently for any sign of discovery. When there was no indication that either of the two sides realised the perimeter had been breached, he continued through the black trees until he reached the main road.
xxx
Fists clenched Sev leaned back against the door she had so carefully closed and considered the possible effects of allowing her emotions to overcome practicality. Following the man would serve no purpose, nor would pacing about the now-dark yard where her distress would be visible to all. And a quick inventory of the guestroom provided her with nothing suitable for throwing in a fit of temper. Idly she wondered if Alfgard removed all the breakables in expectation of just such an occurrence.
"What cannot be cured must simply be endured," Sev muttered, and collapsed backwards across the width of the bed to stare resentfully up at the ceiling. "Though if he thinks he will continue to leave me behind to worry and wait, he is sadly mistaken."
Occupied with organising the arguments she would present to Anardil, Sev disregarded the tapping upon the door until a familiar voice called, "Sevi? Are you in there?"
"Yes, Erin, come in."
The hobbit peered around the door, and then plastered a quick smile on her face as she came in and closed it behind her. Sev shook her head.
"You don't have to knock, you know; it's your room too."
Hopping onto the bed, Erin said, "Oh, I know. But sometimes you need to be alone."
Sev gave the hobbit a sidelong look. "Which one of them sent you to fetch me?"
Erin grinned. "Celebsul."
"And what diversion has the elf devised?"
"He says he has remembered a card game with unusual stakes." She bounced in her seat, smiling brightly. "Whoever loses a turn must tell a short story. He says games like this might actually last a good deal of the night."
With a snort, Sev replied, "Why am I not surprised? I presume he brought the cards?"
"Actually, Alfgard's stable hands had them, but when they saw Cel watching them play another game, they got all stuttery and nearly fell over themselves to let him have them."
Laughing in spite of herself, given the visual of young Rohirrim hands meeting a genuine ten thousand-year-old elf, Sev rolled to a sitting position.
"Very well, let us go find him."
xxx
Emerging from the brush to amble toward the turn-off for the village, Anardil adopted a persona he had used before when visiting The Black Cauldron, a riverman reduced by the loss of his arm to wandering the roads. Wryly, he considered it was only because far too many men had suffered fates similar to his own that the absence of an arm seldom proved a deterrent to remaining anonymous. A twist of his hair into a queue at his neck, an adopted slouch and sullenness of face, and he became just another unfortunate soul.
A far greater hindrance to his ability to remain in the shadows was his lady's much bemoaned notoriety. Through his connection with Sev, several of the villagers recognised him on sight and would not be fooled by the simple disguises presently available to him. Ah well, 'twas a small price to pay for her company; and upon the completion of Nik's hearing, it was to be hoped that Sev's reputation would once again fade to just that of a travelling herbalist and occasional trader.
With the skills honed over years of moving unseen through enemy territory, Anardil walked along hidden ways leading to the village centre. From the doorway of The Whistling Dog bright light spilled out along with raucous laughter. Alfgard's men and those Rangers evicted from their quarters by the arrival of Lord Valthaur were making the most of their evening. Stepping around a muddy patch to the other side of the road, Anardil spared a glance upwards. Somewhere within the building were Lord Darien and a portion of his men. The Gondorian lord was no doubt as furious as Sevilodorf at Captain Tarannon's order for the two parties to remain separated until the commencement of the hearing on the morrow. But it was not with Darien that Anardil's business lay.
Located along the stream the villagers liked to think of as a river, The Black Cauldron contrasted starkly with The Whistling Dog. It was a tavern of the sort all too familiar to Anardil. No matter whether the river city of Pelargir or the dark alleys of distant Umbar, there would be a ramshackle building where those who favoured the underbelly of society gathered. Such places always swam with drink - not the highest quality but plentiful and cheap - and women of likewise characteristics. The men who frequented such establishments seldom looked closely at their neighbours.
Thus if a man were willing to sit quietly in a smoky corner and sip his ale without drawing attention to himself, it was possible to remain observant but unnoticed for quite some time. Long enough, at any rate, for Anardil to determine two facts: the local brew tasted muddy and he was not the only watcher. That hulking other he noted through narrowed eyes, but only with the interest a tired old soldier would be expected to display.
