THE ADVENTURES of TOM and BARARD: CHAPTER 9

Tom sat at the edge of the barrack square and wriggled his shoulders, trying to ease the discomfort of his freshly changed dressings. It was too hot to have such close confinement around his chest. His wounds were healing quickly, and he had to force himself not to rub his back against the brick wall behind him to ease the itch. It was at least something to think about, apart from the dullness inside. A shadow fell across his feet, and he looked up to find Tarlos standing over him.

‘May I join you?’

‘Of course.’ Tom patted the dusty ground beside him, and Tarlos lowered himself down to sit cross-legged.

‘Catos has a natural aptitude.’

Tom followed his gaze to where the swordmaster was putting Catos through an elementary drill. ‘Yes. I agree. He got the feel and balance of the sword very quickly, and holds it as though it is there to do his bidding. Poor Faros looks as though his sword might bite him; he grips it too tight, his arm is too rigid.’

Tarlos put back his head and laughed, and Tom saw Faros glance their way. He could not have heard what Tom was saying, but he shrugged as though to say, I know, this is laughable, and was rapped on the knuckles by his instructor for not paying attention.

‘So,’ said Tarlos, still laughing, ‘you are full of surprises. Are you telling me that you are a swordsman?’

‘I have some training.’

‘But not in the Shi-er, unless I have misunderstood.’

‘No. I trained with the Tower Guard of Minas Tirith.’

Tarlos stopped looking amused and gaped at him. ‘You were in the Tower Guard? The king’s elite?’

‘No. I just trained with them.’

‘So, you have seen their king? What is he like?’

‘A just man, and fair.’ Tom sighed at the memory of his last evening with Elessar, and tilted his head to look at Tarlos again. ‘He told me there were honourable men in Harad. I believe I have found them.’

Tarlos bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Have you spoken with him often?’

‘Yes. The last time I saw him was when he came to wish me well on my quest for Barard. He would have liked to have prevented me leaving, but for friendship’s sake he did what he could to aid me.’ Tom reached up and tapped Tarlos under the chin. ‘You will catch a fly,’ he said, and Tarlos hastily shut his mouth.

‘I should not be surprised that you are a friend of the northern king. Your father must have been well known to him.’

Tom drew patterns in the dust with his fingers. This was not the conversation he was wanting to have with Tarlos. ‘Yes, he was.’ He obliterated the criss-cross pattern of vertical and horizontal lines with the palm of his hand. ‘Tell me what you know of Barard.’

Tarlos hesitated, glancing towards Faros and Catos, and Tom guessed he was reassuring himself that Faros was there to pick up the pieces. ‘I found one of the kitchen slaves who takes food down to the dungeon. I was surprised that she had actually seen him. I would have expected the guards to take the food around, but it seems your Barard always tries to attack them, even chained as he is. They found that whenever a woman slave came to tend him after a beating, he remained quiet, so they made the kitchen girls take the food to him.’

With a great effort, Tom kept his voice calm. ‘So he’s chained? Beaten?’

‘Yes to the first, not so often now to the second. He was beaten every time he offered violence. The guards mostly just look in on him now and again, and leave the feeding and removal of bodily wastes to the slave girls, but my contact said that she still sometimes finds he has been whipped or beaten.’ He touched Tom’s shoulder as Tom stared unseeing up into the clear blue of the sky. ‘The slave girls were frightened to go in to him at first, but now they do what they can for him. If they talk, the guards call them out, and she said he doesn’t have much of the language anyway, but they’ve taken to going down in pairs to carry hot water as well as food, so they can clean him and bathe his sores. They tried sneaking things in - a cushion, for instance, to be a pillow and to prevent damage where he sits - but the things disappeared, and usually Barard was beaten for it, so they stopped. They just take him better food now, fresh fruit for instance, but they can’t coax him to eat much, and he’s very thin. She said she didn’t think he could offer violence to a fly.’

Tom looked back to Tarlos, not able to see the man’s expression after the glare of the sky. ‘Is there much light?’

‘I don’t think so. She said it’s hard to see - there’s just one small window high in the wall - but if there’s a strip of sunlight that he can reach, he sits in it. She said that then they can see he has reddish hair. She was fascinated by that, and by his skin colour: she’d never seen any but black hair and brown skin before.’

‘So his head isn’t shaved?’

‘No, the guards understandably won’t allow scissors or knives near him. By the time the girls started tending him, his hair was already too matted to comb.’

‘Where does he sleep?’

‘On straw.’

‘You mean a pallet?’

‘No. I mean just loose straw.’

Tom pulled his knees in close to his body and laid his forehead on them. He had started to shake again, and he felt physically sick. Superimposed over the image that Tarlos painted was Barard sprawled naked on their bed. Sunlight streamed through the window to light up the warm depths of red-gold in his hair. His arms were open wide to invite Tom to join him, his pale skin glowing in the morning sun. His frame was as lithe as when he was a tween, although muscles had become better defined as he matured; now they bunched across his belly as he sat up. ‘For Eru’s sake, Tom. Is this a new way of making love? Are you going to stand there until I come just looking at you?’

‘You have more news for Tolm?’ Faros’s voice sounded close, yet far away from Tom’s small world of darkness.

‘No, nothing new. He wanted to know everything I could tell about Barard’s captivity.’

‘And you told him?’

‘He is not a child, Faros.’

‘No, he is not, but you have not sat up with him all night, wishing you could give him some comfort, and you do not know that he only slept a little towards dawn.’

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Tom. He felt Faros settle beside him, and the familiar weight of the man’s arm around his shoulders.

‘Nothing to be sorry for, little bird. That’s what friends are for. I wasn’t meaning I begrudge you my sleep, but I’m not sure that your knowing everything is wise.’

Tom lifted his head and leaned against Faros. He wasn’t sure what he would have done without the quiet understanding and gentle support that Faros gave him, but his friend was wrong here. He rubbed his sleeve over his face and took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘You said yourself you couldn’t imagine what it would be like, not to know what had happened to Patros.’

‘Well, yes, but I would spare you the details. You’ve been quiet and introspective since you got up, and now you’re looking haggard and sick.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tarlos.

Tom shook his head. ‘No, don’t be. I needed to know. Can I speak to the slave girl?’

