THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 11

Tom sat in darkness in the covered wagon, tense and worried. It was the not knowing that was hardest to bear. Anything could be happening, and he was powerless to help. Through a chink in the wagon’s cover he could see one of the torches that burnt on either side of the Citadel gate. Occasionally a guard passed in front, shutting off the light. At least there were no sounds of an alarm being raised, but he had no way of knowing whether Tarlos and Faros had been discovered and arrested in the night.

He wasn’t quite sure how he had endured the previous day and the sleepless night that followed, as fear and excitement roiled together into a tight knot in his belly. He had been unable to eat, and the frequency of his visits to the privy had become a matter for laughing comment amongst the soldiers. Living through it, the day had seemed interminable, but now it came back to him as a series of happenings, as though a shutter blanked off the weary waiting between each event.

Faros had come and found him as he sat in the herb garden, lost in thoughts of home, but what after? His first clear memory was of Catos running in from outside, almost bursting with excitement at having seen the Gondorians enter the city under escort. Their strangeness, their pale skins and peculiar armour all fuelled his non-stop chatter, but it was the presence of an Elf that had driven him to fever pitch.

‘He had pointy ears! He’s very tall; he almost seemed to shimmer. You really know him? There was a man riding beside him who has black hair like us, but his skin is very pale - almost white. There was one there who might have been a Haradrim. Is that your Hanril? Your servant? He was well dressed, not like a slave at all. There was a huge crowd, I had trouble finding somewhere I could watch. We had a long wait for them to appear. Everywhere there was talk and anger about the attack on Sûlos and Yanos last week, and there was a lot of talk about the execution. ‘Course,’ Catos smiled at Tom with confidence, ‘they don’t know it’s not going to happen, but people are very unhappy about a small one like you being executed, and even more so because he’s named bar-Ard. There’ve been some disturbances and arrests while you’ve been away, did you know? There’s a lot of anger about that, as well.’

Approaching footsteps made Tom duck down, ready to hide under the seat if any should look in. He clearly heard voices: a guard was talking to the driver of the wagon in which Tom hid.

‘Why do you wait here? Move on!’

‘I am here by order; see - these are the papers.’ There was a pause, no doubt while the guard read what was written, and Tom hardly breathed, not wanting to miss the smallest warning that their presence wasn’t accepted.

‘What do you carry?’

‘Nothing. The wagon’s empty. I’ve not been told what it is I’m to collect at this unnatural hour in the morning. You know how it is; they don’t tell us lesser men anything. I don’t even know where I’m to go. I’ll be annoyed if I’m not back for the execution; my cousin’s up from the country for that, and I don’t often get to see him. What do you know about this spy? Is that why the Gondorians are here?’

‘It’s as you say. We lesser men are not told anything. I’ve not seen the spy, although I’ve heard about him. He’s dangerous, that I do know.’

Tom smiled with pride that Barard could have such a reputation when he was half his captors’ size, but the guard’s next words had him dropping to the floor and rolling under the long seat that ran down the length of the wagon.

‘I’ll just have a look inside.’

‘Of course. Let me get it unlaced for you.’ The man took his time, fumbling at the lacings. ‘There, you see? All empty. What do you think they want me for?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose we’ll find out sometime before the night’s out, heh? Am I all right here, or do you want me to move up the street?’

‘No. You’re fine.’ There was the sound of footsteps, and Tom guessed the guard was crossing back to the gate. He waited a little before he eased out. The driver had been well chosen from among the soldiers. Listening to him, Tom would never have guessed that he was anything other than a put-upon drayman. The forger’s papers had stood them in good stead, but what of the paper that really mattered?

‘Here, Tom. Here is the fine bit of work by your friend. Balios says that there is nothing to choose between this and the documents in the public archive.’

Tom reached out and touched the parchment where it lay on the table. The seal that the artist had made rolled away, and its imprint in wax stared up at Tom; an eye with a catlike pupil dominated the design. A signature sprawled across the bottom of the page, below a neat flowing script such as scribes used. Tom nodded to the forger, but couldn’t find any words to say. It did indeed look a fine piece of work, although he couldn’t read a word of it, but the proof would be Barard, safe in his arms.

Tom tried to get a look at the moon, to gauge the time, but he couldn’t see it through the narrow view he had. He didn’t dare try to enlarge the opening, in case of discovery. Surely Tarlos and Faros should be here by now? It was a hard thought to bear, that others were risking their lives for his sake. He flopped down on the seat and hunched forward, feeling helpless. Faros and Tarlos had left with Sûlos the previous evening, Faros dressed as a slave.

‘Faros, my friend. I don’t know how to thank you for doing this.’

Faros released himself from Tom’s embrace and stood. A look of concentration came over his face. ‘I must say, “I am friend of Tolm. I am taking you to Tolm.”’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes, that’s good, but if he still struggles, try showing him this.’ He took out a simple drawing of a stoat, such as Barard always added to his letters. ‘There might not be enough light to see it, and... and being so much in the dark may have affected his sight, but it might help, and none would understand it except him.’

Faros looked at it in puzzlement. ‘A muskil of the desert? But how would he know? He doesn’t even know you are here, that you are a slave.’

Tom frowned at him. He was feeling stressed enough, without having such gibberish talked at him.

‘I mean, how would he know you’re branded with a muskil?’ asked Faros, the strained patience in his voice showing that he too was holding himself in check.

Tom looked at him in shock; he had no idea what a muskil was, but evidently it looked like a stoat. ‘This... I have...? This is my brand,’ he croaked. Never had it occurred to him to ask what was seared into his flesh in silver-white scar lines. Catos carried a bird of some sort, Faros the outline of a tree; both patterns were set within a circle. He suddenly started laughing, and heads turned their way. Faros gave him a shake.

‘Stop it, Tolm! Yes, this is your brand. Did you not know?’

Tom hiccupped and shook his head. Maybe it was a consequence of his not being able to face any food, but he felt light-headed. ‘The picture is a stoat,’ he said. ‘Barard always drew it on his letters to me, and sometimes,’ he struggled against his laughter, ‘sometimes on things he wanted to claim as his own.’

