THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 10

Tarlos’s rather hawk-like features softened into pity and concern. He set his food aside and sat beside Tom. Still in a state of shock, Tom just stared up at him. Executed! Barard was to be executed! He felt the couch dip on his other side and felt his hand taken, but his eyes were on Tarlos.

‘Listen, Tolman,’ said Tarlos gently. ‘I told you that I have a plan that will serve all our needs. We will be discussing this and other things at the council meeting tonight. You must choose whether to stay and hear what is said, and join us in discussion, or whether to retire to your room. If you wish to stay, you must restrain your feelings, do you understand? And if you go, one of us will come to tell you what has passed as soon as possible.’

Tom stared at him. He understood, he really did, but he was finding it hard to respond. His mind seemed full of fog, and his chest was bound tight with a crushing band of pain, making it impossible to draw breath or speak.

‘Tolman? Do you hear me?’

‘I think he should go.’ It was Faros on his other side. ‘I will go with him. Tolm?’

Tom fought against the roaring in his ears and the darkness that threatened to engulf him. A breath, he must take a breath, or he would fall and be carried to his room in a swoon. He dug his fingernails into his palm, hoping that the sharpness of the pain might clear his mind. ‘I will - stay,’ he said with a huge effort. ‘I will stay, and hear what is said.’

‘Good,’ said Tarlos. He relinquished his seat to Catos, and Tom sat rigidly between his friends. Catos stroked his arm and linked fingers with him in distress as the members of the council were shown in by Balios. A scribe took his place at a small table, and the rest had to sit where they could, on couches and footstools.

‘Thank you, my lords, for joining me here,’ said Sûlos. ‘We will speak of the attempt on our lives shortly, but as you see, Yanos is injured, but not dangerously so. First, may we have the day’s reports.’

The pattern followed that of the previous day, as news was given of troops and provisions. One of the missing scouts had returned, but he had no news of either Daros’s third army or of the other two scouts. Bandits had been routed from a hilltop position in the south, where they had been harassing movements of supplies. News had come of the successful distribution of food in the worst of the drought-affected areas.

When the last report had been given, Sûlos leaned forward and gave an account of the attack. Faces turned to Tom and Faros as Sûlos spoke of their role. ‘Unarmed as he was, Lord Faros took on the man who would have struck a fatal blow to Yanos. Do not believe, any of you, that his reluctance to learn the sword means that he lacks in bravery. As for Tolman, do not judge him by his size; I owe him my life. Let none forget it. He is also a friend of King Elessar, and should we be successful, I hope he will speak well of us in the north.’

Tom was beginning to relax, as a calmness spread through his mind. There were different ways to view the news that Tarlos brought. If Barard could not be rescued, he was better off dead than caged in darkness - of that Tom had no doubt - and he knew he would not live out the night that followed. If Sûlos was not successful in the next week, then Tom would never speak of him to Elessar; it was suddenly all very simple. His one wish was that, if the worst happened, he could somehow be seen by Barard. He blinked tears back at the thought of actually seeing Barard - if only for a moment, if only across a crowded square - and became aware that the motive for the attack on Sûlos and Yanos was under discussion.

‘I do not know what has prompted this now,’ said Tarlos, once more seated by Yanos’s feet. ‘Maybe we should just accept that the attempt is long overdue. I have spoken to you about this in the past, Sûlos, and I will ask you again not to leave the palace without a guard. I know the men love you for it, but it is not acceptable. You are a great leader, but you must be guided by me in this.’ Sûlos bowed his head, a small movement of acquiescence, and Tarlos smiled. ‘Thank you, cousin. What were you doing there, in the first place?’

It was Yanos who answered, his voice sounding weary. ‘A matter of justice.’

Tarlos nodded. ‘And is it not strange that this matter of justice should arise on the one day I did not accompany you to the courts?’

‘Yes, you are right,’ replied Sûlos. ‘In hindsight it was a lack of judgement on my part. I think now that our going there was engineered for the sole purpose of assassination.’

Tom opened his mouth to speak of Mehos, but Tarlos had more to say. ‘Yes, I believe you are right. My information suggests you will be summoned before Daros, so that he can wring his hands over this unfortunate event and pledge more guards on the streets to prevent such footpads. I do not think he will try to make any open move against us until after the embassy from Gondor has gone, but lacking the knowledge of why he should decide to have you assassinated now, it is hard to judge his future actions. Yes, Tolman? You wish to speak?’

Tom cleared his throat. ‘I fear I may be in some way the cause of the attack.’

There was a murmur of laughter around the room, quickly stifled.

‘Explain,’ said Sûlos.

‘I saw the man who sent your attackers after you. It was Mehos. He was introduced to me in Minas Tirith as a spy, and I travelled to Harad with him. I believed him dead at first, but something Catos said made me wonder. It seems the bandits were angry because they hadn’t been warned I was a trained fighter.’ Tom glanced up at Catos, who nodded.

‘Yes, that’s what the wolves of the desert told the slave traders.’

‘Who was there to warn them? Only Mehos. I believe now that he intended my slavery from the beginning. I’m sure Tarlos can tell you it is widely known that I quietened your mare, and widely known that I am now a slave in your household. Men have been asking questions about me. The innkeeper on Cartwright Street gave them some cock and bull story, but I doubt any have made a secret of the name Tolmos, a name given to me by Mehos.’

‘I could understand the connection if the attack had been on you, Tolman,’ said Yanos.

‘Who is this Mehos?’ asked Sûlos, looking at his cousin.

‘I do not know the name. Can you describe him, Tolman?’

Tom shrugged. All men in Harad had black hair and dark skin, it was hardly helpful. ‘He is well born, I think. He told me his father and brothers were all dead, but that may not be true. He is of medium build, certainly not as tall as you, my lords, and he has a scurviness of his scalp that he scratches at, so.’

Tarlos struck the fist of his right hand against his left palm. ‘The Jackal!’ he exclaimed. 'The king’s cousin! He is a master of disguise, but watch closely and he cannot resist the urge to worry at his scalp. If he has given King Elessar information, it is false. He hates Gondor. It is true his father and brothers are dead: they were killed by Prince Boromir’s men in an ill-fated attack across the Poros twenty years ago.’

‘But I still don’t see why that would set the Jackal on us,’ said Yanos.

‘Tolman is in our household, an embassy is announced from Gondor, the prophecy of bar-Ard is suddenly on everyone’s lips, there are rumours that we are actually the House of the Sun - I think it is likely to be a combination of all those factors. They will not wish us to meet with Gondor, knowing that we have Tolman. My earlier assessment may be wrong. There may be a more open move against us before the week is out.’

