The Broken Branch Inn, Southern Barrowlands, The North, Westeros
Morning, 297 AC
Dawn came to the Rills reluctantly.
Aerindir had awoken long before the first pale rays touched the grimy glass of the single window. He lay motionless, listening to the silence. Beyond the thin plank partition, in the adjacent closet of a room where Vilar had spent the night, it was quiet too. But elven hearing told him the truth: this silence was deceptive and heavy. The merchant had not slept all night. He had tossed on the narrow bed, then risen and begun pacing the cramped room. The floorboards groaned softly beneath his heavy tread. From time to time came a muffled sigh. Once, a clay pitcher clinked against the edge of the table. Then all fell silent.
Dressing quickly and throwing on his sheepskin cloak, the elf secured his weapons and descended the creaking staircase to the common room.
Below, the air smelled of cold ash, yesterday's burnt grease, and sour ale. In the half-darkness, a few early risers were already seated. A pair of weathered-faced patrons dozed over mugs of hot brew, warming their rough hands. In the corner, an old man methodically chewed a crust of stale bread with his toothless mouth - slowly and stubbornly, like a cow working its cud. Meg, the innkeeper, was already working her magic at the hearth. Something bubbled in a large black cauldron, sending up thin wisps of steam.
She noticed the tall figure by the staircase and nodded in greeting. Her gaze held a mixture of curiosity and deference.
"Good morning, ser. You're up early. The porridge is nearly ready, and there's fresh bread. Sit wherever you like - there's plenty of room."
Aerindir chose the same corner table as the night before. He sat with his back to the wall, positioned to see both the front door and the staircase leading to the rooms. Meg returned after a short while with a wooden bowl of steaming oat porridge, a thick slice of grey bread, and a clay mug of something dark that smelled sharply of herbs.
She set it all before him with practiced ease.
"Barley brew with thyme" the innkeeper explained, pushing the mug closer. "Warms you better than water and gets the blood moving. Not everyone drinks ale in the morning."
"Thank you" Aerindir inclined his head.
When the bowl was empty, heavy and uncertain footsteps sounded from the staircase. Approaching the table, the fat man lowered himself heavily onto the bench across from him and exhaled as though shedding a sack of stones from his shoulders. He seemed to have aged ten years in a single night.
"Good morning, Master Aerindir" he mumbled, not meeting his eyes. "Oh, my back..." he groaned, wincing. "The mattresses here feel like they're stuffed with rocks. Every bone aches."
"Good morning, Vilar" Aerindir answered calmly, watching him.
The merchant reeked of sour drink.
"Sleep poorly?"
"Sleep? What sleep..." Vilar waved his hand. "Stifling heat, insects biting, and all sorts of thoughts crawling into your head. About the goods, the prices... about the creditors waiting in White Harbor. A merchant only dreams of rest. And even that's rare."
Meg brought him the same bowl of porridge and mug of brew. Vilar attacked the food with unexpected greed.
"How far are we riding today?" Aerindir asked, watching him.
Vilar froze for an instant with the spoon in his mouth. He chewed slowly, took a noisy sip of the brew. Then wiped his lips with his sleeve and finally raised his eyes. In his small eyes flickered a kind of feverish resolve.
"A fair distance" he said, trying to sound cheerful. "Five days to Barrowton if we stay on the main road. But I was thinking last night... while I lay tossing."
He scratched his unshaven chin and glanced at the murky window, beyond which the grey morning was slowly brightening.
"The road makes a huge loop north, to the big inn called the Old Horse. If we go that way, we'll lose time."
Vilar shifted his gaze to Aerindir. This time his face seemed to settle: the familiar business mask of a man who had spent his whole life counting coins and days on the road.
"There's a shorter way. A cutoff. Across the heather moors, straight to the estuary. There's an old crossing there. A bridge over a sea inlet. We cross there and find ourselves right in Dustin lands. And from there, Barrowton is just a stone's throw away."
He took a sip of the brew and continued.