‘Good,’ said Faros. ‘That is auspicious. I will see you tomorrow.’ He turned and followed Sûlos and Tarlos out through the front entrance. Tom could see that litters were waiting there for Sûlos and Tarlos, but the size of the guard surprised him. He thought Tarlos planned to take just ten men.

‘They’re not all staying,’ said Catos, just as though he’d read Tom’s thoughts. ‘They need enough guards so that a few missing won’t be noticed when Sûlos leaves the Citadel after the feast, and with the litters’ curtains closed, all will presume Tarlos is within.’

Tom nodded. That made sense. He glanced at Catos. The youngster’s eyes were overly bright, and he obviously needed something to think about, something other than the danger Faros would be in. Tom knew what he wanted to do, and Catos could help him. A few minutes later he was stripped of his tunic and standing in front of a mirror. Catos held another small looking-glass up behind him.

‘It’s very clear,’ said Catos, and Tom had to agree with him.

Sitting in the wagon, Tom’s hand wandered to his shoulder. The skin around the scar still felt sensitive, even after all these months Oh, Barard. I’m yours. Come back to me. He listened carefully, but all was quiet. Where are you? What’s happening? He had little to work on in his imagination. How many guards would there be in the dungeon? Could his friends overpower them before the alarm was raised if the plan went astray? Would Barard fight them all the way, bringing more guards upon them, who would discover the deception?

Whatever happened here, the dice were cast. Yanos had waited only long enough to satisfy himself that Sûlos was safely returned from the Citadel; he had ridden out, just after midnight, to join his cavalry. Even now, men were deployed around the city, and Tom spared a thought for those who would be waylaid as they did no more than follow the orders of Daros. Those who did his bidding might not even like the man, but they were likely to die for him today.

Tom yawned and rubbed his eyes. If he were to lie down now, he would be no more likely to fall asleep than earlier in the night, when he’d tossed and turned waiting for Balios to come and tell him it was time. He’d been unable to chew and swallow the food the servant brought, but had gratefully drunk a thick mess of bananas mashed into goats’ milk. He’d felt better for it at the time; now he felt slightly sick.

Suddenly he jerked up. There was the unmistakable tramp of feet walking in step. He peered through his narrow peephole, but he couldn’t see the gate itself.

‘Halt!’

Was that Tarlos’s voice? It was hard to tell. There was the sound of a gate opening, and an unknown voice called to the driver. ‘You! In here. Quickly now.’

As the wagon lurched forward and turned, Tom rolled under the seat again, pushing himself as far into the space as he could. He heard the horses’ hooves slither a little, and then there was the sound of gates being closed, but behind them this time, shutting them into the Citadel. Was this a trap?

‘You two, with the driver.’ Tom’s heartbeat quickened. That was Tarlos. ‘The rest of you, with the prisoner inside.’ He bowed his head as he lay in the dark. The prisoner! They’ve got him! The cover was unlaced, letting in torchlight, but all Tom could see was feet, and they were blurred by the tears that he was helpless to stop. The wagon dipped slightly as each man climbed in. Hurry, oh, please hurry. But they didn’t hurry. There was a clinking of chain on chain, then, ‘Have you got him? Careful. Don’t trust him for a minute. Remember what the dungeon guards said. Right. Let’s have the gate open again.’ The wagon dipped one last time, and Tom heard the gates grate open, the noise of their catching slightly on the flagged way clear to hear. The order was given to move out, the wagon gave a lurch again as the horses took up the slack in the traces, and then they were rolling downhill. Tarlos spoke in a low voice. ‘Quiet everyone; Tolman, stay where you are, just until we’re round the corner. Oh, dragons’ teeth! Keep him quiet, Faros!’

There was the sound of struggling. Chain clinked on chain again, and there was a thump and a curse. ‘I take you to Tolm,’ said Faros in heavily accented Westron, but he sounded breathless.

There was no reply, only more sounds of metal on metal, more thumps and ragged breathing. Tom didn’t wait for permission to come out; as far as he was concerned the whole point of his being there was to reassure Barard, and he desperately needed to touch him. Tarlos could go hang. He fought his way between legs that shifted to make way for him, and struggled up in the dark. ‘Where is he?’ he cried. A hand caught his.

‘Hush. He’s here.’

Guided by the arm, Tom sat and was aware of men shifting, squeezing up to make room for him. A rank smell permeated the confined space.

‘Faros?’

‘Yes, I’m here. For the Lady’s sake, calm him! I have him in my arms.’ A foot connected with Tom, a bare foot. He grabbed it by the heel, and stroked over matted fur.

‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘Barard, it’s me. These are friends. Can you hear me?’

The foot stilled, trembling in Tom’s grasp. ‘Tom?’ There was a sob, and the foot went limp.

‘Barard!’ Panic spiralled upwards as Tom searched desperately for, and failed to find, a pulse on Barard’s foot. Instead, his questing fingers met the stickiness of fluid exuding from an open sore beneath the weight of cold metal. ‘Barard!’

‘He’s fainted, I think, Tolm,’ whispered Faros. ‘He’s very weak.’

‘Is he breathing? Let me hold him! Can’t we get these chains off him?’

‘Yes, and no, and not in the dark.’ The wagon swayed on a corner, and Tom bit back an angry reply. Faros was right. To try to move Barard while they were in motion and in the dark would be foolish. He pressed in close and sought blindly for Barard’s hand, whispering endearments for Barard to hear if he came back to consciousness. No one else would understand, although no doubt his tone conveyed much. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that Barard should wake to his voice.

The wagon levelled out as they reached the lower city, and came to a halt. ‘I’m leaving you here,’ said Tarlos quietly. ‘Good luck.’ There was only the faintest sound of movement, a glimpse of torchlight, and he was gone to take command of the assault within the city. Tom knew the two men seated with the driver had left with Tarlos - his own small guard - but there had been no sound of voices.

‘Can I hold -’ Tom began, but they were off again. Barard’s hand remained limp in his, and perhaps that was a good thing for the moment. After a while the driver poked his head through the front flap.

‘Quietly now, lads,’ he said. ‘We’re coming to the gate.’

Tom held his breath, waiting for the challenge, but they trundled through with no questions asked: another empty delivery cart leaving Hafar. He longed for the horses to break into a trot, but they walked on at a sedate pace. Undoubtedly, to any guard watching, they were suitably nonchalant, but how long before Barard’s escape was discovered? Would all pursuit be prevented by Tarlos and his men, who were charged with securing the city?

