TWILIGHT OF THE GODS

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Story Description: For two years after the Ring War there had been peace in Middle-earth, but suddenly both Gondor and Rohan are pulled into a conflict that could very well threaten their very existence…

An epic (approx. 300 pages +) adventure with lots of angst, battles, intrigues, treason, and a little romance featuring Aragorn/ Arwen, Éomer/ Lothíriel as well as some other well-known Tolkien-characters and a fresh bunch of OCs.

Disclaimer:  The CC belong to Tolkien’s heirs. We do not own them, we do not make any profit. We just burrow them and have a little fun with them... The OC belong to the authors’ vivid imagination.

Rating:     A “PG-13” should put us on the safe side.

Authors’ notes:  This is the first chapter of an epic undertaking by Timmy2222 (Author of the Aragorn-story “Castle”, also on this site) and Katzilla (Author of “A Rohan Ghost Story”, featuring Éomer, available only on fanfiction.net). There are references to both stories in this one, so for anyone who is interested in what happened before (it’s not necessary though to understand the story), please, cast a friendly eye on our former Middle-earth-adventures. 

The plot and storyline were developed by both authors, but the writing was split. Katzilla wrote the Rohan-based CC and OC characters while Timmy took care of the Gondorian-based characters as well as those of other races.

Special thanks go to Raquel for her invaluable advice both regarding the plot and her great beta-reading. What would we do without you?

To Mouse from Timmy for the relentless enthusiasm she dedicated to Hilberon and Vlohiri.

Also huge thanks to Cindy for her always helpful feedback, and to Tanja, without whose incredible knowledge of the Tolkien-universe and painful, yet always helpful questioning we could not have developed this plot!

A note from Timmy: Raquel, I grant you the greatest honour I can give: The hammer and the anvil for you never used it on my heart.

Since this is the start we would cherish every helpful review, and we promise to finish the story in due time, but don’t hold your breath!

Please send feedback to: Katberlin@t-online.de and/ or Timmy2020@gmx.de!

CHAPTER 1

NORTHERN ITHILIEN  

  The man crouched near the little fire he had kept going during the night, but it was hardly enough to chase away the shadows that haunted him. His lined, weathered face with the dark, wild hair and full beard made it hard to estimate his age, and he was clothed in a torn old tunic and partially ripped and stained trousers, which added up to the rest of his shabby appearance. He felt miserable. A wind was coming up from the west and passed over his neck like the light touch of a cold hand. He shivered involuntarily, but not from the cold alone. Dreadful thoughts of despair, hunger, and death ran through his mind. So much had been lost during the last years. So many relatives and friends were now buried on the ragged slopes of the Misty Mountains. So many tears of sorrow had been spilled. He knew not whether the path they had chosen was the right one, but something had to be done. Their misery had to end, one way or the other.

   He lifted his water-skin and slowly drank, while his strained senses continued to scan his immediate area for the slightest sound, the smallest movement, but the grass was wet and fresh. It would be hard to hear anything lighter than a horse, and the mist made it hard to see what was surrounding him. He grimaced and sat back, his free hand on the moist ground. Here where he waited the land was fertile. Curse those strawheads, they were so greedy, intent on keeping the wealth of their land entirely for themselves, even if others died of hunger right on their doorstep. Why had so few so much? He put the water-skin away and exhaled, sighing to himself in frustration and twitching as the cry of an owl cut through the silent night. For a moment longer he watched the thick mist that formed now that the morning was drawing nearer. Already, a narrow stripe of a lighter blue could be seen on the eastern horizon, daylight’s earliest messenger. He had not slept for two nights now and longed to go home, though it would not be the home he wished to live in. What was a cold, draughty cave against one of the huts the Rohirrim lived in? With a low moan he shifted on the ground and added some more twigs to the fire which was in danger of going out.

  Without warning, a tall figure emerged from the shadow, startling the man. He had not heard his guest advance. Clad in a black and golden armour with a dark red scarf below the face-covering helmet, he looked impressive enough to humble the broad-shouldered man waiting for him. With an effort, the man straightened to his full height and greeted the armoured figure with a short nod.

  “You asked for this meeting, Lomarin, now, tell me why I had to leave the mountains.”

  In the glow of the campfire Lomarin’s dark-brown eyes were fixed upon the ungracefully dishevelled-looking man. He took a step closer, allowing the other man to study the glyphs on the plates and lames, but more to intimidate him. He succeeded. Exhaling, the bearded man stepped back.

  “You still have no land in the Westfold, Woldro”, Lomarin teased in a low voice. It sounded like a threatening whisper to the man from the Misty Mountains, and he twitched his lips disdainfully. Woldro would not let that man – or woman, he could not tell – determine his life. “Your pain will end soon,” Lomarin continued slowly as if he had to think of the right words first. “The people you hate will diminish and flee.” Lomarin fixed his eyes upon the stout man with more passion. “You will roam their lands, take back what was taken from you, and restore the old order.”

  “You said that before,” Woldro dared to utter upon summoning his whole courage, and though he was old compared to his kinsmen, he sounded insecure like a child. A low roaring sound echoed from within the armoured figure. He could not say whether it was laughter or anger. The dark eyes did not tell. “How much longer do you need? We are waiting... and starving!”

  The sound changed. Woldro felt it like a weight on his chest and took an involuntary step backwards. The mist around Lomarin thickened suddenly, as if he were calling it to himself. It swirled around his lean frame, up his legs and waist, strangely dissolving his silhouette.

  “Patience! Think first, then act. Two more of us accompany you back.”

  Woldro knitted his bushy brows in distrust as he took a quick glance around, not seeing anyone. He had thought for his guest to be alone.

  “Where are they?”

  “Close by. Go back now and tell your men to be prepared. Everything you need will be at hand upon your return. You shall triumph over those you hate if you do as you are told.”

  Woldro was still frightened in a way he could not describe. He simply lacked the words for the complexity of emotions he was living through. He could only nod his consent, his mouth suddenly dry like sand. He had never feared an attack by his enemies. He had survived many fights against the Forgoils without this feeling of… emptiness, utter loneliness. It made him angry to feel inferior to anyone, so he quickly turned away from the fire.

  “I will see that,” he spat, but the armoured figure had already withdrawn into the mist.

* * *

EDORAS

   The winds were blowing as ever over the broad plains of the central Riddermark. Months ago they had been a punishment to a cold and deserted land, they were now caressing wide open meadows of rich green grass, that was abundantly laced with the bright yellow faces of buttercups and a variety of other orange, white, red and blue wildflowers. Bees and butterflies were busily buzzing from flower to flower, hares and other animals chasing each other across the grass, and birds were sailing the skies and singing their exuberance down from the branches of trees and the golden, thatched roofs of the greatest city of the Kingdom of Rohan. After a long stern winter and a late spring, summer had finally arrived and once more performed its magic on the unforgiving ancient land once named Calenardhon, before the heirs of King Éorl the Young had been presented with it by Cirion, then Stewart of Gondor.

   The plains and hills were brimming with overflowing life again, and the warm air carried the scent of hay and horses from the great city of Edoras over the grass. Many riders were underway here and there, travelling the vast spaces of the land, and because the time since the ending of the war had been peaceful, they were in a spirited mood, their guards lowered. Travelling in the Mark had been dangerous in the past, but there was no evil left in the wake of the Dark Lord’s defeat. Still, the people of Rohan were watchful, but the signs that the land was healing from the many years of war were unmistakable.

   Preceding a small group of riders headed for Meduseld, the Hall of the King, a figure on a great dark horse ascended the steep dusty path to the Royal Stables, sweat-drenched from his efforts of forcing his will onto the reluctant steed that fought him every step of the way. Where they passed, people stopped in their tracks to look, although they had become accustomed to the strange sight over the past weeks. Some looked impressed by such raw power, while others smiled and asked themselves silently whether rider and steed would ever be of one mind. No one dared to show his or her amusement openly until the strange couple had passed through. Heads turned, and only when the two disappeared in the stables did the people go about their way again...

* * *

   “You are a demon in horse-shape, but we shall see just who has the stronger will of us two in the end,” Éomer fumed as he took the saddle off the black stallion and shoved against its great body to keep it from crushing him against the stable wall. He threw his burden onto the stand and groaned as he squeezed himself through the narrow gap between the wall and Battleaxe’s hindquarters into the middle path. The great black casually raised a hoof in a very clear threat and, too casually for his master’s liking, turned away from him to search his tray for food. The King of Rohan came to a halt outside the stall and observed his rebellious steed with narrowed eyes.

   “How was your ride, Sire?” Carthago, one of the most experienced and oldest stable-hands in his service asked in an interested tone that nevertheless went down sideways Éomer’s throat at that moment. “Any improvement with that… difficult animal?”

   “Difficult?” Éomer turned his head to glower at the man and snorted, indignantly picking the grass from his riding clothes. It had been a while since a horse had last been able to throw him, and Battleaxe would soon learn that there was a price to pay for making its master the subject of ridicule! As much as he missed his trusted Firefoot for the easy way he could be handled, the black’s stubbornness had woken the fierce determination in him that he would come out as the stronger one. Challenges were there to be braved, obstacles existed to be mastered.

   “I have tried everything: Patience... understanding... Because of his history, I was loath to force him into obedience, but... as it turns out, all my waiting was to no avail. He should know by now that he can trust me, yet he still chooses fighting over companionship. What makes it even worse is that I think he is actually enjoying our fights by now.” He sighed in frustration, and his glance returned to the object of his complaints. “I will get through to him, though, and if it’s the last thing I do. Mark my words, Carthago! That …” he searched for the right word – “that…ornery, insolent… beast will not best me! If he insists upon it, I shall break his will so completely that he can be used as a learning horse for babes! I want to let him keep his fire, but if he thinks he’s the stronger one of us two, he is mistaken.”

   Carthago knew enough about the young king’s mood to clamp down his teeth and remain silent as he stood for a while longer to watch the huge black horse, which had turned its back on them and had chosen to completely ignore the two men. At last, he remembered his duties and went about his way with a little nod and a few well-chosen words meant to soothe his king’s mood.

   “Well, I know if there is but one man in the Riddermark who can master that animal, it would be you, sire. I have every confidence in you.” He left Éomer standing to further stare at the backside of his stubborn steed and heard the stallion’s loud, indignant snort at his remark. It sounded like a very distinct objection.

   Éomer was glad that the man had left as he continued to stand in front of the black’s stall, contemplating his further course of action. Yes, Battleaxe was difficult. In fact, it was the most difficult horse he had ever sat on. The four-year old had a violent temper, an inherent distrust of everything approaching him, be it man or beast and quite an uncanny amount of self-esteem that bordered on – no, crossed, even! – the line into arrogance… which was the one thing the King of Rohan was not willing to accept. From nobody, and least of all an animal! It was part of why he hadn’t given up on the stubborn stallion weeks ago. The other reason being, of course, that it was absolutely the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes upon.

   Crossing his arms on his chest, Éomer’s gaze wandered admiringly over the shining black coat that looked like a piece of freshly polished coal, the strong limbs with their white socks and the muscular body. At a height of 19 hands, Battleaxe was the tallest horse he had ever seen, even one hand taller than Firefoot. Even if he had no Méara-blood in his veins, no man in his right mind could see that creature and call it a normal horse.

   As if he had listened in on his master’s musings, the black turned his head and – still eating – eyed the human in front of his box with obvious suspicion, bringing a grim smile to Éomer’s lips. No, there was nothing normal about this horse, which was why he absolutely had to have it! First of all, the stallion was a born survivor. He had survived the raids of Sauron’s orcs, who had been stealing most of Rohan’s black horses for their various troops, even though he was only two summers old when the war ended. He had survived the massacre at the Méara valley from almost two years back, too, but there was little doubt that it had been this incident that had turned the black into such a difficult character. He had gone through the fires of Angband and survived, but in the process his soul had been scorched and would not be easily healed.

   Éomer had been very aware of that when he had chosen the wild one as his new steed for the summer. He and a handful of his men had made the journey to the herd as soon as the first signs of spring had shown itself on the plains, because their steeds were the ones left with the strongest Méara-blood in their veins, something that was becoming a rarity. In order to save their legendary line of horses, it had been agreed upon to let Firefoot and the other stallions enjoy a summer with the reduced herd to refresh their blood. Wonderful for his beloved and trusted steed, but it left the King of Rohan in need of a new horse befitting his status.

   There had not been many horses to choose from, and the ones that came to him willingly had not impressed him. Instead it had been the black one, the wild one that had caught his eye and caused him to ignore the Rohirric tradition of letting the horse choose its rider. Elana, now a burgeoning young woman of 18 summers, had raised her eyebrows at his choice, but spared herself the obvious comment, because she had seen the sparkle in his eyes. Yes, that horse had called to him, even if it didn’t know so yet itself.

   “You will answer to my commands, devil-horse. You will!” he finally muttered as Battleaxe buried his head in the tray again, oblivious to his voice, and turned away. Behind him stood two of the boys who occasionally helped out by performing light chores that would prepare them for their adolescence, and their eyes were sparkling with awe as they shifted their gaze from the great black stallion to their king and bowed. Clearly intimidated, the seemingly older one of the two then raised his head.

   “That is a wonderful horse, Sire! It must clearly be the best steed in the entire Riddermark.”

   “It also is the most devious steed in the entire Riddermark,” Éomer grumbled and turned to go before his anger at his four-legged antagonist would lead him to let it out on those innocent boys. “Keep away from him. There is no telling what that black devil is apt to do!” He rushed down the corridor between the stands… and turned around again. “Have you, perchance, knowledge of the Lady Lothíriel’s whereabouts?”

   The boys seemed happy to be able to be of assistance to him, as again the older one beamed and pointed a finger in the general direction of Meduseld.

   “I think I saw her with the birds again, my Lord.”

   He nodded his thanks to the boys and left the Royal Stables, on his way out eyeing the steeds of his éored, which were all well-behaved and trustworthy… unlike some other animal he could name… Sighing to himself, Éomer turned on his heels and walked the last part of the hill back to the Golden Hall, up the stairs to the dais, where he acknowledged his door-wardens with a curt nod before he turned to walk the narrow path around the left side of the great building all the way towards its back. And there she was, his lovely young wife. His ravishing, melancholic, reserved … and pregnant young wife. Maia, her maid, was nowhere to be seen; yet another subtle hint at Lothíriel’s state of mind. As so often during the past weeks, she must have sent her away to be entirely alone. Éomer did not like this discovery. He did not like the thought of his wife wandering about all by herself, with no one around to help her in case of an eventual emergency.

   ‘What should happen?’ was the instant thought. ‘There is no one here who would threaten her.’ The city folk seemed to think of their queen as a bit on the strange side, someone too different from them to be entirely understood, but still all of Edoras should be perfectly safe for his wife to walk around without needing an escort. Yet, the thought of Lothíriel being alone still left him uncomfortable, he could not help it.

   As Éomer rounded the last corner to the new stairs he had ordered to be built and which led to a large volary where she kept her falcons, Éomer once again stopped and paused to observe Lothíriel from afar. She was wearing the pale blue riding dress that nicely accentuated her dark skin and Éomer had seen on her quite often during the last weeks. It was part of her wardrobe from Dol Amroth and mixed the practical Rohirric style with the south-Gondorian colours, and while it looked pleasant enough on her yet delicate frame, it was nothing representative, nothing to show herself to the people. So she had never even intended to walk down into Edoras on this beautiful summer day, not even the short distance to the Royal Stables to visit him. Not that the commoners would have cared for that kind of thing at all, Éomer mused. It was rather Lothíriel’s Gondorian upbringing that made her feel the need to look stately in a public situation.

   The frown on the king’s face deepened as he observed his lonely wife. To see that dress on his wife yet again made him uneasy, for he thought that he was perfectly aware of her reasons for wearing it. And even if he could not see her from the front yet, he was ready to swear that she was also wearing the pearl earrings and necklace that went with that outfit. Or perhaps it was the silver swan. Either way, the lady of his heart was clearly demonstrating the reason for her melancholic posture to him, and it hurt Éomer to see his wife in such a sad state of mind. Apparently, the Lady Lothíriel was not yet feeling at home in the Riddermark after almost an entire year of being married to its king.

   For a while after their marriage, when they had first begun to know each other, Lothíriel had done everything in her power to please him, to demonstrate her eagerness to take her place as the Queen of the Mark by his side. Whole battalions of tailors had been going in and out of Meduseld in order to dress their king’s wife in the traditional fashion of the Mark, with velvety and silken materials in greens, gold and white, with jewellery to go with it in their common symbols: The sun, their horses, the dragon. And, for a while at least, Éomer had been under the impression that Lothíriel had been proud to wear the Rohirric clothes. But ever since she had learnt of her pregnancy, everything had changed, and he wondered why. Did she not want that child?

   As he looked on, hands stuffed into the pockets of his riding tunic, Éomer’s heart ached at the sight that was granted to him: a perfect picture of breathtaking beauty… and breathtaking loneliness. The strong breeze played with the jet-black curls Lothíriel had meticulously tucked to the upper part of her head, threatening to loosen them again and preventing Éomer from getting a better look at his wife’s expression. But then there was no need to see it, for the young woman’s body language alone spoke volumes. Standing at the edge of the cliff, facing north, Lothíriel held out her gloved right hand for the elegant bird-of-prey to land on, and when it did in acceptance of the small piece of meat its master held between her fingers, she gently stroked the bird’s throat. Yet even from the distance, there was something trance-like in her movements, as if she weren’t there. Lost in thought, in her dream world. Back at Dol Amroth? And, if he was not mistaken, talking to the animal! Instead of him! Finally giving himself a nudge to proceed, Éomer went down the stairs as silently as possible. Perhaps he would be able surprise her… and perhaps, lift her spirits this way.

   He had hardly reached the grass when Lothíriel let the falcon loose again, and it spread its wings and went off to ride the strong breeze blowing from the mountains, quickly fading to a small dot in the endless blue of the perfect summer sky. Still his wife did not look his way. A sly, hopeful smile tugged at Éomer’s mouth. He was almost upon her now…

* * *

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  Aragorn allowed his horse to fall back into a trot. After more than a fortnight of relentless sunshine the grass they were riding on was dry, and the upcoming wind carried sand and dust with it. But after the spring rains, which had made the corn and grapes grow, the sudden dryness would not harm the fields' fruits, and the morning's dew still provided them with the moisture they needed. The time of the harvest was close since Ithilien was warmer than the rest of the land. The rich aroma of corn and wheat was in the air, mixed with the scent of wild flowers growing in different colours on the plains and among the trees in their deepest green. In a few weeks the peasants would harness their horses to the carts and collect the riches of the soil. In some villages the people had already started to pick apples from the trees.

  On their ride through northern Ithilien Aragorn and his men had been welcomed in the small villages, and, more than the outlook for the second good harvest, the joy of these simple folks had lightened his heart. Most of the villagers had lived through rough times; their faces carried the lines of grief and despair, and they were yet recovering from the loss of relatives, and friends, and the destruction of their homes. But hope was getting stronger by the day. The lasting peace in Ithilien and Gondor allowed the people to concentrate on ploughing the fields and cultivate their farms. After the long years of suffering, they all had feared that bad weather and too few people to work on the fields would leave them empty-handed. But the harvest of the year before had exceeded the expectations and settled the fears of a winter with hunger like other peoples were facing. The king was grateful for all gifts given by the land.

  He had many reasons to be grateful.

  Aragorn knew well that not all of his people had cheered the day of his coronation. He knew of their doubts. After all he could not blame them. For years he had chosen exile instead of the crown. He had left the fate of his people in the hands of an old man, whose mind was corrupted by Sauron. It was his fault, and he could not deny it.

  His comrades and he – and four Hobbits – had freed the peoples of Middle Earth, but that did not mean he had freed the people of Gondor from doubt and mistrust. More than he, Arwen had won over the hearts of the now free men and women. Her gentleness, her way of convincing the sceptics that all would turn out for the better, had given more hope to his people than the king himself could have given. Aragorn smiled. His heart warmed as he remembered the first speech she had delivered as a queen. Her words had been friendly and well chosen, but the feelings of hope, love, and confidence had been overwhelming. Aragorn had seen the faces of the listeners soften and turn from disbelief to a light smile that had deepened with every minute she had addressed them. She had set more than a seed of love in their hearts. It was the moment Aragorn had felt the deepest gratitude and ultimate devotion for his wife.

  The mere thought she could have left for Valinor made him shudder. A life without Arwen at his side was unthinkable. He still would have become king, but the grief would have consumed him, made him worth less than an ordinary man.

  Elrond had asked him to let Arwen go. He had been convinced that his daughter had only stayed for Aragorn and not because of her hope for Middle Earth. Aragorn had been willing to let the love of his life leave, but his heart had broken that day. Arwen had told him long ago that day would come when he would have to choose his own path. He had given into his destiny, though the price had seemed incredibly high.

  Aragorn shook his head, trying to get rid of the unwelcome memory. Gladly he turned in his saddle when he heard one of the soldiers of his company approach.

  “My Lord, there will only be light for another hour. Shall we pitch a camp?”

  “Hilberon, if there is still an hour left why should we stop now?” Squinting against the sun Aragorn watched the young man’s face. “We have got all we need with us.”

  “But, sire,” the young man's voice was lower now, and he grabbed the rein of the packhorse that he led tighter. “We need some time to build up the tent.” And to the man's utmost astonishment King Elessar laughed. “Sire?”

  “Your are not giving up, are you, Hilberon son of Hiregon?” The young soldier did not answer. Had he insulted the king? He broke into a sweat. His father would not take it lightly if he turned out to be unworthy of the honour to serve in the Royal Guard.

  “I do not understand, my Lord,” he stuttered.

  Aragorn lifted his eyebrows in amusement. He liked the man with the fair-haired beard, which covered the slender features of a face still growing into character. The soldier sat upright in his saddle, trying to straighten out his tall figure and cover his insecurity that way. The king turned to not let the young man see his smile.

  “For how many days have we ridden together now?”

  “Ten, my lord.”

  “On which night did I desire to sleep in a tent?”

  There was a slight pause. On some nights the villagers had provided them with shelter so it had not been necessary to use the tent. But for the rest…

  “On none of them, my lord.”

  Aragorn glanced over his shoulder, unable to conceal his mocking smile any longer.

  “And we shall not change that tonight.” He faced forward again, pressed the heels into Brego's flanks and let him fall into gallop. Immediately the wind caught his hair and cooled his sweaty face. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. Without his kingly duties and outdoors in the open lands he felt like a free man. It was true that he had never wanted the power of a ruler. But there had been no other choice. After the fall of Mordor and his coronation he had to face the royal life. Minas Tirith became his home, the White Tree of Gondor his morning's first sight. And though he reduced the formalities of the court to its limits he still felt caged. Arwen consoled him with a teasing smile that he would get used to it. In almost two years he still had not. He took up every opportunity to flee the halls, and corridors, and all the servants looking after him. He would never settle down like Arwen had hoped he would.

   When rumours had reached Minas Tirith that some strange things had happened in the north and east of Ithilien, he had not left the task of riding out to one of the captains, but had preferred to saddle up his own horse. The Royal Guard had done the same, and Arwen – his beloved Arwen, who understood him better than he sometimes understood himself – had convinced him to let the men ride with him.

  Now they were gaining up on him, and with a short call in Sindarin he spurred his steed even more. Brego seemed to share his rider's opinion and almost flew over the plain. Closer to the outlines of a small forest Aragorn slowed his horse again. The Royal Guard arrived at his side, and not for the first time the king would have preferred to be alone. The men truly would have followed his order to stay behind, but Aragorn found it rude and let them be. Still in thoughts something caught his eye. He stopped his horse and dismounted.

  “Is there something wrong, sire?” Halamin, one of the more experienced soldiers among the guards, asked with his soft and always polite voice.

  Aragorn did not answer, but knelt in the grass. Slowly, carefully he pushed aside some loose twigs and leaves and revealed a small and cold campfire site. While the other riders slid out off the saddles Aragorn moved two steps away from the remains and around it, examining the ground with keen eyes.

  “A man waited here – the whole night.” The king stopped, turned on his heels and wiped another spot. He shook his head. “Another man came. He wore boots, but…” He went a few steps more to the north. Halamin and Tarés, a friend of his since his childhood, exchanged glances while Hilberon frowned, then stepped closer. “Do not ruin the tracks,” Aragorn said lifting neither his voice nor his head. Hilberon stood like hit by a fist. Halamin pressed his lips tight to prevent himself from bursting into laughter. The young man swallowed, hardly daring to breathe. This was supposed to be the second mistake within the hour. Another one would truly send him back to the stable-boys' quarters. Aragorn put his hand flat on the ground. “It is almost a man’s size, but these footprints are strange. I have never seen anything like that before.”

  “A troll?” Tarés offered, stroking his long brown beard, and Halamin shook his head only slightly. He knew that the king had fought against almost every creature that walked, crept or crawled on this earth.

  “No. Trolls walk on two broad, flat feet,” Aragorn answered, still focused on the tracks he found. He followed them further away from the campfire site. “These tracks indicate it was a kind of animal – walking on all fours. Without haste.” He knelt again on one knee, rested his arm on it. “It had big paws.”

  “Paws?” Tarés echoed and frowned. “I heard… well, it was just a rumour, nothing more than idle chatter.”

  Aragorn rose and turned with a questioning look.

  “Speak up, Tarés, if you know something of importance.”

  “As I said… I did not deem it important. People said there were, well, some beasts attacking their cattle.”

  “Where?”

  Tarés nodded with his chin.

  “More to the east, they said. But I would not give much to it, my lord, there have been rumours like that for quite a while.”

  “For how long?”

  “A year… perhaps. But no one has yet seen any such beast in Ithilien. As I said it’s just a rumour.”

  Aragorn nodded. Silently he focused on the tracks again, walking away from the guards, who did not dare to follow. Hilberon had not taken a step and looked as if lightning would strike him if he did. The king was unaware of the young soldier's misery. He had not told his men, but he found it strangely irritating that the tracks indicated it had been an animal the man rode, but it had obviously stood still until it had departed again. The footprints left to the north, crossing those of its arrival. The man at the fire had only risen and left to the west later. Again the king inspected the animal's footprints closer, but in spite of all his experience he was at a loss. An explanation must be possible, but he did not find it. He wiped the dust from his hands and got up. His gaze wandered to the east. If any threat would seize Gondor it would come from the lands beyond the eastern border. The messengers he had sent north beyond Henneth Anûn had not reported about any intrusion. They had only told him that tents were set up near Dagorlad. Though the king hoped the free folk living there would not attack Ithilien he would not count on it.

* * *

  When the sun set they pitched a camp nearby, two men stayed on guard while the other three slept without any coverlets for it was still warm. Dumarin snorted softly when Halamin lit himself a pipe and exchanged last words with Tarés before the latter went about his duty. Hilberon had laid his head on the saddle of his horse and was asleep a moment later, his features relaxed and his mouth slightly open. Tarés, who pointed at him as he passed by, mimicked Hilberon’s expression and shook his head. Halamin nodded and returned the smile.

  Aragorn could not even close his eyes. Staring at the starlit sky, he thought about the strange find he had made. What kind of animal had it been? What kind of man had ridden it? Who had attended the meeting and for what reason? And – stranger – how could it be that the animal had not moved while the man had walked away? It seemed clear that the man had been riding it, so it had to be a beast of a pony's size at least. But the prints had not been too deep. Perhaps there was more to the rumours about wild beasts attacking cattle.

  He closed his eyes and tried to rest. It was of no use to speculate about those incidents. He would know more when they rode further east. All by itself the picture of Arwen came to his mind. He remembered the night of the coronation. He had not let her hand go, afraid she might vanish that very moment. For so long he had wished for that day to come that he had been hardly able to breathe when they entered the hall. They had sat down with all the noble men and women of Gondor and the friends who had accompanied him in all the battles he had fought. But he had been a bad host. Overflowed with thankfulness he had been unable to focus on more than his wife-to-be. She had smiled reassuringly and claimed her hand back to take up fork and knife. He had felt like a fool. Gandalf's smile had been the only sign that anyone had noticed his behaviour, and with a deep breath he had started to eat. He could not recall what he had eaten. After all the ordeal he had survived he needed time to realise that the years of war were over. The banquet had been nice, the spirits high, and the Hobbits had been drunken with more than music. And Arwen had been smiling. All her hopes had been fulfilled. Even her father had accepted that she had chosen her own path to happiness. Finally Aragorn had been able to let go his worries. She would be his wife for all time that was left for him to live. He could share everything with her. And still he left the city alone, needing to ride out and find peace in the open land. He ought to be at her side more often than not, but he could not shake off his nature. Houses were narrow, even a city was not more than a collection of houses, barrens, and stables. If he wanted to breathe it had to be under the open sky.

* * *

EDORAS

   She knew not what had befallen her. It was as if – as in one of her recurring childhood dreams – she had stepped out into the sea, and a great current had seized her and towed her under and swept her around until she knew no longer which way to swim to reach the surface. It was as if a wave had crashed over her head and was pressing her to the sandy bottom. A great wave of insecurity, of fear... and a deep inner hurt that she could not explain, but was undeniably there, a throbbing pain in her heart, a feeling of inner void where something should have been... or used to be.

   She was standing at the edge of the cliff, next to the wooden railing that had been built to provide security, and the steady breeze tugged at her and sent her skirt and hair blowing as her gaze absent-mindedly swept the vast plains below her without really seeing anything. The falcon on Lothíriel’s gloved hand stared at her with piercing grey eyes, and for a moment, it seemed to Prince Imrahil’s youngest daughter as if the animal was staring right to the bottom of her soul.

   “What do you see, Reccéleas?” she whispered, briefly surfacing from her trance and smoothing the soft feathers under the bird’s throat with delicate fingers. The strong, pointed beak opened, but it tried not to seize her fingers. The grey eyes stayed fixed on its master’s face, and the animal’s serene expression made Lothíriel wonder what it was thinking. Probably something in the likes of ‘Why can you not let me go? I care not for your worries!’ “Do you see the water in my eyes? Do you hear the sound of the waves crashing on the shore? The screams of the white gulls?” A slight, melancholic smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Aye, I believe that would be what would fetch your interest – the gulls. Am I not right? Although I would not allow you to hunt them.” The falcon just looked at her, and at last, she held up her hand and let go of the leather straps she had tied around her wrist. “Go, Reccéleas! It is a beautiful day. Ride the wind for me.”

   Her eyes followed the bird as it soared up into the sky, screaming for its companion whom she had released shortly before. Two small, brown and white dots riding the breeze together. Oh, how what a wonderful feeling of freedom that had to be... Her hands sank back at her sides and, unbeknownst to her, came to rest on her lower belly again, the source, she was sure, even though she could not say why, of her latest bout of confusion and depression. Three weeks ago, her pregnancy had been officially announced. Rohan was expecting its heir, and somehow, alone by the announcement, Lothíriel had felt a pressure on herself she knew not how to cope with. To know that the entire kingdom was looking at her to perform her duty and provide a successor to the throne, another ruler coming from the legendary line of Eorl the Young... it was intimidating. She felt so small when she thought about it while her hands absent-mindedly caressed the soft curve of her lower belly. Éomer loved her deeply, she knew this. There were no doubts in her mind that he never only saw her as a means to continue his bloodline, and he was so much looking forward to their child! She should have been glad, she knew, but instead, she was frightened and confused: Again, her life was about to change drastically, and yet she was not certain whether she had already coped with the first change, which had come to pass almost one year ago…

* * *

  It had happened without warning. There had been no signs of the decision that was about to change her life. Nothing that could have prepared her for the plans of her father’s political advisors, who had somehow succeeded in persuading Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth to give his beloved daughter to the King of Rohan as a visible confirmation of their newly confirmed alliance. She had been stunned when he told her. Yes, he had asked her opinion, but only after he had made that suggestion to their allies, and of course by then she had not been at freedom anymore to deny her father’s wish, lest they would seriously insult the people of the Riddermark... and its king.

   King Éomer of Rohan... at first, she had been intimidated by the thought. Of course, as a princess of Gondor, Lothíriel had been used to the mannerisms and behaviour of the nobles from the days when she could barely walk... It was not the thought of becoming the wife of a man endowed with the power to command an entire country that had caused her discomfort, but rather what was known about the kingdom of the Horse-Lords, or at least what was being told about its people. Fierce and stern they were said to be, always ready to take up arms... Great warriors, without whom Gondor would have lost not only the last war, many said. Warmongers others called them. A stoic and relentless people that had ruthlessly chased away the earlier occupants of the land they had been gifted with, thus condemning them to a life in misery and poverty. They were said to be wise, yet unlearned, with most of the population unable to read or write. Of their own language, no written form existed; it lived only in songs and memories, passed on from generation to generation. Wasn’t that a sign that they were, in truth, primitives?

   For days and weeks after her betrothal to the Rohirric King had been made official, Lothíriel had invaded the great library of Dol Amroth to find out more about the people of the Mark, and she had talked to historians and teachers, and what she had found had troubled her. Apparently, the Rohirrim lived very rural lives, simple and straightforward. It evolved around basic needs: food, security and shelter. The land was as stern as the people living of it, and did not sustain life easily, nor leave it much room for any fancier things to occupy one’s time with. Life constantly had to be fought for, a never-ending battle against the elements... and their many foes. From what Lothíriel had been able to gather, the kingdom of Rohan had not seen many years without troubles since its foundation, which was a reason for their inherent distrust of strangers... and she was going to be its queen. A stranger. A frightening thought. What was she supposed to tell her kinsmen once she was there, if she couldn’t even fully understand their lifestyle? How were the Rohirrim supposed to look up to someone who had no idea of the ways that formed their identity? And how where they supposed to respect an alien woman who had only seen 24 summers?

   She had pondered for endless days and even longer nights while she had half-heartedly countered each of her brothers’ jests. To them, the idea of their little pampered sister becoming the queen of a rustic people had seemed to be a well of unending amusement. And then, last fall, something unexpected had happened: Her cousin Faramir had invited her over to Ithilien for the annual Harvest Celebration... where she had met the first Rohirrim she had ever known: her groom’s sister. The slayer of the Witchking! People praised her courage in songs! She was said to be a great warrior-princess, and where Lothíriel had been fully prepared to be intimidated by the woman that had inspired so many tales and songs, she had been in for a great surprise. Instead of the austere, manly-looking fierce female warrior she had expected to meet, the woman who greeted her had been delicate and slender, about her age, with flowing golden hair down to her waist and a face that breathed no less nobility than those of the Gondorian women she knew. A still young face, albeit with a depth and wisdom to her dark eyes that spoke of hard times she had had to brave in the past.

   And yet Éowyn had been different than all Gondorians Lothíriel knew, too, but in a good way – less stiff, less formal, more straightforward and open and equipped with a brand of rough humour Lothíriel was amazed to find in a woman. A very spirited and womanly presence, one the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth had immediately felt sympathetic to, and not just because they were of one age. But of course, she had then admonished herself, her gentle cousin Faramir would never have chosen a woman of the likes she had imagined when she heard of her deeds! Yet standing next to her, it was hard to believe that Éowyn had indeed single-handedly killed their most horrible enemy, and, living up to her curious reputation, Lothíriel had sought out her soon-to-be relative to enquire about the duel. Their conversation had further improved her sympathy for King Éomer’s sister, for – unlike many others she could have named, who would have used the opportunity to brag about their courageous act – Éowyn had been humble, not even wanting to talk about it much. Because the memory still hurt, she had explained. She had lost her father-like uncle in that battle and did not deem her deed an act worthy of song. After all, it had come too late to save Théoden-King.

   They had talked until late into the night, much to her cousin’s surprise, who had probably expected for her to turn in early after the long journey from Dol Amroth and the voluptuous dinner. They had talked for hours, and finally, Lothíriel – after having first inquired about all aspects of Rohan life – had dared to ask the questions she had been burning to ask from the start. The king... her brother... what was he like? What had she to expect as his wife, and what would he expect of her?

   Éowyn had been hesitant of telling her too much. It was her firm opinion that it would help the newlywed couple to discover each other without any expectations or prejudices looming in the background, caused by the words of others. But two things she had said had remained in Lothíriel’s mind: “If you are ever in trouble, Éomer will tear himself in two to protect you! He will stop at nothing to make certain that you are well. If ever anything is amiss, you can and you should trust him to set it right. And if I may give you just one more piece of advice: Always speak your mind. Do not hold back. I know by now that it is custom in Gondor for most of the women to stand behind their men silently, and never to openly question their decisions. The same may indeed be true for most of the Rohirrim as well, but more than anything, they are a truth-loving people and hate nothing as much as pretence. You may rather tell them a truth they do not want to hear and earn their respect, than swallow your objection and use flowery words to mask what you really think. They will know once you do that, and they will not like you for it. As for my brother… he does not fear a strong woman’s opinion, and he will certainly ask for yours every once in a while. It has to do with the way we grew up, with losing our parents early. We had only each other to confide things to we wouldn’t have told anyone else. Whenever a decision had to be made, little or small, we asked for the other’s advice, and Éomer’s interest in your opinion will be real and not out of politeness. Seize that opportunity! My brother is an honourable man who will always aim to do what is best for his people, but he may not be the greatest diplomat who ever lived. He is truthful to a fault, and can surely use your help in this regard... and I am certain that he will not reject it. He can be intimidating at times, but don’t fear him. If he sees the wisdom in your words, he will listen to you!”

   Strong words. Words that had had their effect on Lothírel and filled her with an expectant curiosity, stronger than the frustration over her unchangeable destiny. She wanted to know the man this wonderful, brave woman had spoken so lovingly of. She wanted to meet her betrothed. “Truthful to a fault?” After the great disappointment she had suffered three years ago through the hands of a young Gondorian nobleman, absence of pretence and masquerade had certainly seemed like a character trait that was desirable to find in a future husband. Hadn’t the stiff guardedness, the detached stance and the unreadable eyes of her other suitors kept her from getting entangled much earlier? After all, she was the last of the women of her age she knew to get married. Perhaps the King of Rohan would be exactly what she needed: a suitor coming from a different background, with different manners and a different approach to life and court etiquette. She would have to wait and see... and hope. There was only one problem: It had been October... a full nine months for her to wait until her curiosity would be satisfied! A long time... lots of things could happen in nine months... and they had!

   Shortly before the turn of the year, a messenger had arrived and brought tidings from Meduseld of King Éomer having been seriously injured in the wake of an assassination. The news had unsettled Lothíriel more than she could have rationally explained. She had not even known her groom yet, but hearing of his condition had stirred up gloomy thoughts in her of how it would be if he died before she could even marry him... yet another man to desert her. And Éowyn… it had saddened her to think of Éomer’s sister, who had already had to brave so many bad situations in her still young life. It would have been devastating to her to lose her brother, too, the only family still left to her. Their conversation in Ithilien had left no doubt about how close the two siblings still were despite the distance that separated them.

   From that day on, before she went to bed, Lothíriel had made it a habit to send a silent prayer to the Valar for her future husband, asking them to make him feel better soon and to let him recover fully from the wounds he had sustained in the assassination. Assassination… it was such an ugly word! Had it meant in fact that someone close to the king had attempted to take his life? One of his own people? If that was so, would she be in danger, too, once she was their queen?

   The next day, she had asked her father for more details, and the information he had shared had simultaneously troubled and calmed her. Presumably, it had been an old foe that had been believed dead, who had lured Éomer into a trap. It had been none of the Rohirrim, which had been comforting… but still she had found herself worrying for her future husband until the message of his slow recovery had arrived weeks later. Her prayers had been answered… and at the same time her anxiety had grown to finally get to know the man she would spend the rest of her still young life with. It had gotten to the point where she had barely been able to wait for June to arrive. Usually, springtime and early summer in Dol Amroth were the seasons Lothíriel cherished the most – the walks or rides along the shore, the wonderful occasions when they went out with her father’s sail-boat to spend a day or more on the open sea if weather permitted… But strangely enough, that year the days had seemed to stretch endlessly, and each week had felt to her like an entire month, but finally, after all preparations for her wedding had been finished, her dress been tailored and her belongings packed, it had been time for her journey to the land of the horse-lords.

   At her father’s side on the wagon and accompanied by her brothers, her maid and a representative delegation of the nobles from Dol Amroth, they had set out through the mountains for the Old South Road, which would lead them all the way up to Edoras, the capital of her new home. She had been delighted when – on the crossroads – she had spotted another delegation waiting for them, this one led by King Elessar and his wife Arwen Undomiel, and among them her cousin Faramir and her groom’s very pregnant sister, the Prince and Princess of Ithilien. It had been a great and noble procession that had set out for Rohan at the height of summer, one of the likes the simpler folk did not often get to see.

   Never before had she travelled so far from home, and so Lothíriel had eagerly revelled in the different sights and new landscapes they journeyed through, amazed at how different the northern lands looked, felt and even smelled. The weather had been pleasant, dry and warm, without becoming so hot that it would have prevented her from sleeping. Her sleep had been uneasy, but that had rather been a result of her growing anticipation, of the butterflies in her stomach, something that had amused her brothers even though she had done her best to hide it from them. Their pace had been slow enough to really see the land they were travelling through, and when they had been rewarded with the first sweeping view of Rohan’s vast green plains with the Ered Nimrais looming mightily on the horizon, Lothíriel had felt an unexpected twinge of joy and excitement. It had been an adventure, and yet she had understood at that time that her unfiltered appreciation for each single part of the journey stemmed from the fact that her mind could not yet bring itself to comprehend that it was a one-way journey. She would not ride home along with her family after this was over. In fact, she was riding home now! No, the idea had been incomprehensible... yet.

   Upon entering the realm of Rohan, it had taken three more days until she had been able to spot the lonely, rugged hill of Edoras up ahead in the distance, commanding the vista like the king in the great hall on top of it commanded the land. The golden roof had shone in the gleaming afternoon sun as they approached, on horseback now, leaving the wagon they had been travelling on behind as it would have been a hindrance on the steep path to Meduseld, which – high above them – had been breathing an air of ancient honour and pride, awing the onlookers with its splendour, and all of Lothíriel’s concerns about her new home being a land of a rustic population who knew nothing of the fancies of the modern world had been discarded right then.

   As they had looked on, the wooden, artfully crafted gate had been opened and a procession of kingly-clad mounted warriors in shining armour on grey horses had moved out to take flanking positions in greeting of their high guests. Banners and standards – all featuring the Rohan motive of the white horse Félarof on green and the sun – waved in the light breeze as they passed the lines on their uphill climb to Meduseld. The winding dusty path had been lined to both sides with cheering people, a sight that had touched the young princess’ heart because their welcome felt so honest, so unforced, and before long, she had found herself smiling and waving at the simply-clad folk that behaved so differently from what she was used to from her home.

   At last, when they reached the stairs to the dais upon which Meduseld stood, she had caught the first glimpse of the king standing in the middle of the line formed by his Royal Guard, glancing down onto the long procession of guests he was about to welcome. It had only been a brief look they had exchanged before others obstructed her view, but it had electrified her just the same. Just a short notion of a tall, broadly-built man clad in green and gold, standing proud and erect, long, blond hair blowing in the breeze, a darker, trimmed beard... gazing intensely in her direction, despite the large procession of people flooding the way to the Great Hall. Part of his hair had been tied into a braid that fell down on his shoulders with the rest to keep it from blowing into his eyes. It was a style that was not favoured by the Gondorian men, who wore their usually long hair open like her cousin Faramir, and in fact a style Lothíriel had so far only seen on Elves. She had always thought of it as strangely effeminate, but there was nothing effeminate about the man gazing at her from the dais. His expression had been unreadable, however, and for a moment, Lothíriel had found herself worrying what he thought about their imminent wedding. It had not been his idea either, had it? This union had been forged by political advisors, not by fast beating hearts and yearning minds. What if he was disappointed by her? What if – for the sake of strengthening the alliance between Rohan and Gondor – he had forgone the love of another woman, a woman of Rohan? How was she supposed to deal with being nothing more than a political burden to him?

   The unsettling thought had refused to leave her as she dismounted gracefully and gave the reins to a serious-looking, regally clad young boy who had already waited for them, looking for her father. And some of her worries must have been obvious enough for Prince Imrahil to pick up, because he had immediately stepped over to his daughter to offer his arm, which she had thankfully accepted. Her heart drumming away leaving her to think that her chest would burst, her stomach filled with butterflies and her knees strangely jittery, they had then ascended the stairs behind the princely couple from Ithilien. Before they reached the dais, Lothíriel had caught Éowyn’s brief look back at her and her encouraging smile, but even her soon-to-be sister-in-law had failed to calm her down while she had waited for the King of Rohan to greet them.

   With Faramir’s broad back obstructing her view, it had been Éomer’s voice that had given her the first idea of the man she was about to spend her life with, while her gaze had wandered down the long line of the warriors that formed the Royal Guard. They had looked awe-inspiring in their red-and-golden armour, their polished bronze helmets and chain mail and artfully crafted cuirasses sparkling in the low-standing sun. The motive of the horse and sun was repeated everywhere she had looked, in armours, huts and pillars, but she had hardly been able to take in what she had seen, for her attention had been exclusively focussed on her betrothed’s deep, serious voice. His tone had at first sounded awfully official as he greeted the Lady Arwen and the King of Gondor, once again causing her worries. Oh well, so much about getting away from the stiffness and etiquette of the Dol Amroth-court... Rohan, or at least Edoras, did not seem to be quite as different as she had hoped...

   She had barely ended that thought, when it was negated by laughter as the two men embraced and clapped shoulders. Relief flooded her. Obviously, the Rohirrim’s very formal behaviour had been nothing but a jest, and – equally obvious, she should have known before – the two kings were not only allies but very good friends indeed. Éomer had then proceeded greeting his very pregnant sister, whose belly had been round enough for Lothíriel to wonder whether Faramir’s child would first see Arda’s face on the steps of Meduseld. For a moment, Éowyn’s brother had embraced his younger sibling with such loving passion that Lothíriel had feared he would crush the woman, causing everyone to laugh and Faramir to jokingly protest against the rough treatment of his wife. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her judgement after all, perhaps – She had not finished the thought when the Princess of Ithilien had raised onto the tips of her toes to whisper something into her brother’s ear; smiling as she pulled back. And causing him to smile, too. The smile was still on his face as he looked her way, his expression an unspoken invitation to step closer.

   Nine months of questions had finally been answered. She had been nervous, but determined to keep her composure. Determined to appear every bit as regal as her soon-to-be husband. She was a woman of twenty-four summers and noble ancestry, there was no reason for her to feel intimidated or inferior. And so, while her inside had been in an uproar, Lothíriel had raised her chin and met the king’s eyes as she strode towards him, still holding on to her father’s arm. Searching for a hint in Éomer’s gaze that he was just as nervous as she while he greeted her father with a curt, but friendly nod and a few well-chosen words. What she had found though had been even better and took her by surprise, as she came to a halt and bent her knees in a perfect curtsey, briefly dropping her eyes as expected of her. Had it really been awe she had discovered in her groom’s expression? Looking up, she had been surprised to suddenly hear her own voice. Thankfully, it hadn’t quivered as she spoke the words she had been thinking of saying during the journey, with a little help from Éowyn on the ‘surprise part’.

   “It is a high honour for my family and me to be welcomed in this wonderful fashion by the people of Rohan, and even more of a joy and relief to see you are doing well again, Sire. Our thoughts had been with you in those dark hours of winter. Westú Éomer hál! ” Extending her hand, Lothíriel had seen the king’s amused – or touched? – expression as he seized it and bowed gallantly, his tall frame lowering to her height for a brief moment before he straightened again. Surely she had made fool of herself in front of everybody by trying the old Rohirric greeting! Still, there had been no mockery in Éomer’s eyes when he had raised his head to address her.

   “Princess Lothíriel, it is me who feels honoured to greet the most beautiful flower of Dol Amroth in the Riddermark. Your presence graces our land and these halls. Please allow me to welcome you on behalf of the people of Rohan, as this is just as much a day of joy to them as it is to me personally. It has been a long time since this land has seen a queen, and we are looking forward to seeing these days renewed.” He had brushed his lips over the back of her hand and then lowered it again, but without letting go of her fingers, the dark eyes intently focussed on her face as he continued. “I thank you for your concern and friendly words, and I also thank you for taking the pains of learning our difficult language in order to greet me, even if I assume that I know the true conspirator behind this surprise.” A short, teasing side-glance at his sister before his gaze had briefly rested on Prince Imrahil, who had been standing beside his daughter with a pleased smile on his face. Lothíriel had felt a little better then. Maybe her Rohirric had not been as bad as she had thought it to be after all. “I should also thank your father for suggesting this arrangement so selflessly in the first place, because I can tell from experience how much it hurts to give away something so dear and precious to one’s heart.” A brief wink in Faramir’s direction. Éomer, to Lothíriel’s great surprise, had then bowed to them. “I will forever be indebted to you, my lord.”

   “Indeed you will be, Éomer-king,” Imrahil had rebuked, still lovingly gazing at his daughter before returning his attention to their host. “This is exactly the reason for arranged marriages. To have one of the parties indebted to the other, so that you can count on their allegiance for all time, no matter what evil or daring deed you intend do?” Laughter rewarded the prince’s elegant jest, and Lothíriel silently thanked her father for loosening up the atmosphere.

   “Wise words, Prince Imrahil! I see I still have a lot to learn in matters of the state, as this was so far unknown to me. Once we are family, I shall make it a point to ask you for lessons in shrewdness.” Laughing, Éomer’s attention had then returned to her, causing a shudder to race down her spine. Somewhere over to the left, Éowyn had said something, but she had sounded incredibly far away all of a sudden as Lothíriel dared to follow those dark, serious brown eyes down, their colour such a stark contrast to Éomer’s only slightly-tanned face and the fair, sun-bleached hair. Reading them. And liking what she found.

   The man in front of her was different from the men she had known until now. While the ceremony so far had certainly not been any less refined than those she had witnessed at her father’s court, it had taken her experienced eye but one look to see that this was not Éomer’s true nature. It was something he had been taught by advisors because it would be expected of him, and he knew to handle himself in these surroundings well enough, but there was also something in his posture that told Lothíriel that he did not enjoy it. That he usually was a man of simpler gestures, one who would never have chosen this position of power for himself if his ancestry had not dictated it. More rugged and less refined than the Gondorian noblemen Lothíriel had known her whole life, but impressive in his own, different way. Every inch a warrior and unable to hide it. It had been written in his gaze, his stance, his build, the little scar on his left temple... it probably lay within his very blood. A man ready to fight for his believes, a force of nature, not lightly to be crossed and always to be reckoned with.

   ‘He will tear himself in two to keep you from harm!’

   Aye, she believed it now. No words or actions had been necessary to reveal the truth for Éowyn’s words, for all Lothíriel needed to see had been plainly visible. It had taken her no longer than a few heartbeats to know that she could learn to love this man, and respect him for what he was, and she had laid that belief into her gaze for him to see as she took her father’s arm again to follow the king’s gesture that invited them to step into the Golden Hall. A playful sparkle in the deep brown had confirmed to her that the message had been received... and understood.

* * *

   Lothíriel surfaced from her contemplation as she recognised the feeling in the back of her neck. She was being watched. She was no longer alone. And yes, of course this would be the time when her husband would be done with the errands, which usually occupied his attention for most mornings. She was looking forward to seeing him, and yet afraid of it at the same time. He would know about her state of mind. She had read it in his expression for days now, had felt it in his repeated attempts of lifting her spirits, and yet she had not let him in about her sorrows… her fear about an uncertain future. So much change… Just when she had thought that her life had finally found order again, something happened that turned everything upside down and left her to begin anew.

   He was close now. He probably thought she did not hear him, but the low creaking of his leathern riding clothes was something he could not have avoided even if he had floated towards her. A slight smile wandered over Lothíriel’s face. She raised her chin, determined not to let him see her melancholic mood and said, her gaze still held by the distant mountains:

   “Your smell gives you away, my king. But just how you managed to bring your horse to this place, you still have to tell me.” Only now did she turn her head to look over her shoulder, a smug sparkle in the slightly slanted dark eyes. For a moment, he looked disappointed, and she almost regretted having spoiled his surprise as he closed his arms around her.

   “It is only me alone, Pearl of Amroth… and even your delicate south-Gondorian nose should have grown accustomed to the flavour of Rohan life by now.” He pressed his face into her hair and demonstratively took a deep breath. “Whereas you don’t smell like Rohan life at all. You smell like…”

   She turned in his embrace and slung her arms around his neck, eying him with haughtily raised brows, which caused him to smile. She was almost a head smaller, yet still possessed the ability to look down on anyone of greater height, every inch a queen, no matter how young she still was.

   “You better think hard of what you will say, my king of peasants and horses! For both my father and my liege lord are mighty men of war, and they will not hesitate to crumble your little, insignificant land underneath their heels for the insult of one of Gondor’s most respectable flowers.”

   “It always makes me wary when those flowers call themselves that,” Éomer smirked. "But in this case, I can of course do nothing but confirm your words.” His eyes found her lips.

   “Oh, I see. Flattery it is now...” she purred, looking up to him from under half-closed eyelids, glad to find that she had successfully distracted her concerned husband from his suspicion. Of course she had noticed the worried looks he had given her over the past three weeks, even if he hadn’t said anything openly. “Now what do you think this will get you, my king?”

   "My queen’s affection, hopefully,” he confessed with a wink and leant forward to kiss her… gently, at first. But his glance told her that he would not leave it at that. Why, she certainly was not hoping that he would! “And hopefully, it’ll chase away whatever ghosts are haunting you.” His hand went up into her hair and opened the ornate clips that held her black curls.

   Lothíriel closed her eyes and bathed in the feeling of closeness, yet his words pulled her back into reality. So he had noticed after all. With a guilty conscience, she bent back in his arms, seeking his gaze.

   “Ghosts? Whatever are you speaking of, my lord? What ghosts should haunt me? I know of no ghosts.”

   So, she was still denying it. Did she think he was so blind not to see her torment? Or was it rather that she did not want to admit her state of mind to herself. Unwilling to let her go away with this, Éomer gently untangled the black strands of hair that reached all the way down to Lothíriel’s waist.

   “I cannot say, sweetness, although I do have my suspicions.” He searched her dark brown eyes for a sign of what was troubling her. “Lothíriel... something is amiss, I can see that very clearly. And please don’t insult me by denying it any longer. Ever since you know about our child, you have been acting strangely. What is it? Please tell me. Do you not want it for some reason?”

   Her eyes widened. How could he think such a thing?

   “Of course not,” she declared heatedly, freeing herself from his embrace and turning her back on him while her hands reflexively came to rest on her yet only very slightly rounded stomach. There was life in her, new life. Life she desperately ached to hold in her hands. Yet why had she felt like crying ever since she had learnt about it, when what she should have done was to laugh with joy? She did not understand herself anymore. Her eyes on the distant Old South Road where a group of riders was moving along the fringes of the White Mountains, she pressed her lips together, desperately thinking of what to tell Éomer. Funny how the riders looked like ants from here. She could not even tell whether they were coming or going, they were too far away. A deep breath, then a cautious glance at her husband out of the corners of her eyes. “How can you ask that? I want our child more than anything in the world.” That was the truth. It certainly felt like it.

   Éomer stepped up to her side, his eyebrows knitted in confusion... and worry.

   “Then what is it? If the child is not the reason than there must be some other reason. Do you not feel at home here? Do you long to be somewhere else instead?” She twitched only slightly, but he saw it nevertheless. “Lothíriel?”

   “I... I don’t know what to say. It is nothing, really ...” Finding the right words for what she was feeling was so hard, all the more since her eyes were burning now and her voice in danger of getting caught in her throat. Curse that man for being so shrewd at reading people! She did not want for him to know of her homesickness when he and the people tending to her in Meduseld had done everything in their might to make her feel welcomed! Like one of them. But the truth was, she wasn’t, and she couldn’t hide that fact very well. No matter where she went, she always felt observed – and judged. It was impossible for her to enjoy even a few moments of privacy whenever she left the Golden Hall for a stroll through the city. People gaped at her, and there was no way to hide, no way for her to blend into the crowd. With her black hair and dark skin and eyes, she felt like an exotic creature among the usually blond or reddish, fair-skinned Rohirrim. A beautiful bird from a distant land, not a person. Not accepted for who she was. Now that her pregnancy was known throughout the land, it had even become worse...

   Once she had been visiting a travelling show at Dol Amroth and wandered around between the cages which contained animals from far-off lands. People had surrounded them and stared at their occupants, pointing their fingers at the creatures in wonder. She had not felt like that at all, awed or wondrous. Instead, she had felt strangely depressed by their sight. It had been her brothers’ idea to take their little sister out to see something of the likes that could not be experienced every day, and she had been excited when they had asked her… but a single look at the wild beasts that were now caged for the rest of their lives, one look into their sad eyes had ruined her mood for days, and she had fled the exhibition as soon as she had been able to find an excuse without disappointing her brothers too much. But thinking back, that was exactly how she felt now.

   And she missed the sea – its smell, the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore... The cries of the white gulls. The feeling of wet sand beneath her naked feet. The strong, salty winds. There was wind here, too, but it tasted differently. It carried the scent of hay, of horses, and of wild flowers. Sometimes, in late autumn, it also carried the scent of snow, but never the one scent she was yearning to detect in it. The wind in this land was a stranger. The people surrounding her, they were strangers. She missed her father... and her brothers. Her friends. That she was frightened of the new change in her life. But how was she supposed to tell all this to her husband when she had long pretended to be over that state? How should he be able to understand? Oh, what was wrong with her?

   “Lothíriel...” Éomer opened his arms, again offering her comfort, and this time, she willingly accepted it, hating herself for her weakness as the tears her eyes were brimming with for no reason suddenly spilled over and she hung in his embrace, shook by silent sobs. “You have to let me help you. It is clear that you feel tormented by something, and I would very much like to chase that shadow away from your thoughts. What can I do? Tell me, and I will do it.”

   “I am afraid there is nothing you can do, my great king. It is not in your power.” Through the veil of tears, she forced herself to smile at him, but it only added to his confusion.

   “Not in my power?”

   “Do not look affronted, Éomer, please. I didn’t mean to insult you.” She stroked his face, and this time, her smile was for real as she saw the consternation on her husband’s face. The feeling of helplessness was something the King of Rohan was unaccustomed to handle. “Believe me, this condition of mine is nothing serious and quite common for women in my delicate state… at least, that is what Maia has told me. She said that it is different for each woman. Some turn all moody and melancholic, like me, while others have wild mood-swings and can even become very aggressive-“

   “So what you are telling me is that I should be thankful you have not become aggressive,” he smirked, somewhat relieved, and gently kissed her on the forehead while his hand slid down to caress the soft curve of her belly. “Am I guessing rightly?”

   “I cannot say,” she played along, glad he was taking the subject lighter now. She put her hand on top of his. “But aren’t the Rohirrim a people that go along rather well with fierce behaviour? Perhaps you would like me better that way.”

   “Like you better?” Éomer exclaimed, incredulous. “What – my beautiful wife does not feel loved? If that is the cause for your melancholy, I shall aim to remedy it at once…!” He crushed her to his chest and pressed his mouth onto hers, all gentleness gone. She answered to his fierce passion by digging her nails into the leather of his tunic and tasting him. Sensing him. Forgetting the troublesome world around her for a moment… until her lungs felt like they were about to burst, and she broke contact, gasping. His free hand smoothed a lock out of her face and then traced her finely cut cheekbone back to her ear. He was breathless, too. “I apologise for making you feel unloved, my queen,” he then somehow managed to whisper into her ear between two heavy breaths. “I was not aware that the respectable flowers of Dol Amroth needed constant affirmation of their husbands’ affection.”

   “It is what keeps us respectable flowers alive, dearest king,” she breathed meaningful, as if she were confessing a great secret to him, and arched her eyebrows to accentuate her words. “It is even more important to us than food, or the very air that we breathe. Without affection, we wither and turn to dust faster than a leaf that falls from the tree.” She was reluctant to let go of his lips, and once again pressed against him, relishing in his very presence, the pressure of his hands on her back … and his scent, even if it was somewhat mingled with that of his steed. But of course Éomer was right, even her delicate Gondorian nose had become accustomed to the scent of horses to the point where she hardly noticed it anymore. It was like the salty scent of the sea at Dol Amroth. You only noticed it once it was no longer surrounding you.

   “I shall remember it then.” One last kiss before he craned back his neck to look at the two falcons riding the breeze far above their heads, squinting into the bright summer sun. “Is my lady still occupied with her birds, or can we leave them to themselves for a while and join the life in Edoras? For that was my initial reason for coming here.”

   “Asking me to join you? Is there anything special going on? Midsummer is next week, isn’t it?” His expression told her that it was so. And it also told her that he would not give away his real reason yet. It had to be another one of his little surprises he used to come up with these days to brighten her mood. She had not the heart to disappoint him. “Yes, we can certainly leave them to themselves for a while. They will find their way back once they have found prey. Their young are hungry, and they will not leave them alone for long. I shall leave their cage open.”

   She freed herself of his embrace and went over to the volary to open the door for as far as it would open while he waited. From inside the cage came the feeble, but demanding sound of the young falcons, which were yet hardly visible in their nest on the rocky wall. To Lothíriel’s ears, it was a wonderful sound. Perhaps she would succeed in establishing the art of falconry in Rohan the way it was a tradition at Dol Amroth. It certainly deemed her an appropriate occupation for this land and also was a quite convenient way of providing food to the owners of the birds. Something that was in dire need throughout the Riddermark these days.

   “Lothíriel?”

   Éomer’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she realised that she had been dreaming again. Oh well... her poor husband certainly had to suffer from her strange condition!

   “I am coming, my lord. Please, be patient with your confused wife. Don’t they say that patience is a kingly virtue?” She turned around and strode back to where he was waiting with a small, teasing smile on her face... and noticed for the first time the green stains on Éomer’s sleeves and side of his jacket and breeches. The sight caused her to arch her brows.

   “I wonder who ‘they’ would be,” her husband teased her back, now clearly eager to leave as he extended his arm to her. “It sounds very much like a Gondorian wisdom ... but here in the Mark, we have a different saying: Patience lets an opportunity pass before you can seize it. And it is past midday already. I am hungry, and I also want to show you something. Let us go.”

   Lothíriel accepted his arm, and, looking her husband up and down pointedly again, asked with played innocence: “I realise this may be a sensitive subject, my lord, but… did you stumble on your way up to the hall, or did your horse throw you again?” She was delighted to see her fierce, intimidating warrior actually blush at her remark, and his expression darkened as he narrowed his eyes to first glower at his wife, and then stare in the direction of the stables, even though he could not see them from their position on the backside of the hill.

   “That horse will learn to accept me as its master, Lothíriel. Mark my words!”

   “Oh, I have no doubt of that...” She patted his arm. “But am I mistaken when I say that your steed seems to share quite a few of your character traits? It is amusing to see the two of you battle.”

   “Amusing, you say?” he glowered at her in mock-anger, his eyes sparkling. She was not intimidated.

   “Aye… it amuses me. It must be one of the epic battles of our time.”

   They reached the stairs, and Éomer’s fierce expression changed to a grim smile as he looked down on his delicate wife. A smile that promised that he would get her back, even if he would settle their little quarrel for now.

   “Then it may not be a bad thing after all! Everything that helps you to overcome that strange state of mind you have been in for the past weeks is highly welcomed. If the very thought of our fight amuses you so much, would Your Majesty then care to join me tomorrow when I ride out for yet another duel with that ornery black demon?”

   She cocked her head as they ascended the stairs together, arm in arm.

   “That sounds very exciting indeed, my lord. I may just feel inclined to accept your invitation...  provided my stomach approves of your idea as well. I have to confess that I haven’t felt too well these past mornings... yet another quite common aspect of my condition, as my maid told me. This is getting to be quite an inconvenience, really... but it should pass. Maia said most women only experience it in the beginning of their pregnancy. Now, my mighty king, would you mind telling your unsuspecting wife the particular reason that requires her attendance?”

   His expression stayed inconspicuous. Either was Éomer improving at hiding his thoughts, or her suspicions were, in fact, wrong.

   “There is none… other than that I would very much enjoy your company while I go and inspect the preparations for the celebration next week. It is also time again to show myself to the people… and I am certain that they would equally enjoy seeing their queen, too. They haven’t seen a lot of you lately. They are troubled. You had secluded yourself from them for far too long, and some were even asking me whether you were well, or perhaps reluctant to bother with the common people.” Éomer suddenly found himself looking into widened brown eyes. Lothíriel came to a halt.

   “They would be thinking that of me? After all that I have done for them?”

   “Not seriously, no.” Gently, he nudged her on. There were a few steps yet left to ascend. “Your efforts in helping the families and orphans that suffered in the war were much appreciated by the people, but you know that already. They even look with a friendly eye towards your efforts of teaching them reading and writing, even if they may not see the necessity after having lived without it for hundreds of years. It was always understood that the nobles and high military ranks had to be taught because they had to communicate with the leaders of other lands as well as each other, but as for the commoners… Their lives revolve more around cultivating the land and learning the various crafts needed to sustain themselves than reading books. The lore and legends of the Riddermark are passed on from one generation to the next by telling, not by reading. It’s a tradition. A tradition that most hold very dear, I may add. I still remember how eager I was for the evening whenever my father had announced that he would tell us another tale of the Mark’s heroes.”

   Lothíriel frowned. Apparently, nothing she did these days was right.

   “So they think now that I want to completely overthrow everything they have grown to know and love. How very comforting!”

   “Lothíriel, please... Of course they do not!” Éomer soothed her, sighing to himself. Oh yes, his beautiful wife was difficult to handle under these special circumstances. He would have to learn to tiptoe around issues she might be offended at. He remembered all too well the complaints of some of the soldiers he had ridden with in his wild days as Third Marshal. They had been in the same situation he found himself him now, but back then he had not been able to understand. Needless to say, their grief had always been the source of much amusement around the campfires. “They may not understand it, but they are willing to try. The classes are full. Haven’t you kept up with the state of the programs you initiated?”

   “Not for a while,” Lothíriel admitted, somewhat guiltily, while casting a last look back into the valley. They had almost reached the top of the hill. The group of riders she had seen earlier looked even smaller now, although it had moved closer, while another one was moving away. On their way to the village they belonged to, to be there in time for the Midsummer Celebration, she mused. The thought of the warriors riding home to their loved ones was romantic. It was only her second celebration, and the first one she had experienced had been dominated by the marriage, but the way Éomer had explained it to her, it was the most cherished festivity of the year... next to the Harvest Festival. Only that there had been no reason for giving thanks last year as the harvest had been very meagre. The Mark still had its problems, but they were different than the ones it had had to face until two years ago.

   Slowly, still in thought, she shook her head to herself. “I… had other things on my mind.”

   “I certainly understand that.”

   They reached the path that would take them around the Golden Hall and into the city, and for a while, their conversation rested as they both listened to the wind and the still distant noises it carried up to them. The sky was clear yet, but the air had a strange, metallic taste which told Éomer that a thunderstorm was approaching. A good thing. It had been far too dry for weeks now, the rain was badly needed. When they passed the door-wardens at the entrance of the hall, Éomer nodded off the silent question asked by the guard’s expression. No, he wanted no escort. Today, he wanted to be alone with his queen. He would protect her.

   Lifting his head as they descended the front stairs, his gaze wandered over the thatched roofs and the distant road. There seemed to be many travellers these days. Many groups, large and small, journeying between Aldburg and Edoras, and further onwards into the Westmark, all eager to reach their destination for the great celebration next week. Rohan was getting ready to celebrate again, even if the times were still hard in the aftermath of the long war. For their sake, Éomer hoped that the travellers would arrive at wherever their day’s destination lay before the thunderstorm would be upon them. It was a most awkward situation getting trapped in bad weather with rain drenching one to the bone and having to battle a skittish horse… of course, there were also those horses who needed no thunder to behave like that!

   A shadow fell on Éomer’s face as he pondered the situation of his kingdom. Two years after the war had ended, Rohan was still dependent on help from its ally. Honouring their old allegiance during the siege of Minas Tirith Gondor and Rohan had renewed a long-forgotten friendship, but their reward had come with a high price. The battle on the Pelennor had cost them dearly: Of the six thousand men and horses Rohan had sent, only one sixth had returned to the plains, and while the knowledge alone that so many men had died violently had been devastating, the lasting effect was even worse: hardly any men were left to do the hard work on the fields. The women and children left were doing what they could, but the constant care – ploughing, sowing, watering and harvesting – was almost too much to be handled, all the more as the Rohan soil was not very fertile and huge spaces were needed to fill the settlements’ barns. In a desperate attempt to provide some much needed relief to his struggling people, Éomer had already assigned the few men which made up the constant éoreds – as opposed to the villages’ riders who only became warriors in time of war – to journey through the land and help out wherever help was needed the most, but their effort was nothing but a drop in the bucket. Their people was stretched too thinly over a vast, but unforgiving land, and if all this was not enough, the conditions had also been against them in the year of his marriage, when a long, dry summer with hardly a drop of rain had caused most of their crops to wither on the ground.

   Éomer had been loath having to ask his friend King Elessar of Gondor for help again, but there had just been no other option open to him. There had not even been enough left to give as a token of his well-meaning to the small delegation of Dunlending tribal-leaders, who had travelled all the way across the winterly Westmark to ask for help for their own starving people. After 500 years of hatred and war between their people, it had been the first sign, the tender seed of a possible way of co-existence after his uncle had exercised mercy on them in the wake of the battle of Helm’s Deep, and Éomer had hated not having been in a position to nurture it. As sign of his good will, he had ordered to give the Dunlendings two sacks of meal as well as two sacks of dried fruit and half a side of dried pork meat from the royal provisions which were only for extreme times of need, but it had been very clear to him upon seeing the delegation leave again that they had expected a lot more. What food he had given them would not last for long.

   Hunger. This foe was different than anything he had faced so far. Not violent, but frighteningly persistent, and for now there seemed to be no way to beat it, as another long, hard winter lay behind them and spring had arrived too late and changed into another dry summer. Sometimes Éomer worried whether they would have to rely on Gondor for all eternity…

* * *

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  They rode eastwards with the first rays of sunshine. The open plains gave way to bushes and tall trees, and the grass beneath them was thin. Soil shone through where the leaves grew thick and kept sunlight from reaching the ground. It was a peaceful place, and they rode slowly. Squirrels rushed up the bark and disappeared among the branches, and Hilberon watched them for a while. Within the walls of Minas Tirith trees were few, and he had always longed for the restricted time his father had had for him to lead him beyond the Rammas. He remembered vividly how excited he had been to see all the wonders of Gondor in two days. It had been a journey to remember though in the eyes of an adult it would not have been extraordinary. It had been for a boy of ten. And he had been grateful ever after that his father had taught him so much about the land and its people. Hilberon relaxed a little. The King had not reprimanded him for his thoughtlessness the day before, and he regarded himself lucky. Fáred had not been so generous. His look would have stalled a wild boar, and Hilberon had braced himself against the captain’s accusations, but none had been uttered. Now he felt at ease with the exception of the king’s behaviour at the moment.

  Aragorn hung over Brego's withers and studied the ground. He had done that from the moment on after he had mounted and was unaware of the sceptic looks the five soldiers exchanged. Hilberon worried that the king might be sick, and while Tarés and Halamin talked in a low voice, Fáred and Dumarin stayed behind. Being experienced in the work of war, they knew that they had to keep their eyes open and be vigilant at all times. Often they turned in the saddle and looked back the way they had covered.

  Fáred was the oldest of the five men, and he had seen many wars in the past twenty years. With broad shoulders and chest, a mighty reddish beard, and a deep voice he was an impressive soldier and well respected among his men. He had been chosen to be the captain of the Royal Guard, but though he held a certain power he never commanded his men in a loud or harsh voice though his rumbling was sometimes mistaken to be offensive. Only on the battlefield he yelled loud enough to even drown out the enemies drums. Under his command the walls of Minas Tirith had been defended long enough to give its people a chance to survive. He could not shake off the memory of the attack. Haradrim, Orcs, and Ghants had marched up to the Pelennor Fields, and Grond, the biggest ram ever built, had finally splintered the main gate. He remembered the terror the enemies had spread among the soldiers, and even Mithrandir had not been able to lend them enough strength to be without fear when the foes broke into the first ring of the city.

  Fáred shook his head, took a deep breath and, again, looked back over his shoulder. They were riding slowly on a path among trees, which were standing wider apart. The view was excellent and far. After the mist had risen the riders were able to see almost as far as the Anduin in the south, while east of them the Morannon loomed. Half a league away a hill spread out, covered with grass, flowers in their bloom, and high-growing dark green bushes. Something caught the sun and reflected it in a silver ray of light. Dumarin tapped Fáred's arm.

  “Look ahead!”

  Aragorn lifted his head, too, but the reflection was gone the same moment. He turned to Dumarin, who quickly told him what he had seen. The king dismounted and the others followed.

  “We may be watched,” Aragorn said still looking toward the hillside ahead of him. “We will find out tonight.” Without another word he trudged on, quickly now, and those who knew him as ‘Strider’ would have said he honoured this name he had once been given. But instead of walking directly east, he deviated north to move around whatever kind of man stayed there. Though he could no longer follow the tracks on the grass he hoped to remain unseen and get a chance to close in at nightfall. When he looked back over his shoulder he saw four stern faces and insecure one. Hilberon had not dared to speak or even look at the king since his suggestion to build up the tent the day before, and so Aragorn had given him time to get comfortable again. Hilberon had not spoken with any of the other men, but kept his guard as trustful and on alert as the others. Still he behaved as if he was walking on a knife's edge.