‘I don’t think that’s wise. I try to avoid talking to casual contacts like that on a regular basis, to avoid arousing suspicion. I simply talked to the girl as though in idle curiosity, and I think we need to be careful about doing more. I could take you into the Citadel as my slave, but the presence of a Halfling might link the word “spy” to my name, and in turn we would all be under suspicion.’ He hesitated. ‘More suspicion, that is, since I doubt Daros trusts us, but we do not want to be forced to move before all is ready.’

‘Is there any chance of rescuing him?’

‘The chance lies in our success, and there are too many unknowns to be certain of that. We may be on a fool’s errand; we may become fellow prisoners with Barard. Sûlos believes the time is right, but you notice his wives and sons are not here, and neither are Yanos’s wife and babe. The longer we wait, the more ready we will be, but the more chance that Daros will gain some evidence and move against us. Don’t repay us by becoming that evidence, Tolman. Don’t do anything rash.’

‘I need to be doing something.’

‘Go and give Catos a lesson. He’s getting too cocky.’ Tarlos nodded to where the boy was twirling his sword. ‘While he’s showing off like that, his opponent will be under his guard to open him from arsehole to breakfast. When lessons are finished you may leave the palace any time you wish, just remember to go as slaves. Let Balios know where you are going, and if you can bring me word of any rumours that are current, then so much the better.’

Tom pushed himself up with a hand on Faros’s shoulder. Tarlos made no move, and Tom guessed the man was as interested in seeing how a Halfling trained by the Tower Guard handled a sword as in seeing Catos shown some substance over style. ‘I can’t use your swords,’ he said. ‘They are too long for me.’

Tarlos reached down to his right boot and pulled out a knife, but Tom shook his head. ‘Too short, too narrow,’ he said. He left them and angled across the square to the swordsmith's, where he found exactly the knife he was looking for. The smith was reheating a sword he had completed, tempering it to reduce its brittleness, and he just nodded and waved a hand at Tom’s request.

Catos looked surprised when Tom joined him. ‘Have you come to learn as well?’ he asked. ‘It’s easy, look.’ He twirled his sword, and then yelped and shook his wrist as the sword flew from his hand. His eyes widened as Tom’s sword point appeared at his throat.

Tom lowered his arm and stepped back. ‘Now. We’ll try that again, shall we?’ he said.

‘But my sword’s blunt, and yours is really sharp!’

‘Good. I’d rather not have an ear cut off. Trust me, I won’t hurt you, except a smack with the flat if you let your guard down.’ He disarmed Catos three times in quick succession, but the fourth time Catos had got the measure of what Tom was doing; he lasted a little longer, until his sword flew from his grasp and landed with a clang in the dust again. Catos stood panting, looking as though he might cry from vexation. Tom patted his hand. ‘That was much better. You have a lot to learn, but Tarlos and I are agreed you have a natural ability.’

Catos slowly picked up his sword. ‘I do?’

‘Yes. Just remember - never show off.’ Tom took his sword back to the smith, but the man shook his head.

‘Yours, if you want it. Or I’ll make you one to order.’

‘This is good. Well balanced.’

‘Then take this sheath for it, yes?’

‘Thank you. May I have a couple of knives, as well? I don’t see anything small enough - ’

‘Here.’ The swordsmith produced a scrap of cotton cloth, used to polish the swords, and a piece of charcoal. Tom spread the cloth out and drew the blades he wanted in actual size. The man wiped sweat from his eyes and nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll make those for you.’

Catos waylaid Tom as he returned to watch the lesson continue. There was a gleam in his eye that gave away some devilment. ‘I think I could learn a lot watching you,’ he said, all innocence. ‘Will you give me a demonstration?’

Tom looked around. Tarlos had gone, but there was a small crowd of men gathered; one topped his companions by almost a head. ‘And if I agree, you will pit me with someone who has twice my reach. What will you learn from that, apart from Halflings are short?’

Catos looked abashed, but also disappointed. ‘Would you not be able to fight him at all?’

‘In earnest? If he was trying to kill me? Yes. But I cannot use those tactics in a friendly trial of skill.’

The tall man stepped forward and clapped Catos on the shoulder, making the boy stagger. ‘He has your measure,’ he said, laughing, and turned to Tom. ‘And tell me, little master, what would those tactics be?’

‘I’d run rings around you until I could get through your guard and hamstring you,’ said Tom in all seriousness.

‘Ah, then the boy can learn from you, master. Fighting is not playing, and if outmatched, use any means to get the advantage - or be food for the crows.’ The men broke up and went about their business, the occasional burst of laughter drifting back across the square, and training resumed. Tom kept half an eye on Catos as the boy worked with the swordmaster, but for himself, he took over Faros’s training, as a means to stop thinking about Barard. It didn’t work, but at least Faros stopped looking so worried about him, and by the end of the morning, Tom was pleased with the progress his pupil had made. They ate lunch in the soldiers’ mess, and then returned to the room they shared to leave their swords before heading to the baths. Catos was in a rush to get out of the room, but Faros called him back and handed him his collar without a word. The boy raced on ahead, and Faros and Tom followed more slowly.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice, Tolm,’ said Faros quietly.

Tom jumped; he had been following his own thoughts to a small strip of sunlight in a gloomy cell. ‘Notice what?’

‘That you hardly ate.’

Tom shrugged. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’


Catos waited for them just inside the palace entrance, and they stepped out together into a wall of heat. The marketplace was empty at this time of day: too hot for traders and customers alike. Tom squinted against the glare; only the promise of a cool bath could have tempted him out.

‘I don’t know how you can walk in bare feet,’ said Catos.

‘I’m a hobbit. I’ve never known different.’

‘But it’s so hot underfoot.’

‘The sole of my foot is as thick as the leather of your sandals.’

They argued half-heartedly about footwear, and had just arrrived at the baths when a man rushed towards them and threw himself at Tom’s feet. Tom jumped back, but the man followed on his knees, kissing Tom’s feet and stroking his foot fur, all the while gabbling unintelligibly. Tom reached out to try to persuade the man to rise, but his hand was seized and showered in kisses.

‘For the Lady’s sake, stop it and do something,’ hissed Tom as Faros and Catos almost doubled over with laughter. Still laughing at Tom’s predicament, they prised the man into a more upright position.

‘I think you saved his wife and child,’ said Faros, as the man engulfed Tom in a crushing embrace.