"The road's rougher, that's true. But the ground is firm. We'll save a day, maybe even a day and a half. Only there are almost no inns along the way. We'll have to sleep by a campfire." Vilar squinted, studying the elf's face. "How do you feel about that, ser? Would you mind the sky for a roof?"
Aerindir shrugged. For one who had slept more than once on the cold ground of Beleriand beneath the stars of Varda, a roof was a luxury, not a necessity.
"I agree. The open ground suits me even better."
"Excellent!" Vilar slapped his palm on the table. "Then it's settled. We'll take the shortcut. I want to get to the city as quickly as possible and unload this cargo. My back is begging for a soft bed... and a hot bath."
After that, they finished their meal in silence.
* * *
The yard was chilly. Fog hung in tatters over the ground, creeping between the wheels of carts and clinging to the damp boards of the courtyard. Fred had already led the horses from the stable. The animals looked rested, their sides gleaming with good feeding. Patches snorted softly when the elf approached and stretched her muzzle toward his hand.
The stablehand stood nearby, holding the reins. He clearly wanted to say something but first scratched the back of his head.
"Horses... er... ready" he finally informed Vilar.
Then he fell silent, as though trying to remember what else he wanted to say.
"Gave 'em oats. Lots. And water... clean."
He frowned, shifting his gaze from the horses to their hooves.
"And... checked the hooves. No stones. Shoes... holding. I checked."
Fred nodded to himself, satisfied.
"Good work, Fred" said Vilar, pressing a coin into his hand. "Help hitch the wagon. And be quick about it."
The stablehand beamed and hurried to the shafts. While he and Vilar busied themselves with the harness - tightening straps, untangling a twisted rope, checking the fastenings - Aerindir saddled Patches. He checked the girth, adjusted the stirrups, and secured the saddlebags. The mare shifted on her hooves. The elf stroked her neck, running his fingers through her coarse mane. Patches turned her head and nudged his palm with her warm muzzle, searching for a treat.
Aerindir slung the bow over his back and tested for a moment how easily it could be drawn. The quiver of arrows he secured at the saddle. The sword, as always, hung at his belt.
"Ready, Master Aerindir?" Vilar called out, clambering onto the wagon seat with a grunt.
"Ready."
The elf swung into the saddle with one fluid motion. Patches obediently followed as the wagon creaked toward the gate. They rode out of the yard of the Broken Branch, passed the listing gate, and the inn fell away behind them, dissolving into the cold morning fog.
* * *
The road onto which Vilar turned did indeed lead away from the main highway. It stretched eastward, winding lazily between gentle hills overgrown with stiff heather and brown grass. The morning fog slowly thinned, and beyond its grey veil the vast, dreary expanse of the Rills gradually revealed itself.
This was harsh land. Monotonous, nearly colorless. Grey hills, pale grass, rare patches of dark scrub. The open space pressed down with its silence. Only the wind roamed the moors, broken now and then by the cry of a solitary bird somewhere high above.
They spent the first hours of the journey in silence. Only the creak of the wagon was heard, the steady beat of hooves, and the heavy breathing of the draft horses. Vilar drove with confidence, as though he had traveled this road many times before, but Aerindir noticed how often the merchant glanced around. Occasionally he began whistling some simple tune. But the whistle quickly faltered, and he fell silent again.
To break the stillness of the road, Aerindir guided Patches closer to the wagon and drew level with Vilar.
"Vilar" he said, turning his head toward his companion. "You've told me much about the North... but what other lands exist in this world?"
The merchant flinched, as though torn from anxious thoughts. Then an almost relieved expression appeared on his face. The topic clearly suited him. Vilar liked to speak about things that made him feel like a knowledgeable man. It restored at least a shred of his confidence.
"Oh, the world is vast, ser" Vilar shifted the reins to his other hand and fidgeted on the seat. "As I said, the North is a harsh and cold land. But the people here are straightforward. If they're your friend, they're your friend, and if they're your enemy... well, you understand." He spat over the edge of the wagon and glanced at the grey hills around them. "But further south, everything changes."