‘You think that we should strike now?’

‘I think we will reduce our chance of success if we do. The original plan was to bring men into the city in large numbers during the Feast of Floods, but that is still seven weeks away. That is too long.’ Tarlos looked at Tom. ‘But we can use another public event. In one week, the city will be seething with people come to see a spy being executed.’

Tom started to protest, but Sûlos held his hand up. ‘Peace, Tolman. Let us hear Tarlos out. He said his plan would serve all our needs.’

‘I think we should let it be known that the one to be executed is named the son of justice, and that he is the one sought by Tolmos, the slave. The city seems to have taken Tolman to its heart. Did you hear the outrage when he appeared covered in blood in the square? I think he should remain within the palace for his own safety, with the Jackal about. Yanos, you will be more badly injured than first thought, and so should also stay hidden. Sûlos, you can excuse yourself from any summons to the Citadel on the grounds that you fear for your brother’s life and watch by his bedside. A week will give us time to move troops where we planned, and to bring men into the city in disguise. Does anyone have anything to say?’ Tarlos looked around the seated men. ‘Can you have all in readiness in seven days?’

There were murmurs of agreement, but one man stood and looked at Sûlos for permission to speak. Sûlos nodded to him.

‘There will be a greater guard presence in the city if there is to be an execution,’ the man said. ‘That would not have been the case in our original plan.’

‘We need to create confusion and division,’ said Tarlos. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together. ‘Already there is word of a minor riot because of the attack on us. We need to foster that unrest and focus it around the execution, but there is another opportunity here. Let me tell you what will happen on that day. Citadel Guards will go to the dungeon and present a signed order from Daros for the release of the prisoner. They will escort him in chains to the place of public execution outside the Citadel, where he will be held in a well-defended guard house. If we try to effect his escape, I think the guards will simply kill him.’

Tom bowed his head. There seemed such an inevitability about the execution that he wished he hadn’t stayed. He wanted to scream, to smash something, to curl into a ball and weep. Faros touched his arm: Tarlos was still speaking.

‘But what if we are the ones who present the signed order in the dungeon? If we go dressed as Citadel Guards in the small hours of the morning, on the pretext that riots are feared and Daros wishes to move the prisoner early? We will not only have rescued Barard, but created more confusion as guards hunt for him.’

‘They will seek him here.’

‘Then we will be ready for them,’ said Sûlos. ‘We will wait until the Citadel Guards have been sent out, and then ambush them on the streets. That will create even more confusion. By the time it is fully light, we must hold the lower city. Our foot soldiers beyond the Tombs of the Kings must hold back Daros’s first army, as we planned, and stop them from crossing the river to the city’s defence; our cavalry will lead an attack on the second army. Yanos?’

‘I will be there to command it, brother, never fear.’

‘You will also have the mûmakil to command, but you must be ready to respond if the third army appears. Tarlos, how do you propose getting the signed order from the king, stamped with the Royal Seal?’

‘Forging it, cousin.’

‘You have someone who can do this?’

‘I have a week to find someone.’

‘Faros?’

‘Tolm has been offered the services of a man who might be able to do this. He offered to forge documents to prove Tolm was a freeman. I think his words were anything you need.’

‘Do you know where to find this man?’

‘His wife and child were trapped by your horse.’

‘Then I know where he lives. It is a rough area. We will summon him here, but I do not know if we can trust him.’

‘I will have him watched,’ said Tarlos.

Sûlos nodded his approval. ‘If you are successful, how will you bring Barard through the city?’

‘I think we should be ready to change conveyances two or three times. Certainly we should be prepared for his being unable to walk. Possibly he should be drugged. He has a reputation for violence, and he does not understand much of our language. It will be hard to reassure him.’ Tarlos looked at the physician, who shook his head.

‘The Halfling here was more affected by the drugs I gave him than I expected, although I tried to take account of his smaller size. If bar-Ard is weakened already, I cannot answer for his safety.’

‘Can I not come with you?’ whispered Tom, although he knew the answer.

‘I am sorry, no. We cannot disguise you as a guard.’

‘But he could be hidden in a carriage,’ said Faros, ‘or whatever you are thinking of using. It might be safer so. If Barard is agitated, Tolm will calm him, yes? May I be one of the guards?’

‘If you can handle a sword with reasonable competence by the end of the week, and follow commands in a soldierly manner, then yes. But we must convince the dungeon guards, and it will take more than a piece of paper to do that.’

Faros nodded. ‘Tolm shall teach me a little Westron, as well. If he is not allowed out, it will pass the time, and maybe I can learn enough to explain to Barard.’

Another man stood and was given permission to speak. ‘I find it hard to understand why Daros is executing the Halfling, especially in such a manner, designed to provoke the Gondorian ambassador. He risks both causing riots here and antagonising the northern king, Elessar. Umbar will be closed to us. Is the man mad?’

‘As to that,’ said Sûlos, ‘yes, the man is mad. Those around him are finding it harder to constrain his wilder schemes, but I believe that there are also those near to him who wish to provoke Gondor, and encourage his madness to that end. Yes, Tolm? What would you say?’

‘If you rescue Barard, then I am in your debt forever, but what of the Gondorians? They will be trapped in the Citadel. It seems doubtful that Daros will treat them with honour.’

‘That is well thought of. Tarlos?’

‘We must be inside the Citadel the night before Barard’s execution, but that will not tax us: there will be a large dinner that evening in honour of the Gondorian ambassador. In view of today’s deeds, our arriving with a guard will cause no surprise, and I know where I can hide with a small group of soldiers when you leave, Sûlos.’ Tarlos stood and paced the room. Everyone watched him, but no one spoke. He was so obviously thinking. ‘It will be difficult to speak openly with the ambassador; we will be watched closely while in his presence, and there is the language problem.’

‘What if Tolman writes a warning?’

‘Too risky if found.’

Yanos stirred on his couch, easing his shoulder. He looked tired. ‘What would be the consequence of Tolman’s attending us as a slave? A slave in attendance would not be unusual; it is just a question of how Daros might react.’

Tarlos rubbed his chin. ‘It would be useful to have someone who understands exactly what is said. It will anger the Jackal, that is certain, and he risks exposure in his duplicity should Tolman speak to the Gondorians. If Daros follows his usual pattern, he will smile on us at the time, and wait for the morning to make his move against our House. A slave, though - that is a different matter. The Jackal would have no compunction in having Tolman murdered during the feast if he saw the need and the opportunity arose.’

