Tales -
    
To Walk 
     in Dark Places

 

 

by Muccamukk

 

PROLOGUE



Historian's Note: this story takes place during the winter of 2979-80 in the Third Age of Middle-Earth.

Saruman the White, Leader of the Istari, Head of the Council of the Wise, sat thinking in the darkest chamber of the Tower of Orthanc. In recent days, he had spent much of his time in deep contemplation, and his thoughts were troubled.

Though he had many causes for worry, the Children of Eorl were not exactly co-operating with his plans for them, a single man was the source of his current concerns. The alias he was using at the moment was Nashir. But he had travailed under many names over the years, each one causing the wizard more grief than the last.

Finally, he had decided rid himself of his troubles, permanently. He could not of course do anything personally. Nashir had many friends, some of them not unversed in the powers of wizardry. He knew that the Grey Wander in particular would be trouble if he investigated his pawn's untimely death.

The obvious solution had been to hire assassins. They were plentiful enough in the Southern regions of the world, and it was easy to keep his name out of it. The manner of men that he was employing preferred not to use real names.

He had many agents in that part of the world, as in all others, and they had made the arrangements for him. The assassins were said to be the best, four well-practised brigands who made a living off the deaths others. On a cold winter's night several weeks earlier, they had attacked Nashir in quiet back ally. They had moved in on their target swiftly and silently, two coming from behind, two from the side.

They were all dead, now.

As was the man who had hired them.

The White Wizard still had an irritatingly alive problem.

Thus, Saruman was sitting alone in his darkened chambers brooding over his problem. He considered Nashir's weaknesses. He didn't have many; he was a skilled warrior, a brilliant tactician and a gifted speaker. If that wasn't enough, he seemed to have an uncanny sixth sense that warned him of hidden enemies. He could see the true hearts of men just by catching them with a piercing grey glance.

Truth be told, in all his meditations he had only found two potentially fatal flaws. Nashir had endless need to prove himself worthy of the prize he sought, and a stubborn code of honour.

Yet, those two things were enough.

It would need a little cunning and patience, not to mention the use of many of his spies and agents, but he in the end he would succeed

Aragorn son of Arathorn, the last living heir of Elendil, would be dead before the first flower of spring opened.

 

CHAPTER ONE



Aragorn ducked as a stoneware mug flew over his head. It was not aimed at him, but at a swarthy Harad soldier across the tent. It missed its intended target by about two yards, waking a neutral patron from his drunken stupor. The ranger lost his own mug of sickly-sweet Harad wine to the resulting brawl.

It was that kind of tavern.

It was also one of the best places to gather information. Within these canvas walls common soldiers and junior officers would get drunk and swap stories. A man who possessed enough patience to endure long, boastful tales of petty deeds could learn a lot. Sometimes.

Tonight however, Aragorn was just trying to stay alive. He twisted past a pair of combatants and pushed towards the tent flap. The unwashed bodies of Southron soldiers pressed in on him from all sides. They were either making their way to the exit or to the fight. Most were headed towards the latter. His adopted unit had seen little action in the past few months, and they were unhappy about being posted so far north. Brawling had become a common way of relieving tension.

Aragorn wanted no part of it; he felt genuinely happy for the first time in almost ten years. The stars were comfortingly familiar; the air was cooler then the inside of a baker's oven, and an image of long, raven hair filled his thoughts. He was going home.

Provided he survived the wars, assassination attempts and bar fights.

An errant elbow caught him in the ear, making his head ring. He threw his weight against the offending soldier, forcing a break in the mob. He could see the door now, the lights of campfires flickering in the outer darkness. With one last shove, he made his escape.

He sighed and breathed in the cool night air. He wished that he could wash the disguising tannin off his skin and feel the breeze on his bare face. Soon, he promised himself, just a few more weeks.