  Aragorn let his gaze wander east again. Only with elven eyes he and his men could have been spotted in the wilderness, and now that they had dismounted they were even smaller. But the winds came from the west, and any creature with a better sense of smell than men would catch their scent. He hurried even more and soon heard the grunting of the guards behind him. Used to sit on a saddle the soldiers rode in chain mail and cuirass, pauldrons, and greaves, a habit Aragorn never had taken up. The vambraces he had kept from Boromir were the only protection he wore. He was used to travel light, having done so for many years while trudging the lands in the north and far to the east. Now it was as much his advantage as it was to the disadvantage of his company. Only Hilberon followed without complaints, strong enough in his youth to take up whatever challenges the journey provided. Aragorn smiled at him briefly, but the young man dared not to return it. He even lowered his head and evaded the friendly gesture. The king sighed inwardly. Hilberon had not been a man recommended by Fáred. The old warrior preferred experienced men in his company and had proposed Tindalon who was known for his bravery. Fáred had hardly been able to conceal his disappointment when Aragorn had chosen Hilberon instead. But he could not keep quiet about it. While saddling up he had again spoken for Tindalon. ‘He is much wiser and knows far more than that young lad. He has only seen seventeen winters yet.’ But Aragorn had fastened the bridle and stated, ‘Last time I saw Tindalon he was not aware of anything else but his mug of beer.’ Then Fáred had said no more.

  The group slowed down again after half an hour, and Dumarin sighed with relief. He was the heaviest of them, and though they all were only wearing light armour without the hauberk and other protections it was a strain to do more than walking. But he kept his thoughts strictly to himself, and though he was sweating like he had not since the days of war he would never have dared to complain. He followed the king, and if the lord had run for another hour he would have run too, as long as his stout legs would have carried him. Dumarin knew his duties well. And these duties included the defence of the king against every kind of danger that might occur, may it be men or beast. But with three men and, alas, an apprentice it would not be an easy task if more was about to happen than a mere flicker of light on a hill.

  To access the hillside from the north it was unavoidable to pass the outer rim of the Nindalf. Midges by the thousands swarmed the warm and humid air, tormenting the wanderers on their way. The soil grew soft, and more often than not their boots stuck in the mud. Dumarin cursed silently. This was no place he longed to be in, and not for the first time he asked himself why the king had decided to ride out on his own when he had captains to do this. Which might not have spared himself from leaving the City, he thought. Life in Minas Tirith during the summer was a pleasure compared to this slimy mud hole. In the City music reigned, it was never too dry or too humid, and the streets were nice to walk on. In the old days of Denethor’s reign Dumarin never had to run far on his errands, and he thought it was quite a pity that the old man was deceased.

  Fáred stared northwards where big black birds were circling. Aragorn had seen them too, but suddenly gave his men a sign to come to a halt. He crouched and examined the ground. This time Hilberon stayed well behind him, just looking upon the tracks the king had found, but without understanding them.

  “Five men marched here, from east to west,” Aragorn muttered and turned his head. “They were in haste.” He rose and followed the footprints to the west while his horse fidgeted and stepped sideways to avoid sinking in the mud again. “They had light steps. Either they did not carry much weight or they were only little taller than children.” He took a deep breath and turned to his men. “How far away is the next farm?”

  “More than a day-ride south, my lord,” Halamin said. “No one settles here. It's no soil to grow wheat on.”

  Aragorn had already turned back to the footprints. They could have been three or four days old and would have filled with water and vanished if they had been deeper. The soles bore no mark, but they had all worn the same sort of boots and marched in single file. Again the king let his gaze wander westwards. The Nindalf extended to the horizon and partly consisted of swamp fields, an unpleasant terrain to walk upon and pestered by midges and other insects. But whoever had used this way knew that he could do so without being detected.

  “We will follow these tracks eastwards,” he decided and took Brego's reins again, his eyes still fixed on the wet ground where he trudged on. He seemed undisturbed by moisture, heat, or midges while Fáred blew air over his forehead hearing Dumarin panting behind him. He felt sick marching through these lands. In the dampness the air was filled with strange stenches of rotting plants and foul water, animals crawled through the muddy soil, their feet splashing through the water. Though he had only heard of the Dead Marshes he thought he was already too close to it. It was told that dead people were in these waters, and he shivered at the mere thought. Here now he would have preferred to hurry, but the king took his time trying to read the signs and find their meaning. Grudgingly Fáred moved on behind him.

  They marched on well until after noon, did not stop to rest or eat, did not linger to watch the black birds which seemed to feast upon something lying among the plants. They only heard their croaking all of the time as if they were mocking them. It was straining their nerves. Hilberon felt uneasy in this strange land. He had never been far away from the City. His father was one of the smiths, a tall and hard man who was used to deliver quality work and demanded the same of everyone else. Hiregon was a good worker and his name was well known and recommended in the City since he had not only the skill to hammer horseshoes, but could also forge swords. Under his guidance, for his mother had died when he was but a small child, Hilberon had grown up learning all about swords, knives, axes, and horseshoes. He had been able to judge a horseshoe's size correctly when he was eight, and the soldiers knew him well and always tousled his hair when they brought in a horse to shoe. When he was only ten years he had learned how to throw a dagger into the middle of a target, and when he had turned fourteen he had been a better man to wield a sword than others of his age, not to mention his ability to distinguish between a good blade and a poor. But Hiregon had also taught him to be a decent young man, to tell the truth and never stand back when bravery was needed. He encouraged him to search for higher goals than being a smith. And perhaps because he had been too young to fight in the Ring War Hilberon decided to become a soldier and use the sword his father had given him for the right cause. But the road to become a soldier was covered with obstacles. Wherever he went and whatever he did he was judged to be too young and inexperienced. He took those judgements without contradiction for in his heart he knew he was better than the older soldiers thought. Still he had been surprised and speechless when he heard he had been called to be a soldier of the Royal Guard, the youngest ever to be chosen. The task seemed too great to master and again his father had taken him aside and told him to follow the rules he had learnt and use the skills he had acquired. With a slap of his mighty hand on his shoulder Hiregon had sent his young son to greater tasks than running around Minas Tirith for errands. Straightened up Hilberon had accepted the work given, but again felt his heart beating faster when he got to know that the king himself had chosen him and now ordered him to ride out with only four more men. Only the pride of his father, who almost had tears in his eyes upon hearing the news, had made him take the challenge.

  Now he was walking behind the king and hoped that he would fulfil the expectations both his father and the lord had laid upon his shoulders.

* * *

EDORAS

  Life seemed to grind to a crunching halt as they walked down the dusty path into the city, with people stopping in their tracks or pausing, no matter what they were doing, to glance at the rare sight of the royal couple. Their expressions were joyful and friendly, but still Lothíriel could not help tensing at being the centre of attention, and the pressure of her fingers digging into his arm alerted Éomer of his wife’s state of mind. The blacksmith and his helper, who had been in the middle of leading a heavy-boned horse into one of the stalls, now stood and looked their way in expectation. Nodding his appreciation to them, Éomer turned his head to brush his lips over Lothíriel’s cheekbone and then whispered into his queen’s ear.”

  “No need to be so tense, my lady. They are merely relieved to see you well, nothing more.” Steering his wife over to the smithy for something to distract her anxious mind with, he said aloud: “Bergfinn, my friend…! Whose horse is that you are leading there? It must be absolutely the heaviest beast I have ever seen! Can it even run?”

  The old blacksmith laughed and desperately clapped his hands against the sides of his leathern apron to clean them, while his young helper looked intimidated at the arrivals and anxiously concentrated on tying the horse’s halter to a beam.

  “It is Soldrás’ steed, my lord, and he would be very upset to hear that his strongest plough-horse has become the source of the king’s ridicule!”

  “Aye, it certainly looks strong enough to draw Meduseld from its foundations. Maybe I should apologise to it then, do you think?”

  Bergfinn smirked. The young king appeared to be in an exceptionally good mood today. That was well, because he knew Éomer’s other moods, too. If he was in one of those and one was the justified object of the king’s anger, that person was well counselled to hide in a very dark place and hope not to be found.

  “I would indeed deem it appropriate, sire.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Cempa, my lord.”

  “Cempa? Champion?” Éomer raised a brow at that as he mustered the broad, heavy animal, which ignored him completely. “A fitting name for one so strong, I deem.” His hand landed heavily on the horse’s brown hide, stirring up a mighty dust cloud. “My apologies, Cempa. I knew not of who I was talking.” His brow furrowed as he noticed his queen’s strangely contorted face. “Lothíriel?”

  Her violent sneeze interrupted him and caused the men to look the young woman in wonder before Éomer grinned.

  “Now, that was finally a sneeze worthy of a true Rohirrim, my queen! Not one of those suppressed little gagging sounds that always made me wonder whether you were getting enough air! We may make a true woman of Rohan of you yet!” Laughing at her indignant expression, he took her in his arm. “I am sorry, my lady. It was not my intent to do that... or to mock you.”

  “You think that is funny, my lord?” she retorted, freeing herself of his grasp and clapping her delicate hand on Cempa’s muscular hindquarters, stirring up a dust cloud herself which was aimed at her husband. Éomer, however, was not disturbed by it, and the amused sparkle in his eyes teased her silently. Apparently, he had succeeded for now to let her forget her thoughts of woe.

  “I believe you could stick an entire horse up his majesty’s nose and he still would not sneeze, my lady,” Bergfinn laughed, his weathered, tanned face looking like old leather. “Your husband truly is a real horse-lord.” A cautious look at Éomer. “I hope you will not take this as an insult, Sire, but there has been talk among the people that you must be part horse, in fact, for your way of handling and understanding them is quite unique even for our people.”

  Now it was Lothíriel’s turn to laugh, while Éomer looked as if he was unable to decide whether he should join in or feel insulted. After all, it had been a compliment… a very Rohirric one, and one which only the old smith he had known since his childhood could have dared to utter, but a compliment nonetheless. And it had managed to cheer up his queen, as well.

  “You have no idea how right you are, Bergfinn,” Lothíriel smiled, slowly warming to the playful banter, while she gently patted Éomer’s arm. “You should see him with this huge, black beast he’s been trying to tame for months now! If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn they were twins! They certainly share more than just a few character traits!”

  “Lothíriel!” Éomer’s eyes sparkled, but his anger was only acted. She saw that and understood. Even though they had been married for only slightly less than a year, she had quickly learned to read her husband’s moods, a task that – due to his very Rohirric nature, truthful bordering on bluntness – was not too hard to accomplish most of the times. Only rarely had she seen him trying to conceal his real thoughts, usually when he wanted to keep troubles away from the people that came to the court asking for things he could not give them, or reported sightings of things that troubled him.

  “But, my Lord, is it not the truth?” she asked, innocently batting her eyes. “After all, Battleaxe is the strongest and most intimidating one of his kind… “ She turned her head and whispered into his ear for only him to hear: “...and also the best-looking one, there can be no doubt about it. All things which remind me very much of you, my dear husband.”

  “Very elegant, my lady,” Bergfinn laughed, turning to the king, who sternly eyed his playful wife from under his eyebrows. “And how truly wonderful it is to see you in such a joyful state. There had been quite a few concerns regarding your well-being over the last few weeks, but apparently, you are feeling quite a lot better today.”

  “Yes indeed,” Lothíriel replied, feeling slightly embarrassed over having caused these hearty, open people concern for no good reason. “Thank you very much, good man. And how should it be different on such a fine day?”

  “Indeed.” Éomer felt likewise enchanted to see his wife in such a cheerful state, even if he was unable to tell how much of it was real. After all, she had been crying in his arms only a short while ago. But at least she was making a good effort. He was grateful for that. He did not want for the people to talk about Lothíriel behind his back, and of course her strange behaviour had stirred up all kinds of questions. If even he had been unable to understand her melancholy and need for seclusion, how were his people supposed to? Stealing her arm back, he steered her back towards the path. “It looks to me as if we are keeping our only blacksmith from performing a very important errand for the people of Rohan, my queen. Let us be on our way and no longer disturb this man’s peace.”

  “Has she seen it yet, my lord?” The old man blinked conspiratorially, causing Lothíriel to wrinkle her brow and peer at the man at her side.

  “I am in the process of showing it to her. Don’t spoil the surprise, or I might just have to...” Éomer pretended having to think about a very harsh punishment for such a despicable crime. “I don’t know... throw you in the dungeon until Midsummer has passed to keep you from running around ruining yet more people’s surprises?” He blinked. “I’d say that horse is getting impatient having to wait for your service, blacksmith. Better see to it before it decides to leave and draw the entire smithy down the hill! I would be loath having to walk all the way to the bottom each time I need your service!”

  Bergfinn bowed and laughed.

  “Aye, my lord! We cannot let that happen, can we?” He turned towards the shy young lad helping him. “What are you standing there, swallowed up on your tongue, Folgard? The king and the queen will not eat you if you greet them!”

  The youth flushed to a deep crimson and lowered his head, muttering something neither Lothíriel nor Éomer understood, and looked impossibly relieved when Bergfinn sent him into the smithy to fetch their instruments, shaking his head to himself.

  “You must excuse that lad, my lord. He usually dwells in one of the more rural settlements in the Eastfold and has only been here for a few days to learn the craft. The surroundings still intimidate him. He did not mean to be rude.”

  “I know how he feels,” Lothíriel sighed, tugging at Éomer’s arm. “My husband can be a very imposing presence. Even I am still awed by him on occasion.” She met his eyes and saw that he had understood her loving ridicule. “Now, please, my lord, can we go and look at the surprise you have for me? I do not feel comfortable with the thought of everyone knowing about it except me.”

  “I suppose we should go and heal this condition, then?” Éomer teased further, immensely enjoying his wife’s playful mood.

  “Aye, my king. I would like that very much.”

  Éomer gave a curt nod to the blacksmith before he steered Lothíriel further down the path for good.

  “You must excuse me now, Bergfinn. Urgent matters of the state call me to duty.”

  “Don’t they always, my lord?” the smith smirked, turning to mind his business again, too. “I wish you a wonderful day... and you too, my queen. It was wonderful to see you again.”

* * *

  His little ploy had worked even better than he could have hoped for, Éomer mused as they walked down the slope arm in arm, with people greeting and smiling at them wherever they went. With each step that they took, he felt Lothíriel relax, until the unexplainable tension had entirely left her and she smiled back graciously at the folk, accepting their good wishes and apparently enjoying herself very much. They had almost reached the bottom of the hill now, where most of the huts and little businesses were and the path led towards the broad marketplace, which was crowded with people. Children shouted and charged through the narrow alleys playing and duelling with their wooden swords. A group of them nearly ran into the royal couple in their pursuit of the supposed evildoers, with one of the lads stumbling and landing on his stomach in the dirt.

  “Oh my,” Lothíriel laughed and bowed down to lend the boy a hand in getting up. “Your horse has thrown you! Quick, see that you catch him again!”

  “Thank you, my lady,” the lad beamed as he wiped a dusty hand over his sweaty brow, dirtying it up even more in the process. From the other side of the path, his friends stood and observed, grinning, as he charged with a battlecry after them. Lothíriel’s eyes followed them until they disappeared behind the next corner. With the Valars’ help, her own child would run around playing such wild games with the others in a few years. She smiled at the thought and felt Éomer’s pleased gaze on herself. Joyfully, she squeezed his arm to let him know that she had noticed his attention... and to tell him that his idea of taking her along to show themselves to the people had been a good one.

  “Éomer?” she breathed, wanting to tell him how glad she felt in this moment, when they reached the vast marketplace, and in the middle of a ring of stones stood something that made the queen’s eyes widen in awe. “Oh, Éomer... It is absolutely beautiful!” Lothíriel let go of his arm to approach the great pile of twigs and branches, still green and elastic because they had been cut only three days ago. They had been bent into two shapes with the help of white and golden bands: a rearing horse and a swan with spread wings and a proudly arched neck, easily three to four times man-sized. Eager to examine the work of art from all sides, Lothíriel slowly walked around it in a circle, occasionally sticking out her hand to touch the wonderfully worked curves, while Éomer stood back and smiled to himself, satisfied over seeing his young wife so animated. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed how the people around them had stopped to wait for the queen’s judgement for their work.

  “Does this mean you like it then, my queen?”

  Her dark eyes sparkled, and even from a distance, Éomer could see how touched Lothíriel was by this simple gesture.

  “It is wonderful!” Her gaze wandered upward to the horse’s head. “What shall we do with it once the celebration is over? Build it up on the backside of the Hall, or leave it here?”

  “We will burn it,” he said instead, throwing her off. “There will be nothing left of it to build up anywhere.” The stunned look she gave him was almost amusing, but he knew better than to let it show. There was nothing he could have done anyway. Even kings were well advised to keep the traditions of their people unchanged.

  “But that would be a crime!”

  He shrugged, very aware of the bemused looks of the onlookers behind them.

  “It’s a tradition. For good luck.”

  “Another tradition?” Her eyes still on the figures, Lothíriel slowly walked back to him. “I realise that I was not aware what a superstitious kind the people of this land really are.” She shook her head in objection. “This is far too beautiful to be burnt.” Her gaze went into the on-looking crowd and fixed on an older woman who regarded her with a gentle, knowing smile on her weathered, wrinkled face. “Is there anyone here of the artists who built this?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Aye, my queen. Most of the people here had a hand in this.”

  “And you would really want to see this beautiful piece of work burn?”

  The smile broadened.

  “Aye... it will make a lovely bonfire. And a very special one, too, to celebrate the first year of our rulers’ union.” Lothíriel seemed at a loss for words as she turned around again to look at the statue of twigs, as the woman continued: “We could make you another one, Highness, if you like it so much. One that we will not burn.”

  The queen turned back.

  “Would you, good woman? I would be much obliged to you. What do you say, my lord? Where should we keep it?”

  Éomer raised an eyebrow at the unexpected turn of events and opened his mouth for a reply, but before he could utter a sound, horns rang out from the front gate and a voice cried out:

  “It’s the Lord Erkenbrand! Open the gate!”

  Erkenbrand? Erkenbrand? Unexpected as a thunderclap out of a clear blue sky, the cold hand of fear seized Éomer’s stomach. This had to be a mistake! The guards must have had mistaken the older warrior for someone else! What business would the Lord of Westfold have at Edoras at this time of year, except… bringing bad tidings?! No! No, it could not be true! His kingdom was still on its knees in the aftermath of war, they could not afford yet another conflict!

  “Éomer?” The pressure of Lothíriel’s hand on his arm told him that his wife was feeling the same anxiety. Suddenly, the air seemed too thick for breathing as the sound of a group of riders approaching the marketplace from the gate reached them. “What could he be doing here?”

  “I cannot say,” he mumbled without looking at her, his throat almost too tight for his words as he slowly, like in a bad dream, stepped into the centre of the place. He had been through this kind of experience so often since his youth that he already knew what was to follow. Life in the Mark had been like this since he could remember. You were enjoying life for a limited amount of time; weeks, sometimes even months with nothing bad happening, allowing yourself to be lulled into a false feeling of security and to lower your guard, only to have reality hit you over the head with all brutality. There would never be a time when life in Rohan would be entirely safe. Never.

  As the royal couple and their kinsmen still looked on, the riders came into view. Their sight was an even worse sign of trouble than what Éomer had anticipated and caused his skin to crawl: A group of five riders, led by Erkenbrand, burst from the narrow ally into the marketplace in a swift trot that looked forced nonetheless. Their horses were lathered in foam and Héfalas, the marshal’s grey stallion, confirmed in his red-veined eyes and sweat-darkened hide that they had been ridden to the point of exhaustion as they stumbled into view behind him. Their deep breaths and the shingling and creaking of their riding gear filled the leaden silence with an unnamed dread. All of a sudden, a black cloud seemed to hang over the marketplace. Something very bad had happened. Telling Lothíriel to stay back for he knew for Héfalas to be a difficult animal only his master could entirely trust, Éomer stepped forth to seize the grey’s bridle.

  “Marshal Erkenbrand?” Sweet Eru, the man looked ready to collapse right along with his steed! “What brings you to Edoras? What has happened?” The faces of Erkenbrand’s men – sweat-beaded, hollow-eyed, grim - chased a shudder down his spine. The tension became unbearable as Éomer prepared for the worst. Erkenbrand’s weathered, lined face turned to him as the oldest marshal of the Mark brought his snorting horse to a stand.

  “My apologies for bursting into your preparations like this, Éomer-king, but I bring bad tidings. Four days ago, a great host of Dunlendings crossed the River Isen and raided the two nearest settlements, stealing their provisions and stock. We lost eighteen men. We managed to throw them back, but only with great difficulties. The Westfold is burning, Éomer-king. War is upon us again!”

* * *

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  When the sun set they had reached the hill again and the land rose steadily before them. It was drier now, but the tracks were still clear. Near a group of bushes and larger stones that would protect them from being seen Aragorn came to a halt.

  “Here it turns south. We shall wait till nightfall to get any further.” He took saddle and bridle off his horse and let it graze. Wearily the others followed and hobbled their steeds before pitching a camp. “No fire,” he ordered when he saw Fáred already searching for stones to put around the campfire site. “We do not know who might roam this hill.”

  Dumarin and Fáred exchanged glances, then Dumarin spoke.

  “Sire, whoever walks here cannot be a threat to us. We are six men who can defend ourselves well.”

  “And who tells you, Dumarin son of Doran, that there are no more than six men against us? Caution reigns over pride,” he closed sternly and turned to Halamin. “I will take you and Hilberon with me tonight. Take off your armour and sword. We shall be as quiet as possible.”

  “We will creep up on them, my lord? Without weapons?” Halamin frowned. It was never heard of that men of the Royal Guard did not openly confront an enemy. For him it was a disgusting thought. But when the king only answered with another stern look he shed out of his cuirass and chain mail and put it on the ground. Hilberon did the same and felt relieved. Looking down on the heap of armour he thought about not putting it on again. The weight felt too heavy. It seemed more like a burden than a protection. And he saw no reason to protect himself in this wilderness. He straightened his jerkin, fastened his belt with the dagger attached to it, and was ready to leave.

  “We do not want them to be aware of our coming.” The king took off his sleeping roll and all of his weapons but the Elvish hunting knife. Halamin nodded and tried to show an imperturbable face. “And yet we do not even know who we expect – if they have not already left.” He gently stroked Brego's mane and forehead and talked to him in Sindarin. Halamin, who still watched him, wondered if the horse truly understood his master's words for he neighed lowly at the end and grazed on when Aragorn turned away from him. In the last glimmer of daylight the king looked at his men. “Whoever passed by we do not know of their intentions, they may be good or bad. Fáred, Tarés, and Dumarin, you stay behind and watch over the camp and horses.” He saw the older soldier's reluctance and added, “Keep quiet and only defend yourself if there is danger upon you.”

  Fáred bowed curtly. Dumarin was exhausted enough to lay down where he stood and would not contradict. Let alone Tarés was uncomfortable enough to speak up.

  “My lord, you should not walk yonder without a proper guard. If it is as you assume there might be more danger ahead of you. And we are of no use if you leave us behind.”

  “Hilberon and Halamin are a strong enough help if any is needed.” But his look told him that he was used to take care of himself alone and Tarés inhaled and bowed deeply.

  “Of course it will happen as you wish, my lord.” He sat down with Dumarin at the campsite, his back supported by a sun-warmed rock, and reached for his water-skin. He was disappointed to be left behind, and he feared for his ruler, but he would not dare to utter a word against the king's decision. Still he could not shake the feeling that he was needed and damned to be helpless when it came to a fight. After the king's abduction not even two years ago all soldiers of the Royal Guard had been told by captain Fáred that they had the responsibility for the king's well-being. But how should Tarés and the others fulfil this task if they were left behind?

  Aragorn looked at the three soldiers for a moment. They were used to serve the late steward of Gondor, and Denethor's demands had been different from their tasks now. Dumarin would always serve without question, but lacked the stamina needed. Fáred was experienced in the defence of the city, and his bravery was unquestioned. Tarés preferred to fulfil his work by staying as close as possible to the king's back, a soldier ready to keep away any harm from the ruler. The king could not wish for a more loyal company to serve him, and still he remembered yearningly the companionship of Gimli and Legolas, their strength and will, their skill and wisdom. The time of war had been hard, but friendship had lightened the burden. He wished they had not left the White City.

  With a short nod to Hilberon and Halamin Aragorn turned and left the campsite.

  The king led the small group slowly southwards for half an hour. The wind had diminished, the sun sunk with a last golden shine beyond the Nindalf, and they walked hunched over to avoid being seen though the light lessened in the minutes they walked over the grass. When the scent of fire reached them, Aragorn ordered the two men to lie down. The thicket they had entered provided cover, but also bore the danger of sounds for neither Hilberon nor Halamin were used to crawl noiselessly. Aragorn lay flat on the ground, his eyes fixed upon the small fire shining through the bushes in the distance.

  “Wait,” he whispered and was gone in seconds, his belly pressed against the soft soil. Darkness fell upon the land as he moved forward, halted when one of the two figures at the fire stirred, then moved on slowly. He waited patiently to get around the camp and then closer, breathing the musty scent of soil, leaves, and bark. Another half hour had passed when he reached the end of the thicket to watch. The shades in the dark did not speak, just sat and stared into the flames. They wore dark red tunics and trousers, leather cuirasses with red and gold patterns which shone in the fire's gleam, and their black hair was bound to the back of their heads but for one strand that hung alongside the temple of their tanned faces. On the forehead of the one whose face Aragorn could see a faint symbol drawn in red and black. Around the neck a chain hung with large black and grey feathers, parts of brown fur, and a little, round piece of metal on it. On their backs they carried quivers with a dozen black-feathered arrows, and their belts contained short knives. The bows lay on the ground beside them. Aragorn wondered why none of them slept. Were they expecting someone else?

  When one of them spoke it was low and in a tongue Aragorn did not understand. The second answered, and the voice was raspy like something had happened to his throat. Still they did not move. From what he saw Aragorn found a resemblance to the Easterlings he had seen at the Black Gate the day all had come to an end. But it could not be. The armour was a little different, the helmets were missing. Still… The Easterlings were defeated and driven back to the Sea of Rhûn. And why should they have returned? The first figure stirred and added another twig to the dying fire, whispering words and making a gesture to the adjacent thicket with his free hand.

  Another minute crept by in silence.

  All of a sudden a loud and eerie cry was heard from the northern side of the thicket. The figures were on their feet at the same moment, exchanging curt words, grabbing their bows and running into the direction the cry had come from. Aragorn stood and hurried after them, jumping over the fire to avoid his companions to be attacked. Pushing away lower branches he leapt over a root he could barely see, and hastened on. Another cry followed, closer now. Menacing. Voices rose - one belonged to Halamin. Aragorn stumbled and fell, but it was his luck. An arrow whistled by, missing him by inches. He pushed himself forward, gained speed again through thorny bushes whose long branches tried to hold him back. Halamin yelped in pain. In the dim light of a quarter moon Aragorn reached Halamin and Hilberon. They both looked frightened and were out of breath, but unharmed.

  “What happened? Where are they?” Before Halamin found words a third cry alarmed them. It was one of pain. “Fáred!” the king exclaimed and ran on. The two soldiers followed swift, ignoring the uneven ground that made them stumble and fall every few steps. Fear that they might be too late made them run even faster, but when they reached the place Fáred stood on top of a rock like a ghost of revenge, arrow and bow ready bent in his hands.

  “One of these beasts hit Dumarin!” he shouted upon seeing them. “But I will get one of them!”

  “No! Hold your fire!” Aragorn shouted, but the arrow had already left the string. With the precision only long experience can grant it found its aim quickly. The shadow in the distance fell on its knees, and then, after a moment, lay motionless on the ground. The king had come too late. He snatched the bow out of Fáred's hand. “I ordered you not to!”

  “I did what I had to do!” Fáred spat on the ground. “They stole a horse! And the others got away on it, I’d suppose! Stinking bastards!”

  “You fool!” Aragorn threw the bow down. “Can you not listen?”

  Fáred pressed his lips tight to avoid any word of dissension to slip from them, but his angry stare turned to Dumarin who sat on the ground and held his right arm grimacing with pain. Blood oozed through the fabric and the soldier looked miserable. Aragorn cursed under his breath, but spun around to find the person lying face down on the ground twenty feet away. He knelt beside him. An arrow stuck out of his neck and a single line of blood had trickled down to the ground. Fáred had hit to kill. No breath was left. Hilberon knelt on the other side while Halamin came after them, panting, with his sword ready.

  “They might come back,” he muttered. “Try to avenge him.”

  Aragorn shook his head slightly.

  “They are gone.”

  Halamin looked down at the slender figure in the woollen dark tunic and leather cuirass over it, rough trousers and dark, long-worn boots. A simple bow lay beside him, dropped from his hand, the quiver, engraved with black symbols, hung loosely over his shoulder.

  “Good gracious, it’s just a boy!”

  The king turned the body around and was stunned. For a moment the three men gaped at the soft features surrounded by black hair.

  “No, it is a woman.” Aragorn's shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Sighing deeply he murmured a prayer in the Elvish tongue he had learnt so long ago. He knew Halamin and Hilberon watched him in astonishment, but he did not move. He felt a loss he could not explain. At Helm’s Deep King Théoden had ordered many young lads to fight, and Aragorn had felt the urgent need to protect them all; to not let them lose their lives in this very fight for their freedom. But not all had survived. He had not been able to save them all. And though the time of war should have taught him not to feel sorrow about a person he had not even known, the young woman’s face, so smooth and fair, not marked by old age or despair, revealed a vulnerability that touched his core.

  Fáred reached them, and upon seeing the body searched for an excuse.

  “A woman? But, my lord, I did not mean to… I did not know…”

  “The harm has been done and cannot be taken back,” the king said in a low voice heavy with frustration and grief. Gently Aragorn pushed a strand of hair out of her face. As he had seen on the other stranger her forehead was decorated with dark red symbols, and around her neck she wore a thin leather cord with pieces of fur, two long, curved claws, and a broad silver ring with a dark red gem in its middle. In her hair stuck a broad wooden comb with engraved signs, coloured in black. A work of art, now lost of its use. “There was no need for this.” Exhaling he turned to the waiting captain and his anger flared. “Are you not skilled enough, Fáred, to stop without killing? This was such a needless act! Will you now tell me what she knew? Where she came from, or why she tarried here? Are you able to explain what we desire to know?”

  Fáred evaded the king's fierce stare. He felt disgraced being yelled at, and swallowed hard on the humiliation. His answer was hardly audible.

  “No, sire.”

  Aragorn rose, an impressing figure, even more in his undisguised anger. Fáred immediately stepped aside. He seemed small and beaten.

  “The war is over, Fáred son of Folentis, and you should better know it.” The king turned and when he passed he added, “Bury her. Do not let her lie here for whatever beast.”

* * *

   EDORAS

   To call the atmosphere in the great throne room of Meduseld strained would have been an understatement. The heated, humid air of the late summer afternoon seemed thick enough to cut through and had a metallic taste that told of the approaching thunderstorm, but it would not just be rain and lightning that would assault Edoras tonight. The assembled council consisting of the king and his wife, Gamling, chief of the Royal Guard, Féofor, captain of Éomer’s personal éored, and Erkenbrand and his second-in-command, Galdur, had been summoned in all haste. The men had at first been irritated by the queen’s attendance, but then proceeded as usual when they had seen Éomer’s warning gaze. The queen wished to know what was going on in her land, and her questions would be answered.

   Only the sound of Éomer’ steps could be heard echoing through the twilight of the hall as he restlessly paced the corridor, too anxious to sit while he listened to Erkenbrand’s report. As usual, the marshal’s recapitulation of the events left no doubts; his words evoked clear and frightful images.”

   “They had waited for the new moon to cross the Isen under the protection of darkness, and they moved swiftly and stealthily, quite in contrast to their usual way of attack. A great host of Dunlendings, all moving in order and with a purpose. They also appeared to be well aware of the guards’ positions, so that is another hint that this raid has not been a spontaneous, ill-planned undertaking of the likes they usually engage in. They took them out before the alarm could be raised and then assaulted the sleeping people in their huts.”

   “How many men are we talking of?” Éomer inquired, his lips a grim line and his jaw set as he stared unfocussed into the sickly greenish light just outside the hall. The air was standing, there wasn’t so much as a breeze outside that could move the grass.

   Lifting his damp hair from his sweat-drenched neck to cool his skin, Éomer took up his pacing, his expression that of deep thought. This appeared to be the first serious threat to his people since his becoming their ruler, and he was not certain whether he was ready to face it. In his days as marshal, there had been times when he had been looking forward to picking a fight, but ever since his captivity by Grima Wormtongue, Éomer had felt a strange reluctance towards the thought of battle and bloodshed. To his immense surprise, he had actually found himself enjoying the rare calm times Rohan had experienced since the end of the war. Was it just that he had grown unaccustomed to the intensity of conflict? Was it battle-weariness? The knowledge that the shoulder injury he had sustained during his ordeal had left him weaker, not the unstoppable warrior he had once been? Or a natural development caused by maturing, of his participation in so many battles in his still young life?

   “I did not see the full attacking force myself, sire, because there was only a smaller group of them left when my éored arrived, but Captain Galdur spoke of at least two hundred, my lord.” The older man paused to grant his king a moment to truly grasp the meaning of his words, and saw their devastating effect as Éomer turned around to face him, slightly paler than before. Now he knew that this was no isolated occurrence which could be neglected. That this organised attack had to be the beginning of something greater, something infinitely more dangerous. “And they struck without warning. Everything about this attack was different than what we have been used to from battling Dunlendings for decades. Usually, they are nothing but a bunch of primitive, club-wielding wild-men, easily overtaken by a force that’s considerably smaller but better structured and armed. But this group… they were organised! They followed a strategy, and they were armed with swords, bows and lances – and knew how to use them!” He reached for his tankard and emptied it.

   Inhaling deeply, Éomer came to a halt in front of the greying warrior who was sitting on one of the benches and studying his expression intently. Not that there was much to study, Éomer mused, nor anything to misunderstand. It had to be obvious how he thought about these catastrophic tidings, because each of Erkenbrand’s revelations so far had felt like a punch to his gut. Somewhere in the back of his mind, even if he knew how unlikely it had been, he had hoped never having to hear anything about a quarrel with their western neighbours again.

   “If what you say is true…”

   “It is true, my lord! I saw it with my own eyes! This was an organised and well-trained army we were dealing with! We lost eighteen men in the attacked villages, and over twenty soldiers of my éored were wounded in the fight. We experienced great difficulties at throwing them back over the river, and even so, I assume they only went to store their loot and then come back for more later. I left the remainders of my éored to patrol the river fords and ordered for reinforcements, but we cannot afford to just react. We musttake immediate action!”

   The eyes of all present lay now on their king, waiting for his verdict. The silence deepened.

   “I do not like it,” Éomer finally muttered, slightly angered at the marshal’s interruption, and turned on his heels to take up his pacing. Nothing was adding up, and the implications of Erkenbrand’s report were too horrible to think about. “If some wild folk like the Dunlendings suddenly know about strategy and possess weapons other than stones and wooden spears … then there must be some other enemy behind them! Someone who taught them! Someone who has access to weaponry, an enemy we know not yet. I will not believe that they learned the art of war all by themselves in such a short period!”

   Erkenbrand remained silent. The same thought had crossed his mind, too, but he had wanted for his king to evoke those frightening images in his head by himself. They would be more powerful this way, and they would inevitably lead Éomer to the one decision the seasoned warrior wanted to hear from his ruler. There was no other way to react to such a heinous attack, and while the king’s expression was still mostly dominated by consternation and confusion, Erkenbrand was relieved to catch the familiar undercurrent of white-hot fury underneath. Ah, yes – this was the Éomer he knew, the hot-tempered, fierce warrior who refused to take insults from anyone! The true son of the late Marshal Éomund of Aldburg. He needed that man now! Rohan needed him! This was not the time for reflection and considerations; this was the time for justified wrath. Hesitation could easily mean Rohan’s end, especially if some yet unknown enemy was involved.

   “Marshal, are you certain that they were, in fact, Dunlendings?” Féofor, the captain of the Edoras-based éored spoke into his thoughts, the man’s expression deeply dubious. What was that inexperienced apprentice thinking? That he could not tell a Dunlending from an orc? Or a horse from a goat? Erkenbrand ground his teeth, but bit back the harsh words coming to his mind. Féofor, for all he knew, had been born in the Eastmark and never left it. So who was the one who could not tell one thing from another here? “Could they not have been...” the lanky, malnourished looking man shrugged, “… I don’t know, another people we have not met so far? The whole land of Enedwaith and their inhabitants is virtually unknown, could they not have come from there? This would explain their unexpected mastery of strategy and weaponry, too!”

   “Enedwaith is not unknown,” Éomer opposed, his tone more frustrated than anything else. His eyes were fixed on the banner of his house that hung behind the throne without really seeing it. The greatest king Rohan looked down on him now, waiting for his successor to find the right decision for his people. He pivoted on his heels. “We sent scouts there many times before. It is a barren land without forests or fertile soil, impossible to live of. They never found people there. The land is bereft of life.”

   “Captain Féofor, I have fought against these primitives my entire life. Trust me when I say that we are dealing with Dunlendings here!” Erkenbrand pressed, finally giving up on not letting his annoyance with the man show. Eru alone knew why Éomer trusted such an ignorant man with the protection of Edoras. Certainly Féofor had to have his qualities, but experience it was not. There was enough tension in the hall already, but he was not about to let himself be questioned by that untaught youth in front of everyone? He had not been there. He had not seen what they had seen. Of course they were all trying to find a logical explanation for what could not rationally be explained. But what if there was none?

   After all, there had been no trouble from their neighbours since Éomer’s predecessor had pardoned them in the wake of the Helm’s Deep battle. They had even been allowed to travel through the Mark to ask for help during the grim winter with none of the éoreds harassing them! The Rohirrim had believed their eternal conflict had ended. So what in Eru’s name had provoked the Dunlendings to once again wage open war against them? Greed? Need? The times were hard for both their lands, and probably even harder for the people in the hills, but hard enough to forsake the mercy King Théoden had bestowed upon them and try to satisfy their need by means of violence again? Had they decided now that they would no longer plead for the crumbs from Rohan’s table when they could take everything by force?

   “And it could not have been a, however great, rampant group?” Gamling let himself be heard, unwittingly smoothing his thin red beard with two fingers. “One or two tribes who are not in agreement with the others, outsiders to their own people even?”

Erkenbrand had always respected the older, wiry warrior. Quite against the usual Rohirrim temperament, of which their current king was an excellent example, Gamling had only rarely acted on the spur of the moment. He was a thinker, a pensive bright mind, and that Éomer had named him as his counsellor after the war had been quite justified in Erkenbrand’s opinion. He would have to be convinced to take the action Erkenbrand would be asking for, not just persuaded. But then again, the decision to go to war would not be his call to make, and the Lord of the Westmark hoped that he could count on his king in this matter of life or death. All he would have to do to drive Éomer to this decision was feed him a few more horrible details.

   “Two-hundred men? Armed and trained as they were?” The marshal shifted his attention to the chief of the Royal Guard. “Alas, no, Lord Gamling. I deem that impossible. We all know the usual size of Dunlending tribes, and we know the way they usually fight. This attack was alarmingly different… as alarming as something else they did...” He turned back to Éomer who was following the discussion from the middle of the corridor and now stared at him with a mixture of growing anger and discomfort, waiting for yet more bad tidings to be unveiled on this gloomy summer afternoon. From outside, a low growl penetrated into the hall, but no one seemed to notice.

   “What do you mean?” Éomer was loath to hear yet more ill news, his expression showed it clearly enough. “What did they do besides stealing, plundering and burning our villages … and killing our people? What else could they have done that was possibly worse?”

   Erkenbrand knew he was very close now to achieving what he had come for. The worst was yet to come, and already the king looked ready to jump into the next saddle and head off for the Westfold even in the middle of the approaching thunderstorm.

“I cannot tell whether it is worse, yet, actually,” he then confessed with a calculating glance at his second-in-command. Galdur’s expression spoke of confidence in his marshal. A very loyal man. “But it is rather peculiar.” He swallowed and then met Éomer’s inquisitive gaze. “Apparently, the Dunlendings did not kill the men in the villages. Not unless they absolutely had to. Instead, they took them with them.”

   The silence deepened to the point where it became unbearable. Somewhere to their left, a servant was moving through the hall to ignite the torches in the deepening twilight.

   “They did what?” There was profound confusion in Éomer’s eyes and the furrows on his brow deepened in disbelief. His hands dropped to his sides as he felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rise. Erkenbrand could not be serious!

   “The men disappeared, my lord. Of the eighteen men we lost, twelve could not be found. Captain Galdur here saw two of them being wrestled onto stolen horses by the attackers, and they were undoubtedly still alive, their hands and feet bound. And since many more have gone missing in the wake of the attack...” He took a deep breath. “My lord, I cannot tell you how much this observation worries me.“

   “Why should they take the men and …” Èomer interrupted himself as a terrible thought came to his mind. An image he just could not accept. Outside, a deafening twin thunderclap ended the expectant silence and rolled through the humid air like the growl of a hungry dragon. The suddenly pale faces of the other council-members told the young king that they had read his expression and were thinking the same. And his wife looked too sick all of a sudden to hear any more of what was going on in Éomer’s mind. He reached a decision.

   “Lothíriel?” He went the few steps over to her and lifted her hand from the armrest of her throne, giving it a slight comforting squeeze. Why did it feel so cold to his touch? Terribly worried eyes looked up to meet his gaze.

   “Aye, my lord?”

   “I want you to go and lie down. You do not look as if you are feeling well, and your hand feels frosty. Let me accompany you to our private chambers.”

   His tone was caring and low, but there was no way for Lothíriel to miss the determination on her husband’s face. He did not want for her to hear their discussion any further. And while she was certain that she did not want to know more details either, there was also the insistent voice in the back of her mind telling her that she should hear what was going on in her kingdom. What to do? She could hardly object to Éomer’s wish in front of his men. There had to be another way. She forced herself to give him a weak smile as she came to her feet, gratefully accepting his arm.

   “It is very considerate of you to notice, my lord. I was thinking I could make it through to the end of this council, but I fear the strenuous day has gotten the best of me. Indeed it would possibly be best for me to follow your advice and seek a little rest.” A curt, graceful nod at the present men. “My lords, if you will excuse me?”

   The other men nodded politely, but only Gamling returned her smile with a slight expression of worry on his face. She liked Éomer’s counsellor. Most of the times, when her husband was away on some errand, it was him she liked to seek out for company and conversation... first her maid, then him.

   “Be well, Queen Lothíriel. Should I send for the kitchen to make you some tea?”

   She raised her hand.

   “Thank you, dear Gamling, but no. I have what I need in my chambers. Let us not needlessly disturb our servants. Once in a while they need a little rest, too, like we all do.” Another meaningful glance, and then Lothíriel allowed Éomer to lead her away to the private chambers, the sound of their steps on the tiles echoing through the silent hall.

* * *

   “Please, Éomer... I am not ill or weak. I am merely a little tired. There is no need for you to accompany me all the way to our chambers when your presence is urgently required elsewhere, and no need to send for the healer or the kitchens, either. I need nothing but a little rest, as you said.” She let go of his arm as if to demonstrate to her husband that she was indeed quite capable of walking alone. The little assuring smile she had wanted to add died before it could break through, as she looked at Éomer’s serious face. Never had she seen him as distraught as this. In the one year since she had become Rohan’s queen, she had learned about their people’s eternal quarrel with their western neighbours, but this was the first time she saw what the immediate threat of war did to people, even to such a battle-experienced warrior as her husband. ‘War-mongers?’ She knew now that it was not true.

   “You look very pale, Lothíriel. Are you certain that there is nothing I can do for you?”

   “Aye, my ever-concerned husband. I am certain of that.” She rose on her toes and kissed him, not wanting to be the cause for yet more of his sorrow when the situation was already looking dreary. He took her hands and gently kissed her back, his gaze still contemplating her condition as she continued. “You need not worry for me. I am upset as you, but that is only because I, too, fear for our fellow kinsmen.” Another kiss. “I will go and lie down now, and you go back and decide how to best help our people. I have every confidence that you will find the right way.”

   Éomer’s gaze said that he appreciated her effort at comforting him before it strayed to the door to the side-wing, the entrance to their chambers. Behind them, he heard the mumbling of the waiting men. Lothíriel was right – he was needed there. He embraced her once more, and his fingers smoothed her silken dark curls as he deeply inhaled her flowery, comforting scent.

   “I am sorry this wonderful day had to end like this. I had very much enjoyed seeing you laughing again after all these weeks of melancholy, my beautiful swan. But now... I do not know where this will take us...” His expression betrayed his fear that the days of peace were over for good. He looked downright dispirited. Dismayed to see her husband like this, Lothíriel took his face in her hands and firmly shook her head.

   “Speak not like this, Éomer, please! You and your marshals will set it right. I am convinced that the good times for our land have not yet ended. You will find a way to make the threat go away, I know it.” She let him go, and he gave her the little nod she had become so accustomed to, before he turned on his heels to head back.

   Saddened to see her beloved in this gloomy mood, Lothíriel stood and watched until Éomer disappeared behind the column of pillars. She swallowed, experiencing a moment of uncertainty. Should she really do it? Éomer would be angry with her if he found out... and it would possibly undermine his authority if the other men found out, too. But she could not help it, she had to know, and if she was not allowed to listen one way, then she would have to think of another.

   “My queen, would you like for me to …”

   Lothíriel turned around, a finger on her lips and determination in the dark eyes as she eyed the maid who had addressed her. Motioning for the female servant to go about her business and not mind her, Lothíriel stealthily made her way back towards the middle of the hall to take cover behind a pillar... and listen.

* * *

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  Hilberon shivered. Upon returning to the camp site he bandaged Dumarin’s knife wound while the soldier muttered curses ceaselessly when the pain hit him. After that the young soldier rinsed the blood from his hands with some water and still heard the echo of Aragorn's harsh words in his mind. He had never seen such wrath. The times Hilberon had been with the king before the ruler had been benign, polite, and calm. Seeing him so tense and angry made Hilberon shrink at the mere thought how he would be treated for any act of disobedience.

  Dumarin grunted something that might have been a ‘thanks’ and turned to sleep.

  Sitting with his back to a rock and his sword at his side Hilberon looked back to Fáred, whose face was still contorted with anger. Even in the dim light of the waxen moon the old soldier seemed flushed. To avoid any eye contact Fáred turned abruptly and went on his guard. Tarés and Halamin were about to bury the young woman, talking lowly with each other. Hilberon had not had the heart to stay and help with that duty. The moment he had seen her harmonious and so young features he had felt a fist hitting his stomach. He had not been able to breathe. The woman might have been his age. For the blink of an eye he had seen himself on the ground, slain by some stranger whose face he had not ever set eyes upon. Now the woman was dead. With one single arrow her life had ended in the wilderness of Ithilien long before her time should have come. Who would mourn her? Hilberon shivered again when another dark thought came to his mind. Would her comrades come back to avenge her? Would they meet others of this people unleashed in their anger? And would the Royal Guard be able to stand against them?

  “What happened out there?”

  Hilberon was startled and looked up, wide-eyed. Aragorn stood in front of him; the young man had not heard him come. He swallowed his sudden fear while the king crouched and stared at him with his piercing grey eyes.

  “Halamin might…”

  “I asked you.”

  Hilberon nodded curtly, and with a deep breath recalled the incident.

  “We both lay there where you left us. We did not move, nor made a sound. We saw nothing. Then... then this… shadow was above us. And when he saw us…” He swallowed. The memory of the dark brown eyes surrounded by white in an aggressive face made his heart beat faster. The king's inquisitive stare did not make it any easier to continue. Hilberon's voice sounded hollow. “He gave that loud and strange scream. He hit Halamin who was next to him, but… not bad. Just pushed him when he started getting up. And then ran on.” Hilberon shook his head. “Like he could see at night. He was fast. And then the other two followed. In a way… they ran over us. We did not stop them. Could not. Perhaps we should have…” He looked up. Aragorn seemed deep in thoughts. “We could have prevented Dumarin from getting hit.”

  Aragorn did not answer, but stood and turned. Looking back the way they had come he said lowly,

  “No, we could not.”

  Hilberon was puzzled, but did not dare to speak. He looked at the king's back. The dark red shirt he wore under the sleeveless jerkin was old as well as the black woollen trousers and boots. Boots that his father would never had allowed his son to wear, so worn-out and darkened by mud that Hiregon would have assumed the owner to be poor. The young man could not find any explanation why the king preferred such clothing to his royal garb. Hilberon had seen him on the day of the coronation. Aragorn had been as kingly as a man could be, and that, Hilberon thought, should be the way at any time. Who would then notice that the king had arrived if it was not by his outer appearance?

  “This was meant to be.”

  “My lord?” Hilberon's face and mind were blank. He assumed he had not paid attention and chewed on his lower lip, uneasily awaiting a reprimand.

  Aragorn looked back over his shoulder.

  “It does not look like this happened accidentally.” Still Hilberon could not make anything out of this answer and frowned. “Tarés said there was one man at the horses when the first cry resounded. He cut the rope and led one of them away.” Aragorn's lips twitched. “Then that woman came. She would have taken another horse if Dumarin had not interfered.” Hilberon saw regret mingled with anger in the king's features. Aragorn exhaled before turning away. “They were only here to wait for us.”

* * *

  The loss of a horse was regrettable. Fáred divided the tent and supplies the sixth horse was carrying on the others so he could mount in the morning. The king hardly spoke to him and if he did his words made clear how angry he still was with the captain. Fáred's lips were pressed to a thin bloodless line, and no one dared to talk to him. They rode on in silence until noon. The weather changed, dark deep-hanging clouds were coming up from the south, their speed indicating that soon the wind would freshen up.

  Fáred watched the other men's backs for a while, still growling and ill tempered. He had not slept much during the past night but had wondered about the king's strange behaviour. That woman – he supposed she came from Rhûn – had tried to steal a horse, an act that condemned her to die on the spot, but the king had mourned her like a lost friend. For as long as Fáred had been able to wield a sword or bend a bow he had been told that thieves were nothing more than scum that should be erased from earth. They had no right to live on. Under Denethor's reign thieves had always been treated in that way, and there had been no complaints about it. The harsh reply by the king he served now injured Fáred's self-confidence and – more than that – his pride. He was looked upon as a wise and experienced captain, and Aragorn's disgracing words had lessened his status. However Fáred thought not only about his reputation, but about the meaning of Aragorn's demeanour. By all means, the king should not show pity in sight of an enemy! He should be forceful and determined, quick in his decisions and as hard as just in his actions. Fáred shook his head slightly. It might be that his own reputation had taken a scratch the night before, but the king's bearing might hurt his own position even more.

  Aragorn searched for the tracks of hoofs and men. Downhill they turned north-east, and on the plain stretching further to the eastern horizon which marked the border of Ithilien the grass had already set up again, and the tracks were lost. Aragorn halted his steed and dismounted, not willing to give up. He searched for another hint to the whereabouts of the remaining strangers. He knew that nothing left without a trace and that those of men or horses should be easily found. He strayed from the main route, his eyes fixed on the ground, taking his time, and finally came up with a small piece of silver, a chape lost from the scabbard. He held it in his open hand. Squinting he stood and let his gaze wander from north to south.

  “They rode hard, further to the east, trying to cover as much ground as possible.” He turned slowly and stood by his horse. “Halamin, did you hear about horse thieves lately?”

  “Nay, my lord. But if we ride south we could ask the villagers.”

  “We will.” Putting the chape into a pocket under his belt Aragorn mounted again. “But first let us see if it is true what the messengers told.” He spurred Brego into a gallop and led the small group further to the border. With the hours passing, the ground changed from soft green grass with trees and small creeks to dry turfs with low bushes to hillocks, which looked even rougher and were bare of any undergrowth. Huge stone formations forced them to slow down to ride around them and be more vigilant than before. The wind turned south and whirled up sand, but also brought with it an unpleasant smell that filled their lungs and made it hard to breathe. The gusts felt like smoke, biting their lungs, and dimming their view. In the moments the wind lessened in speed Aragorn could only make out rows of white and red tents of different shapes and sizes in the distance. They were hard to count, but there were no more than a hundred. Riding closer he saw in front of those tents some light brown animals with heavy fur, larger than calves, grazing on the dry soil. Herders were with them, keeping the cattle close together, but they were unaware of the Gondorian soldiers.

  Coughing, the king slid out of the saddle ordering the others to do the same. A look at the sky confirmed the weather change. The dark clouds that had not lost their loads over the White Mountains were drawing near. Already the smell of leaden wetness was in the air mingling with that of smoke arising over the Morannon and pouring down over the hillocks and plains.

  The king led his horse by the reins alongside the hillock to a group of large stones which stood out like watchmen frozen in their movement. From afar thunder rolled. Another gust blew sand over the hard ground, and squinting, he turned to his men.

  “We will get closer at night.”

  In that moment the rain started pouring down on them.

* * *

WEST OF DAGORLAD

  Dumarin was more than grateful the king had not intended to crawl upon this people with all his men behind him. His arm hurt, and he felt his own weight as a heavy burden. It would not have been easy for him to follow his ruler. To be precise, it had not been easy at all to stay in the saddle. He had sweat the whole day and shivered at the same time. But he had not told the king; the shame to admit that he were not able to fulfil his duty would had been too hard to bear. He felt a cold running down his spine for he had been on these dust-leaden plains before. On the day of the final attack Dumarin had been with the squadron sent out north along the Mountains of Shadow to throw back the remaining Easterlings. It had been a hard fight for the dark people in their strange armour with double-bladed polearms and scimitars were skilled in the use of their weapons. They had slaughtered many Gondorian soldiers before they could be thrown back. With horror Dumarin remembered that an Easterling had torn off the ring of a dead soldier to stick it quickly into his belt. It had been the moment he had considered his enemies less than men. They were beasts to him, not worth to survive. Dumarin had hewn the enemy next to him to get after this man, but the fight had turned and he had lost eye contact. He still regretted that he had not been able to retrieve the token. It had seemed such a cruel act to rob a dead man that Dumarin still felt wrath in him only thinking about it. So if the messengers' reports turned out to be true and the Easterlings were about to cross the border he would – if his arm would not hurt anymore – volunteer to serve in the forefront of the battle.

  With that grim thought he sneezed and looked up to the dreadful greyish sky still sending rain down as if it wanted to make up for the fortnight of dryness in one day. He let his gaze wander alongside the stone formation. The king and his guard were slowly moving eastwards using every cover they found. They were but small shadows in the glooming darkness and through the curtain of rain quickly gone. The horses snorted and one of them neighed lowly. Dumarin searched his saddlebag for the second flagon which was filled with wine instead of water. He needed an encouragement right now and some medicine against the pain in his arm. He drank and upon closing it squinted to peer through the rain.

  Two yellow eyes looked at him.

  Dumarin yelped with surprise, dropped his flagon, grasped his sword, but was too late. They were already gone. He rose with an effort, his heart thundering in his ears, griped the hilt tight while pressing his back against the stone. With his left hand he wiped the water from his face. Breathing shallowly he looked in all directions and when he found the courage took a few hesitant steps to look after their belongings and the horses. And while the steeds stood as wet and miserable as their owners Dumarin found the saddlebags of the packhorse open and partially emptied. He was sure to have secured every item they had brought with them. He shivered with fear and would have fled the place if he had not been on duty. The thought that he might die if he tarried was pressing. Hastily he stuffed the dried meat and the fruits back and looked over his shoulder. He could see and hear nothing but the rain, but that did not soothe him.

  Hilberon, wet to the bone like the others, drew up his nose and wiped one strand of his long hair out of his face. The silent, clammy march proved useful. Daylight was gone, and the grey clouds still spilled enough water to almost drown them, but their approach was much easier than he had thought. He could already see the lines with tents in which entrances, covered by layers of cloth and supported by stakes, small fires were maintained. Behind one of the first tents a pile of polearms lay, and beside them, knotted to thin stakes, banners hung loosely and wet. From afar and hardly audible the neighing of horses could be heard. Only a few people moved between those tents, clad in dark tunics. They did not carry bows and arrows, not even swords, and moved quickly to avoid getting soaked. To Hilberon their outlines appeared neither impressive nor threatening, and the young man grew bolder by the minute. His heartbeat slowed down, and he wondered if the king really intended to call his army for an attack only because this people had moved closer to the border. In that case the soldiers present would be the vanguard and would set out to gain whatever knowledge could be gathered about the enemy. The young man wiped his face again and watched a person approaching a tent. In the fire’s glow he saw the face of a short woman, slender and dark haired, but older than the one Fáred had killed. She squatted and took up a rolled-up leaf from the smouldering rim of the fire. Perhaps something to eat was in it for she carried it into the tent and did not come back. Hilberon’s stomach rumbled enviously. His meal belonged to the past and since Aragorn had not allowed them a fire the night before they had only eaten little of the dried meat which never filled his stomach sufficiently.

  “More women,” Halamin whispered at his side, and Hilberon nodded. “That’s not an army. Who knows what they are up to,” he added disparagingly. Turning to Aragorn Halamin saw concern in the king’s eyes nonetheless. His brows were furrowed, his lips pursed, and his eyes had not left the first tent for some time. The guard was insecure what the king was up to. Would he get any closer? Even in the darkness this would be risky. But in all the stories Halamin had heard about the deeds of Aragorn under different names the man seemed to have never feared a danger, but had been a master of strategy and anticipation. His actions were disciplined and effective. All praised his courage and stamina. Still Halamin thought it to be too bold to linger in this place any longer. Despite the bad weather they might have guards on duty, and only five men, experienced or not, would not stand very long. He looked over his shoulder. Tarés snorted with disgust, and Fáred squeezed his eyes almost shut against the water running down from his forehead, but beyond them Halamin could not see. Even when the rain grew less the night enclosed them. The small fires were the only light within leagues. Halamin felt suddenly uneasy, as if a great danger was coming up to him. He felt the need to crawl somewhere and hide and not come back before daylight returned. The thought of staying here made him shiver, and he glanced at the others to see if they felt the same. Tarés might; he suddenly looked over his shoulder just to make sure no one stood there. Fáred frowned deeply and seemed alarmed, but did not move. Hilberon was absorbed by the sight of the tents, and had crouched closest to the rock protecting them. He was shivering, but Halamin could not determine the reason. The king suddenly stirred and rose halfway, the hand on the hilt of his sword, closely watching their surrounding. Halamin felt the same urge to stand up for a fight and swallowed hard. Was it true, they were being watched? Aragorn inhaled slowly and deeply, his face tense, the grip firm on the black hilt of Andúril, ready to strike at whatever got closer.

  Nothing happened. Halamin felt the need to flee subside. He could breathe again, and the fear of detection reduced to a tolerable level. Aragorn waited for another minute while water dropped from his hair and beard until he regained his position. The unrest remained.

  From out of the darkness behind the tents another person appeared, halted shortly at the fire to take up another leaf and then entered the tent. It was unclear if it was a woman or a man, but he was taller and broader than the woman they had seen before. He wore a uniform which was accurately made, and he carried a sword in an artfully crafted scabbard at his left side. Two men clad in simple tunics followed the procedure and entered the tent. Only the knees of one person could be seen through the half-closed entrance. That one put the leaf in front of him and waited. Hilberon was so curious to learn what they were doing that he almost forgot about his cover. The firm hand on his shoulder made him stop. Startled he looked back. Aragorn shook his head slightly, and Hilberon blushed, glad at the same time that in the darkness no one would see it. They waited for another hour, but the men and women did not leave the tent again except to put some twigs into the fire. No more movement was to be watched outside.

  Aragorn felt uneasy. It was true what the messengers had reported, but still the reason seemed unclear. A hundred tents might be the beginning preparation for an attack or simply a people's choice for another place to live on. From his excursions he knew the Easterlings were nomadic and moved on when the soil was no longer fertile. Rhûn did not endure the extreme temperature as Harad, but living here was rough, and only those who claimed a place with water supply their own survived. It was hard to imagine that these people should prepare themselves for a war. They would not have had the time to recover strength to be an equal opponent to the army of Gondor, and from what he had seen more women than men lived among the tents. Still Aragorn could not deny the possibility.

  Before sunrise they went back, shivering and weary in their wet clothes, eager to light a fire to get warm again. Upon reaching their scanty camp they found Dumarin waiting for them wide-eyed and upset.

  “I saw two eyes in the darkness, my lord,” he reported with fright in his voice pointing westwards. “Yellow eyes. They were fixed on me.” He could still feel the evil that had evaporated from whatever thing that had lurked him long hours ago.

  “Where?” Aragorn asked, alert at once, and stepped closer. “Who was it?”

  Dumarin swayed and took a step back.

  “I did not see him… or it. It was gone the moment I drew my sword. But I was ready to fight it!”

  Aragorn was repelled by the smell of wine on Dumarin and frowned.

  “Are you sure of what you saw? Where exactly was it?”

  Dumarin pointed to a place a few feet away. Aragorn walked past the others to examine the ground.

  “Stay where you are,” he ordered and let himself down on one knee. “Was there anything else you saw?” he asked without looking up.

  Dumarin evaded the other men’s mocking stare while they packed their belongings and saddled up.

  “This… thing opened a saddlebag,” he muttered and knew instantly how stupid it sounded. The king rewarded him with a frown. “I know I closed all bags,” Dumarin insisted. “I know what I saw. I was not drunk.” But he did not reveal the fear that had pervaded to his bone.

  “Are you sure it was an animal?”

  “My lord, no man has such eyes!”

  Aragorn nodded slightly and concentrated on the ground again, but the rain had washed away every trace of a creature that might have walked this ground.

  “Where did it go to, Dumarin?” Tarés teased. “Did it vanish into thin air?” Dumarin growled an unfriendly reply, and Tarés laughed. “Yellow eyes in the darkness, hum? What else? A dragon's breath on your face? Flames out of its mouth?” He shook his head and fastened the girth on his horse.

  “I do not lie, Tarés, so don’t accuse me!” Dumarin flared gripping the hilt of his sword.

  Tarés raised a hand.

  “Peace, Dumarin, my friend. But then tell me where this thing came from or what it wanted. Why was it able to open a saddlebag? Was it a beast with hands like a man? One that likes dry meat?” He shook his head again. “Whatever you saw I assume it to be on the bottom of your flagon.”

  “You know naught!” Dumarin grabbed the saddle to lay it on the horse's back. “You were not here!”

  “But what we saw was enough,” Aragorn ended the haggling, and his men turned to him. “We will ride back. Halamin, take us to the nearest village.” He led his horse westwards, and the Royal Guard hurried to follow him.

  Dumarin exchanged wrathful glances with Tarés and Fáred, who seemed unwilling to believe him. Snorting, he murmured to himself that he was no liar, and a shiver still crawled down his spine when he thought about the sudden yellow gleam in the darkness and the feelings that accompanied it.

----------------------

EDORAS

   The silence had not lifted when he returned. The members of the council were still talking to each other, but with low, muffled voices, as if they were too afraid of saying the one thing that was on their minds aloud. Afraid to make it true if they talked about it. And when they picked up his advancing footsteps, the men fell silent again. There was now only the sound of the thunderstorm outside, rolling through the sky and the leaden atmosphere in the great hall. For a moment, blinding whiteness lit up the darkness behind the windows, followed by a furious growl. Still no rain. This was bad. After weeks of scorching heat, everything was so dry that a single spark would be sufficient to ignite Edoras. The weather certainly did nothing to improve Éomer’s mood as he performed a sharp left turn and strode down the corridor towards the benches where the others still sat, waiting for their king and looking at him expectantly.

   “I was very unsure about letting the queen hear about the attack from the start,” Erkenbrand felt inclined to say when Éomer’s gaze passed him, instantly earning him the king’s full attention. “As she is in such a very delicate state now, it certainly was a very daring move… too daring, maybe. How is she faring?”

   “The queen is well, Marshal Erkenbrand, “Éomer declared rather forcefully, annoyance sparkling in his eyes. “However, the day was very exhausting for her, which is why she is resting now. Be assured though that Lothíriel is quite aware of the fact that there is not only bliss in the world. She can well deal with grim realities, and since we are ruling Rohan together, it is her good right to hear first-hand about everything that is going on in the Mark.”

   “I was merely concerned about her well-being, Sire,” the Lord of the Westfold defended himself, sensing that he had already committed a mistake by sticking out his neck at the wrong moment.

   “I understand that, marshal, but I would still prefer not having my decisions openly questioned by you!” There was a distinct edge to the young ruler’s voice now, and a hard look told the seasoned warrior that he had just crossed a boundary. He nodded as a sign of apology and lowered his head.

   “I apologise, my lord. I forgot my place.”

   Éomer let his gaze linger a moment longer on his marshal before he finally turned around and walked the few steps over to the wooden, artfully carved throne. Usually, he still felt uncomfortable sitting on it, but something about Erkenbrand’s lack of respect told him to stress his position just a bit more. Even if his marshal was the Mark’s oldest and most experienced warrior and certainly one of its most respected men as well, he was not the mightiest man in the realm of Rohan. The decisions to make were not his. Éomer let himself fall onto the wooden seat, and looked deliberately not at Erkenbrand.

   “I heard you talking while I was gone. Has anything of importance surfaced, or shall we continue where we stopped?” A shadow fell on his face which was only lit by the flickering fire as he scanned the round. It was Gamling who answered.

   “There is nothing new, my lord. I suppose we still have to concern ourselves with Captain Galdur’s observation, even if the very thought of the subject is apt to freeze our blood.”

   “Aye, Gamling...” Éomer inhaled deeply, his fingers – unbeknown to him – working the armrests of the throne which were sculpted in the shape of horse-heads. “Fitting words indeed. They certainly freeze mine.” He finally noticed what he was doing and clamped his hands around the rests, not wanting to give his anxiety away quite so clearly as his gaze wandered to the one man who hadn’t talked so far. “Captain Galdur, you saw them load the men onto horses...”

   The captain, a rugged-looking man with slightly wavy, very fair hair and very blue eyes, perhaps a little older than himself, nodded in confirmation, and Éomer saw on his left cheek a cruel, winding scar that marred an otherwise even face. Like his marshal, the man was dripping silent intensity and anger despite the long, exhausting journey lying behind him.

   “Aye, Sire. I saw only those two being carried away, but I have no doubt that this is what also happened to the other men who disappeared.”

   “I see...” Another thunderclap, much closer this time, echoing forever as the mountains cast the sound back. And finally, the beginning rush of rain as the sky opened. At least one worry off his mind, Éomer thought bitterly, even if it was only the smallest one. From outside, very faint shouts reached his ears from the city below where everybody ran now to take cover. “Have you, or anyone you know, been to Dunland this year? Is anything known about their situation?” His gaze strayed back to Erkenbrand. It was not his intention to anger the man by ignoring him. And the marshal understood.

   “I had scouts there for a while, mainly to keep an eye on Isengard. To make sure that no one would try to take it as his. We cannot afford more trouble from that direction.”

   “And what did they see? Anything that could be of help in understanding why the situation is back to the way it had been for centuries for no apparent reason?”

   Erkenbrand shrugged. He saw no use in discussing the Dunlending’s motives when it changed nothing on the action that had to be taken. It was nothing but a waste of time, and the way things looked, they could not afford to waste much more. The next attack could only be a matter of days, and here they sat discussing what could have provoked their foes? He reigned in his temper. The king was already in a fey mood. He would not again serve as his target… unless it was absolutely necessary. Erkenbrand was not afraid to confront the son of his late friend Éomund. He knew that the facts spoke for him.

   “We know they had a very rough winter because they asked us for help, and I believe they even came all the way to Edoras, too. As for now... The tidings were that Dunland was plagued by the same unfortunate weather we experienced. A long, hard winter, the late spring and very dry summer... if possible, it’s been even drier there.”

   Éomer narrowed his eyes in thought, his fingers again subconsciously working the carvings of the armrests. The taste of bile stood already in his throat, and everything he heard pointed more towards the horrible suspicion he was harbouring.

   “So their situation would be worse than ours... or could be.”

   “I deem that quite likely, yes. If you add to that that they’ve never been adept farmers …”

   Éomer cut his eyes back to Galdur. The big question. He hated having to ask it aloud, but there was no way around it. Inhaling deeply, he made a mighty effort of clearing his mind of the gruesome images that welled up. He needed to remain able to think. Thoughts of his butchered kinsmen would not help him to achieve that goal.

   “Captain Galdur... have you, or anyone you know of, ever heard of cannibalism among the Dunlendings?”

   The question had been standing in the room for some time now, and still it forced the blood out of the men’s faces. None of the warriors, no matter how battle-hardened they were, wanted to think about what their captured kinsmen were going through, perhaps at this very moment. The captain glanced at his commander before he answered, clearly uncomfortable with the question:

   “Sire, do you mean …”

   “What I mean must be quite clear, captain! Do the Dunlendings eat their captives, yes or no?”

   A very deep breath. Another glance at Erkenbrand. Galdur’s situation was not made easier by the recognition that the king’s mood was on a rapid decline. It had taken a while to get a hold of all members of their council during the afternoon, and the resulting delay had left both the marshal and Éomer in a state of anxious impatience for hours until they could finally get started. Now it was also getting late, the air in the throne room was bad and they had done nothing but discussing catastrophic tidings for as long as the council had lasted.

   “I cannot say, Sire.”

   The king’s eyes narrowed.

   “You have never seen or found anything that would indicate it, you mean?”

   “No, but…”

   “I certainly wouldn’t put it beyond them, my lord,” Erkenbrand took over, not liking his second-in-command’s insecure tone. They needed decisions here, and whatever suppositions would bring them about, would have to be made. The danger to the Westfold was too great for further delays. “In the light of these new events, I would certainly deem everything a possibility. They would need to have a very good reason for taking the men alive though, because abducting them would be much more trouble than killing them! And what else would they want to do with their captives? Let them plough their non-existing fields? Use them as human shields against our attacks to keep us from retaliating?”

   “There could be another explanation,” Gamling interjected in an effort to work against the growing anxiety in the throne room. “A somewhat less disturbing one, in my opinion. And the question still remains of who it was that taught them to fight… and who gave them the weapons.”

   “Either way, we cannot very well forget about our kinsmen, my lords” the marshal insisted, unhappy about the new interruption. “Even if they are held captive to prevent us from attacking, we still need to find a way to free them.” He looked at Éomer, urgency in the grey eyes. “Sire, we cannot afford to wait much longer if we still want to rescue them. I could send a messenger back to the Westfold tonight with the orders for an incursion, but the truth is that we cannot know what would await the troops once they’ve crossed the Isen. I cannot leave any of the border settlements unguarded, and that would leave me with a force of no more than one full éored for the errand.” He took a deep breath.

   “Which would be a high risk indeed, because the Dunlendings – or whatever foe – would be expecting the attack and be prepared,” Éomer finished for him, liking the way Erkenbrand was trying to push him towards a decision less and less. He had always known the older man as a stern and swift warrior who would answer even the slightest provocation by his foes in a most resolute manner to discourage others from potentially joining. From the days when he had been but a lad, Éomer had always admired his father’s friend for the way he kept control over the most endangered part of the Mark. Perhaps this man’s fierce determination was the very reason why the Westfold was still populated and belonged to the Mark. Perhaps it was the only way to deal with the Dunlendings. But whereas Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark, would have followed that great warrior gladly into battle without questioning, Éomer-King knew that he bore a greater responsibility now, a responsibility for the entire people of Rohan. In this position, he could not afford to be rash in his decisions. It was not hard to retaliate against people one was openly at war with… but their quarrel had been over for two years. Did Erkenbrand not see that, or was he simply too disappointed and angered to do so?

   “Yes, Sire. We would need a considerably greater force to reduce the risk…” The marshal left the sentence hanging intentionally, but Éomer refused to reply to the open invitation.

   “And now you want for me to grant you more troops here and now, after only this one council. You expect me to decide over this matter in the course of only one afternoon.”

   Erkenbrand did not flinch from his piercing gaze.

   “I remember from your times as Third Marshal that you never were one to tarry with your decisions, Sire. And time is important, as I’m sure we all understand.” Éomer remained silent, which the older warrior took as an unspoken invitation to continue. “Éomer-King, forgive me for being so forward, but there is only one path to choose if we want Rohan to last, as far as I can see it,” he declared forcefully. His grey eyes swept the council-members’ faces one after the other for approval and came to rest on his king. Following his instincts, he stood up and stepped forth, hands clasped behind his back. “With this heinous act, the Dunlendings have proven themselves untrustworthy even under the best circumstances. There can be no lasting peace with them! They gratefully accepted King Théoden’s mercy at the time because they had expected us to kill them. But it is not peace they want. They want our land, it’s as simple as that. And as long as they have it not, they will attack us again and again, until they have either failed and their people have vanished – or we have vanished!” Another meaningful pause. The Lord of Westfold was a well-versed speaker, Éomer had to give him that, but he could not tolerate the insinuated solution to their problem. He stood up, too, stabbing his dark eyes against Erkenbrand’s grey as he stepped down the two stairs and came to a halt in front of his marshal.

   “Are you saying we should strike first, then?”

   A leaden pause. All eyes were on the marshal now. Further in the back, Lothíriel held her breath, her back pressed against the pillar that was giving her cover.

   There was not the even the slightest quiver of insecurity when Erkenbrand answered, his authoritative voice carrying through the hall.

   “Aye, my king. And I assure you that I hate that course of action as much as you, judging from your expression. Like you, I’m a warrior. Warriors, at least in the Riddermark, live by a strict code of honour. We fight only against those who attack us! We only fight against other warriors! We spare the old, the women, the children. It is the law… and yet we shall have to break it, or Rohan will cease to exist. We cannot continue to be attacked and lose the lives of our men, retaliate and then move back, waiting for them to come at us again whenever we are not prepared to meet them. Our people have diminished too much for us to take the chance to lose yet more men in these endless raids. And if we kill only their warriors and let the young live, the problem will raise again in a few years time, as soon as the children have grown. We cannot afford this. This time, when we strike, it has to mean the end of the threat... and the end of the Dunlendings. To end this once and for all, we need to eradicate their people!”