The driver called his horses to halt, and one by one the men slipped out of the wagon. Tom reluctantly released Barard’s hand and let Faros carry his love. He scrambled down after them, hardly daring to believe that Barard was free. They were behind a high wall - part of a series of barns and byres - and another smaller covered cart stood waiting for them. Men lit torches, and in the wavering light, Tom could see Barard’s gaunt frame hanging limp in Faros’s arms. He reached up in mute appeal, and Faros knelt onto one knee to bring Barard down to his level. Tom smoothed back hair which straggled in matted filth across Barard’s emaciated face, and touched his fingertips to a livid bruise darkening one cheek. Ragged clothes did little to hide the festering sores that covered Barard’s body, and the metal bands at wrists and ankles had chafed and worried through the skin they bound. Tom choked on a sob, and held out his arms.

‘Climb in first,’ said Faros, and his voice shook, as though he, too, were close to tears. ‘Climb in, and then you can hold him.’

Tom scrabbled up and wedged himself in a corner. Faros followed more slowly, hunched over his burden in the confined space. He bent down again to lay Barard carefully in Tom’s arms. The still form was distressingly light, and the rank smell was almost overpowering, but Tom was reassured by the slow rise and fall of Barard’s chest. He kissed Barard’s forehead, hugged him close, and wept. There was no joy in this, only grief over what Barard had borne and fear of yet losing him.

‘What does the healer say?’

‘That he could die at any moment, that there comes a time when a body is so thin that the heart just stops.’

Very gently, he kissed Barard’s cracked lips. ‘Don’t die, my love. Don’t die. Your Tom’s here.’

He knew that outside the men would be shedding their Citadel uniforms and dressing as farm labourers, but he took no heed until they were crowding in. Faros unlocked the manacles, and Tom relinquished Barard - reluctantly and briefly - to allow a cloak to be wrapped around his still form. Tom pulled one on himself. If news of Barard’s escape had reached the guards at the gate, it was unlikely that they would be searching carts coming into the city; if they did - and if they didn’t search too closely - they would see peasants coming to the public execution, holding two sleeping children. The manacles were discarded, and swords stowed beneath the seats.

Barard stirred as he was placed back in Tom’s arms, and Tom murmured to him softly as they set off. Faros sat next to them, his arm around Tom to help brace him against sudden movements, as inevitably a wheel found one of the many ruts in the road. In a low voice, he filled Tom in on what had happened at the Citadel.

‘The dungeon guards made no difficulties, but I’d rather not go back there in a hurry. Everything about the place was corrupt, from the stinking air to the brutality of the jailers. Are they like that because the place makes them so, do you think? Or have they created its loathsomeness?’

Tom shrugged; he had no idea, but he was sure of one thing: if the Citadel fell to Sûlos, he would go and see for himself. He kissed Barard on the forehead again. Faros must have felt the shrug; he carried on, bending close to Tom’s ear.

‘They warned us that he had come close to strangling a guard with his chains, and they came with me to unfasten him from the wall. He started yelling at us and fighting at the chains, making it hard for the guards to release them. I’m sorry, Tolm; I had to help restrain him, both to avoid raising suspicion, and because the longer we were there, the greater the risk of discovery.’

‘The bruise on his face?’

‘Not me, I swear. I told the guards I had a charm that might help, but when I said the words you taught me, he just kept shouting something again and again - I don’t know what - and then he spat on one of his jailers. That’s when they struck him. Tarlos ordered them off, said the prisoner should not appear before the crowd with bruises all over him. He put the fear of the Eye into them.’ Faros gave a huff of laughter. ‘Your Barard has spirit, I’ll say that for him, and he kicks like a camel. There were plenty of torches for the guards to see what they were doing, and so I said again, ‘I take you to Tolm,’ and I showed him the picture. He went very still, and then he just stared at me, and... and... a tear ran down his face. The guards took the opportunity to refasten the chain so it secured the manacles to each other, but I just wanted to... to kill them and release him. It wasn’t a nice feeling, so vengeful, but I knew we had to keep up the pretence, so I carried him out. At some point he started doubting us, and by the time we got to the gate, he was trying to fight me again.’

Tom took a deep steadying breath. Whatever Faros had wanted to do to the dungeon guards probably paled into insignificance beside his own thoughts on the matter, but Barard was here in his arms. That was all that mattered. Oh, glory! Barard was here! The cart slowed, and then stopped, and Tom looked up in sudden fear. Torchlight filtered through the cart’s cover, casting a faint light to see by. Was this the gate? Voices could be clearly heard.

‘Do you have them?’

‘Yes. No problems.’

The men looked at each other in horror, and Tom felt for his knife. Silently, Faros took Barard, and held him so that his face was hidden. He tucked the cloak over the telltale hobbit feet. If they were betrayed, as seemed likely, there was little point playing this game, but for the moment there was nothing else to do. One of the men bent down silently to pull out their swords.

There was some laughter, and they were moving again, but where were they going? Back to the Citadel? There was no way Tom was going to allow Barard to be imprisoned again. He felt panic rising, and concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly. He must stay calm.

One man unsheathed his knife and crept forward. Stealthily, he drew back the front flap, and the next moment they all breathed a collective sigh; torches in sconces threw shadows over the palace gates that led into the barracks. As the gates closed behind them, and the horses fidgeted in the darkness, the man who had drawn back the flap gave vent to the fear Tom had felt. ‘Fucking pits of fucking Angband, Kalos, what was that all about? We’ve all been shitting ourselves in here.’

‘What?’ said Kalos, his voice echoing a little. ‘Oh, it was just our lads. All’s well. We hold the south gate already.’

There was a spluttered laugh, and another said, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, do you know that, Kalos? You could have fucking told us.’

The light increased as the inner gates opened, and the wagon jerked and rolled forward into the well-lit barrack square.

‘Our little bird and his mate first.’

‘Let me carry him, Tolm.’

They climbed down, and Catos appeared, leaping joyfully around them. As the hood fell back from Barard’s face, Catos stilled and stared down at Tom with large eyes. ‘He looks terrible,’ he whispered.