Looking up, he saw the North Star through a gap in the clouds. He followed it back to the tent that he shared with the other senior foot soldiers. When he pulled open the door-flap, the heat hit him like a physical blow. Cooper braziers warmed the cramped barracks to a temperature tolerable to the real Haradrim soldiers. The air, if it could be called that, was full of dust, sweat and acrid smoke.

Some men slept under copious wool rugs but most huddled around the heat, talking and gambling. Aragorn joined them, sitting cross-legged on a rug, but declining the proffered set of dice. He was playing a bigger game.

As if to make up for the rowdiness of the tavern, the occupants of this tent seemed unusually subdued. They talked in low voices and even the habitual dicing looked to be a half-hearted affair.

One of the men spat into the brazier, causing a hiss of steam. "Well Nashir, How's the mess?" he asked.

The ranger shrugged, indifferent. "Same as always: loud and rough. The conversation was bad and the wine worse. I should have stayed here."

A man named Tishan laughed. "I can see that." Then added for Aragorn's benefit: "Your ear's bleeding."

He touched the side of his head; his hand came away red. "It's nothing," was all he said.

No one commented. The walls of the tent and the thick smoke dampened all the sound from outside. Finally, the first man broke the silence. "Were they talking of the events in the North?"

The ranger's interest sparked. "What is this?" he asked.

"Word is that the company we are replacing has claimed a great triumph from those pale Western scum." He spat again, this time in anger. "Had we been there but a week sooner we could have claimed their prize, and its glory."

"What prize?" he asked, forcing himself to sound unconcerned.

Tishan broke in wanting to be the one to dole out the news himself. "Why the greatest prize our people have ever clamed, though it will go to our Northern allies." He added darkly.

This bodes ill, thought Aragorn, but said: "You would do well to stop crowing and start talking."

The Haradrim laughed once more. "No need for anger, friend. I will tell you." He paused for dramatic effect. "It happened not five days past, but the news just reached us. Those manning the Fort North, the one we share with the servants of the Dark Lord, captured a man."

"That is all?" Aragorn leaned forward in surprise. "One man?"

Another laugh, the other man was clearly savouring the suspense. "Aye, one man. Would you care to wager who among the Westerners would warrant such an honour?"

The ranger pretended to think for a moment. "Ecthelion the Second, Steward of Gondor." He said flippantly, while his heart screamed: A Elbereth, anyone but him.

Tishan waved dismissively. "Nay, you aim too high; we'd never pry him out of that glided cage of his. Not without taking it down around him"

Aragorn sighed with relief. He couldn't help himself; he loved the Steward as a father.

Fortunately, he was misinterpreted. "Don't be too disappointed, my friend. What we caught is almost as good." Again he paused for effect. Aragorn felt like beating a swift answer out off him. There was no need; he had wisely finished with baiting. "We won his only son and heir, Denethor, the second of that name. If all goes as expected, he will be taken to the Lord of the Dark Tower."

 

CHAPTER TWO



The air stifled with heat. Aragorn had forgone his usual place near the door and the cooling breeze that went with it. Instead, he had laid his bedroll next to Tishan's, in the centre of the tent. He lay motionless, listing to the breathing of the men around him. He could not act until they slept. After what seemed like half the night, the restless shifting and turning lapsed into a muffled quiet.

Soundlessly, he rolled over to Tishan and rose to a crouch. Putting his hand over the other man's mouth, he shook him awake.

Tishan woke with a start and tried to pull away. Aragorn shook his head in warning, drawing one of the long, wicked knives that the Haradrim favoured. "One sound and your live is forfeit!" he whispered, pressing the blade to the other man's throat for emphasis.

Tishan did as he was told, not moving a mussel. His black eyes were wide, and the lack of blood left his skin a dusky grey. He obviously feared for his life, but his face held no trace of shock in. He had known this was coming.

Somehow, that didn't overly surprise the ranger.

"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now," he said. "If you were to try summon help, you would die before the cry left your lips. Do you understand?"

The other man nodded, too fearful to make any other move.