   Behind her pillar, Lothíriel put a hand to her mouth to keep herself from crying out in dismay. Closing her suddenly burning eyes, she felt with all distinctiveness how her breath exited her lungs in the wake of the marshal’s horrible suggestion. A huge black hole of despair seemed to open up right in front of her and suck her in. ‘Eradicate their people? Slaughter innocent women and children?’ Her people would

commit such an unthinkable, monstrous act?For an endless moment, her throat was too tight to breathe as she strained to hear Éomer’s reply. Hoping that he would yell at the marshal, spit on him even for suggesting the murder of an entire people. ‘Please, Éomer, say something! Tell that man how much he disgusts you and that he should ride home and never harass us again with his bloodlust! Please, say it!” Yet she heard nothing.

   “Eradicate their people?” Gamling muttered in shock, his eyes wide and his gaze shifting between the marshal and his king. He refused to believe what he had just heard. It went against everything he – and the Rohirrim as a whole – believed in! A brief side glance showed him that the captain of the Edoras-guard shared his outrage. “Lord Erkenbrand, you cannot seriously…” He paused when he saw the hard expression on the old warrior’s face and a hand rising to silence them. This was between the king and his marshal.

   Éomer stood motionlessly opposite the old warrior, unblinking. Taking on the challenge. Fighting a silent battle of wills with his childhood idol with only three feet separating them and trying to read between the lines. Erkenbrand meant what he had just said. He was dead serious about the issue, and he expected his king to share his view. Yet he could not comply. Not yet. Not like this, with only a minute to decide and no solid facts, no better than the toss of a coin.

   “You would go yourself? You would wield your sword against women and children?”

   “It would be the hardest deed ever asked of me, but for Rohan, aye, I would do it. It is them or us, my lord.”

   Their silent battle continued, with neither man giving way. After what felt to Éomer like an eternity, Erkenbrand finally averted his eyes, but the king was under the distinct impression that it was only to please him, not a gesture of true obedience. The old warrior knew very well that angering the king would not get him what he wanted. So Éomer took a deep breath and likewise turned away to look at the three men who were eagerly waiting for the outcome of the confrontation further back. They were waiting for him to tell them his verdict. Would he sentence their westerly neighbours to annihilation? Would he agree to soil his warrior’s honour with the blood of the innocent?

   “The hour is already late,” he began, attempting to bring the thoughts in his head into some kind of order, a task that was not made easier by the howling storm that chased around Meduseld now. Yet it deemed him a fitting atmosphere for an ending of this day in such gloom. “Too late to come to a decision about a question of such weight, I’m afraid.” His gaze returned to his opposite, and he saw the beginning frown in the grey irises. “This decision, Lord Erkenbrand, cannot be made rashly and in haste. Be assured that I do understand how pressed for time we are, but I will not command the annihilation of an entire people on the spur of a moment.”

   Further back, Lothíriel exhaled in relief, even if her husband’s reaction was not the one she had hoped for. He had not yet ruled out that possibility entirely, even if she thought that she might have heard the same dismay and reluctance she felt underneath his words, somewhere between the lines.

   “The spur of a moment?” Disappointment and anger shone in the marshal’s eyes, but the king’s determined expression kept him from venting his frustration more clearly. “If we wait too long, your people will die, my lord!”

   “There is nothing we can do tonight for those twelve men no matter what we decide, for we are too far away to help them,” Éomer objected, his tone final and insinuating clearly that this subject was no longer open for discussion. “We can only hope that our fears will not come true, but it is not in our power to prevent their fate if they do. What we must focus on instead, is decide how to best protect the people they may have given their lives fighting for. In order to do this, I want to hear at least two more opinions, and Erkenbrand,” he cut off the older man’s imminent objection, “… you will not change anything if you continue to insist!” There was a warning sparkle in Éomer’s eyes, and it was clear enough for his opposite to clamp down his teeth and reluctantly swallow his words. Satisfied, the king turned to his counsellor.

   “Gamling, tomorrow, at first light of dawn, you will send our fastest messenger to Aldburg. I want for Marshal Elfhelm to come to Edoras with every man he can spare without leaving the city defenceless... and I want for him to bring along Thor, his captain. It is especially important that he comes, too! The messenger shall then ride further east and gather the Eastfold’s éoreds, bring them here, too, and tell them to keep themselves ready.” He turned on his heels, speaking to the banners and no longer seeing his fellow kinsmen anymore, his mind reeling with thinking of the orders he needed to give. “Furthermore, I want messengers deployed to all parts of the land to alert all villages and settlements and their éoreds, telling them to expect further orders shortly.” A curt nod. “All villages of the Westemnet will immediately deploy their éoreds to strengthen the protection of the Westfold’s settlements and patrol the border. It is not to be crossed yet, that much must be clear!” He spun on his heels, his gaze once again seeking Erkenbrand and employing his most authoritative tone. “Any captain who thinks he must enter Dunland on his own accord and thus endanger his men against my orders will be severely punished. Is that understood?”

   “It is understood, Sire.”

   “The reinforcements will report to your domain, where they will be assigned a territory to guard. Marshal, one of your men shall ride back to accomplish that. I will lend him a fresh horse for that task.”

   “Aye, my lord.” Erkenbrand swallowed. His expression said that he was at least partially satisfied by the king’s ruling, if not entirely. “And in the meantime we will wait here for Marshal Elfhelm and his men to arrive to… decide the further fate of the Mark?”

   Éomer raised his chin.

   “It is all I can grant you for now, marshal.” The two men nodded at each other, their quarrel temporarily adjourned. “That will be all.”

   Taking off her shoes in a hurry to make her way to the private chambers unheard, Lothíriel silently sneaked back. Her mind was reeling from the revelations she had witnessed and which still left the taste of bile in her throat. Éomer … she had to talk to Éomer! He could not seriously consider such a crime, could he? He had sounded taken aback by the marshal’s suggestion, aye, but not disgusted enough. He had not entirely ruled out the possibility. So did this mean that he was still considering that course of action? He could not be!

   In all haste, Lothíriel changed into her nightgown, tense and expecting to have her husband walk in on her at any moment. What would she say then when she should have been sleeping? That she had been unable to sleep and was just in the process of getting dressed again to join their company? Wouldn’t he see through her lie? Word was that the Rohirrim could always tell a falsehood from the truth, for they themselves never lied. What was she to do?

   Her mind still reeling and with a furiously beating heart, she slipped under the covers. Yet it was hard to close her eyes, for as soon as she did, the horrible images Erkenbrand’s words had planted into her mind rose to the surface. Of fire… of screaming, tortured men, taken to another land to serve as food … of women and children, their faces dirtied and bloodied, running from a great host of mounted warriors with readied lances and swords coming after them, her beloved husband leading them…

   It took a long time for her to finally succumb to emotional and bodily exhaustion, and even then, Éomer had not returned to their chambers…

----------------------

WEST OF DAGORLAD

  The day started as grey as Dumarin’s thoughts, but cleared up when the rain clouds passed further north and the sun broke through. Warmth returned to the riders' bodies, and Hilberon finally stopped gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering. Unlike the others, he felt kind of light-hearted. The night's rain had been useful to get a closer look at this strange people he had never seen before. Nothing threatening had happened, and the moments he had thought of some evil approaching quickly vanished from his mind. The weather was dry and warm again, and within hours they were riding southwest and on more fertile grounds he assumed that he fulfilled his task without grievous mistakes. His father would speak highly of him. This would be the greatest reward he could ever get, to see his father happy about his son's actions. With a smile he looked forward to the moment he returned to the White City, tired but eager to tell Hiregon everything about the weeks he had travelled with the king. They would share a meal if his father found the time, and then Hilberon would return to the quarters of the Royal Guard which he yet had only seen the day he had delivered his belongings. It would be a day to remember.

  “Would you mind sharing your good thoughts with me? Those are the fewest.”

  Hilberon had not noticed that the king's horse had fallen back and now Aragorn's eyes were fixed upon the young man. Again he was caught daydreaming and swallowed not knowing what to say.

  “A good thought?” he repeated with a shy glance.

  “You were smiling like you thought of something… pleasant.”

  Hilberon would not admit the truth. It sounded too silly to be revealed. But he could not think of something else instead. Not so fast anyway. The king was right beside him. Unconsciously he compared himself to his height and stature and sat more upright in the saddle. The king had broader shoulders, but was only a little taller. In the years to come Hilberon would grow, but he was sure he would never gain the aura of power and wisdom and perhaps not even the skills the king was praised for though he had already learnt much for his age. He knew some of the songs sung in Minas Tirith about the day of the battle on the Pelennor Fields and his undying courage at the Black Gate. In the past two years many verses had been added and elevated the king to an undaunted hero in the eyes of Evil.

  He realised that Aragorn was still waiting for an answer.

  “I thought about my father,” he admitted quietly, evading the elder man's glance.

  “Your father is a great man.” Hilberon's head snapped around, and he saw Aragorn smile. “I talked to him two days before we left.”

  “You talked to my father?” Hilberon echoed, his voice high and sceptical, and then felt sheepish to question the king.

  “I did. Now, tell me, Hilberon son of Hiregon the smith, are you as skilled with the bow as you are with dagger and sword?”

  It was almost too much to bear. In Hilberon's mind the knowledge that his father had shared a conversation with the king – ‘What were they talking about?’ – and the sudden praise and question about his abilities left him speechless.

  “I… I will do what is the wish of the king,” he finally stuttered and managed to bow.

  “Very well,” Aragorn laughed, “I was told in the woods we are approaching some deer can be found. Are you up for a hunt?”

  Hilberon could only nod.

  They left the company behind at the forest's rim with the order to build up a campfire. Dumarin looked wretched and was glad to slip out of the saddle. Tarés was again willing to offer his protection, but knew instinctively that the king would have asked for it if he deemed it necessary. Not for the first time he mused why five men escorted the king if he preferred to be alone. ‘Alone and in danger again, perhaps,’ he added for himself. Without a word he turned to take care of the horses. Halamin gazed after the king and the young soldier, wondering what had led to the ruler's decision to take up such a young man. When Halamin had entered the service as a soldier in the White City he had had to prove himself worthy of such a task, and he could not help himself envying Hiregon's son.

  Hilberon felt awkward leaving the others behind. Now the low task of collecting firewood was taken out off his hands. And at the same time the task to protect the king alone if any danger occurred made him swallow with nervousness. Aragorn did not notice the young soldier's uneasiness, and Hilberon quickly adapted to his long strides putting behind his dark thoughts. They trudged deep into the forest where the light grew dim and the sunbeams charmed patterns of different shades of green onto the ground. Hilberon was fascinated by the enchanted beauty of the trees in their splendour and more than hunting he would have liked to walk through this haven. Soon the leaves would change colour and announce autumn, close the circle of year. He had heard stories about the wonderful forests of Ithilien, but what he saw now was more than what he had dreamt.

  “Watch out,” Aragorn suddenly whispered and held Hilberon back. They crouched and waited until the doe stepped closer to graze upon the little clearing, raising its head from time to time, but neither seeing nor smelling the hunters hidden. Aragorn encouraged Hilberon with a look. The young man already held the bow in his hand and quickly put on an arrow to take aim. He was aware of the king watching him; aware that this was a test of his abilities; if the king could trust him. He held his breath and the arrow flew, hit the mark. Astonished and relieved Hilberon saw the doe stumble a few steps until it fell down. For a moment longer he knelt and the last seconds passed before his inner eye. He had never before shot a deer and while Aragorn rose, slapping his shoulder – “Good shot!” – Hilberon felt a broad grin on his face. He had not failed the king's trust in him. What a nice story to tell about!

  Hilberon hurried to take up the doe and carry it back to the camp. Still astonished that shooting an animal had worked as nicely as hitting the centre of a target, he marched behind the king with his head bowed to conceal his happiness. Truly the king would consider him a fool to almost jump for joy after the shooting of an animal that had stood still until the arrow had hit it. So the pleasure was his alone. And proudly he presented the doe to Halamin, who exclaimed merrily that the days of short supplies were over. Hilberon had never felt better.

  This day was a good day.

---------------------------

  Halamin rode up to the king and politely waited until spoken to.

  “Riding at this speed we might reach the village I mentioned this afternoon. And… if I may say so it would be advised to stay overnight.”

  “What have you heard?” Aragorn asked and saw the guard hesitate with the answer.

  “It was from this village… the first rumours about the beasts tearing their cattle. As Tarés told you, my lord.”

  “I see.”

  “But that does not mean it runs true,” Halamin added quickly as if to demonstrate he would not fear to sleep outdoors again.

  “We will find out.” And with a grim smile he added, “I would not mind seeing one of these beasts with my own eyes.”

  Halamin thought he would mind, but that it was better not to contradict.

  Passing through another wooded expanse Hilberon looked up to the green roof. Shattered rays od sunshine flickered through as if playing a melody on the highest leaves inaudible for those on the ground. The day before had been marvellous, and finally he had lived the feeling of satisfaction for having contributed something valuable. Not even Fáred could say anything against a fresh roast and stated that it had been not a meal but a feast. Still Hilberon wondered about the king. Against his expectations Aragorn had rejected to be served first, but ordered the others to eat while he sat aside and smoked a pipe. The young man had watched him. Overwhelmed by his own joy he found it odd that the king seemed concerned and depressed. His gaze had wandered to the east, and through the smoke he had frowned and then, slowly, exhaled.

  Hilberon overheard the conversation between Aragorn and Halamin and when the settling came into view the young soldier spurred his horse into a gallop, leaving the others quickly behind. In the thunder of the hoofs on the grass he did not hear the king shout after him but rode on with the intention of doing something good. Men and women at the huts and on the fields nearby raised their heads to see who was coming.

  “Hail the King of Gondor!” Hilberon announced loud and clear. “The king is coming!” They gaped at him silently and unmoving, and for a long moment while he slackened the speed of his steed he thought they were deaf. “The king is coming!” he repeated in the same way. He heard the horses behind him and, suddenly, as if by a command, the people dropped to one knee and bowed deeply. Hilberon stifled a smile and turned on the saddle waiting for the king to collect the respect granted. Aragorn and the soldiers arrived and to Hilberon's surprise and shock the king did not seem pleased. Hilberon swallowed hard.

  “Raise!” Aragorn ordered the people on the ground halting his horse, and when they slowly and hesitantly followed his command he turned to Hilberon and the others still mounted. “This will be the first and the last time I ever hear myself announced in that way,” he hissed in a voice deep and rich with restrained anger. Hilberon shrunk on the saddle and felt his face hot with embarrassment. The others looked at him, and he wished nothing more than to disappear at whatever cost. “There is no reason for this proclamation. If I do not give the order to call me by name no one will introduce me to others. Did I make myself clear?” He looked from one to the other. Only Fáred dared to speak.

  “It will be as you wish, my lord, but what name shall we use if your title and real name shall not be revealed?”

  Aragorn ignored the disbelief and the undertone of mockery.

  “If there is the need to use one, call me Strider. This was given to me long ago. It will serve well enough.“

  Fáred cleared his throat and inhaled for the next question.

  “Shall we then deny the knowledge of your… position to others?”

  “You will know the moment when secrecy is more advised than the truth, captain.” He dismounted and led his horse into the village. Other people showed respect by letting themselves down on one knee, and every time Aragorn ordered them at once to get up. It was obvious how annoyed he was with their gullible obedience, and when he stopped to talk to a man, who fed the pigs in a fence, he had to wait until the man had calmed down enough to be able to answer his questions without stuttering. In that time the herd feasted upon the feed he had dropped. Everybody else seemed excited in a feverish and anxious way that their ruler graced the settling with his visit. The sudden haste to serve the king in any way he desired caused unrest and soon Aragorn was surrounded by villagers gaping at him and who silently waited for an explanation.

  Hilberon walked behind the other soldiers, his shoulders sagged, his head bowed. He was sure the king would throw him out of the Royal Guard the moment they returned to Minas Tirith. Though his behaviour might yet have been tolerated he would not be granted another mistake like that. He banged his head against the saddle. His father would be ashamed of him, and again Hilberon asked himself what his father and the king had talked about. Hiregon might have praised the abilities of his son, and now he would find out that his son was nothing more than a stupid adolescent who acted against the order of the king. Still the young soldier could not deny that he lacked understanding the king's order. Why would a royal highness not want to be proclaimed? Or was there a reason he just did not see in his youthful ignorance?

  “Why you look so discouraged?” Halamin asked in a friendly manner, when they unsaddled the horses near a barn. “He did not behead you, did he?” Hilberon found no words to explain how worthless he felt. He was not endowed with the self-confidence needed to forget about the incident quickly. He had never overestimated his skills, but to fail on such a simple matter was hard to accept. “Hilberon, raise your head! Mistakes can be made! A beard cut too short will grow again, as I would say.” The older man slapped Hilberon's shoulder heartily. “Ah, now, come, the king ordered us to share the roast with the villagers. It is a task for us. You can give me a hand.”

  “He will throw me back to the stables,” Hilberon muttered, but instead of agreeing with him Halamin just said,

  “You know nothing of the king.”

  After the meal the man who owned the stud of pigs, Tesestras, eagerly told the story of how he found one of his animals dead in the fence.

  “It was almost torn to pieces, I’d say, my lord, sire!” he nodded with his round, red speckled face which lower part was, to his advantage, covered by a thick fair haired beard. “Torn… with mighty claws, I’d say.” He formed his hands like claws to demonstrate it. “Not much left of the innards. That beast would have been really hungry.” He shook his head and rested his feisty hands on his thighs. Together with the king and his men, Tesestras and a friend of his, Ridon, sat near the fire. Five young children had been playing behind them, and just a short while ago they had been called in by their mother. The sudden quietness was only broken by Tesestras' far reaching voice. “There’s quite much meat on my pigs, I’d say, my lord, so… whatever it was it had real hunger! But that was only one… the first it was.”

  “Did you set out a night watch after that incident?” the king asked taking the pipe out of his pocket. “Or did that beast come during daytime?”

  “No, no, at night. And, aye, we did set out a watch, surely we did, my lord, sire! But… well, the watch was lured away.” He shook his head with a grimace, and it was not hard to tell who the guard had been in that night. “And when he came back the second pig was gone. That was really bad, my lord, sire.” His gaze fell upon his daughter who stood three feet away with a jar that seemed too big for her small hands. She clung it to her body. “Eridana, why you stand there? Serve us! Do it quick!”

  Aragorn turned his head. The slender girl was about eight years old, had long fair braids and freckles on her nose. She was hardly breathing. Insecure how to do what she was told she glanced round from one soldier to the other, then made up her mind and went to Fáred, took his cup and filled it adroitly with water.

  “Eridana, the king first!” Tesestras reminded her sternly. Fáred already pointed with his chin to Aragorn refusing the cup she offered him, and Eridana stood, with the cup in one hand and the heavy jar in the other, frowning.

  “He cannot be the king.”

  Tesestras' face flushed in seconds. His head snapped around to his daughter, a surprisingly quick move for a man of his stature.

  “Eridana, shut up, you…”

  “Hold it, Tesestras,” the king interrupted him distinctively, and the feisty man swallowed his next words. Eridana had to put down the jar; her arm was already trembling. “What made you decide that he is the king?” he asked the girl friendly in his deep voice and continued filling his pipe.

  Eridana frowned deeply looking from Fáred to Aragorn. Tesestras opened his mouth for another rebuke, and the king quietened him with a gesture, not even looking at him. The girl had decided.

  “He got a cuirass with these symbols, and such a shining helmet… and a long beard. And he is old,” she added with her high voice.

  Fáred stroked his long beard with a small smile while the others suppressed a laugh. Tesestras snorted. Eridana took up the jar again and filled Aragorn’s cup hastily.

  “Thank you, Eridana,” he said to her, “I will remember that.” She smiled feebly, hurried to serve the other soldiers and her father and almost ran back to the hut, away from the angry glance in her father’s eyes. Aragorn drank and put down the cup to light his pipe with a burning twig. “You have very honest children, Tesestras. I appreciate that.” The feisty man swallowed noisily. From the corner of his eye the king saw Hilberon frown with sudden realisation. Turning to the peasant he said, “How many pigs did you lose?”

  Tesestras needed a moment to answer. His gaze had followed his disobedient daughter.

  “Ah… four, my lord, sire. I apologise for my daughter. She got no manners. I always say to my wife she is not strict enough with her, I’d say.”

  “Do you know of other losses in the settlements?” Aragorn asked ignoring the peasant’s words.

  “Some, yes.” Tesestras emptied his cup greedily as if he was not used to talking and his mouth had dried out. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve he then belched soundly. “Grulin told me two of his horses were stolen. Well, perhaps he just sold them and forgot about it. He’s such a drunkard, my lord, sire.” He laughed, but when the king showed concern, the laughter died even faster than it had appeared. “Aye, perhaps it was true then.” The king looked at him inquiringly. “Thárabad said the beast took two goats. That’s a league from here to the west. And Namard lost some of his calves this spring. If it is true what he said,” Tesestras shrugged. His look was still insecure. “It’s a hungry beast, I’d say, my lord, sire.”

  Aragorn nodded slightly and blew out rings of smoke.

  “Did anyone see it?”

  Tesestras' eyes were suddenly wide with fear and he raised his hands in defence.

  “No! No one ever got close, I’d say. It’s a sly beast, truly. Would have ripped us too, my lord, I’d say. Might have ripped a man or two already. Or even more, who knows?”

  “Why do you say that?” the king asked at once, eyeing the stout man with a frown.

  Tesestras swallowed nervously.

  “Well, nay, I can’t say, my lord, sire, might be… it’s not only cattle that’s missing. It’s two men also… if they have not just left for a hunting tour that turned ill. And there are rumours…” He waved his thick hand. “Nay, I won’t give much to it.”

  “For how long have they been gone by now?”

  “Can’t say. It’s just… talk. No one knows.”

  Aragorn turned his gaze to the lively fire again and then asked,

  “Can you describe the size of the claws?”

  “The claws, hum?” Tesestras dared to breathe again, shaking off the mere idea of such a beast in close range of his massive body. “Big they were, I’d say. Really big.”

  “Like that of a wolf?”

  “No, no wolf, my lord, sire, we know wolves here, don’t we, Ridon?” The man spoken to nodded solemnly and scratched his almost bald head. “See, wolves are common, this beast… no, this was something really evil. Had bigger claws.”

  “The size of your hand?”

  Tesestras looked puzzled, stretched out his hand and inspected the short fingers.

  “Might be, yes,” he nodded. “The claws were far apart, my lord, sire. On the pig I mean. The pig was really badly torn.”

  “You saw but one pig that was killed? The others were carried away?”

  “Aye, my lord, sire,” Tesestras nodded eagerly. “The others… there was nothing left of them. Not a single trace.” And when he stared into the fire, he added in a lower voice, “But I heard it. I heard it growl. And it was not a pleasant sound, my lord, not at all.”

  “I know what you mean.”

---------------------------

EDORAS

  It was already light when she woke, a pallid, cold light that told her that it was still early morning. The sun could not have risen for long. For a moment Lothíriel contemplated turning on her other side to try and fall asleep again, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she knew that it was hopeless. She was far too awake already.

  Thinking of Éomer and asking herself how he would like a relaxed start into the day after the strenuous afternoon, she turned her head with a suggestive smile. It died when she saw the empty space next to her. He was not there. Where was he? Confused, Lothíriel stretched out her hand to touch the sheet where her husband should by all rights have lain. It was cold… and undisturbed. He had not been here at all last night. Valar, what had happened? They could not still be talking, could they?

  Frowning, Lothíriel sat up and placed her feet on the ground, not bothering to feel for her shoes because the tiles were warm where the sunlight fell on them. She stood up and held her breath, listening for any sounds that would give her an idea of Éomer’s whereabouts. Silence answered her. Slowly and inwardly asking herself whether she was still dreaming, she passed through the chamber, vainly looking for telltale signs, then opening the door to stick her head out into the corridor.

  Nothing. No voices, no sounds. All were still sleeping. But where was Éomer? What could he be doing at this hour? Was he at the stables, perhaps? Once during the last summer, she remembered an occasion where her proud king had been sleeping in an empty stall next to his precious steed, because Firefoot had been tormented by a colic. Could Firefoot be ill?

  The thought of putting on a robe before she stepped out never entered her head as Lothíriel moved silently through the dormant hall and opened the door to the throne room. Usually the rusty hinges screamed and creaked whenever put to work, but today, they performed flawlessly and opened without noise. A few more steps into the middle. She came to a halt in front of the fireplace. An unpleasant odour of cold ash hung in the air. Turning towards the throne and the banners behind it, Lothíriel pivoted, her nightgown billowing in the slight flux of air, but again, there was nothing to be seen or heard. From out of nowhere, a cold draft hit her naked skin.

  Suddenly, her heartbeat accelerated, throbbing so hard it felt as if it would burst the top of her skull. It was too silent! There were no birds singing outside. No creaking of the ancient wood Meduseld was built from. No wind, and up here on the lonely hill of Edoras, the wind never stopped! Something was wrong, very wrong! An icy shiver climbed up her spine and nestled inside her stomach, causing her flesh to crawl.

  “Éomer?”

  She did not like the sound of her voice at all: shrill, on the edge of panic. And what was worse was that there was no echo, no reflection of the sound from the high ceiling and pillars. It sounded strangely flat. Dead. Altogether false. Subconsciously, Lothíriel’s hands went down to cradle her lower belly protectively. It felt to her as if she could feel her child turn ceaselessly in her womb, equally tormented by the dreadful silence around her... the silence of a tomb.

  “Éomer, where are you?” Even more scared now. She whirled around again, anxiety threatening to overwhelm her. “Anyone? Can anybody hear me?”

  Nothing. And just when Lothíriel thought the relentless drumming of her heart would cause her to faint, she noticed the smell. A sickening, sweet odour, getting thicker and riper with each step that she took towards the door. There were no doorwardens guarding it. Where were the doorwardens? Where was everybody? Like in a trance, she stretched out her arm. The wood somehow felt false, too. How could this be? And should she really go out and…

  The door opened before the thought was finished, and the stench assaulted her with sickening, nauseating power, but the view that was granted to her eyes stunned her even more: They were all here. All of Edoras citizens, more than she had ever seen assembled in one place except for her wedding day. All stood silently on the steep slope, their eyes transfixed towards the west, oblivious to her presence. To her right, at the corner of the dais, she finally detected Éomer, adorned in full mail and armour for a purpose she could not guess, the arm with his drawn sword hanging loosely by his side, but he, too, stared mesmerised into the same direction, not taking notice of her presence. From somewhere behind the mountains, a low grumble began to rise now like the thunder of a very distant storm. Lothíriel followed his gaze... and froze.

---------------------------

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  Aragorn ineffectively tried to avoid being invited to sleep in one of the huts. Ridon humbly offered his home again, and his wife lit a candle and then scurried out of the single room a moment later. It would have been rude to reject the offer, and with a sigh the king entered through the low door. Ridon was gone a second later. The hut was built out of raw wood on a sandy ground with two simple beds of the same quality. Some baskets in one corner completed the poor furniture.

  The king extinguished the candlelight with his fingers, took off his weapons and laid down. He forced his eyes shut, but in the darkness the stench of damp clothes, old leather, musty soil, and straw grew stronger by the minute. The hut was narrow, had no windows, and the roof seemed to be right above his head. Aragorn felt the walls around him like a close confinement. His heart beat faster, and suddenly the ill memory of shackles around his wrists grew so intense he could not stand it any longer. It was useless; he found no rest. Finally he got up, and left the hut to inhale the clear night's air. Wiping his face with both hands he all too vividly remembered his captivity one and a half years ago. For almost three months he had been caged in a small dungeon cell and forced to work in the mine of Deromonor.

  Aragorn's hands clasped the upper fence in front of him.

  His attempts to escape had failed and he had bitterly paid for it. Finally his fate had rested on the shoulders of a ten-year-old boy who had never before left the castle.

  The king's grip went so tight he felt splinters penetrating his palms. The memory of sending this boy on a mission was even worse than the captivity itself. Still he considered it an irresponsible act to have exploited a child that way. But he had had no other options. He would not have been able to escape alone. The guards had watched him closely and not taken off his shackles.

  But the boy had survived and even brought back the King of Rohan and Faramir. Without them Aragorn's fate would had been fulfilled in that castle.

  The king overlooked the starlit settlement.

  The ride back from Deromonor to Minas Tirith had proved to be even stranger than travelling with four Hobbits. First Vlohiri had been shy and hardly spoke a word, but the joy of leaving the dreadful castle for the White City had finally taken him over. He grew bolder by the day. He was interested in everything and asked the soldiers as well as Aragorn a thousand questions per minute, after the king had encouraged him to feed his curiosity. Vlohiri was like a seedling that grew rapidly in the warmth of care. It had been a pleasure to answer his questions for the boy seemed to cherish every detail and did not forget it. But he had shied away from Faramir, would not even want to talk to him. Aragorn had noticed how sad the prince was and had tried to tease Vlohiri that Faramir were much more educated than the king himself, but the boy had made it clear by his reserved behaviour that he would not take the offer. Vlohiri had looked forward to the meeting with Queen Arwen and had sunk to his knees upon seeing her. She had thanked him for his help, and after that afternoon Vlohiri had been in a kind of trance for a whole day.

  Aragorn smiled upon the picture in his mind how Vlohiri had stared at his wife with so much admiration and awe that she had finally frowned and asked him if he was not feeling well.

  But life in the palace was different from that at Deromonor like the sun from the moon. The boy had found it hard to adept to a lifestyle where he was no longer a servant who ran the building for errands, but a member of the royal family who had his own servant. Without his tasks he had felt useless and had grown unhappy for Aragorn had not had the time to take care of his education as frequently as he wished to. Aragorn had to reign over the kingdom, and many decisions had been delayed due to his absence. When Faramir had taken the boy out into the gardens of the White City to tell him about its history and the stewards, who had ruled Gondor until the king had returned, Vlohiri’s shyness had ebbed away slowly, and he had been seen with the prince more often. Finally Faramir had asked for the allowance to educate Vlohiri in his house. Aragorn had been reluctant to let the boy go, but since he knew that the prince would take good care of Vlohiri he had agreed. The boy had accepted the decision that the Prince of Ithilien would teach him to read and write and to let him learn the lore of Gondor, but the boy as well as the ruler were not completely happy with the solution. They talked alone about it, and Aragorn had to admit that he would not have sent him away if Vlohiri had contradicted. But the boy had made friends with the prince, and so the parting had not been too sad, at least not for the boy. Aragorn had promised to visit him, and the king was sure that Faramir would take the young lad with him whenever he came to the palace. Still Aragorn had hardly been able to hide his sorrow to let the boy go.

  The king still pondered over his decision, though it had seemed right at that time.

  “Is anything wrong, sire?” Halamin asked getting closer with a torch in his hand. Aragorn woke from his musing and forced himself to open his hands. The guard gazed at the splinters and the marks the raw wood had left on the king's palms. He frowned sympathetically. “Can I be a help in any way?”

  Aragorn exhaled looking down on his hands.

  “No, I do not think that there is any help for me.” The guard nodded curtly. The king sensed his hesitation to retreat and asked, “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

  Halamin looked up to his ruler, who seemed to be in a sad mood. The soldier would not want to sound insubordinate and searched for the right words. When they came he seemed to walk a thin line.

  “My lord, I know I have no right to speak to you like this, but…” He inhaled deeply, but before he could continue with his plea the king raised his right hand slightly to quieten him down.

  “There is no need to worry about Hilberon's doing today. I did not intend to punish him. Though he should follow orders and not his ideas.”

  “Agreed.” With a curt bow Halamin was about to retreat when the king added,

  “But sometimes orders restrict a noble heart too much.” A pause followed when Aragorn's thoughts returned to Vlohiri. Without the boy's ignorance of prohibitions the King of Gondor would not be able to watch the starlit night. Inhaling deeply he glanced at Halamin. “You are a good friend to him, Halamin. So tell him that I do not intend to lift the duty of serving the Royal Guard from him. I will think about it again if he rides up to a host of Haradrim with the same intention.” A smile tugged at his lips, and Halamin was relieved.

  “Very well, my lord, I think he will understand.”

---------------------------

EDORAS

  He woke with a start, not knowing what had caused him to surface from the black, bottomless pit he had finally fallen into after an eternity of lying awake and staring at the ceiling with his mind racing. Lothíriel had already been asleep when he had finally sneaked into the chamber in the dark after a long, private talk he had with Gamling following Erkenbrand’s retreat. The marshal had righteously felt beat after the ride that lay behind him, and when the rain had abated, both he and his captain had bidden them an early good night and gone down the path to the inn where the rest of their comrades were spending the night.

  For a moment, Éomer continued to lie on his back, unmoving. Tasting the atmosphere. And even if he could not put his finger on what it was that had woken him, his instincts were crying out. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes to the moving pattern of moonlight and shadow on the ceiling, breathing silently through his mouth and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers to chase the last remainders of sleep away. Listening. Straining his ears for anything out of the ordinary. Muffled noises, screams, footsteps... anything that would not belong into Meduseld at the dead of night. Still intently listening, he turned his head to the left to see whether his wife had likewise been woken by the strange atmosphere... and looked at blank white sheets. Lothíriel was not there.

  His heart jumping into his throat, Éomer turned with a jolt – and saw her standing at the window, the silken, blue night-gown flowing over her delicate frame like water, shimmering in the pale moonlight under the veil of raven-black hair. A brief moment of relief washed over him, but the very distinct notion that something was off would not cease. What was she doing there in the middle of the night? What was she looking at? He sat up.

  “Lothíriel?” The sound of his own loud voice startled him, and he lowered it to a whisper. “What are you doing?”

  She did not respond. He tried it a little louder.

  “Lothíriel?”

  Nothing. A cold feeling spread in his stomach. She had to have heard him. Why was she ignoring him? He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Lothíriel, what is wrong?”

  Now even the air seemed frozen. With a growing feeling of foreboding, Éomer came to his feet. He had to be dreaming. This could not be reality, even if the cool tiles beneath his bare feet said something else. He swallowed and stepped up behind his unmoving wife, grasping her shoulder to turn her around and face him.

  “Lothíriel?”

  She would not let herself be turned! Rigid like a marble statue and just as unyielding, his wife stood rooted to the ground. Not turning her head, not answering, not acknowledging his presence by the slightest sign. The sight of her inanimate face chased a chill down Éomer’s spine. Lothíriel’s eyes were open, but there was no life in them. She was not even blinking as she continued to stare out of the window towards the mountains in a trance. Reflexively, Éomer followed her gaze towards the snow-capped summits. They looked eerily silver-blue in the moonlight, unreal, and there was mist rising from the meadows below, but otherwise, there was nothing to be seen, no matter how hard he looked. He took another step forth that brought him in front of his wife. “What is there?”

  “It is coming...” Her voice seemed to come from a distant place and trailed off, blown away by the breeze that blew through the open window, her eyes looking through him as she raised her hand. “There...”

---------------------------

  The horizon turned red. At first Lothíriel knew not what to make of it. It was but a dark red line that covered the horizon from one edge to the other, like a strange shadow. Then it began to rise, and she recognised the motion, the sparkling reflection of its moving surface. It was a wave. A single red wave rolling their way, still leagues away in the distance... but moving steadily, and oh so fast towards them, ascending into the pale morning sky as it did so... bringing with it the stench of decay. A tidal wave of blood.

---------------------------

  It was too much for him. Too much to see her like this, entranced, unresponsive, staring at something that was not there. Was she possessed? What was wrong with her? Right there and then, Éomer decided he had enough as he seized Lothíriel’s shoulders and shook her, frantic to wake her from this eerie state.

  “Lothíriel, wake up!”

  Dark eyes stared through him as if he weren’t there, devoid of expression. Empty. Without thinking twice, he lifted her up and started towards the door, yelling for their healer...

---------------------------

  The sky was a red, moving, reflecting wall, dwarfing the mountains. Dwarfing even Edoras as it rolled towards them and still rising. None of the mesmerised onlookers turned to flee, because they all understood instinctively that there was no escape. The wave would crush them, and who was still alive after it had tumbled down upon them would drown in the ocean of blood. The sweet, coppery odour was overpowering now, and over the growing roar Lothíriel heard for a moment the horses screaming in the stables. They were wild with terror, not hypnotised like the men and women surrounding them and craning their necks back to stare at the frothing crest of the red wall as it blotted out the sun ...

---------------------------

  “Yálanda! Gamling!” Éomer raced through the corridor, his inanimate wife in his arms, his heart racing. He had never thought he could be this afraid. “Help us!”

---------------------------

  The wave smashed Edoras like the foot of a giant, the impact shaking the lonely hill to its core. Such must have been the flood that brought the end of Numénor, Lothíriel thought numbly as she watched the red flood churn up the hill, while the plains the Golden Hall commanded had already vanished under the frothing liquid. This time, the Valar had chosen to destroy Edoras. Its people had angered the ancient gods, and now their doom was upon them.

  People screamed and fought to rise from the brutal current that threw them against rock or huts, tearing everything down that stood in its way. Already, the wooden ruins of the Rohirrim capital crashed against the bottom of the dais, the blood rising faster than any flood she had ever seen. Oblivious to her imminent death, Lothíriel turned to Éomer. He was near now, his expression that of a shattered man as he looked upon his drowning kinsmen.

  “You brought it about yourself,” she heard her own voice say with cold finality. He turned his head to look at her. “This is your punishment.”

  For an endless moment, they stared at each other, and she saw dawning comprehension in his defeated eyes. Then the flood reached Meduseld, and everything turned red...

---------------------------

  A crimson rivulet ran from Lothíriel’s nose, down to her lips, colouring them red, her eyes staring unblinking into the void. The sight froze the king to the core.

  “Yálanda!”

  Up ahead, the door to the healer’s room. Almost there! Squeezing each ounce of strength he had left into his legs, Éomer sped up... and suddenly noticed a movement! Lothíriel’s head had turned just the slightest bit to look at him, her stare no longer empty. It stopped him dead in his tracks, and for a moment, relief was so great it was almost painful - until he noticed the icy chill in her eyes.

  “Lothíriel?”

  “The slaughterers shall be slaughtered...”

  Dark eyes stabbed against his, their expression hard and unforgiving, so utterly unlike Lothíriel that Éomer almost dropped her in shock. Her voice was clear and firm, its tone that of a judge passing his verdict. There were no emotions in the words that she spoke, neither satisfaction nor compassion. For a moment, it deemed Éomer as if a higher force had abducted his wife’s body to utilise it for its errand, to look at him and to speak to him through her mouth, and he could not for the life of him move.

  Up ahead, the healer’s door opened and a question was shouted his way, but the King of Rohan heard it not. The hard stare stayed on him for a moment longer, freezing him to the core. Then, suddenly, Lothíriel blinked, the cruel expression gone as if he had been imagining it, and the dark eyes rolled back into her head until only the whites could be seen. The body in his arms slackened ...

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And now on with the story...

ITHILIEN

  In the settlements further south and west they heard the peasants' stories about something wild attacking their cattle. Aside from the obvious fear these people had, no tracks could be found, and the men told the king that the attacks had stopped one cycle of the moon ago. The beast had not been spotted a single time, but every villager had a picture in his mind that was crueller than the one before. The description of the dead pigs and calves resembled those of Tesestras, but in most cases the animals had been stolen and not ripped apart in the fence. Aragorn heard from a very upset trader that two of his horses had been taken within weeks though he had watched them carefully. At the time one horse was stolen he had been distracted by other sounds, and the king was about to believe that the horse-thieves his men and he had encountered were collecting all steeds in eastern Ithilien. The king's concerns that the rumours bore some truth had been right, and he fell silent during the last two days of their ride.

  “Thieves and beasts,” Fáred growled when they rode on in the morning's mist. “And no one has seen naught.”

  Tarés looked grim when he nodded.

  “And we come up with naught! No beast to follow, no thief to…” He interrupted himself hastily for the king was too close by. Lowering his voice he continued, “Well, we cannot set out guards everywhere to find this… thing, if it even exists. Perhaps it’s just a bigger wolf. That's not unheard of.”

  “Aye, I agree.” Fáred stared at the king's back. “And the thieves we know. We just have to get there and get our horses back.” The captain waited for a reprimand, but Aragorn did not seem to be listening at all to the conversation behind him. Dumarin rode closer to Fáred's left side and followed his captain's gaze. They both let their horses fall back while Tarés rode on straight.

  “What do you think comes out of this?” Dumarin asked lowly.

  Fáred eyed him cautiously.

  “What do you mean?”

  Dumarin snorted.

  “There has to be a decision to make, has it not? What is your opinion?”

  “Mine is not asked.” He nodded with his chin to Aragorn. “It is his to decide what the army will do.” But Dumarin knew the tone well. Fáred was still angry, and it did not take him long to utter his doubts. “I knew what the steward would have done,” he hissed, and his beard trembled. “But the King of Gondor will not follow those great footsteps. He has not done so when two traitors had to be sentenced, and he will not do it now with these horse-thieves. I can tell you that much.”

  “So you do not think that the people in the east will cross the border?”

  Fáred's voice was rancorous toward the king, but still low.

  “There is no strength left in them to stand a single fight! They are but thieves! They have moved here to steal from our honest kinsmen! Could be that they brought in that… beast, whatever it might be. Perhaps they want the villagers to flee and leave everything behind! Who knows what these boorish people are up to! To end this threat it would be the best to throw them back further east, to vanquish them once and for good, but…” He made a gesture with his hand and exhaled. “He won’t, Dumarin, he won’t.”

  Hilberon, close behind the two men, felt the urge to defend the king and his decision to come, but he lacked the words and knew from experience that Fáred would never let go of his point of view, even with the right arguments at hand. Only the king ruled over Fáred's actions, and, as Hilberon had seen himself, even this did not work all the time.

  Hilberon thought about the journey they had accomplished. He had made mistakes so his narration to his father would not be as shining as he had hoped it would be, but he had learnt a lot and shot a doe, which was, in his eyes, something he would stress. It still made him proud, at least in this case, that he had not disappointed the king. The forests of Ithilien in their splendour still lingered before his inner eye. There would be a lot to tell about those forests, the lights, the smells, and the sounds. He wished the king would say that they had to ride out tomorrow again. Then he called himself foolish. The king would be happy to return to the White City and his wife. If there was any living being in Gondor that could make the stern looking king happy it had to be the sight of his beautiful wife. Queen Arwen was even more beautiful than the forests he had looked on, and for a moment he recalled her face. During the coronation many of the Elves had been present, and they all had looked fair and untouched by age, but Arwen had been shining like a crystal.

  But Hilberon also wondered about the ruler's actions during the ride and had to admit that Aragorn did not resemble the man he had imagined. All the kingly attitudes were amiss. Aragorn neither wore royal clothes nor slept in a tent. Wherever the group had gone to the king went first, he had never sent Fáred and his men as a vanguard. He did not even want to be called by his given name and title! Hilberon frowned and intended to take this subject to his father since he did not know whom else to talk to. Softly he started to hum, could not even recall who had taught him the tune, but it lighted his mood.

  When they crossed the Rammas' great gate Tarés was relieved more than he could tell. He had been worried since the incident with the horse-thieves that some of them would return to avenge their dead companion. Halamin had thought the same, but their wish to stay close by the king was impossible to attain. Aragorn had made it clear without words that he did not need the soldiers to ride with him; that he never wanted them to be at his side. Tarés had hardly slept to be up and close to the king if an attack would occur. Fortunately, the ride back had been uneventful aside from the pig-breeder, who had talked too loud and too much, regardless the diminishing interest of the listeners.

  Looking at the riders ahead of him, Tarés recalled the day when the news of the king’s abduction had reached Minas Tirith. It had shocked the citizens. Tarés had been in the palace and present the day the king had ridden out for a hunt with only three men he knew well. Tarés' friends had shaken their heads in disbelief, but more because of the ruler's unusual behaviour than out of worry. The war had been over and the first six months of Aragorn's reign had passed without alarming incidents from the eastern and southern borders. So the soldiers as well as the people had relaxed and gone about their businesses. But after the king had been reported missing for more than a week the unrest had grown. Lady Arwen had kept her head high and taken over the royal duties without delay, but fear had spread like wildfire that the King of Gondor might have been killed. Tarés had heard those fearful whispers when he returned from the northern lands after a useless search for the king. The long weeks of waiting had begun and every rumour he had heard had been more terrible than the one before. The city's inhabitants had lost their faith in the strength of their king, and despair had gripped their hearts. Winter's arrival had drowned the last hopes for a safe return, and Tarés had seen many women weeping on the streets. Then, all of a sudden, Aragorn, Éomer, and Faramir with their soldiers had ridden up the first ring of the White City, and all who set eyes on the group had been stunned before they had been able to cheer.

  Tarés exhaled, let his gaze wander over the plain before him. In the distance the shining white walls could already be seen. His memories still lingered on the day of Aragorn's return to the palace.

  The soldier had been standing at the palace's gates, and it had been his greatest pleasure to welcome his ruler back and to open them up for him. But Tarés' smile was lost in the shock upon seeing into Aragorn's face. The king had been a mere shadow of his former self, and though he was smiling and seemed happy to be home, the months he had been away had taken something from him. Tarés had steadied himself to not let show what he felt, but in his heart he had prayed for the king. In the weeks to come the Royal Couple had only shown themselves on important events like the spring festivities. Aragorn had looked healthier then, and Tarés had sworn to himself that he would accompany the king on his next ride. He had been with the king at Edoras for the marriage of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to the King of Rohan, and he had stayed at Aragorn's side when he had ridden out at the end of summer to look over the harvest and decide how many wagons with food supplies would be sent to help the Rohirrim. Now, again, Tarés felt the strain end. He hoped the king would not decide to ride out tomorrow again.

-----------------------

EDORAS

  It seemed like ages to Éomer before the healer finally came out of the royal bedchamber where she had treated the queen. Dressed in a simple woollen tunic and tights he had quickly grasped before Yálanda had chased him out of the room after he had carried her back. He had been pacing the corridor restlessly, hating to be shut out when he was being consumed by a deep fear for his wife. Every now and then, Maia, his wife’s maid she had brought along from Dol Amroth, had left the chamber for various errands, and he had been able to get a brief question in, but all in all, he knew very little of Lothíriel’s state as the sun rose over Meduseld.

  Almost jumping at the old woman in his anxiety, Éomer cut off her path, not caring what Yálanda thought of his manners.

  “How is she? What is wrong with her?”

  “Easy, young king, easy!” The ancient, wrinkled face turned towards him as the healer grasped his hand to squeeze it reassuringly. Under other circumstances, Éomer would have felt embarrassed or angry over being spoken to like a small child, but right now he was too worried to care. “Your wife is resting now, sire. As far as I can see – and I have examined her quite extensively – there is nothing seriously wrong with the queen. She claims to have a severe headache and feels a bit weak, but apart from that I found nothing wrong with her. It must be her delicate condition. Some women suffer from that during their pregnancy. It is nothing unusual.”

  “Nothing unusual?” Éomer shouted, hardly able to believe his ears. He ripped his hands out of the woman’s clutch and took a quick step back to glower in disbelief at the old healer from his superior height. “She fell into a trance in the middle of the night! She sleepwalked and hardly reacted to being spoken to, and when she did, it was something very disturbing and blood came out of her nose! She fainted! How can this be normal, woman? Tell me!”

  “No need to shout at me, my lord,” Yálanda objected indignantly, the grey eyes unflinching under his angry stare. “I understand you are worried, and I understand that what you experienced was rather unsettling, but again I assure you that a condition of sleepwalking is nothing uncommon or even dangerous. Look, the pregnancy has left the queen in a very emotional state, and it is quite natural for her to take matters to heart she would otherwise not have thought twice about. Her mind is filled with new impressions, and she cannot just shut them out at night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Mayhap your wife overheard something yesterday that could have troubled her? Have you, perchance, told her anything that might have been too much for her to hear in her current condition? I heard there had been an unexpected council with the Lord Erkenbrand...”

  Éomer felt heat creep into his face.

  “It could be,” he muttered then, his bad conscience clearly showing. Oh, why had he allowed Lothíriel to attend their council? Had he been utterly mad? He swallowed and stared over the healer’s shoulder for a moment, anger changing to guilt. “ But it was her own wish. I thought not-“

  The woman shook her head.

  “No, of course you didn’t think that it could harm her, and how should you, if the only woman you had ever known in this regard had been your strong sister. Your wife, however, is not so strong, sire. You cannot let her know the things you discussed with Éowyn. You understand that now, don’t you, my lad? But do not needlessly torment yourself. No further harm has been done, and if she stays in bed today and rests, the queen will be well again quite soon. Now, I would have liked for her to rest right now, but she insisted on seeing you before she took the sleeping potion. Just remember, be gentle with her. She can use no further excitement today. And don’t stay for too long, either. She needs the rest.”

  “Aye…” He nodded obediently, anxious to see his wife and willing to do anything the old woman demanded from him even if she would command him to walk on his hands and knees. Without further ado, he burst into the bedchamber…

-----------------------

  She felt frozen despite the heavy blankets the healer had given her to wrap herself into. Bodily and emotionally wrought out, despite the strengthening potions the woman had made her drink. The whole chamber still smelled of them despite the open window, and from the other side of the door, she could hear her husband’s muffled voice. Somewhere behind her eyes, her head was throbbing like a rotting tooth, but the pain paled in comparison to the emotional distress she was under as the door opened and Éomer stormed into the chamber, his face a mask of worry that only added to Lothíriel’s toil. Her poor husband. Since yesterday afternoon, his world had crumbled and been turned upside down, and now even she contributed to his torment. How much she hated herself for her weakness! And how much she loathed the fact that she would worsen his ordeal by what she was about to tell him!

  “Lothíriel! Sweetness!” Her sight clearly distraught him, and the missing night’s sleep showed clearly on his face, even when she fought to show him a slight, encouraging smile as proof of how much better she felt already. But of course, the attempt was idle. The mask of worry did not lift from his face as he sat down on the edge of the bed, taking her into his strong arms and gently pulling her to his chest. “You scared me.”

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to revel for a moment in the comfort he provided, eagerly responding his embrace and burying her face against his shoulder. Her eyes stung and there seemed to be a lump in her throat, caused by the knowledge of what she would have to do. What she would have to tell him. Would he look at her like this ever again – so loving, so concerned for her wellbeing – after he had heard her out? She needed his comfort now more than ever, but the danger of losing it was undeniably there. Somehow, she could not see him taking well what she was about to reveal. He was a man who stood firmly in the world he could see and touch, not in the elven world of enigmas and mysteries, notions, sensations and hidden meanings. Finally, after another long moment of shared closeness and comfort, Éomer pulled away to look at her, his fingers carefully smoothing back a strand of black hair behind her ear.

  “You are still so pale…”

  She caught his hand.

  “Éomer... it means nothing. Do not worry overmuch for me. My face may be still white, but I am already much better.” This time, she knew she had managed that smile, for he returned it, however weakly. Oh, how much she loved him! How much she wanted not to do this! Curse Erkenbrand! Curse the Dunlendings! And curse her elvish blood!

  “My head is aching, but Yálanda is certain that there is nothing else wrong with me. Your child is still well, my king. Would you like to say good morning?” She moved his hand down to her lower belly and let it rest there. For a moment, they both remained silent, and Éomer’s gaze glided over her silken gown to the position of their hands, lovingly caressing the slight curve underneath and finally showing the first honest smile she had seen from him for almost a day. It did not take long, however, for him to look up again with that concerned expression again. The night’s events had been too unsettling for him to be easily forgotten.

  “Last night… I knew not what to do. You wouldn’t wake up. I was afraid I had done damage by shaking you. I thought I hurt you, and when that blood came out of your nose…” he stopped and stared, for there were still a few drops of it visible on her gown. The sight froze him.

  “It is nothing,” she breathed into his ear, leaning forward again to kiss his cheek. “My nose has always bled easily, it is nothing that should alarm you. Do not worry for me, my great warrior.” Smoothing a strand of his fair hair out of his face, she inhaled deeply. She would have to begin sooner or later… and if she waited much longer, she knew that she would never be able to summon the necessary courage. Inwardly bracing for whatever reaction would await her, Lothíriel let go of her husband and leant back into the thick pillows, the seriousness of her expression an indication to Éomer of what was to come. “There is, however, something that we must talk about…”

  Lines formed on his forehead as he looked up and studied her face, the worry deepening again after a brief moment of relief.

  “Your dream?” Her expression told him that he was right. “You remember it, then?”

  “It was no ‘dream’, Éomer,” she hesitantly began and stared at the blanket on her legs, her heart beating furiously. It was still early, at most two hours after dawn, almost as in her vision. The sheer thought still sickened her. “No normal dream, at least…” Another deep breath to collect her courage, and then she looked him squarely in the face. “It was a vision.” She could see the word getting stuck in his throat. Saw him go rigid.

  “A… vision?” Her claim caught him completely off-guard. “Of what?”

  “Of Rohan’s end.” There now, it was out. She held her breath - and felt a sharp sting when she detected a notion of growing consternation in her husband’s eyes. They narrowed, and it was obvious that he knew not how to take what his wife was telling him. What was he thinking? That she had hurt her head worse than she was willing to admit? That she was talking nonsense, still under the influence of her horrible nightmare? It was disturbing how his eyes were all surface all of a sudden. They wouldn’t let her in anymore. For the life of her, she could not tell what he was thinking. So she told him. Of the wave. The people’s death-cries. The horrible feeling of foreboding and impending doom. And she ended with the one conclusion that could be drawn from it.

  “Éomer, if you seek to exact your revenge on the Dunlendings, if you follow the marshal’s request… something terrible will happen to Rohan. I know it.”

  His expression froze, and the silence between them turned chilly. From one second to the next, an unbearable tension filled the room.

  “You - you eavesdropped on us?”

  She could tell that she had committed an unforgivable breach of trust in his eyes. There was no way of denying it. His suddenly estranged expression hurt her more than she could say as he backed away, but she could not afford to let herself be intimidated by his anger now. This was too important. For the good of the Mark, and for the good of all the innocent women and children whose lives were at stake, she had to convince him. So she took a deep breath and answered to his accusation best as she could. Following intuition, her feelings, not reason.

  “I had to.“ How was she supposed to make him understand what her feelings in this matter were? Unaware, her fingers were tying the blanket into knots as the king suddenly stood up and took a few paces back to bring some space between himself and his seemingly unstable wife. “Éomer… they are mypeople, too. I care for them as much as you do! The Mark is my home now. It is the land our child will grow up in. I need to know what its future will look like, and if possible and necessary, I want to have a hand in it, too!”

  He was still looking at her as if he was having trouble coming to terms with what she had done, as he turned around at the foot-end of the bed. Shaking his head in utter disbelief.

  “I would have told you! All you had to do was ask, not acting out some lie to me and then sneak back, as if you didn’t trust me! Do you honestly believe I would have kept what we were discussing at that council a secret to my own wife, to the woman I am ruling this land together with? Do you have so little faith in me?”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “You would have told me about your plans to eradicate an entire people? Really?”

  “By removing you from the council, I intended to spare you from having to hear about the possible purpose of the captives the enemy took, but since you seem to be more concerned about our foes’ well-being: There are no such plans as of yet.” Anger and disappointment swung in his voice, and he still appeared to be stunned from hearing her confession. “You are getting ahead of yourself and worry about things that have in no way been decided yet! And worse yet, you accuse me of things I haven’t decided!”

  “But Erkenbrand –“

  “Erkenbrand wants me to punish our enemies as hard as possible, aye. He’s pressuring me and I understand why, but if you had been listening more keenly, you would have noticed that I delayed my judgement even though we are hard-pressed for time! It should have told you something about me, my queen. I am not a man who will sentence a people to annihilation on the spur of a moment. I am a warrior, not a slaughterer… nor an Orc! I am aware of my responsibilities, and the way other people look upon Rohan is one of them. ”

  She remained silent at that, at the same time feeling a twinge of relief and somehow being bothered by his choice of words.

  “Like I said, I have not yet decided … but I will have to eventually, and before long, too. The marshal was right at least in one regard: We cannot afford to wait much longer. If everything goes as expected, Elfhelm and his éored will arrive here by tomorrow evening, and I will hear his opinion, too. Then we will hold a second council, and only then shall I decide how we react to the provocation.”

  Lothíriel’s usually delicately swung lips formed a straight, bloodless line at that.

  “You cannot tell me that you are not leaning towards accepting his suggestion, Éomer!” she claimed, raising her voice and even surprising herself by her forcefulness. “It is written all over your face!”

  “And what do you want to hear from me, Lothíriel? What do you expect me to do?” Frustrated, Éomer exhaled noisily and leant over the foot-end, his hands resting on the wood. “We did not force them to attack us! We had peace with them for almost two years, we even gave them food when they came asking for our help, although we could hardly afford to do so at the time! And yet they repay us by training for war, by raiding our villages and killing and abducting our kinsmen for Eru-knows what purpose! What else should I offer them other than retribution, Lothíriel? A place in Meduseld? A throne at my side? The entire Westmark with all that’s in it? Tell me, for I do not know what you want to hear!” His fingers were clutching the wooden railing so fiercely now that his knuckles turned white, when suddenly, the door opened and let in a very distraught, angry healer.

  “My lord, have I not specifically told you –“

  “You will leave this chamber at once, Yálanda,” Éomer pressed in a dark voice without taking his eyes of his wife. “This is between the queen and me.” A moment of silence. No footsteps. No movement. His head snapped around. Had everyone gone mad today that they thought they had to object to his orders? “Move it, woman!”

  Usually, it was the healer who barked at people. Once she got angry, no one dared to resist her. Usually, her knowledge and wisdom and greater age lent her all the authority and respect she needed in her dealings with the Edoras court, but never had a king, neither Éomer or his predecessor, shouted at her like that. Intimidated and indignant, she moved back, but – upon summoning what was left of her courage – turned around once more before she left to say: “You would be well-counselled to remember what I told you, Sire! If you continue to speak to the queen in this fashion, you may jeopardise the child after all!” Another glance at the young king’s furious expression was all that it took to finally convince her to leave. Again, there was silence in the chamber, but it was clear to both present parties that it would erupt into another heated discussion momentarily. Both combatants were merely rearranging their weapons for the next round.

  It was Éomer who spoke first, his voice lowered as he heeded the healer’s advice, but nonetheless dripping intensity, his hands still on the foot-end of the bed and his words acid.

  “Tell me, Lothíriel What shall I do? What would the Queen of Rohan do if it were her decision? Reward the filth for that heinous attack? Our people may have difficulties understanding that.”

  “You are being overly dramatic, my lord,” Lothíriel, to her dismay, heard herself saying. Valar, what had gotten into her to speak with her husband like that? And Éomer did not like her tone, the sparkle in his narrowed eyes told her that beyond doubt. The Lothíriel she had been until the evening before, the gentle, if slightly emotional young woman, had been replaced by the Queen of Rohan, a woman she had not known so far. A determined, unafraid woman with an iron will and a firm idea in her head of what was right and what was wrong. Somehow, from the inside, the younger woman watched in awe as the new Lothíriel dared to oppose the king himself. “Of course you should not reward them! But you should also not punish the innocent for the sins of a few.”

  “The sins of a few?” All good intentions of not shouting at his ill wife were a long-gone memory all of a sudden. “You call a host of two hundred warriors ‘a few’? Two hundred of them who meticulously worked out that plan over weeks, if not months, for it to be so efficient! This was no spontaneous action, brought about by a sudden fit of hunger! They had been planning to hit us the hardest they could for a long time! Will you not see that? How can you expect me to be merciful and simply forget?” He fought for breath and glared at her, until the built up tension became too great and he spun away, taking a few paces towards the window, fists clenched and in desperate need to unleash some of the accumulated frustration and anger. Her suggestion was preposterous! How could she not see that herself? He turned back to add: “People would spit into my face for that! I would be disgraced! I would lose my face, and rightly so!”

  She swallowed, somehow incredibly disappointed. Feeling hollow inside. Empty and saddened. It all culminated in one last sentence, for she had no other words left, and her voice sounded hoarse and throaty when she said:

  “And this would be your greatest fear, sire?”

  It was the final touch. The worst she could have possibly said. Éomer’s expression turned to stone. It took the last remainders of his restraint to clamp his teeth down and turn on his heels to leave the chamber, throwing the door behind him that the thunder reverberated through the Golden Hall…

-----------------------

MINAS TIRITH

  When the group of riders reached the open gates the guards cheered, and many citizens on their way to the gate welcomed their ruler with joy. Aragorn held Brego back and just looked into the first circle with the great fountain in its middle and the stone figures representing the kings of old. The city wall and gate had been rebuilt by dwarves and were now stronger than before. The circles had been restored and houses repaired so that it seemed the storm on the city had never taken place.

  But he knew better. After the War of the Ring the White City had almost laid in ruins, and it had taken supreme effort by every bricklayer, joiner, and smith to turn those ruins back into homes.

  Aragorn let Brego move on slowly. The soldiers who had overtaken him dismounted and were greeted by friends and relatives. He looked out for the one woman waiting for him. And there she stood at the right site of the gate, walking up to him in a dark red gown, which hems touched the ground she walked upon with bare feet. Her long black hair was tousled by the wind. She wore no jewels, and the dress was plain except for the soft-falling cloth it was made of, but to Aragorn's eyes she was the most beautiful woman one man could call his wife. Quickly he dismounted.

  “Arwen…” Saying her name and knowing she was there was relief in itself. Aragorn had never been impulsive. He had never been overthrown by his feelings. But upon seeing Arwen after the long weeks of riding and tracking he seemed to have forgotten about his restrictive demeanour. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately.

  “Aragorn, my love, welcome back to your home,” she then said lowly in Sindarin. Her embrace, her kiss, simply her presence made him forget everything else. He heard the soldiers talk, he heard the chatter on the market place in front of them, he heard the horseshoes' hollow sounds on the paving, but he was not aware of them. He looked into Arwen's eyes and saw her smile with relief and joy. He kissed her again and felt it was an apology for again having left her. She was a comfort to his troubled mind, and she knew it. He could judge by her expression that she had already read his mind. Aragorn sighed and, closing his eyes, held her tighter, not willing to let her go. It felt good enough to stand here for the day to pass. Brego neighed behind him, and for a moment Aragorn realised that Hilberon had walked up to the steed and now led him away.

  Aragorn did not know how much time had passed when one of the guards cleared his throat near the entrance.

  Arwen lifted her head and with an almost mocking smile whispered,

  “They want to close the gate for nightfall, my lord.”

  “Do you really think they would shut out their king?” he answered the same way.

  Arwen turned and took Aragorn's hand in hers. Her eyes shone with a playful delight that lifted the king's mood more than any word uttered.

  “They might. The king himself gave the order to close that gate during the night. And the king should not be questioned.”

-----------------------

  Dumarin had gladly dismounted and sent his horse with Hilberon to the Royal Stables. Looking after the young apprentice, who led away the king's horse and the two others, he thought that it had not been too bad to have the lad on the ride. After all Hilberon had never complained about any work he had been assigned to. And Hilberon had caused some moments of laughter too. Grinning to himself Dumarin moved his aching body to the next tavern. Walástes, one of the guards at the main gate, who was built like a rock of the rampart, was already sitting there with a mug of beer and welcomed his friend, who fell on the bench beside him. A group of soldiers passed by, chatting lively, and some peasants smelling of wheat and straw, made way for them. They almost stumbled over the legs of other guests, who had been lucky enough to find a seat in the crowded and smoked-filled place. The noise of their chatters was deafening.

  “You had a good ride?” Walástes asked good-humouredly and scratched his chin through the mass of his brown beard.

  Dumarin snorted and shot a look at the younger man.

  “Do I look like I had one? I do not. So don’t say it!” He ordered a beer for himself and a second for his friend, and after brooding over it for a moment he added, “Nay, it was no good ride. There are horse-thieves up in the northern lands, and some wild animals are tearing the cattle of the peasants.” He exchanged glances with Walástes, who looked concerned. “But we came back with naught. Could neither catch the beast nor the thieves… though we know who they are at least.”

  “Up in the north?” Walástes frowned. “Don't say the Easterlings returned.”

  “Yes, I say that,” Dumarin nodded and emptied the mug, which had been placed in front of him a moment ago. He wiped his mouth with his dirty sleeve, and sighed deeply about the simple pleasure. “But what comes out of this knowledge I cannot tell.”

  “What will the king do? He must have said something.”

  Dumarin slammed the empty mug on the wooden table.

  “He was upset about the death of one of those thieves. Fáred shot that bastard. What was right, I think. Now, tell me, Walástes, what does that sound like?” Walástes looked puzzled and did not answer at once, and Dumarin nodded to himself. “Right what I thought.”

  “What about that wild animal? A big wolf? Did anyone see it?”

  Dumarin belched and ordered a second beer with a nod to the innkeeper.

  “I saw that beast one night, my friend, I saw it.”

  “You did? What did it look like?”

  Dumarin dwelt over it until his mug with fresh beer arrived safely at the table. He thanked the stout man, who had three more mugs in his big hands, then slowly turned his head to Walástes.

  “It had yellow eyes that shone in the darkness.” He drank and noticed Walástes' frightened look. His voice dropped to a whisper, and he leant sideways to his friend so he could hear him in spite of the noise around them. “It was a big beast. Fearfully mighty. Could have hewn me, but I had my sword ready.” With a grimace he swallowed another mouthful of beer and sat down the mug. “I would have beaten it, but then… it just disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Walástes exhaled with a whistle. “I do say, my friend, if it was such a big beast you were lucky.”

  “Aye, you might call this luck. But I…”

  Walástes nodded with his chin to the open door for Fáred had just entered the dimly lit room and spotted them. Snorting like a bull he shoved aside two lads on their way out, so he could reach the table and sit down opposite the two men.

  “Walástes, tell me about the weeks we were gone,” he ordered and signalled the innkeeper that he wanted a beer.

  “Captain, I…” Walástes swallowed his reply seeing the stern face of the older man. If he was on duty or not only the captain decided. Fáred need not say anything. “Aye, the weeks you were gone…” The soldier gave a short summary of the daily duties, of how many men were sent out to work on the fields, now that the harvest had begun, and about the minor incidents the guards had had at the Rammas.

  “Good,” the captain nodded when Walástes had ended his report. Fáred's beer was served and he took a mouthful. “The city is in better shape than the rest of the kingdom.” Walástes and Dumarin glanced at each other while Fáred stared down into his mug. Dumarin got another beer and drank greedily. He was more than happy to be back in the civilised part of Gondor where it was plain and simple to get a beer when a refreshment and reward was needed. “Something's brewing up there west of Dagorlad,” the captain stated gloomily. “The best would be to strike hard and fast. When you get to the horse-thieves I bet the king's crown you catch that beast too. Perhaps they sent it to haunt our people!” He drank and smacked his lips. Then he remembered that the two soldiers sat right across the table. “Well, what’s that beast, Dumarin? You say you saw it.”

  Dumarin swallowed so much beer that the rest ran over his beard, then put the mug down, belching.

  “Might be a wolf,” he grumbled, unwilling to repeat the truth of that rainy night to the captain. He still felt goose bumps on his arms when thinking about the sudden fear that had had seized him.

  “So, a wolf then. But why did it not attack you… or the horses?” Fáred cocked his head. “Nay, there is no wolf or beast such as this unless in your imagination.” Fáred saw Walástes frown and said slyly to him, “Did he tell you about those two glowing eyes in the darkness? Those that suddenly disappeared?”

  Dumarin bit his lips. The beer had been tasty and satisfying, but the company of the captain was not.

  “I know what I saw!” he replied heatedly. “It might even have been a Warg! Since their masters are gone, who knows what they are able to! Who knows how many of these creatures survived and now rove the northern lands! Do you know it, Fáred? Have you seen it?”

  “Sit down!” Fáred ordered harshly, and Dumarin, who had not noticed that he had gotten up, let himself fall on his seat again after hesitating a moment. He looked into his mug, but it was empty again. “All that you saw was but an image… triggered by too much wine. Which I suppose you should better leave behind the next time, or your service for the king will end right before we saddle up again!” Fáred's voice had risen to a level that drowned out the chatter. Suddenly the three soldiers were the centre of the guests' interest, and he heard some murmured words like ‘Warg’ and ‘beast’. Fáred gritted his teeth and tried to calm down. He could hardly remember the moment when he had lost his temper in front of his soldiers, and he truly regretted it. “Well, I think, Dumarin son of Doran, you had enough beer for tonight,” he continued in a lower voice, well aware of the listeners. “Go home. Your next shift will be tomorrow at dusk.”

  “Aye, captain.” Dumarin rose with an effort and swayed before he was able to move his feet to the door.

  Fáred emptied his mug and sat it hard on the table. The chatter at the other tables returned to its liveliness now that the main object of the captain’s anger had left.

  “The king should throw him out himself,” Fáred murmured before rising. Then he quickly left.

-----------------------

EDORAS

  The sun had turned into a deep red ball of fire on the western sky as its tired shape disappeared behind the White Mountains for the night, allowing the stars on the cloudless firmament to come out and show their splendour for the brief time that was given to them. Éomer stared at the scene from the window of his private chambers where he had spent the evening alone after a day filled with errands. A day of preparation for war. The first duty that had been waiting for him after he had left their bed-chamber in a fury, hardly able to get a grip on his white-hot, raging temper, had been to instruct the messengers Gamling had summoned to the throne room. They had been ready to head out to wherever he sent them, only waiting for his orders. After things had been set into motion, there had been other events to initiate, and suddenly, the day had gone by.

  As he stood in the corridor, uncertain of what to do, Éomer heard steps nearing from the main hall, and the door opened upon his wife’s maid holding Lothíriel’s dinner tray in her hands. Their eyes met for brief moment, and the young woman, upon nodding her respect to the king, was already in the process of turning towards the door that led into the bedchamber, when Éomer called her.

  “Maia? Wait.” He stepped up to her, not really knowing what he wanted. It had been an impulse, but as he closed the short distance between them, an idea began to form in his head. He would have to talk with Lothíriel again. He could not very well spend the night in his private chambers or the guest chamber and thereby admit to the rest of the court that he was afraid of encountering his wife after their quarrel! How would it look? And also he wanted to speak with her again! The feeling of being at odds with the gentlest, most compassionate woman he knew had been weighing down on him the entire day, and with everything else that was going on, Éomer felt that he needed at least his wife’s support. If only it were so easy to gain ...

  “My lord?” The young woman from Dol Amroth looked at him uncertainly. Did she know about their quarrel? Had Lothíriel told her what had happened between them? But no, his wife would never do anything so indiscreet… would she? Still, Maia probably knew anyway. After all, their heated exchange had been loud, and his expression as he left, as well as the fact that he had not been back all day to personally check on his wife’s well-being, had spoken clearly enough. Still concerned, he had asked the healer and the woman that stood before him now how the queen was faring during the day, but not Lothíriel herself, his pride forbidding for him to come crawling back to her after what she had said to him.

He dismissed the thought as he eyed the contents of the tray – tea, bread, and some fruit, nothing fancy. No royal feast. Apparently, his wife was still not feeling well.

“Can I do anything for you, Sire?”

  “Just proceed, Maia. Do not let the queen wait. She needs to get her strength back.”

  The young woman looked at him uncertainly as Éomer opened the door for her. Quite clearly Lothíriel had instructed her that she wanted not to see him, but a lowly personal servant could not very well oppose the king. With a deep breath, he followed the maid into the twilit bedchamber.

  His wife was asleep. There was a candle burning on the small table next to the bed, its warm light flickering and casting dancing patterns onto the walls, but Lothíriel did not stir when they entered. Unmoving, the long, wavy tresses spilled over her pillow, she lay on her side with her back to the door, looking so vulnerable that Éomer felt a twinge of guilt over having caused her such distress. Hands tucked into the pockets of his tunic, he waited for the servant to place the tray on the table and leave before he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of his sleeping wife. From the other side of the room, the sound of the closing door reached his ears, but he did not look up. Resting his elbows on his thighs, hands folded on his knees, he studied Lothíriel’s face… and felt another wave of guilt when he noticed the slight sparkle of moisture that ran from the one eye he could see down the side of her cheek. She had cried. Over him. After the horrible incident she had been through the night before, he had left her alone all day. It must have looked as if he no longer cared.

  His mind was still wandering when Lothíriel stirred, woken by the pleasant smell of herbal tea which had drifted over to her from the table. For a moment, she just lay with open eyes, unmoving. Looking into the flickering candlelight with her thoughts unfocussed, she floated for a while through a vague feeling of sadness and despair... until she felt that she was not alone. Shifting her head just the slightest bit, she saw a chair standing at the side of her bed, and her husband sitting on it with a distant, pensive expression on his handsome features. There was no trace left of the fury he had been in when he had stormed out of their room this morning, nor anger over what she had told him. If anything, he appeared… sad, and almost as lost as she felt herself.

  While Lothíriel‘s gaze lingered on him in an attempt to read his thoughts, Éomer suddenly woke from his reverie, and their eyes met. It was an awkward moment, and for a while, they remained silent, unsure of what to say. It was the king who finally began, his voice low, hesitant. Insecure. She had never heard him like that.

  “I hope I did not wake you.” She let him know that it wasn’t so with a glance, and Éomer took another deep breath. “Lothíriel…” He fought for words and would have much preferred a real battle against an entire host of orcs to this. Apologising had never been something he had been particularly good at, and yet, there was the strong urge to come to terms with his beautiful south-Gondorian wife. They had to find a common ground in this matter, it would not do for him just to have his will done and not care whether his wife felt the same about it. Which she was not doing, as he knew all too well. He did not want her to look at him for the rest of his life as if he were some lowly orc. A slaughterer.

