“Find him. Find him, and pull out what we want to know. For Gondor, Amenadil.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
Those were the last words they shared before his departure.
Dol Amroth, the city of swans and azure banners. Even in the dead of night, it beamed with some unknown majesty, with radiance of ages past carved into every stone. Grey eyes of it’s mighty statues peered down from the walls and squares, their sight ever watchful on the populus that meandered in the streets come dawn. Or so Amenadil felt, as if the eyes of all his ancestors were poised on him, judging, calculating, deeming. Here, for better or worse, Amenadil would get his hands dirty.
He’d been following him since midnight, from the Shipmaster Inn towards the lower docks. The man swayed here and there, his step heaved by numerous rounds of ale that spilled down his throat during the night.
“Amateur.” Luthion sneered. Following his quarry twenty or so feet back, he could smell the rancid stench of cheap ale on the man’s breath. And to think this man was once counted among the greatest assets and agents the Watchers had in their ranks nearly made Amenadil sick. His steps hastened, the soles of his worn-out boots clicking along the carved flagstones.
“Revion.”
The man stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly, Revion turned on his heel, placing a hand against the carved stone wall in support. His eyes shot towards the cloaked man that dogged his drunken steps.
“Luthion. So, finally, the Watchers have sent someone after me?”
“Of course they did.” Amenadil took a single stride forward. A dagger flashed from beneath his cloak. “You deserted the cause, Revion. Moreover, you have something we want. This was inevitable.”
“Ah, there it is. The lies. The deceit. The false convictions and half-truths of The Watchers. Well...”
The renegade straightened upwards, mustering what sense and balance he still retained. “Aye, I have something you want. I know where they are.”
“Tell me, and we walk our separate ways, Revion. This doesn’t have to end in blood.”
Revion tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. Perhaps, foolishly, he closed the distance between himself and Amenadil. Slowly, the man reached into the inner linings of his pocket. Between his fingers was clutched a folded piece of paper, stained yellow by both time and drink. Amenadil’s hand shot forwards to reach for it, yet with surprising quickness, Revion drew his hand backwards. “What proof have I that you won’t kill me as soon as you’ve got your hands on it.”
“Revion, please. We’ve been friends for years. Remember the inductions? Come now, there’s a reason they sent me, and not assassins.”
A chuckle.
“Is that what you’re not? An assassin? Please, we both know why they sent you. The Watchers don’t like loose ends, and hate loose lips even more. Is that what I am now? A loose end? You have no reason to kill me. I won’t yield to the Enemy. You of all should know that. I am no threat.”
“Threat or not...” Amenadil took another step forwards, his hand outstretched, awaiting the parchment. “I still need that paper. I won’t harm you, old friend.”
Revion paused. The cogs in his mind began to spin. Then, a challenge.
“Swear it to me. Upon your father’s grave. Swear it upon your father’s grave, and his soul.”
“I swear it upon my father’s grave and his soul. May all honor of him and all his kin turn to ash should I turn to be a liar.”
“Very well. May it lie on your heart should this be a trick.”
The paper was soon on the open palm of Amenadil’s hand.
“You’ll find all you need there. Location, guard numbers, everything.” Revion held a moment between them. “For Gondor.”
“Yes, Revion. For Gondor.” Luthion’s hand sank back beneath his coat, the parchment safely tucked into the inner lining. “For Gondor.” He mouthed quietly, ye his words were shadowed by the soft twang of bowstring. Revion’s corpse hit the flagstones with barely a sound.
From the high rooftops, Luthion’s shadows, Missel and Glamdir, relaxed their bows.
“Ruthless as always, Watcher.”
Amenadil nodded at Missel’s remark half-mindedly, his hands working quickly to open the paper scrap. His eyes shot back once to look upon the carcass of his once friend, before returning to the parchment. There, written in black ink, was a single name. And one that, no doubt, brought shivers to his spine.
Carn Dûm.
“Shit.”