He withdrew his hand, and after pausing for a moment to see if the other man would try to make any sound, began his interrogation. "Who sent you here?"

Tishan made a passable impression of confusion. "I don't know what you mean. I am in the service of His Royal Divinity, the Sultan Kasnar of Reshnia, as are you."

Aragorn smiled wryly. "I did not ask whom has the honour of your service. I asked who commanded you to spy on me. Now give me a truthful answer." The knife pressed closer.

"You must think much of yourself if believe that they would send a man of my skills after you." The Haradrim's intended sneer came out hollow and afraid.

"What skills do you speak of?" Aragorn asked, voice dripping with scorn. "The ability to fall asleep with your back to an enemy?"

That stung. "I wasn't really sleeping, and I meant to have you behind me. They told me to expect this."

Aragorn smiled. "And who might these 'they' that you refer to be?"

Tishan winced, more from his slip than the other's blade. "Captain Ezrie, the leader of our company," he stammered, then, remembering the plural, added: "and his senior officers. They believe you to be a spy and wanted to lure you out"

The ranger sighed. "I asked for the truth, this is not it. If our Captain wanted to be rid of me, he would not dally with foolish ploys and amateur spies. He would confront me in the presence of a dozen hand picked guards and have them execute me." He pressed a little harder. "Now for the last time: who sent you?"

"I don't know!" it would have been a scream, but for the dagger at his throat. "It was always though an agent; I never met them in person."

That was what the assassins in the ally had said. "Details," he snapped.

Now that he had started, Tishan seemed almost eager to talk. "He one of us but had the accent of our Northern Provinces. We only met a few times, always outside the camp. He wanted to know about you: what you were doing, whom you talked to. His gold was good. I didn't see the harm," he stopped, thinking that was enough. At further presser he blurted: "He said that you would not kill an unarmed man."

"We shall see about that," said Aragorn. He had no intention of doing so, but wanted to put the fear of the Dark Lord into the man's heart before he got to the important questions. "Tell me all I ask and you might yet live."

Tishan nodded as much as he could without cutting his own throat.

It took almost an hour, but the ranger finally managed to extract all the information that he needed. By the time he finished, he was deeply disturbed. He had hoped that this was just another trap laid for him, but it sounded as if the tale told earlier that night had been true. Even if it had been purposely passed to him, the facts remained the same.

Denethor had been captured several days past. He would soon be on his way to the Dark Tower. After he got there, it would take him years to die. He and Aragorn had never been friends, but the ranger would not wish that fate on anyone.

He sighed and looked at Tishan. "Well my friend, it seems our association is at an end."

A look of pure terror entered the other man's eyes. For the first time that night, he moved. His hand shot under the edge of his bedroll and, before Aragorn could restrain him, came out with a knife twin to the one held to his flesh.

Damn, Aragorn thought. He flipped his own blade so that the point was just under Haradrim's jawbone, and pushed up. The smooth steel slid effortlessly into the other man's flesh, burying itself in his brain. Tishan died before he felt it.

Aragorn removed his knife, wiping it clean on the edge of a rug before he returned to its sheath. The death didn't affect his plans much. He was leaving anyway, and the body wouldn't be noticed until morning, a good six hours hence.

He hefted his pack, which had been serving as a pillow, and silently slipped it onto his shoulders. Slumbering men were strewn over his path to the door, and he had to slowly pick his way amongst them.

Finally, he was out, the blessedly cool air bathing his skin. He started into the night without hesitation. He knew where he had to go next There was no way that he could make the pass in time on foot; he would need a mount.

The horses were picketed in three staggered lines at the edge of the camp. He made for the inner line where the best animals were kept. He had little trouble getting there; they were still far enough South that the guard was relaxed. After dodging a single sentry, he came among the shadowy shapes of the horses. Most of them slept, heads drooping, but a few whinnied softly to acknowledge his approach. These were not the bulky war-steeds of the Rohirrim; they were smaller and leaner, and faster than the wind. The best of them could make half again the time of any in the North. The swiftest were reserved for the messengers and errand-riders; it was one of their kind that the ranger intended to steal.

