Chapter twelve: Links in a Chain

From Historical Fiction: an Apology, by Thanniel Scrivener, F.A. 1659

Scholars mock what I do. They write history, scrupulous researched. I write mere fiction, stories of little worth.

But history has always been story. Histories have come down to us from the Elder Days, and in them we hear that Fëanor said this, and Thingol said that. We hear the words of Isildur, spoken in snatched moments before his death. Were any of those exact words spoken? Did someone stand beside the speakers and write them down? Or did scholars and bards and minstrels later compose what these great ones might have said, based on a dim memory of someone who was there? The stories tell the essential truth of what had happened, but do they always tell the actual truth, true in every detail?

I think not. Today our scholars adhere so much to truth that it makes them dry. They have lost the "story" from history. They rattle off lists and numbers: times and dates, the composition of an army, facts and figures about life expectancies, about the thickness of defensive walls, about the value of coinage. When eyewitnesses have left accounts, they quote them, and that is good, but for every person who left a diary, we have a thousand who did not.

I write fiction, I admit that, but like their history, my fiction is scrupulously researched. I write fiction that could have been. My latest book is set in the twelfth year of the Fourth Age. Many histories have been written about that summer, but I aim to fill the gaps in them. I will go behind closed doors. When Elessar or Faramir were closeted in private debate, and no record was kept of it, I will put words in their mouths. Fiction, yes, but we know what actions resulted from those debates, and we know what sort of men they were. Words such as these were doubtless spoken. Does it matter if mine are not the right ones?

And I will flesh out people who are just names to us. "A report came from an informant in the city," the historians write, "that the man they were searching for had been sighted. A party of eight was sent out to bring him down." And that is all that they give us. They report the result of the mission, and its consequences. They don't bother telling us the name of the informant. They don't bother telling us the names of those men. They don't pause to wonder what those men felt as they moved in on their target. Such men are nothing to them if they left no record.

I tell their tale. Sometimes my heroes are ordinary people, fictional people who might have been, caught up in great events. Sometimes my heroes are great ones, and I take the words they have left to us, and flesh them out. In my books, even the greatest of kings knows fear, and wrestles sometimes with doubt about the wisdom of his choice. Fanciful nonsense, the scholars say, but to them I say only this: how can you be so sure?

Just because no evidence remains, how can you be so sure that it never happened?

The guard was ready, hot beneath his armour. He had to be discreet; that's what he'd been ordered. Discreet if he could. Reveal himself only if he had to. They were defending the entrance to the alley, he and his mate, trying to keep to the shadows as much as possible, but ready to move out if they saw anyone moving ahead.

Who was the target? A man with a sword cut on his cheek, a couple of days old. He hadn't been told anything else. A wrong-doer, obviously. A common murderer? A thief? A wife-beater? He hoped not. He hoped that it was him, the low-life who'd murdered Hastor and dumped him in a fountain. Hastor had been his mate, too, although he was a quiet fellow, never one for drinking and loud banter. But sometimes quietness was what you needed. You could say things to a quiet comrades, things you could never say to the rowdy lads down in the tavern. You could say things, and they listened, and never breathed a word of it to another soul.

I hope it's him, the guard thought. I hope I'm the one to bring him down.

But for now, all he could do was wait, sweltering in the sun. He glanced up at the roof. Worse up there, of course, with no shadows at all, just the baking hot tiles.

But the watcher on the roof was used to the heat. He had been brought up on the street, and he knew how to survive hot days as well as the bitter nights of winter. That was all in the past now, of course, but the body didn't forget such things. He was Mínir's man now, or so he liked to think of himself. One day, he hoped, he would be just like Mínir: a man who liked to think he was a lone wolf, but actually had a loyal pack behind him. Bloodhounds, they called themselves. Bloodhounds, because they sniffed things out, of course, but also because a pack of hounds was nothing without a leader to give them purpose.

I was nothing, the watcher thought. Nothing until Mínir had found him and suggested that he might like to use his sharp eyes and his thief-trained hands to better purpose than stealing coins and handkerchiefs. Five years ago, that had been. Since then, the watcher had seen Mínir unearth several murderers, but his own part had been only a small one.

Let this be the big one! he thought. He edged forward across the roof, watching the skylight. The guards had the streets covered, the archers had the windows, and he had the roof. There was no escape for the target now.