The physician levered himself up and crossed the room to Yanos. ‘I am sorry, my lords. My patient must get some rest. He has lost a lot of blood.’ Yanos started to protest, but the physician held up his hand. ‘If you want to make good your boast, young man, that you will lead the cavalry in one week’s time, then you must listen to me now.’

Sûlos stood. ‘This council is at an end. We will meet again tomorrow evening. Remember, we fear for Yanos’s life. In two days he will take a fever, and I will barely leave his side. Yanos, I’m afraid that you will not be recovered enough to attend the feast. We must not both walk into the Jackal’s lair. The soldiers in this palace will be split into three watches. Thank you, my lords.’

Tom walked back to his room in such a daze that he would have passed by the door if Faros and Catos had not steered him in the right direction. He stood staring out of the window, soft night scents from an enclosed garden drifting in on the night air. ‘Will it work?’ he asked. The soft rustle of cloth made him turn; Faros was standing naked as he pulled a night shift over his head. Despite his preoccupation, Tom’s mouth twitched as he realised Catos was watching Faros intently, but by the time Faros’s head emerged, the shift falling down to clothe his body, Catos was busy over his own undressing.

‘Well, will it?’ asked Tom.

‘I suppose we will know that better when we know if the papers can really be forged,’ answered Faros. ‘There are many things that can go wrong. Barard may be moved earlier than we expect, the guards may not release him to us, we may be challenged leaving the Citadel, Sûlos may be defeated.’

‘Of course it will work!’ cried Catos, bouncing around them waving his night-shirt like a banner. He sobered and stopped in front of Tom. ‘But what I want to know is why someone can’t go out to meet the Gondorians as they travel from Umbar. Why do you have to think up difficult plans to meet them in the Citadel when that may get you killed? It would be very sad to rescue Barard in order to tell him you’re dead.’

Tom and Faros looked at each other, and Faros laughed. ‘Why indeed. I think I may be about to lose my tutor in Westron. I would come with you, Tolm, but I need to convince Tarlos that I can be trusted to make a good guard.’

‘Maybe they’d let me go with him dressed as a lord, and Tom can be my slave,’ said Catos hopefully.

‘No,’ said Faros.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I say so.’

‘You’re not my... Oh.’ His face fell. ‘Well, it’s not fair. Why can’t I do something to help?’

Tom took his hand, and dredged up reserves of patience. ‘You just did. And if I’m not to be allowed out, I need you to go and talk to all the people you usually do. If you spread rumours through the slaves, those rumours will surface in all their households. Go to the inn and gossip with anyone who wants to listen, but speak to Tarlos first, and find out what he wants you to say.’ He yawned and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He felt exhausted. It had been a bad night and a hard day, and he was emotionally drained. He had kept himself in check, not wishing to be sent from the council, but now he felt as though he would fall down if he didn’t lie down soon. He wanted to curl around his pillow and imagine Barard in his arms. Barard!

He bowed his head, too tired to hold back any longer, as all that Barard had suffered and was suffering overwhelmed him. ‘Do you think he knows?’ he whispered. ‘Do you think he’s been told he’s to be executed?’

‘Oh, Tolm. I’ve no idea. No, wait! Don’t just lie down in your clothes. Let me help you.’

Tom waited passively while Faros released clasps and buttons and stripped him. He was imagining a dark cell with only straw to curl up on. Chains clinked as Barard shifted, trying to ease the pressure on his too-prominent bones, and small rustles and squeaks indicated he was not alone. The air was foetid and damp, and somewhere water was dripping. Nothing to do but think. How long does each minute seem to you? Do you believe yourself forgotten?

Faros tugged Tom’s trousers down and over his feet. ‘Tolm? Tolm! Sit up and put on your shift, then you can lie down.’

Barard!

An arm was slipped around him. ‘Yes, just hold him like that, Catos.’ His face was wiped. Soft cotton was pulled over his head.

‘What’s wrong with him, Faros? Why won’t he talk to us?’

What have they done to you? Beaten! Alone! How have you borne it? Oh, my love. I just want to wake by your side, to be with you.

Laid onto the bed, Tom curled around his pillow, and his tears came. He didn’t know who stroked his back, but he was dimly aware of their voices.

‘I don’t understand. You and Tarlos are going to rescue him. Why’s Tolm so upset?’

‘Lots of reasons, I think. He only found out yesterday that Barard is alive, and he didn’t sleep last night. I think it is all too much.’

‘But you and Tarlos will rescue him?’

‘We can’t be certain, and... well, we don’t know what state Barard will be in, do we?’

‘Oh. You mean he may have lost his mind?’

‘Hush.’

They had a double bed to themselves, and every night to enjoy it. It was beyond their expectation and added a glow to their days that mellowed their apprehension and fear of living among such big folk. To wake each morning relaxed in each other’s arms, in a way that was impossible when squashed together in a single bed, with the morning sun lighting up Barard’s hair in a glow of red-gold: this was a dream come true. Motes of dust danced in the shafts of sunlight, but Tom only had eyes for Barard lying dreamed in sleep. They had rarely been together without making frantic love, and this was a new experience, a chance to realise that lovemaking was of secondary importance to just being with Barard. Their appetite for fucking was robust and often drove them to urgency and roughness, but the moments that Tom treasured most were those sated after-moments when they just were.

He reached out and stroked his palm down Barard’s back, following the subtle curves, and kissed Barard’s shoulder. His love had hardly moved from the moment they had separated the night before, when he had collapsed from beneath Tom with a sigh. Now Barard stirred and rolled onto his side to caress Tom’s cheek with his fingertips. Tom gently kissed him before settling him into his arms.

‘I love you.’

‘So much.’

‘I wish I could tell him,’ whispered Tom. ‘I wish he knew I was here. I just... I just... I want him back, I want him safe. I can’t bear thinking about him chained and hurt. So scared. I’m so scared for him. How will I get through this week? How will Barard get through it?’

‘Hush, Tolm, hush. Let’s take each day as it comes, yes? We’ll see the man about forging the documents, and then you can go to meet the northern ambassador. Do you think it will be someone you know?’ Faros’s voice was very soothing, and Tom responded to the quiet question.

‘Most likely. I know almost everyone.’

‘That’s good. They’ll be pleased to see you. Close your eyes now. Go to sleep. I’ll be here. Hush now.’

‘It’s my birthday in a week.’

