Chapter Six: Casus Belli
Twisting tendrils of grey-blue smoke drifted upon the night air: thick and heavy with the acrid scent of charred wood, burnt canvas and flesh.
Three soldiers stood vigilant, watching over their prisoner: one shouldered a large spear. Another held a loosely strung bow in hand, his dark gaze distinctly wary and full of suspicion. The last fingered his sword hilt, staring idly across the camp. The men would take no more chances of escape.
The tent that had imprisoned him had burnt in the attack. In consequence, the elf's legs had been hobbled and his wrists tightly tied behind his back with cords. A leather strip threaded between his bound wrists, passing through a loop in the collar around his neck, and shortened akin to a bearing rein on a horse.
The strap pulled his head back, narrowing his field of vision until he could see only the waving trees and a glimmer of white far above his head. But even the sight of the stars was denied him as the guards fastened a blindfold tightly about his eyes.
He closed his eyes against the rough fabric and exhaled slowly to try to calm his taut nerves. Effectively restrained and blind he could only attempt to force his thoughts away from his predicament. But that did little good. Over and over again the events of the battle played behind his eyes. He had not seen what had become of the boy during the battle but from what he had seen, many experienced veterans and soldiers had fallen in that fight.
A mere boy held no chance.
Sorrow and guilt for the young life pierced the elf's heart beating heavily in his chest. He would have bowed his head had his neck been able to move. Even among men, the boy had been but a child scarce out of babyhood…
Being bound again brought up more troubling memories he would rather have avoided as well. Instead of thinking, he tried to concentrate on the sounds of the camp: men speaking in low voices as they passed from time to time, the crackle and pop of renewed fires, the hiss of the wind in the trees, sorrowing over the death that clung to the air.
He did not know how long he had been sitting there in the darkness. But muscles tensed automatically as his keen ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps. The blindfold jerked away from his eyes, leaving him blinking in a near-blinding light thrust in his face.
Anaric bent over him, a lantern in one hand, and undid the leather strap that held the prisoner's neck immobile with the other. Haldir rotated his neck gingerly, flexing shoulders long gone stiff with a wince. The ropes binding him creaked in response. Nervously one of the guards checked them as their commander knelt beside the prisoner.
"You should eat," Anaric told him quietly, setting a bowl of what looked like boiled roots before him. "Taurdeth told me you ate nothing when offered. I assure you it is not poisoned in any way."
"I refuse to eat like an animal from your hand," Haldir replied, his grey eyes hard and flinty as he regarded his captor's face.
Anaric shook his head with a hint of resignation. "Such pride will not avail you here, elf. I am being generous to one who more than deserves death by my hand." His voice hardened.
"How?" Haldir retorted angrily. "How have I earned such treatment?"
"You sided with those mongrels, spy of the elf-sorceress!" Ramir spat out, scarcely able to keep back his rage. To think this creature thought he deserved anything better! "Do you know how many good men are dead because of you!"
Haldir's dark silver gaze met the man's steadily. Ramir flinched back, feeling threatened by those calm, piercing eyes that seemed to weigh every inch of him. Forgetting the lore of Gondor and the kinship shared by the elves, he remembered suspicions whispered on a dark patrol; the ghost stories passed down through the water-down years when knowledge and wisdom waned and fear took its place.
Ramir turned his gaze away from those eyes, knowing well the legend of them. Elves, it was said, could look into your thoughts- turn even your memories against you. Drive a man mad. The thought that this creature had any kind of control over him made the man furious. Without thinking, he lunged forward and cuffed the elf furiously across the face. "Filthy scum."
"Enough!" Anaric snapped, seizing his subordinate's wrist, glaring at him with a pointed look. He, too, knew the ancient stories- and before- for he had been educated in the manner of Gondor's ruling class.
"I apologize on behalf of those under my command," he said, glancing grimly over his shoulder at the errant soldier who quickly retreated from under his captain's ire. "Do not judge all of us on his account."
"I do not," Haldir said quietly, tasting blood on his lips.
"That is good. There are laws in Gondor concerning the treatment of prisoners of war and I intend to follow them," Anaric promised quietly. "However I seek answers to many questions."
Haldir shook his head resignedly. "I can tell you nothing. I am innocent and no spy."
"Why did you run then if you are as innocent as you claim?" Anaric returned.