A trio of men, members of Darien's entourage according to their raucous exchanges, exited from the tavern. The misshapen observer followed just moments later. Such a coincidence coiled uncomfortably in Anardil's guts. He mulled over the possible implications while finishing his ale, but without arriving at any conclusions. Signalling the buxom barmaid, he held up two copper coins and watched with an appreciative leer as she slid them into her bodice.
In the broad, growling accents of Cair Andros, he asked, "Where's that big orc that used to work here? Me boss had a job for him and his boys."
"Lorgarth?" the blond replied, swiping at a small pool of ale with the edge of her skirt. "He's out back. Want I should fetch him for you?"
"Won't be necessary; need to take a little walk that way meself."
With a shrug that caused her chemise to slip down and expose a smooth white shoulder, the barmaid gathered up Anardil's empty mug and returned to the bar.
xxx
A gibbous moon lit the back road that separated the village from the woodland. Sira sauntered in the shadow of overhanging trees, a smile playing upon her lips. They had only managed a few moments together, she and her latest beau, but such wonderful moments, snatched in a brief break from work. The couple met in a secluded spot equidistant from their places of employment; he obliged to cook and wash up each evening at the garrison while Sira served customers at The Whistling Dog. On days off, they spent every moment together, but neither could bear to go for a week without seeing each other. Thus, every night, he and she would escape for a half-hour to share soft words and sweet kisses.
Sira shook her head and smiled even more. What did she see in him? He would never win the wealth she craved, nor make her into a fine lady. He wasn't even all that clever, but very handsome and strong, and so romantic. Looking down at her lace gloves, she recalled how he kissed her hands and told her the scars did not matter, insisting she was beautiful, brave and the most desirable woman in the world. Nor would he do more than kiss and cuddle her. "In time," he said when she melded into his arms, and she knew he meant to marry her.
Realising she would be late back at the tavern if she didn't pick up her pace, Sira looked to see how far along the road she had progressed. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a shambling figure heading into the trees ahead: an orc. Almost certainly one of the domesticated creatures employed in town, but she could not risk it seeing her. Sidling into deeper shadow, Sira listened to the rustle of heavy feet on fallen leaves. To her horror, while the orc moved deeper into the wood, it's progress also angled in her direction on some hidden path slanting away from the road.
"There you are at last."
Agonising chill clutched Sira's heart at the sound of that voice, and she sank to her knees. It couldn't be. It must be someone who sounded like him. It mustn't be him. It must not be Margul.
The orc murmured unintelligibly and the man responded in a lowered voice. It couldn't be Margul. Sira ought to just ignore the exchange, creep quietly away, and forget about it.
But what if it was Margul?
What if he had returned to wreak revenge on her for thwarting his plan to ruin the proceedings in Minas Tirith? In his twisted mind he might well think Sira should have simply allowed his orcs to kill her and throw her head over the city walls - final proof of the inability of orcs and men to co-exist. Hadn't he murdered his own ally, the repulsive Minna, for her part in that failure? Sira's hands stung as she recalled the desperate act of scooping up burning embers from the campfire to throw into the face of the woman who held her captive.
Cringing fear settled deep in the pit of Sira's stomach, yet something akin to steel straightened her spine; she silently rose to her feet and peered into the woods. From her vantage of darkness, the moonlight spilling in the grove seemed bright as day, the figures easy to discern despite the distance. A sigh of relief slipped from her lips when she focussed on the untidy, bearded man. Not Margul, not the clean-shaven dandy who once courted her. Yet he walked in circles while he talked, straight-backed, with an arrogant tilt to his head. Then the moon flashed in his eyes: pale, silver-green, and Sira sank to her knees once more.
xxx
After the taproom's closeness, Anardil welcomed the coolness of the outdoors. Nonetheless, a strong odour, coming from the direction of the privy, marred the fresh air, and the guttural tones of orcish voices broke the silence of night.
"Crimp that nail down, Corbat, then leave it for now. Whole thing will have to be replaced in the morning."
"Aye, boss."
"I'll leave you to it. Be sure to wash yourself before you come back inside."
Corbat gave a grunt of agreement and muttered a reply in an Orcish tongue that set the taller orc to laughing.
"Course he would, but we don't want to have to dig another privy." Giving the smaller orc a solid thump on the shoulder, the other turned and looked directly into the shadows where Anardil stood. "Especially since there's going be some excitement in town for the next few days."