Tom had to agree. In the torchlight, Barard’s face was skull-like in its thinness, his closed eyes sunk in deep shadowed hollows. Catos swallowed and touched Tom’s arm. ‘This way. There’s a bed ready for him. Sûlos's physician or one of the other healers will be along as soon as they can. They’re busy at the moment.’

‘Casualties?’ asked Faros, and Catos nodded.

‘I’ve been helping.’

‘How are things going?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. No, not that way; Sûlos said to use his rooms.’ Catos went first and opened the door, and Faros carried Barard through to lay him on the bed. Catos pulled aside a tapestry, and pushed open a door behind. ‘If the palace is overrun, you can try hiding here.’

Tom nodded to show he understood, but he only gave the tapestry the briefest glance. He climbed onto the bed and knelt over Barard. The worn and ragged clothes, similar to a slave’s, were filthy and would have to go. Tom ripped the ragged tunic from bottom to top, his eyes following the movement of his hands; he looked up to find Barard’s eyes fixed on him.

‘These dreams are the hardest,’ Barard whispered in a croak. ‘Do you know that, Tom? They’re the hardest. I see you, and I believe for a moment that I’m free, and then I wake, and nothing’s changed.’ He reached a shaking hand towards Tom, and Tom took it. His own eyes filled with tears again.

‘I’m here, love.’ He turned the hand and pressed a kiss into the palm.

Barard closed his eyes. ‘This is a good dream. I wish you were really here, and I could tell you I’m sorry.’

‘I am really here, my love.’ He couldn’t keep his voice steady. Leaning forward, he kissed Barard on the mouth. He felt Barard’s lips curve into a small smile beneath his.

‘Don’t let me wake up.’

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Catos.

‘That he thinks he’s dreaming,’ said Tom, and Barard’s eyes went wide. His nostrils dilated in fear, and Tom could feel him trembling.

‘No. Please, no. Stay with me, Tom. Don’t go. Don’t turn into one of them.’

‘I’m here,’ said Tom, gently, turning back to Westron again. ‘I’m not going to leave you.’ Barard’s eyes wandered away, losing focus, and Tom touched the side of his face with his free hand. ‘Look at me, Barard. There are only friends here. We need to get these filthy clothes off, get you cleaned up, treat your wounds. Would you like a drink?’

Barard gave a soft snort. ‘As I’m dreaming, a pint at the Ivy Bush would be good.’ Tom blinked back tears; Barard’s voice was weak, barely audible, he didn’t believe he was free, and he could still make this small joke. Barard closed his eyes again. ‘If you were real, you could tell the king.’

‘Tell him what, my love?’ Tom’s thumb circled against Barard’s palm.

‘About the army.’

‘You can tell him yourself in a few weeks. We’re going home, when you’re well enough.’

‘It’s probably too late; they caught me. I’m sorry. I saw the signals.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re free, now.’

Barard’s eyes opened again, and his eyebrows drew together in a frown. ‘He must be warned!’

‘Hush, love. You’re safe. Lie still, now.’ He tried to stop Barard from sitting up, but Barard clutched at him frantically.

‘There were lights in the hills. An army. In the north. I saw them!’ His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went limp in Tom’s arms. Tom laid him back down, and wondered if Barard had any idea how long he had been imprisoned, how old any news he had might be. He clasped Barard’s hand against his breast and looked up at Faros and Catos.

‘What is it, Tolm?’

‘He said they caught him, that there was an army in the north, he saw the signals. He seems to think there was or is some danger to Gondor.’

‘The third army!’ exclaimed Faros. ‘Where? Where is it?’

‘Was, Faros. He‘s been in the dungeon a year. Shit! Do you think he really was spying?’

‘What signals?’

‘Lights.’ Tom stared at Faros in sudden horror. ‘Oh, bollocks. The signalling station. There must be someone to signal to. Maybe they are still there.’ He looked out of the window; it was not far off dawn. ‘If they are there, then signalling can start when the sun is up. Catos, go and see if you can find out what news there is. Does Tarlos hold the Citadel hill?’

Catos jumped up and ran out, nearly knocking into servants bringing hot water and a large tub normally used for laundry. It made a good hobbit-sized bath. Tom took advantage of Barard’s insensibility to strip him, and Faros held him while Tom sheared off his hair. The result looked worse, not better, revealing more sores; his head would have to be shaved properly to remove the ragged tufts that remained, but they could at least wash his scalp now. They were just lifting him from the warm bath and wrapping him in towels when Catos returned, panting.

‘We hold all the lower city. No one can leave to call for reinforcements, but there’s fighting on the Citadel hill. I went to find the soldiers who came back with you -’

‘Good.’

‘- but they’ve all gone.’

‘I’ll go and find Tarlos.’ Faros lifted his sword belt and strapped it in place. ‘I can at least show him the direction the lights came from.’

Catos grabbed his hand. ‘Let me come with you.’

‘No!’ said Faros, then more softly. ‘No, Catos. Stay and help Tolm. I need to know you’re somewhere safe.’

‘Nowhere is safe.’

‘Some places are safer than others. That’s why Barard is here.’ He strode out.

Catos swore, and then sighed. He muttered something Tom did not catch, but it was probably some variation of “It’s not fair!” The youngster came to look down at Barard. ‘Balios says someone will be along soon to look at him.’ Tom nodded. The sores, where manacles had chafed at wrists and ankles, were weeping and crusted, and some of the ulcers on Barard’s body oozed pus. Scarring from whiplashes criss-crossed his back, and two more scars on his head gave evidence of other injuries.

Tom looked out again at the light growing in the sky. If the third army arrived too soon, Yanos might not have the men to deal with them. They would overwhelm the defences on the wall, and retake the city. If that happened, Catos was right: nowhere would be safe. Barard would die - by Tom’s hand if necessary. He stroked Barard’s face and linked their fingers together. So fragile! Barard looked so fragile. ‘I want to keep you safe, my love,’ Tom whispered. ‘I know I told you I wouldn’t leave you, but I think I have to.’ He looked around at Catos. It was a lot to ask of him, to stay with a sick Halfling who might do injury to him. Tom was dithering - torn between his need to stay and his need to go - when the physician arrived with Balios.