His voice gradually livened, acquiring its familiar tradesman's cadence - as though he were standing behind a counter, hawking his wares.
"Take the Vale of Arryn to the east, for instance. The mountains there... the Mountains of the Moon, they call them. Tall as the walls of the world" Vilar raised his hand, as if trying to show the height. "Hard enough just to pass through them. And above them, atop the very cliff, stands the Eyrie. They say the city hangs in the clouds."
He paused for a moment, guiding the horses between two hills.
"The Riverlands sit at the very heart of the kingdom" he continued. "Rich lands. Fat fields, more rivers than you can count. But that brought them no happiness. Armies are always marching through. Burning, looting, trampling everything in their path. Many roads, little defense. The Tullys of Riverrun rule there."
Aerindir nodded silently, committing it to memory. Gold, fertile land, power... Among men, these things almost invariably turned to ruin.
"And further west are the Lannister lands" said Vilar. "Among the richest in all the kingdom. Gold in their mountains, they say, lies like grain in a granary. That's why their power is so great."
He grunted.
"Then there's the Reach in the south. The Garden of Westeros, as they call it. The Tyrells rule there. Wine, fruit, flowers... knightly tourneys. They live beautifully."
The wagon creaked slowly along the road while the wind rustled the heather on the slopes.
"And Dorne" Vilar added after a short pause. "The far south. Desert, heat, and bare rock. The Dornish are a hot-blooded people. Stubborn as mules. The only ones the Targaryen dragons couldn't burn or conquer right away."
He smirked, as though he himself didn't quite believe such audacity.
"They had to be bargained with."
"Ah, I nearly forgot" Vilar caught himself. "There are also the Stormlands. Birthplace of our King Robert. Cliffs, dense forests, and storms so fierce the sea howls at night. The people are as stubborn as the land."
The king's name set Aerindir thinking. He had already heard of the great houses, of lands and cities scattered across this vast world. And yet one thought nagged at him: how could a single man rule so many lands? How could one hold so many lords in obedience, each with their own armies and ambitions?
"And the king?" he asked after a short pause. "Does he have counselors? Those who help him rule?"
"The Small Council" Vilar smirked. The smirk was crooked, without any mirth. "The Hand of the King, the Master of Coin, the Master of Laws... some others besides. I can't even remember them all."
He shrugged and snapped the reins.
"But there's little good in it for the common folk. Those councils bring more trouble than help. We survive... while they live."
Aerindir rode in silence for a time, listening to the creak of wheels and the whistle of wind through the heather.
In his memory rose other times. Halls where the lords of the Noldor held council by the light of silver lamps, and kings whose word was law - but first and foremost, duty.
And yet even among the Firstborn, not every crown was wise. Power could harden the heart even among the immortal. He remembered Fëanor. Proud, brilliant, but blinded by his own flame. He remembered Thingol, whose pride had cost too dearly.
Even among the Eldar, kings came in many kinds. Power that forgets those it rules sooner or later becomes rot - whether among men or among the deathless.
"In that, you are right, Vilar" he said quietly at last. "Poor is the king who does not think of the lives of his people."
He gave a slight nod, as if confirming his own thought.
* * *
By midday the road led them to a small stream that crossed their path between the hills. The water ran clear and transparent, gurgling merrily over smooth stones.
Vilar pulled the reins, stopping the wagon.
"Let's rest. The horses need to drink... and it wouldn't hurt us to stretch our legs."
They dismounted. Aerindir led the horses to the water, holding them by the reins while they drank greedily. Then he dropped to one knee at the bank, cupped his hands, and scooped up the cold water. It was fresh, faintly sweet. The elf splashed it over his face, washing away road dust and the last traces of drowsiness.
Behind him, Vilar was already rummaging through the sack of provisions. Soon the grass held bread, strips of dried meat, and a few wrinkled dried apples. They sat by the stream. The merchant ate without much appetite, mostly pulling from his flask of ale and squinting at the sun, which had risen high above the hills.
"Hot today" he grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Aerindir raised his gaze to the road disappearing among the heathered hills.