‘Mmmpf,’ said Tom, his voice muffled. Who was going to save him? The man was hurting his back.

‘I am your servant, your servant,’ cried the man. ‘Anything I can do for you, just say the word. Do you want to make application to the courts to be a freeman? I can draw you up everything you need!’

‘Nothing,’ said Tom. ‘There is nothing.’ Unless you can let Barard walk free. ‘I am glad I was able to help.’ With difficulty he extricated himself from the man’s fawning. As they stripped in the baths, he grumbled at Faros and Catos, who were both still laughing.

‘I’m sorry, Tolm, but you should have seen your face,’ said Faros, and Catos giggled.

‘You looked as if he were offering to suck your cock in public.’

Faros stopped laughing. ‘Catos!’

‘Well, he did. It’s his foot thing you told me about. Do all Harffings have furry feet? How do mothers stop them getting all tangled if they can’t touch them? Is it like beards, that only grow later?’ Catos touched the few hairs on his chin proudly.

Tom glanced at Catos; there was no doubt the boy was growing into manhood. ‘Halflings are born with foot fur,’ he said. ‘Of course mothers can touch. It’s very soothing. It’s only as we get older that it changes. I bet your mother washed you everywhere when you were little; you’d be horrified if someone tried to do that now, unless she was your lover.’

‘Or he,’ said Catos quietly, and slipped into the water avoiding their eyes. Tom and Faros exchanged glances. Was Catos really attracted to men, or was he simply following the example of the two he looked to as his elders? Whatever the answer, it was obvious to Tom that there was an immediate consequence. Faros, who was normally so comfortable in his contact with Catos, seemed suddenly shy of touching him, and fended the youngster off when Catos tried to leap on him in the water.

Tom washed himself and lay back, thinking about how Barard loved the bath house in Minas Tirith, with its high vaulted ceiling and mosaics on the walls. It was one of the first places Pippin had taken them.

At first, he and Barard were overawed by everything they saw. Never had they imagined a city as vast and imposing as Minas Tirith. Riding across the wide farmland between the outer walls and the city gate, they became more and more subdued as the city towered over them. Pippin laughed. ‘I remember riding here with old Gandalf for the first time. I was overcome, quite overcome, by the wonder of it. I was lucky as well, arriving at dawn and seeing all the banners unfold, and the Tower of Ecthelion - that one high up there - caught in the morning light. It was as though it were made of silver and pearl.’

Greetings were called to them as they rode through the main gates and up through the city, and Pippin called back, sometimes raising a hand in salute. Tom and Barard rode close together, trying not to notice how much they were being stared at. They had met men at Bree and in Rohan, but it was still unnerving. ‘Relax,’ said Pippin. ‘You’re Ernil i Pheriannath.’ He winked at them. ‘Make the most of it. They’ll soon find out what a couple of young scallywags you are.’

The ride through level after level of the city seemed interminable to Tom. He was wound as tight as a spring, anyway, since he and Barard had found scant opportunity for intimacy on the way, and he was hoping that would now change. They handed their ponies over to a groom, and Pippin led them to the outer wall. When Tom found that Pippin’s house was on two levels, and that the main rooms upstairs overlooked the sixth circle wall, with a vertigo inducing view over the plains far below, he wanted to curl into a ball and pretend it wasn’t happening. What had possessed them to come?

Pippin bustled about cheerfully, stretching up to open shutters, and chatting away as though this was the most natural place to find themselves. ‘Good. It’s all been kept well aired. We’ll find a servant tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest we visit the baths to freshen up, and then eat out somewhere. There are plenty of rooms to choose from; you can have one each, if you prefer, but I expect you’d like the company of being together.’ He led them down a corridor. ‘This bedroom has the best view, but it has a double bed. What do you think? If you find the idea of sharing a bed awkward, you can have the room at the back of the house, but this one is nicer.’ Tom and Barard looked at each other, speechless. The bed was enormous! ‘No need to decide now,’ said Pippin. ‘I’ll be down there.’ He waved back down the corridor, gave them a reassuring smile, and disappeared. His voice came faintly. ‘I’ll call you when I’m ready to go the baths.’

Barard let his own pack fall to the ground and pulled Tom close. He was trembling. ‘Why are we here, why did we come? What were we thinking!’

Tom leaned into the welcome embrace, one hand busy between them, flipping buttons undone, the other sliding up Barard’s back on its way to tangle into his hair. ‘I’ve no idea. I think we thought it would be an adventure. I don’t want adventures. I just want you.’ His hand closed around Barard’s cock.

‘What if Father comes back?’

‘He said he’d call us. Oh, love, I’ve missed this.’ They tilted their heads, mouth seeking mouth, taking comfort in the familiar teasing and tasting, tongue meeting tongue in the promise of another penetration, another joining. But not yet -

Pippin’s voice called to them. ‘Lads! Are you ready?’

‘Bollocks,’ said Tom under his breath.

‘A bath... would be good.’ Barard’s words came with a breathless catch as Tom’s hand kept up a sure stroke.

‘A public bath?’

‘We can... come... to bed... clean.’

‘Mmmm. Might not stay that way.’

‘Tom! I’m -’

‘Lads, are you coming?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tom called back. ‘Won’t be a minute!’ He dropped to his knees and enveloped Barard’s cock in his mouth. There was a thrill beneath his tongue, and then Barard was coming in earnest, fingers wound tight in Tom’s hair. He was making small mewling cries that meant he was trying desperately to be quiet.

Tom finished swallowing and pushed himself up to hold Barard in his arms again. Barard folded against him with a soft sigh. ‘I owe you one.’ He rubbed Tom’s cock through his breeches. ‘Shit. I wish there were time now.’

Tom grabbed his towel from his pack and held it strategically in front of him to hide the evidence of his excited state as they joined Pippin. This was going to be embarrassing if his hard-on didn’t subside by the time they got to the baths.

In the event, it was not a problem. The baths were busy in the early evening, and being stared at by so many men was a daunting experience, made worse by being naked. Tom’s height made it hard to know where to look. Barard nudged him and leaned close. ‘I never knew cocks came in such a variety of shapes and sizes,’ he whispered. ‘It makes me feel very inadequate.’