With a wink, the orc pointed away from the tavern toward a collection of huts poised haphazardly upon the riverbank. After a casual glance toward the rear door, Anardil nodded, and allowed himself to be led into the largest of the huts. Concerted effort masked the tightening between his shoulders as he stepped into that confined space, and lamplight clearly revealed the shambling, misshapen bulk of his former foe. However, though certainly not up to a hobbit's standards of cleanliness, the interior of the crudely furnished hut was far neater than the ex-Ranger had expected.
"It is hoped that boredom is the order of the day rather than excitement, Lorgarth," Anardil murmured.
The orc closed the door and jerked a thumb towards a one-armed chair. The irony of a maimed chair for a disfigured man was clearly noted in the orc's hideous grin.
"Aye, but hardly likely seeing your woman's involved. She draws trouble like a privy draws flies."
"Not an extremely elegant image, but undeniably accurate." Anardil lowered himself to his seat - carefully, lest the chair conceal other wounds - and met the orc's yellow gaze steadily. "Meanwhile, what have you to report?"
Lorgarth frowned and drew a bottle from beneath a lumpy straw-filled mattress. While pondering his thoughts, he took a tin cup from its place on the water bucket beside the door. Filling the cup, he offered the amber liquid to Anardil.
"Lots of strangers coming to town for this hearing. Most of 'em expecting it will go the way of all the rest. Orc guilty. Some think this one might be different." Lorgarth's eyes gleamed. "Heard about Lord Valthaur the other day - that was a right shock. You never mentioned him when you asked me to keep an eye on things."
Accepting the battered cup, Anardil shrugged, and regarded the orc in silence.
After a gurgling chuckle, Lorgarth took a swig from the bottle. "Course I didn't need to know that to watch the farmer's boy and the barmaid."
Without blinking, Anardil sniffed then sipped carefully at the liquid in his cup. His eyebrows climbed in pleased surprise. Better by far than anything The Black Cauldron had on its shelves.
Bottle dangling in one gnarled paw, Lorgarth continued, "Girl's got a new man. Always sneaking off to meet him in the woods on the west end of town."
"Who is he?"
"New recruit at the garrison. Been around for a month or two. Started walking out with your barmaid a few weeks ago."
"She is not my barmaid."
The quiet response brought a guffaw from Lorgarth. "No, reckon she's not. Your missus and her knives would settle that one right quick, if'n that lass ever turned her eyes on you."
Anardil allowed a small smile to flicker across his face before asking, "And the boy?"
"Now, that's an interesting one. Got himself a friend too. A bit peculiar there."
"And why is that?"
"Cause it's one of my lads. Name of Odbut. Wandered in from the hills just afore summer. Nothing but skin and bones, at first."
The former Ranger's eyes widened at this. An unexpected turn indeed, for Margul's former spy and errand boy to suddenly welcome association with the orcish race. While Cullen doubtless struggled to retain an original thought, he had previously managed to be quite vehement in his opposition to any favours for orc-kind. Margul's own motivations remained a mystery, but clearly, he had made quite an impression on the callow youth.
Anardil did not attempt to conceal his dislike or disbelief as he asked, "Cullen is befriending an orc?"
"Aye, leastways they talk. Not here, of course. Tiroc told the boy to keep away from here, and the lad's following his dad's orders."
"So where do they meet?"
"Now there's another peculiar part. If'n you can believe it, they go fishing together."
Anardil's knew his expression must somehow mirror that of the being opposite - he found the story as incredulous as Lorgarth apparently did, though he harboured no doubt regarding its truth. "And what does this Odbut look like?"
"You saw him, inside tonight. Big ugly fellow picking up after you lot."
Anardil blinked. "I believe we've found another peculiar thing about your new lad. He's watching Lord Darien's men."
The black lips curled around a sneer. "He's not the only one. That Osric makes a right fool of himself."
Swirling the remaining whiskey in his cup, Anardil waited for the orc to continue. Lorgarth idly turned the bottle between his fingers, then obliged.
"One of the strangers - fellow with spiky eyebrows and hair on his lip - clerk or some such to that law lord - was talking to them last night."