"How much farther?"
"To our campsite?" Vilar squinted at the sun. "Four hours, no more."
He pointed somewhere into the distance.
"See that line of trees? The dark one, right at the horizon. That's the very wood by the estuary I mentioned this morning. That's where the bridge stands."
The merchant waved his hand along the course of the river.
"By the way, the river itself is the border. On this side, Ryswell lands. Once we cross the bridge, we'll be in Dustin territory. And from there, it's northeast all the way."
He took another sip from his flask, then sighed and began packing the remains of the food back into the sack.
"Good spot there. The forest shelters you from the wind, and there's plenty of firewood. We'll spend a quiet night. Then in the morning we cross the bridge, and if the road is kind, we'll be in the city in a couple of days."
For a time he silently watched the elf. Aerindir ate slowly, barely glancing at the road. His thoughts were somewhere far away. When he finished, Vilar rose, brushing off his trousers.
"Right then. Time to move. No sense sitting about while there's still light."
They gathered their things, led the horses to the water one more time, then set off again. The wagon wheels creaked, and the stream was soon left behind, quietly gurgling among the stones.
* * *
Dusk was already thickening when the road brought them beneath the dark canopy of trees. This forest struck Aerindir as strange. It was nothing like the forests of his homeland - not bright and majestic, where branches whisper with the wind and the air thrums with life. This forest was gloomy, overgrown, as though nursing some ancient grievance. Old trees draped in grey moss bent their gnarled branches nearly to the ground. Bushes grew thick and wild, weaving into impenetrable thickets where deep shadows already lay.
"There..." Vilar raised his hand, pointing ahead. His voice trembled. "That's it. The wood's not large, but it's dense. The river is just to the east. Do you hear it?"
Aerindir had heard it long before they rode beneath the trees. Behind the rustle of leaves and the creak of the wagon, he could make out the deep, steady roar of water.
They turned off the road onto a narrow path nearly hidden by grass. Pines and firs closed overhead, and the world around them darkened at once. The air here was thick, smelling of pine needles, damp earth, and rotting leaves.
Within a minute the path led them to a small clearing. To the left, a wide and swift river rushed over stones. To the right stood the traces of past camps: stones blackened with soot, heaps of cold ash.
"Well then" Vilar pulled the reins and tried to smile. The smile came out weak; his lips were visibly trembling. "Just as I said. We'll spend the night here. A quiet spot."
Aerindir dismounted and slowly surveyed the area. With the coming of dusk, his senses had sharpened. Something about this place unsettled him. The clearing was convenient, yes. But too convenient. The forest pressed in from nearly every side. And the noise of the river would drown out any sound: footsteps, the ring of steel, screams. He glanced once more at the darkening undergrowth.
Not an ideal spot. But there was nowhere to retreat. The horses were tired, and night was already closing on the forest.
He began unloading Patches, removing the saddlebags. The bow and quiver he laid carefully at the roots of a large pine. Then he tied the mare to a low branch. Behind him, Vilar fussed at the wagon. The merchant was unhitching the draft horses, nervously jerking at knots and constantly dropping the ropes. Aerindir picked up the sack of provisions and headed toward the spot where he intended to build a fire.
And in that instant, the forest changed. The birds first. A second ago they had been calling to one another in the branches - now they fell silent all at once, as though an unseen hand had seized them by the throat.
Then the rustle of leaves changed. It was no longer the wind. Movement.
A snap. The sharp, dry sound of a bowstring released.
Aerindir did not even have time to think. His body, which remembered hundreds of battles, reacted faster than his mind. He dropped the sack and threw himself to the ground, rolling aside.
Thunk!
An arrow buried itself in the trunk of the pine where his head had been an instant before. The shaft still quivered.
"AMBUSH!" he shouted, springing to his feet.
The sword was already in his hand. The blade slid from the scabbard with a clean, singing ring. In one motion he flung the sheepskin cloak from his shoulders.
"Vilar, under the wagon! Now!"