Tom snorted with laughter. There was nothing inadequate about Barard’s cock. He glanced down to where it hung soft and full of promise over the flaccid sac. It was not a sight he was often treated to - naked and Barard being synonymous with fuck and now - but sometimes he would lie awake afterwards propped on one elbow to gaze down. The sight of his love’s sleeping face, his hair clinging damply to sweated skin, his body lying relaxed and open, and his unaroused cock nestling amongst reddish-brown hair, always brought out strong feelings of love and protection in Tom, feelings of such intensity that they were like a pain in his chest. It was as though Barard were wound so tight about his heart that it hurt. He always had to resist the selfish urge to gather Barard in his arms and kiss him back to wakefulness.

Now, under his gaze, Barard’s cock twitched. ‘Stop it!’ hissed Barard. ‘Stop looking at me like that!’ He gave Tom a little push to get him to follow his father.

Tom wasn’t confident in water, and was happy to follow Pippin down the steps that made up one side of the large pool. The water was pleasantly warm, and after weeks on the road he sat with a sigh of pleasure. Barard jumped in, showering not only them, but several men who looked at him severely and grumbled amongst themselves. ‘Ah,’ said Pippin. ‘Hobbits are back.’

Tom would have liked to have followed the memory further, back to the double bed, but he became aware of concerned voices.

‘I think he’s gone to sleep.’

‘Well, he didn’t sleep much last night.’

‘He’s going to be all wrinkly if he stays in the water much longer, and I bet he’ll have a crick in his neck. Shall I wake him up?’

‘No, I will.’

The water sloshed around Tom, and he opened his eyes as Faros stroked his brow. ‘’S all right,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m ‘wake. Just thinking.’ He pushed himself up. Catos was right: his neck was feeling tight and uncomfortable.

‘We’re going to an inn, to sit out the heat. Would you rather go back to the palace to take a nap?’

‘No. I’ll come with you. Cartwright Street?’

‘That’s as good as any, and it’s not far. Yes, that’s fine by me. Up you get.’

Faros dabbed Tom’s back dry for him and applied a salve, but mercifully left off the bandages. Tom dressed slowly, putting off stepping out into the heat. He twisted the cloth around his loins, his mind on Barard, and Catos laughed. ‘Do you remember, Faros? When we first came here? Tolm’s face when he had to get dressed?’ His voice leapt from boy’s to man’s and back again, and it was Tom’s turn to laugh at Catos’s expression.

‘Well, I’ve got used to it now. And don’t worry, your voice will settle soon.’ He slipped his feather and bead necklace over his head and yawned.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap?’ asked Faros. ‘We’ll come back with you, if you’d like our company.’

Tom shook his head. ‘No, really, I’m fine.’ Faros raised an eyebrow, and Tom shrugged. What did Faros expect him to say? He might understand bereavement, but could anyone really appreciate this daily torture who had not been through it? With a jolt, he suddenly realised there were many in the city who had been through it - were still going through it. How many Disappeared were there? How many had wives, lovers?


When they reached the inn, it had all the appearance of being closed. In Minas Tirith, Tom would have turned away from such a shuttered appearance, but here it meant nothing, not in the afternoon respite when the city ground to a halt in the heat. They pushed the door open and entered the gloom. Come the evening, the place would be buzzing with noise and activity, inside and out, but for now men would be lounging about, talking listlessly in the relative cool afforded by thick walls and shuttered windows. Coming in from the glare of the street was like walking into blindness, and they paused, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the low light. As they did so, the quiet hum of conversation faded into a disconcerting silence.

We’re well known here, what’s the problem? thought Tom. Catos grabbed hold of his upper arm, obviously scared by this unusual welcome. Tom had no knives, but even so he would have preferred to have both hands free if trouble were coming. I’ll have to talk to him about that. Just let me see. A star glass would be good. The thoughts raced one after another in the blink of an eye, and then sound rushed back in a wave of enthusiastic cheering. Tom let out the breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and on his other side he heard Faros do the same in part sigh of relief, part familiar huff of laughter.

Gradually, Tom’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Artisans, slaves and guards were on their feet, clapping and whooping, and the innkeeper was bowing the three of them in. ‘Welcome, little bird, welcome,’ he said to Tom. ‘Drinks are on the house, for you and your friends.’

Catos tugged Tom’s arm. ‘What’s it about?’ he whispered, but the innkeeper heard him.

‘About? About? Why, he rescued a woman and child from a rampaging horse, and with his hands all bound and his back all bloody. There’s been talk of almost nothing else.’ The man turned back to Tom. ‘Dalmos hasn’t been too popular, I can tell you, but he says you’ve promised him a drink.’

‘Dalmos?’

‘Over there.’

Tom had forgotten the man’s name, but he recognised his guard sitting on his own. ‘Yes, I did. It’s the reason I came today. I hoped he would be here to thank.’

The innkeeper threw up his hands. ‘Well, you’re a strange one.’

‘He was only doing his job, and he was -’ Tom thought about the right word. ‘Considerate.’ He said it loud enough for those around to hear.

‘Well, have it your own way. I know what he’ll have; what about you?’

They all ordered lemon, as being both refreshing and sharp enough to keep them awake, and Tom led the way to the table where Dalmos sat. The innkeeper brought pressed lemon juice with a bowl of sugar and a jug of water. He set a glass of fiery spirits in front of the guard, and Dalmos raised the drink in salute. ‘Your health and good fortune,’ he said to Tom. ‘Rumour has it that you’re in Lord Sûlos's household now. I hope he’s a better master to you.’

Tom was aware of heads turning to listen to his reply. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am, and he is. His physician said that my back would have been a lot worse if you had laid the stripes all in the same place - more painful, and slower to heal.’

Dalmos stood and lifted Tom’s tunic from his back. ‘Good. That’s been well cared for. You’ll have some scars. Sorry about that. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you walking up to that mad horse. No horse has got much between its ears, but that one is fair asking to be made into cats’ meat, if you ask me.’ He settled back into his seat. ‘Mind you, Lord Sûlos paid for all the damage. My captain has a lot of time for him, you know; he says Sûlos takes his role of Justice of the Peace seriously - finds out both sides of the story, and doesn’t just rule in favour of the biggest bribe. I’ll tell you this: I’ve seen him and his brother walk around the city on their own, and that’s just foolishness, though people like to see it. Next thing you know, he’ll be assassinated or Disappeared. Between you and me, I think Daros will have raised a hornet’s nest around his ears if that happens, but you should tell them to take more care.’

