"I will pay you five hundred gold pieces," said Herzog, "half in advance, if you bring me a full-blooded male elf—one of the six you saw enter the city with that woman you admired so much. They were all full-blooded. And you can have her too, if you want."

Wolfram hesitated. Five hundred gold pieces. And maybe he could go back later for the woman.

…

She was wearing a deep blue gown that clung to every curve of her body. Wolfram watched her raise each arm in turn and undo the lacings down the sides, then slip her arms out of the sleeves and let the gown drop to the floor. Now she was wearing nothing but a short white shift and a pair of blue boots; Wolfram imagined using his knees to force those long slim legs apart…

The woman examined her face in the mirror, then—unexpectedly—drew the shift off over her head. Completely naked now, apart from the boots, she looked like one of the high class whores from the brothel in Bell Lane. Gods, thought Wolfram, a man could make a mint selling her favours. And still have enough left to enjoy himself…

She had pinned up her hair and was washing herself with a large, yellow sponge, dipping it in the soapy water and drawing it lightly over the curves and planes of her body, leaving the skin damp and taut and glistening. She ran the sponge over her breasts; and Wolfram held his breath as a moan tried to escape his throat. He reached into his breeches…

…

He stayed on the balcony, watching, until the woman had fallen asleep. Then he approached the door and carefully tested the latch. It lifted easily, but made a loud clicking noise, so he stepped quickly back into the shadows and waited.

But the woman did not wake and, after a moment, Wolfram pulled the door open, stepped silently into the bedchamber, and approached her, stretching out his hand and drawing it, less than an inch above her skin, over her cheek, her throat and the shadowy cleft between her breasts. Then he lifted a single tendril of golden hair and let it slide between his fingers and fall back upon her bare shoulder.

The woman stirred, but still did not wake.

"Goodnight, my lady," he whispered, "you do not know what you are missing. But you will—and soon." And he left, closing the balcony door behind him.

…

Eowyn forced herself to go limp.

Wolfram laughed. "Not so dangerous without your sword, are you, my lady?" he gloated. "You will enjoy this—being ridden by a real man instead of a pretty-boy elf!" He lifted himself up, taking all his weight onto his knees, freeing his hands to unlace his breeches…

Eowyn seized her chance—with all the strength of a Shieldmaiden's sword arm she smashed the table leg into the side of his head and, at the same time, drove her fist deep into his groin.

Wolfram was taken completely by surprise—the pain was crippling, in his groin, his head, and his wounded leg. "You bitch," he screamed, "you elf-riding bitch!" And he rolled onto his side, and curled up in a ball, pressing both hands to his groin.

Eowyn scrambled to her feet and lifted the club. Wham! Once. Wham! Twice. Wham! Three times. Wham! "This is for Legolas!" Wham! "This is for me!" Wham!…

"After the Fellowship had left Imladris," said Finrod, "Lord Elrond discovered that there had been a plot amongst some of the Imladris elves to steal the One Ring from the hobbit. They intended to overthrow Lord Elrond and use the ring to confront Sauron in battle. Vardamir was one of the plotters. I only saw him briefly—we returned to Mirkwood before he was put on trial."

"And you confronted him with this?" asked Haldir.

"Not exactly, sir. I had gone back to the castle to fetch something for the bowyer—and he must have followed me. He accused me of intending to blackmail him. I was foolish enough to turn my back on him."

"He must have thought you were dead," said Legolas, "and he tried to make it look as if the merman had attacked you. When we brought you back to the camp alive, he waited outside the healing cave, hoping to finish you off. But we kept you guarded, so he could not get near you. His only option was to run."