Would the man believe he had been trying to save the boy? Probably not…
"The child… I saw him among your enemies on the other side of the camp. I tried to get to him… before circumstances changed," Haldir explained.
"Taurdeth is his name. Was his name. Unfortunately, 'the child' is dead and cannot give us his account,'" Anaric said coolly, his eyes betraying the hurt and sadness such a loss inflicted on him.
Half of his men had been slaughtered in that fight, not the least of which had been the young message-runner. Grief and anger at himself fueled him on; he wanted some answers and he wanted them now. "You knew they would attack."
Haldir denied it.
"They freed you of your bonds and allowed you to live. You must have meant something to them alive," the man insisted.
Again, the elf shook his head. He couldn't even explain to himself why the Haradrim had not just killed him. They were not a people known for mercy.
"I know nothing of them."
"Do not waste my time with lies, elf."
Haldir sighed softly, irritated with the human's stubborn resolve to ignore reason. "I can offer you no more than my word that I speak the truth."
"And yet your word I cannot trust." Anaric murmured. "How then may I judge if you speak truth or lies?"
"As a man judges all deeds on this earth."
Anaric smiled but it did not reach his eyes. "It is said that elves speak in riddles. At least this I know now to be true. Very well then. It is late. We will speak more tomorrow. Perhaps hunger will bend your hard heart if words will not. Let the prisoner stretch his legs. We're departing at first light." This last was directed towards the two guards who flanked him as the human commander turned away.
The two guards pulled the prisoner to his feet, attaching a long rope to the collar around his neck like a leash so they could be assured of no escape. Haldir found his once light long strides horribly hampered by the hobble about his ankles. Nevertheless he was grateful for the chance to move; his muscles had coiled themselves into knots. At least he could look up through the trees and glimpse the stars as they walked, the guards mere silent sentinels at his sides.
The younger of the two looked scarcely into manhood and peered at the elf out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to stare while staring: his gaze the same one of mingled curiosity and fear all men turned to elves in this Age. Underneath a mop of shoulder length dark hair, a light bandage passed across his brow- a relic of the fierce battle the night before. The merest shadow of dark stubble brushed his jaw and he scratched it idly after he shifted the grip on his spear, clearly unused to holding the weapon for such a long period of time or in such circumstances.
The other, a stout man of middle age, held the lead rope and moved grimly a few paces ahead, never looking at the prisoner but keeping his eyes intent upon the path. A torch glimmered in his opposite hand, lighting their way over the uneven ground black as pitch in the dark night
They passed many bedrolls of restlessly tossing soldiers, guttering campfires and half-constructed tents put up haphazardly in the dark. On the furthest edge of the camp, a silent mound of freshly turned earth lay bared, a silver spear rising there ghostlike-glinting in the moonlight. Haldir looked at it with sorrow, knowing the young message-runner lay cold under that mound. Beside one of the embedded spears, a man stood with head bowed, his hands wrapped about the haft.
Coming in the opposite direction marched a pair of grim guards, sentinels set to patrol the perimeter.
They passed in silence.
Haldir tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his aching legs and how numb his hands had become from the tight binds. Breathing deeply of the fresh night air, he closed his eyes a moment, trying to block out the near, menacing presence of his armed escort and the sorrow of the graves.
Reopening them, he stared up through the interlacing tree branches, his eyes seeking the light of the star of High Hope- Eärendil. Even in his present state, Haldir felt his heart lift a little at the sight of the beautiful white star which shone even in the deepest darkness, granting him much needed strength and even more desperately needed hope. He needed that more than ever now.
The clouds were moving in once more and slowly the light of Eärendil dwindled, and went out as ragged shreds of night smothered it.
Then without warning, something struck him hard between the shoulder blades.
Caught off balance by the suddenness of the attack, Haldir lost his footing, his twisted leg buckling under him. Reacting on instinct, he rolled quickly to get his feet under him. He heard a heavy thud and his bound hands knocked against something hard and cold. The hilt of a sword. He followed the path of the blade to its owner and froze.
Blood trickled from the old guard's open mouth, his wide, staring eyes glazed in death; his gnarled scarred hand still curled limply around the rope. Shocked and alarmed, Haldir pushed himself away from the corpse and started violently as two hands closed about his shoulders, jerking him to his feet.
