Yours to Command

Trap

Plan your campaigns well, for a single change of circumstances can turn the hunter into the hunted, the trapper into the trapped.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

***

Éomer's guide cast a nervous look back as they turned into a side-alley off the third level and Éomer followed his glance. Just the usual late afternoon traffic on the road: servants returning from their errands, a man setting up his stall to sell food, two labourers driving a cart of refuse. And a boy leading a scruffy looking pony. Nothing out of the ordinary.

His guide appeared to think so too, for he relaxed visibly. The man had scanned the streets tensely all the way from the Dol Amroth townhouse, but now he seemed satisfied they weren't being followed. They stopped at the entrance to a dilapidated looking house and Éomer's hand strayed to the grip of his sword when he felt unfriendly eyes on him. But nothing untoward happened. The door swung open and his guide motioned to follow him inside.

Éomer risked a last look back. Minardil had hunkered down and was examining Galador's hooves. Their eyes met briefly and the boy gave a quick grin. No doubt he thought it an excellent game to be included in the adults' plans. Fleetingly Éomer wondered if Alphros had been very disappointed not to be allowed along, but indeed they could not have risked giving Lothíriel's captors another such hostage.

He straightened his shoulders and entered the short passage leading into the house, all the while trying to calculate how long it would take Minardil to get reinforcements. Three levels up riding the pony, then back down again through the traffic – it would take some time.

A courtyard opened before him and his eyes were drawn straightaway to the man standing at the other end, waiting for him. He had an air of command about him and Éomer's breath quickened in excitement. Would he finally get to deal with the man responsible for Lothíriel's abduction? He had a lot to answer for.

Slowly he crossed the open space, his shoulder blades itching all the while. A sideways glance confirmed two men crouching on the roof of the building to his right, bows at the ready, and he was glad he had donned his chain mail, brought from the camp by Éothain. It felt infinitely better to at least have some kind of protection against arrows. Several more men had taken up position along the side of the courtyard, their swords sheathed as yet. Not good odds. Five on the left, three on the right, Éomer noted quickly, plus his former guide, who now stood behind their leader, having been handed a sword. And possibly more of them hidden in the house? A beautiful trap, but then he had known as much.

On the ground a circle of some grey material had been traced. Ash? He studied his opponent as he approached it and the man took a step forward, moving with a fluid grace that tugged at something in Éomer's memory. Piercing black eyes in a dark skinned face met his own. The man had a strange hairstyle, with a short patch that looked almost singed along one temple. As tall as Éomer and heavily muscled, he wore a scarlet tabard over his hauberk. Éomer felt his eyes widen when he recognized the Black Serpent device. Haradrim?

As if reading his thoughts, the man gave a smile. "King Éomer. We meet at last."

Éomer stopped just outside the circle of ash. Time. He needed time, he reminded himself, even though he itched to draw his sword and wipe that smirk off the Southron's face.

"Where is Princess Lothíriel?" he asked curtly. Never show weakness.

"In a safe place."

Éomer did not allow his fingers to clench and give his anger away. Instead he gave the man a cold look. "If you want to hold parley with me, I insist on seeing her first and making sure she's unhurt."