And then he saw them. Two men burst from the shadow of the trees. Close - no more than twenty paces. Tall, broad-shouldered men in sturdy leather jerkins and mail. One gripped a heavy battle-axe. The other carried a wide sword. They were already charging.
"Take him!" the axeman barked in a rough, snarling voice.
Aerindir spotted the others too. Two more, farther back among the trees. Archers. One was already drawing a second arrow, aiming straight at his head.
Not bandits. Their movements were too coordinated.
The elf bolted for his gear. The bow lay at the tree, three quick leaps away. It was the only way to even the odds.
The second arrow hissed past and struck the ground just at the toe of his boot. Aerindir slid across the grass, snatching up his white bow. His hand drew an arrow from the quiver of its own accord. The string drew back in one smooth, fluid motion - too fast for the human eye. The world seemed to slow.
The archer on the right leaned out from behind a tree trunk. A mistake.
Aerindir released the string.
The elven arrow split the air with a quiet, lethal whistle and struck true in the shoulder. It punched through the leather armor and emerged from his back. A scream - filled with pain and sudden terror - tore through the evening stillness of the forest. The archer collapsed into the grass, writhing in agony.
But there was no time to celebrate. The two melee fighters were already within ten paces. They charged at him, roaring something senseless - the way men often scream before a blow, hoping to break their enemy's will before blades ever cross.
Aerindir slung the bow over his back and in the same instant shifted his grip to the sword. The first man, with the wide blade, rushed in at a run. His swing was broad and heavy, meant to cleave the elf in two with a single stroke. Crude. Slow.
Aerindir merely shifted his body. The enemy blade cut empty air. The answer came instantly. The shining steel of Gondolin whistled, splitting the dusk. One swift stroke knocked the mercenary's hand aside along with the sword hilt. The man did not even realize what had happened. The reverse stroke was faster still. A rising cut opened his throat.
A fountain of crimson blood sprayed across the grass. The swordsman choked, clawed frantically at the wound, and crumpled like a sack of grain at the elf's feet.
And precisely in that instant - when the stroke was complete and the blade momentarily out of guard - Aerindir's preternatural sense screamed in alarm. Danger. Behind. Very close.
He had not heard the footsteps over the din of battle and the roar of the river, which swallowed every sound. But this was something else. A shift in the air. A foreign will. The intent to kill, aimed squarely at his back.
The elf spun sharply. And for a fraction of a second, froze in disbelief.
Vilar.
The merchant stood barely a step away. In his trembling hand he clutched his dagger. His face was twisted into a terrible grimace - a mixture of animal fear, desperation, and the resolve of a cornered rat.
"Forgive me..." he breathed, and tears stood in his eyes.
Aerindir looked at the man with whom he had shared bread only that morning. The astonishment in his gaze slowly gave way to a cold, ancient fury. The dagger was already driving upward, aimed at his head.
But the elf was faster. He struck backhanded with the armored gauntlet. The blow was devastating. Vilar flew backward like a rag doll. There was a crunch. Blood burst from his shattered nose. The merchant crashed onto his back, the dagger tumbling from his grasp.
But there was no reprieve. In the same instant Aerindir felt it again. Mortal cold from the right. Instinct saved him once more. He jerked his head aside without even looking.
A whistle.
The heavy axe blade carved the air where his ear had been a heartbeat before. The gust of the stroke brushed his cheek.
The axeman had seized on the delay with Vilar and was already nearly on top of him. Huge, broad as a bear, the man gripped the heavy weapon with both hands.
Vilar, staggering and spitting blood, was rising from the ground. He groped through the grass, trying to find his dagger. The axeman, meanwhile, was already hoisting his weapon for another strike.
Aerindir acted. Pity vanished. Only the cold calculation of an ancient warrior remained.
He ducked beneath the axe swing, rolling clear, and came up beside the merchant. Vilar had only managed to get to one knee. He lifted his head, as though wanting to say something, to raise his hands in defense.
Too late.
Aerindir did not stop. A short, precise thrust drove the sword straight into the traitor's chest.
