The last fiery sliver of the sun disappears behind the Arceis Mountains.  The sunset is burning itself out in the eastern sky, touching every dim thing with a bloody rose hue.

My leather boots slide on the wet grass.  I adjust my grip on my bow, and try to tuck renegade strands of hair back into my bun with one cold hand, squinting at my trail in the waning light.  The sound of a soft, squelching step jerks my attention away from the muddy prints on the ground, and I glance nervously at the nearby belt of trees, trying to tug my grey woolen cloak over my scarlet shirt. Of all the foolish things to wear. . .

There most certainly is someone lurking beyond the trees.  I slip closer. Several people. What’s going on? I feel for my dagger.  Why did something have to go wrong?  Avoiding the heaps of dry, crinkly leaves, I slide between the trees.

My blood freezes as I recognize Taral out of the group, and I freeze with it.  His jet black mantel is tinted red in the evening light. His hood is up, but no matter how many years it’s been, I know it’s him; that confident swagger, still marred slightly by a nagging limp from old wounds–the arrogant poise of those broad shoulders?  They belong to only one man.

I inevitably miss my footing with a low splash.  Taral doesn’t turn around, but his voice breaks the waiting stillness as I discreetly pull my muddy riding boot out of the puddle.

“I thought you’d come, Schyler.”

All my calculations snap in anger.  I break forward, drawing my bow as I move. I halt in my tracks as Taral turns around, my arrow slipping as I fumble in surprise.  He laughs at me.

Taral is standing in the open field, clutching Mercy’s arm.  She is gagged, and her arms are bound behind her back.  Taral’s air is careless, but his grip looks mercilessly tight.  The hem of Mercy’s violet work dress is wet and tattered. Cockle burs cling to the fabric up to her knees. Half a dozen men stand behind them, looking tense and nervous.  Maybe they don’t have much faith in Taral, but I know what their leader is capable of.

I scramble to right my arrow, but my hands are trembling now.  Taral whips a knife from his belt, and has it at Mercy’s throat quicker than I can think.  “Put that down.”

I should have known.

Mercy’s eyes look wild above the gag as she twists in her bonds.  I try to catch the words in her muffled scream, but can’t discern anything.  Taral’s black-gloved fingers dig into her arm. “Do you care about her?” his carefree attitude begins to harden.  “Then put down the bow.”

If only I could know what Mercy is trying to tell me!  I bend down and lay my bow and my arrow on the soggy ground, wiping my sweaty hands on my pants as I stand.  Stay calm! Think!

“Smart girl!  You’re getting some sense at last.”  Taral’s pale eyes flash under the blackness of his hood.  “So go ahead and put down all your weapons.”

I grab the strap of my quiver and pull it over my head, letting it tumble loudly to the ground–my nerves are wearing thin.  The arrows spill out across the slimy prairie weeds.

What game is he at?

I wonder how much longer the light will last.  Taral’s sable costume begins to blend into the growing shadows, but Mercy’s flaxen hair shines palely in the fleeing light.

She mumbles and struggles again.  Taral raises the dagger till it touches her neck, and she relents.  I try to take a deep breath past the nervous lump in my throat, and the effort ends in a choking sob.  Tears gather behind my eyelids, but I blink them back. Calm. Stay calm. Figure this out.

Slowly, deliberately, I pull back my cloak to reveal one dagger.  I gingerly remove it from its sheath and drop it on the ground. It stands upright in the soggy mold.  I try to be discreet about pulling my cloak closer. Holding out my empty hands, I take a step toward Taral, praying he doesn’t notice I have a second knife.

“Look, what do you want?” I pry, trying to keep my voice steady.

“How much is Mercy’s life worth to you?” he asks casually.

Mercy looks frantic.  She doesn’t make a sound–she doesn’t move again–but her eyes dig into me painfully.  I try to decipher her pleading expression. She blinks furiously, but I catch one shining tear sliding down her cheek.  It drips into the gag that mutes her, and the fabric drinks it in. There’s no way to know what she’s trying to say.

Help me. Oh, please help me.

“A lot,” I answer, inching forward.

“Why don’t you just stay where you are.”  Taral shifts the knife in his fingers.  I retreat.

“What do you want?” I choke.  The tears refuse to be beaten back now.  “Don’t hurt her; I’ll do anything. Her life is worth more to me than anything else–anything else in the world. Just tell me what you want!”

“The key,” he answers, grinning.  “I want the key of Arceis.”

My frayed nerves scatter in terror and shock.  As his words sink in, my heart begins to race, it’s pulse becoming an echoing gunshot in the cavern of my chest.

How? How on earth?

I choke on my own words, my tears checked in shock and horror.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have it,” Taral says quietly.

My mind just won’t work.

How does he know I have the key?  How does he have Mercy? Who betrayed us?

I don’t know how to handle this. I try to fake confusion, but I don’t even need Taral’s smirk to confirm that I’m failing.

Mercy leans away from the threatening dagger, her jaw twitching almost imperceptibly.  I realize she’s chewing on the gag, trying to pull it away. The risks Mercy takes always scare me.  Dread, anger, and fear mold together into a rising sense of panic. It threatens to drown my reason.  I force myself to weigh Taral’s options; if he kills Mercy, he can’t manipulate me.  Her life is mostly in my hands, not in hers.  The thought makes me sick, but at least she probably won’t get herself killed in the meantime. If I stall for long enough, maybe she’ll be able to tell me what she’s been trying to yell. . .

“I said, I want the key.”

Taral loves games where he has the upper hand, but I think he’s getting tired of playing.

“I don’t have it,” I protest.

Lame excuse, he won’t buy it, but my mind is reeling.  How far do my responsibilities as key keeper go?  I will not stand here and watch Mercy die–no one can expect that of me!  But somehow, I think Roman would. He would expect me to protect our last, desperate hope with my life, and the lives of my companions.

I’m dizzy with fear and uncertainty.  They’ve all told me to stay sharp. Not to fall for delusions.  Never to act out of fear. They’ve all told me a thousand times.  But none of them have said it while someone had a dagger at their best friend’s throat.

Roman would say keep the key and get out, but I don’t have that in me. And, as far as I can see, I’m too far into it now anyway.

“I know you have it.”  Taral says patiently, just as Mercy shakes the gag off.

As if perfectly anticipating her actions, he deftly twists the knife in his grasp and strikes her across the mouth with the back of his hand.  She recoils from the blow with a choked gasp.  His hood falls back, but it’s so dark I still can’t see his face clearly at all.  One of his silent followers jumps forward, grabbing Mercy’s other arm with one hand and clamping the other hand over her mouth.  Taral’s knife seems to catch the very last ray of sunlight as it slides back to her pale throat.

“You can’t win this one, Schuyler.  I know all your tricks.”

I don’t feel like I can manage the barest whisper, yet somehow my voice is a scream.  “Taral, please, I’ll. . . I won’t–“

“You said anything.”  I know the look on his face.  It’s the silent affirmation that negotiations are done.

“Now you throw away your other dagger and hand me that key, or I will kill your friend.”  The hard edge to his voice vanishes, as he adds, smiling, “you know I will.”

My hand instinctively slides under my cloak to close over the haft of my precious, remaining weapon.  I lick my lips, and they taste like cold sweat.  I whisper, “I know.”

~*~

Melodramatic, yes? 😉  I wish had thought to date this when I wrote it!  I had a little too much fun with persons and tenses in this one.

Happy Saturday, hobbits.