The innkeeper came back just then and seated himself at their table. ‘Have you told him?’ he asked, and Dalmos shook his head.

‘I was just coming to that.’ He turned to Tom. ‘You should take some care, as well, my small friend. There were a couple of men in here yesterday - Daros’s spies, if I’m any judge - and they’ve been asking questions about you: who you are, where you’re from, how long you’ve been in Hafar, that sort of thing.’

Tom frowned, hiding his alarm. ‘Why? What have I done?’

‘No idea. Our host here told them you’d been in Hafar for years; said your mother dropped you on your head as a babe and you never grew right, said it good and loud so’s everyone knows what story to tell them nosy bastards, but watch out for yourself. I reckon someone’s noticed you on account of your little show in the marketplace. Your friend’s been Disappeared, hasn’t he? And maybe you know best as to why.’ He stood up and drained the last of his drink. ‘Take care, you hear. If you’re ever in trouble, and near enough to the prison, drop in to see us; it’s an ideal place for hiding up.’ He winked at Tom. ‘We’ll bang you in clink, and let you out when it’s safe.’

Tom watched him leave. ‘Erm, what was he offering to do?’ he asked.

The innkeeper laughed. ‘Put you in a prison cell. There’s no love lost between the City Guards and the Citadel Guards, so if you’re ever in trouble with the latter, the prison would be a good place to be. If that prophecy everyone’s talking about these days were true, then I reckon the City Guards would rise up and throw in their lot with the House of the Sun.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s all so much mist over the river, if you ask me, although good to think on when the taxes are raised yet again. What’s Daros up to that needs so much money, eh?’ Tom, Faros and Catos shook their heads and shrugged, not knowing the answer. The innkeeper leaned in close. ‘There’s a rumour he’s preparing an army to cross the Harnen and march north to invade Gondor, and that’s not likely to come to anything but more Haradrim becoming vulture fodder. Didn’t his father lose us enough of our finest men? A whole generation almost wiped out. Look around and tell me, where are the old men? Dead at the hands of those northern bastards, that’s where, but it was a bigger bastard as sent them, and now Daros has lost us Umbar. Next thing you know, that Númenorean devil’ll be invading us for a change.’

Tom kept quiet, but Faros said quietly. ‘I’ve heard that the northern king is a fair and just man.’

‘Is that so? Well, I find it hard to believe, but even a fair and just man will swat a fly that annoys him, and there’s no denying Daros is an annoying little prick. The law says he has to have counsellors to advise him, and what’s he done? Appointed his horse! Did you hear about that?’ The innkeeper threw up his hands. ‘His horse! He mocks the law. He mocks us all!’ He sighed and lowered his arms. ‘I’m sorry. You were probably after a quiet sit down, but he makes my blood boil. It’s nice to see you three all together still, what with our little bird here being let to fly from the wrist of so grand a household now.’

Catos shifted in his seat and looked down at Tom. Normally he would have curled up against Faros on the padded settle, but Faros had chosen one of the straight-backed chairs today, and the boy had taken his place beside Tom instead. Tom could not see any reason for keeping quiet; after all, they’d given the name of Sûlos as their master at the baths. ‘We’re all in the same household,’ he said. ‘Lord Sûlos bought all three of us.’

‘Well, well. Then you’re the only Hafar slaves he has bought.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’d like to hear what you have to tell, but I can see by my good lady’s face she thinks I’m shirking, so another time.’ He stood up and winked at them. ‘My advice to you is not to marry; you can’t even call your breath your own.’

They had another drink, and by the time they walked back to the market, it was once more thronged with people. They looked across the square from the vantage point of higher ground, and Faros pointed. ‘There’s Sûlos and Yanos,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should warn them of what the guard said. They’re heading into the old quarter.’

Tom scanned across the square, but as he saw the brothers he grabbed Faros’s arm. ‘Who is that? That man there! He’s following them.’ The man was moving to keep the brothers in view, craning his head and peering around those who got in his way. There was something familiar about him, but Tom couldn’t place him. He was well dressed, so maybe he had bought jewellery from Bayos in the past.

‘I see. I don’t know who he is.’

‘Where, where?’ said Catos.

‘There,’ said Tom, pointing. Sûlos and Yanos were entering a narrow alley, and at that moment the man following them slowed and turned. He passed four unsavoury looking men on the edge of the market, and hesitated, scratching at his head. Tom nearly choked; the action was unmistakable in its familiarity. He watched the man veer away in a direction at odds with the path he had been following. ‘It’s Mehos!’

‘What! The man who brought you here? You said he was -’

Catos grabbed Faros, interrupting him. ‘Those men! He spoke to them, he’s sent them after Sûlos and Yanos!’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘He did. Look!’

Tom looked back to where the group of men had been. He had been watching Mehos, but it seemed that Catos might be right: the four men were entering the alley. There was no time to lose, no time to debate the rights or wrongs of it. ‘Catos, run straight to the palace. Find Tarlos, find anyone. Bring some help. That’s a blind alley.’

‘But -’

‘Do it! We’re unarmed. We’re relying on you. Go!’ He gave Catos a push and the boy turned and ran. Tom didn’t wait to watch his progress, didn’t wait to see if Faros was coming with him, he ran to the alley, cursing inwardly at his lack of any weapon. He paused at the entrance, peering around the building on one side, but the narrow way was in deep shadow. He looked up; Faros was on the other side, mirroring his action. Without a word, they slipped into the alley together, and Tom hoped that Mehos hadn’t stopped to watch. His mind wanted to think about the treachery of the man, but he pushed the thoughts away. Later. Now was not the time.

Once again sight was lost as bright sunlight turned to deep shadow. Tom heard Faros mutter an imprecation as he tripped on an uneven flagstone. The alley backed onto one of the laundries, and the acrid smell of stale urine hung on the air; this was the way the contents of the city’s piss pots were brought in, destined to be used for cleaning.

Tom’s eyes adjusted to the light, and there were the four men, closing stealthily on Yanos and Sûlos. There was no doubt as to their intentions. Two had knives raised in readiness to strike.

‘Look out, my lords!’ shouted Faros in warning, his voice echoing off the high walls, and Sûlos and Yanos spun round, unsheathing their swords. The movement took Sûlos out of the range of the falling knife, and the assassin - caught off balance by his blow going astray - was felled instantly by his would-be victim. Yanos was not so lucky: the knife drove home into his left shoulder, but he still wielded his sword to deadly effect. There was a horrid gurgling sound as the second assassin fell.