The blade passed through the thick jacket, through flesh and ribs, sinking deep.
Vilar choked. His eyes widened in final terror. He convulsively seized the blade with both hands, slicing his palms on the steel, but it could change nothing now. Aerindir wrenched the sword free. The merchant's body collapsed into the grass and twitched several times in its death throes.
But the fight was not over. The axeman, bellowing with rage at the sight of his accomplice's death, hurled himself into the attack.
A heavy, shield-splitting blow crashed down from above. Aerindir met it with a hard block. Steel screamed against steel, throwing sparks. The elf's arms did not so much as waver. He smoothly guided the axe blade aside, letting the enemy's own weight carry him forward.
A step. A pivot. A strike.
Elven steel passed through the mercenary's mail as easily as a needle through cloth. The blade entered beneath the ribs, deep, straight into the heart.
The man exhaled wetly, with a wrenching gurgle. The axe slipped from his weakening hands. He fell face-first into the mud beside Vilar's body, twitched once... and was still.
A ring of steel.
Lowering his gaze to the point of impact, Aerindir watched an arrow glance off his breastplate and fall to the ground. Straightening, he raised his eyes again. There, twenty paces away at the very wall of trees, the second archer stood frozen. Rather - an archeress. The very one who had lurked in the shadows. A girl.
She was frantically nocking a fresh arrow to the string. But when she saw that her first shot had done no harm - had not even scratched the golden-haired stranger - her hands slowly dropped. She stared at the clearing. At her companions, now motionless shapes in the mud. And at him.
For an instant their gazes met.
Young. No older than twenty. Black hair had escaped a tight braid and clung to her temples. Her thin, sharp face was smeared with soot and road dust. Bright, vivid green eyes were now filled with animal fear and disbelief.
She stared at the elf standing amid three bodies, sword in hand, blood dripping slowly from the blade. At the shining armor. And in her gaze Aerindir saw understanding.
She knew he could kill her right now. The bow hung at his back. He was faster. And she knew that too.
But he did not shoot. For several seconds the clearing stood in utter silence.
Then the girl spun sharply and vanished into the thicket. Aerindir did not reach for his bow.
* * *
He stood in the middle of the clearing. The air was thick with the smell of blood.
The forest was gradually settling. Birds began calling again somewhere in the canopy, but this silence was no longer what it had been. Now it lay over the clearing like a heavy, dead shroud.
Aerindir walked slowly to Vilar. The merchant lay on his back, staring at the sky with a vacant gaze. His chest heaved in ragged spasms. Blood bubbled on his lips and ran in a dark stream down his chin, soaking into the earth.
When the elf's shadow fell across his face, Vilar turned his head with effort. Seeing Aerindir bending over him, he let out a wet, rasping groan.
Aerindir crouched beside him. His face was still as a stone mask. The fury had left as swiftly as it had flared. Only cold disgust remained... and bitter disappointment.
"Why?" he asked quietly. "We trusted each other. I protected you."
Vilar coughed. Blood flowed harder, staining his chin a dark crimson. Tears streaked his cheeks, mingling with the dirt.
"Last night..." he rasped. Every word cost him effort. "I... couldn't sleep... Debts... fear..."
He sucked in air convulsively.
"Went down... to the yard... to relieve myself..." His eyes darted, unable to focus. "They were there... by the stable... drinking... I sat with them... thought... just company..." His lips quivered. "Ale loosened my tongue..."
He drew a labored breath, and something rattled horribly in his chest.
"I... let it slip... Said... there was a rich stranger with me... that you were alone... from the west... that you wanted to sail there..."
Vilar squeezed his eyes shut. A shadow of shame crossed his face.
"They laughed... said you'd die at sea anyway... nobody sails there and comes back... that you were a dead man already... I... believed them... They offered... to arrange everything here... kill you... take your things... they could be sold for gold... a lot of gold..."
His lips trembled.
"I owe... at the harbor... I owe so much..."