Wrenching free desperately, Haldir twisted about in the hands of his captor and froze. He stared at the apparition in confusion. A deep hood concealed the figure's features from even elven sight and even as Haldir stood there, the shadow vanished into the trees as quickly as it had come.
"Gotcha!"
A thick arm wrapped about Haldir's neck and wrenched him backwards, throwing him to the ground again. On instinct, the elf reacted. Kicking out sharply, his hard-soled boots connected solidly with the shins of his attacker, sending him sprawling with a curse.
Haldir scrambled nimbly to his feet even with his arms tied, coughing from the hard grip around his windpipe.
The younger guard lay upon the grass, knocked senseless by a hard blow to the back of his neck, the corpse of the slain guard beside him. Ramir was staggering to his feet, rubbing his shin. His eyes lit with an angry fire as they passed over the slain sentry. He swept his sword out with a hiss and advanced on the elf.
"You killed him, you bloodthirsty beast!"
Without giving the elf a chance to even open his mouth, the sword scythed towards him. Haldir ducked under it and danced backwards out of reach of the weapon.
Brash and over-powerful in his fury, Ramir wildly swung his sword. Haldir dodged each but each movement caused a thrum of pain to echo through his weakened body.
The other guard awoke with a dazed groan, rubbing the back of his neck. He froze at the odd sight of his superior swiping furiously at the prisoner with a naked sword. Getting gingerly to his feet, he could do nothing but stare as though riveted, a look of stunned surprise on his face.
Nearly out of sight of the Gondorian campfires, Ramir set his foot upon the rope still attached to the elf's collar, jerking it taut and half-choking him again. Furiously, the man lashed out with his other hand, catching the elf in the jaw. Blood began to stream from Haldir's nose and mouth as the curled fingers of the man's gauntleted arm fell hard across his face again and again.
"I won't let you get away with it, elf," he spat the word as though it were a curse, punctuating every word with a blow. "Anaric… thinks he has to play nice…Hides his cowardice behind foolish talk of laws… Out here there are no laws… no rules save those we make… ourselves."
Once, the younger guard opened his mouth as though to speak but abruptly closed it and looked away uneasily, shifting his spear again and touching a hand to his head. His blue eyes scanned the campfires below them as though hoping someone might avert this. But he dared not interfere and hung back. His friend had been hacked to pieces by vengeful scimitars- in that fight the men said the elf had caused. And as the older man laid into the elf, he forced himself to look away, to feel no guilt for this.
Ramir drove his fist hard into the elf's stomach, doubling him over. Haldir's knees hit the damp, cool grass. Winded, he knelt there, closing his eyes against the pounding ache in his jaw and nose. His chest heaved as he gulped ragged gasps of air through bleeding lips.
Steel touched his throat, icy cold and trembling with the anger of its owner. Haldir kept carefully still as the blade pricked sharply against his collarbone with enough force to break the skin. He looked up into Ramir's face which was bright red with fury and grief.
"My brother was killed last night- did you know that, elf? I bet you didn't. You don't even care. A heart as black as yours can't feel anything."
The sword dug in a little deeper.
"What is this!"
Ramir spun about, his face whitening with anger and fear as he took in the sight of Anaric striding furiously towards them. The human commander looked rather harried, his dark hair unkempt. He seemed to have been preparing to bed down for the night: his boots were gone with his outer tunic. But his sword gleamed righteously in his hand as he stopped before them.
"Ramir?" he snapped the name into a command, demanding his subordinate to tell him all.
The man blustered but did not lower his sword. "The elf killed Lochren! Put a blade right in his back!"
A stunned silence fell as the commander leaned around the other man to look at his prisoner. "Astounding that he did so with his hands tied," Anaric said dryly, straightening.
"He would have escaped had I not shown up," The other man continued defensively. "He would have gotten Tergon too." He jerked his head at the younger guard.
"You know that punishment for trying to escape is usually thirty lashes," Anaric said quietly. Haldir swore he saw Ramir's face light up with an emotion very close to glee. "However," the commander continued. "I think we'll have to forgo formal punishment for now. You seem to have taken care of it quite… thoroughly, Ramir," he said, the merest trace of a reprimand behind his sternly controlled tone as he caught a glimpse of the elf's bleeding face.
"Besides, we have more important things to deal with now."
He did not explain but his dark, grave eyes spoke of worry and deep care. Something had happened, Haldir knew.