It happened almost faster than Tom could follow. Before he and Faros had even reached the lords, Sûlos had engaged the third of the assailants, but Yanos was down on one knee, bleeding freely, his left arm held awkwardly. He was an easy target. The fourth assassin drew a curved sword, and Sûlos shouted, ‘Yanos!’

Faros threw himself at Yanos’s attacker with a yell of fury, barrelling into him and throwing him off balance before his blow could fall. The sword flew free as they crashed over and rolled across the alley, locked together, to hit the wall behind Sûlos. Sûlos could not spare a glance to see the outcome; he was fighting for his life. Tom looked for an opening to join the fray. He could reach neither of the dead to take their weapons, but he could possibly trip Sûlos's opponent or distract him.

Faros was at least on his feet again, back to the wall, but his opponent had drawn a knife. Faros’s fingers locked around the man’s right wrist, keeping the blade at arm’s length. Tom heard the thud as the assassin head-butted Faros, and almost like an echo, the sound of Faros’s head hitting the wall behind. Faros crumpled into a heap, and his attacker twisted up behind Sûlos, knife at the ready.

Yanos forced himself to his feet, staggering slightly. He was unable to protect his brother’s back, but he was enough of a threat to distract the man he fought with. Sûlos lunged under the man’s guard, and that fight was at an end.

The next moment, the scene that had been so full of frenzied action froze into immobility, as the remaining assassin grabbed Sûlos from behind and held a knife at his throat. Tom had seen enough animals slaughtered to know what that blade could do.

Faros lay slumped on the ground, and Tom forced his gaze away from his friend, hoping desperately he was just unconscious. Yanos was still on his feet, but not in a state to give any help; he swayed, his breathing shallow and rapid, as blood spread out in a darkening stain across his tunic. Tom’s mind raced; if Yanos collapsed - as he might, at any moment - the assassin was unlikely to think twice about killing Sûlos, but for now he protected himself with the threat. If the man saw Tom take a blade from one of the fallen, he would probably kill Sûlos anyway. Tom hesitated for only a moment. He threw himself on Sûlos, clutching the lord’s right leg and sobbing. He pitched his voice as high as he could and kept his head down. Please, let him think I’m a child.

‘Master, master,’ he cried shrilly, his hand reaching into the top of Sûlos's boot. Yes! A knife! He felt Sûlos tense, ready.

The assassin swore and kicked at Tom, then screamed as Tom plunged the knife deep into his groin and twisted the blade. Blood spurted in a warm flood over Tom’s arm, and Sûlos drove his elbow back hard. The man folded and crashed to the ground, dropping his knife as he fell. Still screaming, he clutched at the wound in a futile effort to stem the flow of blood.

To Tom’s great relief, Faros staggered to his feet, one hand against the wall to support himself. He shook his head, looking dazed, and stared at the corpses strewn around. For a moment, the four of them stood panting in the alley. The smell of blood hung heavily on the air.

‘Good hunting, brothers,’ mumbled Yanos. His sword dropped from his hand, and his knees buckled.

‘Yanos!’ cried Sûlos, casting his own sword aside. He caught his brother in his arms as Yanos collapsed completely, and cradled him close. Faros gave a last shake of his head, and stripped off his tunic. He ripped up the side seam, making a pad to press against the wound on Yanos’s shoulder. Sûlos snatched it from him to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Yanos,’ he whispered. 'Oh, Yanos.’

Tom stood trembling, feeling sick and shaky now the danger was past. His back was hurting, and he hated the necessity of his actions. He knew he should try to help the man who was bleeding to death at his feet, but he couldn’t get his legs to obey him. The sound of a shout and running feet brought his head up: Tarlos running like the hound of Morgoth, leading half a dozen men, with Catos close behind them. They skidded to a halt, two of the men slipping on the bloody flagstones.

‘Yanos,’ whispered Tarlos. ‘Oh, dear lady, no!’ He turned to his men. ‘You, check those three are dead. You, do something about the one that’s not - try to stop the bleeding; I want to question him if he lives! You two, go and fetch a litter, now!’

Catos rushed past him and threw himself on Faros. ‘You’re hurt, you’re hurt!’ he cried. Faros extricated himself and held Catos away from him, his hand leaving a red smear on the boy’s tunic.

‘No. I’m not. It’s not my blood. Look to Tolm.’

Tom waved a hand in negation. ‘Not my blood either,’ he said weakly. He sat suddenly, sickened by the carnage, and put his head in his hands.

‘Lord Tarlos, this man is near dead.’

‘Morgoth’s spawn! I want him alive!’

‘I’m sorry, my lord, the artery is severed deep in the groin. An expert stroke. His pulse is barely perceptible, a weak thread. How is it with Lord Yanos? Will he live?’

All heads turned to Sûlos. ‘He is strong, my brother,’ said Sûlos defiantly, and then angrily, ‘Where is that litter!’

Faros knelt beside them. ‘The bleeding has stopped.’ He stayed Sûlos's hand. ‘No, don’t move the pad; keep it pressed tight, or it may start again.’ He held Yanos’s wrist lightly, feeling for his pulse, and Yanos stirred.

‘I’m all right.’ His voice was weak. ‘Just a little light-headed. Give me a moment, and I will be able to stand.’

‘You will not!’ said Sûlos. ‘We will carry you home.’

Yanos closed his eyes again, and laid his head against his brother’s chest. ‘Home is a long way away,’ he mumbled. ‘I miss the mountains and the high plains.’

‘We’ll go back there soon.’

‘Are Faros or Tolman hurt?’

‘No, although I think Tolman is going to be sick.’ Sûlos looked up in relief as Balios came running up, followed by the physician and litter bearers. The men who had fetched them were keeping back a throng of people at the alley entrance.

The physician examined Yanos, and gave a single nod to Sûlos, who visibly relaxed. ‘To the palace with him. The cleaning can wait until then. Keep the pad there.’

Sûlos hovered around as Yanos was lifted onto the litter, then turned to Tom. ‘Come, master Halfling, I owe you a great debt. Is that the first man you have killed?’