As the physician bent to examine his patient, Barard’s eyes opened. He stared at Tom for a moment, looking confused and frightened, then his gaze focused past him. He yelled out, struggling to get away from Tom’s arms.

‘We must calm him,’ said the physician, as though Tom wasn’t doing his best already. ‘He is too thin for this, Tolman. I have seen others in such a state, and the heart can suddenly fail. May I give him half the dose of sedative I gave you? I won’t deny there is a danger, but I judge the danger is greater if I do nothing.’

Tom nodded, fighting to contain flailing limbs. There seemed no real choice; Barard was hysterical. No wonder Faros had apologised for having to restrain him. ‘Barard, it’s me. Look at me, Barard. It’s your Tom.’

Barard didn’t appear to hear him, and Tom was forced to pin his arms to his sides and lay over his arching body. It was such a travesty of past times that Tom could not hold back his tears. He averted his eyes as the physician forced some sort of gag into Barard’s mouth. This was not how it was supposed to be! Barard was free, but still chained in his mind, and they were only adding to his fear.

Tom was shaking uncontrollably by the time Barard relaxed beneath him, and his face was wet with tears. He rubbed them away and struggled off the bed. ‘How long will he sleep?’ he asked.

‘An hour, at least.’

‘Catos, stay with him. Balios?’

‘Yes, I will help look after him.’

‘Thank you.’

Tom stroked his palm over Barard’s forehead and temple, and kissed the slack mouth. With difficulty, he tore himself away. Grabbing his sword, he ran through the palace, hampered by the fact he was still shaking. At the great front doorway onto the market, he paused and peered cautiously out. The entrance was guarded, and a company of Sûlos’s men marched openly across the square towards the Citadel hill. Tom ran to follow in the wake of the soldiers, ignoring the calls of the guards. He was able to get halfway to the prison before his way was blocked by fighting. He tried doubling back through a small side street, but met a hail of arrows which he only narrowly dodged. No one pursued him as he beat a hasty retreat, and he guessed the defending soldiers feared being drawn into an ambush.

‘Little bird!’

Tom slithered to a halt and turned towards the soft call. A woman stood at an open door beckoning him in. She glanced fearfully around, and beckoned him again to hurry. He dodged inside. There were only women there, their eyes showing their fear.

‘What is happening, little bird? Our men have gone to join the fighting. Is it true that the House of the Sun has returned?’

‘Who do your men fight for?’ panted Tom, not having fully regained his breath.

‘I do not know, but they fight against Daros.’

‘Then they fight for the true king,’ said Tom. ‘They fight for Sûlos.’ There was a murmur of approval, but Tom cut them short. ‘I must get up to the prison. I must get past Daros’s soldiers.’

‘Go out the back. There is a lane that will bring you out close to the prison, but it goes no further down the hill.’

Tom nodded. It was worth a try, and he could picture where it came out, not far from the signalling station, which was even better. Already there was too much light in the sky. The women showed him the way, and he ran on, aware that the scene must be repeated throughout the city: people huddling in their homes, fearful of looting, rape, even death. Would the city people who had joined the fighting know how to fight? Would a change in the ruler really make much difference to their daily lives? He put these thoughts aside as he came to the end of the alley and peered out. He was in luck. He could hear the sound of fighting close by, but the streets were such a maze that there was nothing to be seen. Tom sidled along a wall, wanting to look both ways and protect his back at the same time, and came out at the vantage point where he had first seen the large mirror hanging on its pintles. There was a lot of activity around it - Daros’s men waiting impatiently to call for reinforcements - and it was clear to Tom that he could get no closer.

Even as Tom watched, the first rays of the sun cleared the shoulder of the hill, and the mirror was tilted to meet her. He glanced out towards the northern hills, and saw an answering flash of light, swiftly followed by another. There was no time to lose. He cast around and found a small fall of rocks tumbled against the Citadel wall. Hurriedly, he picked out four stones of a suitable size, and hefted each in turn, judging their weight before he took aim with his first choice. The angle was difficult, but he had gravity on his side, and the stone flew true, to hit the mirror with a dull thud. A crack appeared across it. Heads turned, and hands shaded eyes against the low sun. Loud cries and fingers pointing to his ledge made it obvious he had been seen, but it would take a while for anyone to get round to his vantage point. As he let fly with a second stone, something struck his left shoulder with such force that he was thrown backwards against the prison wall; all the air was driven from his lungs in a high-pitch cry of shock. He slithered down the wall as his legs buckled. In a haze of pain, he heard the sound of breaking glass. Ha!

‘Tolm! Tolm!’ Catos? Shit! What was Catos doing here? ‘Tolm, get up. They’re coming. Get up!’

Tom stared rather stupidly at the arrow that had pierced his left shoulder, not able to quite believe he had been struck. Aided by Catos, he struggled to his feet. He was shaking again - from the pain and shock this time. Catos half supported him, half carried him, until the sound of pursuit gave Tom the strength he needed to run as well. He was disorientated, and had no idea where they were heading. Catos opened a door and almost dragged Tom over the threshold. It was only as the door clanged to behind them that Tom realised they were inside the prison. He slumped down, panting with the pain; he was falling down a dark tunnel, and there was a roaring in his ears.

‘Dalmos!’ shouted Catos. ‘Are you here? Dalmos!’

‘Well, well. Here’s a couple of volunteers for a nice cell block, lads.’

That dragged Tom back to reality. His head came up, not sure how to take the welcome. It wasn’t Dalmos, and the tone was not friendly. He couldn’t blame Catos for trying this refuge, but if they were really going to be taken prisoner, they were so far in the shit that they might as well be neck deep in a midden and still sinking. With a great effort, he focused on the guards. There was no sign of Dalmos.

‘He’s hurt,’ cried Catos, and Tom could hear the panic in his voice. ‘Will you help us? Dalmos said you’d help us.’ Shouts and yells came faintly from outside, and something crashed against the door. It didn’t sound like pursuit, more like a fight. Tom judged the men to be leaderless and afraid. Catos appeared to have come to the same conclusion. His voice took on a new note of command.