Unless I've already let him slip away, he thought. He'd been stationed here before the news had been taken to the guards. He had been the second on the scene, after the one who'd made the first sighting. He'd been watching closely since then, not just the skylight but the streets below. The target hadn't left, or so he thought.

But what if he was wrong? What if he was wrong?

He crawled to the edge of the roof and parted the straggly patch of weeds, peeping down at the yard below. No movement there. He could see the archers, arrows nocked and ready. When were they going to spring this trap? Then he looked to the side, along the alley that led back to the street, and saw that a woman was approaching it, a basket on her arm.

They called her a healer nowadays. She had always thought of herself as a mere dabbler, someone who had always been fascinated by herbs and their uses. She had cared for her children when they were sick, of course, and in time had started to care for neighbours, too. Soon those neighbours had asked her to tend to their friends, and before she knew it, it seemed that she had become a healer.

Today she had a tisane for an old woman who lay bedridden in a tiny room: a cheerless room, cut off from the light. But as she went to enter the alley, a guardsman stopped her. "Better not," he said, quite politely. "Walk with me?" He deflected her with a gentle touch on the arm, steering her away, walking her back to the sunlight of the broader street, as her husband had walked with her before dying at the Black Gate. "Stay away," he suggested, "for now."

But it was a command, of course. "Why?" she asked. "No, you can't tell me, I know. But just tell me this. There's an old woman, a sick woman, third door along; her room's on the second floor. She's safe?"

"It's nothing to do with her," the guardsman assured her.

What shall I do now? the healer wondered. She could stay and watch, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of whatever was happening down in the shadowed darkness of the alley. She might see something: a tiny fragment of some great event that everyone would be talking about tomorrow.

But she had other patients to visit, and other herbs to gather. She had other tasks to do. She would come back in an hour, and hope that it was over.

It will soon be over, thought the guard captain, one way or the other. It was time to spring the trap. He could only hope that the target was still where he was supposed to be. He could only hope that nobody had slipped up and warned the target that they had him surrounded. He thought he had all eventualities covered. What if the target had allies, heavily armed allies? He thought he was prepared.

He had to be. His lads didn't know who the target was, but the captain did. He knew how important it was that the man was taken alive. Alive, because he might be innocent: just an innocent man with a fresh wound on his face. Alive, because he might be guilty; guilty, but able to answer questions.

The archers were in place. The guardsmen were in place. The bloodhounds were watching, watching every avenue of escape. This had to work; it had to. If he succeeded, it might be his ticket to glory. If he failed…

If this fails, he thought, then it will be someone else's fault, not mine.

He looked round, and nodded at his second, below him on the landing. It was time. It was time to spring the trap.

They moved forward, and inside…

Inside the target was ready for them, but only just. His wound hurt every time he moved. His head felt heavy, and his limbs were lethargic. It blunted his thoughts, just when they most needed to be sharp.

He had come here to meet the vassal who went by the name of Seregon. He had arrived early, intending to think in silence for a while, but time has passed, and Seregon hadn't come. Perhaps he was a traitor, having spent so long with the enemy that he had come to think of them as good. Even if he wasn't a traitor, he was unreliable. He was just a vassal, fit for nothing but following the commands of his betters.

Tomorrow, he had thought. He would do something remarkable tomorrow, the next act in this great war of revenge. The plans were already laid. The fools had no idea what was unfolding around them, already gone too far for them to stop them. Tomorrow he would…

He had heard a sound then; just a moment's warning. He had tried the window; seen the archers there and recoiled back into the room. The skylight in the roof was too high, and they would surely be watching it. He drew his sword with one hand, and with the other, he unsheathed his knife. The hearth was empty, no time to spark a flame, but he had never committed his plans to writing, only a few short notes that would tell them little.

They were at the door now. He would be ready. He would kill whoever he could, but if it was too late for that, his knife would find his own throat.

They would get nothing from him. They would never know his plans, not until it was too late for them all.

Spears were flashing. Swords were swinging. Banners were streaming beneath the sun. The hooves of the horses of the Eorlingas were thundering, driving dust in clouds from the ground. Horsehair plumes were streaming, and men laughed with dreadful joy, because they were young and they were strong, and the Riders of the Riddermark were riding to war. They would defeat their enemies, and the banner of Éomer King would fly tall and proud above the field that had seen the ruin of his vanquished foe.