Tom let himself be pulled to his feet, and shook his head. He looked to where the man lay in a pool of blood. ‘No, I have killed one other, but I do not take pleasure from it, and to be truthful, it sickens me. I can’t help wondering whether there are those who will mourn for him. I’m sorry. I know he tried to kill you both.’

Sûlos looked gravely down at him. ‘No need to apologise. You are right to feel compassion, and - feeling as you do - I thank you for acting so decisively. For a moment I thought you were truly distraught, until I felt you take my knife. It was cleverly done.’

They emerged into the marketplace, where normal business seemed to have come to a halt. A crowd had formed, and people were pushing and shoving, trying to get a look at what was happening. A low angry murmur of sound spread across the square. Faros was carrying Yanos’s sword, and he joined Tarlos at the head of the procession to clear a way through the press of people.

Tom himself was covered in blood, and the smell filled his nostrils. He heard a new murmur start. ‘Our little bird is hurt! The soldiers say he saved Lord Sûlos.’ Tom was glad to leave it all behind as they entered the palace, and even gladder to clean the blood that had caked on his right hand and forearm, and to strip off his blood-splattered clothes. He and Faros made do with cold water to sponge themselves down, and they shivered and gasped at the contrast to their hot, sweated bodies. Catos fetched clean water and handed them towels, washed the last of the blood from Tom’s face, and admired Faros’s bruises. There were fresh clothes laid out on their beds, clothes fit for lords, and Faros looked rather dazed as he pulled on a dark green robe that had a gold thread running through it with the warp of the cloth. Tom suddenly realised this was probably the first time in Faros’s life that he had not worn the traditional garb of a slave.

Catos, as usual, was taking it all in his stride, but he kept stealing glances at Faros until he realised Tom was watching him. He pulled on a dark yellow robe over his plain white dress, and grinned at Tom. ‘They’ve given you southern clothes,’ he said.

‘It’s closer to what I would wear in Minas Tirith,’ admitted Tom, straightening the dark tunic over trousers that were a little more close fitting than he was used to, especially around the lower leg. ‘As long as they don’t expect me to wear boots.’

Balios came to invite them to Sûlos's rooms, and gathered up their soiled clothes.

‘They’ll need soaking in cold water,’ said Faros.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Balios, and Faros looked down, chewing on his lip. After Balios had gone, he sighed.

‘It’s not so bad,’ said Tom. ‘Being called “my lord.”’

‘It’s not that, or only partly. I was acting like the house slave, telling Balios what to do.’

Tom laughed. ‘You’ve been a slave nearly thirty years, yes? And you expect to change overnight? How long did it take me to learn to act like a slave?’

‘But I don’t think you ever thought like a slave,’ said Faros, looking thoroughly dejected.

‘I don’t see the problem,’ said Tom. ‘I mean, in the Shire even Barard had to do the most menial of tasks, despite being the Thain’s son, because the Thain insisted that his children should know how to do everything that servants were expected to do. Granted, some things like cleaning out the cesspit were a punishment, and I had to help him with that a time or two, never mind I was a guest and the Mayor’s son.’

‘You were a guest and had to help with that?’

Tom smiled at the memory, although he had called Pippin every name he knew at the time - once he was out of his hearing. ‘Very even handed with his punishments, was the Thain. I was to blame as much as Barard, so it was only fair.’

‘And what had you done?’

‘I can’t remember. It might have been after we waxed the long passageway down to the library and used it to slide along. Barard’s Uncle Everard came along carrying a pile of books and went arse up.’ Tom thought about it a moment. ‘But maybe that was the time we were made to polish all the public rooms in Great Smials, and believe me, that’s not funny; it’s a big place.’ He looked at Catos, who was contemplating the corridor they were walking along with a thoughtful eye. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Tom said. ‘Anyway, you need a wooden floor.’

Catos didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Tolm, how old were you when you first... you know... with Barard?’ The boy wasn’t looking at either of them, and Tom was very aware that Faros had tensed beside him.

‘I was twenty-five, Barard was twenty-two, but you have to remember that hobbits don’t come of age until thirty-three, so I suppose that we were about seventeen and fifteen in your years.’

Catos didn’t comment, just ran on ahead to the wing housing Sûlos's rooms. Faros scowled after him, and Tom touched his arm. ‘Numbers might not dance for me as they do for Barard, but I can work out that you were fifteen when you and Patros - ’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Faros sourly.

‘So what is the point?’

‘I think you know!’

‘That you are near twice his age, and his guardian?’

‘That he has a childish infatuation, and you encourage him.’ Faros stalked after Catos, and Tom had to almost run to keep up. Damn!


In Sûlos's room, they found Yanos lying propped up by pillows on a couch, looking a little sallow, but alert. He was dressed Hafar style, and his left arm had been immobilised against his body in a sling. As they entered, he held out his right hand to them. ‘Thank you, my friends. You, too, Catos. It is not always easy to obey orders and leave the fight to others, but sometimes it is the right thing to do.’

Faros took his hand, palm to palm, and knelt by his side. ‘Your enemies are my enemies,’ he said.

Sûlos laid a hand on Faros’s shoulder. ‘Of those we will speak later,’ he said. ‘For now, take your ease and eat. My captains are coming here after they have supped in the main hall, to save having to move Yanos. Tarlos has gone to the Citadel, to see what he can learn of the king’s mood.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Faros. ‘I mean, there’s just been an attempt to kill both of you.’

‘Which shows Daros does not wish to move against us openly, although I fear something has caused him to strike at us now.’

Tom shifted uncomfortably on his feet. ‘My lord, I think -’

‘As I said, Tolman, we will talk of this later. Please, be seated. Balios, bring our guests wine. Faros, how did you fare with the swordmaster this morning?’

‘I do not feel I have an aptitude for the sword,’ said Faros. ‘Although, to be truthful, I learnt more from Tolm. He is a patient teacher.’

Yanos looked at Tom in surprise. ‘You fight with the sword?’

‘I prefer knives, my lord.’

‘And he knows where to strike, given his lack of height,’ said Sûlos. He turned to Tom. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I do not mean to, er, belittle you. I mean, you -’

Yanos laughed. ‘I think you should stop digging holes for yourself, brother, and thank Tolm again for saving your life.’

Tom waved a hand. ‘I am small. There is no harm in saying so, but I would rather talk about something else. Tell me of your home that is so far away; the mountains and high plains that Yanos spoke of.’