‘For the Lady’s sake! What are you playing at? It’s only a matter of time before Sûlos's men are here, that’s probably them now, and you’ll be in serious trouble if you harm us. Sûlos owes a blood-debt to my friend, and I am a ward of the House of the Sun!’

‘It’s true, then?’ said one man, but another, with more presence of mind, hastily bolted and barred the door. He picked up Tom and strode into an adjoining room. The world around Tom blurred and swirled into a mist of many colours; he was laid down - he knew that much - and as though from a great distance, a voice said, ‘There’s no surgeon here.’

‘Tolm! Tolm!’ That was Catos, but the swirling mist was coalescing back into the tunnel of darkness.

‘Barard!’ he mumbled. ‘Tell Barard I... Tell... Barard...’



When Tom came to himself, he felt too drowsy to open his eyes. His head was pillowed on something reassuringly soft. He tried to move, feeling the shift of his body against a mattress, but his left arm was folded across his body and bound there, and his right arm was trapped somehow. He tried wiggling the fingers of his right hand, but his arm had gone to sleep. Something that was pressed to his side twitched a little, and a weight he hadn’t noticed shifted across his legs, dragging against his skin as sweat resisted the movement. Very slowly he opened his eyes, and with difficulty focused on a ceiling bordered with twining roses. The palace, then. The room helped him make the connection between the fog that seemed to fill his mind and the dull ache in his left shoulder: he had been been dosed with a physic for the pain.

Staring at the ceiling, Tom struggled to remember. There had been an arrow, and a great fear. Fear that he would not be there to comfort and soothe Barard when he woke, that he had left Barard when he had promised he would not. Panic flooded through him. Where was -?

Before the thought was even complete, Tom knew the answer. He lifted his head, as well as he could, to squint downwards, and flopped back again with a sigh of relief. Barard was there, curled against Tom’s side, his head on Tom’s right shoulder. They were covered by a light sheet, but Tom could see it moulded over Barard’s leg that was thrown across his own. He closed his eyes again, feeling his tears flow and unable to wipe them away. The deadness in his right arm was explained, anyway: Barard was lying across it, twitching a little in his sleep and breathing quietly.

‘Oh, Barard,’ he whispered, and Barard burrowed against him, freeing Tom’s forearm. Tom wrapped the arm around Barard, feeling a numb tingling as his fingers came back to life. He stroked Barard’s back - eliciting a soft mutter of words that he could not make out - and bent to kiss the shaved head. Someone had tidied up Tom’s handiwork, and Barard was as bald as a slave in the market. The pungent smell was no doubt the unguent that was smeared liberally over the sores on Barard’s scalp; it mingled with the scent of soap, a great improvement on the prison stench.

Tom lay quietly, not sure if it was still the same day or not, but at least his presence in the palace boded well, and if he was here, then surely Catos was safe. That was about as much coherent thought as he could manage. His hand stroked lazily over Barard’s shoulder and arm, and he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Barard stirred under the caress. His hand slid across Tom’s belly and tightened on his hip. ‘Tom?’

Tom lay still, his breathing deep and even; in his drugged state, it was an effort to answer. ‘Yes, my love?’

‘This is a dream, isn’t it?’ Barard’s voice was as husky as before.

‘No, Barard,’ Tom mumbled. ‘This’s real.’

Barard sighed and raised his head to look at Tom. ‘But you’d say that, wouldn’t you? In my dream?’

This was too difficult for Tom in his befuddled state. He blinked at Barard. ‘Is there any way I c’n answer that?’ he asked, feeling drowsy and stupid.

Barard laid his head back down onto Tom’s shoulder, and his hand wandered over Tom’s body, mapping out the contours. He touched the bandages and stilled. ‘You’re hurt. The young man showed me the arrow.’

‘I’ll heal.’ He sighed as his eyes closed despite his best efforts. Young man? Did Barard mean Catos? He knew there was something... something important he had wanted to say. Oh, yes, that was it. ‘I love you,’ he mumbled as he drifted back into darkness.


When he next awoke, it was to find Barard still enfolded in his arm and deeply asleep. The medicine Tom had been given had worn off - the sharp pain in his shoulder and the clearness of his mind were evidence of that - but the pain was nothing compared with the intensity of the joy that flooded through him. Barard! Barard in his arms - well, arm. He wanted to shout, sing, leap around, but that would wake Barard. Instead he kissed the shaved head and blinked back tears once more. He was so wrapped up in his contemplation of Barard that he only realised they were not alone when his face was wiped. He smiled up, glad that he had been right: Catos was safe.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Catos quietly.

‘Good,’ said Tom, and gave a huff of laughter at the inadequacy of his reply. ‘Is it still today? How did I get here?’

Catos understood what he meant. ‘Yes, it’s still today, though it’ll be getting dark soon.’ He settled down on the bed, one leg tucked under him so he could face Tom. ‘The fighting we heard - or maybe you didn’t - was the city guards who’d joined Tarlos. Dalmos was with them. Tarlos sent them to secure the prison, to make sure it wasn’t overrun by a mob out to free everyone regardless. All that part of the city is under Tarlos’s command now. You were brought back here as soon as possible, and the arrow removed. I knew not to try up at the prison. You bled everywhere, but the only worry now is if you take a fever. Your arm’s fine.’ He indicated the bandage. ‘It’s just bound up like that to stop you disturbing the wound as you sleep.’

‘What’s happening - in the city?’

‘We hold all the city, apart from the Citadel, and Daros’s army to the south has been defeated. Sûlos used the river as a defence; Daros thought the threat would come from the south, you see, so his men were on the far side of the river ready to be mobilised quickly. There’s still a battle going on to the east - you can see the dust rising if you go up the hill - and the hope is the third army won’t appear any time soon. Tarlos thinks they’ll send out scouts first, not having any news from here. He said you stopped Daros’s order recalling them to the city’s defence.’ Catos beamed at Tom, white teeth against dark skin, but when Tom asked after Faros, the youngster’s smile faded away, and his brows came together in a deep frown. The anxiety in his voice was echoed by the way he hunched in on himself.

‘I don’t know.’ Catos stared miserably down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap. ‘I’ve not seen him since he left us this morning. There’s been no news of him.’