‘Is it? You’ve kept very quiet about that, but it’s a good omen.’

Tom gave a sob; Faros didn’t understand just how bad an omen it was. ‘No. No! People die on my birthday! Those I love die on my birthday!’

‘Hush. Not this time. Hush now.’

‘I’m...’ So tired. ‘I...’


Tom slept, but he didn’t feel particularly rested in the morning. Half-remembered dreams hovered between forgetfulness and full memory. He didn’t want to remember them, and he threw himself into teaching Faros the rudiments of swordsmanship, until Faros was called away for marching drill. Then Tom sat watching, and Catos joined him.

The boy was sweating freely after his sword practice, his slave-length hair straggling around his face. He rubbed the sweat away against his forearm and blew out his breath with a huff. Tom handed him a water skin, and Catos drank deeply. He sat quietly, and Tom knew without looking that he was following every move Faros made. The group Faros was training with was small, and Tom guessed these were the soldiers who would masquerade as Citadel Guards. The square was quieter than usual, no doubt a consequence of Sûlos's order for eight-hour watches. The night watch had retired, and those who must take the watch that led up to midnight had not yet risen. The swordsmith was there, though, and Tom could feel his two new knives snug against his body. He held his sheathed sword upright in front of him, the point of the scabbard resting on the ground between his feet, while his thumbs rubbed patterns over the pommel.

Despite his awareness of the focus of Catos’s attention, Tom’s thoughts were turned inward, turned to the week that stretched interminably before him. It wasn’t until Catos sighed dramatically that Tom realised his young friend wished to talk.

‘What’s the matter, Catos?’

Catos shifted beside him, and his words came out in a rush. ‘Have I upset Faros? Have I done something wrong? I didn’t think he’d mind that I like men. He does. You do, and he doesn’t shun you. He held you last night until you slept, but he won’t touch me anymore. If I... if I touch him, he shies away as though I’d branded him.’ He bowed his forehead to his knees, and his breath hitched into a sob. ‘I wish I’d never said anything.’

‘Oh, Catos. It’s difficult for him, complicated.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are so very young. It would be easy for him to take advantage of you, if he wasn’t a man of honour.’

‘I’m not young, I’m not!’ Catos’s voice slipped from deep to high pitched, and Tom sighed.

‘Yes, Catos, you are young. It was easy for me and Barard - well, easy for me. We were about the same age; consent was given freely between us.’

‘Why wasn’t it easy for Barard?’

‘Because he knew he loved me that way long before I realised, a year or more, for all that he’s younger than me. But he waited. Partly he was scared, I think, but partly he wanted me to come to love him in the same way first.’

‘But if he didn’t say anything...’

Tom smiled at the memory. ‘Oh, he knew when it happened, we both knew when it happened.’ Catos stayed silent, his head still bowed, and Tom touched his arm. ‘Faros loves you, but maybe not the way you would like. He’s your guardian, and that’s like being asked to play the role of your father. Think about his past, Catos. Don’t you think he may worry about being no better than Bayos?’

‘Bayos! But it’s not like that! I’d like... I mean, I would...’ He tailed off, looking embarrassed.

‘I know it’s not like that. But maybe Faros can’t even allow himself to think of you in that way, maybe he’s trying to protect you by keeping his distance - because he loves you. Maybe what you feel is just an infatuation, and will fade away, no harm done. No, listen to me, Catos! I know what you would say, but it is possible this is just an infatuation on your part. You’ve been with us so much, you’ve not had a chance to see how you feel about girls, or even boys of your own age.’

‘I’m not stupid! I know how I feel!’

‘Then you’re going to have to prove it by your patience.’

‘Aaaaargh!’ Catos clenched his hands and threw back his head, banging it against the wall. Across the square a bark of reprimand made Tom look to Faros. The man had broken step and was looking towards them. The sharp reprimand was repeated, and Faros turned his eyes to the front, but Tom knew that he was worrying about what had made Catos yell out like that.

‘Ow,’ said Catos quietly, rubbing his head, and Tom smiled, seeing in the taut line of Catos’s neck and jaw that the soft lines of boyhood were hardening into those of a man.

‘My Barard is the most impulsive hobbit I know,’ said Tom, ‘but he can be so patient.’ A year, alone? Oh, Eru! Tom forced his mind away from that thought, and managed another smile as he remembered losing himself in Barard’s green eyes. ‘I never guessed, you know. I never guessed how he was longing for me. He was just the hobbit I most liked to be with, and then one day I looked into his eyes, and just like that, I was in love.’

‘Oh, Tolm. I hope Tarlos and Faros are successful. What will you do... if Barard isn’t rescued? I mean...’ Catos bit his lip, his eyebrows drawn together into a worried frown. He looked close to tears.

‘Don’t let’s think about that, eh?’ That was not a discussion Tom wanted to have with Catos. ‘You said yourself, Faros will rescue him. Look, here’s Tarlos.’

Tarlos had come to tell them that a meeting had been arranged with the forger. He held a hand out to Tom and pulled him to his feet. ‘You look tired, my friend. Are you coming, Catos?’

‘No, I’ll stop here.’ Catos wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his chin on his knees, and went back to watching Faros.

‘More and more I see glimpses of the fine man he will be,’ said Tarlos as they made their way across the square.

‘Not soon enough for his liking,’ answered Tom. ‘I think he had to grow up too fast, caring for his younger brother, and now he wants to be treated as a man.’

‘He has to earn that by his actions. As for his brother, I hope to have good news soon; I am just waiting for confirmation that the child has been freed. He’ll be cared for in the south, until we know how we fare here.’

Tom stopped in his tracks to look up at Tarlos with delight. ‘Really? Catos will be over the moon. His brother means a lot to him.’

Tarlos laughed. ‘“Over the moon”? Were do you find these expressions?’

‘It’s from a song that my father used to sing us, about a cow that jumped over the moon. It’s a lot of nonsense, but fun.’

They went first to Tom’s room, so he could become a slave again. The clothes were no hardship - they were comfortable and cool - but it was with reluctance that Tom clasped the cold metal around his neck and fastened the chain to keep it in place. ‘Is this man to be trusted?’ he asked as he straightened his tunic. ‘What do you know of him?’ He had no doubt that Tarlos would have found out a lot in a short space of time, and he wasn’t disappointed.