And Éomer? And Éomer King himself?

Éomer was not there. The battle he saw so clearly was only in his imagination. Banners still flew above him, but they were limp ones, held by men whose horses moved only in a slow walk. Most of the banners were not the banners of the Mark, but banners of Gondor. Only half a dozen of his own men remained. They watched him intently, jealously. Despite the close friendship that existed between their two kings, the ways of Gondor were not the ways of the Mark. Éomer's men did not distrust the knights of Gondor as such, but they could not allow their king to be entirely surrounded by lords of Gondor, without a few doughty Riders of the Riddermark to watch his back.

He looked up at the vast expanse of blue sky above them. The sunlight was fierce. It was the weather for a mighty song. "Spears were flashing," he murmured quietly, but Éomer did not lead them. He could not. And so he rode on, slowly, while his heart rode far ahead, where his Riders were.

It was the elf that had brought the tidings. Lasdir, this was: one of the elves who had come down with Legolas to settle in Ithilien. Legolas and two companions had headed into the east after Aragorn, and others were still out scouting. Lasdir and one other remained with the army, sometimes riding with them, and sometimes scouting ahead, their eyes far keener than the eyes of men. It was two hours now since Lasdir had reported seeing a party of fifty Easterlings several leagues ahead of them.

"Well hidden," he had said, "or so they must think themselves. As is their custom, their leader is in a chariot, but he is wounded. The rest of them have horses."

"If we continue the way we are going, they will see us?" Éomer has asked, but the answer was obvious. The Riders of the Riddermark had many skills, but stealth was not one of them. Theirs was all about the swift, bold stroke: the armoured fist that came down fast and came down strongly; a bold charge of horses, impossible to escape.

But he did not ride just with Riders of the Mark, of course. Even now, in unguarded moments, he sometimes forgot that.

"If they were elves, they would have seen you already," Lasdir had confirmed. "Of the keenness of the eyes of Men, I know but little, but I believe they will see you, yes. They are still. Whether it is because their leader is wounded, or because they are waiting in ambush, I cannot tell." He had paused for a moment, apparently debating with himself on whether to say more. He was less inscrutable than many of the elves that Éomer had met. "I believe that there could be another party of a similar size half a dozen leagues away to the north, but I cannot be sure."

Éomer had questioned him further about the location and disposition of the forces he had seen. Afterwards he had thanked the elf, although he was unsure how he should do it. He was a king receiving a report from a scout, but he was man receiving aid from a member of a race far older than his own. And so he had accepted it graciously, like a king, but he had also pressed his hand to his breast and bent his head, not quite a bow, but almost. The elf had responded in much the same way, respectful, yet proud. But then, as he had raised his head, he had given a quick flash of a smile, little different from the smile of a Rider of the Mark might give to a comrade engaged on the same wild game.

He was still here now, riding in Éomer's company. "Can you see them?" Éomer kept wanting to ask. "Are they fighting yet? Has anyone fallen? Are they victorious?" He wanted to pester him like a child. He wanted to know.

He wanted to be there.

But he was king now. A king of the Mark rode into battle at the head of his men, of course, but he did not lead in every small campaign. Even when Théoden was in his prime, Éomer's father, and not Théoden himself, had led the forays against the orcs. Lords led their éoreds, and the marshals led larger musterings against their foes. Marshals only existed because the king could not fight in every battle. He led only in the greatest battles. In lesser conflicts, he had to learn how to stay behind.

"They will see us?" Éomer had echoed, once Lasdir had given his tidings. He had thought for a moment, but this was a situation he had already considered, and he had already known what his response would be. "Then we will let them see us. We will send a small force of horsemen ahead, riding openly. Let them think that this is all that have come against them. On foot, we will send a scattered party of woodsmen and rangers, who can move swiftly and unseen. We will draw the enemy out and catch them between our two forces. The rest of the army will be bringing up the rear, miles behind. If things go well, the enemy force will remain unaware of it. If any escape to bring the news, all they will have to report about is a force of barely fifty men."

The small force of horsemen consisted of twenty-four of Éomer's men and the same number of knights of Gondor. Éomer's instinct had been to refuse them, to make the force consist only of his own men, men whose skills he trusted, but he had forced himself not to act upon it. Harder still had been the effort not to add the words, 'and I shall command them.'