  ‘The slaughterers shall be slaughtered...’ A shudder ran through his spine, and it took a considerable effort to shun the memory of the cold, cruel voice that had come from Lothíriel’s mouth during her trance. He still knew not what to make of her claim of having had a vision of Rohan’s downfall, but a solution to their situation was needed, and so this had to be done. Still, beginning was never easy. He stared at his hands.

  “Lothíriel… I am sorry. I should not have left you like this. I should not have shouted at you…” He lifted his eyes. “But you infuriated me. And you insulted me. When you insinuated that I would place my own honour above the well-being of our people, I was –“ he shook his head helplessly, not knowing how to continue.

  “Ssshhh…” Her hand reached out to touch his knee, and he grasped it with both hands, where it completely disappeared. She was so delicate... so frail. A small, forgiving smile formed on her lips. “Éomer... I know. It was wrong of me to say that, all the more since I know that it is not true. I know how much you care about our people. I know how much thought goes into each decision that you make. I can see that in the deep respect and love of the people that come to you. You are being a good king to them, and I know you would tear yourself in two for their well-being. They all know that. I am sorry.”

  Deep sincerity and honesty shone in her features as Lothíriel sat up, and before Éomer knew what he was doing, he had shifted his weight from the chair to the edge of the bed and met her with open arms, the feeling of relief so great, it left him speechless. For a while, they just held each other, revelling in the unexpected feeling of forgiveness... and searching for the right words to continue their talk without destroying the delicate balance they had reached. Stroking the back of his head and running her fingers through his hair as he did with hers, Lothíriel continued.

  “What I said was wrong, yet I had to make you understand what this matter means to me. How important it is. When you spoke about losing face, it sounded as if all you cared about in this situation was your honour, and it shocked me. Because how can honour be more important than peoples’ lives?”

  He pulled back, the dark eyes searching hers and holding them captive with their intensity, and Lothíriel understood that what he was about to unveil was of the utmost importance to him.

  “Honour is everything, Lothíriel, at least in Rohan... although I cannot believe that it would be different in Gondor.” His fingers played with the silken straps of her spring-green night-gown while he stared over her shoulder into the flickering candlelight, attempting to collect himself. Bits and pieces from many discussions he had led with his father and his friend and mentor Elfhelm regarding that issue raced through his head. What he knew about honour he had been taught by those men.

  “Honour... is something none can take from you but yourself. At the end of the day, you must be able to look at your deeds and not be disgusted by them. We Rohirrim do not write books. We only remember people for their deeds, good or evil. Brave or cowardly. The people of the Mark do not care for riches, but they care for honour. For purity. It is every man’s aim in life to have his memory preserved by those who come after him... and be it peasant or king, none wants his name being spoken only with disdain or even avoided altogether. That fate would be worse than death.”

  He fell silent, and she did not cut in, granting him the time to bring order to his thoughts which she knew came from the bottom of his heart. She leant back into her pillows, freeing herself of his embrace but holding on to his hand. If she had learned one thing in her first year as Queen of the Mark, it was that the Rohirrim men rarely offered others a glance into their innermost thoughts. Stoic and stern, they preferred to keep them inside, locked away for none to know, letting only their deeds speak for them. But now Éomer, who was without doubt equipped with the same characteristics and had been brought up to believe in them, was in the process of laying open a piece of his soul to her, an incredible act of trust she truly acknowledged and cherished. There was pride in his eyes as he spoke, a deep honesty that moved her - and yet, some undercurrent ran beneath these notions, too, something she could not lay her finger on until he continued with a deep breath.

  “Lothíriel... I am a descendant of the most respected bloodline Rohan has to offer, and the greatest king the Mark has ever had is my ancestor. It is a great honour, and yet the mighty shadow of Eorl the Young can also be intimidating at times, as it brings with it obligations that are not easily fulfilled. People trust in my house, and their belief is a great compliment, but at the same time, it is also a heavy burden to bear, as their respect comes with great pressure and responsibility. With great expectations that are difficult to meet. For me, it has never been sufficient just to do well. My father taught me that from a very early age on. He was a great man and I loved him dearly, but he was always strict with me and did not easily forgive mistakes. It was the greatest of my joys whenever I was able to meet his expectations and receive praise, but those were rare occasions. Whereas whenever I failed him, which was more often the case than not, his disappointment would hurt deeper than any wound a sword could have inflicted.”

  His gaze directed at the window from where the darkening sky could be seen, Éomer let the images of his youth wander through mind, his lips a drawn, thin line. The memory was both good and hard. He remembered his father’s stern, commanding voice as he taught him swordplay and the art of riding. On every single occasion where Éomund himself had been able to give him a lesson, Éomer had been determined to give it his best to please the great marshal, to receive a smile, or praise, but it had seemed to him at the time that he had met his father’s demands only rarely. He had been striving for improvement so obsessively and thought himself to be an utter failure for such a long time, that it had come as the greatest surprise to him when the Lord of Eastfold had taken him aside one evening when Éowyn had already been sleeping to explain himself to his bitterly disheartened son. To tell him how proud he was of his skills and his determination of becoming even better. Of his pride to not ever be content with being second-best, and of his fierce will to prove his worth to his father even though his father was making it so hard on him. Éomund had finally admitted that he had been particularly hard on him in order to form Éomer’s will and turn him into a true warrior, who would not yield or be put down before he had reached his aim. He had ruffled Éomer’s hair and finally taken him in an embrace that had made the young lad fear he would come out of it with cracked ribs, but the feeling of utter joy that had raced through him in those moments was one of his most treasured childhood memories. Three days later, Éomund of Aldburg had left for his ill-fated last ride.

  Woken from his reverie by the sound of shouting from outside, Éomer found Lothíriel still waiting for him to continue with an expression on her face that told him she understood just how much the memory of his father’s satisfaction meant to her husband. How moved she was by his confession. He collected himself, bothered to have strayed into daydreaming, and their eyes met again as she silently squeezed his hand in affection.

  “He would be proud to see what you have become, Éomer. I am certain that your father is looking down on you with a glad heart.”

  Her injection earned her a thankful, yet distant smile. He had not yet fully returned to the world of ‘now’ from his childhood memories when she added, almost reluctantly as if she was uncertain whether it was the right thing to say at this moment:

  “You miss him greatly, don’t you?”

  His attention returned to her, yet there was wariness in his pensive features as he regarded her silently, as if he knew where she was about to steer him with this sentence.

  “We never had enough time together. The Marshal of the Eastmark was always required to be someplace else than home. On patrol. At Edoras. Representing, or away with his éored, strengthening other troops in battle. We rarely saw him, and he was taken too early from us. It broke my mother’s heart, and it nearly broke Éowyn’s.”

She nodded and stared at their entwined hands.

“And yours, too, even if you will not admit it, because you think it would make you appear weak. I hear it in your words.” She looked up, sudden conviction in her deep brown eyes. “Éomer, as personal as this tragedy was for you, you were by no means the only children whose parents were taken from them by violence… isn’t it so?”

  Yes, he definitely knew where she was going with this, and he had no defence against her arguments, not in this case, because the loss was still hurting whenever he let it near even after 19 years. She hated herself for having to remind him of his pain, but there was no way around it. She lowered her voice to a compassionate whisper. 

  “Would it not be the most wonderful thing if we could spare future generations from having to experience the same? Like your own child… Éomer, imagine what it would be like for him having to lose you! And how would it be for you if you were to share your father’s fate, never seeing your family because of the never-ending skirmishes you’d have to ride into, never sure whether you would return. You are holding the future of our children, and that of all children, be they of Rohirrim or Dunlandish descent - in your hands right now. What you decide will determine how their lives will be led – in more misery, or in peaceful times the older generations have never known. Even if you do not believe in visions and prophecies… you should do it for the greater good of our people. Do you not see the opportunity?”

  “It may be there, aye,” he admitted reluctantly, seeing the images she was evoking all too clearly in front of his inner eye. He had to avoid his wife’s gaze for the images hurt too much, and he wanted not to show her how deeply they were touching him. Breathing in and out for a moment, he stared unfocused over to the window beyond which the world now lay in darkness. “I see your point, make no mistake about that. Do you not think that I would want a lasting peace for our country more than anything in the world, Lothíriel?” He turned around. “Do you not believe that I, too, am sick of the bloodshed and loss? But people – not only my own - do not expect that of me. When they think of me, they see the fierce, intimidating Third Marshal of Riddermark, the man who would hunt down all enemies of the Mark one by one until there was none left. They think of me as a man who loves the battle for itself. Yet I do not love the arrow for its swiftness, or the sword for its sharpness… I only love what they defend.” He fell silent again, and she remained mute, deeply touched by his unexpected confessions. It seemed there were depths to this man, this presumably straight-forward Rohirrim, that neither she – nor the people of Rohan themselves -  had even begun to fathom yet.

  “Éomer –“

  He cut her off, with a sudden urgency to his voice that told her just how much he believed in his words, how much they meant to him.

  “You must understand one thing about me, Lothíriel: As an heir of Eorl, I have to be the best at everything that I do. The strongest. The bravest. I cannot afford to hesitate or show weakness. I am not free in my decisions because of people’s expectations. Because I know what they expect from me. I cannot allow myself to fail at anything that I do, and I cannot afford to be doubtful, for they would not understand. They gain the courage to stand tall in the face of danger from me. My deeds are the source of their resistance to the bitter times the Mark is facing, so I have to make each of them count. The Mark needs a leader with strong opinions and the will and determination to see to their fulfilment. … and it is even more important to remember in this case, where failure will mean the downfall of the entire kingdom… and the extinction of our people.”

  Never had there been more seriousness or conviction in his face. They were at the core of things, at the heart of the conflict they had to solve. He had granted her admittance to a part of his soul, and now it was on her to use the gift with the greatest wisdom.

  “I know this, Éomer.” She lifted her gaze from their still-entwined hands to his face. “I know what pressure lasts on your shoulders. It is why I want so much to help you to avoid failure. I see the path that has to be walked clearly in front of me, and yet I harbour no doubts that it will probably be the most difficult one you ever have to take, all the more since you will be walking it alone for most of the way. It will be rocky, it will be treacherous, and it will be an uphill climb.” She paused, and – if possible- her gaze even intensified when she continued. “But I also know one thing: If one man can walk it, it must be you. It requires a man with a strong will. A man who is not intimidated by the prospects of having to oppose the will of his people for their greater good, because they do not see the way.” She inhaled. “Know though that I will stand firmly by your side if you choose that road. You will not be alone.”

  The brown of his eyes deepened as they filled with wary dread, and his fingers tightened painfully around her hand. He feared what she would say, and yet found himself foolishly hoping that he was wrong as he almost whispered:

  “Tell me about that path, Lothíriel.”

  She closed her eyes to collect herself for a second. The moment of truth had arrived. Either he would outright reject her idea and shout and storm out of the room like before, and this time probably for good, or he would heed her advice. Which it would be she could not tell as she inhaled deeply and spoke.

  “To reach a good end for the Mark as well as our neighbours, you must pursue a course of peace. You must offer them land in the Mark, Éomer.” The deep brown eyes widened slightly, and in them Lothíriel saw his temper flare up again, but he fought it and remained silent. He fought against his very nature, even though it was likely that it was the hardest task ever appointed to him. When he finally spoke, it was low, but with utter conviction in his voice.

  “I cannotdo this, Lothíriel. It would be utter madness…” Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head, churning anxiety threatening to overwhelm him in the wake of his wife’s suggestion. He felt the strong urge to jump to his feet. He stayed seated. He had sworn to remain calm. Reasonable. Somehow, they had to get through this. Somehow, they had to solve this. Letting go of her fingers, he wrung his hands. “Try to understand: The situation is hard as it is, and we can just barely control it now, it would seem, because we have the Isen to separate them from us. We have a border we can protect, and we can shut them out. But once they are within our land… we will vanquish all control. Once they’re inside, there is no telling what they will do.”

  “My idea bears great risk, I agree,” she replied, understanding his anxiety and yet having to overcome it. “Don’t believe that I don’t see that. But do not all great opportunities come with great risk? Aren’t the incidents where much was won those where much could have been lost just as easily?” He remained silent. “Éomer, this war against the people of Dunland is as old as the Mark itself. It cannot be solved without putting ourselves at risk. Let them come into the Mark! Give them the opportunity to work on the fields, be it on those of the Westfold’s settlements or their own in a territory you grant them. It is not only because satisfied, well-fed people will no longer have reason for violence, Rohan also needs their ability to work! We need their strong hands! On numerous occasions you said how little of the fields could be cultivated for lack of strong workers, because the war took so many of them away from us. Our own people are starving because there are not enough hands left to do the necessary work. The people of Dunland and Rohan, they need each other, Éomer. If we can overcome our hatred for each other, then both will be healed... and being the one who initiated this historic peace – against the apprehension of all – wouldn’t it be a deed worthy of Eorl the Young?”

  He thought about it. Tasted her words, the implications. And found himself strangely amused all of a sudden. Valar, his emotional, soft-spoken south-Gondorian flower had – in the course of just one day – become a politician as shrewd as he had ever met. A sour smile tugged at his lips as he folded his hands on his lap.

  “You are just as manipulative as the Lord of Westfold, Lothíriel. You both want to play me to your wishes. Erkenbrand thinks he can force his will on me by telling me things in a certain order, by keeping the worst for last, as if I would not see what he intends by doing that. He deems himself the shrewdest man who ever lived. He thinks I cannot see through his little ploy.” Suddenly dropping the smile, Éomer shook his head. “And now you assume that you can bend me to your will by telling me how much achieving the impossible would mean for my own honour? I thought we had settled this question. Honour means a lot, but it is not everything.”

  “That was not my intention. You know that.”

  “Have you ever met a Dunlending, Lothíriel?” Éomer met her gaze unflinchingly. There was anger involved, but it was more directed at himself for seemingly being unable to convey the situation to her. His wife simply knew not what she was talking of, and somehow, he had to make her see the enormity of what she was asking of him. So his voice remained calm, but the intensity in it could not be missed. “Apart from Elfhelm’s scout, who is more Rohirrim than Dunlending in character, and apart from that small delegation that asked us for help in the winter and thus were very well-behaved, have you ever met a true Dunlending who was about to take what he wanted without asking for it?” He shook his head. “No, you haven’t, and how should you? You cannot know about their ferocity when they come at you with their wooden clubs and pitchforks! You have never seen them close in a circle around a separated and wounded Rohirrim like a pack of wolves to beat him to death, even when he is already down! They don’t show mercy on their enemies, and they certainly do not deserve yours.”

  “Yet something needs to change in the manner with which both our peoples treat each other, or both will fade to nothingness,” she replied, not backing down, and yet pleasantly surprised over the new quality of their argument. There was no shouting, no accusations. It was a civilised exchange of two concerned minds, and Éomer was hearing her out. She could not help thinking back to Éowyn’s advice to speak her mind even in matters of delicacy. How right her cousin’s wife had been! “The past must be put behind, it must be forgotten. Nothing will ever be achieved if ancient accusations are repeated and renewed for all eternity.”

  Now his expression hardened, and a shadow fell on his face, telling her that they were getting to the core of it all. Again his tone was intense, but low.

  “That is easier said than done, my lady. We did not rape their women. We did not ambush them in the most cowardly manner. Whenever we did battle, we came at them openly.”

  “Because you always had the luxury of being the stronger ones, my lord. You were coming at them on horseback, equipped with armour, lances and blades of shining steel, against which they had but stones and clubs to match. You would have done the same had you been in their position, rather than fighting honourably and running into certain death. And the rapes...” She inhaled deeply. A deed like that could not be excused. Yet still she understood where it had come from. “Raping is about domination. You were the stronger ones in the conflicts, so whenever they had the possibility to humiliate your people, they seized it. Which of course excuses it not.”

  He gave her a reluctant nod, surprised by Lothíriel’s unexpected insights. How could it be that she knew so much about warfare and their quarrel? Did they teach such things to princesses at Dol Amroth?

  “That may be as you say, but the fact is that their latest attack was unprovoked. It cannot be rewarded with a peace-offering, no matter how right you may be in certain aspects. It would be the wrong signal not only to them, but to all our foes, too. If words spread of the Rohirrim no longer defending what is ours, we may soon face a host of enemies we are not ready for. Why can you not see this, Lothíriel? Do you think I would enjoy the act of eradicating an entire people? Do you think I would pass that verdict lightly?”

  She swallowed.

  “No, I would not. However, if you asked other Gondorians, you would hear different opinions. In some parts of the land, people believe the Rohirrim to be a warrior-race that knows no other way of living – and would not care for it, either. Now I happen to know that neither your people nor their ruler is cruel. I know that whenever you engage in battle, it is out of necessity, not bloodlust. Yet if you follow Marshal Erkenbrand’s demand, it is inevitable that other people, and your allies, too, will question their way of seeing you. They may come to regard the Rohirrim as a ruthless people of war-mongers, a people to shun and not associate with, and that cannot be in your best interest, now can it, my lord?” Lothíriel could hardly believe what she was saying, but even more incredible was that Éomer made no attempt at interrupting her. “Finally, the last thing that has to be taken into consideration is the question of your own honour. What would it mean if you slaughtered innocent women and children? Wouldn’t it be lost forever as well, stained with murder? How could you still hold on to it and not despise your face in the mirror for all time to come?”

  She received no answer. Éomer’s expression was overcast now, a deep shadow lying on it. She could tell that this was the weak spot she had to pry her hands into, because it was obvious that he was dreading the prospects as well. He was a good man, not a slaughterer. How much she wanted to take his hands into hers and lead him onto the right path, if only he’d let her! She hated what she had to do next, but there was no way around it. She had to evoke the images in his mind, for he was still denying them. They were but words to him now. They had to become alive!

  “Could you even do it, I’m asking you, Éomer-King? Ride them down and stick your blade into their flesh despite their desperate pleas and their crying? It would make you no better than an orc! Could you do it, Éomer? Could you ride down a frightened child or a pregnant woman and cut off her head? Could you invade their villages and burst into their huts and slaughter everyone inside? Could you pull scared, crying children out from underneath their beds and put them to the sword? Because that is what you would have to do. This is what the term ‘eradication’ means! Could you do it, Éomer? Please, tell me that you could not!”

  He did not evade her pleading eyes, and in them, beneath the frustration and suppressed anger and concern, Lothíriel saw the answer to her question, and it came as a relief too great to be put into words. No. He could not. Perhaps he had deemed himself able to do it, or perhaps he even wanted to be able to do it, but the overlying fact was that it was not in him, and that epiphany hit Prince Imrahil’s daughter with liberating force. Yet she saw also the struggle in Éomer’s face, and the one question he used as reply knocked the wind out of her, even if it told her at the same time that her battle was already almost won.

  “What if we find proof of them slaughtering our men?”

  She knew not what to say. It was his way of admitting that he was agreeing to try her approach for now. That she might not have succeeded in convincing him, but for the time being, she had persuaded him. It was enough for the moment.

   “It cannot be. I feel it in my heart that it cannot be.”

  “But what if it is?”

  They stared at each other, none wanting to think about the possibility. What she had to know was written all over his face.

  “I will not be able to stop you then, will I?”

  Éomer shook his head slowly. And very deliberately.

  “If it is true, then even I would not be able to deny our people revenge… even if I wanted to.”

------------------------

MINAS TIRITH

  “Aragorn, do you not want to come inside?”

  The compassionate voice of his wife made Aragorn turn away from the view of the White City at night. Clouds had gathered over the plains, and the stars would only glance here and there between them. Aside from some torches in the first ring the city beneath him was dark, quiet, and peaceful. Aragorn exhaled. Arwen had reached him and gently took his hand in hers. He flinched, and she turned his hand to examine the palm.

  “I could not sleep.” His voice was no more than a whisper as if not to disturb the silence of the night.

  “The dreams still haunt you.” Gently her fingers touched the scratches the splinters had caused. “Do not do this to yourself, Aragorn. Not anymore. Let me help you to find rest. I know I can give you ease, my love.”

  He pulled his hand back and lowered his head.

  “What ease can I be granted if the evil is never eradicated?”

  She looked up to him.

  “This is a task not even my father could fulfil. You are demanding too much of yourself.”

  “I could not even hold back my own captain from killing a young woman. He shot her for the attempt of stealing a horse. I came too late to prevent it.”

  Arwen fell silent for a while. Aragorn embraced her, and they were both rejoicing in each other company. She could feel her husband's tension and caressed his temples and bearded cheeks to calm him before she spoke.

  “The loss of a life is always regrettable, but do not judge the captain too hard. He served another kind of man before and we both know that Denethor was not merciful.“

  Aragorn's mouth twitched with disgust.

  “Not merciful. He tried to kill his own son.”

  Arwen rested her hand on his chest, and held Aragorn's look.

  “You are different, Aragorn. Many of your people know about your mercy, and some still do not understand it. But you were right to trust your heart, as you had done before. It was right to not take the lives of two people though some said they deserved nothing but death.” Aragorn exhaled, and she read his bitter expression. “I can still recall the dreadful feeling I had when your were captured,” she continued in Sindarin. “But you held on. You did not give up hope.” He shuddered and pulled her tighter, softly kissed her on her hair. He kept the painful truth to himself: That he had had given up at last, after the news had reached him that Éomer had left Deromonor without finding him. “You will defeat these memories, my love,” Arwen continued. “On all your quests you had to prove that you were stronger than the evil you encountered. You will be strong enough to win over your fears.” Aragorn remained silent, and she searched in his face for the reason. “Your heart was light when you left this time. I was very happy to share that feeling.”

  “But I should not have done it. I left you again. And my duties here.”

  She kissed him, and smiled warmly when she leant back in his embrace.

  “Do not worry for me, Aragorn, for I am always with you. And to feel your spirits rise the moment you rode under the open sky again was more than I had hoped for during the last months.”

  With his fingers he tenderly stroked a strand of hair from her temple. Arwen held his hand at her cheek.

  “You know me well, Arwen Undomíel. But I could see that you were worried.”

  Arwen nodded slightly without losing the eye contact.

  “I cannot deny that I was. You were riding with only five men into a danger yet unknown. All the rumours could have turned out true. But I have always trusted you, and I still do.”

  “Then why am I not able to get rid of those memories? I returned more than a year ago. Will the haunting never end?”

  “It will end,” she stressed, but could only find disbelief in his eyes. He lowered his hand and exhaled, frustrated.

  “It is not only my own incarceration. I dreamt of the boy,” he admitted quietly. “I dreamt that he was not able to escape. He got captured by Medros' men. And then they brought him back to the mine.”

  “He was courageous, Aragorn, to leave the castle, and he survived. He did a great deed, and you rewarded him for it. You can be proud of him. Do not tarry with your thoughts on bitter grounds when you know the truth is much lighter.” With a small but nonetheless encouraging smile she caressed his cheek. “Think about the good times whenever those dreams come to you. Think about the moment he returned to the mine to bring you the news of Éomer's and Faramir's arrival. You have given Vlohiri hope for a better time to come. You have given your people hope. Think about what you accomplished and how merry your people are now. Not even two years have passed since your reign has begun. The cheers today were honest, my love.”

  Slowly they strode over the paved court along the fountain and the White Tree, which stood in full bloom. It had grown light green leaves and silvery-white blossoms since the seedling had been planted, and the king enjoyed the look upon it every time he walked out on the Citadel. The Tree was a signal that the dark times had passed and would not return. The threat of Mordor was defeated, and what other danger was upon the kingdom he could not yet determine. He felt the dread ease. Arwen looked up to him, knowingly, and understood what it meant for her husband to dwell on these grounds. But she also knew that his pain had not yet come to an end. She could see his reluctance upon entering the royal chambers.

  For weeks after his return from Deromonor Aragorn had preferred to sleep outdoors, and it had not been in her power to ease his bitter feelings. She had accompanied him until he had been able to move his bed for the night into the hall. During those weeks Arwen had talked with the boy, and though Vlohiri had still seemed to be in awe by her presence he had described to her the months the king had suffered in the dungeon. It was then when she had realised that not only her husband had been treated badly, but that the young lad, too, had lived through rough times. Aragorn had gladly taken up the task to teach the boy to ride as well as to read, and both had cherished these hours, connected by a band of familiarity. But the royal life included duties the king could not neglect, and by then Prince Faramir had continued Vlohiri’s education, founded upon trust and friendship.

  Arwen had watched Vlohiri’s development and found that no other boy from the kingdom could be called as eager and quick in learning as he. It was to her utmost joy that Vlohiri had not only lifted her husband's spirits, but had also overcome his doubts toward Prince Faramir since the prince had spoken with so much admiration about the boy's courage.

  Aragorn had laid down and closed his eyes. She knew he was still awake and slipped under the covers.

  “Sleep, my love,” she whispered caressing his face, “I will watch over you.”

------------------------

  Hilberon had insisted on tending the horses alone. On their way out the stable-boys had joked behind his back when Hilberon had, at first, taken off his cuirass and the rest of the armour to breathe again freely. He was sweating and still had the taste of dust in his mouth. Leaving the heap of metal and leather with the White Tree on it behind, he first took care of Dumarin's horse, which already fidgeted. Brego and the dark grey horse that had been given to him, Harolyan, waited more patiently to be unsaddled and drank water out of the big buckets Hilberon provided. He talked quietly to both of them while he worked, thinking he was alone, when he heard steps in the back of the big stable. He looked up from the water bucket in which he rinsed the bits of the bridles to find the eyes of a young, fair-haired boy of perhaps eleven years resting upon him.

  “What are you doing here?” the boy asked with open interest, and his gaze travelled to the horses on the way between the loose boxes. "Are you a new stable-hand?“

  Hilberon was about to spurn that assumption and state that he was a member of the Royal Guard, but then he realised that his appearance would not prove it.

  „No, I came with...“

  “You brought Brego in!” the boy interrupted with a smile and bridged the few steps to caress the horse's mane. He pressed his face into the soft neck’s fur. “You are back,” he whispered. “That is well.”

  “It’s the king's horse,” Hilberon declared, rising. He could not help frowning upon the strange behaviour of that little lad. The bridle clanged in his hands while water dripped on his trousers and the sandy ground. “And I do not see why you should be allowed to be here. You do not look like you work here, either.”

  The boy continued the caressing, and when he halted his hand on one spot Brego nudged him gently at the shoulder. It was still a strong enough move to make the slender boy take two steps backwards.

  “It's all right, Brego, I did not mean to stop!” he laughed. Then he turned to Hilberon, and with the same glad smile he answered, “I am here to look over Rohyren. He was not feeling well.”

  “Who is Rohyren?” Hilberon asked and hung the bridle over a hook at the wall, close to the horse's box.

  “The king's second horse,” the boy explained, when suddenly Brego blew air into his face. He giggled. “Yes, I know, you are the first!”

  Hilberon frowned and put Brego's saddle – as old and long in use as the king's clothes, he thought – on the wooden bar along the boxes.

  “How come you know the lord's horses?” he then asked and eyed the simple and no longer tidy clothes of the boy. Grass and mud had darkened the trousers and tunic that before had been of a light green. The cloth seemed to be finer and more carefully sewn than the garments the stable-hands wore. And the haircut indicated that someone skilled had done it. Still the lad's appearance was a mystery to Hilberon. “And who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Vlohiri.” The boy continued stroking Brego's mane, and the steed seemed to truly enjoy it. “And have you a name, too?”

  The young soldier grew to his full height, towering over the boy.

  “I'm Hilberon son of Hiregon, soldier of the Royal Guard.”

  “You are the son of Hiregon the smith?” And on Hilberon's curt nod he added, “Then I know your father.” He frowned for a moment – a gesture Hilberon imitated –, cocking his head as if to judge the young soldier, but the resemblance to Hiregon was obvious. “Well, he sometimes let me help him… while he works here. I’ve already learnt quite some things.”

  “A new apprentice, hum?” Hilberon blew air over his forehead and smiled. He could hardly imagine the slender hands to use a hammer on an anvil to forge a horseshoe. But he kept himself from shaking his head. After all the boy was at least six years younger than he. Six years ago even Hilberon had not been able to do such hard work.

  “Aye.” Vlohiri watched Hilberon taking up the last saddle to put it on its place. “Can I give you a hand?”

  “Take Brego to his box and fill the hackle with hay. I take Harolyan.”

  “That's a great horse,” Vlohiri nodded with admiration and patted Harolyan's hindquarter. Dust rose and made him cough. “The riding-master told me he once belonged to Óranon, but he was killed on their way back from Osgiliath when those... flying things attacked.”

  “Fell beasts,” Hilberon corrected him, leading Harolyan to his box to give him hay. “Yes, I know. It was a very bad day. The defences did no longer hold.” He watched the boy's small back. “Who is you father? Does he work in the city?” Vlohiri led Brego into the loose box and gave him hay and oats. He did not reply, but passed the soldier on his way out. Hilberon followed to the doors, frowning. “He, lad, I asked you something!“

  “No, he doesn’t.“ Vlohiri looked troubled and avoided the older man's stare.

  Hilberon crouched to pick up the heap of armour. Puzzled by the insecure tone of the boy’s answer he waited to, again, meet eyes with him.

  “Well, it's just… I haven’t seen you round here.“ Hilberon rose, but the helmet clanked on the ground again. The soldier cursed silently. Vlohiri picked up the piece of armour and grimaced at his reflection on the polished metal. “Are you new in the city?“

  “Yes.“ Vlohiri started throwing up the helmet while they left the stable behind.

  “Well...“ They marched down the road, stepping aside every time a group of men and women approached. Hilberon had never seen the city so busy and crowded, and he felt quite stupid to walk the road with the armour in his arms. The boy seemed to be sliding past those people as if he had trained not to be in the way. “Has my father invited you?“

  “I… I just wanted to bring this home for you.“ He kept throwing the helmet and catching it time and time again.

  “Stop that!“ Hilberon ordered on half of the way. Vlohiri caught the shining helmet at once and turned, a glimpse of anxiety in his eyes. “It might fall and get ruined. And I would get blamed for it. It’s a helmet of the Royal Guard, lad.“ Hilberon had not meant to be rude and was puzzled even more when Vlohiri tugged the helmet under his right arm - stern-faced, biting his lower lip - and held it there until they reached the smithy. He opened the door for the soldier and let him go in first. The smith already waited.

  “Welcome, welcome!” Hiregon could hardly wait until his son had put down the armour to embrace him and slap him heartily on the back that dust whirled up from the jerkin. “Oh, it’s good that you’re back, my son!” Then he saw Vlohiri standing behind the soldier. He had silently closed the door and put down the helmet on the floor for there was no place on a table or cupboard. “How, now, have you come in so quickly? Did you do what you wanted? How is Rohyren now?”

  “I did. He is all right.” Vlohiri managed a feeble smile, but the smithy with all its furniture, only lit by a few candles, was a strange place to be in, and his thoughts were suddenly back at Deromonor, which seemed the darkest place in Middle Earth. In his opinion no bad stories of Mordor, the Black Gate, and a hundred Mûmakil could compare to it.

  “Very well!” Hiregon let his mighty hand fall down on his son's back one last time before turning to the rear part of the small home father and son lived in, adjacent to the smithy. “Let's eat then! You two must be hungry!” He moved his impressive body to the even smaller kitchen and brought back a pot with steaming potatoes and fresh cheese. Big bowls and a loaf of bread were already waiting. “Come, Vlohiri, sit down with us! You must be starving.”

  They sat down and for a while they fell silent. Vlohiri ate, but with every bite he took memories of bad times flooded him. Within the palace high up at the Citadel the customs, the meals, the clothes, and all the scents were different in a way he could only describe as 'royal'. In the king's residence at the back of the palace and also in Prince Faramir's house the memories had not haunted him so hard and bitter as they did now. In Hiregon's crowded little place the odour of old leather, the smell of vegetable and bread, and even of straw reminded him so much of his old 'home' at the castle that he had woken in tears in many nights since he had first entered Hiregon's smithy. Vlohiri had not said a word to the smith and he had not told Prince Faramir about it for he was sure that they both would call him stupid and childish. And he agreed. It was childish to be frightened by memories. Every time he woke up from those nightmares he walked through his room and into the garden in front of the prince's home to look at the wonder that had happened to him: He lived in the White City! He was allowed to roam here! He was no longer a boy in the castle’s kitchen who lived on morsels. He was about to be educated to fulfil different tasks than running around dark and hollow corridors for errands. And he would never again set foot in a dungeon to hide from other boys.

  When the dream had been too bad to return to sleep he sometimes sat on the grass in the garden and thought about the most beautiful queen the land would ever have. ‘Arwen,’ he then whispered in the darkness and tried to let it sound like when the Elves - and the king - spoke it. Vlohiri remembered the love the king could lay in just one word, and, thinking of those few weeks he had stayed at the lord’s residence, he felt regret deep in his heart. But he was grateful that Prince Faramir had taken the time to teach him Sindarin, and when he was alone Vlohiri often repeated the verses of the poems he had learned.

  Hilberon ate with the appetite of a man short of starvation. And during the important task of filling his stomach he watched the lad with the sticking-out ears and the trimmed but nonetheless untidy mass of fair hair on the other side of the table. His father told him in brief that Vlohiri often stayed at the stables and that he had started to learn something about horseshoes, daggers and swords and how they were forged. Hiregon had gladly taken up the task of teaching since Hilberon had been assigned to become a soldier almost two years ago.

  “You have to return to the soldiers' quarters after supper?” Hiregon asked, and his son could only nod. His mouth was still full. “Well, then, tell us about your journey. I am eager to hear everything!”

  Hilberon had imagined sitting alone in the small room with his father, but now he felt being watched and… judged by the young boy. Vlohiri’s eyes did not really fit to the boy’s appearance. They were… older, more experienced, and somewhat sad. Hilberon still wondered about him. Vlohiri knew the king's horses. What else was hidden behind the young and innocent face?

  “You know the king then?” Vlohiri asked when he had eaten up, but it was not the voice of someone in awe.

  Hilberon hesitated. For a moment he felt like boasting about what he had done; that he had ridden with the king and that they all had been in danger on several nights. After all, he was the youngest member of the Royal Guard ever chosen… since the king had been crowned. And the lad was just a kind of apprentice or stable-hand his father taught from time to time. But… that apprentice was - as it appeared to him - a stranger around here. He had not even answered who his father was and why he visited the royal horses. It still seemed odd to Hilberon who the boy was.

  Hilberon found two pairs of eyes resting on him. He had been caught daydreaming… again.

  “I know the king,” he stated flat-voiced. “He took me into his service just before the ride. We rode to Northern Ithilien.”

  “Did you find anything?” Vlohiri asked with an eagerness that set Hilberon aback. The boy was able to change his mood quicker than those young maids he met from time to time.

  “We… the king found some tracks,” he admitted and carefully thought about what he revealed of the journey's findings. He was not sure that the king would want every commoner to know, let alone a young boy who might blur out every detail the next day. “And we rode east along the Morannon.”

  “A dreadful place.” Hiregon shook his head.

  “Yes, the smoke there or mist or…” Hilberon shrugged. The boy still eyed him with undivided attention. “It was not pleasant, after all. We had followed some horse-thieves…”

  “But you still got yours, right?” Hiregon interrupted at once and looked as if his son would be blamed if his horse had been stolen.

  “Harolyan is in the Royal Stable,” his son soothed him. “But Captain Fáred's horse was stolen.”

  “Oh, that is bad news.” Hiregon shook his head with regret.

  “And Dumarin was hurt by one of them. Those thieves were… sly.” Hilberon took the last potato and relished on it. Vlohiri emptied his mug and waited for the soldier to continue, biting his lips. “Well, one horse was stolen, and the captain… he shot the thief.”

  “Very well!” Hiregon nodded.

  “It was a woman,” Hilberon added in a lower voice and thought that he should better not have mentioned that in front of the boy for he looked truly shocked. But the words could not be taken back.

  “A woman?“ the smith echoed. „What had a woman to do there?“

  “She belonged to the thieves. That's what it looked like after all.“ Hilberon washed his mouth with the rest of water from his mug. His father and Vlohiri frowned deeply. „Then we rode on to...“

  “What did Lord Aragorn say?“ Vlohiri demanded to know, and Hilberon sat down his mug, smacking his lips. The boy’s voice was high and impatient when he added, "What did he do then? He can’t have stood there and watched!“

  “No, he did not.“ Hilberon searched for the right words to describe the pictures in his head. The incident and the behaviour of the king during the whole excursion still troubled him, but he would not reveal his thoughts in front of the boy. If he knew the king’s horses it was possible he knew the king, too, though Hilberon was unable to find a reason for it. And he could not imagine the consequences of any criticism he might utter. He would be careful with his answers. "He was not pleased by what the captain had done. Then we rode...“

  “What happened then?“ the boy interrupted him again. "You say Aragorn was not pleased. What did he do?“

  Hilberon’s mouth twitched. Had the boy really said ‘Aragorn’ and not ‘Lord Aragorn’? Hiregon, too, had noticed this lack of respect to the king’s name and furrowed his brows without reprimanding the boy.

  “He ordered the woman to be buried. The next day we rode on to some of the settlements in the east.“

  Hiregon poured more water into Hilberon’s mug.

  “And? What did the settlers say?“

  Hilberon thanked his father and went on, but his gaze lingered on the boy’s face. Had there not been some rumours about a boy, who had travelled with the king from some far-off castle in the southwest?

  “They lost some pigs to a... well, no one knows what beast this is. Captain Fáred said it is a bigger wolf, but the king did not share his opinion... or he did not mention it.“

  "He will know what it is,“ Vlohiri said with a distinctive nod and broke off a piece of bread.

  "Oh, yea? How do you know, lad?“ Hiregon asked with a friendly smile. Vlohiri blushed deeply and closed his mouth. "I wonder how it can be that you seem to know quite some things about our ruler.“ The boy chewed and swallowed, but did not lift his eyes to meet the friendly stare of the older man. "And his horses, too. How come you know this? And where did you learn to ride?“

  Vlohiri crumbled away the rest of the bread between his restless fingers. He would not tell the smith and his son that the king had taught him how to sit on a saddle or adjust the stirrups, and how much he had enjoyed learning to ride under Aragorn’s guidance. He could still recall the first day when the king had allowed him to sit on Brego alone for he thought that his steed had the most friendly step. And how Aragorn had laughed about Vlohiri’s worried expression when he had held the reins in his hands to finally ride alone. After so many weeks of bitter toil this laughter had been like a wave of warm air after a long winter.

  "Vlohiri?“ Hiregon raised his brows. "It is a simple thing to be polite and answer my question.“

  "I’m sorry,“ the boy said at once.

  "And?“

  "I’m really sorry, Hiregon. I was... lost in thought for a moment. Forgive me.“ He quickly rose to collect the bowls and brought them and the pot to the bucket of water to wash them. When he had finished he bade father and son farewell and ran up the streets to return to Faramir's home.

------------------------

  Hilberon turned to his father, who searched for his pipe.

  “Who is he? Does he work in the stable?”

  Hiregon found his pipe under a pile of worn clothing and returned to his son to fill it. They both went outdoors to sit on a bench in front of the smithy.

  “I do not know. The stable-hands sometimes talk with him, and the riding-master is teaching him things he knows about horses, too, but… no, he does not really work there. Nobody’s giving him work as far as I know. Some days he does not show, and he always leaves in the evening.” He shrugged and lit the pipe. “He walks down into the next ring, I suppose.”

  “But his looks…”

  “Yes, I noticed that, too. He’s got some fine clothes.” Hiregon smiled. “Well, I don’t mind having him around. He’s clever and quick with his hands. He takes in everything I tell him.”

  “Why does he know the lord's horses?” Hilberon fetched himself a cup of water and sat down again. “Brego seemed to like him.”

  “Ah, Brego!” Hiregon laughed that his belly shook. “Vlohiri could even calm him down when I had to work on that steed! He said something to him, but don’t ask me what it was! I did not understand a word!” His son frowned, and the smith cocked his round head. “Do not look like this! He might belong to someone we don’t know. Many people from all over the land have moved to Minas Tirith. Even some noble people as I heard.”

  “Why did the king come to you before he left?”

  Hiregon coughed; he had inhaled too much smoke.

  “Lord Aragorn… well,” he teased his son, “let me think about it. No, it was no invitation to the palace rewarding me for my good work – though he mentioned that, too – and he did not come to fetch his horse – which might seem fitting.” Hilberon grimaced, so Hiregon laughed again. “Nay, truly not. I worked there, and he came into the stable and asked me what kind of horse I’d see fitting for you.”

  “For me?” Hilberon's lips twitched. “Why should he ask you?”

  “He wanted to give you Harolyan, but was not sure if your skills were enough for that steed. He’s a mighty horse to handle.” Hilberon was soothed. In Hiregon's features the wrinkles deepened with his smile. “I told him that you learned to ride before you could walk since I'm befriended with the riding-master. He was satisfied with that.”

  “That was all?”

  “Ha! Don’t expect miracles to happen! He's the king after all!”

  “A strange king,” Hilberon muttered, avoiding his father's friendly eyes and insecure if he should mention the subject on his mind. But Hiregon knew his son.

  “Tell me what troubles you, my boy.”

  Hilberon looked up to find his father's eyes rest on him with open interest. He exhaled and nodded.

  “When that woman was killed by Captain Fáred, the king… he seemed to be sad about this incident. I mean that she was dead then. He said some really harsh words to the captain.”

  Hiregon let some moments pass, smoked and lifted his eyebrows before answering,

  “The Lord Aragorn is quite a ruler, that’s what they all say. Some say he is… odd. But, you know, my son, he can do what he pleases. He can judge by himself what he thinks is right or wrong. I heard some folks say that they do not understand why he judges so differently from the late Steward Denethor. To them it seems as if… ah, I have not the right words for that. Denethor was always very strict and quick with his punishment. Some miss him, I suppose, and say that Lord Aragorn is not hard enough a ruler. And from some I heard say that they feel it’s more peace in the city and the land since he sits judgement upon the felons.” He eyed his son, who seemed more troubled than before. “But…” He exhaled and frowned deeply. “I think… or, no, I know that not everyone likes him. You heard about it, didn’t you? He sentenced a man and a woman for high treason.” Hilberon nodded though his memory did not tell him much, at least the details behind the judgement. “Well, he overruled the Council of Minas Tirith. It was something unheard of before! He should have sentenced them to death, they said, and he said he will only sentence them to live in the dungeon. – This was quite a strange decision, I suppose. Did not make him many friends in the Council…” He nodded to himself, blowing out another wave of smoke. His son was neither informed nor soothed by these bits of information. “It should not trouble you, my son. See it like that: lately mercy was seldom heard of under the ruling steward. - Times are changing indeed.” Another pause followed in which they both watched the sky. Finally Hiregon knocked out his pipe. “Don't worry, Hilberon, you rode with him for the first time. You will get to know him better in times to come.”

  “Well, that might be. But still, there is one more thing I keep thinking about… When we came up to the first settlement, he did not want to be announced. We shall not even mention his name! It appeared to me as if he did not even want to be recognised. That he was… well, that he would not mind one of his soldiers to be called the king. - Should they not show him respect?”

  “I don't know, either. But Lord Aragorn will have his reasons. You should not doubt him. You follow him, my son, to whatever happens.” He put his hand on Hilberon's shoulder. “You're a soldier of the Royal Guard now. Prove worthy of that honour.”

------------------------

EDORAS

“Lothíriel?”

Éomer’s voice was tense when he looked into the dressing room to see if she was ready for the all-deciding council. Which she was, Lothíriel decided upon checking her look in the mirror, but not necessarily for the fit of the stately clothes she wore, but for her bearing. Her expression. Inside, she was frightened of the prospects of what would come out of the discussion of all these great men of war that would be attending. Frightened by the prospects of the confrontation with the Lord of Westfold. Erkenbrand would attack Éomer, even if he was king, and she was uncertain whether her temperamental husband would be able to fend off the marshal’s accusations with the bidden rationality. In any case, it was clear to her that the council had the potential of turning very ugly very quickly, even if they had decided that they would not mention her vision. It was something none of the warriors would be able to accept.

“The members of the council have arrived. Are you ready?”

Tugging at her immaculate dark-green and heavily embroidered velvet gown, Lothíriel turned around, her features a perfectly bland mask of indifference, a mask she was determined to keep for the duration of the council. If they wanted for the meeting to go their way, they had to appear convinced and unafraid.

“I am, my lord.” She held out her arm for him, and he seized it, telling her with a short glance how much he appreciated the support she had decided to demonstrate through her presence at the council, even if it would only be silent. “Let us not keep them waiting.”

A thin smile.

“You look wonderful, Lothíriel. A true queen, not only of my heart.”

She was too surprised by his passionate statement for a reply, but then found she needed none for he pulled her into a tight embrace to kiss her. When they separated, she caught a glimpse of the same dread she felt in his eyes, and she held on to him for a moment longer, ignoring the servant who was waiting for them further down to open the door to the throne room and announce their presence.

“You are the true King of Rohan, Éomer. You are doing what must be done, and you will rise to become one of the greatest kings the Mark has ever had with this. Today, you will lay the foundations of a peace our land has never experienced before. Show them what you are made of, heir of Eorl!” Their lips met in another passionate kiss, this time initiated by her.

“Your ability to give great speeches is fast becoming frightening, my queen,” Éomer then smirked, finally steering them over to the waiting servant while battling his own anxiety. Fighting to make it disappear from his face and his stance. He winked. “If it would not be viewed as a sign of weakness by my marshals, I would let you lead the council!”

She smiled back at him, and for a moment, everything was good and what they were about to do impossibly far away. Then Éomer turned to the servant and nodded for him to open the door and announce them.

“Hail Éomer and Lothíriel, King and Queen of Riddermark!”

  The assembled council rose as the royal couple strode down the aisle towards them, to decide the further fate of the Mark…

------------------------

MINAS TIRITH

   The Council of Minas Tirith could not be summoned until five days later when all sentinels had delivered the invitations. None of the noble men of Gondor had been in the city at this time of year, for they all had to watch over the peasants working for them on their feudal tenures.

  The harvest of corn, rye, and hop had begun, not to mention the fruits and vegetables, which were brought to the city on large wagons. The vassals of the last war were busily trading with the farmers from South Gondor and Dol Amroth. Minas Tirith had become again the main market place at the great roads crossing from south, west, and north. Strangers filled the paved streets, yelling at those blocking the main way into the first ring. Carts and horses crowded the places, and the women at their stands cried out with disgust when one of the mighty steeds crushed its hindquarters into the vegetables. The guards had to end some of the haggling with harsh words, and before dusk they had thrown out some men, who were too eager to empty the inn of its beer.

  The city was humming with activity, and every hour more people seemed to pour in through the gates. Those who could not find a proper stand within, swapped or sold their goods outside, praising their quality. They all concentrated so much on their businesses that even the lords, who arrived around midday, found it hard to force their way in. The guards tried ineffectively to help since the carts blocked every path. It took them time and sweat to allow Lord Iranelion and the two men of his company to ride up to the fountain and from thereon into the second ring which was less crowded. Lord Ligatis and Lord Tóren followed swift, riding up with their escort to the second and third ring.

  From above the Embrasure Aragorn watched the arrival of the lords and their men. After the morning hours when he had sat in judgement upon some citizens, who had quarrelled with their neighbours, and a trader, who had sold leather that another man had claimed his own, the king had retreated to the Citadel. Now he knew that the pleasant time was passing fast. He could see Iranelion's strong-legged steed climbing up to the fourth ring, and the man riding it seemed to match his horse in stature and attitude. Aragorn's lips twitched. Iranelion had been among the close friends of the late Steward of Gondor, and since Denethor's death the lord had not rested to utter his complaints about the new reign. He would never have done so openly, but Prince Faramir had been listening by chance to the lord's rancour in some cases. Since the Council of Noble Men from Gondor was a tradition unbroken for centuries, the king could neither deny nor ignore its existence.

  “Lord Aragorn?” Faramir, dressed in a dark-blue jerkin over a matching tunic and trousers, came up to the king. “Lord Iranelion will arrive shortly.”

  “I just saw him.”

  Faramir followed the older man's gaze. Iranelion spurred his horse along the slope to the fifth ring. His round, reddened face was covered with sweat, and he looked annoyed beyond words. The prince turned to his king.

  “Would you like me to summon the other men, my lord?”

  Aragorn could not help smiling though the task ahead seemed comparable to the wrestling with a boar. - A task he would have preferred to do.

  “Faramir, my friend, on how many occasions shall I repeat myself that there is no need to call me other than by my name?”

  “It shall be as you wish, my…” Faramir smiled sheepishly when Aragorn was about to correct him again. “Shall the Council begin as soon as the lords have arrived?”

  The king but raised his hand shortly.

  “Tell me about Vlohiri, please, since I have not seen him for quite a while.”

  Faramir could quickly guess the intention to delay the meeting for another half-hour, but he gladly reported about the boy's progress in learning while in the background of the Citadel the chamberlain escorted the lords to the first floor of the White Tower.

  “If he continues to learn at this pace I will not be able to teach him any more when another year will have passed. He never feels tired, it seems to me. And he never complains that he did not understood what I told him.” The prince's smile vanished when he continued, “But he does not learn for himself. And he did not take up the toil for me, either. I am but a tool, the teacher he needs. He respects me since I am the one, who has the knowledge to educate him, but… I suppose his eagerness is based on a clear intention.” The men exchanged glances. Aragorn finally broke the eye contact by looking over the city seven hundred feet below.

  “What else does he do?”

  “I saw him with Hiregon the smith at the Royal Stables.” Another fast-fading smile followed. “If he learns to shoe a horse as quickly as he has learned everything else, Hiregon will take him in as a new apprentice.”

  “That would not be my intention,” Aragorn replied, but his tone indicated he was only teasing.

  “Vlohiri's love for horses is clearly your merit,” Faramir added and, finally, earned a smile from the king. “He befriended Brego and, as I heard, Rohyren, too.”

  “He did?” Now the king's smile broadened. “Who sent him to the stables?” The prince cast his eyes down. “I see.”

  “He needed something different from the lessons in history, Aragorn,” Faramir continued. “The stable-boys are a friendly company, too. Vlohiri gets restless from time to time. And I thought it would be a good idea to let him do something with his hands.” His gaze travelled to the entrance of the tower. The chamberlain fidgeted already. The prince assumed that the lords were not happy about the king's being late. “And it might be a good idea to begin with the Council now.”

  From the place at the Embrasure to the entrance of the conference room Aragorn managed to change his expression from refusal to equanimity. Upon entering the warm and sun-flooded room with its long table, made of dark wood, in its middle the lords raised from their seats, shoving the chairs behind them. The king faced them with a short nod and took his place at the head of the table with Faramir standing to his left. After the greeting they sat down. Wine, water, and ale had been served, and the chamberlain put a goblet of water in front of the king and the prince before he retreated to his place at the door to be present when his service was needed.

  Aragorn looked from Lord Iranelion's still reddened face to the stout, bearded features of Lord Ligatis. The old man held his stare without flinching. Ligatis, as well as Iranelion had earned his lands and status long years before the king had returned to the White City.

  Ligatis was the oldest member of the Council, a voice heard throughout the city and the land, and his deeds for the late steward were well known among the men present. More than a year ago, when the king had sat in judgement upon Lady Saborian and her son, Ligatis had shaken his head over the king's decision to show mercy. Though Sadur was Denethor's bastard son, he had not understood the king's strange action, which would – in his eyes – lessen the king's respect among the common herd. He had stressed his opinion more than once and with fierce arguments – one saying that everyone now was encouraged to abduct the king for his own purposes –, but, as it had turned out, the ruler had not listened to him. After that incident at the Council Ligatis had decided to leave the White City for good and only return from his lavish lands for a meeting like this. But his thoughts were with the peasants working on the fields. Without the owner's orders they might dawdle and neglect their work. Ligatis was eager to return home. He wiped his forehead with his thin-skinned hand. Outdoors it would not be that hot, too.

  Opposite to Ligatis the third important member of the Council had sat down. Lord Tóren, a dour-handed man with experience in warfare as well as in pressing grapes, eyed the king with keen brown eyes which sparkled lively under thick dark brows. Tóren was tall, but slender, his face the very image of a hawk. Against the unwritten rules he did not wear the colours of Gondor for this meeting but dark-red and gold on his tunic and trousers. His family owned one of the biggest vineyards in Ithilien, and he had made a fortune by selling the wine to the southern lands. The sentinel Aragorn had sent had found him among the grape plants and had been quite astonished that the lord himself was working in the vineyard. Tóren smiled upon the memory. The villagers had had needed time to get acquainted with the landowner's behaviour, but by now it was a common picture to them to see Lord Tóren in plain clothes, speckled with grape juice, while he checked the grapes. He leant back and waited patiently for the king's report.

  Aragorn thanked the lords for their coming and got straight to the subject.

  “The Easterlings, my lords, have built up tents west of Dagorlad. There are probably a hundred, but it might be less. The gathering could indicate that they search for new land to live on, but it is not clear. They brought a herd of livestock which origin I do not know. The night we watched them they held a kind of meeting in one of the tents, and some weapons and banners could be seen on the outside. It appears there are more women than men in that camp, and they did not wear armour set aside one man. In my eyes it was no muster of belligerent soldiers.”

  “How many men and women are waiting there?” Ligatis asked with a voice that was high due to his age.

  “I cannot tell. There was only little movement. But a hundred tents could mean three hundred people. Since they are organised in tribes it might be two families or three.”

  “Not more?” Lord Iranelion asked and put down his goblet to tap his thick fingers on its base. “Could it not be a lot more people? Soldiers you did not see? Maybe their armour lay hidden somewhere?”

  “The messengers I sent out before reported of no more than a hundred people. My assumption might even be too high.” Aragorn held the man's stare. “Since there are more women than men in that area I suppose they are not mustering troops for an attack.”

  Snorting, Ligatis leant forward on the table, and his eyes were mere slits when he fixed his gaze upon the king again.

  “Not mustering troops for an attack?” he echoed, and his grey beard trembled. “I was told otherwise, my Lord Aragorn!”

  “And who might this man have been who talked to you in other terms than the king?” Aragorn asked and his voice bore a superiority which stressed his status.

  Ligatis cocked his head.

  “You very well know that man, my liege. Captain Fáred reported to me shortly before we met, and his report included the fact that they did not only built up tents west of Dagorlad – and rather close to Ithilien's border – but also stole innumerable horses in the settlements of our northern lands. It is very easy to imagine the purpose the stolen horses will serve. They will weaken us and make them faster! They will cross the border soon and slaughter our people!”

  “The number of horses remained quite countable,” Aragorn replied sternly. The other nobles reacted with murmurs and agitation. The king had to raise his voice to be heard. “And even if the Easterlings can be accused of the thefts – which was only proved in one case – this still is no argument for an impending raid on Ithilien. And truly not of any impending doom of the settlers. Since the Easterlings are not horsemen but infantry they might one use them as packhorses if the accusation proves true in the end.”

  “And the beast?” Lord Ligatis interposed louder to drown out the arguments along the table. He was successful; the men fell quiet again.

  “A beast?” Lord Tóren echoed with disgust. “What are you talking about, Ligatis? This is no children's play here.”

  “What I am talking about here,” Ligatis stressed looking sternly to Lord Tóren, “is that some beast has attacked herds in that region. It may have devastated whole populations of pigs, goats, and what else we do not know! And we also do not know if it is alone or will soon appear in larger numbers!”

  “Hold it!” Aragorn interrupted loud enough to make the chamberlain tremble with surprise. He raised his hand to quieten the immediate protests. “My lords, we should always fight exaggeration wherever and whenever it occurs. I visited the settlements along the border and in the north, and the herds looked very alive to me. All the settlers had to report were a few killed pigs. Nothing else.”

  “And would that not be enough to be alarmed?” Ligatis asked slyly.

  The king stood fast and lowered his hand again.

  “I intend to send some hunters to that region to search for the beast, but that is not our main focus here.”

  “It is since the Easterlings might have sent these beasts to terrify our people!”

  “This has not been proven in any case,” Aragorn objected stern-faced.

  “So what has been proven?” Iranelion shoved his empty mug to the middle of the table where it came to a clattering halt. “Do we need reinforcements? Are the Easterlings moving? And what kind of animal is it? A wolf or… what?”

  Aragorn knew what Iranelion wanted. He could see that at least Ligatis agreed with him.

  “We do not know what kind of beast it is,” he repeated. “It will be taken care of. And with this the argument is settled.”

  “It might be a Warg!” Iranelion nodded to himself. “I saw many of them. The leaders of the Orcs were riding them on their attack on the Pelennors. Some might have gone astray, and now they attack the settlements for prey!”

  “Wargs have not those claws the villagers described.” Aragorn tried to remain calm, tried to understand the noble men's concerns since their lands could be in danger. But his patience had limits. “We might be dealing with an animal that is yet unknown, but the hunters will find its tracks. And the beast, if it is still there.”

  “Then what about the Easterlings?” Tóren leant forward and set his hawk-eyes on the king. “The reports look inconsistent to me.”

  “Only regarding the number of horse-thefts, I might say,” Prince Faramir answered with silent agreement of the king.

  “Oh, not only in those numbers, my young prince.” Ligatis raised his index finger. “Captain Fáred made it quite clear that there is no good to be expected from such an extraordinary movement so close to the border. It can only mean...”

  “It is no army,” Aragorn stressed and his austere look made clear he would not tolerate further arguments leading into that direction.

  “Then what? The Easterlings are nomadic, are they not? Then why should they build up a whole settlement of tents in one area where – if I may say so – no plants or grass or springs are known?” Ligatis shook his grey-haired head distinctively. “As any reasonable man would know, it is foolish to assume that they have changed their way of living within the past two years and are now about to settle down on infertile grounds.” He waved his bony hand. “Women or not… there is only one way to answer this threat.”

  “Women were involved in the fighting at the Morannon,” Lord Tóren nodded and immediately caught the other men's attention. “I saw them fight. They were mostly archers, fought in the second row, never in the first. But I would not dare say that it is impossible for them to plan an attack on Ithilien since the eastern borders are less than protected. It might look like an invitation.”

  “Right what I say.” Ligatis let his hand fall flat on the table and faced the king again. “Let us answer to the threat with the means at hand!”

  The king could now hardly conceal his anger.

  “And what would that be, Lord Ligatis?”

  The prince let his gaze wander from Aragorn to Ligatis, whose sly expression had even deepened. The lord pursed his lips, and Faramir knew exactly what the old man would say.

  “Let the captain and a squadron ride out to meet them. Show that rebellious people the place where they belong!”

  “You imply to attack the Easterlings on their own ground?” Prince Faramir asked sceptically.

  Lord Ligatis seemed close to spitting on the table.

  “My young prince, what else could I have meant? A friendly conversation? An exchange of court rules? They might be even too stupid to understand our language!”

  Lord Tóren hid his smile behind his hand, Lord Iranelion snorted while the other men at the table remained silent.

  “I do not think that I like your tone,” Aragorn interfered glaring at the old man. “Have I to remind you that you are addressing the Prince of Ithilien, Lord Ligatis? Or are the rules of this house not known to you?”

  “And with due respect, your highness,” the old man answered with a mocking bow, “I say that the late ruling Steward of Gondor would have followed my proposal without…”

  “There is no need to mention the late steward, Lord Ligatis,” Faramir interrupted through clenched teeth, “since the land is now ruled by the legal King of Gondor!”

  “Faramir, calm down,” the king said quietly in Sindarin, and the prince nodded curtly. Aragorn turned to Ligatis again. “Any action taken beyond our own borders at this time would damage our interests and violate the rights of this people.”

  “You mean, King Elessar, that there is no action taken against this muster?” Lord Tóren asked, truly astonished.

  “It is no muster, and I do not say we will do naught. But I do not propose to raise the whole army. The men are needed on the fields. Many soldiers returned to their families after the war and are now helping with the harvest. Calling them back at this moment would slow down that process, a fact that we cannot neglect. A fact that you cannot neglect, my lords. We need every available man to get our people prepared for the winter.”

  “There are enough soldiers under arms,” Ligatis hissed. “Enough to get rid of this threat in weeks.”

  “And if there are more women than men, all the better,” Lord Iranelion assisted, shrugging his mighty shoulders.

  “I will not send any squadron to the north.” Aragorn looked from one man to the other, disgusted by the all too quick decision to invade another people’s land. “What I have already done is place dispatch-riders with fast horses along the border. The first group left two days ago. Another will follow soon. That way we will get news of any movement in a shorter time. And the squadrons in the City and at Osgiliath received orders to get ready.”

  “That will be all?” Lord Iranelion frowned. “My lord, now it might be three hundred, but if they gather quick enough they will overrun Ithilien within weeks!”

  “I do not see this imminent danger, my lord. It seems impossible that they have already recovered from their losses at the end of the war.”

  Lord Iranelion quickly exchanged glances with Lord Ligatis. The older man spoke.

  “Though you do not want to hear it, my liege,“ he said lowly and with a politeness that was as cold as spring-waters in winter, “but the Council's voice had once been ignored. That shall not happen again, for the fortune of all of us.“

  Faramir took a deep breath before answering.

  “And though your status in this Council allows you to utter your opinion, Lord Ligatis, it is still the king's decision what shall happen in this land.”

  Ligatis smirked, but drew back.

  “Your decision then, Lord Aragorn, is to remain silent and inactive until a sentinel will tell you about the invasion of Northern Ithilien?”

  The king’s voice was strained and his grey eyes shone with a fierce glance.

  “My decision is not to let myself be directed by old hatred and false assumptions. I will act upon facts which indicate a threat, not only a movement of nomads from one part of their land to another. But I will answer to stubbornness beyond reason and disregard of my decisions.” He rose and the noble men followed. With a curt bow the king left the Council first. The chamberlain opened the door for him and the prince. They both exited while the conversation behind them went on.

------------------------

  "You know what will come out of that?“ Faramir said quietly when the king and he had reached the fountain at the Citadel again. The day had started with light rain, but now the sun broke through and the wind brought warmth again from the south. "Lord Ligatis will not keep quiet about the argument.“

  "I do well remember the opinion he stated in the last Council.“ Aragorn looked frustrated and angered, but his voice indicated how tired he was, too. He wiped his forehead and beard in a futile attempt to calm down. To Faramir the king looked like short to breaking into a run to loosen his tension. "His opposition will arouse unrest.“

  "You could order him to keep quiet about the Council’s results.“

  "Could I? As you told me Lord Iranelion, too, is always eager to utter criticism about my actions. What good would come out of forbidding the lords to speak their minds?“

  "If the unrest harms the people this is a good enough reason.“ Prince Faramir waited patiently for the king's answer, but he got none. Instead the king stared down to the Royal Stables in the sixth ring looking for a boy well-known to Faramir. "Hiregon the smith seems to enjoy the boy's company,” he took up the subject of their conversation from before the meeting. "When I watched them from afar they were both laughing.”

  "Hiregon's son started serving the Royal Guard some time ago. The old man was proud... and sad at the same time.“ Aragorn turned to his friend and found the understanding he had expected. "I have known the smith since I came to the city. He is the one smith who helped the other workers with the repairs in the City after the war. He is a decent and straight man. Only good can come out of this kind of friendship.“

  "I agree. Vlohiri is always happy to be allowed to give Hiregon a hand. The boy's eyes were shining like he was granted a great fortune.“

  "After what he had lived through no reward will be enough.“

  "Aye.“ Faramir indicated a bow.

  Aragorn's mouth twitched.

  “Have I ever thanked you for staying in the steward's home since our return?” Prince Faramir did not reply. “It is about time that you and your family return to your own home. I have kept you from living your life long enough.”

  “There is neither the need to thank me, Aragorn, nor for me to leave Minas Tirith. And I will not since Vlohiri has a lot to learn that can only be provided within the City.” He stood fast to Aragorn's stare, not letting him know that his decision was led by other intentions than those uttered. Aragorn accepted the answer with a curt bow. “I shall see that the second group of dispatch-riders leaves today.“

------------------------

EDORAS

Éomer rose. Expectant faces stared at him. The moment had arrived. So far, the council had taken place in an intense atmosphere befitting the subject, but one that had been marked by a mutual, deep-running respect among its members. Facts had been reported and heard, opinions been exchanged, and there had not been as much as a heated word among the warriors. But things were bound to change now, the king thought grimly as his gaze swept over his waiting kinsmen, giving them a curt nod one after the other in acknowledgement.

“Honourable members of the council…” Éomer’s gaze went to his wife first, who was looking up to him from her own throne at his side with an expression of confidence, then went on to find Elfhelm. His friend was wearing an unreadable expression much as he himself. The Lord of Eastfold knew what was to follow, but also knew he had to act surprised, no small task for a truth-loving, straightforward Rohirrim. Yet it would only complicate things if Erkenbrand learned of the conversation they had had the evening before, immediately after the arrival of Aldburg’s éored. Éomer knew he could blindly trust in his friend’s shrewdness. Elfhelm was every bit a marshal as his counterpart of the Westfold. He would hold his own. And Thor… Thor held a key role in the scenario which was about to unfold with his revelation. It was him Erkenbrand would most likely suspect of changing the king’s mind against him. Still he deemed the man, who was only slightly younger than Éomer himself, experienced enough to handle the situation. His hard upbringing had steeled the man of Dunlendish descent to stay calm even under the most grim-looking situations, so he would be quite ready to face an angry marshal. The other side. Erkenbrand, Galdur…

Éomer descended the two steps of the dais, the hands on his back.

“Marshal Erkenbrand, it has been three days now since you brought us the tidings of the incidents in the Westmark. We have held two councils, we have heard all the facts, opinions, assumptions and suggestions we needed to hear to come to an understanding of the situation, and now it is time for the ruling of this council. I cannot stress enough how much I appreciate everybody’s attendance and the calm and constructive way of discussion we’ve had this morning. You may have noticed, however, that I myself did not contribute much to it, and I will tell you why: It is because in my heart, the path that must be taken, the reaction that must follow these events has already been decided upon. It had already been decided upon before this council, but I needed to view the subject from all different angles, angles which only you, my most trusted advisors, could supply. Hearing your opinions and suggestions has been valuable, even if they did not change my point of view. They did, however, cause me to thoroughly question my decision, and I have found my answer and can now stand by it with even greater conviction than before.”

He walked through the aisle and could almost feel Erkenbrand’s expectant gaze between his shoulder-blades as he turned around to face the one man he expected to oppose him.

“Marshal Erkenbrand, I share your opinion that there are only two solutions to the problem we are faced with. A limited retaliation for the provocation the people of Dunland brought on would not do. An incursion with limited troops into the Misty Mountains to wipe out only their soldiers, or even all their adult men, would cost us more men and horses, both of which we cannot afford to lose in the light of the problems the Mark is faced with after the war. It would furthermore stir up yet more hatred in the survivors, the women and children we spared, and in a few years time, the problem would surface anew once the boys had grown into men. In our weakened position, we cannot afford for that to happen. It is a path of action which is shut to us.”

His gaze found Elfhelm. The Lord of Eastfold still wore a non-telling expression on his broad, scarred features, eyes unfocussed staring into the twilight of the hall. Had the king not known his friend’s thoughts from the night before, he would not have been able to guess them himself. As it were, the experienced warrior had uttered his scepticism at his ruler’s plan, yet he had also declared that he would continue to stand loyally by his side and help the younger man on the rocky path he had chosen. It was good to know in the scheme of things whom to trust, Éomer figured. There would not be too many men left of that quality after he had revealed his campaign for peace. Elfhelm himself had warned him of the possibility of treason not only among his soldiers, but also his fellow kinsmen. It was an unprecedented event that a king would decide against the wish of his entire people, and there was no telling what would happen. Unwilling to further follow the thought down, Éomer shoved it away and looked at Gamling to his left as he continued, his voice carrying.

“The first possible solution would thus have to be the complete eradication of the Dunlending people. Not just their warriors, but their old, their women… and their children, whether they are already on their way to adolescence or still lying in the crib.” He paused to let his words echo into silence and to let the horrid image settle in the men’s minds, and found grim faces staring back at himself, or, in Elfhelm’s case, into nothing. “Only the hardest strike we could deliver would ensure that our weakened people would never again be faced with a danger from the west. It would mean a gathering of all our forces, of all the warriors the Mark is still able to muster in order to lay our foes’ land to waste before they can do the same to us. Such a strike would mean to rip out the plant by its roots, never to grow back.”

Only slightly shifting his view, his gaze came to rest on the Dunlandish scout, and he could not hold back the sudden memory of Thor’s words, which had been uttered only a few hours ago to lasting effect. Éomer had asked the younger man upon the prospects of a lasting peace between their two peoples, and the answer had illustrated quite clearly to him what he was up against.

‘They hate you. Their hatred for you is the thought they wake up with in the morning, and it is the last thought before they go to sleep. They blame you for the misery of their entire existence. If a sickness befalls a village, it is because of you. If the harvest is bad, it is because of you. The people of Rohan are to blame for every single death that occurs, be it through illness, hunger or accident. If children are stillborn, the Rohirrim are blamed. You drove them into the hills and took all fertile land for yourselves. You are to them the very image of cruelty and greed. Every child grows up with that knowledge implanted into its head. They hate even before they can properly walk. That, my king, is what you are up against.’

A shadow fell on Éomer’s face as his eyes met with the captain’s, weighed down by the sheer enormity of his task. The younger man’s face looked grim, yet distant. He had made it clear that while he welcomed his king’s efforts and would do everything in his power to support his campaign, he was also deeply sceptic of the outcome. The gap between the two peoples was wide and would not easily be bridged. Whether it would be possible at all to overcome 500 years of hatred, he dared not predict.

Even just hearing about the plans that existed for the punishment for his former people obviously caused Thor great distress. They were not all evil, he had stressed in their conversation. The horrible deeds some of their warriors had committed and which had caused the young scout to eventually change sides, had resulted from generations of having to live life in misery, something Éomer had understood once his kinsman had gone into detail. The scout had also been appalled at Éomer’s insinuation about the purpose of the abducted Rohirrim, when he had heatedly answered that they were still talking about a race of men, not orcs. Never, Thor had pressed, hardly able to contain his usually calm temper, would the Wild Men cannibalise their kind, no matter how much they hated them!

Éomer hoped the man knew his people as well as he thought as his gaze wandered further, this time coming to rest on the banner of his house behind the throne. By what he was about to do, he would be sticking out his neck for everyone to cut it off. Elfhelm had said so, and there could be no question that he was right. The respect of his people, their love for him, his honour – all would turn into their exact opposite if he had misjudged the situation and led Rohan into doom. The green banner with the white horse had seen days of glory under Eorl and his line. Would they turn into days of shame now under his reign? His father would be looking down on him now. Eorl himself would see him and judge his successor’s deeds for their battered kingdom. If only he did the right thing... He turned around to face Erkenbrand, whose impatient expression was urging him to go on, and he complied. It was time to reveal Lothíriel’s idea.

“However, such a massive strike would also mean a bloodbath, an unparalleled slaughter of the innocent and a betrayal of all values that we and our forefathers fought to uphold and protected over the centuries. It would mean soiling our honour with murder for all times, and it would most likely also lead to an estrangement from our allies who could under no circumstances understand our actions. This horrible deed would isolate us. It would doom us to stand alone in the world, which is a concession I am not willing to make in the name of vengeance. We need our allies, and there has to be another way.” The first signs of comprehension began to glimmer in Erkenbrand’s hawk-eyes, the first signs of a beginning frown, as he ended: “It is for these reasons that I have chosen to pursue the other of the two given solutions, which will be a course towards a lasting peace with the people of Dunland on a grounds we have yet to determine.”

For a moment, none of the members spoke. The Golden Hall of Meduseld itself seemed frozen by its king’s statement. All colour had drained from Erkenbrand’s face as he fought for words, and the captain at his side did not look much better.

“But… sire –“

Éomer raised his chin as he awaited the marshal’s objection.

“Sire, after all that we’ve learned – after all I have told you – how can this be your decision?”

“Marshal, I am aware that my decision comes as a surprise, yet what may appear to you as a letdown now may very well be the only way to ensure the prosperity of our people in the future. Be assured that I gave this decision more thought than I ever gave to anything else. I am aware of the risk, but it would be a lie not to admit that the other way doesn’t involve the same risk. If we can avoid battle in our weakened state, we should seize the opportunity.”

Erkenbrand wrung his hands.

“But it will be an unmistakable sign to all our foes that we are too weak to defend what is ours! Once the word spreads, they will spill like a foul flood into our lands and take it from us! It is ourpeople who will be slaughtered then, sire! The Mark will fall if we show any weakness at all!” The old warrior was in severe distress, his features a mask of uncomprehending shock. It pained Éomer to be the reason for the esteemed soldier’s turmoil, but there was no way back now.

“Marshal, please! I hold nothing but the utmost respect for your way of keeping the Westfold under our control for so long. You lost many men in the process and even had to suffer personal tragedies in your constant battle for keeping our people safe. Your renown and respect have been well-earned. But something will have to change in the way Rohirrim and Dunlendings treat each other, or our two countries will become deserted wastelands. I am aware of the danger my decision holds for the Mark. I would that it were different, but there seems to be no other way if we ever want for this quarrel to end. Trust me that the negotiations – if it will come to that – will not make us appear weak in the faces of our enemies. If we reach a peace, it will be on our terms. The terms we will decide upon in this council today. The first condition, the base of us entering into negotiations at all, being the return of the abducted men. We will not appear weak, and we will not let our people down.”

“But what if those men are dead, my lord?” Erkenbrand pressed, hardly able to restrain himself. It was still the king he was talking to. “What if they are dead and have been serving the purpose I described to you?”

“The Dunlendings are no beasts, marshal!” Thor cut in, unwilling to take Erkenbrand’s open accusation and his black eyes cutting to the older man in open challenge. Elfhelm’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, but he paid it no heed. “No matter how much they hate the Rohirrim, they would never lower themselves to the level of animals! I will not let that insult stand!”

Erkenbrand stared back at him, realisation dawning on his drawn face as he sneered menacingly:

“So it was you who messed with the king’s mind! I should have known!”