"Get him back to camp, Tergon, and clean him up," he ordered curtly. "Not you, Ramir." He added as the grizzled man bent quickly for the dropped rope. "You will have the luxury of seeing the horses saddled and ready to depart."
The younger soldier hesitatingly took the elf by the shoulder but Haldir pulled away and stood under his own power. Salty blood filled his mouth, dripped down his chin and his shoulder and side hurt viciously, overstrained by this treatment. But he stood.
Tergon led him quietly back into the midst of the camp. Several of the soldiers looked up in amazement, wondering what on earth had happened. A few of them called out questions to the guard but he did not answer their queries as he paused at an unoccupied fire.
Making sure the elf's bonds were still tied tight, the man set about filling a small earthen bowl with water and finding a suitable rag within one of his comrades' packs. Gingerly, he sponged at the dried blood on the elf's lips and nose. At first, Haldir shied away from this uncomfortable contact but the man persisted and eventually the elf stopped.
"I have never seen an elf before," his guard said suddenly as he wrung the cloth over the bowl, the water tinged red.
Haldir smiled a little through the darkening bruises on his cheek and slightly swollen lip. "Nor are you likely to."
The man said nothing to that and leaned forward again with the rag. He could not have been more than twenty five at the very most but it was difficult to tell with humans and Haldir had never been a good judge of them as far as age went.
"You know, I didn't see you kill that man," he said in a hushed whisper as though he feared being overheard.
"I didn't. I do not know what I did," Haldir answered honestly, looking down at his hands. The cords, strained by the one-sided brawl, had tightened considerably and already he could see the marks cutting impressions into his skin. The man followed his gaze.
"You could be lying," Tergon put in. But he didn't sound as though he believed his own words. From his mother, he had first heard stories of elves in his childhood. As a result, the man held a deep-seated respect for the Firstborn. And even though one sat bound before him, faulted for a great crime, he felt an inexplicable stirring in his heart of mingled joy and pity for this fair creature.
"The men say you're an ally of the Haradrim," he said, almost accusingly, testingly.
"That is what they say," Haldir said softly. "I have done no wrong though they think I have. They merely want someone to blame." Bitterness edged his voice as he leaned his head back, seeking the stars once more.
The guard thought about that for a quiet moment, wiping the last of the blood away from the elf's face. Regarding the prisoner silently, he sat back on his heels, hands on knees, staring. The elf looked so quiet, so noble even with his swelling lip and darkened cheek. It was hard indeed to believe that this fair being was a cold ruthless killer.
"How do I know if you are telling the truth?"
"That is for you to decide. I do not expect you to believe me," Haldir said tonelessly, still not opening his eyes.
Taking no more notice of the human, Haldir began to sing softly to himself. Tergon cocked his head, listening. It was a beautiful melody. Sad and piercing though the man did not understand why. The elf's voice was deep, soothing almost like the sea, a strong timber though a little rough as though he had not had occasion to sing in a long time.
"You're telling the truth, aren't you?" he said solemnly when the elf had fallen silent. The guard glanced over his shoulder to make sure none watched. "I am only a soldier, master elf. But if indeed you are innocent, I will all I can- to help you," he offered.
As though the elf were a guest instead of a prisoner, he placed a hand on his chest and bowed his head with a small smile. "I am Tergon son of Mathron. My people are of Dol Amroth."
Such respect Haldir had not known since he was first taken captive and warmth blossomed in his heart lifting a smile to his lips as he inclined his head in return "Well met, Tergon son of Mathron. I am Haldir."
The man smiled and nodded. "Can you tell me aught of your own people?" He asked curiously, sitting down crosslegged across from the elf. "I have never seen an Elf before- it is said that-"
"You guard the prisoner, Tergon, not make friends with him," Ramir growled as he paused over them, making the soldier jump sheepishly.
"I was just seeing if he had anything to tell us, sir," the soldier lied quickly, only then remembering to stand and salute his superior.
The older man grinned a little lopsidedly as his dark eyes passed flittingly over the bound form at his feet.
"We'll get it out of him one way or the other, lad. Don't you worry."
Rúmil's long legs carried him up the fir-covered slope as he shaded his bright eyes against the sun glare slanting through the spiked branches. Reaching the road, the elven scout scanned the trail ahead of him with a keen gaze, following it into the woodland and on until the bend took it from sight.