‘The man is an artist. In the past, he was successful and wealthy, with an estate by the river, but Daros seized it on some trumped-up charge and made him destitute. His patrons deserted him, and he was forced to find what work he could.’ Tarlos stood up from where he had been sitting on Faros’s bed and winked at Tom. ‘Of course, we are woefully ignorant of the fact that he is out of favour with the king, and we need some paintings for the palace... As for whether we can trust him, he has no love for Daros, and wants to help you any way he can, but I think I must insist he come to live here for the next few days under supervision, so we are not betrayed.’ He held the door open for Tom. ‘I hope that an offer to move his family to a better area will go a long way towards making that an acceptable condition, as will commissions for his work.’

It turned out to not only be acceptable, but to delight their forger; he prostrated himself before Tarlos with tears in his eyes and hugged Tom. ‘You are my lucky charm!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have heard others say the same; you bring good luck wherever you go! What is it you wish me to do?’ He nodded at their request. ‘I see, yes. So the Son of Justice that everyone is suddenly talking about is not only real, but he is to be executed? That will cause an outcry if it is known. I would like to play a part in rescuing him - even more so, since he is our little bird’s friend. We will make him fly away from under their noses, yes?’

‘You can prepare the papers for us?’ asked Tarlos. ‘With signature and seal?’

‘Of course, but I will need to leave here to visit the public archives and look at similar documents.’

‘I apologise for the implied lack of trust,’ said Tarlos, ‘but one of my men will accompany you. Tolmos, would you ask Balios to come here, please?’

Tom bowed to the artist, Gondorian style. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You gladden my heart. Barard is everything to me.’

He turned and ran from the room to find Balios. It was only the very first step, but it felt huge, momentous, as though Tarlos’s plan could really happen. Oh, please let it happen! He was bubbling over with excitement, almost incoherent with it by the time he joined his two friends. Faros put a hand on either shoulder to steady him.

‘What, Tolm? What is it?’

‘He says he can do it, forge the papers!’ Tom blinked back tears as he looked up at Faros. Shit! What’s the matter with me! He took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘I need to be doing something. I’m going to help muck out the horses.’ He knew that would earn him some solitude, since Faros was not very comfortable around horses, and Catos would stay with Faros.

Mucking out had already finished, but his offer to help with grooming was accepted, and a wooden box found and upturned for him to stand on. The work was very soothing. He circled the curry comb over the animal’s body to loosen dirt, then worked through the sequence with the hard bristled brush, raising a small cloud of dust at each flick of his wrist. He finished with a soft brush, smoothing the coat down to a shine. The horse fidgeted, rolling its eyes and snorting a little when he hopped down to move the box as needed, but Tom hummed as he worked, and gradually the animal relaxed, resting one hind leg and half-closing its eyes. Tom finished with a careful check of each hoof, but there was no dirt packed around the frog, and the shoes were sound. He moved on to the next horse, just letting his mind drift with the rhythm of his hand’s movement.

The party was winding down now in the Party Field, and some of the candles that hung in lanterns from the mallorn tree’s branches had burnt down, deepening the shadows cast by the starlight as they flickered out. The night was the shortest of the year, and it would not be long before the first hint of the sun’s rising would be visible in the sky off towards Buckland. Tom stood gazing that way, lost in memories of their trip to Minas Tirith, a plan growing in his drink-befuddled mind. A hand, stroking over his shoulder and falling away, made him jump, and he turned, knowing Barard would be there. Only Barard touched him like that: a fleeting caress for when they were in company, that nevertheless managed to be intimate and full of promise.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump. What were you wool-gathering about?’

Tom smiled, swaying slightly, and took the water Barard held out to him; he drank half and then waved the glass around, trying to get his thoughts in order. ‘I wajsh thinking I might do murder if ‘nother Shire worthy asked me what I wajsh going to do wiv my life now’ve come of age.’ He yawned; it was becoming an effort to sound coherent. ‘I cou’n’t very well say, take you t’bed an’ fuck you sensheless now I’ve got me own smial.’

‘I never noticed that not having your own smial stopped you.’

‘And I’ve nev’r... nev’r noticed that bein’ at a crowded party shtopped you.’

‘Well, I was tempted to drag you under the stage I helped set up for the musicians, but you know... your party. Bad form to disappear. Anyway, you wanted us to keep apart, remember? Seeing as how you can’t look at me in a fine waistcoat without wanting to nail me to the ground.’ Barard lazily undid the buttons of his best silk waistcoat, and Tom followed the teasing fingers with his eyes; he did indeed want to nail Barard to the ground, to a tree - anything really - but he wasn’t sure about his co-ordination. ‘Anyway,’ said Barard, as the last button came free, and the waistcoat fell open over a fine white shirt that moulded to his body and quickened Tom’s breath, ‘I’m looking forward to spending what’s left of the night in your new home.’

Tom shook his head, and then regretted it as the stars swayed drunkenly. ‘Wrong,’ he said.

Barard’s face became very still. ‘Why “wrong”?’ he asked quietly, and Tom wanted to kick himself, and kiss that look of hurt bewilderment away.

‘Pillock,’ he said. ‘I’m pished and you’re bein’... pillock. It’s our new home. See? Not mine. Never mine. Ours!’ He was drunk enough to put his arms around Barard, spilling water as he did so. Barard supported him, and only Frodo’s voice, amused with a hint of condescending-older-brother, stopped Tom from nuzzling at Barard’s ear.

‘Oh, dear, he’s got to the amorous stage. Honestly, Tom, couldn’t you have found a girl? Poor Barard, I can’t think how he puts up with you. Come on, Merry, let’s get the birthday boy to bed. There’s one consolation: if he pukes up in his hole, he’ll be the one as has to clean it up.’

‘No problem.’ From the voice, Robin was there as well, but the world seemed to be spinning worse than before, and Tom closed his eyes. Drinking the water appeared to have been a mistake. He tried to concentrate on what Robin was saying. ‘I’ll help Barard get him to bed; no need for you two to worry. Then I think Barard or me should stay with him.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Barard. ‘I’ll stay with him.’

‘If you two are sure,’ said Merry. Tom heard the relief in his voice at not having to play nursemaid, and Robin laughed.

‘No doubt your twins’ll wake you at the crack of dawn, Mer, and that’s not far away. Go! Get some sleep!’

‘Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep on his back, then.’

Someone took the glass from his hand, and Tom slumped further into Barard’s arms. He gave a contented hum as he felt Barard tighten his hold, and he laid his head against Barard’s shoulder. His legs seemed very distant and not under his control. ‘Bar’d’ll loog after me,’ he slurred. ‘Bar’d alwaysh loogs after me.’