“Marshal Erkenbrand!” The council was getting out of hand more quickly than Éomer had thought. Two quick paces brought him to a halt in front of the steaming Lord of Westfold. “You will mind your words in this hall! I assure you that I am quite capable of having an opinion of my own without needing someone to ‘mess with my mind’.”

The wiry man narrowed his eyes, and in them, anger and a hurt feeling of betrayal burnt underneath the surface.

“I apologise, Éomer-king. But I must admit that I am shocked by the extent of the conspiracy that seems to be going on against myself here. And I have to admit that I am equally shocked by the utter change in the former Third Marshal’s bearing, as well! Only three days ago, you were righteously enraged about the tidings I brought! You were ready to assemble the éoreds and head off for Dunland in the wink of an eye. Where is that man now that Rohan needs him the most? What has happened, I ask myself!”

Éomer’s own temper flared up now, but no good would come out of it if he entered into a shouting contest with his marshal. Neither could he simply order Erkenbrand to remain silent, the man held too much renown himself. After the king and yet before Elfhelm, he was the second-most respected warrior in the entire kingdom, a man beyond all doubt, and Éomer could not afford to lose his loyalty. Even though he knew that he would not stand a chance of convincing a man who had dedicated his entire life to battling their western neighbours, he had to make at least an effort at persuading him to not thwart his campaign for peace. In the worst case, he would have to order his obedience. It would have to be his last measure though, because ordering a man to do the opposite of what he believed in had to result in an atmosphere of tension. Still, obedience to the king was a character trait inherent to every Rohirrim, soldiers and peasants alike. Even during the unfortunate times of Gríma Wormtongue’s secret rule, there had been no attempt to unseat Théoden-King from his throne. No uproar, no rebellion. Only deep worry and concern. Of course, once away from Edoras, Éomer and his cousin had taken the liberty of making their own decisions in Rohan’s best interest, but open disobedience to the king’s orders was unheard of. Counting history on his side, Éomer looked his childhood idol straight in the eye.

“That man you’ve known, Marshal Erkenbrand, that fierce, vengeful and hard-handed son of Éomund, former Third Marshal of Riddermark, has grown up. He has matured and become King of Riddermark. Your own great wisdom and experience will tell you – once you can see past your anger - that the ruler of an entire kingdom must look at things differently than the soldiers he commands.”

“This is not a strange concept to me,” the old warrior responded, his eyes staying on the king who made his way back to the dais, turning his back on the others after another thorough, long glance, and his gaze shifted back to the other members of the council. “Yet a king is only as wise as the people who counsel him… and of course this is the counsel you get when you ask a Dunlending in Dunlendian affairs!” He glowered at the hard-breathing Thor, who was held back from answering heatedly to the insinuated accusation only by the hand of the Lord of Eastfold on his shoulder. Even if his kinsman was being insulted, Elfhelm knew that right now it was the king’s duty to defend him. “Of course he opposes our suggestion of eradicating the people he grew up amongst, my lord! He could not tell you anything else, it is in his blood! You should have known better than to ask him!”

“And whom should I have asked instead?” Éomer raised his voice. He had intended to sit down, but Erkenbrand’s last remark caused him change his mind. Posture was important in this battle. He could not afford to diminish his position by sitting down. With arched eyebrows and his arms crossed over his chest, Éomer stared at his opponent from his elevated position on the dais. Sensing his wife’s concerned gaze in his back. “You? A man who fought them his entire life, a man who has lost his family to them and is blinded by his hatred, even if it is justified? If it had been your decision, Lord Erkenbrand, there would not even have been a council! You would have summoned every rider you could have gotten a hold of and laid Dunland to ruin without wasting a single word of discussion!”

“And rightly so! It is the only language these primitives understand!” Again he turned to Thor, and his eyes narrowed. “Captain Thor, you need not glower at me like that! You know it better than anyone of us, and I am certain you know much more than you told us here. It makes me wonder whether you are still, at heart, one of them, even if you have been living among us and enjoying the better life for years. Who knows what the true reason is for your living here!”

“Marshal Erkenbrand!” Éomer roared, together with Elfhelm. A quick silent exchange between the two men told the Marshal of Eastfold that he would be granted the defence of his second-in-command, who seemed all too eager to answer for himself.

“You are forgetting yourself, marshal!” Elfhelm boomed, his grey eyes sparkling as he took a determined step forth. “Captain Thor is not the man in my éored I trust the most for nothing! He is well-respected among my men, and there are none among them who would not gladly give their life for him in battle. Only eighteen months ago, he played a substantial part in the king’s survival, so how dare you question his loyalty?”

The older warrior accepted the challenge his counterpart from the other part of the kingdom proposed willingly as he came to a halt directly in front of him, his features so hard, they looked as if they had been hewn into granite.

“Until today, I would not have dared to, Marshal Elfhelm. Until today, I had no reason to believe otherwise. But suddenly, I find myself surrounded by proof that something is wrong not only with your captain’s principles. What about your own loyalty, Marshal Elfhelm? Where does it lie?” He snorted. “Alas, the answer to that question is all too clear, even if it stands for truly Rohirric ideals. Our king’s father was your best friend, and that is why you have extended your friendship to his son. A noble and so far unquestionable decision. But people – even rulers – can err! We have a greater responsibility than that to single man, marshal: That to our land! This is why we are holding these councils! So that all can be heard! If we did not, whoever sat on Rohan’s throne could just do as he pleases. Why even call us if the king decided over the fate of our land alone? Had you forgotten that when you entered the Golden Hall last night for a conversation none of the members of this council bothered to tell me about?” He turned back Éomer, open accusation in his eyes.

“That is right, sire. Marshal Elfhelm’s and Captain Thor’s arrival at Meduseld was never announced to me, even though we waited the entire afternoon for them. Together! I was not called to the Golden Hall when they finally arrived in the night. Oh yes, my lord...” Erkenbrand tried to clamp down his teeth, but disappointment was boiling so hot in him that it was impossible to swallow the rest of what he had to say. He nodded and took another deep breath. “We saw them at the stables. We noticed how the marshal and the captain made their way into Meduseld and did not return for a very long time, even though it was late.” A quick, accusatory glance at the Lord of Eastfold. “It was obvious that your reasons for visiting King Éomer were not just to make your arrival known, Marshal Elfhelm, and so I expected to be summoned, too...” He turned back to the king. “But I wasn’t.”

“The meeting was mainly of a private nature, marshal, and besides, since our council had been scheduled for a mere few hours later, there was no need to,” Éomer replied to the insinuation in a short, clipped tone. “However, I do not have to explain myself to you, and I don’t think I like your tone. You will mind your words in these halls, marshal!”

“I apologise, my lord. Please forgive my undue forwardness.”

The older man bowed his head in what Éomer took as acted obedience, but he decided that it would do… for now. Satisfied, he turned to exchange a brief glance with his wife, and found her looking upon him with a glowing sense of pride over his unexpected display of composure and rationality. In fact, he had even surprised himself. Whereas in his earlier days, he would have thankfully answered to any disrespectful challenge in a much more heatedly manner, the ruler of a land could not afford to. He had to rely on words to solve his conflicts, and Éomer had not been certain whether he actually had it in himself. Words had failed him before once emotion had gotten the better of him. In response to Lothíriel’s display of appreciation, he granted her a small return smile… when he suddenly heard an unexpected chuckle behind him. The sound was so utterly unfitting of the situation, it made him swivel. It was Erkenbrand.

“Marshal Erkenbrand, would you care to share the reason for your amusement with the rest of us, for it seems rather out-of-place in the light of the things we are discussing.”

“Aye, my king.” The warrior raised his head, and Éomer did not like the expression of mockery on the older man’s face. “I would. I was laughing at my own stupidity and blindness.” His gaze shifted to Lothíriel, and when their eyes locked, he saw the understanding in the queen’s features that her ploy had been uncovered. “It was not Captain Thor who persuaded you to change your mind and turn your back on your people at all... it was her!”

He stepped forth, and his eyes became narrow slits in which the grey sparkled like ice over a deep trench as he came to a halt at the foot of the dais, arms crossed over his chest.

“It was you! Who would have suspected it?“ A bitter laugh. “A woman is secretly ruling Meduseld, and none of us noticed it until now. How cunning. How very cunning of you, daughter of Dol Amroth! What did you do to our king, Lady Lothíriel? Tell me!”

“Marshal Erkenbrand!” Éomer’s infuriated voice cut through his tirade without succeeding in turning his attention away from the queen. Lothíriel, who was not evading his piercing stare, but instead answered his challenge with determination in her face that caused Erkenbrand’s blood to boil. “I warn you! I will not tolerate you speaking to the queen or to me in this manner!”

“Oh, but what manner would be fitting, my lord?” Erkenbrand sneered, only briefly willing to shift his gaze to the fuming king as he stood on the dais, glaring down on him, his shoulders squared. His whole body language unmistakably betraying that Éomer’s patience had reached its end now. Still, the Lord of Westfold could not pull back. He felt disgusted beyond belief with what he had just uncovered. “For only now do I finally see the full extent of the conspiracy that is going on against me!”

“There is no conspiracy against you, marshal, and I strongly advise you to step back and watch your words! You are overstepping all boundaries!”

“It began on the day I brought you the tidings, my lord,” Erkenbrand continued, unfazed by the younger man’s anger and his piercing gaze never once left Lothíriel. “It began with the queen’s unusual attendance at the first council. And then somewhere during that night, I suppose she must have whispered something into your ear, something that changed your mind, or has it been a potion of some sorts?“

Éomer’s voice was low. Dangerous.

“Marshal, for the very last time, you will watch your tone, or I will be forced to have you removed from this council! You appear to have forgotten your place!”

Erkenbrand’s attention snapped back to his ruler.

“My place? My place, sire, is firmly at Rohan’s side. It is at the Westfold’s side! For centuries, we weathered the worst troubles thanks to the loyalty and the courage of our people, but never before did we have to brave trouble from within!” He spun to face Lothíriel, and the disdain on his face could no longer be mistaken while he still addressed the king. “My lord, you have been a valiant fighter for the Mark for almost half your life. You are the descendant of our greatest king. How could you do this? How could you turn your back on your people and lay their lives into the hands of a woman? A woman who is not even of Rohirrim ancestry?”

A quick glance Lothíriel told Éomer that his wife had expected the warrior’s accusation and was inwardly prepared for the attack. She was counting on him to set the disappointed Erkenbrand right, so he could not very well rise to the bait the marshal offered him. He had to remain calm. Focussed. He turned around, his lips a thin line as he stepped down the dais towards his waiting opponent, meeting the older man’s sparkling eyes with a hard stare of his own.

“Why, marshal? Are wise words not wise if a woman utters them? Do we have to ignore truths only because a woman sees them first, only to demonstrate that it is our will that will be done in the end? Wouldn’t that rather count as betraying our people?”

“So you admit it.”

“Aye. I admit it.” Éomer nodded. “You always were a good observer, Lord Erkenbrand. It was my mistake that I thought I’d have to keep from you who it was that made me think about Rohan’s future. I should have told you straight away.” He straightened, and his gaze swept the room, meeting concerned and sceptical faces. “Yet your discovery changes nothing. The facts still remain, and our reaction to them will be the one I stated, for the reasons I have already given you. I realise that the logic behind my wife’s idea may not be obvious at first to a warrior who has devoted his whole life to battle. It was hard for me to see it, too, make no mistake about that. Yet I firmly believe that if we take that risk and show that we are, in fact, willing to learn a different and better way of existence, our people will learn to cherish it. For centuries, we have been a race of warriors. We know no other way of life.. But tell me, marshal, deep down inside – don’t you sometimes long for peaceful times, too? Deep down? To see no more misery, to forget the taste of fear and dread and the smell of blood and fire ...wouldn’t that be something to strive for indeed?”

“A different and better way of existence, you say, my king,” Erkenbrand rebuked, inhaling deeply. “Alas, it is but a wonderful dream, a dream you, of all the men I know, should know better than to believe in! A dream our people had been dreaming for centuries without it becoming reality. Each attempt at making it a fact was quickly drowned in oceans of blood. But I do not have to tell you that, you know it as good as I do. You lost your father to orcs; and you hunted them down wherever you could find them. I lost my family to the Dunlendings, like so many of us in the Westfold. Now they took those twelve men, and we still don’t know what they did to them!” He shook his head. “No, Éomer-King, too much blood has been spilled. There has never been and there can be no peace with Dunland. The very idea is preposterous!” Again, he glared at Lothíriel. What in Eru’s name had happened? What had that witch of Dol Amroth done to the man he had known all his life?

Éomer’s voice was firm when he answered.

“But we will try for it nonetheless, and we shall try an approach which has never been taken: None of the great kings of the past had been willing to make concessions, not even my uncle. At the most, we granted the Dunlendings free leave to return to their homeland if they laid down their weapons. Never was anything done to change their situation, their misery that would force them to attack us again and again simply to sustain life! It is no wonder it never lasted.”

“You are not saying now that we are, in fact, the villains in this conflict, my lord?” A thick vein began to bulge on Erkenbrand’s left temple. He did not like the direction of Éomer’s words. Was the king questioning his own ancestors now? Valar, what were they coming to?

The brown eyes in front of him narrowed, and finally, although the younger man had made a serious effort at staying calm even under his marshal’s attacks, his anger began to visibly seep through.

“Do not twist my words around, marshal! There are no villains in this conflict, only victims. And it is about time that the victims see eye to eye about what has happened in the past, and it is also time for us to realise what an opportunity lies waiting in the future. If we continue on the path we have followed for centuries, it looks grim, but if the people of both our lands are willing to try the new way even though it has to be clear that peace won’t come easily, that it, too, must be fought for... then we may see the end of our problems. Today will be the day that sees us grant Dunland the first fair effort at peace in history.”

Erkenbrand’s eyes widened as the first spark of comprehension lit up his gaze. He turned ashen as he stared first at Lothíriel who sat in silent support of her husband behind him, and then back at Éomer. Shaking his head in utter rejection.

“No. No, you cannot mean that...! Sire, you cannot seriously consider -”

“We can, and we will let them into the Mark, marshal. Only a limited number at first, in a settlement they will have all for themselves to work the land, but under close supervision. I am no fool, marshal. I do not plan to erect a throne for them here at Meduseld, and I will not take more risks than I absolutely have to, but in order for the people to lay down their weapons, they must be able to sustain their lives, first. And now, this discussion is over. I will hear no further word –“

Erkenbrand took an angry step forward.

“Éomer-King, if that is indeed the way you choose, you should be aware that people might oppose you! The people of Westfold will not look favourably upon your plans of handing them over to the enemy, and no matter who it is that invades their land, they will fight them! Never will they tolerate Dunlendings on Rohan soil!”

Éomer’s gaze changed from mere annoyance to frost in a heartbeat as he regarded his man for a seemingly endless moment before he spoke, their eyes locked.

“Are you saying then that your people are not under your control, marshal? Or is it even worse and you want to indicate that you yourself would lead them into battle against my orders?”

Éomer had expected for the discussion to turn sour, but this was beyond even what he had expected in the worst case. He would have to stop the Lord of Westfold before he said something irrevocable he would have to punish him for. The bad thing about it was that he could absolutely relate to the man’s plight: He, too, was known as a man with a quick temper. He, too, had lived through times of frustration during the time of Gríma Wormtongue’s secret reign, when none of the facts he had brought to his uncle had been able to wake the feeble king from his terrible condition. Yes, he knew Erkenbrand’s state of mind all too well. Yet in his position, he could not afford to be too understanding or merciful; he had to demonstrate strength and confidence right from the beginning. If he permitted Erkenbrand to object to his orders or even openly threaten him, the trouble today would only be a faint hint of the resistance he would have to face from his people in the future. No, he had no other choice but to silence all opposition from the very start.

“Answer me, marshal. Which one will it be?”

Erkenbrand’s gaze left him to once again come to rest on Lothíriel, and his hands clenched into fists as he raised his voice against the queen, angrily shaking his head.

“What have you done to him? What have you done to our king? You want to see Rohan in ruins so that your father can come and take over what’s left without a fight? You –

“That will be enough, Erkenbrand!” Éomer stepped into his opponent’s view to shield his wife from the man’s relentless attack. “Gamling? You will accompany Marshal Erkenbrand to the dungeon and lock him up for disobedience and insulting the queen. If the marshal resists, you will assemble the Royal Guard and officially arrest him. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sire.” The Chief of the Guard sounded clearly uncomfortable with the task he had been appointed.

Erkenbrand’s eyes widened as he stared at his ruler, both men glaring at each other. This was the last straw, the point of no return. He had lost the battle for power to the king and the witch from Dol Amroth. Some fell thing was going on in these halls, and why neither Elfhelm nor the others objected to Éomer’s ill-conceived ideas was beyond the esteemed warrior. Did they not see? Gamling’s expression spoke volumes as he stepped forth now. It was an awkward situation for him to be caught between two contradicting wills of iron.

“Marshal, I’m asking you to not make it worse than it has to be –“

Erkenbrand had no attention for the man. He wanted to seize the king and shake sense into him as his gaze tore into the darker eyes in front of him.

“You will not do this, Éomer! For Eru’s sake, come to your senses!”

“I am saying it for the last time, marshal: leave! Leave quietly, and with part of your honour intact, or resist and be thrown behind bars! The choice is up to you.” Éomer’s brows twitched meaningfully. Gamling was already motioning for the guards when the Lord of Westfold faced the queen for one last time, his face a mask of hatred.

“I do not know what you did to our king, but be assured that for as long as there is a single Rohirrim left to fight, the Westfold will never belong to Dunland!” He spit at Lothíriel and was pulled back by the guards as Éomer charged toward him in fury, all restraint gone. Elfhelm threw himself between the two fuming men and seized the king’s arms.

“Éomer, no!”

“I pity you.” From behind, Lothíriel’s voice could be heard over the ruckus, and it was not heatedly, but with distinct sadness and honesty. Éomer turned around, frozen. Lothíriel was standing, and her expression clearly underlined her words as she looked down on the fighting Erkenbrand, who suddenly halted in his attempts to wrestle himself free of the guards. His face froze.

“Lothíriel, no!”

“What?” Erkenbrand’s eyes were narrow slits.

“I pity you, marshal. Just like I would pity every man whose eyes had been blinded by the hatred in his heart.”

For a moment, the world hung frozen – to erupt in violence again as all barriers or restraints were swept away in a rush of red-hot fury. Screaming and swearing, the Lord of Westfold was dragged away…

---------------------------------

EDORAS

  The ride had been exhilarating in more ways than one. An explosion of speed and the distinct notion of sitting on top of a volcano with the wind roaring in his ears. Battleaxe’s mane had whipped Éomer’s face as he shifted his weight onto his steed’s shoulders, drunken and ecstatic from the feeling of flying through the early morning’s mist without seeing the ground. For the first time ever and for reasons unclear to him, he had dared to ride the difficult stallion without a saddle, knowing fully well how irresponsible his impulse had been. But after that first wild chase over maybe a league, where Éomer had been but a silent passenger on the black’s back, Battleaxe had surprised him with a level of co-operation he had so far not known from his steed, as he had listened to the commands given only with the pressure of his master’s thighs without trying once to unseat the man on his back.

  Back in the stable, another surprise had followed when the great black had – for the first time - allowed the daily grooming ritual without having to be tied to a beam, and without fidgeting around and shying away from his master’s touch. Astonished and pleased, Éomer had soon settled into the routine he had known all his life, humming to himself and his horse as he guided the brush over the dusty hide with smooth, sweeping strokes until it shone like a raven’s wing. Done as it was today, without having to watch out for his horse trying to bite or kick him, it was a very soothing activity, one that deepened the connection between horse and rider and one of Éomer’s favourite opportunities for relaxation. For a while, he had just worked with the brush, his body warming with the activity, and the world had been good and uncomplicated. Done with that, he had then also checked Battleaxe’s legs and hooves, and the stallion’s unusual acceptance had lasted on even then, so Éomer had decided to stay a while longer. He had dreaded the task still waiting for him, and been instinctively pushing it back for as long as he would be able to. The sun had barely been up, so there had still been some time left, but he had known right then that he would not be able to avoid the conversation with Erkenbrand for much longer. The man needed to be released, and he needed to know about his new errand, one that would further complicate things between them. Out of habit and because it was an activity that never failed to soothe him, he had muscled his way into the small gap between the divider and his horse and began to braid the long, flowing mane, losing himself in the process.

  He knew not how much time had passed when the sudden noise of many men entering the stables woke him from his complacency. As he looked back over his shoulder, Battleaxe thrust his head up at the ruckus and retreated further back into the security of his stall, thus ending their wondrously peaceful moment. A slight, distant smile spread over Éomer’s lips.

  “Thank you, my friend. For the ride, and for your good mood this morning. Maybe we can repeat this tomorrow, what do you think?” Patting the stallion’s muscular hindquarters, Éomer wiped his hands on his breeches and left the stall to greet the arrivals after he had spotted the Dunlending scout in their midst. With a short nod, he acknowledged the man’s surprised glance, and then proceeded to eye the soldiers Thor had hand-picked to accompany him on his difficult errand. Except for two men he didn’t know, all the soldiers who indicated a bow in front of him and then went off to saddle their horses appeared to be of Elfhelm’s éored.

  “You have a new horse, my lord?” Thor walked over the two paces to come to a halt next to Éomer and peer into the stall. “What happened to Firefoot?”

  “Nothing. Our herds need a refreshment of their Méara-blood, that’s why the big grey is enjoying a stud summer on the open range.”

  The scout smiled.

  “What a life, eh? Something to be truly jealous of.” He winked and turned his attention back to the black. “I already noticed him when we arrived and wondered whose steed he might be. A magnificent creature.” A small smile. “I should have known he was yours.”

  “Indeed,” Éomer nodded, enjoying the brief exchange that kept his thoughts back from the more gruesome business of the day still ahead of him. “He’s special. Difficult, but special.” A deep breath as he turned towards the scout, and the smile faded. “And you are off into the great unknown, Thor? Everything is settled with Elfhelm and Galdur?”

  “Aye, sire, everything is set. All that is left to do is saddle our horses, and then we’ll be on our way.” The scout looked tense, which was no wonder considering his dangerous errand. To the Dunlendings who knew him, he was a traitor. They would slit his throat if they ever got a hold of him. The twenty men that would serve as his escort would have a lot on their hands to keep the Wild Men at bay once things turned sour. The black eyes gave Éomer a scrutinising glance, and for a moment, Thor’s formal bearing softened as he said: “I stand by what I told you, Éomer-king. I am deeply grateful for your effort. I will do whatever is in my power to help you succeed.”

  Moved by the scout’s passionate statement, Éomer laid a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder in appreciation.

  “Just be careful, Thor. Rohan needs you, no matter how this mission goes. You are one of the Mark’s most reliable servants, and it would be a great loss if anything went wrong. Not just for the Mark, but for me, personally. I am glad to count you on my side.”

  A slight smile came through the scout’s perplexed expression. Never had he seen his ruler like this. So emotional. So grateful. It would be a tragedy if the young king failed.

  “I am honoured to be the one you trust with this errand, my king. And I will make it count, if I have to drag each of the tribal leaders’ backsides behind my horse all the way from Dunland to Edoras.” A deep breath, and just when he saw in Éomer’s eyes the intention to leave them to their task, he added, on the spur of the moment: “You be careful, too, sire. I do not want to come back from Dunland with good tidings to find you –“ ‘assassinated’ was the word that was in his mind, but he thought better of it, “- banished to the kitchen and Marshal Erkenbrand on the throne in your stead.”

  The younger man’s jest succeeded in bringing a brief playful sparkle to Éomer’s eyes.

  “If they banish me, you’ll rather find me in the stables than in the kitchen. But don’t fear, captain. I can hold my own, and your marshal is here to cover my back. The two of us have braved worse things before. We will be fine.” A last nod, which also included the captain’s men. “Just return safely, all of you. That is all that counts.”

  As he exited the stables, the first rays of the ascending sun broke through the morning’s twilight and ignited the roof of the ancient hall of Meduseld to a golden sparkle. Éomer wished that he could take it as a good omen as he walked up the stairs, but his gloomy mood would not lift.

------------------------

MINAS TIRITH

  Just as in the summer before the king left the crowded city with his escort to order his vassals to send a part of the harvest to the people of Rohan, knowing their supplies would not last for the winter. Aragorn knew that King Éomer would not want to ask him again for aid, but he was willing to grant it nonetheless since the barns and storehouses in Ithilien were full. The harvest in the western and southern parts of Gondor would start later, but, as he was told, the outcome would be sufficient enough to last until spring. The first wagons with apples and corn were already on their way to Edoras. Rye, wheat, and potatoes would follow soon.

  After some days he started his ride back to the city. Since he could not reach every vassal alone he had sent out sentinels with his orders to the farms further away from the city, and when a rider approached him, he supposed it to be one of them. The rider spurred his horse into a gallop upon seeing the king. The horse's mouth foamed, and the rider as well as his steed, was bathed in sweat. Breathing heavily, the short, square-built man bowed when he halted his horse at the king's side.

  “My lord…”

  “Béonon, speak up!”

  “I bring tidings from the border,” the young soldier uttered taking off his helmet to wipe his forehead with a gloved hand. A mass of dark hair fell loosely over his shoulders. “The Easterlings are gathering more of their kin.”

  “Have they already crossed the border?”

  “No.” His horse fidgeted, and he needed a moment to calm it down. “But the vanguard we sent to Dagorlad reported there are more of those people yonder of the settlement they built.”

  “Soldiers? Did they wear armour?”

  “Nay, my lord. It’s mostly women they saw, and only a few men, but… there might be five hundred by now, and it seems as if more are coming every day.”

  Aragorn rested his hands on the pommel and lowered his head for a moment of reflection.

  “Are you sure you saw no men in armour?” he then asked. “Could it be that weapons of any kind lie hidden?”

  The upcoming wind tangled with Béonon's hair, and he coughed when dust whirled up.

  “I am sure, my lord. We saw some large herds of animals I don’t know by name, but no men with swords or bows, left alone cuirasses or helmets. I must admit, though, that the vanguard did not get too close. It was too dangerous. They had guards with the herds. I am sorry, my lord, but this is all I can tell you.”

  Aragorn frowned. Even if the people were moving from one part of their land to another it seemed odd to have only a few men among them. And where the tents were built the ground was almost barren. They would not linger there for building up settlements for a longer time since it was against their usual behaviour. The absence of weapons on the other hand indicated that there were not gathering to raid Ithilien. Would they come to ask for land and trade? Still he could not shake the thought that he was overlooking something.

  “Well done, Béonon. Ride back to the city to get a fresh horse.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The soldier turned his steed and rode on south.

  Aragorn and his escort followed slowly.

------------------------

EDORAS

  Éomer was still staring at his breakfast when the dreaded knock on the door disturbed the silence. Bracing for the confrontation, he came to his feet.

  “Come in!”

  Erkenbrand did not look like Éomer had imagined he would as he opened the door and stepped in, coming to a halt under the wooden door-frame with his hands on his back. His bearing was stiff and formal, but all fury and aggressiveness that had possessed him the day before seemed to have been sucked out of the old warrior through the long hours behind bars. He looked beat and tired, as if he had gone the night without sleep, and his usually hawk-like gaze was avoiding his king as he stared right through him unfocused. All the dignity, all the self-confidence the marshal had exuded since Éomer had known the man was gone. Erkenbrand looked literally destroyed, a disgraced warrior, even though he had apparently used the hour between his release and his summons to make himself presentable again. The sight of his defeat pained Éomer, and he was not proud of what he had done, but it had been necessary. He would have to remember that in the course of this conversation.

  “Marshal,” he nodded at the older man and offering him a seat by way of gesturing to diminish the awkwardness of the moment for Erkenbrand, but his opposite declined, thereby forcing his ruler to stand, too.

  “I was told to report to you, sire.” Even his voice sounded flat, passionless.

  “Yes indeed.” Where to begin? Stepping closer, Éomer demanded the attention the marshal seemingly was reluctant to give him, and for the first time, their eyes met. “There are things that must be talked about in the wake of our dispute. You are aware of that, of course.”

  A great dread stood written in the Lord of Westfold’s gaze, even if his tone remained dull.

  “Will you banish me?”

  Éomer inhaled deeply as he came to a halt in front of the older man. So Erkenbrand wanted to cut right to the chase. Which was well with him, because it was easy to figure that this one question must have been burning in the marshal’s mind all those long hard hours he had spent in the dungeon. He decided to answer with a question.

“You insulted the queen, you insulted me, you insulted Marshal Elfhelm, and you accused a high-ranking Rohirrim, of proven loyalty, of treason. And, worst of all, you indirectly threatened me with disobedience. What would you do in my place?”

“Sire, I apologise for the insults. I realise that my behaviour was inappropriate. Your ruling took me by surprise, and fear for our land made me react in the heated way you witnessed. Which of course is no excuse.” A leaden pause. Éomer could tell how hard it was for Erkenbrand to say these words. He nodded in acknowledgement of the warrior’s efforts.

  “It is not like I can’t understand you, marshal, yet I am certain that you agree with me when I say that such behaviour cannot be tolerated. I will still have to punish you for that. But the insults are only the minor part, even if other – lesser – people would have lost their head alone for spitting at my wife. Still, I was even more troubled by your insinuations regarding the people under your command. What am I to think about them?”

  Erkenbrand raised his head, and his gaze betrayed his utter honesty.

  “Éomer-king, you’ve known me since I served together with your father. You should know that I would never do anything to endanger the Mark. For decades, I have been defending it with the blood of my people... with my very own life.”

  “That is no clear answer, marshal.” Éomer turned on his heels and walked a few measured steps before he faced his man again. “You made it quite obvious yesterday that you deem my plans a danger to the Mark. So in the light of what you just said, what am I to make of it? That you will oppose me if I let you keep your rank and release you into service again?” His gaze pierced the older warrior’s eyes in an attempt to get below the surface, to read the man. There was at least one certainty: Furious with him or not, Erkenbrand would never lie to him. What he said would be the truth. Their exchange went on for another moment, before the Lord of Westfold finally lowered his eyes.

  “I would not actively oppose you, sire, even though I fear that the course you are setting for our land will prove to be a horrible mistake. But no, I would not ride through the villages and tell the people to take up arms and chase the hillmen from their land.” He shook his head. His words brought the faintest smile to the king’s face. It was tinted with relief.

  “I am glad to hear that, marshal, because Rohan needs you. Having to exile one of our most esteemed warriors would have meant greatly weakening our defences, which we may need now more than ever.” Éomer turned to approach the silently waiting man again. “I am no fool, Marshal Erkenbrand. I know the path I have chosen will be rocky, and there is, of course, still the question of who equipped our foe and taught them to fight. There’s an enemy we don’t know yet lurking in the back, waiting for us to make a mistake, but I don’t intend to give them such an opportunity.”

  Erkenbrand’s expression lit visibly up.

  “By way of negotiations with Dunland, I intend to separate our ancient foe from the unknown foe. We’ll isolate them. Undoubtedly, they think they can weaken us by using another people to fight their war, but what if these people suddenly became our allies?” Éomer narrowed his eyes. “We would eliminate both threats with one action, and not a single drop of blood would be spilled.”

  “Alas, I fear it will not be as easy as you hope for, my lord. It is a more complex strategy than I would have figured after yesterday, but it is still one that I fear is doomed to fail. People will not let someone onto their lands who has been their enemy for centuries. Their hatred sits too deep.”

  “Which is exactly the point we must speak about.” Now for the hardest part. He came to a halt, and his expression intensified. “You are one of them, Erkenbrand. You demonstrated that quite clearly yesterday by losing your composure. You are one of those people who suffered too much from their hands to be able to overcome your hatred anytime soon.” The man’s face dropped in horrid realisation where the king was steering at. “Don’t think that I do not understand you. But if we want to succeed, and thus to thwart our real enemies plot, we cannot afford to take any chances, however small they may be. I have therefore decided to keep you installed as a Marshal of Riddermark, but until further notice, it will be the Eastmark you and most of your men will guard.”

  After hearing about Éomer’s understanding for his situation, Erkenbrand had almost believed that the king would pardon him, but his last sentence drained the colour from his face.

  “My lord…” No words would come. All he could do in the dawning realisation of what the king’s verdict meant was shake his head in disbelief and shock. “Please…no!” He had never pleaded before. How could Éomund’s son degrade him so much? Did he know what he would be doing to his kinsman by uprooting him, by taking him away from the land he had lived in and served his entire life? Did he know what he would be doing to the people who trusted their marshal with their lives?

  “Marshal Elfhelm will take over the Westfold for the initial precarious time. You will exchange your responsibilities. You will thoroughly discuss this with him, and we will mingle your éoreds so that each of you has a few well-chosen men to consort with whenever needs be, but this is how we will do it. The Lord of Eastfold has already been instructed, and Captain Galdur as well. Talk to them.”

  “So you’re banishing me after all.” Erkenbrand’s voice sounded impossibly bitter... and the aggressive undertone below was likewise not to be missed. The marshal’s fighting spirit had not been completely broken. His eyes sparkled as he glared at Éomer. “I do not have to tell you what a disgrace this would mean.”

  “Marshal…” It had been too easy so far. Something like that had been bound to happen. Éomer met his kinsman’s gaze unflinchingly. “What did you expect? That I’d let your behaviour go unpunished? You know I cannot do so. However, your punishment – which is not even in fact thought as punishment in the first place –“

  “You are forcing me to leave my home and my people! What else would it be, a reward?”

  “Having you exchange your place with Elfhelm is thought as a means to defend our land most efficiently in what will probably be a very difficult process. I already explained that to you, and I will not say any more. The subject is not open for discussion, Marshal Erkenbrand!” His eyes gleamed, and his voice was firm when he added: “I am sad it has come to this, but you should realise that by letting you keep your rank and not banishing you from Rohan entirely, you have been treated with more mercy than any other man who would have committed the same crime.”

  A deep breath. Neither man averted his eyes. It took a great effort for Éomer to calm down enough again to lower his voice to a firm yet compassionate tone.

  “Leave now, marshal. Go and seek your men and talk to them. Speak with Elfhelm. When you’re done, send a messenger to your domain and tell the remainders of your éored to hold themselves ready for the transfer to Aldburg. I will give the order for the exchange as soon as we have heard from the Dunlendings.”

  For a moment, Erkenbrand stared at his feet, fighting with himself whether he should remain silent or speak out. He chose to speak out.

  “What makes you think Thor will come back, Éomer-king? What makes you think those beasts are not waiting for them at the border to lure them into a trap and gratefully abduct the twenty men accompanying him to serve the same purpose as the ones they took before?”

  The king met his gaze.

  “We don’t know, and we will have to see. I gave you an order, Erkenbrand. Will you go and carry it out, or does our problem continue to exist?”

  An eternity passed. At last, the Lord of Westfold gave a curt bow, his eyes never once leaving the king’s, before he turned briskly on his heels to leave.

  “It shall be as you say, my lord.”

------------------------

MINAS TIRITH

  Vlohiri loved the time of day shortly after breakfast when the maidens went about their work, and the servants left to run errands. Then – if nothing else waited for him – he stole into the kitchen where the cook, a young woman with cheeks red like apples, collected the used bowls and, after washing them, took a rest between the pottery and plates, the pans and cooking-pots. Often within the time he had spent in the prince's house he had listened to her lively chatter and enjoyed being coddled with fresh-baked bread and sometimes a piece of cake. He then sat down, drank milk, and felt at ease. The cook did not know how much the young boy appreciated being there and treated him with utmost politeness. Sometimes Vlohiri missed Narana, and though the woman serving the prince and his wife could not be compared to the stout, elderly Gondorian ruling the kitchen at Deromonor Vlohiri felt drawn to the place and its distinct smell.

  But not today. A servant, a meagre looking boy about his age, told Vlohiri to meet Prince Faramir in his quarters, and with a sigh Vlohiri let go the kitchen door to turn and run down the hall. Upon reaching the main chamber, where Faramir welcomed guests and held conversations with the noblemen, the boy heard his voice and another one answering him. He halted at the door left ajar and peered into the room.

  “What tidings did Béonon bring?” Princess Éowyn asked, soothing the child in her arms.

  Faramir came across from the window, his voice concerned.

  “More Easterlings are gathering. There might be five hundred by now, and more are coming.”

  “Does anyone know about their intentions? They might not be peaceful.”

  “That is what I fear. And what King Elessar fears too” He looked up into her eyes. The child had softened her features, and more than before he thought her to be the most beautiful woman Rohan had ever sent to walk this earth. “Though it could be just a meeting of their tribes for some… festivity. Who knows? Aragorn will not ready the whole army as long as they remain peaceful.”

  “There are soldiers among them?”

  No. Nothing that indicates that they have come to assault us.”

  “Then the king will be right.”

  “He sent dispatch-riders. We will know of anything happening at the border.”

  Éowyn caressed her husband's bearded cheek.

  “He is careful and open-eyed… as well as you. I know you are a good counsellor for him if the situation turns ill.”

  “I dearly hope there will be no war ahead of us. We are still recovering from the last.”

  “And if it is unavoidable we will fight,” Éowyn stated emphatically. “We will not allow anyone to take away what we earned through so much toil.”

  “No, we will not.”

  Vlohiri swallowed, hardly able to remain silent. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. He had been called for so they expected his coming, but he did not want to enter. His cheeks were flushing red.

  “Did you not send for Vlohiri?” the princess asked.

  “Yes. But the boy could be anywhere.”

  Éowyn laughed.

  “He’ll know every corner and secret chamber in the city by heart before the summer is over. But right now I would appreciate his presence. Ioreth told me this morning that healers from all over the land will gather in Minas Tirith in a few weeks to celebrate the harvest and buy herbs. I suppose the healer you told me about -”

  “Lomac from Deromonor you mean?”

  “Yes, I think he might come too.”

  “Indeed? That would be good tidings for the boy.”

  Outside Vlohiri almost cried out of joy, but quickly put a hand over his mouth, took a few steps back before getting to the door again louder, opening it after a short knock. “We just spoke of you,” Princess Éowyn said, greeting him with a warm smile. “Come in.”

  Faramir turned and knew at once that the boy had listened to their conversation. Of all things that could be said about Vlohiri he would never be a liar. Faramir let him know with a look, but could not be angry. Deciding how to handle the boy's curiosity he placed a firm hand on his small shoulder.

  “Now that you know about the tidings, you might want to know the rest.”

  Vlohiri could only give a small nod, too grateful he was for Faramir's generosity and kindness.

------------------------

EDORAS

  Lothíriel had been looking forward to her first Rohirric Midsummer: to host the various riding games like the race and the hunt, to award the winners, to eat and sing and dance with the commoners until the early morning, not caring for tomorrow. Éomer had told her so much about their most cherished festivity of the year. How much it meant to the people, that it was their way of laughing their defiance into destiny’s face even during hard times. Never, not even during the grim last years of the Ring War, had the celebrations been cancelled. It was unheard of. Yet none of the inhabitants of Edoras knew how close they had come to doing so this year.

  In the end, Éomer had decided that it would be a bad sign in these uncertain times, and possibly even raise the stakes against himself on the path he had chosen to go. If their ruler was not convinced of a positive outcome, how should his kinsmen be? How were they supposed to trust in his decisions if he did not believe in them himself? So Lothíriel and he had ordered to go through with the celebrations along with all that went with them, even if it seemed to the royal couple to be inappropriate under the circumstances. It had been their duty to the people.

  So at noon on June 21st, the King and Queen of Riddermark had made their way down the hill through a corridor of cheering people, despite the fact that there was still no word from their delegation in Dunland. Éomer had opened the festivities with a short, upbeat speech and then proceeded to the ancient balcony from where the royal couple had always witnessed the riding games from the early days of the Mark on. The competitions had been fierce and exciting, yet despite it being the first time for Lothíriel to witness them, she had found herself strangely distracted and distant, much like her husband. They had awarded the winners and runners-up and in the evening all proceeded to the marketplace to light the giant bonfire, the horse and the swan the villagers had built in honour of their monarchs.

  A choir of children had sung an ancient song of the Mark while Lothíriel and Éomer had put their torches to the branches and then stepped back to watch them ignite. Watching the flames rise into the darkening sky under the cheering of the people, they had heard the music set in, and it had been dancing, singing, eating and drinking until the early morning hours. It could have been a wonderful night, but the Rohirrim had known their king too well to not see through the unmoved mask he was wearing, and before long, Éomer’s unusual tension had spread like a wildfire all across the marketplace. It had been a strange celebration.

  Waking from her contemplation, Lothíriel shifted her attention back to the men in front of her. All were assembled, Elfhelm, Erkenbrand, Gamling and Galdur, to listen to Thor’s tidings. The scout’s arrival shortly before noon had come as a huge relief to all of them, but most of all to her husband. Ten days had passed since they had left, but all the men had safely returned, and while they looked exhausted and their horses’ general appearance told of the great effort that lay behind them, none had been injured. Sending her silent thanks to the Valar, Lothíriel settled against the backrest of her throne to listen. The things she had put in motion were running their course now, and where they would lead them, not the wisest would be able to tell.

  “They’re asking what?” Éomer bellowed, and his eyes narrowed in disbelief as he jumped to his feet, too anxious to sit. A flutter of panic raced down Lothíriel’s spine at the sight of the aghast faces opposite her and her husband, and it increased at the sight of her distraught and undeniably angry husband. What were the Dunlendings doing? How could they have done what Thor had said? Did they so not want peace that they thought they had to insult Rohan’s king? How so? Because they had a great army looming in the background the Rohirrim yet knew not of? Could they afford the mockery because they were coming from a much stronger position than anyone in the Riddermark had anticipated?

  Biting her lips, Lothíriel’s gaze went to the scout in order to avoid looking at Erkenbrand. What the man had predicted had happened: Éomer was about to lose face if his efforts were met by nothing but insults. He stood with his back against the wall, and what Thor had just said didn’t make his position any easier. It was a horrible thought that in order to prevent her husband from committing a horrible mistake, she had possibly brought him to commit a bad or even worse one. Could she have so misjudged the situation?

  Thor did not flinch in the face of Éomer’s anger, even though he was more than exhausted. He had barely eaten nor slept for days in his haste to bring the tidings to his ruler, and his tired, gaunt features were a testimony to the ordeal he had placed upon his own shoulders. His face and clothes were dirty and he smelled strongly of horse and sweat, but he had not lost even a precious minute to bring his news to the king, not even to make himself more presentable. Calmly, distinctly, he repeated his words, knowing fully well how outrageous they had to sound to the king.

  “They expect for King Elessar of Gondor to personally guarantee their safety before they’ll come to Edoras for peace talks. They expect for him to greet them at the gate to the city, or they will turn around and head back.”

  “What has King Elessar to do with this?” Elfhelm grumbled from the side, his gaze on Erkenbrand, who kept to himself, even though his eyes spoke volumes. No doubt the Lord of Westfold had foreseen complications, but complications of this kind were too strange even for him. “This is between Rohan and Dunland. Why pull Gondor into this?” His kinsman turned around.

  “Because they do not trust us. They fear that this is a rather clumsy attempt to lure them into the Riddermark and dispose of their leaders much more easily than it would be if we made an incursion. I must confess that I do see their point. They may be primitive, but they are certainly not foolish.”

  “And they certainly revel in insulting us,” Éomer added with a derogatory snort. Anxious, he began to pace the dais, his voice tense. All his instincts were crying out to end this farce right now and join with his marshals again, yet his pride forbade him to give up so fast. After what he had done to Erkenbrand in order to see his will fulfilled, he could not simply change his point-of-view at the first sign of trouble. And would it be too much trouble to send for Aragorn? “Rohirrim do not lie, they should know that. If we wanted to annihilate them, our éoreds would be laying their land to waste right now, and without discussion! Did you tell them that?”

  Thor nodded.

  “I did, sire. But they were not convinced. If you put yourself into their place, would this decision come to you easily? To enter the land of your arch enemy only with a small delegation, unable to defend yourself if it were a trap?”

  “You certainly understand their way of thinking very well,” Erkenbrand uttered, the first words he had spoken in the council. All stared at him. The scout remained calm. None would be helped if he reacted to the less than subtle insinuation.

  “With all due respect, my lord, but that is why I was chosen by our king for this errand. And I will not believe that you do not understand their way of thinking, because you are too much a man of war yourself to not know that the possibility of our offer being a trap is a very likely one.”

  “Yet they are not in a position to make demands,” Gamling let himself be heard, looking at Éomer. “They attacked us. We decided to act mercifully in sending them this unheard-of offer, so who are they to set conditions?”

  Lothíriel’s gaze remained on her husband. Yet another obstacle to overcome, and one she had not anticipated. The Dunlendings' demands had to be viewed as an insult to Rohan, one that now sat on top of the attacks. Éomer had not been idle while their delegation had been gone; he had ordered their best scouts to undertake silent incursions into Dunland to find out about the destiny of their missing men, yet nothing had resulted from it. For how much longer would Éomer agree to stay on the course they had decided upon before his patience would be utterly spent? Or had it ended already?

  “What we need is time,” Éomer finally said, his eyes lowered as if the intricate pattern of the tiles held the answer to all their questions. Lothíriel knew that this was his way of thinking hard. Right now, her husband was unaware of their presence, frantically searching his mind for a solution, while he was fighting his own nature. Some more moments of leaden silence passed until he looked up again, facing the men one after the other and coming to rest on his scout. “And this is what we will do: Thor, you and your men ride back tomorrow and tell them that their request will be honoured – as a unique sign of our good will.” He saw the twitch in Erkenbrand’s face, but chose to ignore the man. “Also tell them that this will be the only concession we’re ready to make. If they come with any more demands, there will be no negotiations, and they will have to blame themselves for what will happen. In the meantime, I shall send another messenger to Minas Tirith with their request. In fact, he should leave right now. Gamling, go and send for our fastest messenger. Tell him to report here for his orders, and he shall be ready to leave Edoras in an hour.”

  The Chief of the Royal Guard came to his feet, ready to do as told, but with obvious doubt on his bearded face.

  “My lord, we do not know whether King Elessar is even in Minas Tirith! What if he isn’t?” Gamling’s sceptical gaze was hard to bear, as the doubts in the bright blue eyes were the same ones Éomer felt himself.

  “We will cross that bridge when we come to it. First of all, we need to get the process in motion, not least of all for the sake of the twelve men they took.” He crossed glances with Erkenbrand and saw all too clearly the man’s thoughts. ‘If they are still alive!’ He nodded. “That will be all.”

------------------------

 Chapter 11

MINAS TIRITH

  Just the fact of being called to the hot and crowded city of Minas Tirith for the second time within two weeks had given rise to Lord Ligatis’ anger, but when he learned of the latest developments on the land of the Easterlings, he lost his temper.

  “Lord Aragorn, is that not exactly what we had talked about the last time?” Leaning forward he let his bony fist fall on the table with every next sentence. “That this people is massing to attack Ithilien? To kill our people? To occupy our lands?”

  “The facts still do not indicate an attack,” the king retorted, but felt that the other noble men present would not agree with his opinion. And his own uneasiness had risen. Something evil seemed to lurk at Dagorlad, yet he could not name it.

  “Then what, my dear Lord Aragorn, will?” Lord Iranelion insisted. His sweaty face was red as a ripe tomato due to the heat and his constrained anger, and his words came pressed through clenched teeth. “The Easterlings will not knock on any door or ask for your allowance to enter our lands. They will be swift and take what they want! Have you not listened? Do you not know what is said about that people? They were united with the Dark Lord of their free will! They wanted to share his dark power and overthrow all other peoples! They did not even refrain from robbing the dead!”

  “The war is over, Lord Iranelion, and the Easterlings were beaten badly, driven back to the Sea of Rhûn. They almost vanished with all that was left of their kin when Sauron fell.”

  “Then, my liege,” Ligatis cut in, “tell us in your wisdom why there are now more than five hundred Easterlings close to our borders.”

  “I do understand your concerns, my lords, but since they are still roaming their own lands I can only order the squadron of Minas Tirith to take position along the border and stay on alert.”

  “That is only their first step!” Lord Iranelion shouted. “Truly these murderers will summon all their power first and then cross the border! So there is no time to waste! Send the whole army to the borders and commit them to oblivion at once!”

  “I objected to that proposal in the first place, Lord Iranelion, and my position is unchanged,” the king stressed with determination. “Invading Rhûn is not an option. Nevertheless I will order preparations. The squadron of Minas Tirith is ready to leave by tomorrow and…” He interrupted himself when the chamberlain came up to him after taking a message from the servant at the door. The chamberlain glanced uncertainly at the noble men before stooping to the king to whisper in his ear:

  “A messenger from Edoras has just arrived and wants to speak to you immediately.”

  Aragorn inhaled deeply and tried to hide his concern behind an imperturbable composure. The news of a messenger from Rohan alone would not have alarmed him; it was the fact of haste. The king looked into the other men's faces. They all were waiting eagerly for the news that had caused the interruption, but the chamberlain had been discreet enough not to spill the news too loudly. So the king nodded briefly before addressing the men at the table:

  “A matter has occurred that calls for my attention at once.” He rose. “I will return as soon as possible.” With a short nod he requested Faramir to follow him. Ignoring the questions from Iranelion and Ligatis they both left the conference room. Outside they hastened to follow the chamberlain down the stairs and into the hall where a young soldier, clad in the colours of Rohan and with the white horse on his cuirass, waited impatiently at the threshold of the main gate. His bearded face showed not only all signs of fatigue, but also bore an urgency that Aragorn could feel without having heard the reasons for the man's coming. The soldier let himself down on one knee and bowed lowly upon seeing the king.

  “My Lord Aragorn…”

  Prince Faramir ordered the chamberlain to make sure the noble men stayed in the conference room so the conversation would not be overheard. The man bowed and hurried back to the stairs.

  “Rise.” Aragorn halted before the dust-covered rider and waited until the man stood upright again without swaying. Judging by his appearance, the Rohirrim with the fair long hair tied into braids alongside his thin cheeks had ridden straight for days. He seemed exhausted enough to fall into sleep where he stood. “What kind of tidings do you bring?”

  “King Éomer of Rohan sends me with an urgent plea. The message though is for you alone.” He looked at Faramir, uncertain whether he should continue.

  “Speak!” Aragorn ordered him.

  The soldier nodded and turned back to the king.

  “The Dunlendings have agreed to negotiations about peace between Rohan and Dunland,” the man recited, and both Aragorn and Faramir could not hide their surprise. The soldier swallowed hard as if the words were too thick to fit through his throat, and lowered his eyes. “But they asked for the King of Gondor to lead the negotiations. They do not trust the Rohirrim on their word, so they will not come without your highness being present. They said they will leave before ever entering Edoras if Lord Aragorn will not greet them at its entrance.” He needed a moment to hide his reluctance and force his teeth apart, then added, “For this reason Éomer-king asks you to come to Edoras as soon as your highness can render it possible.”

  “Who initiated the negotiations?” the king asked, and the soldier frowned. His voice still indicated that he did not agree with the contents of the message.

  “I am not sure, my lord, my apologies for my ignorance. I only know that Éomer-king sent Thor to Dunland, and he returned with the news I just delivered.”

  “Can you tell me what has happened before? Did the Dunlendings come to Edoras for any reason?”

  The soldier's mouth twitched, and he found it hard if not impossible to conceal his anger when answering,

  “The Dunlendings raided two settlements near the River Isen. They stole provisions, and killed some of our kinsmen.”

  Shocked Faramir uttered,

  “But these are bad tidings! What, in the name of the Valar, has then caused King Éomer's decision?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” and the soldier evaded Faramir's stare, clenching his hands into tight fists. When the prince and the king only exchanged disbelieving glances the soldier bowed again to the King of Gondor. “May I wait for your answer, Lord Aragorn?”

  “Let a servant show you to the soldiers' quarters. Is your horse taken care of?”

  “Aye, my lord.” The soldier smiled feebly. “I did that myself.”

  “I will send for you as soon as I have reached a decision.”

  The soldier left, and, looking after him, Faramir and Aragorn remained in the King's Hall. Turning Aragorn let his gaze wander over the statues and to the throne. The steward's chair had been removed, and as always, the king found the hall depressingly empty. He doubted that laughter had ever roared between these walls of stone, and whether his predecessors had lived a lighter life – even for a short time – compared to his own. For a long time neither the prince nor the king broke the silence, and Aragorn contemplated his options while walking the carefully laid flagstones which reflected the sunlight pouring in through the high windows. The statues along both sides of the hall, casting long shadows, seemed as well as the king deep in thoughts, and when the chamberlain returned to the end of the stairs which led to the first floor the prince approached him.

  “The lords are restless,” the chamberlain whispered anxiously with a short glance at the king, who seemed unaware of both men, staring at the pattern of the stones. “They want to know what is going on. What shall I tell them?”

  “Tell them to wait,” Faramir replied with an angry undertone. “If they cannot take the time until the king returns they are free to leave. And to face the consequences.” The chamberlain's eyes widened, and he found no words to utter his astonishment. “Go!”

  “It will be as you wish,” the chamberlain stated, but his high voice implied that he knew only bad things would come out of this announcement. With quick steps he went upstairs again, and when Prince Faramir turned the king had reached the throne, let his slender but strong hands rest on its artfully crafted back. And though the wood was hard to the touch the chair was no support of any kind, the signs, cut in by a skilled carpenter, bore no courage, no wisdom, and no hope if the one man, who was allowed to sit on that throne, did not bring these attributes with him.

  “I never wanted that power,” Aragorn said quietly, and Faramir could only understand him since the tower was bare of any other sounds. Not even the wind, ever-blowing on the top of the city, disturbed the meaningful silence. The warm air, outdoors scented with flowers and fruits, here smelled of dust and wood. It was as if time had come to a halt to allow the two persons in the great hall to understand completely what lay ahead of them. Slowly Faramir walked up to the king, his steps echoing lowly from the walls. “For years I did not even think of setting a foot again into the White City. And when the crown was finally given to me I only knew that I would always try to do the best for my people.”

  “Not only for your own people, my lord,” Faramir said having reached the stairs, setting one foot on the lowest step. The king still looked down on the broad wooden chair, in which he only sat while in judgement, and seemed unaware of the prince's remark. “Your aid for the Kingdom of Rohan was well received last year. And it will be in this.”

  “And since I am the king should I not be able to withhold all evil from my people? Should I not use all my strength to make sure that everything is done to keep them safe? To devote my life to this purpose?”

  “You…”

  “I put my own wishes prior to that of my people when I left the city a few months after the coronation. I spurned all advisers, and took only three men with me who paid with their lives for my ignorance.”

  “Aragorn, my friend, stop that self-accusation.”

  The king's grip around the backrest became so tight his knuckles were white.

  “For almost four months the queen had to take care of the kingdom's matters, and only due to a twist of fate I was able to return to this… life and my duties.” He looked up. Faramir was appalled at the sight of the king's hollow and yet frightened eyes. Even though Faramir had had a glimpse into the dungeon's dark cell only now he seemed to fully understand the horror the king had gotten through. Faramir went up the stairs, not knowing why at first, but then he realised that Aragorn was swaying. But the king rejected his friend's help with a curt wave of his hand, and Faramir retreated. “It was to the luck of the Gondorian people that Queen Arwen knew how to handle the situation and that no great danger came upon us all. Now I am asked to leave my kingdom on behalf of a friend, whom I owe my help. But what kind of a king am I to leave Gondor behind me when danger is drawing near? What shall I rightly tell my people knowing that the Easterlings might summon more of their kinsmen for an attack? Shall I forsake my own kingdom to maybe save another? And that I do not know since the feud between Rohan and Dunland is beyond reckoning. None of the living know of its beginning, and the will to end it might turn out to be insufficient on both sides.”

  “But yet it seems an overdue change of perception for both peoples has occurred. Who – if called for by name and renown – should stand back in the moment of need?” Faramir stood on the left side of the throne, a man in the prime of his life, proud and erect, experienced in warfare due to the long years he had served Gondor as a ranger. He stood fast to the king's inquisitive stare knowing what lay ahead. The king pressed his lips to a thin, bloodless line, not willing to accept the decision that was clear to be seen. He looked older than his years suddenly, as if the tasks he had accomplished and those lying ahead sucked the life out of him. “If there will be danger upon Ithilien in a week or a month we cannot ascertain right now, but the end of a feud that has caused misery and death for both the Rohirrim and the Dunlendings might be achieved due to your presence at the Court of Rohan.”

  “The Easterlings are close to the border,” Aragorn finally said. “How can I choose between my kindred and that of Rohan?”

  Faramir's stare grew intense.

  “If there is a chance to find peace in Rohan it must be done now. The chance to end this feud must be grasped with both hands or both peoples will diminish. You know that. Your task lies in Rohan. If you want to grant me the honour of leading the army if a fight is unavoidable I will gladly accept it.”

  Again a long silence followed the prince's words. Faramir watched the king's bowed head and sagged shoulders while he still leaned on the chair. He knew that if the decision were his, he too would not have wanted to turn his back on his kinsmen. When Aragorn spoke his voice was low and heavy with sorrow.

“I wished I could find another solution, my friend.” He faced Faramir, and his mind's torment showed clearly. “My heart is heavy laying this burden upon your shoulders, but it seems there is no other choice.”

“I am honoured by your trust in me, my lord.”

  Aragorn straightened up, let go the backrest of the chair. His expression was that of a man torn to pieces between two goals both likewise important, but impossible to be reached at the same time.

  “That kind of honour might be short-lived, my friend, and could turn out to be the hardest toil. I do not wish this toil to come upon you.” He held the prince in his stare, laying one hand on Faramir's shoulder. “I will make haste to return to Gondor, but if there is no other choice than to go to war against the Easterlings do not hesitate to send a messenger to Edoras. I will come to your aid without delay.” And when Faramir did not answer he pressed, “Will you promise me that?”

  “If it is your wish, I promise to inform you as soon as the situation changes. But maybe there is a chance to handle it without weapons.”

  “I know about your skills in the eyes of danger. You will find a solution consistent with the demands.” Aragorn exhaled and lowered his hand, but still seemed too tense to return to the waiting noble men and explain his decision. “I am honoured by your offer, more than I can tell. Especially in the regard of your young family.”

  “Above all my wife will understand these decisions. And it is for her and my son's sake that no foe will roam our lands – if it ever comes to it.” His mouth twitched as his gaze travelled to the stairway. “But… at the moment it appears to me that the more difficult task might be to deal with the Council summoned upstairs.”

  “Then I shall not let them wait any longer.” The king took another deep breath before leaving the hall for the stairs to the first floor.

  He dreaded the moment he had to reveal the news, but the chamberlain, with a smile that was no more than a forced sign of politeness, had already opened the doors.

------------------------

  Even Lord Tóren, who might have been considered a voice of reason more than of old resentment, was angered when the message of Rohan's plea and the king's decision were recited.

  “Of some of your latest judgements, my liege, it could be said that they were, with all due respect, odd, but of this…” He shook his head and waved his hand over the table, almost overturning the goblet in front of him. “This is neither wise nor recommended! It might be called folly, but this is a word too light for the grievous aspects of this decision.”

  “You speak as if the Kingdom of Gondor would be left bereft of any defence. Prince Faramir is experienced enough to decide in my name.” Aragorn stared at Tóren with his piercing grey eyes. “And truly more experienced in solutions other than using sword and bow, a gift that is rare these days.” The lords only lifted their eyebrows disdainfully. The prince smirked knowing that no decision but that of sending all squadrons of the army to North Ithilien would soothe their wrath against the king. “He will take over command tomorrow at dawn when I leave for Edoras.”

  “How can you dare to forsake your people on the eve of doom?” Lord Ligatis hissed and set his fierce small eyes on the king. “You steal yourself away to counsel two peoples which hate each other since the creation of the world!”

  “The more need there is to end this feud at once and for good. For both peoples - or they will both diminish.”

  “But is King Éomer of Rohan too weak to reign over his own kingdom?” Lord Iranelion sneered. The others nodded in agreement. “Should he not be able to decide alone if he grants peace or vanquishes his foes?” He turned round to watch the other noble men's faces and what he found made him look again at the king. His voice clearly showed that he knew the majority was behind his opinion. “For too long did the king desert his own land seeking fame in the west and doing deeds that led to lore. Gondor had to face his foes alone during the last hard years. For too long a time no allies marched with the armies of Gondor to defend our land against the rising Evil in the east. Now doom again is close, but you prefer to desert our people to become the counsellor of King Éomer! Is this truly necessary or just a pleasant excuse to be absent when it comes to a fight?”

  “You forget yourself, Lord Iranelion!” Faramir shouted and quickly rose. “And you forget the deeds King Elessar did for the fortune of Gondor and all of Middle Earth! Indeed I did not see you fight in the last years of peril! I did not see you draw your sword to defend Osgiliath when tidings came of its fall! And I also did not see you attend the preparations for the defence of Minas Tirith!”

  “I had other duties to fulfil,” Lord Iranelion replied arrogantly, though Faramir was right. “You cannot impute to me that I did not do my share!”

  “It should be as clear to you as it is to me that without King Elessar's outstanding courage to walk the Path of the Dead, to summon allies beyond the power of our imagination the victory would have been harder to gain if not impossible. So I ask you, all of you lords, who you are to question the king's decision? Can you rightfully claim to have done more or more important deeds than King Elessar? - If so you may speak again, if not, you must remain silent.” He felt the touch on his forearm and turned away from the sweating and fuming Lord Iranelion, who had blushed and now cast his eyes down. Aragorn indicated to the prince with a slight nod to sit down again.

  The lords fell silent for a moment. Only the heavy breathing of Iranelion could he heard. He poured himself wine, but his hand trembled and he spilled some liquid beyond the goblet. Lord Ligatis pursed his lips in disgust, but kept quiet, while Tóren stroked his beard, thinking. Some other men murmured quietly, but they too did not speak their mind. Finally Aragorn spoke:

  “On the Pelennor Fields six thousand Riders from Rohan came to our aid to throw the enemy back. Without the help of this brave people Minas Tirith would have fallen into the hands of Sauron's allies and all of Gondor with it. Rohan paid dearly for this victory with many lives. It did not only lose its beloved King Théoden in that battle but nearly five thousand men.” He paused and kept the men in his glare when he added, “Shall I now deny help in their hour of need? Shall I deny them help to prevent further killings?”

  Lord Ligatis huffed and his nostrils flared.

  “They will never conclude a lasting peace, my lord! It is just a waste of time!”

  “No! Both peoples need a chance for peace to ease their suffering,” the king immediately contradicted, his look adamant. “And it was never so close at hand as it is now.”

  Lord Iranelion had drunk his wine and now put the goblet down with more force than necessary to stress his point. His face had not yet returned to its usual colour, and his eyes met those of the prince shortly before uttering,

  “Those peoples from Dunland and Rohan – they are raw. Unrefined! Even if the negotiations do not fail within the first hour, both will find reasons enough to inflame the old hatred again and again!”

  Faramir was about to defend the king when Aragorn rose and, leaning forward, put his hands on the table. He stared at the men with a cold glance, repulsed by their stubbornness and stupidity. When he spoke his voice carried the superiority and wisdom a man could only earn through years of inner torment, where decisions had to be made and tasks be fulfilled which none of those present had ever had the courage or skill to achieve.

  “Even if some of either the Rohirrim or the Dunlendings do not agree to settle peace among the peoples it is still worth a try! Reaching the goal of peace, of roaming in a free land without permanent threat is what we all need to live a satisfying life and raise our kin. – The chances of the two Halflings to destroy the One Ring were considered as almost non-existent and all our losses on the Pelennor Fields and at the Black Gate would have been in vain if Frodo and Sam had not shown the ultimate courage to go on to the bitter end.” He paused and his words as well as his stare had driven the men to absolute silence. Aragorn inhaled deeply before continuing, “All of our peoples would have been slaughtered. None of the men and women you cherish would have returned to their homes. But the two Halflings ventured on nevertheless. They did not say that their kinsmen were safe in the Shire and that Sauron's power did not affect them as much as it affected Men. None of you would now be able to speak so haughtily about the perishing of yet another two peoples of Middle Earth if these two brave Halflings had turned their backs on you.” Aragorn challenged Lord Iranelion's look, but the noble man did not dare to meet his eyes. Ligatis snorted, but he too was unable to hold the king's stare. Lord Tóren's gaze wandered from one of them to the other until he finally bowed to his ruler. “So if there is one of you with another argument to be heard in this Council he should speak now.” Aragorn waited, but no one opened his mouth. Ligatis cleared his throat; it was the only sound in the room besides the shoving of Tóren's goblet to the middle of the table. “I will ride out tomorrow morning with an escort of fifty men. The squadrons remaining will be commanded by Prince Faramir. If he deems it necessary the men working on the fields right now will be called under arms.” He nodded briefly to all of them. “The Council is closed.”

  The chamberlain opened the door, and both the king and Prince Faramir left the conference room again.

------------------------

  With a pair of tongs the young boy carefully took the last horseshoe of the day out of the fire, brought it to the anvil and laid the iron down where the smith waited with the hammer.

  “Well done!” Hiregon exclaimed. “You're quite an apprentice! Now, step back a little, some sparks might fly your way.”

  Vlohiri watched the square man, clad in a sleeveless shirt and long leather apron, handle the broad hammer with a precision that astonished him ever again. His eyes were fixed on the still hot iron that was wrought under the constant hammering. He felt at ease just watching the older man and gladly remembered the morning of the day when Faramir had allowed him to leave the steward's home to help out the smith, since the prince had to attend the Council. Immediately Vlohiri had thanked him and almost jumped down the streets to the stables. He had arrived shortly after the smith, and, after he had taken care of the king's horses (a task he had chosen to take over), he had asked again if he could be of any help for the smith. He had been busy all day and now felt the comfortable heaviness of his limbs. Going home now would be pleasant, and he smiled thinking about Faramir and Éowyn waiting for him. He would have a lot to tell about the day. Still dreaming, he was startled when a hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned, wide-eyed as if caught in the act of doing something wrong. But it was Hilberon.

  “Hey, lad, who'd you expected? You look like you saw some ghost!” The young soldier laughed, but got no answer. For a moment, Vlohiri caught a glimpse of Medros’ face in his mind’s eye instead of Hilberon's. Quickly the boy turned back to Hiregon, but the smith had stopped working to pull his son into his mighty arms. “Wait a minute! You ruin my cuirass!”

  “Ah, come on!” Hiregon slapped his son on the pauldrons. “If it breaks in an embrace what will happen when an arrow comes flying?” He smiled, but that did not hide the worry behind his words. “What news do you bring? And why do you run around in your armour?”

  “Lord Aragorn ordered us to be ready to leave tomorrow morning.” Hilberon straightened and looked his father straight in the eyes. “I just wanted to let you know that he takes me with him to Edoras.”

  “Edoras!” Vlohiri shouted, excited, and right before Hiregon could utter his surprise. “The home of King Éomer! Oh, that is wonderful!” Both father and son looked at him astonished, eyebrows lifted. Vlohiri knew at once he had made a mistake, and he blushed deeply. “I mean… for what reason? Is there another festivity taking place?”

  “Festivity? No.” Hilberon shook his head, frowning, and, he had to admit, bare of any knowledge. Again he could not make anything out of the lad's strange behaviour. Why, in the name of the Valar, did he know anything about Edoras or the King of Rohan? “I don't know why the Royal Guard was called to get ready. I only know that the king ordered fifty men to ride with him and that time's pressing. Some will escort the wagons with food; the others will accompany the king. I will be with the king.”

  “And? Who else rides with you?” Hiregon asks, finally lifting his gaze from the boy. “Some of your friends?”

  “The captain will head the guard as usual. And, as far as I know, Dumarin, Tarés, and Halamin will also ride. Of the rest I don't know anything.”

  “Very well.” Another hearty slap followed. Hilberon grimaced. “So you'll ride in good company.” He frowned. “Well, looks like the king's gotten some news from Rohan, right? I mean… the supplies don't need the king's company, do they?” His laughter roared, and his son laughed too. “Or are they of such value by now and we haven't known? If so, I'll buy a load of corn tomorrow.”

  Vlohiri found it hard to share the good mood. His gaze fell upon the brown steed that gnawed on the box's wooden door. It had been brought in dusty, thirsty and hungry by a Rohirrim rider, who had matched the look of his horse. One of the stable-hands had offered his help, but the young man had only asked for water and hay for his steed, and though he had seemed to be dead-tired, he had unsaddled and brushed the horse and had waited until it was satisfied before he had left the stables. In regard of the haste the Rohirrim rider had arrived it seemed unlikely that a happy occasion was the reason for the king's precipitate departure. Last summer's wedding of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth with King Éomer had been planned long before. The demand to get ready from one day to the other to leave Minas Tirith indicated a less favourable possibility.

  “Lad?” Vlohiri woke from his musing to look at Hiregon. “Lad, I asked you to clear up the place. Will you do that before you leave?”

  “Sure.” He hastened to the anvil and put all tools back to their places, poured out the water, and added the horseshoe to the box where the unfinished pieces were kept. While he worked the conversation behind him continued.

  “Well,” Hilberon said earnest again, “I don't think it's because of the corn or whatever he ordered to load up. Captain Fáred looked quite concerned when he told us to get ready.”

  “He did, hum?” Hiregon nodded exhaling and stroked his beard. “It's clearly not just for the fun of the ride though I heard that the King of Rohan and King Elessar are friends. It might be you'll help settle quarrels with their neighbours.” His voice should sound light, but he could neither fool his son nor Vlohiri. “Or… something else. But I'm proud of you, son, I'm really proud. You'll make it. You'll get your name known.”

  “Aye, father, I shall do what I'll be ordered to,” Hilberon replied somewhat uneasy at his father's trust. He knew that Hiregon expected good work from him and not only reports about the shooting of a doe. “In the eyes of Captain Fáred I'm the one who took the place of Tindalon, the one he'd have preferred.”

  “He told you that, hum? Well, my son, don't get irritated. The king chose you himself, and about Tindalon… nay, I should say naught. Ere now he was a good soldier… or so I was told.” His look made clear that Tindalon was everything but a good soldier now. Hilberon gladly accepted the explanation “You'll do your best, don't doubt that!” Hiregon added in a lighter tone and saw Vlohiri approach. “You're done for today?” The boy nodded. “Very well. Will you come here tomorrow?”

  “I don't know.”

  Hiregon frowned, puzzled. Some strange sadness was to be read in the boy's features, but then… it was gone, and he did not bother himself with thinking about it.

  “Well, then we'll see if you come! Good night! Run home now!” Hiregon bade them farewell. Hilberon returned to the soldiers' quarters, and the smith went down the street to the smithy.

  Vlohiri turned and slipped into Brego's box.

  “You'll be leaving again tomorrow,” he whispered stroking the stallion's mane and neck. “I wish I could go with you. I wish I were already grown up. I wished… Oh, Brego, this is not fair. Shall I be an apprentice for all times?” Brego gently nudged him and, as always, Vlohiri got him a few carrots. The steed took them while Vlohiri passed his hand over the warm silken fur. Finally he pressed his face into it and breathed the sharp smell. “Take good care of him.”

------------------------

  Aragorn returned late to the royal chambers. He had not seen his wife the whole day and embraced and kissed her when she came to him, dressed in a flowing gown of white and dark red as she preferred.

  “I felt your sorrow,” she said in a warm and sympathetic tone. “Tell me what happened at the Council.”

  Exhaling he let her go and paced through the candle-lit room. As always he found the chamber narrow and dark, and the thought of staying here all night was only eased by Arwen's presence. Aragorn was tired and worn out by the quarrel with the noble men and the subsequent preparations for his hasty departure for Edoras. If he rode hard he would reach Rohan's capital in six days, leaving the carts with the supplies behind him. He hoped he would arrive before either party would have changed its mind. The tidings of the raid on a Rohan settlement had irritated him. Why did they attack a village and then agree on negotiations? And why had King Éomer offered peace at all? The angry reaction of the messenger had been understandable, since the offer of peace seemed odd enough to question its sincerity.

  “The Council did not agree to only send a squadron to the north-eastern border. They persist in sending all men under arms… to invade Rhûn. But that… was only one part of the discussion.” He hardly dared to look into her beautiful eyes, which rested with love-filled understanding on him. But somehow her expression changed: she knew he was about to leave her. “Today a messenger brought tidings from Éomer. He asks for my help as a negotiator between his people and the Dunlendings.” He paused and added quietly, “I will leave tomorrow at dawn.” He wanted to pull her into a tight embrace, not knowing what else to do to assure her of his love, but he remained in the middle of the room, unable to react. He felt like he was losing her again. “I am sorry, Arwen. I did not mean to leave you again.” He could not bear to say more. The thought alone of being parted from his wife again was dreadful.

  Arwen looked at her husband, knowing his inner turmoil, having felt it during the day. At last she spoke.

  “Aragorn, I do not want you to leave me behind. Not this time.” He kept quiet, and she stepped closer, putting her hands together in front of her bosom. Her voice was pleading, but still soft and light. She was the only one who could directly speak into his heart. “I let you go without question on occasions before, but…” She reached him and gently touched his hand, taking it into hers. “Let me go with you to Edoras.” There was no denying her. When he looked into her eyes, he could as well have asked the sun not to rise, “Éomer is your friend. He needs your help, and I know you are willing to give it. You think you owe him, but even if it were otherwise you would ride. But you will be gone for a long time.”

  “I do not want you to be in danger.”

  Arwen’s look softened to a half smile. Aragorn’s frown did not vanish.

  “I will not name the dangers you passed. But for the time that is given to us let me be at your side.” He still hesitated. Minas Tirith was safe. The fortress was rebuilt. If necessary Arwen could command the army from within. The moment she would leave the city would be the moment no wall would protect her any longer.

  “Arwen, on the day I wed you I promised myself to keep you away from any harm and I…”

  She put a finger on his lips.