Easily noticeable to the untrained eye, two deep ruts gouged the ground running parallel to one another- the markings of a heavily laden cart. Alongside and trampling the ruts marched the lighter tread of many spike-toed boots. The Haradrim traveled swiftly for such a great company, stopping never for rest as though being pursued by a terrible and dangerous enemy- or pursuing one.
Those that became too weak to march were abandoned to die in the manner of their countrymen, in the manner of their choosing. Death before dishonor. Loyalty to countrymen and comrades at arms than surrender to mercy. The elves had already found several dead beside the road or in it where they had simply dropped and been left behind.
Beside the sprawling roots of a great conifer lay another- one not yet passed. A spear had pierced his chest. Blood dried dark crimson, scarcely visible against his scarlet shirt. Like a wild bear caught in a pitfall, his wild dark-eyed gaze darted over the strangers as though they could do him more harm than had already been done.
Fedorian eyed him dispassionately, scarcely pausing in his stride. "Leave him."
"What?" Rúmil looked sharply at his commanding officer in disbelief.
"He is bleeding heavily. He won't last much longer."
"We… we can't just leave him like that." Fedorian's bold-faced practicality- on the verge of coldness- startled the younger elf.
Despite the dark man's fierce appearance and the fact that he obviously didn't want the elves' help, Rúmil was not willing to leave a wounded man to suffer such a horrible death alone.
"Then kill him if it makes you feel better."
"What?"
"Can you not hear me?" Fedorian turned round sharply, speaking loudly as though he thought Rúmil had gone suddenly deaf. "I said 'kill him if it makes you feel better.'"
The young soldier was silent for a full minute, looking pleadingly to his other companions for aide. Orophin studied the ground, judiciously avoiding his eyes. Rameil and Ancadal too did not look at him. Déorian met his eyes briefly and shrugged, at a loss.
"I think…" Rúmil began with a sideways glare at his traitorous friends. "I think you're prejudiced… sir," he added belatedly. "You fought these men on the plains of the Dagorlad did you not? Perhaps you wish this one to die so- as enemies of old."
"My feelings are of no consequence in this matter," their commander said softly but angered reproach laced his tones. "He wishes to die- see it in his face- he neither wants, needs nor will accept your help. These people are willing to kill themselves if necessary- to die for their country is an honor and you would have known that, Rúmil, had you listened to the history lessons I tried to drill into you. Obviously, it didn't take."
His commander's biting sarcasm struck deep and Rúmil dropped his eyes, shamed and thoroughly abashed.
Something of a maverick among the other officers of the Lothlórien Guard, Fedorian was rather unpredictable at times. He had fought in many a battle and many a war among his people. He had met many enemies. But his orders were usually to be obeyed. Even if they sometimes (often) clashed with those laid down by their rulers- or the moral qualms of those he led.
"If they wish to destroy themselves, let it be so. It is no affair of ours. Ours is a more pressing concern. Or have you forgotten your brother?"
Rúmil bristled but said nothing.
His head suddenly snapped about, his hand automatically tightening about the wooden stave of his bow as a noise met his ears. He knew that sound.
The sound of nightmares, a sound whose very timber oozed evil and wickedness.
"Wargs."
Fedorian turned slowly towards the north-east where the cry had come from, far too close and piercing. "They hunt."
"I did not know they had grown so bold as to come so close to our borders," Orophin put in, drawing a white-feathered arrow steadily to his bow.
The Haradrim soldier seemed to recognize the cry too for his dark eyes widened and he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily upon the tree trunk as blood dripped down his front. Anything that lay defenseless was an easy kill for the evil wolves east of the mountains.
"Get away from the trees." Instantly Fedorian's hands dropped about his black-handled knives as the elves stood in tight formation, each with their backs to one another, lessening the target area. They knew this enemy though packs had not been commonly seen until last winter.
Presently beneath the forest trees, the elves could discern feral eyes, deep-set in large square faces, hairy low-slung bodies crouched to the ground. They encircled the patch of road, intent upon their prized prey. Rúmil's hands tightened about his sword's hilt, his eyes flickering between the yellow eyes floating just within the dense darkness of the trees and the injured man leaning against a pine trunk just outside it.
He didn't know what he was doing. There was no time to think.
Only to act.
Rúmil darted forward, breaking formation, and grabbed the wounded man by his scarlet cloak.
"Rúmil! Return!"