A riding of forty-eight, with an army coming up behind. It was not for the king to command such a riding. Instead he had been forced to name Cenred, the most experienced of his riders, as their captain in this riding. Had Aragorn been present, perhaps then Éomer would have gone with them. Perhaps… No, he thought wryly, not perhaps. I would have gone. I know I would. But he had been entrusted with the entire forces of Gondor and the Mark. Aragorn had left him in command. He could not ride away and leave them.

I wish… he thought, but there was nothing to be gained by completing that thought. He was a king now, and sometimes a king had to take a step back and let others fight for him. That was how it was. That was how it had to be, no matter how fiercely, how fervently, you wished that you could be out there on the field of battle, where your own men were performing deeds worthy of song.

The clansman waited, hunched low over his saddle. They had found a place with many steep defiles, deep enough to conceal them all, even though they were mounted. Pressed flat on the rocks above, their sentries waited. A tiny scatter of dust and pebbles skittered down to convey their signals. The enemy was approaching. The enemy was oblivious. Nearer, they were coming. Nearer. Nearer.

The clansman was eager for the fight to start. They had spent too long waiting during this last ten-day. Hasad was the leader of this strike force, but Hasad wasn't his lord. Samir had ordered the men of three different clans to work together in this raiding party of theirs. Hasad had sent most of the others away after the successful raid, but had been forced by lack of numbers to keep some men who owed him no allegiance. They had to obey him, he had reminded them. He was in charge because he had proved himself in past battles. That was what Samir himself had said.

It was a lie, of course. Hasad was a distant kinsman of Samir's on his mother's side. It was bias, pure and simple. Hasad wasn't even strong enough to avoid being wounded. He was badly wounded, and likely to die. Who would command after he died? Well, thought the clansman, we will see.

But for now they all stood together against the approaching enemy. "I don't care what drives you," Samir had said, "as long as the result is the same. Fight for your own glory or fight for the glory of your own lord. Fight for my glory, or hate me: I do not care. All I care is that you fight, and that your blades are drawn against my enemies, and not against each other."

His blade was in his hand, and when the enemy came, he would kill them, so proud and oblivious beneath their green banners. He would kill as many as he could: more than Hasad, so close to death, and more than that upstart brother of his. When the honours of this day were assigned, he meant to receive the greatest share.

I will triumph, he vowed, as he heard it for the first time: the sound of approaching horses. Slow, they were. So slow. They were arrogant, these fools from the west. They rode as if they owned the world; as if they could ride through it without fear, and everyone would lay down their blades and let them pass.

So slow, thought the Rider, as he rode at Cenred's right hand. It had to be slow, Cenred had told them, to allow the archers and scouts to get into position. Those men were on foot, following a longer route to avoid being seen. So here they were, the escort of Éomer King and the cream of his warriors, plodding along like old ladies taking the air.

His spear was ready in his hand. His sword was loosened in its sheath, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. The land was bleak around them, but less bleak than it had been. Already there were expanses of wind-swept grass, like the hills and plains of home. He knew how to fight on terrain like this. He had been raised on songs of war, and he had trained for battle from boyhood.

But such battles had always been swift. Proud, joyful and unstoppable, racing down like a swift wind from the mountains. Soon, he thought. Soon the world would explode into action. He would bring down his spear, and urge his horse into a gallop. He would twist and turn in the saddle, lunging first here and then there. He would…

He would serve his king. Above all else, he longed to serve his king. He was too young to remember Théoden as anything other than a name spoken sadly by his father, who was fretting at his king's rapid decline. Éomer was tall and proud and beautiful. The Rider had been ten when he had first seen the new lord of the Eorlingas. He had longed to be just like him. Knowing that he never could be, he had vowed to serve him.

How long? he wanted to ask, but it was not his place to ask such a thing. Cenred had explained things earlier. The archers and the scouts could not risk sending a signal to say that they were in place. The Riders had to take it on trust that they were where they should be. If they were, the archers would start things with a rain of arrows. That would be the signal for the battle to begin. If no arrows came, then the archers had been taken. If the archers were taken, the Riders were on their own, plodding slowly into an ambush. They were forewarned, and that counted for much, but their enemy would hold all the other cards. They could still win, perhaps, but not without great loss.