  “But by this you will keep me away from your heart, too. Have I to remind you of the many years I survived without the protecting walls of a city? Do not let me linger here while you ride out. I know how to wield a sword, my Lord Aragorn.” He lowered his head. Fear for his wife filled him. The Elves might be immortal, but they still could die upon blades. What would happen to her if he had to leave Meduseld should the negotiations go ill? He was the one who had to protect her against any harm. “Do not let me beg for this.”

  He looked up, astonished about her earnest.

  “I never would, and I will gladly accept your company if it is your desire to ride with me.”

  “You will accompany me,” she teased and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I am the faster rider.”

------------------------

  Neither Tarés nor Captain Fáred had been told more about their mission than that they would ride to Edoras with fifty soldiers. The king planned to arrive on the sixth day, and the captain ordered his men to take a second horse each with them when they saddled up in the early morning's mist. Suddenly he interrupted his commands becoming aware of the queen herself in the Royal Stables. He quickly bowed and saw his men – all of them reacting fast, as he gratefully noticed – do the same.

  “Queen Arwen…”

  “Rise,” she said gently. “There is no time for formalities, Captain Fáred. Please, go on! We have to hurry.”

  “At your command, Lady Arwen.” Captain Fáred shot a glance at the soldiers watching the queen in awe, and they turned back to their work with the same reluctance the captain himself felt. Any time he set eyes on the Elven Queen of Gondor he found himself close to stammering, which was – in his opinion – absolutely intolerable. He tried to calm down and continued saddling up his horse, but now and then he could not help casting a glance at the lady who closed the bridle on Asfaloth. Though she wore only a dark grey gown with a matching cloak and riding boots she seemed to shine within the yet-dark stable. But the captain shook his head at this stupid thought. She was an Elf, a queen and… the most beautiful living being.

  Hilberon led Harolyan and the second steed he had been leant for the ride down the alley to the assembly point. Harolyan was fidgeting, and the soldier felt likewise restless. He had survived one journey with the king though it had proved to be dangerous in some parts. Now the second journey would begin, and he did not even know of its purpose. He did not fear the unknown danger; it was just a kind of uneasiness that had befallen him. It would have been better for him to know in advance what he was heading for. Halamin went at his side and Tarés behind them. Halamin was the only one who seemed to be in a good mood.

  “It’s a soldier's life,” he shrugged when asked. “We ride out, we do our duty and we return.”

  “Are you never afraid?”

  They reached the main gate and passed it. The sky was sketched with some white clouds, and soon the sun, already casting its first rays over the eastern horizon, would warm the air. They halted where some other soldiers already waited, quietly talking with each other about the reasons for this hasty departure. Halamin looked the younger soldier in the eyes.

  “Aye, sometimes,“ he admitted, then stooped to him, whispering confidentially, „But a soldier should not let the others know, lad. Courage is a good thing, and fear is a good thing. You need both to survive.“ He eyed the young soldier closely. "Don’t worry. Your courage will win over the fear that upsets you. I know that. You’d not have become a soldier if it wasn’t like that, right?“

  "Right,“ Hilberon nodded and smiled, at least a little. His father trusted him, and he had always relied on him. So why should he worry?

  But Halamin could read the trouble behind that feeble smile.

  “Come on, my friend,“ he said with an encouraging slap on the pauldrons, "don't worry, and rather look forward to the ride itself.” He pointed with his hand westwards. “Beautiful landscape, mountains to your left, meadows to your right.” He suddenly grinned. “If there's time I can teach you some tricks with the sword.”

  “That would be…” Hilberon looked back over his shoulder and his jaw dropped almost to his chest. Behind Captain Fáred a shining white horse came into view, led by Lady Arwen herself. “The queen accompanies us,” he said aloud without noticing it, and Halamin craned his neck to see her. “She will ride with us.” His voice had dropped to an awe-struck whisper.

  Halamin laughed:

  “The other way round, lad, we accompany her! You know, that's why we are called the Royal Guard!”

  Tarés laughed too, and they both drowned out the chatter around them, but Hilberon did not react. The Queen of Gondor got closer, her black hair shining like silk in the orange glow of the sun, and the cloak around her slender body changed colours with every step. Around her waist and inclined across her breast she wore a belt with golden patterns. On her back in a fitted sheath a sword with an artfully crafted hilt stood out over her left shoulder, a sight the young soldier noticed, but he was not surprised since his attention was directed to her face. Hilberon had never before seen her so close. On the day of the coronation and on some occasions after that he had been too far away to see more than her outlines. Now he got a good look at her exquisite face and neck, bare of any jewels... and her smile, which deepened when the king spoke to her. He felt like embracing everyone for the day was so good, and fair, and the light so enchanting… and found himself grinning like a fool when Halamin roared beside him again.

  “Now, look at him, Tarés! If he does that the whole time he won't notice any foe until its ugly face blocks his view of the lady!”

  Hilberon blushed at once and quickly turned his head to Harolyan. The queen was close now; she could even have heard Halamin's words. He closed his eyes for a moment listening to the thunder of his heart. Would he constantly embarrass himself on this journey?

  “Mount!” the king ordered, and the young soldier got on his horse at once, while he heard Halamin and Tarés exchanging humorous words. Hilberon's face was red-hot, and he was glad that the rising wind cooled it. With the king leading and the queen at his side Hilberon felt secure enough to look forward again since he was in the second row following the royal couple. Unlike he had expected – and had seen when other women rode – Queen Arwen sat on her horse like a man. And she rode gracefully. The wind tangled with her long hair and with the cloak which was draped over Asfaloth's croup. Quickly the group of riders left the horses with the big carts behind them and followed the Old West Road in a gallop.

  Suddenly the whole journey did not look dangerous at all.

On the way to Edoras

  On their first night’s camp Hilberon was detailed for the first watch, but he was as tired as his horse after the fast ride. Nevertheless he was willing to do his share. He did not dare to sit down on the warm, dry grass, but wandered around the camp, vigilant as he had been ordered, keeping his eyes open. It would have been like a nightmare for him if something unexpected were to happen during his watch, and he would had to be blamed for any incident, even if it were just a straying animal. So he walked in circles, straining his senses, but could neither hear nor see anything but the wind's last whispers and the far cries of birds hunting at night. Some of the soldiers lying in groups together snorted, and he only met two other soldiers, who watched the other side of the camp. Hilberon dared to glance at the lady’s bed for the night, but quickly turned away when she looked at him as if she had noticed his approach. When his watch was over he sat down at the little fire maintained by the guards, suddenly too awake to sleep. A tune came to his mind and he began to hum softly while he stared into the flames.

  “I heard that before,“ a voice said behind him, and Hilberon swirled around, startled and wide-eyed. He had not heard the man approach, and knew, if it had been an enemy he would have been dead by now.

  King Elessar stood behind him, bearing a light smile before he squatted.

  “My lord...“ Hilberon’s attempt to bow was meant to fail, but the king did not notice. With a suddenly dry mouth the soldier waited for a command to come, but Aragorn only looked at him in a friendly and benign way, making Hilberon forget how fierce he had been in the night Captain Fáred had killed the woman.

  “Where did you learn that song?“

  The king’s interest took him by surprise, and he hardly managed to speak without stuttering.

  “One of the city’s guards taught it to me, my lord, when he brought his horse to shoe. He said...“ He swallowed the rest of the sentence.

  “Yes?“

  “He said I have a good voice for singing,“ Hilberon added quietly. He cast his eyes to the ground, thinking that the ability to sing was none a soldier would be praised for. But there was no mockery in the older man’s features.

  “Do you know the song's origin?“

  “Yes, one of the Halflings brought it from the… their land, the guard said. It is... a song about drinking and eating... but I don't know all the lines.“

  “Then it is truly a Hobbit’s song.“ The king smiled warmly about the pleasant memory. “Could it be the Hobbit’s name was Peregrin Took?“

  “It sounded more like... Pippin, my lord.“

  “That is he.“ The smile deepened. “Hobbits care much about food. One could say the filling of their stomach is the main concern of their lives.“ He paused, still recalling the journey he had lived through with the four Hobbits between Bree and Rivendell and beyond. “Though when the task comes to them they will not hesitate to do their share. And afterwards the feast will be quite different from that of Men.” Another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth while he remembered the party before the Hobbits had left Minas Tirith. It had been quite to the liking of the little folk… and too exaggerated to all others present. “For the better or the worse I cannot say.“ He rose again while Hilberon tried hard to keep his face blank of any bewilderment. “Cherish that song for the memory of the Hobbits should be preserved. Go to sleep, Hilberon, it is late.“

------------------------

WESTEMNET, ROHAN

  The message the traitor Thor had delivered could not have been any clearer: King Elessar of Gondor would be on his way to Edoras right now. The talks could take place if the Dunlendings would leave their homes at once. Their claim had been honoured, even though Grodes wouldn’t have counted on it, and now there was no way left for them to step back from the promise they had made. In the strawheads’ company. For their own protection, the Rohirrim-Dunlending bastard had said, because they would never make it through Rohan otherwise, and Grodes saw the wisdom of the words. Yet the thought of travelling on horseback, surrounded by twenty heavily-armed Rohirrim, was nothing he could warm up to.

  Grodes had strongly objected to the decision the strange woman from the far-off land had made. Who was he to negotiate for peace if the force to conquer was at hand! In fact he had said more than he had wanted to and the stranger had done something Grodes had not yet understood. Suddenly he had felt powerless, lonely - the loneliness of a child lost in the woods. Pictures of endless rows of dead kinsmen had appeared on his mind. It had been too horrible to recall even now. He did not know what power stood behind that slender and tall woman, but since she was as good at intimidating him as she was in organising the raids, Grodes had finally bent to her adamant order of insisting on King Elessar’s presence at the council in Edoras.

  Edoras!

  Never since the short-lived reign of Wolf the Great had any man or woman of his people thought about setting foot on the threshold of the enemy’s capital, let alone entering their great hall. Not even in their dreams, though the strangers had made the prophecy that they would soon seize what had been theirs for ages before the Forgoils had chased them away like animals. Yet going to Edoras to enter the Golden Hall of Meduseld would not have been called bold, but utterly foolish.

  It had been a peculiar day, stranger than most days of his life. Grodes had not known what kind of fate ahead of him, when the older tribal leaders had named him their commander for the time of the negotiations, even though the others, too, spoke some Westron. But it would not be sufficient. The strawheads’ leader had offered to interpret at the table, yet it had been an offering not only Woldro had questioned at once for its reliability.

  Grodes’ stomach rumbled, but hunger could be neglected. Hunger was nothing in comparison to the all-encompassing fear that the many armed soldiers stirred up in him. The strangers had been clear about it: Grodes and the others had to go to Edoras or no more support would be granted. Their threat had been hard to swallow for the proud tribal leader. And yet the taste of their victory in the two settlements had been so sweet. For once, their accursed foes had been running from them, instead of the other way round, the way it usually was. He wanted more of it... and fast!

  Under the pretence of calmness, Grodes let his gaze sweep from left to right. He and his kinsmen were surrounded by soldiers, mostly young, who were seething with hatred but obedient to their king’s orders - what a sight to his weary eyes. The others had appointed him their leader for the negotiations, even though the only outcome he could hope for was to return to his homeland alive. If he did, it would be a return worthy of song. A deed for generations to whisper of in awe. To make it to the heart of their enemy’s territory and back, that was unheard of. But who knew what valuable hints for their future war with Rohan they would find on this journey?

  Their daring ride would be the first step toward the goal they had dreamt of achieving for ages: taking back their land. Finally having fertile soil to grow corn and wheat on, and everything they needed. Everything the hated people of the Westfold had robbed them of and did not share, even if their neighbours were dying right on their doorsteps! But the way was long. Grodes shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. He had not wanted to sit on a horse, afraid that it could be some demon the strawheads had bred, but neither the strangers nor the Rohirrim delegation would have heard his protest. Speed was needed, and to head for Edoras on foot would only lengthen the journey and make it potentially more dangerous. So, again, Grodes had been forced to swallow his objection.

  Somehow, fate had catapulted him into the hostile arms of a kindred he hated with every fibre of his body, but his short sword would remain sheathed for as long as possible. The strawheads had stared at it meaningfully, threateningly. Of course they knew about the raids. Whenever they might decide to change their plans and kill the delegation on the way to the city, there would be no escape, Grodes thought uneasily. No one would blame them, would they? And what could King Éomer want from them in the wake of the raids? The normal reaction would have been a violent counterstrike, not an offering of peace talks. The former third marshal was not known to be benign and peace-loving. It had been more the memory of the mercy King Théoden had shown after the battle of Helms Deep that had convinced the other tribal leaders like Durden to join the delegation. No, It had to be a trick. However his captain, who was half Dunlending himself and knew about some of their people, as Grodes had learnt, had insisted on the offer's authenticity.

  Another glance to his right. The soldiers were quietly talking to each other, and their grim, conspiratorial faces caused Grodes’ throat to tighten. Did they plan to murder him and his company yet? It would be easy. The escort consisted of twenty men, and his company of only twelve. Grodes, Woldro and the others had only Thor’s word that they would arrive safely at Edoras. And Thor had said he had been sent by Éomer-king personally. The longer the journey took, the uneasier the tribal leader became.

  Grodes shifted restlessly on the saddle, his rough and torn clothes rubbing the skin off his thighs, and he felt miserable about the constant movement of the beast he was sitting on. At the moment, he did not know whom to hate more: the strawheads, or the strangers, who had come out of nowhere to force him into the hands of his enemies.

------------------------

  Journeying westwards the weather turned unstable, as the southern winds carried sunshine as well as rain and deep-hanging clouds with them over the mountains. The party rode fast but not in the utmost haste. Since no tidings had reached them yet that either Dunlendings or Rohirrim had gone for another attack Aragorn did not see the need to press the horses more than they were already doing.

  Riding to Edoras during the last summer had been a slow procession with all the noble men and women of Gondor and the excited bride and her family in a beautiful cart from Dol Amroth, decorated with the swan as a sign of their house. They had taken their time getting to the capital of Rohan, and Aragorn remembered with a smirk how often he had wished to ride faster and, even more, to escape the kingly duties while dwelling in the land of the horse-lords. There riding was not only a duty but a pleasure in itself. Now speed was demanded, and he could not hide the joy the fast ride stirred in him, especially upon glancing to his left where Arwen sat on Asfaloth, beautiful and blessed with the grace of her kin at riding. She seemed to be at one with her steed, an alluring picture he wanted to preserve. Aragorn had seen how the soldiers reacted to Arwen's presence, and he had to agree that they were right: Arwen was a woman to adore, and that was not only restricted to her beauty. She was as courageous as she was friendly, as determined as she was polite. He often found himself simply looking at her to enjoy the woman he had longed for over many years, and who was his wife for all times to come. She noticed his smile and returned it, a very female invitation, and he laughed.

  “Now, my love, what gives you such merriment?” she asked in Sindarin.

  “Did you not say you were the faster rider?” he teased in the same tongue, bowing to her, and keeping Brego on a level with the white stallion.

  He loved the sparkle in her eyes when she answered,

  “I am, my lord. Until now I have just been gentle with you…” She whispered a few words in Sindarin into Asfaloth's ears, and the stallion jumped forward, crossed Brego's path to the right, throwing open the turf, and raced off over the meadow.

  “Hey!” Aragorn turned Brego with a word, speeding up behind his wife whose cloak swelled over Asfaloth’s hindquarters, flying with the wind. “Come on, my friend,” Aragorn spoke to Brego, “I know you can catch her!” Watching Arwen already in the distance the king spurred his steed, making himself as light as possible, and leant forward. Under the greyish clouds, which had accompanied them during this third day of their journey, Brego gained speed. Hoofs thundering on the grass the brown stallion stretched to reach the utmost velocity. Aragorn had never felt better and more alive than with the wind in his face, the feeling of the horse's muscles between his legs, and listening to the strong stallion's vigorous breath. Though a hard task awaited him at Edoras he enjoyed the chase more than he could say.

  Tarés had only seen the Royal Couple leaving the road, with cloaks blowing, when he had swivelled his mare outwards to follow them, riding as fast as his horse could go. He did not hear the call of Captain Fáred, he only knew that his task lay where Aragorn and his queen were heading, no matter where it was or why they did it.

  “Keep in line!” Captain Fáred shouted again raising his right hand when Hilberon and Halamin were about to follow Tarés. “Stay on the road!” He slowed down his steed and turned to face his men. “Hilberon, you follow them! You've got the fastest horse!” Hilberon nodded and left the formation of the now slowly walking horses to spur on Harolyan. “The others move on! Hold the line!” Fáred watched the king and queen disappear in the distance, now only two small dots in the centre of the rolling meadow, and exhaled. His lips were pressed to a thin line, and he turned in the saddle to not let the others see his annoyed expression. What was the king thinking? Should the company follow him? And how could the queen start such a foolish chase? The king and his queen had to be an example for all of them, did they not? Without the captain's quick reaction all the soldiers would have left the road and run astray! Fáred shook his head and, again, squinted to follow the couple with his eyes. They were far away now, heading westwards after half a mile. He let go of his breath, frustrated. While Steward Denethor had ruled the City and the land nothing like that would had happened. And, truly, the steward had never left Minas Tirith when there had been danger ahead. In the many years of Denethor’s rule the land had been kept safe by the hard work of the steward and all the fellow soldiers under his command. Now the captain had to ask himself if the king had not seen what his men had seen? The Easterlings were gathering forces, and who was the king to leave his duties behind to travel to Rohan and – as it seemed to Fáred – with a joyous attitude that betrayed his people at home, who were facing another war sooner or later. How could King Elessar dare to hand the command to Prince Faramir? How could he abandon what he had promised to protect? Captain Fáred ground his teeth. His purpose to influence the king's decision in the Council by telling Lord Ligatis about the danger at the eastern border had not worked, and now tidings were even worse. The captain shook his head in frustration following the chase of the Royal Couple. Tarés was behind them now, but could not close the gap, and the young Hilberon gained on him. Harolyan was a fast steed in its best years, and the captain regretfully remembered that it had once belonged to Óranon. The former rider was buried now like many of Fáred's friends, who had had to ride with Faramir to re-conquer Osgiliath in the last days of the war. The captain would never have laid the command over the troops into the prince's hands.

  Arwen turned slightly in the saddle to watch her husband, whose overwhelming bliss made her tremble with delight. Having felt the dreadful and never-lifted weight of his tasks and decisions before, she enjoyed his light-hearted feelings even more. She laughed as he almost caught up with her only to fall back when Asfaloth, indignant about the other stallion's attitude, sped up even more to enlarge the distance again. She watched Aragorn frown and grimace, knowing his annoyance was only pretence. Turning, she whispered into her horse's ears, and Asfaloth threw up his head, snorting, but slackened his speed. On a hillock overlooking the western down, darkened by the thick grey clouds that had covered the sun the whole day, Brego came up on the left side of Asfaloth, sweating, but not out of breath. Arwen looked at her husband, playfully mocking him:

  “I told you before you cannot catch me.” They both let their steeds fall back into a trot, then halted. “We could have ridden to Edoras and back without changing that. You knew it.”

  “But it was my pleasure to follow you, my queen.” He bowed to her. “And I would always repeat that.”

  “You would?” she gave back, a tone indicating that she had more in mind than a chase on horseback. “I will remember that.”

  “I’m sure you will!” Laughing he dismounted and helped her out of the saddle, only to pull her tight to his still fast-beating heart. He would not wish for more in his life than being close to his queen. Those moments to cherish were too few, he thought.

  “I am glad you took me with you, Aragorn,” she said after a long kiss.

  “I am glad you volunteered,” he replied quietly still rejoiced by the chase and Arwen's presence. He gently cupped his hands over her immaculate cheeks, caressing her face, not able to press back the memory of the time when he had thought he had lost her forever. She lifted her chin to kiss him again tenderly. They stood there, forgetting time and place for some moments until, unwillingly, Aragorn parted from her buoyant smile to overlook the plain. The sun was sinking, the land grew slowly darker, and the wind, early sign of the changing weather, got stronger. Still it was a pleasant view and he inhaled deeply. “We will not ride any further today,” he stated. He heard hoofs behind him and quickly turned, his right hand on the hilt of his sword, but drew it back a moment later.

  Tarés checked his mare to come to a halt not too close to the Royal Couple and their horses. He bowed and let go of his breath, relieved to see both king and queen unharmed. For the time of the chase he had feared that beyond the hillocks among the trees some felons would wait just for this occasion when the king could be easily attacked as it had happened before. Looking south he wondered angrily why not more of the guards had followed him.

  Behind him Hilberon arrived on the grey stallion, trying to stay earnest though Aragorn could judge by a look how much the young soldier had indulged in the fast ride. The soldier's face almost glowed. The king smiled at him, but, as before, Hilberon shied away from eye contact.

  “My lord…,” Tarés said with due respect, “do you want the riders to follow you this way?” Instead of the expected command the king laughed, kissed his queen on her forehead, and shook his head.

  “No, I do not wish that they follow us, Tarés son of Tergonin,” he then said, increasing the bewilderment of the two soldiers even more. “We will return… in due time.” He then looked at Hilberon. “How is Harolyan faring?” he asked kindly without letting go his hold of Arwen.

  “Very… very well, my lord,” Hilberon stuttered and patted the stallion's neck, unable to hide his puzzlement. The horse snorted as if his rider could have said something more favourable.

  “I am glad to see you both getting along so well. I was not sure at first if you could handle him, but as I see it was the right decision to let you have him.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Hilberon swallowed hard and evaded Queen Arwen's friendly look by casting down his eyes on Harolyan's neck and patting him again.

  Aragorn turned to the road, where the squadron appeared, riding at a trot. They seemed far away, but the distance was hard to guess since the meadow did not grant any point for judgement. And there was no need to worry since Captain Fáred held the troop in perfect order.

  “We will pitch a camp for tonight,” the king said to the still-waiting soldiers and looked up. The first drops of rain were falling. “Closer to the road.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Tarés bowed curtly and pressed his heels into his mare's flanks to ride back for a report to Captain Fáred. Hilberon followed, taking up the chase with delight, and the king looked after him.

  “He is not Vlohiri,” Arwen spoke into her husband's thoughts, and he turned to face her. “He is almost grown, and he knows about the consequences of his decisions.”

  He embraced her again, grateful but also astonished how accurately she could always read his mind.

  “Does he know? He is still young.”

  “And under your guidance he will grow to be a good and respected soldier.” She let another kiss follow, challenging him to smile, but his face remained earnest. “Do not doubt yourself, Aragorn. You were born to become a leader.” She knew how sceptical he was about his abilities. Not all of his decisions had been to the fortune of the men in his company, and he dwelt on those wrong turns of his life more than on the good things which had happened under his command. But today she would not allow the king another painful thought. She lifted her head and stroked a strand of wet hair out of his forehead while the rain fell on their faces. “As I see it your decision to pitch a camp at once was right.”

  He let go of his breath at the touch of her hand, closing his eyes. Without being able to describe what happened to him he felt… relieved, at peace with himself, and his smile was unbeknown to him. The threatening thoughts of what lay ahead of him or already behind him ebbed away. Arwen kept close to him, caressed his cheeks, tenderly kissing him again.

  “I do not mind getting wet,” he whispered after a time he could not measure.

  She glanced over his shoulder to the road, lifting her eyebrows with another knowing smile.

  “The others do.”

------------------------

  Upon reaching the group which came to a halt Tarés shouted to Captain Fáred that the king had ordered them to pitch a camp. Halamin as well as the captain looked up to the sky with a dreadful expression.

  “It will be as he wishes,” the captain nodded dismounting and ordered in his clear and penetrating voice to set the tent immediately. His glare was well understood, too: he would not want them to dawdle or make a mistake; he wanted the work to be done properly and in the shortest possible time. Sighing inwardly Tarés and Hilberon dismounted to give the other soldiers a hand since it was already raining.

  For a moment the young soldier looked back to Aragorn and his elven queen. They walked to the camp slowly, hand in hand, and they both seemed to be truly elated with the rain, which changed from a slight drizzle to a steady fall. Though they would be drenched upon their arrival, they still raised their heads to feel the water on their skin. Their smiling faces and playful laughter stood in contrast to the grim expression of Captain Fáred… right in front of Hilberon.

  “This is not the time for gaping!” he hissed through clenched teeth, his strong hands resting on his hips. “You better grab these stakes at once before I find another and not so pleasant task for you!”

  “Yes, captain,” Hilberon uttered and hurried to bring the stakes to the even space beside the road. There three other soldiers worked hard with the heavy cloth which should be drawn upon the stakes after they were fixed in the ground. Within minutes the soldiers were wet with rain as well as with sweat, and the captain's meaningful stare made it no easier at all. But the outcome repaid them for their labour: king and queen would be sleeping in a properly set tent, and Hilberon stepped back to overview it, thanking the Valar at the same time that the king had not wished for the Royal Guard to set every evening while they were journeying to the eastern border. With a sigh he turned away from the entrance to glance back to the Royal Couple. Their horses accompanied them without being held at the reins, and if this was not strange enough a sight the relaxation the king radiated with his moves and expression was indeed. Hilberon had never seen him in such a mood, and he could not help asking himself if he was watching another person. During the ride through Ithilien the ruler had been polite to the villagers, friendly to the soldiers, patient even with Tesestras, but never at ease.

  “Take care of the horses!” Dumarin interrupted the young soldier's musing, and he quickly nodded and accepted the reins the older man pressed firmly into his hands, accompanied by a reproachful glance. Hilberon took a deep breath. It seemed clear to him that he would be at ease only after this journey.

------------------------

  Upon her husband's courteous invitation Arwen entered the tent. The soldiers had hurried to get it ready, and the outcome was quite presentable. The saddlebags had been brought in, and she quickly searched for a dry cloth while the rain still drummed on the thick fabric. When she turned Aragorn stood behind her, water dripping from his hair, his garment drenched and cold, but his mood still high. The entrance was closed, and only dim light shone through. She rose to meet him, and he effectively hampered her attempt to wipe the rain out of his face. Instead she was left breathless when the kiss ended. Arwen smiled, and even without her ability to look into his heart she would not have been mistaken about his intentions.

  “My king, you are soaking wet,” she stated quietly, and he raised his brows in amusement.

  “Am I?” he played along. “It seems to me that the rain got through your cloak as well… ignoring you being an Elf.”

  “An impolite behaviour of nature.” Her look was meaningful, and he helped her to take off sword and cloak. “But Elves know how to get warm again,” she added in an auspicious tone.

  And while she opened the silver brooch of his cloak he asked in a low voice,

  “What did you do… when we stood there?”

  Arwen locked eyes with her husband, wishing she could wipe away the lines of sorrow from his face as well as from his heart.

  “All your life you had to toil, Aragorn, and even now that your greatest deed is fulfilled you are still at strife with yourself. If I can lift that torment of your soul I will… as I will stay at your side whatever may come.” With yet another soft touch he let loose his bitter thoughts, willing to enjoy the short time of closeness that was given to them.

------------------------

EDORAS

  “My lord, King Elessar’s entourage has been spotted on the Old South Road. They will probably arrive within the next three hours. Do you wish to send them an escort?”

  Éomer exchanged a glance with Lothíriel, barely able to hide his excitement. Things were truly in motion now! Against all odds, the Dunlendings had agreed to their offer and were on their way, as his scouts had reported. Against all odds, the King of Gondor had been present at the White City when their messenger had reached it and even agreed to come. Slowly but surely, this was shaping up as the biggest chance at peace the Mark and the people of Dunland had ever been presented with, against his own doubts. Turning back to Gamling, Éomer nodded, for once ignoring the two lords of an Eastfold-village who had asked his counsel in a delicate matter between them.

  “Yes. Tell the Royal Guard to assemble at the gate when the King of Gondor enters.”

  “Do you want to head it yourself?” Gamling asked with a brief glance at the two men at the foot of the dais. They looked unhappy, already counting on their presumably urgent business being delayed due to more important things. Yet Éomer’s answer surprised them.

  “I would, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to. Let Captain Féofor head it. He knows what to do, and he will be grateful for the opportunity to leave Edoras once in a while. Tell him to take twenty men with him. That should suffice to follow court etiquette. As I know my friend, this will suit him fine.. ”

  The old guard left, and Éomer shifted his attention back to the two men in front of him, even though it took a major effort to free his head from the joyful tidings and excitement they brought about to concern himself with the petty little quarrel of the two landlords again. Lothíriel’s knowing gaze rested on him in loving affection, and with a wink in her direction, the Rohirrim king collected his thoughts again.

  “Now, Lord Tarlan, Lord Foldrád, as I was saying…”

------------------------

  Arwen had been twice to Edoras, and still the size and the beauty of a city that had escaped the terror of the Ring War impressed her. She had enjoyed the journey in itself, and now she looked forward to meeting King Éomer and his wife again, whose acquaintance she had made prior to her wedding to the Rohirrim King.

  Leaving the soldiers behind at the lower part of the city, they slowly rode up the slope to the entrance of the great hall. Aragorn dismounted and turned to help his wife. She slid out of the saddle and he caught her in an embrace. She laughed and kissed him lightly on his bearded cheek, delighted about his high spirits though the task to come did not justify it. He offered her his arm and they climbed the last steps to the dais to where the doorwardens were already waiting for them… and another, well-known man clad in a leathern riding outfit, which, apart from its material, was neither overly elaborately crafted nor representative. Yet his relieved and grateful smile clad him well enough as Éomer’s gaze swept over the busy stables further below to come to rest on the royal couple in front of him. Without taking his eyes from them, he then turned to his Chief of Guard to say:

  “Gamling… do you recognise that stranger and the beautiful lady that accompanies him? He deems me vaguely familiar, yet in these simple and dusty clothes I cannot place him. Will you ask him what business it is that brings him to Edoras?” He winked in Aragorn’s direction and then went over with a fast step, grinning widely and with much relief as he embraced his friend

  “Well, it looks to me as if you just remembered, my lord. Thus I shall leave your order unfulfilled.” The older man smirked and followed with amusement as the two kings shared a manly slap on the shoulder. The two doorwardens behind him looked on in confusion, their glances wandering between their king’s unusual display of honest joy and the ravishing lady who accompanied the stranger. The King of Gondor cleared his throat as he took a step back to eye the Chief of the Royal Guard sternly.

  “The attention of this hall has somewhat lessened of late, good Gamling. Should you not have asked me to lay down my weapons for you could not let me before the king so armed?”

  The Rohirrim laughed.

  “I would have, honourable King Elessar, yet as my own king acted too quickly, he left me no room to carry out that order.” Conspiratorially, he added in a pressed whisper: “It must be his youth. He has no patience for the rules of the court.”

  Éomer turned.

  “If youth is the only reason to celebrate the arrival of good friends in the right manner, then you are right, Gamling, for what greater joy could there be than welcoming the honourable King Elessar of Gondor and his beautiful Queen Arwen in our halls?” Éomer laughed, and, slightly turning, bowed to the elven lady before he took her hand to brush his lips over it. “Even if Gondor’s ruler took care of avoiding any undue attention, your lady could never escape anyone’s eye, no matter what she did. How very good it is to see the both of you here at Edoras!”

  “How very gallant of you, King Éomer,” Arwen laughed, and all who heard her turned around to look, enchanted. “But should such words of courtesy not be spoken to the Lady Lothíriel only?”

  “No matter how charming you find me, my queen, I am still my most charming with my wife. She has nothing to complain about. Yet I must excuse her for now, I’m afraid. She was planning on welcoming you together with me, yet something unexpected came up. But you will meet her later.” The Rohirrim King turned to his Gondorian brother-in-arms. “Your men are being cared for? The stable-hands are prepared for the additional horses, but what about the men in your company?”

  “They are still in the stables… but I have not yet made any arrangements for the night for them.”

  Éomer nodded.

  “Gamling…”

  “Consider it done, sire.” The Chief of Guard turned toward the Gondorian king. “Is there anything else I can help you with, my lord? Like have your bags brought to your chamber?”

  Aragorn looked as if he was going to insist on doing it himself, but Éomer was faster.

  “That is a very good idea, Gamling. Arrange for it, please.” He performed an inviting gesture, and the doorwardens opened the great doors to the hall. “My lord, my lady, please allow me to show you to your quarters, where you will have the opportunity to refresh yourself. Afterwards, my wife and my marshals would be delighted if you would join us for a little welcoming feast to honour Gondor’s part in these historic events.”

  He stepped aside to let the royal couple pass and entered after them, satisfied with what his servants had accomplished during the afternoon. Meduseld was prepared for the welcoming of its great guests: The light of many candles on artful chandeliers reflected on the glasses and plates the long tables had been decorated with. In the centre a big fire was maintained in the hearth, and the servants of the court stood in a line in the corridor between the benches, bowing to the King of Gondor and his wife as they passed them by with a smile. Only briefly Aragorn turned his head to say under his breath:

  “I had hoped for a little less attention on my arrival, my friend. There was no need for this… procedure.”

  Éomer smiled good-naturedly.

  “Ah, but I did not make it an official procedure. This is nothing but an honest welcome for a trusted friend, Aragorn. Let them welcome you for now. They know that once again, you have come a long way to aid us in our time of need. They are cheering the man, not the title.”

  At the end of the line, the King of Gondor discovered the marshals Éomer had spoken of. He knew the two older men and exchanged friendly glances and courteous words with them as he and Arwen were greeted. At once he understood what Éomer had meant as he eyed Elfhelm, Erkenbrand, and the three men he did not know yet: Like the Rohirrim King himself, none of them was dressed in the full Rohirric attire that was standard on official occasions. There were no heralds proclaiming names, no horns, no banners. This was a meeting of friends, and Aragorn was thankful for his friend’s approach. He did not despise his royal armour and cuirass with the White Tree of Gondor and the seven stars on it, but the look at it alone made him think of the dreadful day he had led his army to the Black Gate. To the final battle against Mordor. And while it had proven a victorious day he had never again worn that uniform. Clad like a ranger in his black breeches, dark red tunic and leather coat, accompanied by his sword, dagger, and arrows he felt comfortable.

  Although the messenger from Rohan had announced an emergency, and he had worries about his own kingdom Aragorn felt deep satisfaction and joy over walking through the great Hall of Meduseld again. What had happened during the War was fading into the wisps of mere memory. The desperation they all had lived through would no longer burden them. Rohan and Gondor had fought together, they had stood together, and ill times and events had forged an alliance and friendship of such strength that their enemies would have to think twice before attacking any of their lands. As he surfaced from his brief contemplation, a young woman with slightly slanted eyes and tanned skin entered the main hall from the left and walked towards them with a nobility to her steps that told of her upbringing at the Court of Dol Amroth. She was dressed in a night-blue gown with long sleeves and white feathers at the neckline, an excellent contrast to her bronzed skin. Dark curls of it fell over her shoulders and danced with every move. Her only adornment was a circlet of silver with a pearl in its midst. With an elegant curtsey, she came to a halt next to her awe-struck husband and in front of the King and Queen of Gondor.

  “Your presence honours this hall, Queen Arwen, Lord Aragorn. We welcome you with the utmost gratitude. I beg you to excuse my late appearance.”

  Aragorn bowed to her, letting his right hand rest on his chest.

  “If we can be of any help we will.”

  Éomer’s smile told of his enchantment as he took his wife’s arm, his eyes travelling up and down over Lothíriel’s appearance in a very un-kingly fashion. He noticed that she had changed her gown and could easily guess what had happened to delay her. That clumsy maid again! It had been Lothíriel’s idea to check on the preparations in the kitchen before she joined him outside, and apparently, she had stood in the way of one of the many things the young servant lost her grip on each day. It could have been almost funny if the girl didn’t try so hard, only to fail so spectacularly each time. Not that he minded in this particular situation. He liked the gown she was wearing now even more than the green one she had chosen first.

  “My lady, you look ravishing today.” He kissed her to underline the sincerity of his words. “Would you like to accompany me on the way to showing our guests to their quarters, for I am certain that – after the long days on the road - they would like nothing more than having an opportunity to refresh themselves before the feast?”

  “I would be delighted, my lord.” With a sweet smile at the Gondorian couple, she accepted his hand, and they left the great hall together.

------------------------

MEDUSELD

  The sun had already set behind the Ered Nimrais, and the land was filled with an untroubled quietness and golden, slowly fading light as the two kings exited the Golden Hall for some fresh air after the meal. Following Éomer’s orders, the issue that had brought all men to Edoras had been ignored for the duration of supper, and the conversation had been amiable and light-hearted, evolving around the battle the Rohirrim King was fighting with his new steed and the grateful receipt of the Gondorian supplies in the East- and Westfold. Now, the marshals had already left Meduseld for their own quarters, and Arwen and Lothíriel had departed to the backside of the hall, where the Queen of Rohan kept her falcons. Thus, Éomer and Aragorn had finally been granted the solitude to discuss the pressing issue among themselves as they slowly walked to the western side of the dais, overlooking Edoras. It looked so peaceful from up here, Éomer mused, feeling the tension rising inside of him. Yet the picture was deceptive. Rohan stood on the verge of another war, and only a miracle could prevent it.

  Standing at the edge of the dais, Aragorn filled his pipe and lit it, silently watching Éomer's grim expression, which the younger man had successfully kept hidden for the duration of the feast and until his wife had left.

  “I noticed you had a new sword forged,” he stated politely and waited until Éomer faced him. The Rohirrim king seemed restless as he clenched his fists from time to time, only to let his arms rest when he became aware of it, and his gaze once again swept the roofs of the city.

  “It is not new. I had Gúthwine reforged, thus, the material is mostly the same. I even kept the name.” Following an impulse, he drew the sword, which he carried on his right side now, to watch its shine in the waning daylight. The yet unspoiled metal shone brightly, and though blade and hilt were works of art and as meticulously crafted as a Rohan blacksmith could forge, Éomer's face bore bitter countenance as he stared at the weapon in his hands. It had been designed to be wielded either single- or two-handedly, a so-called bastard-sword that would allow him to use the strength of his left arm while the weaker right arm would direct the thrust. It was a marvellous weapon, but each time he drew it, it also brought back the memory of his new weakness. He hated weakness. Frowning, he surfaced from his thoughts and let out a deep breath as he turned to his patiently waiting friend again.

  Aragorn nodded. It took no wizard to guess why Éomer had resorted to such a drastic step. The reforging of a sword that was considered an heirloom for generations to come was something not many men would have ordered.

  “How is your shoulder?”

  Éomer inhaled deeply, unwilling to talk about the sensitive subject. Yet he could not very well avoid it. After all, this man had saddled his horse in the middle of winter to stand by him in his time of need. For weeks Aragorn had stayed at Edoras until his healing powers had shown results, so it was his right to receive an honest answer, however much it stung the king himself.

  “It has improved. Your advice to seek out Lord Elrond was helpful, yet not even he could promise me that I would ever regain full strength.” He swallowed and unconsciously rolled his shoulder, his eyes distant and lost in memory. After the wedding, the first undertaking he had engaged in had been a lengthy voyage with his wife to show himself and his queen to the people of the Mark, and seek healing in the ancient city of elves. Lothíriel and he had spent most of the summer there, and in the process, had gotten to know each other quite well... and fallen in love for real. By pure chance, the political union had turned into one of true love. Looking back, the experience still felt magical to Éomer, more like a dream than reality. Life had been good back then.

  “I started training my left arm to cope with the loss of the right. I’m making progress.” Éomer was aware that his choice of words gave him away. Aragorn was excelled in reading between the lines, and even with the few words he had uttered, Éomer knew that he had told the man more than he had intended to. After a few more demonstrative exercise moves, he re-sheathed his sword and exhaled. “I know what you think: I should be glad I survived... and you are right.” His lips twitched as he met Aragorn’s gaze. It was hard to openly acknowledge the fact that he was not the unstoppable warrior anymore he had once been. “But it will be a long way to regain the skill that I thought granted.”

  “I see.” Aragorn smoked, and for a while both kings remained quiet, deep in thoughts. “I cannot deny that I was astonished to hear about your intended peace negotiations with the Dunlendings,” he then changed the subject upon having sensed his opposite’s discomfort. “After all these years of feud it is a courageous step that you took.” He watched the younger man through the rings of smoke, patient, reserved. “What do your marshals think about it?”

  Éomer snorted and let out a bitter laugh.

  “Erkenbrand thinks me under a foul spell to have come up with this idea. You saw his expression during the feast. And Elfhelm... he, too, thinks me wrong, but he’s loyal. I won’t have to worry about him.” He could no longer stand still. To lose some of the energy that had accumulated during the endless days of waiting, he began pacing the dais. Below them in the city, fires were being lit as the darkness thickened. Edoras prepared for the night, and slowly, it was getting quiet enough to hear the beginning concert of the crickets in the grass. “It might have been possible to conclude a peace directly after the war, but now, after the Dunlendings raided two settlements near the River Isen, it is clearly not understood.” Again he interrupted himself as the full weight of his responsibility for the people of his kingdom threatened to weigh him down. Looking up, he asked after a moment of silence: “The messenger told you about the raids?”

  “Without the details, yes.”

  Nodding, Éomer recited Erkenbrand's report about the incidents near the border, his face grim.

  “Their advance was alarmingly different from former attacks. They had swords and the skill to use them, and yet they did not kill unless it was unavoidable.” Aragorn raised his brows in astonishment. “Still, that discovery was no comfort, since they captured twelve young men that night… alive. They bound them and carried them away on horses. We still do not know what happened to them. It could be that…” He left the sentence open, but Aragorn's frown indicated that he had understood.

  “It could be their intention to exchange their prisoners for food. Or to use them as a shield against retaliations.”

  “Aye,” Éomer agreed, not convinced. “That would be my hope, too. Because there will be no peace if we find out otherwise.”

  The King of Gondor knocked out his pipe and faced his friend again.

  “Is it possible the Dunlendings received help from someone else?”

  “I deem that very likely. It must be, even if neither the marshal's scouts nor the settlers saw anyone else. Our foe’s skill and arms would indicate that it was so, although I cannot think of who might be behind their attack.”

  Aragorn eyed his friend closely.

  “In the older days such incidents led to revenge. But you chose a different, much harder path to go. Tell me what changed your mind.”

  Éomer lowered his eyes. Would he have to act his conviction to his friend, too, or was it better to let him know of his own doubts? He chose the latter, and, at length, said:

  “We could retaliate now and subdue them by killing their men. But each time we kill, the hatred among the survivors grows, and each new generation that grows up will again attack our people.” The king's face was contorted with pain and regret. “The circle will go on and on, only leading to more death on both sides... until both our peoples vanish, leaving nothing behind.”

  He fell silent as he stared into the deepening twilight. Midsummer had given the people so much joy… it could have been the most joyful day of the year had it not been overcast by the shadow of the new attacks. What would Midsummer of next year be like? Filled with sorrow about yet more loss of lives? Or peaceful and exuberant, a celebration of a new era? Again Éomer's hands were clenched into fists, indicating how much he had to restrain himself. Though a peace held the possibility of prosperity for his people in the future – if it could indeed be reached despite the known stubbornness of the hillmen – it was hard to do nothing to avenge his dead kinsmen or search for those abducted.

  Aragorn could read the signs and bridged the short distance until he stood beside the King of Rohan.

  “I do understand the difficulties you face, my friend, among your marshals as well as among your people. But though the path to peace looks rough in the beginning it will be for the blessing of both peoples in the end.”

  Éomer indicated a nod.

  “I hope for it to be the right path, but I am sceptical. I cannot lie.“ His voice sank to a growl. “I sent Thor with the offer for peace, and yet upon his return he declared that the tribal leaders had demanded your presence instead of being just grateful that we didn’t attack them. They asked for you without explaining their reasons. Who are they to set conditions? They should be glad that we did not ride to give them what they are so deserving of instead!” He let go of his breath in an attempt to calm down. “You can imagine now how glad I am that you answered to my call upon such short notice. How are things going in Gondor?”

  “I wish I could tell.” Éomer’s brows furrowed upon seeing his friend so concerned. “We left Minas Tirith six days ago. The day of our departure I handed the command of the army over to Prince Faramir.” Aragorn sighed deeply. “I hope it does not turn out to be a burden too heavy to carry. Then it should be put on my shoulders, not on his.” On Éomer's unasked question, the King of Gondor explained his findings during the ride through Northern Ithilien and closed, “I could not decide if the Easterlings were about to attack our northern lands. The Council pressed for the invasion of Rhûn, but since no indication leads to the conclusion of an imminent danger I denied that option.” He set his jaw recalling the Council of Minas Tirith and the lords’ strong objection. Saying that they did not get along with the king would have been an understatement. Aragorn knew that he had laid a heavy task upon Faramir's shoulders. The lords would not rest until their demands were fulfilled.

  Éomer's chin dropped to his chest. Unknowingly, he had asked much of his friend. It was yet another reason to feel guilty.

  “I sent a messenger to Dunland two weeks ago. If they stay true to their word they will arrive at Edoras in three days. Hopefully, we will be able to settle the negotiations in due time for you to head back. I already feel uncomfortable about having asked you to come here. Had I known of your own problems...”

  “Your trust in my attendance and help was justified,” Aragorn stated quietly and locked eyes with Éomer. “Prince Faramir has proven worthy many times to lead the army if the Easterlings will cross the border.”

  Éomer nodded, but still he could not shake the knowledge that Aragorn was needed in his own kingdom. From the path that led to Lothíriel’s garden, they both finally heard the musical laughter of the two women approach. It was almost dark by now. Éomer turned and followed Aragorn’s gaze as Lothíriel and Arwen rounded the corner and detected them instantly. Together, the two couples headed back into the ancient hall of kings...

------------------------

  After a night of little rest Aragorn had thought to be the first to have risen in the morning, but when he left the hall he watched Marshal Erkenbrand and the men of his company saddling up their horses in the dim light of yet another cloudy day. There was no mistake to be made about the marshal’s state of mind, as he forcefully put the saddle on his horse and fastened it, and about the way he yelled at his men to get ready to leave immediately. Aragorn knew it was hardly bearable for the old soldier to be expelled from the land he had lived on and defended against countless foes for such a long time. Erkenbrand would have given his life to keep the Westfold in Rohan’s realm, and the King of Gondor had noticed the bitter expression on the soldier’s face the night before. For him, the mere thought of accepting the Dunlendings on Rohan territory was a threat that could only result in the death of more of his kinsmen. He had fought all his life to keep the enemy at bay, and suddenly the young king – not even half as old as he – had changed the course of action. The idea alone to offer peace instead of justified wrath had loosened the marshal’s temper again during their conversation, though Erkenbrand had fought to keep his composure. He had refrained from openly accusing Éomer of weakness, but it could be clearly read in his features that he deemed the king no longer capable of acting in the best interest of his people. Letting the Dunlendings get away with murder, abduction and theft was a sign of weakness that no king could afford to show. The hillmen had not earned the hand of peace but a lecture they would never forget.

  Aragorn warmed his hands on a tankard of tea, deep in thoughts about the details Marshal Erkenbrand had revealed the night before and which worried the king more than he had admitted. Even without the stress on the Dunlendings’ sudden aptitude for warfare the tidings from the settlements were disturbing. Two hundred men with swords would not be unusual for Rohan or Gondor, but of the Dunlendings no one would ever have expected more than clubs and stones. And while the stealing of stock and food could be considered an understandable act to supply their own kin, the abduction of men could not. Whatever had led to this act of cruelty had to be regarded as a new quality of fight against the Rohirrim. Éomer, Erkenbrand, and Aragorn had agreed that even if the negotiations came up with a positive result the prisoners would have to be released first. And while the marshal had held fast to his opinion that the Dunlendings might kill the prisoners in need of food, Aragorn had objected: The Dunlendings’ tribal leaders would not come into their enemy's capital with nothing to bargain with. The possibility that the Rohirrim were still alive and held hostage to be exchanged after the safe return of the tribal leaders was more likely to be true. Erkenbrand had shaken his head about the kings' objection to accept the bitter truth, but King Éomer had taken up that possibility more willingly, though the fact that the raids had taken place before the offer for peace had reached the enemy could not be neglected.

  Still they all assumed that another, yet unknown enemy was involved. No one could imagine that the primitive people of Dunland had found a way to forge swords and train themselves in the use of them. There had to be an explanation, but neither the marshal nor the kings could grasp it. The fact was that none of the scouts Erkenbrand had sent to Dunland had brought tidings of other race.

  Erkenbrand mounted and, with a last regretful and bitter look upon the Golden Hall, turned his horse to ride down the slope and leave the city for Aldburg. His men followed, and only one remained at the entrance of the stables. Captain Galdur followed the marshal’s path with his eyes until he disappeared from sight. The young man's expression was grim and sad at the same time, as if he loathed to be left behind, and yet would fulfil his duty for the sake of the marshal's decision. Turning his head, the younger soldier met Aragorn's stare and quickly averted his eyes. He went into the stable and for the time the king stood on the dais the man did not return.

------------------------

  After a joint breakfast King Éomer left the hall to take care of the preparations for the arrival of the Dunlendings' tribal leaders. Lothíriel accompanied him, and Arwen had uttered the wish to see more of the city. Aragorn offered his company with a courteous bow, and they both walked over the dais. The wind was cool and carried with it the scents of straw, horses and the meadows that surrounded the elevated capital. High up in the sky the outlines of Queen Lothíriel’s falcons could be seen, and when they came down in graceful circles their cries pervaded through the chatter of the peasants on the steep alleys and the omnipresent neighing of horses. Arwen's black hair, as well as her dark blue gown, was caught by the strong gusts, and the peasants in front of their homes looked up from their work, some wide-eyed, some gaping at her in awe. She rewarded them with an elven smile that turned heads, and Aragorn knew without looking back that the men and women were staring at her even when she had passed them by. Without a word he bent to her, kissing her lightly on her temple.

  “How very pleasant that you have the time to accompany me,” Arwen said quietly and amused. A smile tugged at the corner of Aragorn's mouth, but instead of an answer he indicated a bow, and slowly they continued their walk. Arwen was fascinated by the beauty of the horses and by the simple joys of life these people shared.

  “Lothíriel told me about Midsummer,” she then said after leaving a group of men doing wickerwork. “She said it was a delightful feast, and that the citizens made her a beautiful swan. Or, to be precise, they made two since one was set on fire for good luck as it is tradition.” She took his arm again. “It could had been a wonderful celebration for all of them, but…” The smile she had carried on her delicate features slowly vanished when Arwen remembered the incidents the queen had told her about. “The tidings of the raids on the settlements came in shortly before Midsummer. They were all shocked about the attacks.” A man with two horses on reins came up to them, and the Royal Couple stepped aside to let him pass for there was not enough room on the street for the obviously embarrassed man and the steeds to evade. He bowed to them and moved on. “There had been no incidents for more than two years.”

  “King Théoden had pardoned the Dunlendings, who had fought for Saruman, and allowed them to leave unharmed after the battle at Helm’s Deep,” Aragorn explained. “After that there had been a quiet agreement to not cross the River Isen.”

  “So I see that those raids were unprovoked and unforeseen, but…” Arwen hesitated, and Aragorn could see how disturbed she was. “Lord Erkenbrand had not only requested that his king should take revenge, but…” She raised her head to face him, her eyes filled with compassion. “…he demanded that Éomer should order to kill each and every one of the Dunlendings.”

  “Annihilation?” Aragorn echoed in shocked disbelief. “He proposed to eradicate the whole people?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he could not! That is…”

  “Lothíriel heard the conversation, so it is true. The same night she had a vision of impending doom. She saw the citizens of Edoras and all who live beyond killed by a tidal wave.” Aragorn exhaled. Éomer had told him that his marshal had objected to the idea of peace negotiations, and that Erkenbrand's opinion reflected the majority of his people, but he had not mentioned the way the marshal would have been willing to follow to save the Rohirrim from further attacks by their neighbours.

  “Now I understand,” the king muttered, stunned by the sheer thought of the consequences such a decision would have meant.

  Arwen nodded slightly. The couple took another curve on the slope, and while the thick clouds drifted with the strong wind the sun shone through, colouring the city in brighter light.

  “The king was not easily convinced to not to summon his éoreds and order an attack. Lothíriel did not say so, but it seems to me that she lived through hard times to change her husband's mind.”

  Aragorn lifted his brows in true astonishment.

  “She is a very courageous woman.”

  “Indeed. More than the marshals and captains give her credit for. But for the well-being of the people and also for her unborn child she could not keep quiet.”

  “I understand. When will it be born?”

  “In winter.” A feeble smile appeared on Arwen's face. It could have been an event to look forward to, but the situation did not allow for it. Arwen had seen Lothíriel’s concerned and worried face as she had shared the good news. The Queen of Rohan had seemed unable to feel joy about her special state while the possibility of war and further destruction of the kingdom were looming threateningly above her, and the rejection she had encountered had done its share to lower her usually bright spirits. “In spite of the difficulties she was facing, she persisted, and even in my tongue I cannot find the proper words to honour her courage to neither hesitate nor give in when the king and his counsellors spoke against her.”

  Aragorn was quiet for the time they walked down the path to the open plain where the Gondorian soldiers had pitched a camp.

“I hope the negotiations will be the foundation of a lasting peace,” he finally said, and in her eyes he could read the same apprehension he felt since neither the Rohirrim nor the Dunlendings would easily obey their leaders. “There has to be a way.”

  “There will be,” she answered with more confidence than they both shared.

  Captain Fáred came up to them, bowing lowly and waiting to be addressed.

  “The troop is in order, my lord, and awaiting your commands,” the old soldier reported. “What are we here to do?”

  “We might stay here for some days, captain. There are no further commands at the moment.” Fáred nodded, but his expression betrayed his puzzlement. “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?” the king asked and looked over Fáred's shoulder. Behind the campsite Halamin and Hilberon had drawn their swords and the older soldier explained a movement to evade the enemy's blade.

  “The supplies run short, my lord. I have restricted the rations, but they will only last for two more days.”

  “By that time the carts with supplies will have arrived.” Hilberon made a wide step forward, and Halamin evaded, laughing.

  “Aye. Shall I then see to their distribution? As it seems to me the people here care more about their animals than themselves,” he added with a growl. “They might…”

  “The supplies are meant for the Rohirrim as well as a gift for the guests to come. You might take what is needed for your men after that.”

  “As you wish, my lord. Might I propose…”, but the king had already given the captain's shoulder a slap and passed him by. “My lord?” Fáred turned on his heels to watch the king cross the campsite with long strides. The queen followed slowly, lifting her gaze for a moment to the birds of prey. And there was a sparkle of joy in her face that had nothing to do with the restless falcons. The soldiers along the way bowed deeply to the Royal Couple. Fáred shook his head in disbelief. Who was the king aiming for? How could two soldiers at play be of more importance than the captain of the Royal Guard's report? Fáred squinted. Indeed, the king headed for his two soldiers. Grudgingly Fáred went back to his task to keep the men prepared if there was more to happen than superfluous dalliance.

  Hilberon did not see the king coming. It was Halamin who got aware of their ruler and quickly turned to bow to him. Hilberon followed swift.

  “My lord and lady…” Halamin raised his head again and sheathed his sword, as it was the rule.

  “No, wait, Halamin,” Aragorn requested, “show me what you just taught him.”

  “It was a simple… trick,” Halamin replied frowning, and shot a glance at the young soldier, who seemed about to sink on his knees upon seeing the queen so close. “Nothing you will not have seen before.” But he drew his sword again, and upon a nod of the king Hilberon took position, hardly able to turn away from Arwen. “As I told you before,” Halamin tried to gain the young man's attention, “you attack me. Same movement, lad, do you hear me?” Halamin waited though he could see the confusion in Hilberon's face. He stepped forward, ready to strike at Halamin's body, but with a quick movement to the side the older soldier did not only evade the hit but also got in position to strike back. Halamin stepped back again with a curt bow to Aragorn, who, to his surprise, drew his own sword. Hilberon held his breath. What was about to happen here?

  “Let me give it a try,” Aragorn said and shortly turned to Arwen. “If you will excuse me for a moment, my lady?”

  “You know of my patience,” she replied politely, but with an undertone and a look that made Hilberon hold his breath for a few seconds.

  “I very well do.” Even the king sounded distracted for a moment, and when he faced the older soldier a silent amusement was still in his eyes. “Let us begin.”

  Halamin's face lost all of its colour, and Hilberon sighed inwardly that he had not been chosen, when the king faced the soldier and raised his sword. The situation was already embarrassing enough, but the young soldier could not – though he truly had to – look away from the queen. He tried to. He tried to concentrate on Halamin and how he now blocked the king's attack, but… Hilberon's eyes widened. The king did not move like the young soldier had, but evaded the counter-attack quickly, turned to meet the opponent's blade halfway and with a clanking forced it out of Halamin's hand, only to hold the tip of his sword to Halamin's throat a heartbeat later. Hilberon only dared to breathe again when Aragorn had lowered his blade. Halamin seemed likewise relieved and retreated two steps to take up his sword again.

  “Hilberon? Did you see the difference?” Aragorn asked turning his attention to the young man with his sword still at hand. “Halamin's movement was good, but will not work when the enemy is quick and agile.”

  “Yes.” Hilberon nodded and his heart suddenly jumped to his throat. The king's look made clear the lecture was not over yet.

  “Good. Take position.” The order – though friendly spoken and clearly understandable by a simple gesture of his hand – made Hilberon swallow with anxiety. The sword his father had given him seemed to weigh thirty pounds upon being raised. “Attack me like Halamin taught you.”

  “But sire, I…”

  “I know you can fight, so now show me.”

  Hilberon yearned for nothing more than the end of this lesson, but he raised his sword and tried to recall all what he had learned. His father was not a sword-fighter himself, but since everyone in Minas Tirith was coming to him with theirs horses to shoe, Hiregon had often asked those men to teach his son a lesson in fighting. So Hilberon had had many teachers through the years. But all his knowledge vanished into thin air when he realised that he had raised his sword against his ruler, against King Elessar! It might have been on request, it might have been for a lesson, but still… it did not feel right to cross blades with him. Hilberon shrunk at the thought of hitting – of course, it would be a rare incident – Lord Aragorn in the process. He simply could not…

  Hilberon's sword flew through the air, describing a curve and sticking fast in the grass, swinging as if to mock the owner of his inaptitude. The young man looked after his weapon, then back to the king.

  “Would you mind taking up your sword and giving it another try?” Lord Aragorn asked. His voice was still friendly, but Hilberon noticed that the expression of his ruler had changed. He would not want the soldier to be that inattentive again. Swallowing hard he fetched his weapon and took position again. “Now, if you do concentrate, I would like to teach you something that might prove useful.” Hilberon nodded, and with a frown looked upon Andúril that shone in the sun. He had heard stories about the sword that had been reforged by the Elves… “Concentrate!” At once Hilberon snapped out of his contemplation and blocked the blade aiming at his throat. “Very good!” the king commended. “This was out of instinct and well delivered. Let us try something else…”

  Hilberon did not dare to look away again from the kingly blade which blocked his way, crossed his own sword, and always seemed to be first at the point to hit or defend at the right place and in precisely the right moment. Hilberon could not break the defence though he got more courageous with the minutes passing. Finally the king raised his left hand to stop him, and Hilberon stepped back as if he had done something wrong. He was out of breath and sweat trickled down his forehead, but he did not dare to wipe it away. His whole body seemed tense, and he felt his knees weak somehow. The king lowered his blade.

  “You are as well trained as I expected, but you lack the ability to apprehend your opponent's action before he delivers it”, Aragorn explained, stepping closer. “You have to know in advance what part of your body he is aiming at, how he will move, and were his strength and his weaknesses lie.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Hilberon, unable to understand everything so quickly, realising that other soldiers off duty had gathered at the training place and were now listening and watching the fight. Again the young soldier felt like being at the wrong time at the wrong place, but he had to go on. The king was talking to him! He should not gaze around and miss the next explanation.

  “You could judge by the appearance of your enemy where he will aim for. Halamin…” The soldier spoken to got closer. “Take your sword.” Then he turned to Hilberon again. “Now, tell me, what do you immediately know about your opponent?”

  Hilberon inhaled deeply. This was another test to pass under the sceptical eyes of the king, and he wished to pass it without making a fool of himself.

  “He is tall… which means he got a wide range, he’s right-handed, carries a good sword.” He paused to glance at the king, who stood beside him, his sword held loosely in both hands, his features unreadable. “And he… knows how to fight.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Hilberon met Halamin's stare, and the older soldier deliberately looked down on his own hands.

  “He wears a glove on his right hand… and with the cuirass and pauldrons…”

  “Yes, you expect an experienced sword-fighter upon seeing the weapons, the armour, and the built of a person.” Aragorn's mouth twitched. “Would you then judge a man in a plain tunic a fool? Assume him to be inapt to wield a sword?”

  Hilberon’s first idea was to say, aye, of course, how should he fight without protection, but the words got stuck in his throat. Aragorn’s expression softened to a smile when he slapped Hilberon on the shoulder.

  “No, you would not,” he said sheathing his sword. “For abilities do not depend on outer appearance.”

------------------------

  From above the campsite Éomer had watched in silent amusement Aragorn teach the young soldier a lesson in defence, and awaited for him and Queen Arwen after they left the Gondorian soldiers behind. Their captain seemed to fume about something, but bowed in obedience when the couple passed him by.

  “He is quite good for a man so young,” Éomer said greeting the king and queen. “Although I would almost deem him too young to belong to the Royal Guard, no matter how good he is. It is not skill he lacks, but experience.”

  Aragorn looked back over his shoulder. Hilberon emptied a water-skin and wiped his face with the rest of the water while Halamin told the on-lookers excitedly about the moves he had just watched.

  “I know his father,” the King of Gondor explained while they went back to the alley. “And I watched Hilberon fight after he had volunteered to become a soldier.” He glanced back again. Exhaling he continued, “He fought better than most of the soldiers, who were called experienced, and since we have lived in peace I preferred him to an older soldier I would not trust anymore.”

  Éomer nodded and, intending to lighten the mood by switching the topic, turned to Arwen.

  “I heard you like our horses, Lady Arwen. Would you want to see the stallion I chose to ride this summer?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  “Very well.” He led them to the Royal Stables, an impressive, elaborately decorated building worthy of the horses it gave shelter to. Upon entering the four busy stable-hands quickly bowed to their king and rushed on, having to do more than usual since the Gondorian horses were stabled here as well. “I left Firefoot on open range for breeding, so I had to choose another one,” Éomer explained when they reached the loose box, in which a mighty black stallion stood, watching the persons approaching with pricked ears and flared nostrils. Upon his master’s approach though, he snorted briefly and turned away from the reaching hand, unwilling to be touched. Downplaying his own disappointment, the Rohirrim king turned back to his guests. “I would have liked to show you his better side, but as you see, he is not only beautiful, but likes to play coy, too.” He shook his head. “Lothíriel was right – it might take me yet some time to inure him to me.”

  Arwen watched the horse intently and then, with Éomer’s acknowledgement, moved on through the alley, impressed by the beautiful and strong-looking steeds that followed her path with pricked ears.

  “I do not know what I shall do with him,” the King of Rohan continued upon turning away and following his Gondorian guests down the corridor, and Aragorn returned his frustrated glance with silent amusement. As a true man of the Mark, Éomer was apt to talk about horses for days uninterruptedly if he was not stopped. “I tried to fondle him, to be patient, to tame him by any means I know – but he is still unwilling to accept me... at least not permanently.”

  Aragorn held his hands loosely on the hilt of his sword and, earnest again, cocked his head, asking,

  “What are you willing to accept for the peace of your people, Éomer?”

  The question found the younger man unprepared and resulted in a long, leaden silence, which almost led Aragorn to believe that it had angered his brother-in-arms. Finally, upon coming to a halt in front of the stall that held the Gondorian king’s steed, Éomer turned his back on his friend to greet the stallion of his late cousin. While his gloved hands reached up to smooth Brego’s black mane between his fingers, he whispered in Rohirric into the listening ears and considered Aragorn’s question. Only to find once again that there were no easy answers. It was frustrating, and his good mood was gone in the wink of an eye as he turned back to face the Gondorian, while Brego blew his warm breath into his neck.

  “I offer them peace instead of retaliation,” the Rohirrim king finally pressed. “It is more than they could demand after what they did to us.”

  Frowning, Aragorn took a step closer, making sure the young men nearby would not overhear their conversation. Nevertheless he lowered his voice.

  “Is there nothing more you are willing to grant them? No step further than the promise to not harm them if they stay on the other side of the river?”

  Éomer exhaled noisily, his face a mask of concern and barely concealed anger.

  “Everything beyond that is a high risk. Can you not see it?”

  The King of Gondor frowned, and his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

  “You just learned that they changed their way of fighting. That they are armed and trained. That they came to those settlements with a distinct purpose – to rob your people of stock and men. Do you think they will retreat to the west and refrain from repeating those raids when they have nothing to gain in the negotiations? Why should they even come here, if all they could hope for is to go back with empty hands and continue living their lives like they have done for centuries? A life in misery.”

  Éomer met his gaze unflinchingly, yet there lay something in the dark eyes that seemed untypical for the wilful King of the Mark. An insecurity Aragorn had never seen there before. Lowly, as if he dared not even to admit the possibility to himself aloud, the Rohirrim pressed: “We might offer them a piece of land in the Westfold. Although I am by no means certain about it yet. It will depend on the manner of how they present themselves during the parley.” Yet his expression indicated clearly that he could not see it happening to the fortune of his people.

  “It would be a generous decision, my friend, to give them land to plough and share the harvest.”

  “It would be more than generous, I fear. It would contain a high risk for all settlers living there. Can you imagine what it would mean for my people if Dunlendings roamed the land and began to plunder it from within? It could easily be the end of us! Not only of the Westmark’s settlements.”

  Aragorn nodded in understanding, but continued nevertheless, while he kept an eye on Arwen, who had slipped into the stall Asfaloth occupied.

  “What is the base of their hatred, Éomer? What made them attack your people in the first place? Not only hatred - which is so old that none of us can recall its beginning - but dire need.” He paused and stared at his friend with urgent intensity. “I cannot explain to you why the Dunlendings are suddenly able to wield swords. Or why they abducted twelve of your men. But I do know that an offer for peace and land is the right step to take. The right step to end this feud and the envy. The right step to end the hatred once and for all. It is worth a try.”

  Éomer had heard it all before in the debate with his wife and the council, and yet hearing those same words from the wise King Elessar’s mouth made him feel more secure about the decision he had made. Yet he still had to admit it to himself that he was far from being convinced by it. His eyes admiringly resting on the elven horse, he nonetheless shook his head.

  “The Dunlendings cannot be trusted, Aragorn. What good came out of the mercy my uncle bestowed onto them? What made them attack us again after two years of cease-fire? There was no provocation from our side. No concentration of troops near the river. If we allow the enemy to settle on our land, they might misuse this gift as well.”

  “And if it turns out well your land will prosper. You already made the first step and a courageous one! And the Dunlendings accepted it in spite of those raids! Do not throw away the chance you have right now.”

  “Still I cannot say that I am convinced of their good intentions. It was them who broke the cease-fire. My mercy could easily lead to attacks of other enemies if they consider us too weak to fight for what is ours, and this time, we would not be able to fend them off. ” He inhaled deeply, and took his eyes away from Asfaloth to underline the urgency of his words. “It is a gamble I am most reluctant to take, Aragorn. Even if I admit that a change of pace for the Mark is overdue.”

  Aragorn fell silent, knowing that Éomer’s concessions had limits. He understood his friend too well to push him any further. Éomer already looked wretched, worn out by the long days, which lay behind him. He lowered his head without seeing anything. Aragorn felt admiration for this man, who had been known as the hard-handed marshal of Eastfold in his youth. Éomer had been fighting for his people for most of his still young life. He knew that the way the King of Rohan was following now had not been easy to enter and would be even harder to stay on, since the king had voted against his marshals and most of his people. In pursuing peace, he stood alone, and the Dunlendings and their stubbornness just added up to the king's problems. It had been obvious in the conversation with Lord Erkenbrand that the idea of not helping the abducted men was being considered an act of disloyalty and indifference, and if his sceptically conceived plan failed, the King of Rohan would lose face and yet more of his people. Éomer was walking a very thin line.

  Thinking about the unimaginable proposal the Marshal of Westfold had made Aragorn asked in a lower voice:

  “If the negotiations go ill, will you then send Marshal Erkenbrand with his éored back to Dunland?”

  With an effort Éomer raised his head, surfacing from his thoughts. He eyed his friend with a deep frown.

  “Do you consider me too weak to head the army myself?”

  “No, I do not. I was just…”

  “You do. Your expression tells it clearly enough, even courtesy prevents you from admitting it,” Éomer cut him off, his stare bitter and knowing. Aragorn stood fast, not letting show his concern. He remembered the weeks he had spent at Edoras in the winter before last, fighting and praying for the life of his friend. “You think the injury I suffered at the hands of Grima has left me bereft me of my ability to fight.”

  “It was indeed a wound another man would have died of,” Aragorn replied cautiously.

  Éomer's voice sank to an angered growl.

  “That was more than eighteen months ago. A lot has happened since then. A lot you have not seen yet.”

  “I did not imply that you are unable to lead your army. But since you sent away Lord Erkenbrand to Aldburg for the time of the negotiations…”

  “My sword has not been reforged to rest in its sheath,” Éomer stated with determination. “If there is no other way to come to terms with the hillmen, I will cross the River Isen with my men and teach them to not underestimate my power.” Aragorn did not answer. He could feel the temper of his friend rising and wanted to avoid adding any further strain. Exhaling, the King of Rohan put his left hand on the hilt of his bastard sword. “I will convince you, brother, that there is no mistake to be made about my strength. Let us fight.”

  “I certainly will not,” Aragorn replied sternly. Arwen returned from the rear side of the stable, and they exchanged a quick glance. She knew at once that her husband felt uneasy about something.

  “You do not need to worry,” Éomer continued without noticing it, “we use training swords. They are blunt.”

  “There is no need to…”

  The King of Rohan only slapped his friend's shoulder as he passed him by on the way to the training grounds.

  “You taught that young soldier a lesson. Maybe you can teach me, too.”

--------------

CENTRAL ROHAN

  It was yet a long distance to ride to Edoras since the Rohirrim avoided the settlements along the direct way, but Grodes knew their locations nonetheless, even if he himself had never ventured this far into the enemy’s territory. Little did the strawheads know about what the strangers had taught them. Little did they know that in the course of the last two years, they had not only become skilled swordsmen, but also good trackers and scouts, and their new knowledge had resulted in a set of elaborate and detailed maps of a quality they had never before possessed. Dunland had been ready for the encounter with their ancient foes, which had made the sudden offer all the more confusing.

  Grodes and the other leaders had expected a massive strike. They had been prepared for it, too, ready to let the forgoils run into empty land while they invaded the Mark to capture yet more of their young men. Why now was King Éomer not following the traditional way of attack and retaliation? Did he know something that he should not have rightfully known about their plan? Had his scouts discovered the strangers? Had they been too careless? And were they now riding to their own doom, forced by the superior strangers to follow the Rohirrim’s plan, whatever it would be? There were so many possibilities and none of them good.

  Even though he refused to believe in the truth of the words of the Rohirrim’s messenger… he could not deny that the accursed strawheads had succeeded in making their mouths water with his offer. To a people who had lived in fear and misery for centuries, with next to nothing to sustain themselves, the prospect of a lasting peace was something they would never have dreamt of. It could not simply be discarded in the wink of an eye… even if the balance was about to shift to their side with the aid of the strangers.

  Grodes remembered all too vividly how eager all of his kinsmen had been to accept their conditions for help in their matter. And so far, there had been no reason to complain, as the strangers had kept their promises, even though the sceptical tribal leaders had insisted that no help would be sufficient against the well-armed Rohirrim éoreds. Then they had been supplied with weapons of steel and armour to match, and they had listened to the strangers’ instructions… and it had made all the difference.

  At first, the training had been far more difficult than expected. The strangers seemed to walk and fight with a natural elegance they never could hope to match. Yet they had quickly discovered that they possessed other, equally important traits like strength and hardiness, and only after one month of training, the difference between the learned and those still waving clubs had been impressive. At that point, the Dunlendings had been won over by the strangers' knowledge and weaponry. And the prospect of taking back their realm to the east of the River Isen had made them double their efforts.

  A satisfied smile wandered over the Dunlending’s face as he looked around among his people, feeling a sudden surge of confidence even through his omnipresent fear. They were a force to be considered now. Never again would it be so easy for the strawheads to simply ride them down. They knew how to counter cavalry attacks now, and even in battles of man against man, they were skilled and hardy enough to stand their ground. The first two attacks had left no question open about that. Maybe, Éomer-King had summoned him and the others to their capital because he was afraid of them? Oh, what a satisfying thought that was!

  With care Grodes’ fingers brushed over the hilt of his own short but effective sword, which he had learnt to master. He was hoping it would not be necessary to fight at Edoras, but later on there would be much use for it, and oh, how sweet would be the taste of victory when he would stick the sharp steel into their foes’ flesh! He glanced to both sides where the soldiers sat upright in their saddles, arrogant and stubborn, pretending not to see their enemies at all. They had unwillingly shared their food with them during their camps at night, and their expressions had left no questions open that they would have wished for the tribal leaders to die at once. But Grodes and his company had relished the dry meat and bread, both things they had not had much of to eat for months. Food was something the strangers had not been able to deliver sufficiently, but they had helped the Dunlendings to survive during the time of their greatest need. Grodes' thoughts travelled to the end of the summer. Maybe, if the Gods heard their pleas and granted them help, his kin would roam the lands south of the river again, and come fall, they would harvest the wheat and rye their foes had sown to finally fill their stomachs with self-baked bread. It was overwhelming to think about nicely built huts to live in, huts that kept the elements outside, about having their own cattle, and fertile soil to plough. It was such a breathtaking vision that he almost forgot he was sitting on this accursed horse’s back…

------------------------

EDORAS

  Aragorn had ineffectively tried to talk his friend out of his decision to fight. To Arwen's silent amusement he had argued all the way back to the hall against the necessity to demonstrate abilities, but Éomer was too eager – and at the same time too proud – to let go of the idea. Leaving their wives behind, the kings met in the garden behind the Golden Hall, and the warming sunshine took away the last excuse Aragorn had had to deny a fight. He weighed in his hand the training sword the weapons master had delivered. It was lighter and shorter than his own, and he swung it through the air to test its handling.