He kept his body low, head below the shoulders of the steeds, and crept through the lines. When he reached his target, a three-year-old stallion called Merran, he found all the necessary tack stacked next to it. He silently blessed this custom of Harad, intended to aid hasty decampment in times of crisis. Hastily putting on the light saddle and bridle, he prepared to mount.

Suddenly, there was light behind him.

He turned slowly and saw Captain Ezrie holding a torch and smiling. Behind him were a dozen of his elite guards. "Caught stealing my best horse," he said, voice low and amused. "I wonder where you are going in such a hurry," he let all mirth drop, "filthy Northern spy."

 

CHAPTER THREE



Aragorn sighed and moved his hand away from his sword hilt. "You always have had a taste for melodrama, Captain," he said, a note of disapproval in his voice.

Ezrie laughed. "I think that you take more offence at my style than my slurs. I had understood that an insult was supposed to sting all the more for being true. Another grand idea lost." He moved closer, causally stroking the flanks of the sleeping horses. His guards followed, ever vigilant.

The ranger stared appraisingly at the hulking forms. He did not like what he saw. "Should you be speaking thus in front of them?" he asked.

The Haradrim glanced back at his followers and shrugged. "What they know already is enough to damn both of us. It should not matter that they learn more. In any case, what difference does it make it they are honest or not? I'm sure you could easily match them all if it came to a fight."

"I might be able to," Aragorn said, after giving the guards another good look. "But not with out waking the whole camp, and perhaps injuring the horses."

Captain Ezrie now stood beside him, he patted the ranger's shoulder like an affectionate father. "Well, we can't have that, can we? I have few enough good horses as it is." He sighed, bad supplies and equipment had always been the plague of military officers. "While we are on that subject: why ARE you stealing my fastest errand horse?"

As quickly as he could, Aragorn filled him in on the situation, including the fact that he'd left a body to be disposed of. "I must make haste, least they reach the pass before me," he concluded.

The Haradrim narrowed his eyes and considered the tale. "What benefit is there to our cause if you leave? You are of much use to me here." He shook his head decisively. "The life or death of one Northerner will have little effect on my people, no matter who his father is. The information you have given me has saved the lives of many, and with the will of the gods will continue to do so. I would not trade those futures for a foreigner."

"My co-operation is to be given of my own will or not at all," snapped the Ranger. "You cannot force my aid." He drew a claming breath. "Our final goal may be different, but our means are the same. We both desire the fall of the Lord of the Dark Tower. The loss of such a prize would be a grievous one indeed to the power of Mordor. The soldiers would lose much heart, especially if word were to be spread among them quickly."

A smile of comprehension spread across Ezrie's face. "And they would be so much easier to recruit if their faith were to be shaken. Very well, my friend, be on your way. And good luck to you."

Aragorn sighed with relief; the situation could have become very ugly. "This will be our farewell, for I deem that I shall not pass this way again within the span of your lifetime." He pulled the surprised Haradrim into a quick embrace. "You have been a friend in my hour of need, for that I thank you."

The captain clasped his hand warmly. "And you as well, for your help has been beyond measure. Our true goals are not that different, we both desire freedom for our people. The chains that hold the Men of the North are those of fear, not bondage. May someday all bonds be broken." He said, as if offering a toast. And indeed he had said the same words many times over a shared drink.

Aragorn smiled and gave the same response as he always did: "May we both live to enjoy that day." Releasing his friend's hand, he swung up onto Merran's back. "May the Light of the Gods guide you!" he said. Then turned and began to silently pick his way through the sleeping lines of horses.

Just before he left hearing range, he heard the murmured response: "May they speed your journey and protect you from harm."

The ranger looked back. Seeing he friend standing still, a shadow among shadows, he knew it would be the last time. He rode into the darkness without looking back again.