‘Yes, we’d noticed,’ said Frodo dryly. ‘And you look out for him. You might as well be joined at the hip.’

‘Thatsh ‘cos I love him. I love you, Bar’d.’

‘Just how much has he had to drink?’ asked Merry, laughter in his voice. ‘Oh, I’m looking forward to reminding him about this in the morning!’

Tom looked up at Barard blurred against the stars, and tried to bring his face into focus. Shit! That wasn’t something he should have said, but Barard just smiled. ‘Don’t make it too early, then,’ he said. ‘I think he’ll have to work off his hangover first.’ He pulled Tom more upright and hauled one of Tom’s arms around his neck. ‘Come on, lover boy, let’s get you to bed.’

Tom heard Frodo’s and Merry’s laughter fade into the distance. He concentrated on trying to make his feet behave, but they showed a distressing tendency to tangle around each other. Robin came and shored him up on the other side, and somehow he and Barard guided Tom to New Row. Barard took his weight as Robin opened the door and lit candles, and Tom blinked as the room flickered into life. It was furnished with a mishmash of whatever friends and relations could spare, but what it lacked in style it more than made up for in being his own place.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled into the silk of Barard’s waistcoat as he sagged down again, and Barard steered him neatly into an old frayed armchair.

‘For what? Being drunk? Or trying to tell Frodo and Merry? If you want to tell them, that’s fine by me, but maybe best to make that decision when you’re sober.’

‘I’ve no idea how you’ve managed to keep it secret so long,’ said Robin, coming to sit on the arm of the chair. ‘Nigh on eight years you two’ve been in each other’s breeches whenever chance allows. Do you want me to help you get him to bed, Barard? Or can you manage?’

‘I c’n manage,’ said Tom.

Robin laughed. ‘Good luck with him. I’ll see you later. I’ve got some news, but I thought I’d wait until Tom’s birthday was over, and now I’ll wait until he’s sober.’

‘Éowyn ‘sgoing to marry you!’ exclaimed Tom. He jolted upright and tried to stand to hug Robin, but he fell sideways, into Barard’s arms.

The next thing he remembered was waking in their bed with a dry mouth and thumping headache. He had no idea what the time was, since the bedrooms in the tiny smial were delved back into the hillside, with no windows. He groaned, and felt Barard move against him.

‘Tom?’

‘Guh?’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Guh.’

Barard kissed him lightly on the temple. Tom wanted to protest as the warmth pressed against his back was lost, but his tongue appeared to be glued to the roof of his mouth. The bed creaked, and candlelight flickered in the room. Tom buried his head beneath his arm; even through closed eyelids, the light was too bright.

‘Poor love.’ Barard’s breath whispered across his cheek. He must have come round the bed to crouch at Tom’s side. Fingers brushed hair away from Tom’s brow. ‘What possessed you to drink so much?’

‘Angelica.’

‘Angelica!’

‘She was after me. And her ma, telling me what a fine couple we’d make.’ Tom shivered at the memory. ‘Everyone asking me what I’m going to do with my life now I’ve come of age. Aunty May telling me how well all my brothers have done, and asking me when I was going to settle down with a nice lass.’ He lifted his head and stared blearily at Barard. ‘Where were you?’

‘You know the answer to that; it was your idea we should keep our distance. It was a good party, ‘part from that, and ‘part from the fact I was hoping for a lusty shag last night. I’m going to get you a drink. Can you face some food? It’s probably after noon. You’ve got a few hours to recover before we’re expected at Bag End for supper.’

‘No food.’

Barard stood up, and kissed him again. ‘I’ll get you that drink, then.’ Tom closed his eyes against the light as Barard left the bedroom door open. The sound of the pump reverberated painfully round his head, and then Barard was back with a glass. ‘Come on, love. Sit up.’

Tom struggled to obey, and drank down a sweet cordial made of that year’s elderflowers. He drew Barard down into a kiss, and gave in to a different intoxication.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said quietly as they parted.

‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘No, listen. I want us to be together. Would you come to Minas Tirith with me? Just us, I mean, not with your father.’

‘If that’s what you want, of course I will. Any particular reason?’

‘I want to try trading up the Greenway. Do you think that’s stupid? There’s all sorts of things in Rohan and Gondor that I think hobbits would buy.’

‘We should start small. We’ve got enough money to live on, with my allowance and what your da’s gifted you for your Coming of Age.’

Tom sighed in relief, and pulled Barard into bed with him. He wasn’t feeling in a fit state to discuss details, but Barard’s easy acceptance gave him a glow of warmth. Suddenly, just like that, they had a future together.

Tom leant his head against the horse’s flank, and blinked back tears. Did they still have a future together? Had that drunken decision led them inexorably to Barard’s death? The horse shifted, and Tom pulled himself together. If they didn’t have a future, they at least had a past. Nearly thirty years contained a lot of memories. Some of his younger nephews and nieces had called him Uncle Tom-and-Barard on his last visit to the Shire, never having heard him spoken of without Barard’s name being added. A year ago! That had been a year ago, and most of that time Barard had spent imprisoned. His mind shied away again from thinking too closely about that; he didn’t want to think of what the long confinement might have done to Barard - what Tarlos and Faros had hinted at, and what Catos had spoken of openly.

He waited until that evening to raise the matter of his going to meet the Gondorians, and Sûlos not only assured him of someone to take the role of his master, but also promised a small guard.

‘I think the further from Hafar you meet with them, the better,’ said Tarlos. ‘You should start out tomorrow.’

Tom was relieved. He had no wish to trail about the palace for a week, trying to distract himself as the date of execution loomed. Far better to be on the move. He took all the advice he was given, and set out in the small hours of the morning. By necessity, he rode a horse: sixteen spans of a man’s hand to the withers, he would judge, and therefore much taller than anything he had ridden before. It was the smallest horse Sûlos had in his stables, and biddable. Tom wore the garb of a slave, the metal collar around his neck once more, but with a company of twenty men, it was easy to stay hidden.

They rode out of the city by the south gate before first light, a wealthy merchant accompanied by his slaves and guards, but as soon as they were out of sight of the city, they turned west. The land gradually changed from flood plain to low broken hills as they followed the wide sweep of the river around the city, and by the time the sun rose, they were well hidden in the rocky landscape. As the sun climbed high in a deep blue sky, there was little shade to be had. Their horses’ hooves kicked up a fine red dust that settled over them, but Tom’s companions knew of a spring that rose bubbling and gushing from the ground, to flow away towards the river somewhere out of sight. Trees and bushes clustered thickly around a wide pool, and the cool green was restful after the glare of the sun. Tom dismounted by part sliding, part jumping to the ground, and they led their horses in single file along a well-beaten track to the water’s edge.