Deaf to his commander's sharp order, the young elf hauled the dark man to his feet and started to drag him towards the center of the road. He was heavy and staggering against the elf's shoulder. Rúmil cradled his sword carefully in one hand while struggling to support the Harad soldier with the other.
Then they attacked.
The wargs rushed out of the trees, howling their challenge to the sun and steel of their enemies. Rúmil met the gaze of one and his blue eyes widened in terror. The dark soldier dragged on his arm, preventing him from bringing his blade up in time. The weight of the creature slammed into them, sending both careening into the earth. The dark soldier went down with a shrill scream that rent the air and rang in Rúmil's ears as the warg sank its teeth into his face.
Rúmil brought his blade up blindly, cleaving through fur and sinking deep into flesh even as the warg feasted upon its kill, and fell dead atop it. Staggering from underneath the fetid beast's corpse, his chest aching where it had been crushed to the earth, the Lórien soldier readied his blade for another attack.
White arrows zipped past his head as Ancadal and Déorian shot bolt after bolt unerringly into warg fur but their arrows numbered few since the battle on the cliffs. A knife spun- a mere blur- as it whistled past Rúmil's head, striking a lunging wolf in the shoulder and turning it aside with a sharp yelp.
Rúmil spun his sword in a flashing arc, senses fully expanded to catch every sound, every yip and cry, every whistle of bowstring and song of sword. His blade seemed to quicken in his hand, slicing flesh and bone apart as easily as through water.
The warg's claws lacked the reach of an elven sword but their speed and size enabled them to power past the swift-moving tip of the blade. A bulky animal bowled into the much lighter elf sending him spinning to the ground again. Gasping for breath, Rúmil tried to twist over onto his back to get to his feet. But sharp claws hooked his belt and Rúmil felt heavy paws press his lower back, grinding him further into the earth.
Fumbling with shaking hands, he strained to pull the knife trapped under his weight. Hot fetid breath brushed his cheek and the elf struggled harder than ever, knowing he was dead. Suddenly, the weight lifted gaspingly and the wolf retreated, screaming with a near-human voice as it thrashed upon the ground for a minute with a small knife embedded in its mouth before it flopped over and lay still.
A strong arm grabbed the young elf by the collar and hauled him up, gasping and rubbing his bruised chest. Rúmil swung around and smiled thankfully at Rameil who pressed the scout's sword back into his hand.
"What is a warrior without his sword?" the dark-haired elf jested, spinning the younger one around to face the wolf barreling down on him.
A swift upward thrust and the warg fell, bleeding from the mouth. Taking the small lull to breathe, Rúmil looked for the rest of his friends. They had retained their tight formation but all of the arrows were spent and the wargs had slipped around them and forcibly wedged them apart.
"Rúmil-!"
The younger elf spun about in time to see Rameil tumble to the ground with a pained cry as one of the animals leapt upon his back, tearing ruthlessly at him with rending envenomed claws. Rúmil lunged forward.
A flicker of white flashed and the warg crashed backwards on its haunches, only white feathers and an inch of wood protruding from where one last salvaged arrow had found its mark in the beast's neck.
Rúmil ran to his friend who moaned softly. The warg had set his teeth into Rameil's leg, tearing the muscle of his calf. Vicious scores shredded his tunic, spreading crimson over the linen.
"Sorry," he muttered distractedly, gripping his leg above the knee. "I didn't see it until-"
"Shh," Rúmil soothed. One hand gripping his sword tightly, the other resting on his friend's shoulder, Rúmil crouched tense and ready, his face taut with fury.
But the remaining wolves backed off, snarling vicious challenges but they did not attack again. The creatures had halted as though stricken by the ice of the Helcaraxë. Or called to the heel of some dark master. Their leader, a powerful female, sat back near the trees, paws folded almost primly before her as she watched the battle with a flat gaze, her black lips slightly pulled back from yellowed fangs. She had called the halt.
Between them, Rúmil and Déorian managed to get Rameil to his feet. He leaned heavily upon them, unable to put weight on his left leg. His face had gone ashen pale and he heaved in labored, shallow breaths as though even that simple process hurt. Ancadal and Fedorian stood to either side, protecting their open flanks, their scarlet-streaked weapons raised warily. The wargs circled menacingly but did not attack.
In silence, they waited, each group unmoving, each waiting for the other to make one last move.