 

CHAPTER FOUR



Confound this heat! Aragorn thought for the thousandth time that day, it's supposed to be winter.

They were far enough North that there was now dusty scrub lining the road instead of sand hills. Seeing green again was bracing, but sadly it was not refreshing enough to take even a little of the edge off the heat. A constant reminder that he wasn't really all that far away from the desert.

All night, he had ridden hard and now his weary steed forced him to a slower pace. The night's scattered clouds had cleared at dawn, giving the day a dazzlingly bright start. By mid-morning it had started to feel less a gift. Now at noon, it seemed a curse. The sun no longer dazzled; it blazed.

Merran was starting to drag his feet and the Ranger feared that they would soon have to stop and lie out the day's heat. The urge to speed to Denethor's aid was tampered by the sure knowledge that any faster pace than this would find himself walking.

Thus they trudged along the road, perspiration running down his face and dripping off his nose and chin. The light bored into his back and neck. He was infinitely glad that he had assumed the disguise of a Haradrim headscarf. A drop trickled down his back, tickling as it rolled over his spine. He reached back to rub it away, arching his back, stretching out muscles stiff from twelve hours' riding. A lock of dark hair escaped its confinement, falling into his face. It dripped dirty sweat in his eye. He tossed his head, sending it showering over Merran. The horse snorted a tired protest and mimicked his master's last motion perfectly. The salty spray once again covered Aragorn, now with the added scent of horse.

The Ranger leaned forward and spoke softly into his mount's ear. "Easy, friend," he murmured, "just another league. I saw a grove of beach trees from the crest of that past hill. There will be shade and water there. We will soon rest there."

Merran's only response was to flick his ear into Aragorn's nose. You were not bred with swiftness of thought foremost in mind, were you? he thought irritably, rubbing the itch out of his nose with the back of his hand.

Sure enough, when they reached the top of the next raise, he could see the grove below them. His mount, scenting water quickened his pace, and they were soon speeding down slope.

What happened next was a blur. Merran lost his footing. Aragorn felt himself being jerked suddenly forward. Despite the heat daze and his worried thoughts, he managed to keep his seat. A moment later the wiry horse went down. He was forced to throw himself clear, least he be rolled on.

He landed badly. His shoulder struck the worn stone of the road, sharp pain taking his breath away. As quickly as he could, he scrambled to his feet, sword appearing in his hand.

Nothing happened.

He drew several deep breaths to steady his racing heart, and looked around. The tattered brush on either side of the highway was not nearly thick enough to hide in. The surrounding countryside held no concealing raised of depressions that he could discern. Most importantly, he didn't feel the telltale tingling in his nerves that came before an ambush.

For the moment he was safe.

He hoped.

Turning his attention to his horse, he let out a cry of dismay. Merran was writhing in pain, left foreleg twisted at a sickening angle. "Ah Elbereth!" he whispered. He closed his eyes, knowing what he must do.

Dodging the flailing hooves, he edged towards the stricken steed. He knelt at his head, out of reach. He waited until Merran's neck curled towards his belly, then struck a precise blow with the hilt of his sword. There were several more convulsions, then only twitching.

Placing a hand on his mount's forehead, he murmured, "I'm sorry my friend."

How did this happen? he wondered. Examining the paving of the road, he found his answer. Someone had painted numerous strips of wood to match the stone and placed them in his path. Turning one over he saw that the underside was coated in a thick layer of grease. It was no wonder that Merran had slipped.

Someone had set a trap on the road. He pursed his lips, considering. This did not strike him as something his own people would do. It also seemed unlikely that the Haradrim would ambush their own highway.

Another thrice cursed assassination attempt. But if that was so, where were the assassins? Why hadn't they attacked while he was recovering from the fall? Or when he was busy with Merran? It made little or no sense.

"I hate this!" he growled.

He took a long swig from his water flask and pondered what to do next. There didn't seem to be many options, so he sheathed his sword and started to walk.