Their coming disturbed some wild animal that went crashing away through the undergrowth, but they never saw it. The men sheathed their swords as the noise faded, and Tom was relieved to see that the mud around the water showed only cloven prints of some grazing animal. They drank, bathed their faces - and in Tom’s case, feet - and allowed their horses to stand in the water and drink their fill. A noon meal of bread, cheese, and cold meats was quickly eaten, and two men stood watch while the rest of the company slept. It was late afternoon when Tom was roused by one of the men, who appeared to have been given the role of Tom’s personal servant. He helped Tom to mount and handed him a filled water bottle.

They continued late into the night, a half moon, bright in the sky over Hafar, casting shadows before them as they headed due west. Early on the third day, as they picked their way through the last of the low hills that gave way to the flat lands stretching to Umbar’s border, one of their scouts came riding back in the moonlight to report a camp ahead. They climbed cautiously to a vantage point, keeping low to the ground. Lights were twinkling below, and Tom could see sentries pacing back and forth. Occasionally a soldier showed in sharp relief as he passed before a fire. Tom let out a sigh at the familiar silhouette of Gondorian armour. A tension he had not known he held left him, and he bowed his head to the ground.

‘What do you wish to do, Tolman?’

‘If we all ride out, they may think we are brigands,’ said Tom. ‘I will go.’

‘We do not yet know who they are,’ said the scout.

Tom smiled at him. ‘I know,’ he said.

He was almost laughing as he rode from the shelter of the hills, keeping the horse’s pace slow to avoid alarm. His hobbit love of surprises was bubbling to the surface, and he did not call out. He reached the camp, his excitement mounting, and half a dozen unknown men blocked his way. Tom swung out of the saddle and dismounted by dropping to the ground; he steadied himself, and bowed to them Gondorian fashion, too full of joy at this meeting to speak. There was a murmur of surprise.

‘Welcome, stranger,’ said their captain. ‘Do - you - speak - Westron?’ He was speaking slowly and clearly. Tom just grinned up at him; he wanted to hug the man. ‘The child is a slave, I think.’ The captain turned to one of his men. ‘Fetch that interpreter chap.’ Tom opened his mouth to speak, but a familiar voice made his breath catch in his throat.

‘I’m here; let me through.’

Hanril! With a cry, Tom ran forward, but was grabbed by a soldier. ‘Oh, no you don’t, you little heathen.’ He froze as a knife was held at his throat, and his eyes met Hanril’s.

‘Tom?’ Hanril gasped in surprise and turned to the soldiers. ‘For Eru’s sake. It’s the perian we seek. Let him go! Let him go, now!’

‘Sir, there is a force riding out from the hills!’

Released, Tom spun around to see his Haradrim riding to his rescue. ‘Help me mount, Hanril,’ he said, not even sure which language he was using, and without hesitation Hanril bent with linked fingers to boost him onto his horse’s back. The Gondorian captain was signalling the call to arms as Tom kicked his heels into his horse’s side and rode to meet his would-be rescuers. The Haradrim slowed as Tom approached, reined in their horses, and milled around him.

‘What happened, my lord?’ asked one.

‘A misunderstanding,’ said Tom. ‘My fault. Dismount and walk with me, but let me go in front, and for love of the Lady, sheath your swords!’ He led them back to the Gondorian camp, feeling rather foolish. Hanril came running forward, and Tom was aware of hands tightening on sword hilts beside him. ‘Peace,’ he cried, his voice shaking. ‘He is a friend.’ Hanril dropped to one knee, arms outstretched, and Tom threw himself into his embrace with a sob.

‘Tom, oh, Tom. I thought we’d lost you.’

‘Hanril! It’s so good to see you.’ He felt like a small hobbit lad at Yuletide, full of excitement.

‘So, these soldiers learn the hard way,’ said another familiar voice, carrying a soft music in the laughter that was not heard in the voices of men. ‘Hobbits are trouble.’

Tom pushed free of Hanril’s embrace. ‘Legolas!’ Without thinking, he dropped to his knees and bowed low to kiss the elf’s feet. There was a murmur of surprise from the Gondorians, and someone laughed, but at least it showed Tom’s companions who the ambassador was.

As he knelt back onto his heels, Legolas lifted him off the ground to swing him up and hug him, then cleared his throat self-consciously. He set Tom down again, and laughed, a sound that made Tom’s heart leap with joy. ‘What are you doing riding into our camp and frightening the guards, you woolly-pated rascal?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. ‘I truly am.’

‘No harm to keep them on their toes. What news of Barard? Were you looking for us, or is this a chance meeting?’

‘I was riding to meet you, knowing only that the king was sending an ambassador. I would talk with you in private.’ He looked up, past Legolas, and nearly choked. ‘Prince Barahir! My lord!’ This was a serious message to Daros; if harm befell the Prince of Ithilien, it would be an act of aggression that Gondor could not ignore. He repeated the obeisance deliberately, for the benefit of the Haradrim.

Barahir smiled down at him. ‘Well met, Sam’s son,’ he said, and Tom was struck again at how closely this man resembled his grandfather, Prince Faramir.

The captain of the Gondorian guard stepped forward. ‘My lords, the meeting of friends in unexpected places is to be welcomed, but I would counsel against too much trust in this Halfling. He conducts himself as a heathen Southron, has clearly gone over to their ways, and we cannot know his true intent in this.’

Barahir roared with laughter, and the Haradrim looked uncertainly between Tom and the man who had spoken, apparently realising that there was some dissension. Tom hid his anger at the slur to his honour, and left it to Legolas to defend him. For his companions to see him arguing heatedly would simply raise their anxiety for his safety. He touched Hanril’s arm. ‘Will you stay here?’ he asked. ‘Make sure no misunderstandings arise? We are all friends together. They are helping me, helping Barard.’

‘What of Barard?’ asked Hanril.

‘He lives, at least for now. Time is short; we cannot stay here long. By sunrise we must be gone. Let me speak with Legolas and Prince Barahir, and then, if there is time, we’ll talk.’

Hanril nodded and bowed, and Tom followed Gondor’s ambassadors to one side. ‘My lords,’ he said without preamble, as soon as they were seated, cutting across their questions, ‘you will be in danger in Hafar. There is one who is the rightful king, one who seeks to overthrow Daros; his name is Sûlos. He is a man who I believe will rule wisely and be open to friendship with Gondor. If you are not careful, I fear you will find yourselves trapped in the Citadel when the fighting begins. Possibly Daros will turn on you, believing that you are privy to the plot.’