Vilar tried to focus his fading gaze on the face of the one he had betrayed. During the fight, Aerindir had moved too fast. The golden strands, flung loose across his shoulders, no longer hid what he had so carefully concealed. Vilar's gaze fixed on his ears.
"Your ears..." he rasped. "You're not... not human..."
He tried to raise a bloodied hand, as though wanting to grasp Aerindir's shoulder. But the strength was already gone. His fingers only slid across the cold metal of the bracer.
"No" Aerindir answered softly, not looking away. "Not human. But now it no longer matters."
"Forgive me..." he whispered, and the light in his eyes was rapidly fading. "Forgive... before the gods... I shouldn't have... shouldn't have listened to them... I didn't want..."
Aerindir did not draw back. But neither did he take the dying man's hand. A gesture of comfort here would have been a lie.
"You betrayed the one who trusted you" he said quietly. "Betrayed a man with whom you shared the road."
The elf's voice was calm, nearly level. There was no anger in it. Only an infinite, ancient sorrow.
"That is a foul deed, Vilar. A grievous one. But you are a man. Weak and mortal. Your life is brief as the flash of a spark... and your fear was great."
For a time he looked at the merchant's face. Then he reached out and with his gauntleted hand gently closed Vilar's already glassy eyes.
"Go in peace, Vilar. Let your gods judge you. And I... will forget your name."
A last, rattling breath escaped the merchant's pierced chest. And he was still.
* * *
Rising, the elf walked to the axeman's body. He needed to understand who they were. Who had purchased Vilar's soul. The mercenary's clothing was of good quality: a sturdy quilted jacket, solid boots, mail. Not the rags of woodland bandits. On the back of the jacket, now soaked with blood, a small emblem was stitched onto a patch of grey cloth - a black horse's head, embroidered in dark thread.
Turning his head, Aerindir shifted his gaze to the swordsman's body, lying three paces away. On his jacket the same mark was visible: the same grey cloth, the same embroidered horse's head.
Aerindir frowned, studying the sigil. He had seen it somewhere before. The elf's memory was sharp; the thought flickered, and an instant later the recollection surfaced whole.
The Broken Branch.
The hitching yard. Set apart from the peasant carts had stood unfamiliar horses - more like sturdy riding coursers than common working nags. On the horse blankets, tossed carelessly over the saddles, the same black horse had been embroidered.
And the men. In the half-light of the common room, at the far tables, had sat men whose heavy, watchful gazes Aerindir had noted the moment he passed them on the way to the staircase. They had been drinking and only watched in silence - and on the jacket of one of them was the very same patch.
Aerindir straightened slowly.
The Broken Branch. They had been there.
Now everything fell into place.
Went down... to the yard... to relieve myself. That was what he had said before dying.
That was when it happened - in the darkness of the nighttime yard, he had spoken with them. There, by the stable, over a mug of cheap ale. He had told them about me. About the bracelet. About my weapons and armor.
But the bitterest revelation came later.
Aerindir recalled the morning. Vilar's pale, strained face at the table. His eyes, which kept sliding away and could never quite meet the elf's gaze. And the words spoken with false, too-hasty cheer.
There's a shorter way... A cutoff... Across the heather moors.
Aerindir slowly clenched his fists.
It was no shortcut.
He had been leading me to them. He had deliberately turned off the safe, well-traveled road to bring me here, to this secluded forest, to this convenient clearing, where the ambush was already waiting. All day long, that smiling fat man had been leading me to my death.
The elf surveyed the scene slowly. Vilar's wagon stood where it had stopped. The cargo the merchant had been so afraid of failing to deliver still lay beneath the canvas. The two draft horses grazed peacefully, unaware that their master was dead. A little farther off stood Patches. The mare flicked her ears nervously.
Provisions and gold.
Returning to Vilar's body, Aerindir searched him quickly and without a trace of squeamishness, understanding that the dead man no longer cared. On his belt he found a tightly stuffed, heavy purse, its coins clinking softly as the elf untied the leather cord. Silver. Copper. And several gold dragons.