Tom didn’t know what to say. “He’ll be all right” sounded trite: in the midst of a civil war, there was no way of knowing he would be. ‘He’s not in the city, then?’ he asked, and Catos looked up with a shake of his head.

‘I don’t think so. Tarlos hasn’t seen him. He came to find out how you fared not long ago, and couldn’t give me any news.’ Catos’s mouth twitched a little. ‘He was rather... erm... taken aback to find you curled up together, but the physician insisted it was best for both of you. He reminded Tarlos of what he’d said about the swans, and said I was quite right to have brought Barard to you.’

‘You brought... Oh, Catos, thank you! How is he?’

Catos bit his lip. ‘I don’t know. I went to Sulos’s rooms, after I’d made sure you weren’t going to... going to die, and he was out of bed. He seemed dazed, pacing back and forth, just as though he still wore chains - short, dragging steps, and not very far before he turned. When he noticed me, he crouched down on the floor. It was... it was like a dog that cowers to avoid a beating.’ Catos looked visibly upset, and Tom swallowed at the image the words conjured.

‘Balios was with him; he was sitting down on the floor - he said that made Barard less anxious. Barard hadn’t offered Balios any violence, so I crouched down next to him, and held out my hands like this.’ Catos demonstrated, holding his hands out with the light palms uppermost. ‘He has a little Southron, because he asked me what I wanted, but when I answered, he started shaking. I don’t know what he thought I was saying, so I said, “I frind Tolm. I take you Tolm.” He didn’t move, just stared at me, so I stood up and held out my hand and said “I take you Tolm. I take you Tolm. Come.” Was that right?’

Tom nodded. ‘That’s very good, Catos.’

Catos smiled at the praise. He drew his other leg up to hug it to himself, and looked down at Barard. ‘He was very wary, but I got him to stand up. I walked towards the door and kept telling him I was taking him to you. He took a few steps, and then just froze. I had to persuade him to move any further, and he staggered as though he were drunk. I caught him as he fell, and picked him up - he’s so light! - and just kept saying your name. He started struggling as soon as he saw you, but when I tried to set him on his feet, he just crumpled up. That’s when the physician said he should be allowed in the bed with you. He clung to you as though you were a rock in a world of quicksand.’ Catos rubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes, and Tom wished he had a spare arm to hug him, but the bandages prevented that. The ache in his shoulder was getting worse: a throbbing that radiated out from the wound. It provided an unwelcome counterpoint to the sharp pain that carried with it the memory of the arrow’s entry.

He didn’t want to remember that moment. Only Catos’s action had averted the disaster that would have meant Barard had been rescued only to be confronted with the news of Tom’s death. ‘You saved my life,’ he said quietly, and Catos ducked his head self-consciously.

‘They might not have killed you.’

‘In the circumstances? Yes, I think they would have.’

Catos lifted his head, and now tears were plain to see, gathered along his lower lids. ‘Do you think they’ve killed Faros? Do you think he’s dead?’ He didn’t wait for an answer; he pushed off from the bed with a sob and ran from the room. The door slammed behind him, and Barard jerked at the sound. His eyes flew open, wide and fearful, and Tom could feel his trembling.

‘Barard.’

That was all it needed, just his name, just spoken quietly, and Barard relaxed against him with a sigh. ‘Oh, Tom.’

Well, that was good. Barard seemed prepared to accept he was real, but Tom was uncertain about what to do or say. He kissed the top of Barard’s head again, unable to reach anywhere else, and Barard buried his face against the bandages over Tom’s chest. There was something childlike in the action. With the lack of hair, Tom was reminded of a newborn seeking the warmth and comfort of a mother’s breast. Was it like a rebirth for Barard? He had been denied light and fellowship for so long; would he have to reach out like a babe trying to make sense of the world around him? Tom had no idea, and didn’t know how to start asking these questions, or even whether he should. Maybe just being quietly there was all that mattered.

As before, Barard’s hand stroked over Tom’s hip and thigh, exploring his skin. He fingered the cloth that wound around Tom’s loins, slowly tracing the twisted folds, maybe satisfying himself that it wasn’t another bandage. Still in silence, he traced the outline of Tom’s arm beneath the dressing. He seemed to understand where the wound was, and his fingers trailed lightly over the padding, coming to rest over Tom’s chest, over his heart. He lifted his head, pushing up a little to look at Tom in the growing twilight.

‘Always you are with me,’ he whispered. ‘When the madness takes me, or I’m deep in despair, you are here with me, bringing me home to myself.’ The hoarse quality had not gone from his voice, and Tom wondered if it was from disuse or from all the shouting Barard had done. He wished that he could dispense with the bandage and free his other arm. He cupped the back of Barard’s head and held his gaze.

‘And now I’m here to take you home.’

Barard’s lips quirked into a half smile. ‘That’s one way to look at it. Do you think death is like that? Will you be with me?’

‘Barard, you’re safe. This isn’t the prison. Do you understand? This isn’t... isn’t some madness.’

There was a knock on the door, and instantly Barard disappeared into blankness, his eyes dulled, as though he had withdrawn somewhere. He curled against Tom, trembling violently. Tom sighed and called out an invitation to enter, although he wanted to tell whoever it was to piss off. He was glad he hadn’t when Catos entered, his eyelids looking red and swollen. He was followed by servants bringing hot water, food for supper, and a low table.

The servants left, but Catos made himself busy, lighting candles and straightening the bedding over them. ‘He’s still asleep, then?’ he asked.

Tom squinted down and shook his head.

‘That’s good. He can eat some supper. May I stay with you? I don’t want to eat in the main hall.’

Tom hesitated. Much as he wanted to give Catos his company when the youngster was so clearly upset about Faros’s disappearance, his answer must be based on what was best for Barard. But was being alone with Tom best for Barard? Would Catos’s presence actually help draw Barard from his insular imaginary world that contained himself and Tom? Catos bit his lip. ‘It’s all right. I’ll go. I just -’

‘No, stay, Catos.’ He switched to Westron, stroking down Barard's arm as he did so. ‘Barard, this is a friend. His name is Catos. The young man who showed you the arrow, do you remember? He’s brought us some supper. He’s going to help me get up, and then I’m going to help you. Do you understand?’