 

CHAPTER FIVE



By the time he reached the grove, Aragorn felt ready to fall into the cool water of the stream. Face first. The waves of heat had made the trees seem much closer than they were. Instead of the few leagues he had expected, he had walked five. The water Merran had scented was a stagnant ditch, so filled with slime that he had vowed not drink it were it last in Middle- earth. His canteen had run dry over an hour ago, and he was beginning to regret his decision.

The sudden coolness of the shade washed a wave of dizziness over him. He fell heavily into the nearest tree, hoping the bite of rough bark might jolt him awake. He briefly pondered fainting forward into the stream but resolved instead to make do with only dunking his head. He knew that his recent luck might well lead to a rather damp death.

"And what good would I be were I drowned?" he asked himself. He shook his head and laughed bitterly. "What good am I now, for that matter? Here I am, stranded in the north-most South, without horse or hope. What chance I have saving the son of my friend? Were the sun to bake my brain further, I might begin to speak to myself aloud." He smiled to himself. Maybe it was an old jest, but gallows' humour was all he had at the moment.

Pushing off, he swayed over to the creek and fell to his knees before it. He bent over and lapped up the blessed water like a dog. It was hard not to drink too quickly. He alternated between splashing his face and shoulders and long grateful gulps. By the time he finished, he was soaked to the skin.

Scooping sand out of the creek bed, he scrubbed his face and hands. Red- brown dye swirled and flowed away like old blood. It was probably not a wise choice to rub out his disguise, but the sticky tannin was one more indignity than he felt he could bear at that moment.

Quenching his thirst made him realize how hungry he was. Searching the contents of his pack, he unearthed a neatly wrapped package containing strips of dried meat. He leaned against the wide base of an oak and munched contentedly. Letting the tension seep out of his body, he allowed himself to relax for the first time in weeks.

Only the clatter of hooves saved the ranger from falling asleep. The light, fast rhythm of the errand rider's step rang though the still air. From the sound, it was but a single rider, still at a goodly distance to the North.

Aragorn started awake, scrambling to his feet. In his haste, he upset the pack on his lap. The contents scattered across the glade. Hastily thrusting them back in; he found a length of rope. The coils did their best to tangle with the pack as he tried to throw them both on his shoulders at once, all while he sprinted towards the far edge of the grove. With every stride, the coarse fibres of the rope dug into skin of his neck. He thought longingly of the silky smooth cords that Elrond's people wove. Still, this was not bad for the work of mortals, having strength enough to hold the weight two men, while remaining light enough to carry.

He slowed his pace as he neared the edge of the trees. Squinting to block the sudden strength of sunlight, he saw yet another stretch of scrub- covered plane. Over it, the paved rode ran to a green shadow that marked the start of the wooded slopes of South Ithilien.

A lone rider approached at a slow canter, heading straight towards the ranger. Aragorn had to stifle the urge to hide deeper amongst the trees. He knew that in the shade of the grove, his dust brown grab hid him form all eyes. His nerves simply had trouble believing that.

He retreated back along the path about twenty paces. There he found the two strong young trees he had taken note of earlier. His fingers tied the knots almost unconsciously as he fastened one end of the rope around the first tree. When it was secure around the smooth white bark, he pulled it tight. Repeating the action on the second tree, he created a taut barrier at chest- height across the road.

He slipped behind a broad oak, unsheathing his sword as he went.

Not the most honourable of tactics, he thought, but time allows for nothing else.

He sighed and settled back onto his haunches. The lush bushes that surrounded the tree allowed him to keep watch on the roadway, while screening him from view.

The ring of iron against stone grew louder. The rider had entered the grove.

It would only be a few moments now.

One of those moments later, Aragorn captured his first close sight of rider. It was another Haradrim, a young man of perhaps seventeen years. His thick black hair was long and greased back into a tail. He wore the colours of the company that currently held the North-most outpost, the one that had taken Denethor. Aragorn watched as the other man came closer still. Though he sat straight in his saddle, his attention was obviously elsewhere. His black eyes held the distant look of one who is thinking of home.