Aerindir took the purse. This was not theft. This was the price of betrayal.
Then he picked up his sheepskin cloak from the ground, shook off the grass and dirt, and threw it over his shoulders.
Approaching the wagon, he slit open one of the bales with a knife he found nearby; the canvas parted with a soft rustle. Inside were rolls of coarse wool along with small sacks of spices and salt - nothing but useless weight to him. But the provisions he took in full: dried meat, wedges of cheese wrapped in cloth, hardtack, and several apples, as well as flasks filled with water and ale.
All of it he packed into two saddlebags. The road ahead was long.
Then he went to the draft horses. Aerindir cut the traces. The leather gave a soft crunch beneath the blade. The shafts fell to the ground with a dull thud. He slapped one of the horses on the rump.
"Run" he said quietly in the Common Tongue. "You are free."
The horses whinnied and, tossing their heads, bolted into the forest with a crash of breaking brush. Perhaps they would find their way to people, or perhaps they would go feral - but it was no longer the elf's concern. He left the wagon too; it was of no use to him whatsoever.
Aerindir returned to Patches and secured both bags to the saddle. The mare twitched her ears, but calmed quickly under his hand.
He cast one last glance at the bodies of Vilar and his two accomplices.
The thought of burial flickered and vanished: though he might have committed them to the earth, these men had chosen their own fate, attacking from ambush for the sake of plunder. Having neither time nor cause for pity, Aerindir resolved to leave them to the wolves - or to whoever had sent them on this errand.
A little farther off, from the dense undergrowth, came a sound like a wet, bubbling cough. Somewhere in the darkness, the wounded archer was slowly dying, drowning in his own blood.
Aerindir hesitated for a moment, then headed into the forest. He meant to dispatch the man quickly and mercifully, and to reclaim his arrow. But when he parted the branches and stepped into a small gap in the trees, it was already too late. The archer lay on his side, eyes wide open but staring at nothing, and blood had spread in a dark stain through the grass beneath him.
The arrow had passed clean through, and its shaft jutted from the earth a few paces beyond the body. Aerindir pulled it from the damp soil, wiped the bloodied point on the dead man's cloak with a practiced motion, and returned the arrow to his quiver.
Then he went back to Patches. The mare snorted softly when he took the reins, and Aerindir swung into the saddle, guiding her away.
He did not look back. The clearing fell behind him along with the dead, the spilled blood, and the betrayal that hung in the evening air like a heavy, bitter stench.
* * *
Aerindir rode without stopping, driving his weariness deep inside. Night had fallen fully, draping the world in a black cloak, and the stars had kindled overhead: alien, cold, and indifferent. Among them there was no Menelmacar, no Valacirca, no Helluin - not a single name the songs of his people knew.
He held his course northward along the river, trusting elven instinct and the pale moonlight. His thoughts remained cold and clear.
Vilar had betrayed him out of fear and greed, but who were those men with the black horse's head on their clothing? Common mercenaries, or servants of some local lord?
If they served a master, then their fall was deeper still. To set an ambush on the road. To murder a traveler for gold. If such things passed for service and martial honor here, then this world was rotting far worse than it had first appeared.
They had seen him at the inn. Seen the armor, the sword. Workmanship too foreign for these lands. If Vilar had held his tongue... would it have changed anything? Perhaps here they believed that anyone who sails the Sunset Sea is already a dead man. Or perhaps that was merely a convenient lie. They might have attacked regardless.
How many more such men roamed the roads? How many mercenaries and dishonorable servants, ready to wish him dead simply because his sword and armor were worth more than their own lives?
But he had no choice. Barrowton remained the only path to great ships, and the ships the only path to the sea, to the West, and to home. He would pass through this, as he had once passed through the ice of the Helcaraxë and the flames of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. This grey, magicless world would not break him.
The wind tossed the elf's golden hair and chilled his face, but the fire within him burned steady. Far ahead in the darkness loomed the outline of a bridge. Once he crossed it, he would be one step closer to Barrowton - and to whatever awaited him there: hope, danger, or death itself.