But all that, of course, depended on how well these knights of Gondor performed when it came to the test. They were supposed to be good, or so Cenred had reminded them almost grudgingly just before the two forces had come together: twenty-four of 'us' and twenty-four of 'them.' But the Rider had spent a week with the army of Gondor, and every night, around the camp fire with his fellow Riders, discussion came round to the quirks of these men of Gondor - and yes, at times to their failings.

We shall see, thought the Rider, but he could not take his eyes from the path ahead to glance at them. It will start soon, and then we shall see.

It will start soon, thought the archer, as he regained his breath. It had been a slow climb, a scramble up rocks, all the while taking the utmost care not to make a sound or dislodge any pebbles. He had hazarded the briefest of glances to locate his targets. The enemy thought that they were hidden. They were readying their ambush, preparing to unleash it on the horsemen below.

He could not see his captain. Once, long ago, the archer had been a Ranger in Ithilien, but he had been badly wounded and had spent the war recuperating in Lossarnach. Three years, it had been, before he had been back to full strength again, and that was only because he had swallowed his pride and gone to the Houses of Healing and begged them to turn him back into a fighting man again. They had tutted and said that the world was already too full of men who knew how to shed blood, but they had found a way to heal him even so. They had opened him up again, removed the splinters that were causing the agonising limp, and sewn him up again.

And here he was. After so many years, finally he was being given the chance to risk his life in Gondor's defence. It was a dreadful thing to have missed the war, although he had had no choice. He was here for Gondor, for his king, for all those former comrades who had died while he was safe in Lossarnach, lost in pain.

The signal would be a bird cry: the harsh caw of a crow. He was ready, arrow nocked on the bow string. He had chosen his target. It was an enemy horseman, half hidden by the overhang of the rocks. Soon, he thought. Soon…

Soon, thought the liegeman, eager for it to begin. He was Samir's man, body and soul. Once, he had served another lord. Another lord had marked him with his knife, but that lord was dead now. That lord had been a nobody; the liegeman understood that now.

Samir was their saviour. For centuries, the clans had fought amongst themselves. Even within each clan, everything was based around conflict. Boys were set against other boys, because each year only one could earn the golden beads of victory. They weakened each other. They crippled each other. As they had been just five years before, they would have fallen before the king of Gondor like grass to a scythe.

Samir gave them hope. Samir gave them strength. The king of Gondor wanted to rule the world, and under Samir, they could stop him. They could not fail. The first blow had come more than a ten-day since, when they had slaughtered the Gondorian outposts. This was the second blow. Like the first blow, it could not fail.

It must not fail.

A crow cried out on the rocky bluffs above. He senses the slaughter, the liegeman thought. The slaughter that is to come.

But then, even before the crow's cry had finished, it began.

"I think we should wear our swords," Merry said. "I've been thinking… It won't make us look out of place. Lots of people wear them here. And at least we'll be ready if…" He stopped. He seemed unable to say it. "If…"

Has it become as bad as that? Pippin thought. He found his sword, though, taking it out from the bundle of warm clothes that he had wrapped it in. He still had the sword that had been found under the Barrow, and it felt too old and powerful for him, now that he knew more about its provenance. Twin to his, Merry's blade had been able to harm the Witch King, where other swords failed. It had crumbled afterwards, of course, and now Merry just had a lesser blade.

Pippin thought he might prefer a lesser blade, too. Or maybe no blade at all. No blade would be nice, and for the whole world to be like the Shire, where no swords were necessary. He fastened the sword to his belt, though, and tried to stand tall and look worthy of it.

"What's happening?" Pippin asked, because earlier they had seen Faramir striding purposefully towards the gate that led down to the city below. He still hadn't come back. "Shall we go…?"

"Should we?" Merry asked, but already he was shaking his head, dismissing his own doubts. "Of course we should."

The guards opened the gate at their approach, but they were slower than they sometimes were, and seemed to be waiting for some acknowledgement from the other side. But nothing seemed different when they reached the sixth level. There was no sign of Faramir.

They passed the stables, and paused for a moment to watch a flock of birds take flight from a tall tree in the garden of the Houses of Healing. In the square near the gate, a man was pacing, sometimes sitting down on a low wall, then standing up again, pacing, always pacing to and fro. He watched Merry and Pippin as they passed, but didn't speak to them, and they didn't try to speak to him, either. You couldn't be too careful, after all.