  “Shall we begin?” Éomer asked from the other side of the verdancy.

  After he had taken off his jerkin Aragorn stood in a loose, dark red shirt and black trousers, and gave a grim nod.

  “You leave me no choice in this matter.”

  A smile broke through the determined expression on the younger man’s face.

  “Aye, my friend, in some cases you will find me unyielding. Have you heard nothing of my reputation yet?”

  “Your reputation, aye. It is indeed not unknown to me,” Aragorn murmured to himself upon raising the training sword to greet Éomer, who was standing opposite him. He took position and focussed his concentration on the weapon the younger man was holding two-handed, an unfamiliar sight to his eyes. Facing the Rohirrim king, Aragorn could not suppress the memory he had of his wounded friend, as he had been fighting for his life in the wake of Grima's assassination. True, more than a year had passed, and he knew Éomer well enough to know that Éomund’s son had put all his efforts into adapting to the new situation, yet the skill he had once possessed was hard to regain.

  While he still pondered, Éomer suddenly jumped forth, focused and going directly for his friend's chest. Aragorn deflected the blow, but took a step back immediately. Unflinchingly, Éomer went for the next thrust from the right side. Aragorn parried the same moment and evaded to his right. Éomer followed, swinging the sword two-handed and hacking the blade down in the middle. Aragorn raised his sword to deflect the hit, but Éomer thrust his weight forward, pressing closer with his left shoulder, forcing Aragorn to stand firm or retreat. For a second the King of Gondor stared at his friend, then, with a sudden lunge threw him back and evaded Éomer's next attack by stepping back again. Éomer was already sweating, and with an expression of growing annoyance, he gripped the hilt tightly with both hands, eyeing his opponent closely. Aragorn waited, his mouth set. Éomer’s lips twitched and he attacked again with a powerful lunge, at the last moment using a feint to break through his friend's defence. His sword clanked loudly against Aragorn's when, again, Éomer's offensive was intercepted, and the King of Gondor took no advantage of the situation.

  Éomer lowered his sword. His eyes narrowed, and his words were bare of tolerance.

  “I asked you not to treat me like a lad of ten summers,” he stated with restrained anger. “Attack me! That is why we have come here.”

  “I do not wish to,” Aragorn replied flat-voiced, holding the sword square in front of him, willing to end this lesson at once.

  Éomer could not stand the compassion in his friend's eyes, and his temper flared.

  “Then it is your wish to insult me?” To his grim satisfaction Aragorn raised his brows. “I consider this as an insult, Aragorn! I am neither an old man, nor a lad who has yet to learn the moves of swordplay! And I am no longer the wounded man you saw over a year ago! So you’d better fight me.”

  With these words he raised his sword again, rushing his friend at the same moment and forcing him into defence. Aragorn parried the first two blows, then – as if a power had been released that had been unbidden before – he moved forward. For strike after strike, he did not only deflect and evade Éomer's onsets, but fought back, letting go of his reluctance and restraint. Aiming at the king's weak side Aragorn forced his opponent back several steps, leaving him to deal with his defence, the sword in two hands most of the time. Éomer stood firm against the vigour crashing upon him and even gained the better position to swing around his friend's defence. But the King of Gondor was quick on his feet and avoided a hit at the last moment. Éomer smirked. Now the fight had the deserved quality, and his own movements were faster and more precise. Another combination could only be blocked by Aragorn in the last moment, and Éomer felt the rigour in his strikes growing. He drove back his friend with the strength of his left arm while the right directed the hit, but it was the moment Aragorn had waited for. He smote on Éomer's sword – while he held it on his right side so hard that the younger man lost control over it; the weapon was struck from his hands. Immediately Aragorn stepped back, breathing heavily, and lowered his blade, his face devoid of expression.

  For a second of silence after he had lost his sword, Éomer stood gazing at the training sword in the grass. The defeat stung, and he clenched his teeth, unwilling to meet his friend's stare even though he knew he had no mockery to fear. Slowly, deliberately he stooped to pick up his weapon. When he faced Aragorn, he raised the sword upright in front of his face to salute the winner of the sparring, and his friend bowed curtly before he handed over his own weapon.

  “I thank you for this lesson,” Éomer said on their way back to the Golden Hall. When no response came, he stopped and turned to his friend. “You should leave the past behind, Aragorn. I might not be the man I was as Marshal of Eastfold, but that does not mean I have forgotten how to defend myself.”

  Aragorn's look was adamant.

  “Your right side will remain weak. You have to convince your opponent that you have always been left-handed or he will go for your weakness just like I did!”

  “Now your own rigour exceeds your restrain by far, my friend.” Despite the defeat he had just suffered, Éomer suddenly found himself amused. It was rare that the King of Gondor employed such intensity to his words, and apparently, his friend had just felt the same, because it faded as quickly as it had occurred. Aragorn shrugged.

  “You were the one who asked for this fight.”

  Éomer slapped his shoulder, smirking.

  “And, well, I have to admit you taught me a lesson! If I remember correctly, I asked you for one, didn’t I?”

------------------------

  The Gondorian supplies arrived the next morning. Captain Fáred stayed true to his word to see to their distribution, since the citizens of Edoras had little understanding that a part of the delivered goods should not be meant for them and their people in the settlements. They had waited for the vegetables and corn for a long time, and the captain needed his voice of command to calm the angered peasants.

  During the day last preparations had been made for the arrival of the Dunlendings' tribal leaders. A sentinel had announced them for the time around sunset, and both kings had agreed to invite the emissaries for a joint meal before the parley would start the next morning. Also, knowing his kinsmen well enough to see that such an action was in order, Éomer had gone down to the marketplace, accompanied by the Royal Guard, to catch his people’s attention. When they had assembled, sensing that something of great importance had to be on their king’s mind to speak to them in this fashion, he had held a brief, yet very determined speech about the manner in which the Dunlending guests would have to be welcomed to Edoras. While there was certainly no reason for cheering them, he had made abundantly clear that he would not tolerate any disruption of the official procedure. Uninformed about what had happened in the dealings with their western neighbours ever since Erkenbrand had so memorably burst into their Midsummer preparations, the Rohirrim had stared at their king in puzzlement. Their foes would have to be granted access to Edoras, and even into Meduseld? They would not be allowed to show their disdain openly? What was happening? How could this be right? When he had finished his address, Éomer had found himself looking into faces dumbfounded to utterly consternated, but his fierce glances had caused the crowd to lower their eyes. None wanted to be the object of the king’s wrath, and so he had left with the distinct feeling of being obeyed. Still he knew all too well that there were still many possibilities for the negotiations to go wrong, but all else was out of his hands. He would have to wait and see, and react to the occurrences as they would happen.

  The further the day had advanced, the less the Rohirrim King had been able to conceal his tension. Lothíriel at his side had done her best to reassure her husband that his decision had indeed been the right one to make, and yet Éomer had not been able to banish the frowning faces of his kinsmen from his thoughts. For the first time, the full extent of his solitary decision and how much it violated everything his people expected of him had become obvious. Equally obvious to him was hat the obstacles they were faced with would not be overcome within the next two or three days of negotiations. He had given much thought to the results of this meeting. Provided the Dunlendings agreed to his offer of giving them limited land on the territory of the Westmark, but under the guard of the Rohirrim – what would they do there? Would they settle down peacefully and start cultivating the land? Would they settle but ask for more land the next spring? Would his own people accept their neighbours without trying to expel them immediately? And what if the hillmen misused the concessions he was willing to make for peace’s sake to secretly help more of their kin cross the river and attack the Rohirrim on their own ground? Would the course of action he intended to lead to an era of peace instead lead to their doom?

  These and other gloomy thoughts were occupying Éomer’s mind as he rode down the hill together with Aragorn and Captain Fáred, as well as Gamling, Elfhelm and Galdur, the fully adorned Royal Guard of Rohan in tow. An hour ago, the group of approaching riders from the west had finally been spotted, and upon seeing their rulers riding to the gates to greet the Dunlending delegation, the inhabitants of Edoras slowly followed the procession, chattering lowly and uttering their annoyance but carefully not letting their king overhear them.

  No sooner had the mounted warriors formed a line in front of the city gate with the two kings in the middle, than a group of approximately thirty riders approached from the road, their arrival heralded by a great cloud of dust. As they drew near enough, Éomer could see the men’s faces. They looked unwilling and yet relieved to have fulfilled their duty of delivering their unwanted guests. And they looked utterly spent. Riding the way to Dunland and back at a sharp pace twice in a few weeks time had sapped them thoroughly of their strength. Thor especially looked wretched and tired beyond measure, Éomer thought, as the horses were slowed to a trot, and then to a strut until they had reached the waiting line of soldiers.

  With a measured nod, his face all sincerity, the king let his soldiers see his gratitude; it had been a hard and dangerous errand he had sent them on. It was acknowledged by the men’s glances as they came to a halt, forming a cordon for the guests they had escorted to ride to the front of their line. Lothíriel pressed Éomer's hand in silent confirmation of her support and cast him a quick smile as his head turned her way. A combination of expectation and anxiety had her trembling as she looked at the approaching riders, and the angry murmur from the citizens behind made it very clear that their guests were not welcome. The sudden tension was such that a careless word would be enough to make the late afternoon erupt into violence, she thought, barely able to breathe. The moment of truth had arrived.

  Feeling the tension mount, Éomer reluctantly forced his eyes from the already near group of riders and turned in his saddle to glower at his unwilling kinsmen. His visible anger resulted in the required silence, but the people’s disdain for their guests was still on their faces. Not entirely satisfied, but aware of the fact that even his power had limits, the king turned back. From the group that had arrived, three riders emerged. Their posture betrayed clearly the fact that they were not accustomed to being on horseback, and they looked every bit as wretched as the men of Thor’s éored.

  With a smooth movement, Aragorn dismounted and stepped forth. Clad in a red linen shirt smocked with corded leather braid, black trousers, and a robe of black leather that was emblazoned in silver with the Tree of Gondor, he was easily recognisable to the unkempt-looking men from Dunland. Said men dismounted most ungracefully to greet him, forcing Éomer to bite back a bitter laugh as he followed his friend’s example. The hillmen’s attempts to stride confidently were ruined by the pain in their backs from the long and hard ride, and when their leader stepped forth, he could only do so with clenched teeth.

  “Éomer, King of Rohan, and his wife Lothíriel, as well as I, welcome you to Edoras,” Aragorn said with a curt bow, his right hand on his heart.

  His opposite, a stout man of square build who was entirely clad in old leathern rags and fur, returned the greeting briskly, and – upon straightening - eyed the Rohirrim King at Aragorn’s side with obvious distrust.

  “I am Grodes, leader of the delegation.“ His heavily accented Westron made him difficult to understand. His eyes narrowed under bushy eyebrows, as he lifted his gaze from the kings to stare at the annoyed peasants beyond the gate. “We come to parley. Can you guarantee our safety, King Elessar of Gondor?”

  “It is not I alone who grants you free escort, Grodes from Dunland, but the King and Queen of Rohan.”

  Grodes snorted and briefly looked over his shoulder where Woldro, Durden and the others had positioned themselves, faces stern, but with an undercurrent of anxiety. They had reached the heart of their enemy's land. They were outnumbered many times more than they could count. And the men and women behind the city's frontier looked ready to kill them.

  “We know what to expect from Rohan,” the leader said scornfully and was rewarded with angry murmurs from the Rohirrim population. He turned to Aragorn again. “If a parley takes place you head it, King Elessar. So I am asking you: Can you guarantee for the safety of my company?”

  From the corner of his eye Aragorn saw Éomer clench his teeth so hard the jaw muscles stood out. The younger man’s brow was furrowed, and with a deep intake of air he seemed about to utter a sharp rebuke when Lothíriel pressed his hand and prevented an outburst. She looked pale and yet composed, and it was clearly written in her features that she had not expected the sight she had been granted to see. These dishevelled-looking men with their wild dark beards and long, unkempt hair had not been on her mind when she had suggested negotiations to her husband.

  As much as Éomer fought to keep his wildly bucking temper under control, and as much as he knew he had to if he ever wanted for these talks to bring the desired result, he found it impossible to remain entirely quiet in the face of the uttered insults.

  “Have you come here to seriously parley, Grodes of Dunland,” he rebuked crisply with a piercing stare at the delegation’s blunt leader, “or did you undertake this journey solely for the purpose of insulting us?”

  Grodes stood firm, unflinching, and defiance glowed in his black eyes. He was not about to take back his statement. Aragorn stepped in and nodded to the guests of his friend before the situation could get out of hand.

  “Your safety is guaranteed. For the duration of your stay as well as for the ride back to Dunland.”

  Grodes searched for signs of treachery in his opposite’s face, but found nothing but determination and the silent request to not repeat this kind of accusation. The Dunlending turned to his men, nodded in approval and entered the City of Edoras behind King Éomer and his wife. Aragorn followed with the men of Thor’s éored and the Royal Guard. The young scout of Dunlendish descent seemed almost too tired to ride up the steep slope, but he kept the pace, looking from left to right with the worried expression of a man pondering the decisions that had led to this evening. Aragorn gazed at the gaping crowd. Insults and threats could still be heard in the rows further back, but since their king led the delegation into the city, most of the peasants fell silent when he passed, staring them down. Yet their anger still showed; the mere idea of having Dunlendings among them was an insult, and the King of Gondor worried that even a positive result of the negotiations would not mean the end of the feud. Nearly every family in Rohan as well as in Dunland had grieved the loss of relatives in their ancient quarrel. Éomer's strong will was about to steer their land into a new direction, but the king could only order his people to remain silent. Convincing each and every one of his kinsmen of the possibility for a peaceful life in coexistence was a deed that lay not even within his considerable power.

They reached the dais, where the company dismounted, and as they ascended the stairs to Meduseld, the man behind Grodes, Durden, took the opportunity to let his gaze sweep over the city lying silent at his feet. It felt good to stand here, high above the accursed stinking strawheads. Wasn’t this where they belonged? He smirked and wiped his black beard with his mighty hand.

Upon entering the Golden Hall Durden said to Grodes, “I can imagine Wolf the Great having liked this view. Eh, Grodes, wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy it again day after day ?“

  The words had only been meant for his leader’s ears, but they stung enough to make their preceding host ram the heels of his boots into the ground and pivot. In the space of a moment, the leader of the Dunland northern territories found himself the focus of dark brown eyes burning with intense anger.

  “I will not let my house be insulted any further by your impertinence!“ Éomer growled, his hand instinctively going for the hilt of his sword. His guards reacted in the same way, expecting the spark that would ignite the heated atmosphere. “If these are your thoughts, then I strongly advise you to keep them to yourself, unless you are prepared to face the consequences!” To his utmost surprise - and the surprise of all witnessing the exchange - Grodes quickly stepped in front of his brazen kinsman and bowed to the Rohirrim King.

  “Take my apology, Éomer of Rohan. It will not happen again.“ Straightening, he cast an angered glance at his perplexed kinsman.

  “I will not...,“ Éomer started heatedly, but then managed to compose himself. The Dunlendings had taken the long, dangerous way through the Mark to discuss his offer. It would not do for him to let the reins of his temper go and destroy the one chance he had fought so much to bring about all by himself. With a deep, indignant breath, he indicated a short nod to the obviously troubled Grodes. “I accept your apology, Grodes, but be warned to keep your company in check. I will not repeat myself.“ With a last warning glance at the other tribal leader, he turned on his heels and stepped into the hall. Lothíriel’s worried glance followed him. This was not a good start to the meeting.

  Aragorn watched Grodes intently. The Dunlending’s reaction had differed from his expectations, and the look the leader shot his kinsman spoke clearly enough. Grodes did not wish to start an argument on the threshold of Meduseld. Whatever he was hoping to gain for his people by coming to Edoras, it was not his intention to simply throw a few well-chosen insults into his foes’ face and then head back. With renewed hope the King of Gondor followed the guests into the hall.

------------------------

  “So… now you have seen them for the first time.” Éomer turned around. “What do you think?” He realised that his tone was less than appropriate. From the strange welcome at the gate of Edoras on, he had been biting back his sordid comments the entire evening, feeling offended at the way the hillmen had regarded the interior of the great hall, at their muttered, unintelligible remarks among themselves which not even Thor had been able to pick up during the banquet. Their twitching brows and meaningful glances while they had been stuffing the generously supplied food into their mouths with manners clearly demonstrating how they had earned their reputation as the ‘wild’ men. More than once Éomer had questioned his own sanity while he had looked at the strange display, and he knew that it was unfair to unleash his accumulated frustration at his wife now.

  Lothíriel had slipped into a bright green silky night-gown and turned to face him, her dark eyes knowingly reading his expression.

  “You want me to feel disgusted about them? Is that what you want to hear? Do you want me to say that I think I made a mistake?”

  He frowned and inhaled noisily through his nose, angry with himself now. What exactly was he steering at?

  “I cannot say.” Stubbornly, he turned towards the window again, even though the world outside lay under a blanket of darkness now.

  Sensing her husband’s inner turmoil, Lothíriel approached, her expression grave... and yet there was understanding in her eyes, too. Éomer had been a warrior all his life. He had lost many of his brothers-in-arms to the hordes of primitives they were now harbouring under their very roof. Of course it was not easy for Éomer to overcome his mixed emotions. On the other hand, the Dunlendings’ initial behaviour upon entering Meduseld had left no question that it was the same for them. Both parties would have to climb the mountain of their distrust to meet in the middle.

  “Éomer...” She slipped her arms underneath his, embracing him from behind, before she stepped to his side to follow his gaze. As she had thought, there was nothing to be seen outside. “No, they are nothing like I had imagined them. You were right, I knew not what I was talking about back then.” His gaze found her, but before he could say a word, she continued. “Yet their appearance changes nothing. They are still men, and their kind should not be slaughtered like animals. We are on the right path. Trust me.”

  Éomer turned. He was still wearing a frown, even if it had somewhat lessened since the beginning of their conversation. How did Lothíriel do it? How was she able to counter his doubts each time they threatened to get the better of him? He swallowed.

  “It was hard to allow them into Meduseld. It was hard to see their mocking and greedy glances and not wring their necks. Did you hear what one of them said about the time when their ancestors occupied Rohan?”

  “Aye.” She rose to the tips of her toes to brush a kiss onto his cheek, cupping his face with her hands while he held her at the waist. “They are bitter and vengeful after 500 years of war. But so are you. A strained atmosphere between us was to be expected. We shall overcome that state. Tomorrow will mark the beginning of a new era.” Her hands sank down to grasp his, as he lovingly caressed the now noticeable bulge under the silken fabric.

  “Our child has grown.”

  Lothíriel smiled.

  “Aye, dearest husband. He has. It won’t be long now until you can feel him, too.” She allowed him to pull her close. “He will be a child of peace. The first Rohirrim King who will not know the meaning of war. Isn’t that a worthy goal?”

  “I could not think of a worthier one, my queen.” He meant it, and his glance easily conveyed the message.

  “Then come and let us rest. Even the mightiest man of the Mark must save his strength for the things in life that are truly important.“ She led him to the bed, a mischievous smile on her lips...

  The next morning the King of Gondor entered the throne room of the Golden Hall together with King Éomer and his marshals, who would attend the negotiations. Aragorn and Arwen, who had stayed behind with Queen Lothíriel, had spoken the night before about the behaviour of the Dunlendings. Their habits at the table had been questionable, but the Queen of Gondor would have been the last to complain about table manners. Knowing well that the hillmen were not trained with knife and fork she had avoided glancing in their direction, and her husband had gone one step further by putting down his set of cutlery to eat with his fingers, a gesture the Dunlendings had understood. Only once the conversation had lightened when Aragorn had declared that the delegation would be allowed to take supplies home with them after the parley. The eagerness of Durden to learn about the contents and size of the gift had been cut off by Grodes however. The leader had thanked the King of Gondor the best way he could and then had turned back to his plate.

  Now the hillmen already waited at the table, which had been set for the negotiations. Without any courteous reserve they had helped themselves to tea and water after they had already feasted on the breakfast. A pack of human wolves, Éomer thought, wondering whether this kind of behaviour would also be employed during their negotiations. By coming here, what were they counting on getting? 

  Grodes had brought Durden and Woldro with him, and the three men eyed the kings and marshals doubtfully. Rohan soldiers were placed along the walls, and every move the Dunlendings made was being watched with the utmost caution. So far, Grodes contemplated, they had been treated with reserved politeness. No one had touched them or yelled at them, and yet none of them had been able to shake off their uneasiness. The gazes of the armed guards behind his back were almost piercing Grodes, as he stood up to greet the opposite party in the peace talks. Earlier this morning, Woldro had stated that he would consider himself lucky if they were allowed to leave Edoras unharassed at the end of the negotiations. Durden’s reply had been that he would fight his way out if necessary, but the others had only laughed grimly. Within Meduseld a Dunlending would be dead the second his hand moved toward the hilt of his sword!

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” King Éomer said upon reaching the nearest end of the table. “I hope you found rest last night after so many hard days on the road, and even if our first encounter yesterday afternoon still took place in an atmosphere of hostility, it is my firm belief that all of us here at this table will achieve something our two peoples have never seen before. I am determined to make the greatest effort to make it work, and I sincerely hope that that is your intention, too.” He nodded and sat down, his glance telling Elfhelm, Galdur and Gamling to follow his example. Grodes indicated a greeting before he and his kinsmen likewise lowered themselves to their bench, staring at the younger man who had brought them Éomer’s offer. In his function as interpreter, Thor took the place in the middle of the long table opposite King Elessar, who was still standing and looked from one party to the other, waiting for them to fall silent.

  “Gentlemen! We have come here on the invitation of King Éomer of Rohan. We have come here to leave the past behind us. We have come here to negotiate for a solution to end the feud between your two peoples.” His gaze found the Dunlending delegation. “You asked for my attendance, so the rules are quite simple. There will be no accusations, no hateful threats concerning times which have passed. If there is a will strong enough on both sides of this table, the future for your peoples will be brighter than your past.” He saw Grodes mumble something unintelligible in his own tongue and cast a quick glance to Éomer’s former scout and now captain, yet Thor averted his eyes, unwilling to be questioned about the contents. “You are here of your own free will, so even in the case that this meeting brings no results, you will be free to leave whenever you want. Éomer-king proved his reliability by letting you pass through his land. It will be the same on your way back. To avoid any misunderstanding, Thor, whom you already know, will translate for you.” He turned to Éomer. The Rohirrim King had set his jaw and seemed barely able to remain calm. The incident upon the arrival of his guests still lingered on his mind, and he found it impossible to maintain his self-control in the face of Durden, who was staring at him with disdainful black eyes. “As the host, Éomer-king will speak first.” Aragorn sat down again and reminded his friend with a mere glance to calm down and begin.

  Éomer rose slowly. Long weeks had passed since his wife had first introduced the idea to him of laying down their weapons and stretching out a hand in peace to a people they had fought against for ages. Now that the hour had arrived to let her idea become reality, he thought about his speech. Would the men at the other side of the table understand? Would they be willing to lay down their weapons too?

  “Grodes... Woldro...Durden...” He let his intense gaze wander over the expectant, sceptical faces. “I thank you for accepting my invitation and travelling the long way through the Mark, which – to you – is enemy territory. It is a demonstration of trust, which I must admit, I did not expect. By this gesture alone, you have given me hope for a good outcome of our talks, for our two peoples have sought to kill each other for far too long. Never have we been openly at war with each other – not a war followed by a peace. Yet a war it was nonetheless. Raids of one side led to retaliation by the other, and both of our peoples suffered dearly.”

  “We know who started it,” Durden hissed poignantly, and Aragorn silenced him with his stare.

  Fighting to ignore him, Éomer continued, though his voice was strained.

  “The beginning of this feud lies with our ancestors and none of the living can decide who started it. But we who live now hold the possibility to end it. Let us seize it with both hands.”

  Grodes frowned and quickly spoke to Thor, who translated in a low voice. Lifting his eyebrows, the tribal leader then nodded and returned his gaze to the king, who paused to look at his Gondorian ally now, his expression growing stern.

  “Yet before any offers can be made or concessions be agreed upon, there is one important issue that remains to be settled beforehand.” He held Grodes with his stare. “Where are my men?” he asked, his tone shifting from reasonable negotiator to enraged leader without transition. “Where are the men you abducted during the raids on our westernmost settlements?”

  The tribal leader stared back, clenching his teeth. His eyes narrowed, and Durden seemed ready to answer all too eagerly if Grodes would not seize the opportunity himself.

  “Have we come here to hear this?” the hillman uttered in his own tongue, and Thor translated. The Dunlending lifted his bearded chin and shifted his gaze to Aragorn. “Is there a necessity to discuss this now?”

  Éomer leant forward, his palms supporting his weight on the table. His glare gave away his mood even though he fought hard to control his temper.

  “Is there a necessity, you ask, Grodes? I assure you that without that information, you will gain nothing! I demand to know where they are. And whether they are still alive! Tell me and show your intent to work for this peace, or we might as well cancel this council right now!”

  Durden snarled something in Dunlendish, and while Éomer quickly stared at Thor to make him translate the curse, Aragorn stood up, his adamant look telling the interpreter to remain silent.

  “Gentlemen from Dunland, please, calm down. The question is justified and deserves an answer. Since the king refrained from retaliating immediately, but instead invited you for these talks, you owe him information about the well-being of his people.”

  “Was it not said that we leave the past behind?” Durden cut in, glowering at Éomer. The two opponents seemed ready to jump at each other’s throats momentarily. “Shall we not look to the future?”

  “I will not repeat myself,” Aragorn answered adamantly. The Dunlending growled, and once again, Thor stared down onto the table, swallowing, unwilling to be even asked to name the insults Durden had just uttered.

  “They are not here, and they are alive! This must be enough for now,” Grodes reluctantly admitted, annoyed by the king’s forcefulness, yet also uncertain about how to proceed since King Elessar had ordered him to answer, though he preferred to remain silent. Éomer shifted his attention back to their leader, his eyes blazing.

  “King Elessar was speaking of the ancient past. This was a recent event, one that still stands between us, and thus you shall answer me: Where are they, how are they faring, and when will you release them?” He had vowed to remain quiet and reasonable, to not ruin his own plans with angered words, even if they were justified, but the nature of his opposites made it hard to stick to this restriction. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Elfhelm let out a breath, his broad face inscrutable. The tension in the room was still mounting, and if Grodes and his men would not comply, the council could possibly end badly. If he hit too hard, the delegation would leave, and he would never see his abducted people again. Yet if he allowed them to keep this vital piece of information to themselves, the chance was that the Dunlendings would interpret it as weakness and try to extend his courtesy to the rest of the parley’s issues. He could not allow for them to grow too bold. It was a fine line he had to walk here, Éomer realised. “Tell me at least where you keep them!”

  Picking up the Rohirrim King’s growing agitation, Grodes exchanged worried and questioning glances with Durden and Woldro, and their ensuing conversation was held so low that not even Thor was able to understand a word. Aragorn sat down and waited silently while Éomer caught Elfhelm's look. The older marshal's apprehension was obvious to his former apprentice. In his opinion, the young king was sticking out his neck for everyone to cut it off by initiating the peace talks, and although he stood firmly behind his king, he could not hide his doubts.

  Obviously having reached an agreement with his kinsmen, Grodes shifted his attention back to the Rohirrim King, and his voice sounded surprisingly calm and reasonable as he spoke. Thor translated.

  “We keep your men in a safe place, Éomer-King. They are unharmed, but we will not deliver them before we have reached our land again. They are our guarantee to return home safely.” He countered the Rohirrim’s glare with a stare of his own.

  Éomer set his jaw. It was a trite answer, and for a moment he was willing to shake Grodes until he would spit out the truth, but instead, he took a deep breath and locked eyes with Aragorn, who waited for a sign whether he was to proceed with the negotiations.

  “That guarantee was already given by King Elessar and myself,” he stated, unable to hide his disappointment. “You should be aware, Grodes, that your obvious distrust in my given word could be considered a serious insult, but for the sake of this council, I will let it stand and just hold you true to your promise that my men will be set free the moment you reach Dunland again.”

  “I will stay true to my word,” Grodes said flat-voiced, his expression unreadable. Durden on his right side did not look content with his leader’s decision, yet remained quiet, and Woldro avoided Éomer's fierce stare altogether.

  “It is more than you deserve,” Durden growled.

  “More than we deserve?” Éomer instantly fixed his eyes on the Dunlending. “More than we deserve?” His anger flared, and neither Aragorn’s alarmed look nor the vow he had silently taken could hold him back. “Are you saying that we deserved those raids – the killing, the plunder, the abduction of our people? How? By only making you lay down your weapons after your defeat at the Hornburg and let you go unharassed? Or by giving you food when you asked for it in winter?”

  “Éomer…”

  The King of Rohan ignored Aragorn's warning.

  “You raided our settlements with weapons and fire! You deliberately planned this strike for months, training yourselves in swordplay and organised fighting, or shall I rather say you sought out someone to teach you? You stole our supplies in times of our own need! Tell me, how did we deserve this? It makes me want to spit in disgust at how you’re honouring King Théoden’s mercy, repaying generosity with death!”

  “Every time you invaded our lands we paid dearly for the few things we might have taken!” Durden shouted back, likewise standing now, and the guards in the back of the room tensed, ready to jump at the Dunlending in case he made the smallest attempt on their king. “You always took ten for one!”

  “Gentlemen!” Aragorn stood up and raised his hands to both sides while the accusations went on, rising to angry clamour when the parties tried to drown out each other. “Gentlemen, calm down!” he repeated louder. He waited a moment, facing the opponents one after another. “Do not break the rules of this parley once more, Durden of Dunland.” The tribal leader held the king's stare. “Or I will make you leave this hall and allow Grodes to choose another of his company to sit at his side.” His gaze found Grodes, and the leader grudgingly accepted with a curt nod. Aragorn turned to Éomer. “I do remind you too to lead this meeting with respect, Éomer of Rohan.” Their silent exchange went on for another long moment, before his friend also gave him the reluctant sign of his acceptance. Aragorn turned back, his gaze wandering over grim-faced Rohirrim and stubborn Dunlending features. “Now that we have heard the answer to the whereabouts of the missing men from Rohan, King Éomer shall proceed.” He sat down, not without a warning glance at both leaders. He would not allow either of them further room for insults and old hatred.

  Éomer needed a moment to gather his thoughts and clear his head. The outbreak of emotions had been as needless as it had been unavoidable. He could not recall any lore in which Dunlendings and Rohirrim had sat together at a campsite to share a meal or even water, yet both sides had passed on uncounted stories about the cruelty of the enemy. Taking a deep breath, he looked up again, tensing. He was about to make a proposal that would change everything, but when Durden pinched him with his stare, he was not at all certain whether it was really wise to do it. Indeed it would be far easier to send the quarrel-seeking hillmen back to their land and make sure they would never leave it again. Instantly he thought of Marshal Erkenbrand and his will to oppose him if it came to a peace with Dunland. Éomer had never wanted to punish the old warrior so hard, and if he faltered now, all efforts, quarrels, and personal toil would have been in vain. Thus he began, uncertain, but determined to see it through.

  “Neither of our lands is blessed with abundant fertility.” He paused, granting Thor the time to translate. He could allow no misunderstandings now. “We have always had to work hard to sustain ourselves, and in the wake of the Ring War, it has become even more difficult.” Durden opened his mouth for another rebuke, but Grodes nudged him to listen. “Dunland is rough territory… cultivating the land is hardly possible, as it mostly consists of rock and only little soil. Rohan on the other hand…” He looked at Gamling. “Rohan is at least partly fertile, but our people are few. Too few to work the land as it should be worked. Thus it is my decision to grant your people a part of our land on the eastern shore of the Isen to plough and harvest.”

  Silence fell over the hall. Not even the guards stirred or made a sound. It was an atmosphere of tense expectation, the moment the King and Queen of Rohan had worked for. Now it was on Grodes and his men to decide what to do with the offer. The tribal leader looked stunned, unsure whether his ears had heard right. Again he asked the Rohirrim interpreter to repeat the words, and when he had heard them a second time, his eyes found Éomer’s in open surprise. He found nothing but truthfulness in the king’s face. Yet it could not be true! He parted his lips, but was bereft of words. If anything, the leader had expected to hear accusations and the order to stay out of Rohan till the end of days. Yet when the accusations had started, the King of Gondor – to his astonishment – had ended them with determination. And he had not only admonished Durden, but the King of Rohan as well! And now… Grodes swallowed and emptied his tankard, needing more time to recover from the surprise and think of a reply. Truly an answer was expected, but what should he say?

  “It is a trick,” Durden whispered into his ears.

  “A Rohirrim cannot be trusted,” Woldro whispered on the other side.

  “He lures us in to kill our people,” Durden stressed, louder now. Wanting for the Rohirrim King to hear him.

  Éomer held on to the edge of the table so hard, his knuckles turned white. While he had certainly not hoped for cheers, let alone praise from the other party, he had at least expected some signs of gratitude, all the more since the offer was something his own people refused. Yet all his unheard-of proposal seemed to inspire were more insults! Valar, what had they expected to hear? That he would give them the rule over Rohan?

  “We settle, and then your soldiers come to kill us, is it not so?” Durden sneered while Grodes still pondered.

  “If we wanted to kill you, our éoreds would be laying your lands to ruin right now,” Éomer rebuked, slowly but surely feeling his restraint wane. He did not tell Durden what else the offer implied: If he would not place soldiers along a Dunlending settlement in the Mark, it would not last a week. “Why would we have taken the pains to send a messenger to you twice in the last few weeks? If we had wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it – you would be dead already.”

  “And how much land would it be?” Woldro, for the first time since the beginning of the council, finally faced the king, uncertain of what to think. He was as surprised as Grodes, but still cautious and on the edge of disbelief. “How shall we know you do not betray us?”

  “Wait!” Grodes interrupted. His face looked bewildered and deeply moved. He was suddenly excited; the meaning of the king's words had sunken in. “Let me answer.” Durden huffed, but fell silent. Grodes stood up, matching Éomer in breadth but not in height, but compared to the King of Rohan the man from Dunland looked the way his people were regarded as: a primitive. “Is what you say the truth?” he asked, his eyes on the taller man.

  The King of Rohan seemed to grow and his look had never been more earnest as he raised his chin.

  “It is the truth, Grodes of Dunland. I offer your people land to cultivate and use of the harvest to sustain yourselves. I offer you peace instead of war. Life instead of death. I want both of our peoples to survive. No matter what you think, the Rohirrim are no slaughterers.”

  Grodes wet his lips and stroked his hand over his beard, his mind reeling with possibilities. Never had he heard more tempting words; but words that harboured such great danger at the same time. If he agreed now, he would either lead his famished people to prosperity… or to their ruin. It was the hardest decision he had ever been forced to make, and the impatient glances of the Rohirrim present did not make his duty any easier. No one had prepared him for this. The strangers from the far-off lands had said nothing of this. They had only stressed their demands, and now he stood here, forced to decide over the future of his people. Forced to decide whether he would accept the hand of peace and live by the rules the Rohirrim would set. He turned to Aragorn, searching for help from the Gondorian King.

  “You know about this offer?” he asked, and Thor translated since the words had partly been uttered in Dunlendish.

  “I know about it, Grodes, and I assure you that the King of Rohan speaks the truth.”

  “But you are his ally, are you not?” Durden asked, still warily eyeing Éomer as he sat down. “You would not say that Éomer-King was a liar.”

  Aragorn eyed him sternly.

  “It was your people who asked for my attendance. You could have chosen someone else to lead this parley so I assume your leaders did not decide by chance but considered me impartial.”

  Durden fell silent once more and averted his eyes, but Woldro was not easily convinced.

  “It is a nice word to say: peace,” he stated in his tongue, and Thor hurried to translate. “But it is hard to fill with life. How much land are we talking about? How many people? All of us? What will you grant us? And what do you guarantee?”

  Éomer inhaled deeply, finally feeling a first, tentative spark of hope. The first obstacle – that the Dunlendings would outright reject the mere idea out of disbelief – had been overcome, but now he had to face them with the details. Seeing Galdur’s stern expression to his right, he began.

  “I cannot allow all of you – not even a whole tribe – to settle on our lands, not until I am convinced of your peaceful demeanour.”

  “Convinced?” Woldro replied and his bushy brows hit the mass of hair which hung in thick knots onto his forehead. “How shall this be done? Do you think…”

  “You are right, Woldro of Dunland,” Éomer interrupted, “when you say that this peace will take some time in its making. We have come so far now to agree that there have been misgivings on both sides. Yet our tragic history cannot be reversed all of a sudden, and I cannot risk to let you settle with hundreds of people on our lands. Not yet.”

  Woldro's dark eyes narrowed, but it was Durden who spoke.

  “I understand, Horse-King! You expect us to work on the land and then you take away the harvest. That is why you not want many of us to come!”

  “If your settlers remain peaceful, more may be allowed to follow. And you should know better than to accuse us of stealing, Durden!” King Éomer closed his blazing eyes, betraying his inwardly raging temper.

  The Dunlending understood the unspoken message and bared his teeth in defiance.

  “You speak of peace, strawhead, but you think just another way of revenge!” he shouted over the long table and stood up. “You will only be satisfied once all of us are dead, and since you doubt your victory in a fight, you try it this way now! You cannot be trusted!”

  “Sit down,” Grodes hissed annoyed and pulled his man back at the sleeve. Unprepared, Durden fell on the bench, but freed his arm with an angered growl. A quick glance at the King of Rohan made clear that their host had the same difficulty restraining himself. Again he had risen to lean over the table, fuming.

  “You dare to speak of trust, Durden? You? You have done nothing but utter provocations for the duration of the council, but this is the worst! In the wake of your defeat at Helm’s Deep, we let you go unscathed. We trusted you to keep the cease-fire that had lasted for two years! You broke it! My people died! Who are you to utter but a single word about trust?” Éomer would have liked to spit, but held the impulse back at the last moment.

  It was then that Grodes took a deep breath and rose to his feet, silently asking Thor to translate his words.

  “Éomer-King, your offer for peace and land has deeply impressed us, but… I cannot deny that we… have doubts. Forgive my friend, he is not able to… understand your offer, or see its possibilities.” Grodes exchanged a glance with Durden, but the tribal leader had already received an unmistakable warning from King Elessar and kept his mouth shut.

  “I will grant you time to discuss it among yourselves,” Éomer replied, forcing himself to sit down again. “I did not expect you to come to a decision today. As it will determine the future life of your people, I am aware that it needs time to be considered and viewed from all sides.”

  “More details would be useful, Éomer-King,” the tribal leader added thoughtfully, scratching his beard. “How many people? Where? And how do you make it safe for us?”

  Since Lothíriel had asked him to leave the path of violence, Éomer had given thought to the actual realisation of his wife's ideas. Now was the time to lay everything on the table to allow the other party a thorough look at it.

  “I cannot allow for more than a hundred and fifty people to come at one time. In fact, that would be the most we could let into the Mark, and I hope to have your understanding for this measure. I am certain you would handle the situation no differently were you in my position.” He nodded to himself. “Of course no weapons will be allowed. The people you send should have the skill to build huts and know how to set a field and work on it. Our people can help once special questions arise, but by and large, you should be able to sustain yourselves.”

  His face lowered so that Éomer could not see the hillman’s features, Durden growled something deep in the back of his throat, and the king paused until his opponent had fallen quiet again; now that his opposite’s kinsmen finally seemed to listen, Éomer felt less inclined to respond to the Dunlending’s continued insults. He already knew that his next sentence would awake the man’s anger anew. “At the same time, a part of an éored will be placed along that new settlement.”

  “Warriors?” Durden boomed. “You put your soldiers around the settlement? So they watch us work and kill if they don't like what they see? You keep us like… like slaves?”

  It was getting tiring, regardless of the feeling that the other two finally seemed to be listening. Éomer faced Durden sternly.

  “Without my soldiers nearby your men won’t last two days! Or do you think my people will welcome you after what they have suffered through your hands? Didn't you listen yesterday? Didn’t you see their glances?”

  “We listened, and we saw indeed,” Grodes stepped in, once again ordering his companion with an urgent glare to remain silent. It raised Éomer’s spirit to see that the man seemed to grow weary of his kinsman’s provocations too. “And we understand that your goal is to protect your people… and mine too.” He swallowed, still pondering on how to decide. “So… a hundred and fifty… They would not bring much with them, Éomer-King.”

  “The settlers and my men would help you during the first weeks with food, wood and tools; everything you would need to settle in. But then you would be on your own.”

  “But our tribes count more than three hundred,” Woldro objected. “There is no way to…”

  “You will have to determine on your own who you send,” Éomer replied in a tone indicating that he would not allow the discussion to be led in that direction. “I said a hundred and fifty, and I will not yield from that number, so don’t try. You speak with your people and send who you want.”

  “And where to?”

  “East of the Isen, still close to your border. The land is fertile there, our own settlement is half a day's ride away. If you remain peaceful…”

  “What’s the price?” Durden cut in poignantly, his bushy brows knitted and his chin lifted, and Éomer sighed inwardly. Had the man not realised by now he was the only one of his people still opposing the opportunity he was granting them? “All that you say sounds… generous. I don't believe generous. I don't trust generous. The Rohirrim…”

  “There will be no further insults,” King Elessar reminded him, and the admonished man growled the rest of the sentence in Dunlendish. Thor deliberately preferred to remain silent.

  “But the question remains.” Woldro stared at the King of Rohan. “Why you do it? Why you lure us to safety?”

  “I am not luring you.” Éomer's voice sounded strained. Never had he thought that he possessed such a great amount of patience as he was displaying today, yet all seemed vain. Could the accursed hillmen not believe him for once? Here he was acting against his marshals and people, sticking his neck out to solve this ancient quarrel, and all they could do was bicker and insult him? “I made an offer, and I willstay true to my word. You can either accept it and send your people or return to Dunland empty-handed. It is your decision.”

  Grodes sighed and exchanged glances with the other leaders at the table. Back in Dunland, the people from the far-off lands were waiting for their return. When no one had cared, they had promised help and had brought weapons and men. They had enabled the hillmen to fight… and win! What were they supposed to do now? Wouldn’t the strangers become enraged once they came back, having concluded an unlikely peace with their ancient foes? Grodes read in Durden's eyes that – no matter whether this parley would take hours, days or weeks – he would not change his mind. For the first time in history they had attacked two Rohan settlements and had won so quickly that the lore about that night would be heard for years. Why should they now leave that path of victory for an offer that could be a trap… or sheer desperation from the Rohirrim’s side?

  He glanced over the long table into the king’s eyes, trying to read them. He was impatient, yes, and angered by their questions, but at the same time Grodes found an urgency in the younger man's features that puzzled him. It had been the Dunlendings who broke the cease-fire, and yet Rohan had not responded with troops. And the King of Gondor's behaviour did not indicate that he was just aiding his ally to lead the Dunlendings to their doom. For good or bad, he was almost inclined to believe the sincerity of their offer.

  “You are not truly considering believing him, are you?” Durden, apparently upon having sensed his leader’s mood, hissed, silently enough to avoid being overheard by Thor. “The moment we set foot on their lands they will kill us!”

  “They could have killed us before,” Grodes retorted. “And what about his people? They seemed angered by his decision. He is acting against their will! No one invests so much if he is not serious about his offer.”

  “They will control us,” Woldro insisted from the other side. “At best, we can expect to be put to work like… prisoners.”

  “But the king is right.” Grodes looked at Woldro. “Their people will kill us if the king leaves us unprotected.”

  “You believe him?” Woldro lifted his brows, astonished. “You truly believe him?”

  Grodes sighed again. The king on the other side had rested an elbow on the table and was talking quietly to his own men.

  “What if he keeps his word?” He faced his companions, willing – for once in his life – to believe the word of a Rohirrim. “What if he really needs people to plough the land? Did you not see when we came here? Much of this land could be set for fields, yet it lies barren! They might have the grain, but no men to put it in the soil.”

  “Grodes…” Durden frowned, “this is a useless risk…”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, it is!” He went on to repeat his accusations until King Elessar addressed them again.

  “Are there more questions to be answered?”

  Durden shot Grodes an angry glare, not caring what the Rohirrim King would think if they quarrelled among themselves.

  “There are more questions,” Grodes stated as calmly as he could, but straightening to make his demand clear. “Many more.”

  The negotiations went on, and as Durden had realised at last that he would not be able to hinder their chosen leader in believing the strawheads’ offer, he grumbled to himself, arms folded in front of his body, speaking more to his ale than to his companions. And with Woldro's support, Grodes brought Éomer to reveal yet more details of his plan, further and further overcoming his scepticism and replacing it with hope and excitement. He had the distinct feeling that these could indeed turn out to be historic days. During a break a meal was served, and when they later retreated into the room they had been granted, both parties were left with the notion that something had been set in motion.

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  Aragorn breathed through deeply and emptied his tankard. He felt exhausted, yet content with the outcome. Having sat the whole day, he filled his pipe and walked out of the hall to smoke and let his eyes rest on the city of Edoras in the evening's soft light. The negotiations had been as difficulty as expected, and yet they had not been ruined by ceaseless slander. At the end of the day, Aragorn had been satisfied to see the first hints that the Dunlending leader had actually listened. He hoped Grodes would accept the offer once they met the next morning. The king considered it a wise choice to have granted Grodes the leadership. He appeared less hostile than his companions.

  Blowing out rings of smoke, Aragorn became aware of Éomer's tall frame. The young king looked wretched, his shoulders sagged. The mental strain he had been under for the duration of the day clearly showed on his features. In the course of the council, he had surprised the Gondorian King with his patience in the face of the constant provocation. With the merest hint of a smile, Aragorn invited Éomer to open the conversation.

  “They retreated into their chambers,” the Rohirrim said with a sigh of relief, and briefly looked over his shoulder, where the Royal Guard had taken position inside the hall. None of their guests would leave their room unnoticed. Still he could not shake the feeling of uneasiness. To let the Dunlendings stay in his house meant to be vulnerable in the city's core. “I hope they'll stay there until morning, but as they appeared to be quite affected by our wonderful ale, I deem it unlikely that they will roam the hall this night.” A wry smile. “I must say I couldn’t have organised it better. The thought of twelve drunken Dunlendings snoring on the floor leaves me much more comfortable than if they had been wide awake and alert.” Despite his attempt of appearing light-hearted, concern was still visible on his face.

  “Are you content with the negotiations so far?” Aragorn asked quietly, studying Éomer's bearing. He knew that the King of Rohan still doubted the path he had chosen to thread, but also understood that he could not afford stray from it now without losing face both to their foes and to his own people. For better or worse, Éomund’s son would have to throw in his entire will and power to bring what he had started to a good end. His position would be severely compromised if he failed.

  “I suppose I should be,” Éomer said at length, running a hand over his hurting, tense neck. “Durden and Woldro won't listen, but Grodes does, even if I cannot tell whether I succeeded in actually convincing him. It might show tomorrow. The others will probably try to talk him out of it before the council reconvenes. We’ll see what his disposition will be then. Although I do not know why they even hesitate in the face of my proposal. Never have they been offered such a gift, but yet they are still seeking the worms in the apple.”

  “Imagine their position, Éomer,” Aragorn reminded his friend carefully. “Such a generous offer must wake suspicion. You knew that before. And you did not count on these negotiations to come to a good end swiftly, did you? They have as much reason to distrust you as you have to distrust them. They did not reject your offer. It gives me hope that there will be a way to find peace.” He watched the smoke rings dissolve in the breeze before he faced his friend again. “Tomorrow, after they will have talked with each other, we will know more.”

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  The noises of early morning slowly seeped into Lothíriel’s conscious. At the same time, she became aware of a stream of warm air being blown against her neck in regular intervals, and a weight on her waist. She opened her eyes to golden sunlight, and her hand slid down to find strong fingers neatly cupping the curve of her rounded belly. She held on to them, the feeling of closeness bringing a sleepy smile to her features. For a while, she just revelled in it, not giving a care for how late it was or a thought of what the second day of the negotiations would bring. For a while, it was just Éomer and her, and the thought of the night before deepened her smile as she slowly, cautiously turned around in his arms to not wake her exhausted hero from his much deserved sleep. As she came to rest on her other side to gaze into his face, she wondered how peaceful he looked. Gone was the tension he had been carrying around inside for weeks, gone the worry and frustration, if only for a mere few hours. Valar, what she would have given to see him always like that, not weighed down by the responsibility for his people all the time, even if he would never admit what a toll his inherited duty was taking on him. He was still very young to be a ruler of such a vast land, and in sleep, it showed. Only in sleep, Lothíriel mused, somewhat sadly, her eyes lovingly wandering over the landscape of Éomer’s peaceful features. Perhaps she would see this expression of his more often once his child had been born. Children, she knew, had their ways of softening even the fiercest warriors, her own father being an excellent example of that as the maids she had grown up with had told her.

  Her head soon became too heavy, and so she rested it on her arm as she continued to revel in the sight of her fitfully sleeping Rohirrim king, gently smoothing a strand of flaxen hair out of his brow. He stirred, and a low, unwilling moan escaped his slightly parted lips as Éomer opened his eyes. Still heavy with sleep, his reaction to waking up to his queen’s face was slow: A drowsy, lazy smile that caused Lothíriel’s own smile to deepen as she wriggled against him, kissing the tip of his nose and relishing in the warmth of his body.

  “Good morning, mightiest man of the land... How is your disposition today?” As an answer, his arms tightened around her and then slid down from her bare shoulder blades to the small of her back. Only now Lothíriel noticed that she had not even made it back into her night gown the night before, and a slight chill caused the skin of her bare arms to crawl. She smirked as she let her fingers glide over his broad chest and looked up suggestively. “You mean you have recovered? Is that what you want to tell me, my lord?”

  “It means that even half-asleep, I am ever at my queen’s command.” He stole her breath with a kiss that was at first gentle, but soon filled with intensity as her lips responded to his touch, yearning, urging. “And I will not let my stamina be questioned...” He moved to show her, when suddenly he froze. For a moment uncomprehending what had stopped him when he was almost crushing her with his weight, Lothíriel opened her mouth... and then she heard it too. A distant clamour, voices shouting from another part of the hall, too far away to be intelligible, yet there was urgency to their tone which sent an icy chill down her spine. The dark eyes in front of her face filled with dread while they both listened breathlessly.

  “Something is wrong,” Éomer pressed, pushing himself off her and reaching for his nearby clothes, acting with a speed that had been honed by years of experience.

  “The Dunlendings?” The voices were drawing nearer, and among them, the heavy drawl of the hillmen’s delegates could not be mistaken. Lothíriel swallowed and gathered the blanket around her for some warmth as she sat up. “What could possible have happened?”

  “Something serious, by the sounds of it.” He slipped into his trousers and shirt, fighting with leather bands and buttons as he tried to do everything at once. From outside the corridor, the muffled sound of approaching steps was not to be overheard. The next moment, a heavy knock disturbed the silence of the room.

  “Sire? Sire, are you awake?” It was Gamling’s voice, and as Éomer hastened towards the door and opened it, still barefooted, the clamour of voices further back increased in volume and anxiety. The wiry Chief of the Royal Guard looked devastated, and his words robbed the Rohirrim King of his breath: “Éomer, something horrible has happened during the night: The leader of the Dunlending delegation and one of their guards have been murdered... inside their chambers!”

CHAPTER 16

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  For what seemed to him like an eternity, Éomer could think of nothing to say. He couldn’t move. He could do nothing but stare at the older man in utter, stark shock.

  “Grodes… is dead?”

  “Killed in his sleep, his throat cut.” Gamling looked as pale as Éomer figured he himself was looking. “Right among his kinsmen. They were all sleeping next to him on the floor when it happened, and none noticed anything. At least that is what they claim. And their guard was killed, too.”

  “But – what about our own guards? Where were they? How could anyone enter the chamber without them taking notice? Or…” Another horrible thought came to the king’s mind. From behind, he heard swift footsteps as Lothíriel got up to investigate. He turned around and simultaneously grabbed his boots. “Grodes was killed last night. I will go and see what I can do. Although I don’t suppose there is anything left to rescue the peace talks.” He only caught a brief glimpse of widening brown eyes before he stepped outside into the corridor to follow Gamling to the source of the clamour further back. “Does Elessar already know about this?”

  “I woke you first, sire, but I am quite certain that he will have picked up on the disturbance just like you did. And there he is already!” The Royal Guardian indicated the opening door further back, from where a very disturbed looking Gondorian king emerged, still trying to get his arms into the sleeves of his shirt as he hastened to join them with long strides.

  “I heard shouts from the hall…”

  Éomer’s lips tightened.

  “Grodes was killed during the night. I’m on my way to find out more myself.” His grim face indicated how much of a catastrophe he deemed the horrible tidings. Aragorn nodded, stunned but ready to face whatever lay waiting for them.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Together, the three men strode in haste through the great hall to the other side of Meduseld, where the guest chambers lay. The agitated chatter of the Dunlending delegates rose in volume as they approached, making it obvious how frightened but at the same time outraged the eleven remaining men were. As soon as they noticed the Rohirrim king, Woldro was about to stride to him, but the Rohirrim guards had already collected the short swords the Dunlendings had been carrying and stood around the viciously cursing group, blocking the way, and only Éomer's short nod made them step aside. The hillman walked away from the cluster of yelling men to intercept Éomer and spit at his feet, his face red with fury and a thick vein bulging on his neck.

  “This is exactly what I expected, forgoil-king! I knew Rohirrim were not trustworthy! We come here, trust you! Talk with you! Grodes, he offers you peace! And you, you…” he made a cut-throat gesture as words failed him. From behind, Durden and the others glowered at their hosts with similar expressions – anger and fear, muttering in their language, what could be understood as curses without further knowledge. It was obvious they had tried to make for the gates and the Rohirrim had kept them from storming through the city.

  “I understand your distress, Woldro, but please, grant me the time to find out what happened for myself, will you? At this point, I do not know anything.”

  “You want us to wait while you look and pretend? You want to keep us here to kill us, too? We will not! We leave at once or you can kill us right here! But then know that your men will never return!”

  “You cannot leave here on your own,” Éomer raised his voice, his own temper boiling. From brief bliss, the morning had straightway developed to a nightmare of the worst kind. “You have no horses, and you cannot travel through the Mark unprotected! You should be aware of it!”

  “And your men protect us?” Durden spat from behind. “Like here, inside your house? Good protection this was, Éomer-King! Very good! You only put guards outside our door to keep us inside, keep us like prisoners to get killed at night – under your orders!” He continued his rant in Dunlendish, and Éomer turned away to mutter under his breath to Gamling:

“Send for Thor. I need him here urgently. Also get Elfhelm and Galdur.”

  “Woldro,” Aragorn in the meantime turned to the enraged hillmen, “… what has happened is as much of a blow to us as to you, you must believe us! We will do everything in our power to find the ones responsible for it, but you will have to grant us the time Éomer-King asked you. We need to see for ourselves, and we will have to talk with the guards!”

  Black eyes seething with hatred stared at him.

  “King of Gondor, this meeting was under your protection! You guaranteed nothing would happen to us. And now? Two are dead! What say you now? You failed! You lied to us! You looked away to let your ally act like he wanted!”

  “That is not true, and you know it, Woldro. If King Éomer would have wanted to, he could have let you all be killed on the ride. Why should he wait until you have come here? But let us not talk about this now. We need to find out what happened.”

  “Woldro, Durden…” Éomer turned back, acknowledging the others with a nod while he waved one of the waiting servants over. “No matter what you say, you will have to wait. Please follow Hélath here over to the throne room and assemble around the hearth, and King Elessar and I will join with you momentarily.” An insistent nod. “Please? Let us have a look first, and then we will talk.”

  “There is no need to talk anymore, forgoil-king! But it proves right, we cannot leave here like this. We are indeed your prisoners, just like you planned! We wait for you, but no matter what, we only stay until noon. Curse you, strawhead! Curse you for making us come here! May the gods punish you and your people!” Once again Durden switched into his native tongue, and only upon Woldro’s insistent tug at his sleeve did he and his kinsmen clear the way to the chambers to make for the great hall, accompanied by the guards. Durden's heated cursing could still be heard for a long time.

  After exchanging a long, dreading glance with his concerned friend, Éomer took a deep breath and opened the door, for once ignoring the two guards who stood stone-faced next to it in expectation of his questioning.

  “Careful, sire,” one of them said lowly. “The dead guard lies right behind the door. We left everything as we found it.”

  The other man, whom Éomer recognised as the one who had held the first watch, also stepped closer, urgency on his face.

  “We swear we did not enter this room at all, sire, and neither did anyone else, at least not from our side! If it was any of our men, they must have come from the window, or, the way I suspect it, they murdered him themselves!”

  “What?” Éomer’s attention was immediately drawn to the scene of slaughter in the back of the room. Grodes’ dead body was still lying there, and even from a distance, the jagged slash that had killed him was clearly visible under his dark beard. A great red pool of blood had soaked the sheets and dried on the floor, and the stench was nauseating. Blood, sweat and ale. Setting his jaw, Éomer let his gaze sweep over the gruesome sight. He remembered well how drunken his guests had been after the dinner. For all their stout and hardy condition, Dunlendings apparently were not accustomed to the strong brews the Mark had to offer. He narrowed his eyes as he shifted his attention to the guard. “What do you mean? Did you hear anything from inside?”

  “No, sire, but really… who should have done it? None of us would ever act against your orders, let alone commit treason! I cannot believe that a Rohirrim did this! That Durden, on the other hand, he seemed not content with his leader’s choices at all. When they got back into the room for the night, there were heated words. I did not understand them as they were Dunlendish, but that Durden certainly sounded furious. I would not be surprised if he knew more about this than he is telling. It was obvious that he is very much against a peace with us.”

  “But would he kill his kinsmen?” Aragorn uttered, again meeting his friend’s eyes as he stepped over the body of the guard into the room and squatted down to inspect the dead body. The Dunlending’s throat had been cut, but he had not bled as much as Grodes. Yet when he lifted the old and partly torn cloak, which lay beside the dead body, a large spot was crusted with dark blood. “That man was dead quickly, but the murderer covered him before removing the weapon.” He looked closer at the ugly wound by cautiously turning the man’s neck and frowned. Then moved it again. “His throat was cut, but I do not believe that this wound brought him to death.” Deep in thought, he rested his forearm on his knee.

  “What are you saying?” Éomer ground his teeth as he looked down on the fallen hillman with barely restrained frustration and disgust. As the first Rohirrim king ever, he had granted his foes access to the Golden Hall for negotiations, and this was how they repaid him? “I know how hardy Dunlendings are, but even they will fall when their throats are cut.” Aragorn slowly shook his head as he met his gaze.

  “This man’s neck was broken. The knife wound was inflicted on him when he was already dead, which is why he did not bleed as much as Grodes.” He could see the effect of his words in Éomer’s expression. The Rohirrim narrowed his eyes.

  “What do you mean? That whoever killed him cut him up later to make it look as if he was knifed?” He shrugged as he once again looked at the body, not certain whether he liked what Aragorn seemed to be steering at. The block of solid ice his stomach had turned into with the morning’s ill news would not melt. “Why do that? What would the assassin want to achieve by that? “

  “Well…” Aragorn rose from his crouch and looked over to the window. “What, in your experience, is the most common way of a Dunlending to dispose of his enemies?”

  The Rohirrim’s brow furrowed.

  “Slashing his throat.” A brief nod at the two corpses. “Hence the scene of slaughter we are looking at.” Aragorn nodded as he - slowly and with his gaze directed to the ground - walked over to the window to look out.

  “Aye. And we are meant to believe that a Dunlending did this. But I am not so sure.” Noticing the shadow that suddenly crept over Éomer’s face, he added, “The man’s neck is broken, but to inflict this kind of damage, the assassin must have been close to the man. He could not achieve this by entering through the door, for your own guards would have noticed him. This leaves the window, unless there are secret paths into this room...”

  Éomer’s expression darkened even more as he stepped up to the Gondorian, looking through the opening.

  “There is one, but it is known only to Gamling and myself. All of Meduseld is riddled with hidden pathways, but they are a secret that has been handed down only among the members of the royal families and their counsellors. They were built as a measure of defence if ever a foe would invade the Golden Hall. We can exclude this possibility, but there is another one: As soon as Grodes was asleep, Durden rose to kill him. The guard got in the way, so he killed him, first, maybe just making sure by cutting his throat in addition to breaking his neck that he was really dead. It would sound like the likeliest solution to this riddle, at least to me.” In a half-hearted attempt to discover telltale signs of what had happened during the night, his glance briefly brushed over the windowsill before it came to rest on his Gondorian counterpart. Aragorn weighed his head pensively.

  “That possibility remains, of course. But Durden could have stabbed him from behind. The guard would not have considered him a threat. And the anger and fear of Durden and the others seems to be genuine. I feel inclined to believe them.”

  “Instead of me,” Éomer stated indignantly, but swallowed the bitter words on his tongue in an attempt to be constructive. He wanted that riddle solved as much as Aragorn. “The assailant came through the window, you say? But what kind of guard other than a dead one would have failed to notice that?”

  “What if the guard was already dead when he entered? That he was lured to the window and killed there? And when the assassin entered, he dragged the body deeper into the room, and cut his throat to make it look as if the man had been killed by his own companions. This would explain why he bled so little. Outside lies the path that leads to the back of Meduseld, is that right?”

  A dangerous glint flickered to life in his opposite’s dark eyes, a sure sign that the Rohirrim King did not like the implications:

  “That path lies in full view of the doorwardens, you have to pass them when you enter it.” He inhaled deeply, and at last could not hold back his anger. “You seem truly insistent to blame my people with this hideous deed, Aragorn. Grodes and his guard were killed in a room full of Dunlendings, in the way of the Dunlendings. Never mind that the guard’s neck was broken, it proves nothing. You heard what Eldred said: They were quarrelling among themselves even when they entered the room! Why are you so determined to make accuse a Rohirrim of this slaughter?”

  “Ask the doorwardens, whether they saw anything during the night.” Aragorn looked at the dead Grodes. There were no signs of a fight. The man had died before he had even woken. “Perhaps he was disturbed. Or he wanted a Dunlending to be blamed for it ... or one of them did indeed kill his own kinsmen. I cannot say.” He inhaled deeply, again shaking his head, searching the floor and windowsill for any signs the intruder had left.

  “Believe what you may, I know that none of my men did this,” Éomer declared forcefully. He swivelled, looking back at the waiting guards. “Eldred, I need to know exactly what you heard and when. Do you swear that no one entered this room during your watch, and that neither you nor the other guard abandoned your post even for a moment last night?”

  “My lord, of course not!” The guard’s eyes widened. “I swear it! I take my duty very seriously, sire. I would never abandon my post, and I can say the same for Álmund.” He saw the king’s satisfied nod with relief and continued, even if Éomer was already turning his back on him again to let his glance sweep the room for anything he might have overlooked. “Their quarrel… it happened immediately after they entered the room; in fact they were already quarrelling when they arrived. That Durden, like I said, he seemed truly angry with their leader, and they got really loud. Yet I cannot say what they discussed, because…”

  “…you do not understand their tongue. I understand.” Éomer finished his sentence, feeling beat. What was he supposed to make of the situation? Was there indeed a traitor in Meduseld, as Aragorn was insinuating? Or was Eldred right and Durden had killed Grodes himself to prevent him from achieving peace with a people he despised? The room did not tell him his secret as he stared at the dead tribal leader for one last time and then turned to the Gondorian King. “Come. It is time to see what we can salvage, even if I do not suspect that there is much left for us to do. Whoever killed Grodes, killed the chance for peace among our people, and he desecrated Meduseld. Never before had blood been spilled within these halls.”

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  With Aragorn at his side, the Rohirrim King approached the waiting Dunlendings. Their clamour could be heard through the entire hall and beyond; already word had spread about the incident, and it would not take long until the whole city would get the tidings. The young king pressed his lips tight upon meeting the angry leaders again. Woldro and Durden turned to face them.

  “Now you saw yourself!” Durden spat. “What now? Will you kill us here too? That was the plan, was it not… King of Murderers?”

  “I could have spared myself much trouble had I ordered my men to kill you on the way! Will you not see it?” Éomer growled, taking a quick step in the Dunlending’s direction, but Aragorn put a hand on his friend’s shoulder to hold him back.

  “Gentlemen, this is not the way to finding the murderer. We do understand your anger and your grief upon losing your leader, Woldro… Durden.” He quickly let his gaze wander over the faces of the hillmen, but none of them gave anything away. Neither of them avoided his inquisitive look. “We inspected the room, but there were no clear signs to be found of who killed Grodes and the guard.”

  “That is obvious! One of the king's men, who else! We won't wait here longer and listen to your lies!”

  “Looks like you are the one who’s lying, Durden!” Éomer replied heatedly, finally tired of restraining himself any longer. “You quarrelled with him yesterday, even when you entered your room for the night! Why should not you have killed Grodes to prevent him from concluding a peace treaty with us? You made it abundantly clear that you are not interested in negotiations at all!”

  “You accuse me, forgoil-king, of murdering my own kin? That is unheard of!” Durden was about to attack the king when the guards moved in, blocking him. Steaming, he turned to Aragorn. “Is this Rohirrim hospitality? Murder and insults? Must we stay to hear this? Was it not you saying that all this should end?”

  “Nothing is set, Durden.” Aragorn's voice and posture made clear he would not yield. “The murderer acted quietly and hideously. He knew what he was doing and left no clear traces behind. It cannot be determined whether he had come from Rohan or Dunland. So if you do not want to be accused you should refrain from accusing others. Be assured that King Éomer will try to find the man who did this, and in the meantime you are free to leave. But you should ask yourself and your company if you are free of doubt that one of you prefers old hatred to the chance for peace.”

  Durden’s reply was unintelligible, and upon Éomer curt nod, the guards accompanied the unwilling guests down to the stables, where the riders had already saddled up their horses. Éomer and Aragorn followed the group and waited until they had departed.

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  The King of Gondor had wished for the day to be remembered as the first day of peace between the neighbours east and west of the River Isen. Instead of hopes for prosperity now the old hatred was thriving and strong again. The negotiations had failed due to the intervention of an enemy yet unknown. No doorwarden or member of the Royal Guard had seen an intruder, and Aragorn still pondered why the murderer had cut the guard’s throat after he had already been killed. Could there truly be a traitor amid Éomer’s men? But that was only one of many riddles in this slaughter. It was unclear why the enemy had waited until the hillmen had been in Meduseld. To blame Éomer? To create a justification for a war with the Dunlendings? Or to prevent peace?

  Éomer had sent a servant to ask for his attendance, and Aragorn kissed his wife gently, unwilling to leave her again.

  “Try and encourage him,” Arwen said before letting go. “Do not let Queen Lothíriel's efforts be in vain.”

  “It does not look like there is much of a chance left.”

  She followed him to the door.

  “A traitor can be found and sentenced, but if Éomer leaves the chosen path now there will be no hope for peace left.”

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  Aragorn found the Great Hall empty except for the guards and doorwardens, assuming their usual positions for the night. In the hearth a fire still gleamed, and torches were lit alongside the walls and pillars. Éomer was already waiting for him, his face a display of accumulated anger and festering frustration. He had wanted to accomplish so much, and yet the disaster had left him with nothing to show for all his relentless effort. No doubt his people would see it with relief and a degree of satisfaction, but Éomer was aware of the fact that this colossal failure would severely harm his reputation and the respect people had for him. The loss of authority stemming from this one mistake could not be estimated yet, but the king harboured no doubts that it would be substantial. Upon hearing his friend’s steps coming up from behind, he turned around.

  “There are no new tidings from the guards and all who were questioned. I have to agree with the guards: The Dunlendings must have done it themselves. I am certain of that now. Quite a cunning strategy of them, if you ask me. We cannot prove it.”

  “But would this be likely?” Aragorn replied quietly. “Would it strike you as something they would do?” Éomer's stare told him that it was so. The older man exhaled and stepped closer, accepting the tankard Éomer offered him. “Haven’t you seen their faces? Or heard their voices? I do not believe that Dunlendings could lie so well. They are a very straightforward, emotional people, just like the Rohirrim. It is this very character trait that makes negotiations between you so hard: it is your pride and unwillingness to consider the other’s perspective. But tell me, my friend, what was your impression of them?”

  The Rohirrim’s eyes sparkled in the flickering light of the torches.

  “I will not believe that it was one of my men! I will not let that stand, Aragorn. And that the hillfolk has learned to lie is of little surprise to me after what they have already done to us. Secretly arming themselves and learning to fight goes hand in hand with it. They are still lesser in number than we, so they make up the missing hands with crookedness.” He shook his head. “It fits perfectly, once you think it through.”

  Staring at the dark liquid in his tankard, Aragorn remained silent for moment longer, collecting himself. Éomer was in the process of falling back into his old ways of thinking, simply blocking the signs he, too, ought to have been alarmed by.

  “Aye. I agree that it could have been Durden. He is certainly strong enough and of a violent temper, and he was not in agreement with Grodes. He would have killed him and the guard this way to direct the suspicion toward your men. But you can also not deny that the method of this murder could likewise point toward a Rohirrim.”

  “Then why not kill them all? It would have been easy enough. They were all drunken senseless when they left the dinner table.” Éomer resumed his pacing, consumed by restlessness and tension. The mere idea of a traitor within the holy hall of Meduseld was a devastating thought. It was not the Rohirrims’ way to cut sleeping people’s throats. Yet grudgingly, he had to admit that Aragorn was right - he could not reject the possibility entirely, as much as he would have liked to.

  Aragorn waited until he could be certain of the other man’s attention before he answered.

  “First and foremost, if the murderer had killed all of them, only a Rohirrim could have been guilty. Second, there would have been no need for a Dunlending to first break the guard’s neck and cut his throat afterwards. Third, the fact that the men were drunk only indicates that none of them would have been able to do it.”

  “A Rohirrim would have had to enter the room from outside. The doorwardens would have seen him. Gamling interrogated them. The saw no one, and I will not believe that they lied.”

  “There was no need to. What if their attention was distracted on purpose? Maybe the assassin planned to reach the path while they went looking, and the guards were too ashamed to admit that.” Aragorn intercepted Éomer's restless walk through the hall. His friend stared at him stubbornly, but it was written in his features that his objection was not heartfelt. And there was also dread of what it would mean if he were right. The complete trust of the Rohirrim in their king, that foundation the Mark was build on... was it already lost? Did his kinsmen feel they had to take their fate into their own hands now, since their king was no longer protecting them, a state that would even make high treason plausible to them, something that had never happened in the history of Rohan? Was it in fact him they regarded as the traitor now?

  Éomer forbade himself to further think about the possible implications. It could not be.

  “They would not have lied. Rohirrim don’t lie, Aragorn! It is not in our blood!”

  “Either way, you have to face it, my friend: The traitor may be among your own men. You know that many of them were against your decision of inviting the Dunlendings to Edoras. You saw the reactions of the citizens when Grodes and the others passed through the gates. What if one of them thought it to be the only way to end these negotiations?”

  Éomer swallowed, not willing to follow the thought down. The quarrel with the old warrior he had always considered his hero still lingered on his mind.

  “There is none I can think of to have done it,” he stated, but his friend could clearly see Éomer's doubts.

  “There is one.” Aragorn’s voice dropped in volume but grew in intensity. “One who, as you told me, almost fought you for his beliefs and you threw him in the dungeon for it. Are you so sure he would not resort to killing in order to keep you from walking a path he considers wrong and devastating for the people of Rohan?”

  The thought was horrifying… and yet plausible. It froze Éomer in his tracks.

  “Erkenbrand is loyal.”

  “Loyal to Rohan,” Aragorn replied, holding the younger king in his stare. “Lord Erkenbrand almost went so far as to rouse your people against your decision. He will stay true to what he believes. And those beliefs might lead a man to desperate measures.”

  Brusquely, the Rohirrim King turned away, unwilling to hear the accusations against his valiant and respected marshal any longer. His heart raced. He had never thought that one of his own men – and least of all a warrior as true and honoured as the Lord of Westfold – could one day be suspected of being a traitor. Was Aragorn right? Was it possible that Erkenbrand had chosen that path as a last measure to make sure Rohan would never be invaded by Dunlendings? It could not be! And yet he saw the old warrior’s hate-filled gaze clearly in front of his inner eye.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Éomer caught a glimpse of movement in the back of the hall. Someone was moving within the deep shadows, away from them.

  “Who goes there?”

  The shadow did not halt as it disappeared in the direction of the servants’ quarters. Briefly narrowing his eyes but still unable to identify the person, Éomer turned his attention back to his friend. The man – or woman – must not have heard him. After all, he had not used his usual, loud voice because it was already late, and Aragorn and himself were presumably the only people still awake within Meduseld. Shrugging, Éomer turned back after having waited a moment longer for a reaction that never came. His head was still reeling from Aragorn’s insinuations.

  “You know what it would mean if it turned out to be true, brother?” He swallowed, and his features became even darker than they had been the whole day. “You know what I would have to do then? I would have to order Marshal Erkenbrand’s execution!” The mere thought stole his breath away. Silently, with widened eyes, Éomer shook his head. “I would have to order the execution of the Mark’s most esteemed warrior! There would be only one result possible from this: Rohan would burn in a civil war! If I dared to accuse Erkenbrand of high treason… the Westfold would not take it. I know.”

  Aragorn’s grey eyes rested solemnly on him. He had been very clear about the implications when he had uttered the thought.