Sûlos smiled at him. ‘I will add tact to your skills, Tolman. Thank you. We hillmen are always happy to speak of our hills.’

The talk turned to their homes and families in the south, and the brothers’ eyes took on a faraway expression as they spoke of high grasslands where the wild horses roamed, and the fertile lower-lying lands beyond. Yanos sighed. ‘The very air seems oppressive here,’ he said. ‘We do not get this heat at home.’

‘So, why did you come to Hafar?’ asked Tom. ‘Tarlos said your mountain fortresses were unassailable. Why not just stay put?’

‘For many reasons,’ answered Sûlos. ‘Not least that Daros does not govern. He uses - abuses - his kingship. Those in authority under him follow his lead. Corruption taints every public office. There is drought in the central kingdoms, and he does nothing to distribute food, or ease their taxes. These are my people, and he treats them like cattle, thinking only what he can take from them for his own ease.’

‘Your people? But you said your home was far in the south.’

‘All the peoples of Harad are my people, Tolm. My father could not move against Cyros - his hold was too strong - but Daros is too busy with his pleasures and petty intrigues, and has abandoned all rural areas to their fate. Bandits roam freely, although my men do what they can to halt the scourge and keep my supply lines open.’

Tom wished again that he could see the longfather trees of those before him. ‘I am ignorant of your history, but I understood that the House of the Sun always supplied the high king,’ he said. Faros choked on his wine.

‘Say rather that the line of descent long stayed in that House by chance rather than law,’ said Sûlos. He handed Faros a napkin and laughed. ‘I do not think my captains would have accepted Faros’s lineage so easily had they been asked to accept him as their king.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Tom. ‘I mean, if you are more directly descended from the last king, then surely you must be head of the House of the Sun.’

‘I am descended from Sûlia, the eldest daughter of Julos; she married the House of the Morning Star. At the time of her father’s death at the hands of the agents of Sauron, four of her five brothers were already dead, and all of their children. Her father’s only brother had already been murdered, and left no issue. Her youngest brother, Julios, was therefore head of the House of the Sun, and high king, but he was never crowned, and died soon afterwards. The Usurper did not know that both Sûlia and the wife of Julios had been sent to the far south for safety, nor that Sûlia had already given birth to a son. The wife of Julios was with child, and a son was born several months after his father’s death. However, high kingship does not pass to a posthumous son, although a House does.’

‘I’m sorry. I do not understand the words.’

‘A son born after the death of his father cannot become high king.’

‘Oh. I see. Thank you.’

He didn’t really, and his puzzlement must have shown, because Sûlos topped up his wine for him, and said, ‘An unborn child cannot hold the kingdoms of Harad together. There must be no break in the succession. That is not true for a House, because the high king holds the title in trust.’

Tom sipped his wine and nodded. He could see the sense of that in a country which in the past had needed a strong rule to hold all the lesser kingdoms together. He glanced at Faros, then across the room to Catos, suddenly aware that the Houses were in fact the old kingdoms, that there was a time when their ancestors had been styled king. He looked back to Sûlos. ‘How did Faros come to be a slave?’

‘Our ancestors resisted the overlordship of Sauron, and were hard pressed in the far south. Unassailable, you said, but in truth there was real risk of being overrun with the help of some devilment of the Eye. The alliance against the Eye decided to spread the cost of defeat, by holding the two lines apart. The royal line, my line, remained safe, but Julios’s infant son was not so lucky. He and his mother were captured, but not recognised for what they were: last remnant of a great House. They were enslaved rather than executed, but I did not know that until yesterday. I would have paid a thousand times the amount I did to free you, Faros, and it would have been nothing to the debt I now owe you for saving Yanos.’ He stood and hugged Faros to him. ‘I promise you, if we are successful, you will have all that is rightfully yours restored to you.’

‘And if we aren’t,’ said Yanos drily, ‘you might wish that you had remained a slave in the jeweller’s household.’

‘No,’ said Faros. ‘Never!’ He knelt at Sûlos's feet to make obeisance. ‘You might not ask for my allegiance, but it is yours. You are my king.’

‘Faros, if I am ever crowned, I will ask for your allegiance. Until then, be my ally and good friend. Get up, man, get up.’

Faros had barely done so, when a man dressed as a slave entered with not even a warning knock. Tom could not place where he had seen him before. The strangest thing was that Sûlos and Yanos made no comment as the man picked over the remains of their supper. He was very dark-skinned, with shoulder-length hair, and a manner that could best be described as self-effacing. Had Tom met him in a crowd, he doubted he would even have noticed him. Faros and Catos looked as taken aback as Tom felt. The man settled down on the couch beside Yanos, and Yanos obligingly shifted his feet to make room for him. For the first time Tom got a good look at his face. His brows almost met, and he had a slight downward curve to his nose.

‘Tarlos?’

Sûlos laughed. ‘Very good, Tolman. There’s not many that recognise him when he puts his mind to it.’

‘But I wasn’t putting my mind to it,’ said Tarlos, with his mouth full. ‘I’m hungry, and I want to talk to you - all of you - before your other captains join us.’

‘What did you find out at the Citadel? I take it you have been there? Before you took to using walnut juice and playing slave?’

Tarlos reached up and dragged off the wig he was wearing. His long hair was tightly tied back, and he shook it out. He nodded. ‘First, did you know Tolman is a personal friend of the northern king? I found that out this morning, which seems a long time ago now. He also trained with the Tower Guard.’ He accepted a glass of wine from Sûlos, and raised it to Tom. ‘The rest is not so good. I’ll save most of the news to present to the whole meeting. For now, let me say that there is some sort of delegation expected from Umbar in seven days. No names, but I gather it includes someone of importance.’

They all looked at Tom. ‘Why is that not good?’ he asked. The possibility that he might see someone he knew - or, if not, someone with whom he could send a message back to Minas Tirith - made him feel light-headed.

‘Because Daros has decided to treat them to a public spectacle, and at the same time, I presume, remove any possibility of clemency for Barard from negotiations.’

‘No!’ Tom, leapt to his feet in horror, unable to believe that he was hearing right.

‘Listen, Tolman, I have a plan that I hope will serve all our needs, but the truth is that Barard’s execution is set for the day after the Gondorians arrive. I am sorry.’

Tom’s legs buckled, and he sat, staring at Tarlos in shock. ‘No!’ he whispered. ‘Please, no.’