Seregon was on duty at the sixth gate. "I haven't forgotten that I owe you a drink," Pippin said.

"Not now," Seregon said. He looked edgy, and altogether less pleasant than he had looked two days before. "I'm on duty. Was supposed to be off duty by now, but the captain went and left me in command of the gate." Then he seemed to forget about Pippin, and hurried forward, down through the gate and into the level below. Someone called his name, and he stopped; turned round and slowly, slowly came back.

"What's happening?" Pippin asked, but Seregon wouldn't answer. No-one else would, either, and Pippin found himself drawing closer to Merry. I'm not sure we should be here, he was about to say, but Merry was already turning away. Like Pippin, he was already heading back the way they had come.

The pacing man was still there, but he had stopped pacing for a while, and was once again attempting to stay still on the low wall. "I recognise him!" Merry whispered. "He was there in the crowd the day we arrived in the city. He was trying very hard to get to Aragorn and…"

"To harm him?" Pippin asked. He had forgotten about his sword, though, and made no attempt to reach for it.

Merry shook his head. "I don't think so. Aragorn saw him, and didn't look worried about him being there. Mind you, when does he ever look worried?"

There was nothing to be gained from circumspection. Faint heart never won… well, whatever it was that faint heart never won. Merry and Pippin had been bold enough to insist on coming with Frodo, and bold enough to persuade Elrond to let them join the company. If they hadn't done that… well, how then would things have turned out?

"I'm Pippin," Pippin said, marching up to the pacing man. "Peregrin Took, that is. This is Meriadoc Brandybuck, called Merry."

"I know," said the man. He had a nice smile, but he looked tired, as if he hadn't slept in days. "My name's Mínir."

"Pleased to meet you," Pippin said, as he sat down beside him. The wall was less low for him than it was for Mínir, and he had jump himself up with his hands. "What's happening? What are you doing?"

"Waiting," Mínir said wearily. "That's all we can do. Just wait."

"Oh," said Pippin, as Merry sat down beside the man on the other side. "Can we wait with you?"

But just then there was a commotion at the gate, and people shouting. There was just so much shouting.

It took too long. Minutes seemed like hours. Yards seemed like miles. "They have engaged," Lasdir reported, coming down from the bluffs that lined their road. "The arrows fly."

Éomer could not see it. How had Aragorn borne it? Aragorn had been brought up by elves, and had learnt all his early lessons in fighting and ranging from the sons of Elrond and others from Elrond's household. How had Aragorn endured knowing that no matter how hard he tried, he would never have the keen eyes of those who taught him? That he was so much more fragile than them? That he would never live as long or know so much?

No, it didn't matter, Éomer told himself. He was who he was, and he had never wasted his time in longing to be something else. He was no elf, but what he was was not insignificant.

He just wished he could see. He just wished he could help.

His men were so close, fighting, possibly dying. Aragorn was… where? He didn't know where.

Where Lasdir had been, another elf remained. He flashed some signal down to Lasdir: a quick hand gesture that Éomer could not read. "It has started well," Lasdir translated, "for your people." Again he gave that quick flash of a smile, making him look more like a man than an elf.

"Good," Éomer said, but winning was only half the battle. They had to win in the right way. Kill as few as possible, and take as many prisoners as they could. Stop anyone from riding back to their armies, bringing the news. The tactics had been Éomer's, but the goal was Aragorn's, explained to Éomer before he had left. Aragorn had trusted him to do this, and trusted him to do it well.

Aragorn had placed his trust in Éomer, who had been forced to hand the task to Cenred and the Gondorian archers, and Cenred and the archer captain had placed their trust in their men. And so it went on in a great chain of trust, and if any of those links should fail…

"They do not fail," Lasdir said, perhaps reading more from Éomer's face than Éomer would have liked. And then he was off again, back up to the bluffs, where he watched the distant battle, while Éomer followed on behind, powerless.

But close enough to intervene if they had to. He still had several hundred Gondorian knights who had been ordered by their king to follow his command. If they put their horses into a gallop, abandoning all thoughts of stealth, they could arrive on the battlefield in time to save a few, perhaps.

Perhaps he should do it anyway. The time for secrecy was past.

"They do not fail," Lasdir said, appearing once more at his side. "They have not failed." There was no smile this time. What slaughter had he seen? "You have won, lord."