Barard said nothing, hiding his face completely as though he would deny the world beyond Tom. With difficulty, Tom extricated his arm, and Catos jumped to help him as he realised Tom was trying to raise himself up. The youngster grabbed a shift and helped Tom into it, but he refused Tom’s suggestion that the bandage be removed first, and one sleeve of the garment dangled uselessly. Left to himself, Barard curled up on his side in a tight ball; Tom sat beside him and stroked his cheek. ‘Will you get up and eat?’ he asked gently, and when he received no response, ‘Barard, get up. We’re going to eat now.’

Barard responded to the instruction, as he hadn’t to the question, and Tom helped him to his feet. Catos fussed around them, doing a good impression of a mother hen, flustered and anxious about her newly-hatched chicks. He set a soft down-filled cushion out on the floor for Barard to sit on, but he himself sat cross-legged on the carpet, and Tom did the same.

There was a colourful array of dishes. Clearly the cooks had not let the small matter of a civil war distract them from the serious business of preparing food. Tom indicated the spread before them. ‘What would you like, Barard?’ he asked. Barard looked at him blankly, as though he didn’t understand the question, and dropped his gaze down to where his hands twisted together nervously in his lap. Tom selected some pieces of chicken to hand feed to him, and was relieved when Barard ate them. All his efforts to get Barard to choose something met with the same blank look, but Barard accepted all he was given - sometimes only nibbling at it - but he ate enough that Tom was encouraged. Through most of the meal, Tom spoke quietly to Barard, telling him news from the Shire, and that their brothers awaited them in Minas Tirith, but it was a one-way conversation. Occasionally Tom said a few words to Catos, apologising for shutting him out, and telling him what he was talking about. Each time, Barard looked between Tom and Catos with a puzzled frown on his face, but it wasn’t until Tom started questioning Catos about the latest news in the city that Barard became visibly distressed. He balled up around his knees and started rocking back and forth, moaning in time with his body’s movements.

Tom swore and tore off his shift. He pulled at the bandage. ‘The Eye take me, Catos! Get this fucking bandage off me now!’ Catos didn’t repeat his earlier refusal; he jumped up and hastily unwound the dressing. He was still trying to unwrap it, when Tom freed his arm and did as he wished: cradled Barard close. He pulled Barard back against his body, ignoring the pain that seared through his shoulder.

‘Barard! Barard! Hush, love, hush. What is it? I’m here. Your Tom’s here.’

Barard half-turned into his embrace, and clung to him sobbing. ‘Don’t go, Tom, don’t go. I can’t bear it.’ Tom’s eyes filled with tears. What had Barard said earlier? Don’t turn into one of them. Bollocks! It was his speaking in Southron that was the problem.

‘Listen to me, Barard. Catos is a friend, but he speaks no Westron. I talk to him in his language because he understands no other. I am still Tom, your Tom.’

Barard stilled against him, and this time, when he laid his palm over Tom’s heart, Tom could hold it there with his own hand. Slowly Barard raised his head to search Tom’s face, and Tom bent his head to kiss Barard on the lips. It was a chaste kiss, prompted by feelings of protection, not desire. He couldn’t truthfully say he did desire this Barard; this wasn’t his Barard. The pain in his shoulder was nothing to the pain in his heart as he faced the truth: his Barard might be lost forever. He pushed the thought aside and smiled down into green eyes. Barard was in his arms; nothing else really mattered. Not being his Barard in no way meant Tom loved him any the less.

Catos squatted down beside them. ‘What is it, Tolm? Is he scared of me?’

‘A little, but he is more scared by me talking to you. Try taking his hand, and saying “I am your friend.”’

Catos reached out slowly. Barard’s breathing quickened, but he made no move to resist as brown fingers clasped his white ones.

‘I - am - your - frind.’

‘Friend.’

‘I your frend,’ Catos corrected himself. He leaned in and kissed Tom on the forehead, then kissed Barard. ‘I your frend,’ he repeated. Tom smiled at him. It was a very touching gesture.

‘That’s enough, yes?’ said Catos. ‘Like when I try to friend a dog. Not too much at once. I’ll come back at breakfast, if I may.’

‘You’re probably right, but there’s no need to go. Stay here.’ Tom indicated the other bed that stood by the wall. Catos would probably appreciate the company.

‘If you’re sure. I’d like that,’ said Catos, and by his look of relief, Tom knew he’d been right. ‘I’ll take away the dishes and fetch my things, and... and see if there’s any news.’

Tom nodded, but secretly thought there would be none. If Faros were back, he would have come in person, and if there were news, someone would have brought it to them. When Catos returned, carrying his and Tom’s swords, it was clear from his face that nothing had been heard of Faros, but he had other news.

‘The city’s quiet,’ he said. ‘Banners for the Houses that support Sûlos hang all round the main square, and there’s been no counterattack from the Citadel. Yanos has disengaged from battle, because of poor light, but he holds Daros’s second army at bay, and he’s destroyed their cavalry. We’re well guarded here, but I thought we’d still better be prepared for anything.’ He handed Tom his sword, and laid his own on his pillow.

Barard was acquiescent as Tom guided him to the bed and climbed in beside him, but he pulled fretfully at his night shift until Tom helped him to remove it. He tucked himself into Tom’s arms with a soft hum of pleasure, and fell asleep almost at once. Catos blew out the candles and snuffed the smoking wicks between forefinger and thumb.

Tom couldn’t sleep, and judging by the occasional sniff he heard, he doubted Catos could, either. He lay in the dark, Barard’s skin warm against his, but his quiet joy at his wish come true was muted by concern for Barard and worry over Faros. Barard’s body was sharp and angular, and the pain in Tom’s shoulder nagged at him, setting his teeth on edge. He fidgeted, trying to get comfortable, but stopped when Barard cried out softly and clutched at him. Instead, Tom stared into the darkness, trying to imagine what it had been like for Barard, then took himself to task for even thinking that being in the dark for a few hours could give him any insight. He was lying on a soft mattress, with his belly full and his friends near. What could he know of Barard’s ordeal?

Catos, now - that was a different matter. Tom knew all too well that empty feeling of not knowing what had happened to a loved one. ‘Catos,’ he whispered into the darkness, but there was no answer. He sighed, and pulled the cover closer around himself and Barard. Hopefully the morning would bring news..