Drawing his brows together, Anardil considered possible reasons for Valthaur's clerk to be interested in Lord Darien's men. Likely the corpulent justice wanted to know in advance the sort of people and attitudes he would be working with. But the hour grew late, so Anardil filed the information for future consideration.
"Anything else of interest?"
Yellow eyes narrowed over a leering grin. "Not unless you're wanting to hear the story about Corbat and the privy."
"No, I believe I'll pass on that tale." Anardil allowed a grin to stretch across his face. "His idea of dropping the tavern-keeper in and nailing the door shut is scarcely original."
"Understood that did ya?" Lorgarth chuckled, "No one's ever gonna accuse Corbat of smart thinking, but he does right well when he's got someone to tell him what to do."
Thinking of the lumbering Lugbac, Anardil answered, "True for many of your folk."
"Aye, that's what makes it so important for them to choose the right master."
Anardil bent to set his empty cup down with a metallic clink, watching his strange host's expression. "Are you the master of your new lad? Or does another hold his allegiance?"
No man could read what lay behind an orc's eyes, particularly when he no longer felt forthcoming. "He follows my orders, or I'll know why not."
"Did you set him to trailing Lord Darien's men?"
"Trailing? No."
"He left on their heels tonight."
Lorgarth muttered in a guttural tongue then said, "He's slipped off afore. Not give it much thought. Most of the boys have a hard time dealing with you tarks. Safer for them to take a run through the woods than to risk losing control."
Anardil sensed that this last was at least a partial untruth. Yet he knew from the set look upon Lorgarth's twisted face there was nothing he had time to say or do that would convince the orc to tell him more about the mysterious Odbut.
He rose, leaving the cup beside his chair. "And do you sometimes take a little run, Lorgarth?"
Eyes glittering in the lamplight, the orc briefly exposed jagged teeth. "I got more patience than some."
Not quite foes and yet not entirely allies, the pair exchanged wry glances and let their odd interview end. With a nod of farewell, Anardil walked out into the night. No sooner did the door thud shut behind him than he inhaled a great, rib-spreading breath, and looked up to the first stars twinkling cleanly through a net of limbs and leaves.
"Ah, me," he sighed as he settled into his long stride. But if he had any further thoughts, he let them pass unvoiced even to himself.
Back down the narrow ways he trod, pausing once to the patter of swift footsteps. Sinking into shadow, he watched while a feminine form flew from the darkness and sped towards the welcoming lights of The Whistling Dog as if the hounds of Mordor were at her heels. Yet when the door swung open, light within revealed Sira's face, and Anardil quirked a wry grin. Undoubtedly the lass had overstayed her latest tryst, and feared Cameroth's wrath for tardiness.
A few paces more and the amber square of a wide window caught his eye. Through the mullioned panes he had a narrow view of the inn's common room, warmly lit and welcoming. Near the hearth two labourers bent their heads together over pints of ale, while the innkeeper, Cameroth, passed through an inner doorway and out of sight.
Then Anardil paused, his attention fixing on a solitary figure sitting in the middle of the room. Dressed in a farm hand's neat but simple clothes, Anardil recognised the youth. Cullen, son of Tiroc, seemed to have strayed from his evening chores, and the former Ranger's thoughts leapt back to his conversation with Lorgarth.
Why would the farmer's son make the odd switch from Margul's lackey, complete with spurious airs and overpriced clothes, to befriending an orc? Why would that same orc be set to watch Darien's men - and by whom? Upon being caught out as Margul's spy, what little spine Cullen possessed had instantly dissolved. Yet even then he had been unable to tell his master's intent or motivations, and appeared only too grateful to return home to his parents' farm.
Frowning, Anardil vaguely recalled that Cullen's father at one time employed an orc as a farm labourer - that orc subsequently killed by Darien's hunters. Perhaps the strange association between Cullen and Odbut now was mere coincidence, even a grim curiosity on Cullen's part to more closely examine the orcish race. At this point, the only connection Anardil could find was that an orc he spied shadowing Darien's men tonight had an alleged, if odd, friendship with Margul's former errand boy. What that might bode was a thought best left for later examination, when more details came to light.