Legolas and Barahir heard him out, but Barahir leaned forward as Tom finished. ‘How do you know this, Tom?’

Tom nodded back to his Haradrim companions. ‘These men are Sûlos's; I know it because I am in his household. He cannot delay - already there has been an attempt on his life. Daros has planned a public... entertainment for you, and Sûlos must seize the opportunity this gives him. He bids me hold out the hand of friendship to you.’

‘We cannot act with him, Tom,’ said Legolas. ‘You must see that?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. ‘Sûlos sends this advice. Do not stay in the city. Camp outside with your men. Daros will welcome you with a great feast. Return to your camp afterwards and stay there. In the morning, the fighting will start.’

Legolas nodded. ‘Yes, that we can do. Daros has already hinted at some great spectacle he has in store for us, but I know not what it is.’

‘If all goes to plan, it will not take place,’ said Tom. His hands clenched together in his lap, and his breathing quickened.

‘Tom? What is it?’

Tom closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He was trembling as he looked up at Legolas. ‘Barard is to be executed.’

‘What!’ They had sat out of hearing of the soldiers, but now heads turned their way at the shocked exclamations.

‘My friends are going to try and rescue him in the early hours of the morning of the execution; it will signal the beginning of the attempt to overthrow Daros.’

‘And if they are not successful?’

‘We will not meet again.’ He forestalled Barahir’s protests. ‘Listen. You will meet Mehos, although you may not recognise him. He will be close to the king. Karios is his real name. Do not trust him. I have no doubt that he betrayed me into slavery. He will scratch his head like this.’ Tom demonstrated.

‘Slavery! Tom, that collar! Are you a slave now?’

‘No, but I have been until very recently; now it is no more than a disguise. We will break fast, and then leave.’

‘I will order the cook to make an early meal.’

‘Not on our account. We have our own food. I would rather be well away by daylight. This moon shows us up too well as it is. Now, tell me quickly. How is Pippin?’

‘He is failing,’ said Legolas sadly. ‘But his son, Faramir, is with him, as is your brother Frodo.’

Tom looked at him in surprise. ‘Frodo? Faramir? In Minas Tirith?’

‘They wait for news of you and Barard,’ said Barahir. ‘Let us hope that we have some good news to send them soon.’

Tom swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. He answered their questions about Sûlos, convincing them that this was a serious and well-planned attempt to overthrow Daros, and then joined Hanril. His Haradrim guard didn’t seem to know quite what to make of Hanril, but once they discovered that his mother had been enslaved by the corsairs, they started questioning him about her background. Hanril knew little of this, but it didn’t seem to matter: the Haradrim had decided he was one of their own - a member of an oppressed House. Tom spoke quietly to him as they ate, telling him of the treachery of Mehos, and what he had learnt about Barard. Hanril wiped his eyes and sniffed, and as they parted, he hugged Tom in a fierce embrace.

‘It’s hard to let you go again, having found you against all our expectations,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself, and bring Barard safely home.’ Tom nodded, but when he sought Legolas out, he had a request for the Elf’s ears only.

Legolas knelt to say farewell, and Tom spoke quietly. ‘I doubt it will be possible, but if all our plans come to ruin, will you try and recover our bodies? I think our families would be grateful for that, but do not put yourself in danger.’

Legolas took Tom’s hands between his own. ‘I hope it will not come to that, dear friend, but go assured that I will do all in my power to take you home, not leave you to lie in foreign soil.’

Tom nodded and took a deep breath. Legolas kissed his brow. ‘Namárië,’ he said, as they embraced. ‘May we meet again soon.’

One of the Haradrim helped Tom mount, and they rode away in haste, to be back amongst the low hills before the sun showed them clearly to any unfriendly eyes. Already the sky was lightening in the east, and the moon’s brightness was fading. Birds were calling, although Tom could neither recognise their voices nor work out where they were hidden. An eerie yipping that seemed to come from all directions at once made him look around, but he could see no sign of the animal making it.

They pushed on, making faster progress now that they were not worried about missing the Gondorians, but their scouts were still busy: they had no wish to run into brigands, or soldiers of Daros. Tom wanted to be back in Hafar before the Gondorians arrived, but his way was the longer, as his company once more made a wide detour of the city, to approach from the south. On the second day, their scouts rode back to report that Sûlos's army was camped between them and the river, but Tom saw no sign of them, and he marvelled that they could be so well hidden amongst the low hills. The next morning they broke camp early and were at the gate before sunrise, to enter with the delivery wagons coming up from the south. The streets were deserted, but they rode through back ways to the large gates in a high stone archway that led into the palace barracks. At the password, the gates were unbarred, and they entered a wide passageway enclosed by an arching roof. The gates behind them were fastened shut, and the horses fidgeted in the dark as their riders waited for the inner gates to open. They rode into the square in the pale light of dawn, and men came running to take their horses. Somewhere a cock was crowing.

Tom slid from his horse and walked stiffly through the palace. He turned down the offer of food - his stomach rebelled at the idea - and tired though he was, he made his way to the herb garden rather than seeking his bed. He sat down heavily and gazed up at the square of sky above him. A pink glow deepened to gold, and then faded into dazzling blue. By this time tomorrow, he would either hold Barard in his arms, or know they had failed. He picked some aromatic leaves, crushing them between his fingers, and breathed deeply to savour the smell. A small bird, jewel-like in the brilliance of its green and red plumage, picked over fallen leaves for insects, the tiny rustling noises it made drawing Tom’s eye. As a window was thrown open in the palace kitchens, the bird took fright, and Tom watched it flying out of sight. He fingered the feathers at his neck. Maybe tomorrow he would be flying free, his last birthday gift to Barard.

A picture formed in his mind of Frodo pacing the wall of the sixth circle of Minas Tirith as the sun rose and the banners unfurled. He looked tired and anxious, but he tilted his head to watch as two eagles soared above him, their wings spread in the early morning light. They wheeled back, dipped their wings towards the small watching figure, and dwindled into specks that vanished behind the peak of Mindolluin.

Tom wished he could hug his brother close; poor Frodo, who hated even the bustling atmosphere of Great Smials or Brandy Hall. How was he coping in a great city of men? He was there for his love of Tom, but - whatever happened tomorrow - it would be weeks before news of their fate came to the white city, and months before it reached the Shire.