THWANG!

The rope caught the young Haradrim squarely in the ribs, carrying him free of his mount. The horse reared in alarm, startled at the sudden loss of her rider. The back of her neck struck the unyielding line, panicking her even further. The rider rolled frantically to the side. He barely missed being crushed by his mount as she fell.

Aragorn sprang forward. The horse was just staging to her feet, shaking her head in confusion. Catching her bridle in his left hand, he yanked down, keeping her on her knees. With his free hand he held the point of the blade to the astonished rider's throat.

The situation was not one that required words, but all the same he snapped: "Do not move!"

The boy froze, eyes wide with fear and shock. His face was twisted into the expression of someone who expected to be eaten alive. Considering the rumours that the servants of the Dark Lord spread, that was probably exactly what he thought was about to happen. Aragorn smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. His "victim" shuddered. The ranger sighed and turned his attention to calming the equally terrified horse.

Keeping one eye on the rider, he touched his forehead against the animal's. "All is well, my lady," he murmured. "No harm will come to you. Calm yourself. No one wishes you ill in this land." Maintaining the soft flow of words, he slowly led her up and forward. When she was standing clear of the rope, he released her bridle.

She started slightly then relaxed. Gently nuzzling his chest, she whickered softly. He stroked her neck, running his fingers through her coarse mane. "That is right, Lady. Be still now." Without moving the point, he switched his sword to his left hand. With his sword hand, he fastened a loose end of the rope to the ring on his new horse's bridle. Now she could not stray more than a distance of five paces.

That is one difficulty overcome; he thought, now to care for the greater one.

The rider had not moved. He lay still on his back, half sitting, with his elbows supporting him. He was facing his captor, and trying to muster some kind of defiance. He looked more ready to shed tears than die bravely. When the ranger met his gaze, he dropped his eyes and whimpered softly.

"Come now, child," Aragorn said softly, as though still calming the horse. "Stand up. Slowly. Hands over your head. I hold no plan to do you any harm."

The Haradrim did as he was bid without a word.

Aragorn sheathed his own sword, and then relieved the boy of his, along with two knives. These he stowed safely out of reach on the horses' saddle. He then completed a more through search of the rider's garments. As he patted him down, Aragorn could feel every muscle in the boy's body shaking with fear, but his captive still did not move or speak.

In an embroidered pouch slung over the Southroner's shoulder, he found what he sought. A pair of tightly wound scrolls, closed with ribbon and wax. One was sealed with red as dark as blood the other an unrelieved black. They bore the stamp of a horned serpent and a crescent moon respectively. These were reports and orders from Minas Morgul.

They made interesting reading. It seemed that there had been some dispute over who had the right to retain Denethor. More than harsh words had been exchanged between the Haradrim captain and the orc chieftain involved. Eventually the Nazgűl had grown tired of waiting and terrified both sides into submission. The writing became unsteady when it spoke of the Wraith Kings.

The Steward's son had been given into the keeping of Minas Morgul. The company bearing him to the Dark Tower was to leave that evening.

While Aragorn studied the scrolls, the boy had been slowly edging away from him. Aragorn played at ignorance. If the Haradrim flew, he would be one less concern to worry over.

He finished reading and decided to hasten the problem out of his way. Glancing up sharply, he made as if he had suddenly heard a noise.

The boy bolted into the trees.

Laughing softly to himself, Aragorn quickly untied his rope. He had a feeling that he might have need of it later.

The last knot was on the horse's bridle. He released her and swung into the saddle in one fluid motion. It took a moment to secure his newfound possessions and lengthen the stirrups, but soon he was snugly fitted.

"I dub thee 'Rána,'" he told his mount, for her coat was the colour of the wondering moon. Spinning her around, he spurred to the North.

 

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