Whatever the case, at least Cullen appeared to have foresworn his unsavoury patronage of The Black Cauldron, and Cameroth would doubtless keep an eye on the lad. With a mental shrug Anardil moved on, hastening towards rest and his waiting lady.
xxx
After collecting the dozens of empty tankards that had accumulated in her absence, Sira found time to sit alongside Cullen and hiss at him, "Margul's back."
For a moment, the youth did not react. No doubt more than a little drunk, he turned his head slowly and attempted to focus on the barmaid's face. "What?"
Sira resisted the urge to scream, but her hiss grew more intense. "Margul! Margul is here, in the town, in disguise."
Colour and stupor drained slowly from Cullen's face to be replaced by wide-eyed shock. "In disguise? You sure it was him?"
"Yesss. I heard his voice, saw his eyes. He may have grown his hair and a beard, but there is no mistaking him. He was talking to that orc that you're so friendly with."
"Odbut? He's harmless - just a dumb orc who knows how to catch fish. Taught me how to tickle trout. I've been making extra money by selling our catches. What would Margul be talking to him for?"
Frowning, the barmaid ducked her head and spoke as if to herself. "Odbut … Odbut?"
Then memory flooded back.
Sira bound hand and foot, facing Minna across a campfire, asking if the terrible woman intended to kill her. What had Minna replied? Something about: "Not me - I'm waiting for Odbut and Margul's other lads."
"Oh my…" Sira breathed out in disbelief. Then she grabbed Cullen by the collar. "Why didn't you tell me it was called Odbut?"
"You never asked, ruddy heck. What does it matter?" The lad pulled back forcing Sira's hand to drop. "I said: he's just a dumb orc."
"Oh no, he's not!" Heads turned at Sira's raised voice. She schooled herself and spoke quietly through her teeth. "He's Margul's chief assassin."
Cullen's eyes lost focus again. "How do you work that out?"
"Because Minna told me. Remember Minna?" Seeing Cullen's face crumple, Sira continued. "She said this Odbut would come and kill me, then pay other orcs to toss my head over the walls of Minas Tirith. And remember the intended victim had been you - you Cullen, not me. I was there because you didn't dare meet Minna again. I was doing YOU a favour."
"It could be a different Odbut." The youth clutched at straws.
"Talking to Margul in the woods at night? Sober up, fool - we need to decide what to do. Margul killed Minna. He probably wants us both dead too."
Shaking his head, Cullen spoke his confused thoughts aloud. "If Odbut's Margul's assassin, and if Margul wants us dead, why are we still alive? Odbut's had all sorts of chances to kill me. If Margul's here for anything, it'll be to see what happens at the hearing tomorrow … yes, that's it. Nothing to do with me and you."
Sira mulled this over for a moment. It did make sense. If Odbut had been here for weeks, then Margul could have been as well. Maybe his interest did centre on the hearing. He hated the idea of justice for orcs because that might deprive him of his mercenaries - creatures desperate to make a way in life by any means they could.
But why had the orc befriended Cullen?
"We have to tell someone."
"No!" the youth shot back instantly.
"Why?" It made no sense to Sira. "We can get Margul and Odbut arrested, then we'll be safe."
Tears of desperate anxiety appeared in Cullen's eyes. "No we won't. If we make any more trouble for Margul than we already have, we're sure to be murdered."
"Who by, with those two locked up safe and sound?"
Eyelids closing in pain, a teardrop ran down the youth's cheeks. "You don't understand the friends he has. Friends we can't hope to accuse. People who could crush us like beetles."
Appalled at the fear now shaking through the youth, fear of something more terrible than Margul, Sira asked, "What friends?"
"I can't tell you. You're better off not knowing, believe me. But they are here, Sira, in this town. Just keep quiet, lay low and trust nobody. Do you understand? Trust nobody, not even them that you think you can most trust."
Clambering to his feet, Cullen shook off Sira's restraining hand and fled from the inn. The barmaid stared vacantly, pondering his words. Could there really be people in Henneth Annûn who were in league with Margul? Were there those amongst whom she most trusted who would kill her? Was Margul here only to disrupt the hearing in some way, and if so, should she risk her life to expose him?
The memory of burning ached in Sira's hands and her thoughts swirled wildly. Around her, the tavern gradually emptied with customers heading home to their beds. She stood up automatically, and began collecting empty tankards.
xxx
TBC ...