  “I fear you are right, Éomer. But if it turns out to be true, what will you do? Swallow his disobedience? For the good of Rohan?” A long silence followed his words. Finally, the younger man turned away to resume his pacing. Already it was clear to the Rohirrim King that he would vainly seek oblivion in sleep for yet another night. After what had happened that day, there was no possibility for him to come to rest. When would this ordeal ever end? Why had he not chosen the simpler path, like so many of his predecessors? Why had he listened to Lothíriel? With a deep breath, he came to a decision, and his gaze hardened as he stared at his Gondorian friend.

  “I will ride to Dunland the day after tomorrow. I will follow them. On the way, I will summon two or three éoreds, and if my men are not released, I will cross the river and find them myself! In the meantime, we will do what is in our power to find Grodes’ murderer, even if I cannot tell what is left to be done that we didn’t think of before.” He raised his chin in defiance. “Do not misunderstand me, Aragorn: I will do whatever I can to solve this riddle, but I will not forget my abducted kinsmen over it.”

  Aragorn frowned.

  “And once in Dunland will you fight your way through them, or make one last attempt to negotiate with the leaders once you meet them?”

  Éomer did not evade his inquisitive stare. The silence that followed his questions was even longer than the one before.

  “I cannot tell you yet, brother. I assume it remains to be seen in what manner they await us once we’ve crossed the Isen.” He thought of his wife. Of what it would do to her, and to their relationship, if he went to war now against her explicit wish. And he thought of his marshals and the people that trusted in him and had been alienated by the course he had steered for the last weeks. Would he have them on his side again, once he returned to the way the Rohirrim rulers had reigned for centuries? Or would they remain distrustful of him or - worse yet - view him as even weaker than they had thought, because he would yield from a chosen path upon the first obstacle? Who was he to let himself be defeated and his plans destructed by one filthy traitor, anyway? Somewhere deep inside him, resistance began to rise. He had led his land to this point. These had been the first peace negations between Rohirrim and Dunlendings in history! He would not allow anyone to thwart him now!

  With more conviction than before, he countered Aragorn’s gaze. The older man had patiently waited for his answer, knowing that it had not been an easy one to give. And as he saw the resolute expression in his counterpart’s features, he felt thoroughly relieved.

  “If it is still your goal to negotiate, I will accompany you to Dunland.”

  “Let us see what revelations tomorrow will bring. You believe it could have been Erkenbrand, or a man carrying out his orders, I do not.”

  “I do not give much on beliefs, my friend. I cannot prove who did it, but it would seem to me as if you can only beat that traitor by following the chosen path.”

  “And if Durden did it himself?”

  “We will find out.”

  “I will not enter Dunland unprepared.”

  “Their welcome will not be courteous, I agree.”

  “Courtesy is not my concern. What if they attack us?”

  “We will defend ourselves like we have done before.”

  They locked eyes, until finally Éomer nodded curtly.

  “I will order Elfhelm to get the men ready to leave the morning after tomorrow.”

Note: Thanks to you all for reading this story! Still it would be nice to read your opinions instead of only turning to the statistics.

And now on with the story:

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Chapter 17

EDORAS

  The next day saw the Rohirrim and Gondorian leaders assembled in the throne room of Meduseld shortly after sundown, yet aside from Aragorn, none of the council’s participants knew what would be revealed. It had been the king’s call, and all eyes followed Éomer as he entered the hall together with his wife to take the few steps up to his throne.

  “Gentlemen, I thank you for your attendance, all the more as the call came on short notice.” His glance found his Gondorian friend and rested there for a moment, before he continued, well aware that his next revelation would stir up a heated discussion among the assembled men. “We all spent the day in the wake of the assassination looking for answers. I have, and I know you have done the same. Yet for all our efforts, I regret having to admit that our search and questioning has not resulted in the identification of the murderer. Whoever it was, he was possessed of stealth and skill, and the very thought of harbouring an attacker of such ruthlessness under my very roof leaves me with much to ponder. Our scrutiny of the murder will not end here, but to counter the plan the assassin was obviously following, we need to act quickly and determinedly. I will not let him win, and I will find him, mark my words!”

  His gaze swept over the expectant faces. It was time to reveal his plan.

  “It may or may not surprise you to hear that I intend to remain on the path I had chosen before. By tomorrow morning, an hour after sunrise, we will ride after the Dunlending delegation in a last attempt to convey our sincerity to them.” The eyes in front of him widened in dismay, especially Galdur’s.

  “But – sire…”

  Éomer cut him off forcefully, his glance piercing the Westfold captain and daring him to utter but a single word of protest.

  “On the way to Dunland, we will assemble three full éoreds that have been notified already by a messenger I deployed earlier today. They will be waiting for us along the way. If we don’t reach Durden and Woldro before they pass into Dunland, we will follow them over the border and attempt to reach a continuation of the negotiations.”

  “But they will attack us!” Galdur insisted, not intimidated by Éomer’s warning. “After what happened, they will see this as a wonderful opportunity to unleash all of their newly learned skills on us!”

  “I must agree, sire,” Elfhelm let himself be heard for the first time. Eru knew he had wanted to see Éomer succeed, but it was over. His friend had to realise that. “It would be too great a risk. They would be waiting for us, ready to strike with all the force they could muster.”

  “Not to mention how it would look if the King of Rohan rode after these primitives to…” Galdur bit on his tongue before the words came out, yet Éomer had heard enough to end the sentence all by himself. With blazing eyes, he stepped down the dais.

  “… to lick their boots? To crawl before them? ’Tis what you mean, Captain Galdur?” His tone was steel as he came to a halt in front of Marshal Erkenbrand’s second-in-command. The older man’s fair blue eyes met his in defiance.

  “It is what the people will say, my lord.”

  “And it is what you would say, too, captain, is it not so?” Éomer’s stare did not sway from the object of his anger. He was on eye-level with the tall Westfold soldier and mercilessly impaling him with his gaze. “Rest assured, captain, that I am well aware of how the people, and my marshals, think about this particular issue. Yet it is about time that you, and everyone else here, too …” he briefly released the man from his focus to include the others as well “… realises that it is not your decision to make! It is mine, and it is a well-considered decision, not one made on the spur of the moment. I firmly stand by it, and I will neither discuss it, nor will I tolerate disobedience, no matter who it is that thinks he can oppose me.” His glance returned to Galdur. “Did I make myself clear, captain, or will we have to determine yet another man to represent your realm in these proceedings?”

  The warrior seemed to be nearly bursting under the pressure of all he held back. Éomer was determined to end this mockery here and now, to either break the captain’s resistance or grant him the same treatment he had already given to a soldier of much higher esteem.

  “You seem to think that you are in a position to allow yourself the same bluntness as the former Lord of Westfold, captain, but you are mistaken! I would not have let any lesser man than Marshal Erkenbrand, whose great achievements for the Mark stand unrivalled, speak in the councils the way he spoke. If you, Galdur of Westfold, think you can utter your disrespect in the same manner, you will find out that you are, in fact, a lesser man, and that there will be consequences to disrespect and disobedience! If you are willing to face them, continue in this manner. If not, you follow my orders without discussion from now on, you refrain from sharing your dissatisfaction and your evident disgust with the situation with your men, and you will cease to stare at me in this disrespectful manner at once! Am I understood?”

  Long seconds crept by in silence until finally; Galdur lowered his eyes, his face burning.

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And what do you choose?” There was no other solution; he had to break the man’s resistance publicly. The captain had left him no choice.

  “I will obey, sire.”

  For another leaden moment, Éomer let his gaze linger on his rebellious kinsman, tempted to replace Galdur nonetheless, because he felt uncomfortable with what the man might do once they had reached the realm of Westfold. But then he thought better of it, and before another moment of doubt could overcome him, he pivoted on his heels and ascended the steps of the dais again, for once avoiding Lothíriel’s concerned gaze. Erkenbrand’s second-in-command was an experienced and valiant warrior with great strategy skills and a good understanding of his enemies. He was well respected among the men of his éored, and having him replaced, too, in the wake of the marshal’s banishment, would bring the riders close to rebellion. He could not afford further disputes, and the way the captain stared at the pattern of tiles on the floor now left Éomer confident that his admonishment had broken the man’s resistance. Satisfied, he turned back to the others, realising at the sight of their uncomfortable expressions that his strong words had had their effect on them, too. It was time to end this.

  “Marshal Elfhelm, you will go and tell your men to hold themselves ready to leave by tomorrow morning. Captain Galdur, you will do the same. Consult Gamling for provisions and everything else you might need.” His gaze found his counsellor and fellow brother-in-arms of many years. “Gamling, you will see to it that the men’s requests are quickly met. When we leave tomorrow, I shall leave Rohan under your command, and Captain Féofor and his éored as your protection. You have my absolute trust.” A curt nod at the older warrior. “Whenever possible, we will send errand-riders to keep you informed on the proceedings.” With that, his gaze found his Gondorian friend.

  “King Elessar, you offered to accompany us if I remained on this path, yet I will not hold you to your word. The path to Dunland is long, and it may be treacherous, and from what I have been able to gather during our conversations, you are being needed in your own land…”

  “I stand by my word, Éomer.”

  “Then I thank you, my friend. Rohan thanks you. It is a great comfort in these times of uncertainty and hardships to know that our ally stands firmly by our side, not only in our battle against famine. Blessed was the day when Eorl and Cirion forged the strong bond between our people.”

  “Gondor, too, has a lot to be grateful for, Éomer-King. We are only repaying what you gave us so willingly.”

  “I do not see it this way, and neither do the people of the Mark, yet know that we are grateful for your help.” Éomer nodded in acknowledgement and then turned back to face the others. It was late, and there was nothing left to say. He inhaled deeply. “I declare this meeting over.” He stood and watched as the men rose to their feet. For a moment, Elfhelm seemed inclined to stay until the others had left, supposedly to tell his friend of many years what he thought about the rigorous manner in which he had forced his will onto his kinsmen, but a brief glance of the dark eyes warned him off. Quietly, the newly appointed Marshal of Westfold followed the others outside.

  The silence they left behind was oppressive. From behind, Éomer heard his wife leave her place, and the next moment, she seized his hand, pressing it compassionately, knowing what kind of strain the quarrel with his most trusted warriors had laid upon her husband. From the bench next to the dais, Aragorn rose slowly.

  “Your captain was right,” he said, looking back. “Your people will not take this well.”

  “They neither know what happened here, nor why we will be passing through their territory, and I am determined for it to stay that way.”

  “They already know, Éomer, there will be no secret once you reach the éoreds. Word will spread, no matter how hard you came down on Galdur. Not even Elfhelm was content with your decision, and I know that he is the most loyal friend you have. You should keep your eyes open.”

  The brown eyes narrowed.

  “What are you saying, Aragorn? That my own people would seek to – what, assassinate me?” Éomer snorted, taken aback by his friend’s insinuation. “The very notion of that is unknown to a Rohirrim. Our people have always followed their king, no matter what. There wasn’t even mutiny when Théoden was under Wormtongue’s influence!”

  Aragorn nodded, briefly meeting eyes with the queen. Her eyes looked huge in the flickering light, and it was obvious that his words troubled her, even if her husband seemed unperturbed by the prospects.

  “I hope your trust in the loyalty of your men is justified.” He felt Éomer’s suspicious glance upon himself and decided not to stress the issue further. If his friend was already in the mood to question even his words, there was nothing to be gained. “You are seeking foes where there are none, my friend, yet it might just be what you will have to do from now on.” He turned to Lothíriel. “I bid you a good night, my queen.” He bowed and, with a last glance at the Rohirrim King, turned around to leave.

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  Outside the Golden Hall, Captain Fáred halted beyond the threshold. Frowning, he turned to his king.

  “You might consider my plea too bold, my lord, but since we do not know what we have to expect in Dunland I want to ask your permission to stay at your side with the Royal Guard.”

  “Speak more clearly, captain,” the king replied in a reserved tone. The guards for the night passed them by, and Fáred waited until they were alone on the dais. The sunset was beautiful, but the captain had no eyes for it. During the addressing of the marshals and captains about their departure the following morning he had thought thoroughly about their upcoming journey. And the perils lying ahead.

  “It is the utmost interest of the people of Gondor that their king must return alive and healthy. For that reason the Royal Guard was once founded, and I am willing to serve this purpose to whatever end.” Aragorn frowned, but now that Fáred had started the king let him continue. “In contrast to our ride through Northern Ithilien I would prefer to accompany you on your excursions. Dunland cannot be considered a safe land to enter. The people will be full of hatred and may be aggressive. My men and I have come with you to protect you, my lord, not to be left behind where we are of no use.” Fáred searched the king's face for a sign of resistance, but his leader just acknowledged his statement so far. The captain breathed deeply. “And I have learned that sometimes secrecy is more advisable than pride. The situation might demand us to take advantage of unusual methods.”

  Aragorn shook his head slightly.

  “I cannot allow this, captain. The action of my army and my own are my responsibility and shall not be burdened upon your shoulders.”

  Captain Fáred bowed curtly but continued nevertheless,

  “Your life, my king, is the one I have vowed to protect… with my own life if it comes to this.”

  “Captain, I am honoured by your loyalty.”

  But Fáred was not satisfied with the answer.

  “My loyalty is granted, my king, but the more I have to stress that this loyalty lies not in weapons alone. I do possess more than my sword to keep you away from harm. And I will take any action I consider unavoidable to stay true to my word.” He bowed lowly and stepped back to turn at the steps and leave for the soldiers' quarters.

  Fáred dreaded the thought that his king would be blinded by his own mercy.

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  He woke early, but when he squinted against the morning sun flooding into the chamber, Aragorn saw his wife standing at the foot of the bed. She was dressed in a silvery gown embroidered at the sleeves and neck, and he realised she had been watching him sleep.

  “Did you not rest?” he asked quietly and stood to embrace her.

  “It is rest enough for me to be close to you,” she whispered, and when he was about to withdraw, she held him back. “There is no need for an explanation, Aragorn. I already know.”

  With a frown of regret he let go of her and dressed in the clothes he had worn on the way to Edoras. Once more he would cast aside the garment of the king he had become to wander again as a ranger of the north.

  “I want you to return to Minas Tirith,” he said closing the leather cords on his jerkin. “Ten of my men shall escort you back.”

  Arwen handed him his sword and held it a moment longer when he wanted to take it. Her eyes rested with determined candour on his face.

  “Wherever this journey may take you, on your way back you will come to Edoras. We will meet here again.”

  “Though I would wish for this kind of return, my lady, you are safer in the White City. If you ride later, and the City is besieged, there will be no safe passage.”

  “There is no safe place I would wish to stay at as long as you are in danger, beloved.” He cast down his eyes, and she could so plainly read his mind as if he had spoken aloud. “Do not send me away. Prince Faramir is a warrior of great renown. He will make the right decisions if it comes to battle. And the Lady Éowyn will prove herself in the defence of the City if need occurs. My place is at your side, and I will not abandon you.”

  He hesitated. There was no way to tell what would happen once they would have entered Dunland territory, and the strength and skill of the enemy's first attack, which Marshal Erkenbrand had described, still worried him more than he had revealed. Finally Aragorn gave in. If fate would allowed they would meet again.

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  The morning had arrived too soon and after a night of little to no sleep. The light was still grey and the mist hanging in the valleys and Éomer was already up, dressed in the leathern riding clothes he usually wore when he took out Battleaxe. There would be no need to wear his chain mail and harness for as long as they would be travelling within the Mark. No skirmishes were to be expected on their own soil, and so he was storing his belongings in the saddlebags along with his helm, bedroll and supplies. The black seemed to be having another one of his bad days and was fidgeting and shying away from his touch. Adding to his master’s dark mood as he readied the stallion with the help of an experienced stable-hand while his éored waited outside.

  Dressed in a simple blue gown and a cloak she had thrown over her shoulders to mask that her outfit had been assembled in haste, Lothíriel watched her husband from the aisle, inwardly in turmoil but taking care not to let Éomer see. A cold, clammy feeling had nestled in her stomach while she watched him fighting with his steed. This was the first time she would stay behind while Éomer rode into what could potentially end in a battle. For the first time, he was leaving her with the distinct possibility that he would not return. Her mind was reeling with the grim thought, yet could not entirely grasp its meaning. On one hand, she  was glad that Éomer was making the effort to follow her proposal, to see her dream fulfilled, but on the other hand, she felt guilty for sending him into an adventure of unknown consequences. What if she sent him to his death? Would she be able to live with this knowledge? If anything happened to their king, the Rohirrim would hate her, if they didn’t already. She would hate herself!

  ‘You should keep your eyes open, Éomer.’ Lothíriel remembered Elessar’s words from the previous night, and they still made her shudder. By steering her husband in the direction she had, had she estranged him from their people? She knew by now that her influence had made her an unwanted person at least here at Edoras, but were the people’s disappointment and anger so great that they would rebel against their ruler? Éomer had dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Lothíriel wished that she could feel the same conviction. Nervously, her fingers played with the little token she had made for her husband, a thin leathern wristband with an interwoven curl of her hair. She wanted him to take something of her with him when he left. Her father had told her once how, long before she had been born, he had hidden in a cave over several days after his troop had been ambushed by Haradrim. Wounded, he had lasted until reinforcements from Dol Amroth had finally found him, almost spent. The thought of her mother had kept him alive, Imrahil had claimed, his face soft with loving remembrance as he told the tale. The thought of her, and a strand of her hair she had woven into a band of similar design as Lothíriel had now made for Éomer. She hoped he would not need it the way her father had needed it back then, but to know that a piece of her accompanied him into the unknown was a soothing thought. Yet still her fingers were knitting the piece of leather ceaselessly as she watched him prepare to leave.

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  They had not come to Edoras to part The pain of letting her husband ride on yet another journey which could turn out to be dangerous clearly showed on Arwen's face though she tried to hide her concern. Aragorn could not be deceived. He kissed her passionately, knowing they would be far away from each other for weeks to come. He could not make any promises to return soon, and she would not ask for them.

  “You knew, did you not?” he then asked her, and she cast down her eyes.

  “It was not foreknowledge. I have not been given the ability to know the future, but I had a premonition that you might not return to Minas Tirith in a short time.”

  Aragorn exhaled, still holding her in a tight embrace. From outdoors the sounds of the morning could be heard. The soldiers saddled up their horses and the captain's clear voice ordered them to load the packhorses.

  “Will we ever be able to enjoy our lives, Arwen? Will it ever be possible to live through a year and look back to say it was good and rewarding? I dread the image that for all the fights I have fought only darkness will await me.”

  Arwen met his dreadful thoughts with a small but nonetheless encouraging smile.

  “You have to look at yourself, Aragorn. Obstacles have to be overcome, quarrels have to be settled, but only you can judge your deeds. Only you can decide whether what you did was rightly done. If you can look back a year and say that your decisions had been for the right cause – why should that not be reward enough?” Closing his eyes he cocked his head to enjoy her hand at his cheek. “Do not fear the darkness, my love.”

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  At last, Éomer seemed to be ready to leave as he turned around to face Gamling, his expression inscrutable, and Lothíriel braced herself. It was the marshal she was seeing now, not the king. The warrior on his way into battle, expecting the worst and readying himself for it by storing superfluous emotions away where they would not hinder his decisions. She felt proud of his calm readiness, his decisiveness; yet had she been granted the choice, she would have preferred him to stay.

  There was nothing left to say between the two men, and so Éomer simply nodded as he laid his hand heavily on his counsellor’s shoulder, mutual agreement visible on their faces.

  “It helps to know that Rohan is in good hands while I’m gone, old friend,” the king began, uncharacteristically informal, but after all, they were alone in here. The éored was waiting outside. “And not only Rohan, but my wife, too.” His eyes went over Gamling’s shoulder to look at Lothíriel. He lowered his voice. “Keep her safe for me, Gamling.”

  “She’ll be as safe here as in the Valars’ lap, Éomer. Do not worry for us, only see that you return safely. It is a high goal you have set yourself, but you are the right man to see it fulfilled. Once we have peace, people will quickly see how wrong they were for opposing you. The times may be hard now, but ultimately, your effort will be worth it. Of that I have no doubt.” Gamling saw the gratitude in his king’s eyes and smiled, already moving towards the exit as he knew that his liege would want to have the last moment before leaving alone with his wife.

  Thankful for his counsellor’s quiet understanding, Éomer turned to his queen.

  “Lothíriel…”

  She nodded, her voice caught in her throat. This was the moment she had been dreading ever since she had fallen in love with him. She’d known that as he ruled a people who always had to struggle, the day would inevitably come when he would have to ride away into battle, leaving her behind. Inhaling deeply, she stepped forth, and Éomer nodded to the stable-hand to lead Battleaxe a few steps away. Letting go of the reins and opening his arms for his wife, he held her close, kissing her goodbye with a heavy heart and memorising her flowery scent for the time they would be separated. For a small eternity, neither one could speak.

  It was he who collected himself first. “I will be back before you miss me, love. I promise.”

“You will not be able to keep that promise, my lord,” she said, fighting to get the words through her tightening throat. “For I am missing you already.” Again their lips met, and already in the middle of the kiss she sensed how he prepared to let go. The moment when he took his hands away hurt her bodily. It would not be right to make it even harder for him to leave. It was his duty to accompany his men on this errand, and Éomer would not have wanted it differently. He was a man in his prime, a warrior by heart, not an old man content with being confined to the security of the great hall. Blinking the tears away, Lothíriel reached into her pocket. Her fingers closed around the wristband, squeezing it, then she laid it onto his palm. “Please, take this with you, Éomer, and do not remove it for as long as you are underway.” In wonder, he held her gift up, at once noticing the strands of shiny black amidst the brown leather stripes. Their eyes met, and Lothíriel smiled as she saw the question in the deep brown, still fighting the onslaught of tears. “This way, at least a part of me will always be with you. It’s a tradition of my family. Once it saved my father’s life, and if things go ill, may Valar prevent it, I hope it will do the same for you.”

  His expression showed her how deeply moved he was, before he looked down on his wrist to fasten her gift around it. From outside, the chatter of the waiting riders and the sound of their horses seeped into the stable, waking Éomer from his reverie. Stroking his thumb over the lock of hair, he looked up.

  “Nothing will happen, my queen. I promise you that, too. Three weeks from now, we will be standing on top of the hill and gazing upon Rohan, and we will be looking forward to the first peace with our neighbours our land has ever seen.” He exhaled. It was time to go. “I bid you farewell, queen of my heart.” With a last tender kiss, he turned away, as if he knew he would never leave if he didn’t force himself now. He mounted his stallion with one fluent move and spurred the horse into a gallop.

  The sound of Battleaxe’s steps reverberated in the emptied stable as Lothíriel stood and watched her husband disappear, the bright sunlight first melting the detail away and reducing Éomer and his steed to a silhouette; then she heard his shouted order and the thunder of hoofs… and he was gone. The silence that followed was deafening.

  “Be careful…” she whispered. The way back to Meduseld had never seemed so long to her.

Chapter 18

WESTEMNET, ROHAN

  The thunder of so many hoofs pounding the ground had not been heard within the Mark for a long time. A blessing, because the sound had always meant fear and danger for the people of Rohan. It had meant that somewhere, some of their kinsmen had been dying or losing their possessions, and thus it was that the sound -- together with the large dust cloud the great host stirred up -- raised many heads. As the king’s éored travelled west on the old road, its number swelling from one hundred and ten riders to over two hundred in the course of a single afternoon, it could be heard for leagues. The sound soon alerted the riders who had been waiting alongside the dusty road ever since the messenger from Edoras had reached them with their tidings. From all over the Westemnet they came, young and old, experienced and apprentices, all joining the host of white, grey and bay horses and armoured riders once it reached them and then travelled on without halting. Polished bronze helmets and mail shirts, shields and lances sparkled in the sunlight, providing the lightning to the thunder of the hoofs

  The sight of the many mounted warriors soothed Captain Fáred. After the odd decision to follow the Dunlending leaders instead of bringing the negotiations to an end at Edoras, or abandoning the thought of them totally, the Rohirrim leader seemed to have gathered his wits. He was entering Dunland with a force strong enough to be a threat if the leaders were not willing to show themselves at once. Glancing to both sides Captain Fáred was content that within this host the danger for his ruler would not arise from a band of primitives. Nevertheless he rode close behind King Elessar, and Dumarin and the others kept their eyes open. This time he hoped that his ruler would not be up to strange excursions, like creeping up on some enemies.

  Hilberon tried hard to hide his smile of pure bliss at riding within the mighty host of Rohirrim. He had been too young in the time of the Ring War, and the soldiers who had fought on the Pelennor had told him about the force the Riders from Rohan had unleashed upon Orcs, Ghants and Easterlings alike. While Hilberon had suffered the siege of Minas Tirith with his father, those brave men had ridden the distance from Rohan to the White City in three days to aid the waning strength of the Gondorian garrisons. Only now Hilberon understood how devastating the sight alone of those strong warriors with their shields, swords, and spears must have been to the enemy. He envied those experienced men King Éomer commanded. He felt very young among them, more like a lad of a few winters, and once again he tried to still his features. If the Dunlendings would prefer attacking to talking, he would be among those wielding his sword first to protect his ruler. Therefore the thought of the éoreds in their armour and with their weapons was quite comforting.

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  The sun had already disappeared behind the mighty peaks of the Ered Nimrais when the Rohirrim warriors pitched camp for the night next to an isolated settlement of the Westemnet. Alerted of their presence by the distant rumbling long before they had seen them, many people came to watch the spectacle of the great army, and to give their regards to their king. Some of the settlement’s elders, knowing what would be needed by a travelling force of this size, even thought of bringing them some of their scarce supplies. These elders were often accompanied by children, who were encountering such a strong host of their own warriors for the first time. The first day on the road to Dunland ended in an atmosphere of mutual respect and harmony, quite in contrast to what Éomer and his marshal and captains had been dreading. Either people did not know about their errand, or they agreed with the path their ruler had chosen. Perhaps it would stay that way.

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  It felt strange to be on the road again, Éomer mused as he stared at the silken night sky, revelling in the forgotten familiarity of the figures the stars formed above his head. The evening meal – thanks to the settlers – had been unexpectedly sumptuous, and now his full stomach and the unusual effort of the long ride were catching up with the young king. Yet it was a good fatigue, a righteous fatigue, stemming from the effort of the day-long ride. The air was warm and flavoured with the scent of wild flowers and grass, a sweet perfume he had known all his life and had greatly missed for the greater part of the two years since he had become king. No matter how luxurious his bedchamber was furnished and decorated, it could not compete with this, Éomer thought, his distant gaze on the campfire further back. When his kinsmen had asked him whether he wanted his tent erected, he had declined. He had been looking forward to the now-rare experience of sleeping out in the open again, much like his Gondorian friend. Turning his head sideways, the ghost of a smile passed over Éomer’s face as he saw the figure of Aragorn huddled in a blanket between the still forms of the other Gondorians. He laid back and closed his eyes, feeling sleep sneak up on him. Feeling content. This was the way it should always have been. This was the life he would have chosen to lead, had he been given the chance. Riding across the land, sleeping under the wide-open skies, always in service of his people... and his cousin Théodred on the throne. But fate had been of a different mind, and despite his reluctance in assuming his inherited position, Éomer’s sense of duty had never once led him to seriously consider declining. In the wake of the War, Rohan needed a strong ruler, someone the people could trust in and draw their courage from. Their acceptance was the highest honour a man could ever hope to gain, and casting it aside for purely selfish reasons had been out of the question.

  “A king exists not to have his people serve him. He is not there to be protected by his people. He is the one who serves – and protects. His life is not defined by what he wants for himself. His life does not belong to him. Whatever his decisions are, they have to be made for the good of his people.”

  His uncle’s words, spoken -- it seemed to Éomer -- ages ago. And yet he recalled every pronouncement, every look Théoden had given him while he had talked to him about his kingly duties. A distant smile of remembrance travelled over his face, as his head rested upon his folded hands. Sleep was very close now as he recalled the sensations the day had brought. The warmth of the sun on his face. The caress of the wind and the taste of dust. The tinkle of riding gear and the horses’ deep breaths as they drank the air and bore the riders westward across the plains. The diminishing image of the hill and the Hall of Kings on top of it; the golden roof gleaming and rivalling the sun; a beacon that would also guide them home in the not too far future. The sadness over leaving Lothíriel whilst their child was growing within her, and the excitement over having escaped the clutches of Meduseld. The two contradicting emotions stirring in him again, Éomer finally slipped over into the realm of dreams.

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  During the next day, the young king’s exuberance over heading the still-swelling host of Rohirrim settled into the stupor of any long ride. And while his men and the Gondorians had shared many savage stories over the campfires the night before, trying to outdo each other, they too were quieter now, saving their and their steeds’ strength for what would await them once they entered enemy territory. The day was hot, the sun mercilessly gleaming down on them, and the more they moved westward, the more unbearable the climate became.

  Lulled into a stupor by the monotonous noises around him and the endless up and down of Battleaxe’s head, Éomer went through a few lessons with the stallion, which the black responded to willingly enough. Apparently, the constant effort of the travel had drained the animal’s energy enough to let him listen to his rider for once. It was enough to brighten his master’s mood for a while, even if Éomer knew that the current treaty between himself and his steed was temporary at best. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a glove that smelled strongly of horse, the king then turned his attention back to the men around him. Briefly he met Aragorn’s gaze, and it seemed to Éomer that his Gondorian friend was likewise preoccupied with his thoughts, rather than with what was lying before them, for his expression was distant and withdrawn.

  To his left side, Thor was quietly sitting on Doloríon, not having talked much since they had left Edoras. The scout had never been a man of many words, but the exhausted look on the captain’s face still left the king uncomfortable about chasing the younger man across the Mark for the third time within a few weeks. Yet there was no alternative. The half-Dunlending was essential to the fulfilment of his plans. If anyone would be able to foretell the hillmens’ reactions once they had entered their territory, it was this kinsman, granting them an immeasurable advantage over their ancient foes.

  Reining Battleaxe in to make him fall back behind his scout and captain, Éomer pondered further. Circumstances had gifted him with a valuable ally in their ancient quarrel, and yet while he was certain of Thor’s loyalty, the Rohirrim King knew how hard it had to be for the younger man to firmly remain on the side he had chosen years ago. Given his ancestry and upbringing on the western side of the Isen, it had been the unlikeliest choice, even surprising himself when it had come to pass. But it had been prompted, of course, by special circumstances.

  Éomer’s gaze rested on the younger man’s broad shoulders as he recalled what Elfhelm had told him about his most trusted kinsman. As a child of mixed ancestry, Thor’s upbringing had been rough. After their tribe had discovered his mother’s forbidden relationship with a Rohirrim, they had chased her away after three days of public condemnation. They had tied her to a pole in the middle of the village for everyone to curse and spit at and then forced her to leave her only child behind. This experience and growing up without parents had made Thor quiet and solitary, and even though his appearance had never given the others reason to pause or led them to question his loyalty, his heart had never fully belonged west of the Isen. Mostly on his own, he had spent countless hours honing his skills in finding and reading tracks and exploring the secret paths that led through their realm. He had learned to read the weather and the art of the hunt, and he had become adept at vanishing without a trace and observing without being detected; all skills that had made him valuable for the Dunlendings when finally the time came for him to participate in the raids on Rohirrim settlements.

  At first, the youth had solely been used for his scouting skills, only leading the marauding groups to and from the settlements, unseen by the ever watchful horse-lords. One day, though, the moment arrived when they had given him a club and taken him along for the assault, expecting him to kill and steal. He had done neither. The sight of his raging kinsmen hitting the unsuspecting peasants like a pack of predators -- not caring whether they hit men, women or children -- had appalled him, not roused his fighting spirits. And when he had caught sight of three of his comrades starting to ravish a screaming Rohirrim woman after they had killed the man defending her, he had decided that this kind of fight was not his, and he had intervened. At his first vocal protest, his comrades had only laughed, teasing him as being jealous because they would not let him participate. And for a moment, Thor had paused, knowing that if he went through with this, there would be no way back for him. But then the woman’s huge frightened eyes had met his, and the decision had been taken out of his hands as he had shoved the first offender away from her. He had turned against his comrades and received a fierce beating, and would have quite possibly been killed by them had not Marshal Erkenbrand’s éored arrived at the scene. Panicking, the rampant Dunlendings had fled head over heels, most of them unable to escape the vengeful riders as they chased after them. Thor, badly beaten, had not been able to flee along with them, and – surrounded by the angry mob of Rohirrim – had already accepted that he would be killed like a rabid dog. But then the woman he had saved had spoken in his favour, shielding him from her enraged kinsmen. Uncertain what to do with an enemy who had turned against his own comrades to defend one of them, Erkenbrand had taken Thor with him. Somehow, by pure chance, the young man had finally wound up in the Eastfold, where he had quickly earned Elfhelm’s trust.

  His example gave Éomer hope as the king surfaced from his memories to see the scout now riding in front of him. In the beginning, Thor had had to fight hard for acceptance among his one-time adversaries, but through determination and persistence, he had ultimately succeeded and even risen to become one of Rohan’s most respected warriors. He was living proof that it was possible to overcome his kinsmen’s inherent suspicion. If one man had been able to overcome their reservations, it had to be possible for the rest of his kin, too. Not overnight, but through patience and persistence. Both were no character traits the Dunlendings were known for, but if they had proof that it was possible…

  Sensing Éomer’s gaze, Thor suddenly turned in his saddle, and his eyes meet his ruler’s in a silent question. Smiling thinly at the display of the scout’s keen senses, Éomer granted the man a curt nod and shifted his attention back to their surroundings. Perhaps things were not as bleak and hopeless as he had deemed them. Perhaps, with a little more optimism and determination, he would see his will done after all

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  They reached the Isen on the afternoon of the third day and found themselves already awaited by two parties: the first being one of the patrols Erkenbrand had left to guard the Fords. The other, black clouds of mosquitoes which greedily moved to welcome the new arrivals, thankful for each inch of uncovered skin. The riders of the Westfold, well-accustomed to this ordeal and just ignoring the dozens of stings, only had a thin smile for their comrades who kept squashing the bloodthirsty torturers on their arms and faces to no avail, uttering heartfelt curses in their hard tongue.

  For the first time in days, the sun was hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, and the air was almost unbearably humid, as the host of over 300 Rohirrim and Gondorians dismounted and pitched camp at the border of their land. Tents were erected, fireplaces established and horses unsaddled and left to graze before they would be tied in a circle around the camp as additional guards for the night.

  After observing his men’s efforts for a while and being satisfied with their efficiency, Éomer had then summoned his captains to give them orders for the days to come, the days when they would enter hostile territory. It was then the illusion of harmony had abruptly ended. Even though he had expected perplexed reactions to his speech, the sight of the severely estranged faces of his men had woken the distinct need for solitude in the young Rohirrim King. His own mood damped after the brief bout of optimism the day before, he had set out to do what had always succeeded in countering his frustrations before: he had sought out his horse for a thorough grooming, hoping to let his thoughts wander aimlessly, or even to empty his head for a few cherished moments of peace. Yet while his plan had sounded good in theory, it had been an entirely other thing to see to its fulfilment with Battleaxe’s again unwilling disposition. Soon the King of Rohan had found himself even more frustrated than before, swearing at his steed and close to throwing the brush at him.

  With a supreme effort at reining in his flaring temper before he exploded, Éomer finally straightened and sighed as he turned around, surveying what he could see of their camp in the slowly fading daylight. Even after two years of peace, Rohan’s forces were ever ready to defend themselves. It was a soothing thought- the only one he could think of right now as he stood and watched the slight drizzle that had accompanied them for the past two hours slowly developing into a heavy rain.

  Behind him, mighty and unstoppable, the Isen formed the border between Dunland and the Mark: a living, churning barrier that could only be crossed at this particular place. The Rohirrim King’s expression darkened as he thought of the last time he had set foot on these grounds. He had been too late to help Théodred, and not even the long, frenzied ride back to Edoras through days and night had changed anything. The horrible wounds his cousin had sustained at this shore -- in a hopeless fight against an enemy of much greater number -- had ultimately claimed his life. Unwilling to relive the horrible day when he had found Théodred among his slain kinsmen, Éomer shoved the memories away and gave himself a mental nudge to make it back to his tent before the light had entirely gone… when the hushed whisper of several voices froze him in his tracks. The sound was coming from behind, distant, but not so distant that he could not hear. He strained.

  “… can only end in disaster! But he will not see it!”

  “I cannot believe he wants us to spare them even in the case of an attack! Does he expect us to do nothing in defence? Is this accursed filth more important to him than his men?”

  “It would seem so, wouldn’t it? But there is nothing we can do. We must follow whatever order he gives. It is not our place to question his decisions.”

  Éomer inhaled silently, and his lips became a thin line as he held his breath, listening. He did not recognise the voices, but he would know soon enough who was speaking so vehemently against him! Slowly, cautiously so as not to make any sound, he began to walk around the two horses between him and the men holding the discussion.

  “Well, whose place is it then? Someone will have to say it and make him understand, or the Mark will come to ruin before long. The marshal did, the marshal tried to make him see, and yet you see what his reward was.” The voice was trembling with barely restrained anger. “If the entire host spoke against him….”

  Ready to unleash his rising anger onto the group of unsuspecting warriors, Éomer moved to reveal his presence to the men… but before he could do so, another voice cut in sharply and froze him in his tracks. A voice he recognised. He paused, waiting for the scene to unfold. Maybe there was something to be learnt here, something that wouldn’t be revealed if he showed himself.

  “What are you doing here, Captain Fráccas, talking to your men in such a secretive and conspirative way? Why are you not with the others instead, helping with the camp? What am I to think about this?”

  It was Galdur, and his granite-hard tone told Éomer that he meant it. Choosing to stay concealed, he listened on, more than surprised by the rebellious captain’s bearing. Had his scalding at Edoras finally brought the result he had aimed for? It was hard to believe, yet the soldier’s words sounded sincere. However, Fráccas, a captain of the settlements in the northern Westemnet, was not easily intimidated.

  “My men are concerned, captain. Surely I must be allowed to discuss the matters that worry them, or has law been changed recently in Rohan? Do we have to obey silently from now on? What does the king want? Men who think independently and who will say if something is amiss, or men who will run blindly into their doom?”

  “The question is always in what manner such discussions are conducted, captain. Being a soldier of high rank yourself, you are supposed to know what it looks like to others if you steal away to hide behind the horses and whisper secretive words. If you have a problem with the king’s orders, you address the king openly. Or you ask Marshal Elfhelm or me. Either way, this way of dealing with your people’s issues is entirely intolerable, and if I see you or any of your men plotting behind our backs again, you will have to face the consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Captain Galdur…”

  “Do I make myself clear, soldier?”

  “Aye, captain.” Fráccas gave in, and his gruff tone betrayed his frustration. Although possessing the same title as Erkenbrand’s second-in-command, the Westfold captain’s longer years in the service gave Galdur authority in their quarrel. “It will not happen again.”

  “Very well. Then leave, and see where your hands may be needed. I am certain there are still many duties left to fulfil ere the night falls.”

  In the silence that followed, Éomer heard the footsteps of three men leaving, and for a moment considered whether he should show himself and admonish the soldiers after all. He decided against it. In his current mood, it was very likely that the admonishment would get out of hand, and the last thing he needed was to dishearten his men further prior to venturing into enemy territory. Galdur had said everything there had been to say, as surprising as it was. The thought of the words he had overheard still stung, but he had to leave it at that. He had known from the beginning that his men would not like the course he was steering.

  Turning toward Battleaxe to collect the belongings he had brought for the grooming, Éomer – out of the corner of his eye – noticed movement. The next moment, the Westfold captain rounded the horse screening Éomer and saw him. Their eyes met. If the soldier was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it. He appeared neither hurt nor angered over the king’s apparent eavesdropping, as he gave his ruler a curt nod and turned toward the brimming camp.

  Unmoving, Éomer stood and watched until the man disappeared behind the first tents. He didn’t know what to think. It had been a strange scene, and he was not entirely certain that the taste it left was a pleasant one. Something he couldn’t name was telling him to watch out, to be ready for anything. To not let down his guard even for a moment for as long as he was outside of Meduseld. There was something strange going on these days, something the likes of which he had never experienced.

  A telltale prickle in his stomach told him that he was being watched, and he swivelled.

  It was Elfhelm who was staring at him from the distance of his already-erected tent, and his friend’s tense expression told Éomer that the older man had been brooding over his own sinister thoughts ever since the king’s address. In the grey eyes he read the same doubts that were plaguing him, and the unspoken advice to send the man home. Suddenly feeling fed up with being prodded and manipulated from all directions, Éomer turned his back on his friend and walked off into the opposite direction. 

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  For the days' rides Aragorn had been quiet. He had not been able to share the exhilaration his friend had felt, and now that the last camp in Rohan’s realm was prepared for the night, he sat apart from the soldiers, who talked and laughed after their daily work was done. In silence he lit a pipe, undisturbed by the light rain. During his long years of wandering, he had spent much time in Rohan, and he knew well the place they stayed in. But back in those years he had not held the responsibility for a kingdom in his hands. Now he had come to the realm of his ally again, but could not stop wondering if he had made the right decision. Faramir's words had sounded like wisdom. Still, Aragorn could not simply put the task of the kingdom's defence into the hands of another. If the Easterlings would change their behaviour and prepare for an invasion, no errand-rider would reach him here. He would get no tidings from Minas Tirith, and there would be no return for him to lead the garrisons into war.

  If the threat they had denied yet proved true, the king would not be able to come to aid his men.

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  The hour was already late when all preparations for the days to follow had been finished, and since the drizzle had developed into a heavy rain since the sun had gone down, the fires had taken a while to catch. Only now were they high enough for the men to roast some of the corn cobs and potatoes they had picked up in the surrounding settlements, in order to upgrade their scarce provisions of bread, dried meat and fruit. They had also cooked a tasty stew, of which Elfhelm had taken his share. He was now pulling aside the flap of Éomer’s tent to enter, dripping wet and careful not to spill his supper. With an inward sigh, he sat down on the furs which covered the ground and crossed his legs, almost burning his mouth as he swallowed a quick, first spoonful of the stew, feeling famished after not having eaten much for the entire day.

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  The wind worked in her favour, bringing her the strong smell of horses, which she could already hear neighing in the distance. She was wet from the rain and the crossing of the river, but in the warm summer night it did not matter. Better yet, the water covered up her own scent. It would help her to get closer to the campsite undiscovered, ample reward for the toil of having had to cross the Isen stream down from its guarded fords.

  Slowly, cautiously, she edged forward, looking ahead, but never missing a sound or motion nearby. The nearest guard, a strongly-built armoured Rohirrim, walked past her only ten feet away, without pausing or even glancing in her direction. She waited and moved on after the man had reached a distance. The fires attracted her, and she hoped to find the men still awake, though she had had to wait until nightfall to start her excursion. Stealthily, she slid further along the slope on the edge of the river, careful not to let the plants’ rustle give her away. Not far off she could see the royal tent, decorated with the Rohan banner, the white horse upon green. There she halted again, melting into the shadows and straining her ears. The wind blew into her face, and she relaxed. Not even the Rohirrim war-horses outside, bred to detect trouble on a dark night such as this, would be able to pick up her scent. She sat back and focused on the voices of the two men inside the tent. They were alone and talking quietly, and yet she understood each word they were saying.

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  Outside, the camp was slowly beginning to calm down with the progress of night. The ride through the Mark had been long, and yet harder days lay ahead of the men. Most of the riders that would accompany them into enemy territory tomorrow had already retreated to rest. For a while, none of the men inside the royal tent spoke. Silently eating, they listened to the sound of the distant thunderstorm and the rush of the rain, their minds elsewhere. Every now and then, secret glances were cast at each other because it was clear to all of them that things would have to be addressed before they came to rest themselves; yet all seemed to dread having the first say. Finally, it was the newly appointed Lord of Westfold who felt that he couldn’t remain silent any longer. He set down his empty dish and looked at the man opposite him.

  “I am worried, Éomer. There is a strange atmosphere in our camp tonight, and I do not like it at all.” Elfhelm swallowed the piece of dried meat he had been chewing on for the last five minutes, and grimaced as he met the kings’ gazes. Elessar, he noticed, looked as if he had already sensed it, too, and indeed the marshal would have found it strange if the perceptive Gondorian had not picked up the grim silence following Éomer’s speech that afternoon. And Éomer… he looked as if he wanted to hear no more of the dreadful subject. Tense and staring at his almost-empty bowl, as if he were trying to drill a hole into it with his mere glance, in an attempt to ignore his brother-in-arms of many years. It was not as if Elfhelm could not understand his friend, yet these things had to be addressed.

  “Galdur took care of the men, and I firmly believe that they will not repeat anything of the likes they did today. If I started punishing my men for their concerns, I would have to send them all home, including you!” Éomer said at length, still not looking at his marshal. “As for Galdur, our problem seems to be taken care of. He may still not like it, but he is following orders, and for my part, that is all I will ask of him, and all that I expect.” He lifted his head. “Now, if I may, marshal, I would like to spend the rest of the evening in peace. We have discussed to death the things you are bringing up again, and frankly, I am quite sick of repeating the same words over and over. I know our riders are in a bad mood, I know they do not like my order to spare the Dunlendings even if they attack us, and I know they all wish Erkenbrand was their king right now and would send them over the Fords tomorrow to annihilate our foes. I understand all of that, and I do not wish to hear another word of it tonight. So if you please…” He gave his marshal a curt nod, but Elfhelm was far from letting himself be silenced like that. He looked at the other king as if he were seeking aid from his side.

  “It is not only Galdur I am worried about, Éomer. I took the freedom of closely watching the men’s faces during your address. While it was to be expected that they would not like the part about not harming the Dunlendings once we’ve found them, I did not like their expressions. Their dissatisfaction with the whole situation may run deeper than we think. Thor was among them the entire evening, and even though all know that he is in league with us and thus care to watch their words in his presence, he told me…”

  “Elfhelm?” Forcefully, Éomer sat down his bowl. His expression was stone, except for the annoyed glare in his eyes. “For the last time: I do not want to hear. Now, haven’t you some preparations left for tomorrow? Like polishing your sword or selecting the men who will accompany us over the river?”

  The sharp tone and words were a slap into the older warrior’s face, even if he was aware that his friend had not meant it personally and most likely already regretted his outburst. Éomer had reached the end of his patience, and Elfhelm had known Éomund’s son long enough to understand that any attempt to get through to his friend now would be in vain. Swallowing his objection and pride, he took his empty bowl and stood up, the only hint of his hurt the sudden formality of his speech.

  “The men have already been selected, sire, but you are of course right that it is time to get a few hours of rest before we leave Rohan. You will find me in my tent if you need me. My lords?” He bowed to the two kings and left.

  For a while, the silence thickened between the remaining men. Aragorn tentatively broke it, saying, “He was merely being concerned, Éomer. And I must say that I share his view.”

  His opposite let out a deep breath, but it was more in frustration than anger.

  “I know he only means well. But I am aware of the things he said, I do not need to hear them repeated constantly. Does he deem me not perceptive enough to understand my men’s feelings now that I am their king? I haven’t forgotten what it feels like to be a simple rider who must follow orders he doesn’t deem right.”

  “I don’t think that it was his intention to express that.” A glance into Éomer’s face told Aragorn that the other man was feeling the burden of his decision extraordinarily heavily on this rainy night. “He is concerned because of our decision to only take sixty-five men along into hostile territory tomorrow.”

  The Rohirrim King lifted his head, loathing the discussion, but knowing that he could not very well tell Aragorn off as he had done with Elfhelm.

  “And what else should we do, tell me! We want to convince them that we come in peace; yet how for Eorl’s sake should we accomplish this deed if we invade their land with over three hundred heavily armed riders?” He snorted. “I am aware of the risk. But I do not see another way. By leaving the main host here, we will be reaching them quickly enough in case of an emergency. The first village lies only two hours away on the other side. And even if they choose to attack us, a force of sixty-five mounted Rohirrim and Gondorians should present a force that will not be easily overcome. They will think twice before waging any ill moves against us.”

  “If we are able to find them first. They have hideouts we can never discover. If they consider us a threat, they will not show themselves. And if they are waiting for you to enter their land, they may have already started their preparations to cut the vanguard from the main host. Nay, Éomer, only if the Dunlendings are willing will this venture be blessed with success.”

------------------------

  A loud noise in front of her woke her from her rapt concentration, but it was already too late: without warning, the wind had shifted, and the horses next to the tent thrust up their heads in alarm as they picked up her scent. With flared nostrils, the black and the bay tasted the air, snorting and rolling their eyes, then the black suddenly jumped forth, and his hoofs kicked the air, missing her by inches. Instinctively, she lashed out herself, already moving backwards and retreating deeper into the thicket, just as a cacophony of alarmed shouts rose from the camp. The stallion shrieked and fought against the rope that held him back, and suddenly, he was free of it and coming after her, his fury fearsome to behold! Swearing under her breath, she turned on her tail to flee and only caught the faintest glimpse of the two kings she had overheard as they burst from their tent to find out the reason for the ruckus. Her eyes glistened malevolently as their images and appearances burnt themselves into her mind. Then the stallion was upon her. She barely escaped the flying hoofs as she dove into the thicket of reeds and weeds to escape the way she had come, just when men with torches came to provide light. Silent as a shadow, she vanished. She had heard what she needed.

------------------------

  “Do you see something?”

  “Ready your bows!”

  “Closer with the fire! Move! Move!”

  “Where is it? What is it?”

  His sword in hand, Aragorn stood and watched alongside several men with raised spears or arrows fitted to the strings of their bows, ready for anything that might jump out of the bushes. Battleaxe was charging through with eyes that showed only the whites. The horse was either in panic or furious, he could not tell which, but the manner in which the Rohirrim guards had stayed clear from the horse’s path told him how respectful they were of his immense strength. Aragorn’s own horse trembled under his touch, and the way he danced to the side and drank the air through flared nostrils left no question that he had likewise been alarmed by something.

  “What was it, Brego? What have you seen, friend?” he muttered, letting his fingers travel down the muscular neck, while his gaze shifted from the moving reeds where Battleaxe could still be heard, to Éomer who was coming his way with determined steps.

  “May I borrow your steed for a moment, brother? He may prove helpful in getting my own back.”

  “Riding after him alone is a bad idea. We do not know what is out there.”

  “He is not far, and I need to be alone for this. He will not calm down if all come charging after him. Thank you.” With one fluent move, Éomer made it onto Brego’s unsaddled back and pressed his heels into the bay’s flanks, talking to the stallion in Rohirric as he charged after his own steed.

  He did not have to ride far to find the black where the thicket ended, still in shouting distance of his men. On the river’s edge, splashing through the water, Battleaxe had resumed to running a few paces in either direction before he abruptly turned on his hindquarters. His anxiety was a strange sight to Éomer, almost as if he had been following something, but did not dare to continue through the fast flowing floods. With the merest pressure of his thighs and a brief tug on the mane, Éomer slowed Brego down to a walk, glad for his elevated position. His keen glance swept the stripe of reeds for movement, but even from horseback, it was too dark to see. A perfect place to stalk him, if the thing that had upset his horse was still around. Instinctively, the king’s hand went for the hilt of his sword, as he turned his mount in a tight circle, tense. The black wall of plants did not betray whether it held danger, and he cursed under his breath. Aragorn had been right, of course: it had been a foolish thing to go after Battleaxe alone. But since he was here now, he better go through with what he had come for quickly; returning without his horse and having to admit his uneasiness in the darkness was out of the question.

  Up ahead, almost directly in front of him, Battleaxe was still pacing, the splashing water giving him away. With slight pressure, Éomer urged Brego on, whispering into the twitching ears.

  “Calm him down for me, friend. Show him that there’s nothing here to fear.” He hoped he was telling the truth as his eyes once again scanned the foliage to his left. How easy it would be to jump at him from there, undetectable until it would be too late. What if it was a Warg? But wargs were no stalkers. They usually attacked with the force of a battering ram, not caring whether their prey saw them first, because their great hearts and lungs enabled them to run down almost every beast. Stealth was not their strategy. Without warning, Brego came to a sudden stop and snorted, apparently disliking what he had just sensed.

  Battleaxe was close now, the white of his legs the only thing that gave him away in the darkness as he stood and watched their approach. Quietly, Éomer began to talk to him in Rohirric: a soothing, steady stream of words with a melody to them that caused the stallion to prick up his ears and turn his head in their direction. For a moment he listened; then, with another vicious thrust of his head, he whirled around and pranced the length of the riverbank again, staring intently and with flared nostrils to the other side of the river. Éomer followed the animal’s gaze, not expecting to see anything. The other side loomed dark and forbidding behind the reflecting water, daring them to come closer. He had no intention of doing so, at least not tonight. Insistently, he urged Brego on, and a moment later he held the torn rope that was hanging down from the black’s halter in his hands.

  “What was it that you saw, demon?” he whispered quietly, with his free hand stroking Battleaxe’s brow. This horse was a complete mystery to him. He did not behave like any other horse Éomer had ever known, and even among a people whose culture was based on their horses, Éomer was considered an expert. The stallion’s moods were unpredictable. Right now, as Éomer turned Brego around and the rope tightened, he followed his master obediently toward the dark wall of gently swaying reeds, as if he had forgotten the moment of rage before.

  For a moment, the Rohirrim king felt apprehension as his searching gaze swept the sea of high plants, then he led the bay into it, all too aware of how distinctly the splashing of the horses’ steps could be heard in the night. It was too quiet. As if the world was holding its breath. And then he heard it: a slight rustle of something moving stealthily through the scarp. He tensed and drew his sword.

  “Éomer?” Aragorn’s voice came to him from the distance of another reality. There was something here in the scarp. Hiding. Maybe already coiling for the jump. To his right, the reeds were shaking against the gentle rhythm forced on them by the breeze. Underneath him, Brego rammed his hoofs into the ground, unwilling to proceed. His fingers clenching around the rope, Éomer scanned his surroundings, all instincts crying out at him to run. But he had to know! What was it that… a sudden hard jolt on the rope he was clinging to. Unprepared, he was unseated, and landed with a splash on his back. Half rearing, Battleaxe moved violently backwards, stomping his hoofs into the ground in a clear threat. Muttering a traditional and specifically un-kingly Rohirric curse, Éomer rolled to his feet, quickly assessing his situation. Brego was gone, and he had lost Gúthwine! Where was it? Frantically groping in the mud as the rustle in the reed moved toward him, Éomer caught the slightest flicker of movement, of reflecting eyes staring at him, and then the scarp exploded with shrill alarm as something fluttered in mad flight into his face. Startled, the Rohirrim lost his footing as Battleaxe behind him gave a shrill shriek and burst into a frenzied run, dragging his master behind.

  “Éomer? Éomer!”

  Swearing, even though his mouth and nose were filled with muddy water and sand was crunching between his teeth, Éomer somehow managed to turn around and dig his heels into the ground; after a few more paces he succeeded in bringing his skittish steed to a halt.

  “Éomer! Can you hear me?”

  They were coming for him, and as the Rohirrim king picked himself up from the swampy ground, he became all too aware of what a sight he would be to his men. And after the ruckus they had made, all would be there to witness his disgrace. Mud-caked like a pig because of a flock of geese, that’s what he was, and as the voices drew closer, Éomer led his reluctant stallion into deeper water to briefly dive in and clean himself. Even then, the embarrassment was almost too much to bear as Aragorn and Elfhelm came charging through the reeds and detected him instantly.

  “I am here,” he muttered indignantly, yanking hard at the rope to show Battleaxe that he was less than satisfied with his behaviour.

  “Are you unharmed?” Aragorn asked, deep concern all over his face as he waded toward his friend. “Why did you not call? When Brego came out of the shrubs alone we feared…”

  “I am fine,” the younger man replied crisply, his tone a clear indication that he did not wish to talk about what had happened. “Apparently, my new steed has much to learn yet if the scent of a fox causes him to lose his head.”

  “It was a fox?” Elfhelm let himself be heard from behind. “It is hard to believe, the way Brego and Battleaxe reacted.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes, Elfhelm. I know what I saw.” Éomer glowered at his friend of old and just wished for the day to end and to be alone in his tent with no one bothering him until the morning’s first light. “It stirred up some geese in the scarp. They practically flew into my face! This black mule here has panicked on lesser occasions.” He passed the two men without so much as a further look, dragging his now obedient steed behind. The wall of plants closed behind him, leaving the marshal and the Gondorian King to ponder his words.

  “A fox,” Elfhelm repeated with a sceptical look at Aragorn. The king briefly cocked his brows, but then turned back to the river once again. If the fox had stalked the geese, why should the horses have panicked at the camp?

  The world still lay under a thin white veil as the host of sixty-five riders moved into the churning water. Following their kings, the Rohirrim and Gondorians crossed the fords in single-file, silently observing the hostile shore. Straining for all that could be heard, even evaluating the smallest rustle in the scarp for signs of the enemy. On the eastern sky, the sun crept over the horizon in the shape of a pale coin, its brightness obstructed by the moving swirling mist, not yet powerful enough to melt its assailant away. No birds were singing, no voices could be heard as the long line of riders and horses passed through the wood on the other side. The only sounds that accompanied the procession of ghosts were those of muffled steps and the horses’ low breathing as they ventured deeper into the realm of Dunland.

------------------------

  It was almost midday when the first settlement came into view. The thick banks of mist next to the river had long since given in to the sun’s relentless onslaught, and the more their mixed host advanced, the more the terrain changed. After the swampy surroundings of the Isen, the ground had become hard and dry, too dry even for the grass that had accompanied them all the way through Rohan. Only brown long-dead remains could be seen of it for as far as the eye reached, and slowly, the plains changed into a panorama of rugged hills, where sheer rock replaced burnt soil.

  Raising a hand for his éored to halt, Éomer motioned for Thor and Elfhelm to ride to him. Together with the Gondorian King, the four men surveyed the peaceful sight they were granted. There was no movement ahead. No people on the dusty paths between the huts, nobody on the fields, not even animals. The place looked dead. And, as none of the Rohirrim spoke, an eerie silence stretched over the mass of riders like a blanket as they stood and stared, the air dry and full of dust that went into their eyes and mouths.

  At last, it was Elfhelm who spoke.

  “It is too silent. They either mean to ambush us, or they’re gone.”

  “I would not deem it likely that they would ambush us in the middle of their village,” Thor replied without taking his keen eyes off the huts. “A battle within their settlement could easily mean a complete loss for them. And where are their animals?” He shook his head and turned Doloríon around to face his king. “No, they’re gone. With your permission, sire, I will ride ahead and confirm it before we move into the settlement.”

  “We will all ride,” Éomer objected, having come to the same conclusion as his scout. He cast a brief glance over to Aragorn and found consent in the grey eyes before he turned to his éored. “Proceed!” Slowly, persistently, he urged Battleaxe ahead, well aware of the stallion’s nervousness. The quickly flickering ears, the thrashing tale and his overall tension were clear signs that the black had likewise recognised the unusual atmosphere, and the Rohirrim tensed along with his steed, ready to counter any fidgeting actions at once. The host of riders proceeded, eerily silent for a force of their number. Lances, bows and swords were readied as the warriors approached the village.

  “Where are their fields?” Éomer mumbled quietly, more to himself than for the ears of the others. His gaze swept over bone-dry soil with deep cracks. 

  “There has hardly been any rain here all summer and spring,” his scout answered. “None of their crops have grown. What they have is usually over there.” He indicated a stretch of hard, dry ground to their left that, apart from a few dried branches and weeds, didn’t look much different than the ground they were walking upon. With a twitch of his eyebrows, Éomer turned to Aragorn and found his own frown mirrored. No matter what would result from their incursion, it was already a valuable experience, as their neighbours’ plight become more apparent with each step that they took. Silently, and well aware of his men behind him being equally shaken by the evidence of poverty, Éomer took in what his eyes showed him as they passed the fringes of the small settlement. There were not many huts, twenty at the most, all in various stages of neglect and decay. Nothing a Rohirrim would ever want to call his home, even if most of their own domiciles were likewise far from being luxurious.

  A prickling feeling on his neck told Éomer that he was being watched, and as he shifted in the saddle, he found Aragorn’s concerned gaze resting upon himself.

  “Seeing this, it becomes rather clear why they attacked you, brother.”

  “Aye…” Éomer sighed and brought Battleaxe to a halt amidst the huts. Another thorough look confirmed that the village was, indeed, bereft of life. Giving Thor and four members of his guard a meaningful glance, the men dismounted, and the sound of their armour seemed overly loud in the leaden atmosphere. Éomer waited for his kinsmen to join him before he drew his sword and purposefully strode toward the first hut. Giving his own men a similar glance, the Gondorian king followed them, his keen eyes sweeping their surroundings for any tell-tale signs.

  “They left in a hurry,” Thor explained as they entered the first hut. “They took no personal belongings with them. Look! Seems like they counted on returning here soon.”

  Éomer came to a stop in the middle of the sparsely decorated, run-down hut and pivoted, clearly impressed by the signs of poverty he saw. Whatever his eyes swept over – ragged clothes, rusty pans and cooking utensils, shabby blankets on a cod which could hardly be called a bed – all indicated the conditions under which their western neighbours were living. Slowly, he lifted up a crude doll that had been made from old, stained linen and mouldy hay. This was what the children of Dunland had to play with? He remembered Éowyn’s elaborately worked and luxuriously dressed dolls. Even those little dresses had been worked from materials like silk and velvet; materials their western neighbours would never know in their lives… and they were using it for their toys! And even their commoners, the simple people… Éomer remembered that while their toys had not been as fanciful as those he and Éowyn had possessed, they had still been carefully crafted and made from materials far superior than this. With a bout of shame, he set the doll -- which looked more like a scarecrow to his eyes -- back onto the blankets and turned around.

  “They fled from us. They were probably counting on us to make this incursion in order to end what had begun in Meduseld. They think we have come to kill them.”

  “Do they?” Aragorn, a hand on the hilt of his sword, got closer. “If you had wanted to kill them you could have done so at Edoras or on the way back. The leaders would never have reached their home to warn their people.” He glanced around uneasily. “I say they retreated in order to lure us further into their land.” Éomer looked up, and Aragorn continued, “The question you have to ask yourself is this: will you risk it, considering they might have gathered their forces?”

  The King of Rohan nodded with determination.

  “I have not come the long way only to turn back now. And I will not let a filthy traitor thwart me, no matter whether he comes from Rohan or Dunland!” Aragorn nodded curtly and, like his friend, gazed at the crude furnishings of the hut. Éomer's fingers glided over a shabby curtain that hid a niche which probably in better times would have held supplies. Now it was empty. Inhaling deeply, Éomer turned around, and in the young king’s stormy eyes Aragorn could read just how disturbed he was by what they had found. “To live like this…” Words failed Éomer, but what he meant was obvious as he shook his head at himself, and with Aragorn in tow exited the hut.

  “The treaty with Rohan could improve their lives, but at the moment we are far from it. There is still the necessity to find and convince Woldro and the others that your offer genuinely remains. And that will not be done easily. He might have lost part of his distrust since he reached his land without being harmed, but still… what we see here is no indication that the tribal leaders are willing to meet you on friendly terms.” Aragorn followed his friend, his gaze sweeping through the deserted village. At a stone-circled well, he came to a halt and followed the Rohirrim’s glance into the deep. There was barely more than a puddle of muddy water down there. Nothing one would drink unless forced to. And the Isen was hours away. “But I still believe there is a chance to establish peace.”

  “There has to be,” Éomer stated firmly, and glanced up at the sound of steps. It was his scout.

  “They went north,” Thor indicated the clearly visible tracks leading out of the village. “There’s another small settlement three to four hours from here. That is where they probably went.”

  “Did you find anything?” Elfhelm asked from the short path he had explored on horseback, now headed back for his waiting éored. Galdur, having done similarly on the only other path, shook his head.

  “There is nothing to be found. They have left. And if they possessed weapons, they took them along.” He looked to the two kings, who were slowly making their way back to their horses. “By the looks of it, they’re planning to ambush us on the way. They will not welcome us in a friendly manner, no matter with how much sympathy we are determined to treat them.”

  Éomer narrowed his eyes.

  “Captain, would you run from your enemy without your weapons?”

  “But he is correct, sire,” Elfhelm stated uncomfortably. “They are drawing us deeper into their land. Perhaps we should not leave our main host at the Isen. If we run into problems deep within Dunland, they will be too far away to help us.”

  Éomer swung into the saddle.

  “We are here to salvage what we can. To convince them that we come in peace. It will be hard enough to do already in the wake of what happened at Meduseld. Entering their land with over 300 heavily-armed riders in addition to that will not help us achieve our goal.” He turned to his scout.

  “Thor, to the next settlement. Lead the way.”

------------------------

  Fáred did not like what he saw. They had passed the second village – if the assembled huts deserved such a noble name – only to find it deserted like the first one. He knew there was danger ahead and he still asked himself why the King of Rohan had allowed the Dunlendings to leave Edoras only to follow them shortly after. There was no military logic behind this action. If he had wanted to continue talking with them he had had the chance before. To meet the enemy on his own terrain was neither wise nor recommended. And the captain did not like to see his own ruler ride into this barren land, so close to the Misty Mountains. He knew that King Elessar would risk his life for the sake of his friend, neglecting his duties as the leader of his own land. The Dunlendings could approach them from any side at any time they chose. They had the advantage of knowing the landscape, and no scout could change that.

  Fáred brought his steed close to that of his king.

  “My lord, in case the Dunlendings do indeed gather for an attack…”

  The king merely glanced at him, knowing in advance what he was about to say.

  “Enough blood has been spilled already. If it comes to a fight we will spare those men by any means.”

  The captain had to bite down his contradiction, but found himself asking,

  “And with what, my king, shall we defend ourselves? Courteous words?”

  “It would be a start.”

  The look accompanied with the words made Fáred swallow hard. It had been a clear command to let those unrefined inhabitants of that dreadful land live even if their hostility erupted. He forced himself to nod, but amidst his anger about the senseless order he was afraid for his king. His tendency to mediate could easily lead to his doom.

------------------------

  “I am beginning to hate this land,” Elfhelm muttered, his eyes scanning the rugged terrain they were passing through and had been riding through the entire day. After the darkness of the new moon had forced them to pitch camp in the middle of an obscure landscape full of possible hiding places, they had spent the night in a tense atmosphere, bracing for an attack that never came. None of the warriors had had more than a few hours of very light sleep, and it was showing in the manner of their approach – silent, edgy, nervous. Ready to react to the first sight of an enemy. The weather had changed from the dry heat of the south to cooler temperatures, and the air was so laden with moisture it felt as if they were riding through liquid. The mist that had given these mountains their name had lifted for the day, but its remains were still there, albeit invisible.

   The two kings who were riding in front of the Lord of Westfold turned around and saw the marshal shake his head. “No grass, not a tree, nothing green to soothe the eye, and hundreds upon hundreds of places to stage an ambush at,” Elfhelm continued. “We could pass by those wretched tribal leaders without ever knowing.”

  “Thor will know,” Éomer objected, his eyes resting on their scout who was riding ahead through the gorge, barely within sight. Looking for traces and signs of danger. ”He is a good man. Nothing will escape his attention.” He inhaled deeply and looked at Aragorn who was riding beside him in silence, likewise concentrating on their surroundings. “And we all have experience in the field. We know what to look for. I am not concerned that we will miss anything.” His stern gaze glided over the rugged hills to their left and right, the sheer cliffs and rocky outcroppings which left hardly more open than the narrow way they were riding through. Further ahead, the gorge appeared to widen, yet the sight of it left the Rohirrim king uncomfortable while he waited for his scout to return. He knew what had caused his marshal to vent his frustration. The tension had held through the entire day, and it was about time to release some of it. By now, they had ventured far into Dunland without catching so much as a glimpse of a Dunlending.

  “And we cannot very well choose another way,” Aragorn mused, his grey eyes likewise on Thor’s black steed in the distance before they went up to scan the surrounding mountains. “After all, we are here to talk with them. If we retreat now, there will be no second chance.”

  “It is a smart strategy.” Elfhelm pursed his lips and looked into Galdur’s grim face. The captain had been riding next to him for the entire day without saying a word. Ever since Éomer’s admonishment in the Golden Hall, the Westfold warrior seemed to have withdrawn deeply into himself. He answered when he was spoken to, yet did not contribute anything to their discussions on his own impulse, and every now and then, Elfhelm had caught the younger man casting a dark look into Éomer’s direction. As a man who had travelled through these lands more often than all of them, except maybe for Thor, his opinion and insights could have been valuable, yet the captain chose to remain silent for a reason Elfhelm could not comprehend. All he could do was observe, and Elfhelm did not like what he saw.

  “Durden and Woldro will have realised by now that we are after them especially. So they retreat further and further to a place where they think they will easily gain the upper hand, knowing that we won’t pull back. And knowing that they are cutting us off from our main host.” He watched as his captain came closer after his brief exploration.

  Éomer nodded, not surprised. His own instincts had been crying out for hours at the sight of the paths they had to take and the knowledge that they would be hard-pressed to defend themselves if the Dunlendings chose to attack them in full force; yet what alternative was there? Mulling the thought over and over in his head without finding an answer, he waited until Thor was reining in Doloríon at his side.

  “I could not find any tracks, but that means nothing. Within their own land, Dunlendings are very cunning when it comes to disappearing without a trace.”

  “What does your gut tell you?” Éomer asked.

  “I think they came this way. Yet where they are now, and what they have planned, is hard to tell.”

  “Very well…” Éomer urged his steed a few paces ahead and lifted his hand, gesturing for his men to proceed. “We will see what happens. Right now, it would appear as if the decision has been taken out of our hands.”

  With a curt nudge Aragorn got Brego going again. Glancing at the slopes which were stretching to their right for a length he could not determine, he shared Elfhelm’s opinion that the Dunlendings could hide anywhere; yet he also agreed with Éomer that they had not come this far only to back off now. Still the abducted men had not been found, and even if they failed to start negotiations anew, they had to find the missing Rohirrim. He had barely begun the thought, when the noise of falling rocks catapulted him back to reality.

------------------------

  Spurring Battleaxe into full gallop was barely more than an instinct. In the same motion, Éomer readied shield and sword, but left his lance secured. He cleared the area of the rockslide in time with his éored,. However just then, ahead and from the sides, more Dunlendings than he could count in the short amount of time poured into the little valley, yelling their battle cries as they charged toward them. A number of them carried swords, others clubs and long, knifed poles which Éomer had never seen them use before. Still, he felt vaguely relieved to not discover long-range weapons among them. As ordered, his men fanned out to intercept the attackers. Neither bows nor crossbows were aimed at them, and aside from a number of small stones that rained down on them and were easily deflected by armours and helms, all that could hurt them would have to come within their range. They still were outside it, and Éomer used the moment to do something he had never done in his life. 

  He viciously reined Battleaxe in and brought him to rear, shouting, “Dunlendings! We have come to talk, not to kill! Lay down your weapons, and let us talk!”

  A hail of stones answered him, and only a fast reaction saved him from a rock that would have hit his face as he brought up his shield. With a loud clank, the stone was repelled, and in the next second, the wave of hillmen was upon them. Readying himself for the first contact, Éomer was nearly unseated as his horse suddenly jumped forth with a shrill cry. Dimly he remembered that it was Battleaxe’s first skirmish, and even though he had attempted to train the black in armed conflicts with the help of his éored, it became immediately apparent that the stallion knew the difference. A knifed polearm was swung toward his legs to down him, and he leapt over it with effortless power. With a violent shift of his body weight, Éomer threw his steed around just as his hoofs touched the ground again, and the mighty shoulder threw their attacker to the ground. The next three had already charged toward him, and from all around the sounds of the melee rose.

  A sword crashed against his greaves without cutting through, and Éomer kicked it out of his foe’s hands without dealing out a strike himself. From the corners of his eyes he saw motion, and brought Battleaxe around rearing, his powerful front legs kicking through the air. The two Dunlendings he had seen jumped back, barely escaping the thrashing hoofs. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the Rohirrim king suddenly found himself smiling at the revelation that his horse seemed to enjoy the battle. The black had given up all resistance and was now answering to commands he had barely given, displaying incredible instinct. Putting it to good use, Éomer charged against another group of attackers.

------------------------

  The king's command to strike but not kill had been clear, but it was hard to transform into reality. The hillmen struck to maim, and no courteous word would stop them. Tarés spurred his horse to intercept a Dunlending attacking his ruler from behind with a club and hit him with the hilt of his sword on the head, sending him to the ground. From the other side two men reached King Elessar, but he blocked their short swords and disarmed them without even cutting a scratch. While they stooped to grab their weapons Brego shoved them aside. To Tarés it looked like horse and rider were a unit of fighters, long trained in joined battles. He forced off another hillman gaining on him with a polearm, and his defence left the attacker with a bloody nose.

  Hilberon felt like a young apprentice again. He was trained to fend off arms brandished at him, but to retaliate without causing deadly injuries was something no one had ever taught him. If he struck too lightly the man would come at him again, but if he hit too hard the king's order would not be fulfilled. He thrust his sword forward, penetrating the man's shoulder. His opponent dropped his weapon and stumbled back, and the young soldier congratulated himself for the one success. But the next adversary had already reached him, and he swung in his saddle, directing Harolyan to the right, and with yet another strike of his sword cut through the sword arm of the Dunlending. Exhaling, Hilberon watched the screaming man go down, only to face the next row of enemies. Harolyan pranced suddenly, and the Gondorian took two hands to hold the reins, before he realised that the steed had more battle experience than he. The attackers fled the wildly thrashing hoofs, and through the tension Hilberon almost smiled. For a moment he looked to King Elessar. The fighting skills of that man were legendary, and even in a strange fight like this he had the utmost control over his defence, the enemies, and the surroundings. When a figure appeared on a ledge it was he who noticed him first. Hilberon's gaze followed his. Three persons stood there watching the fight, and the young soldier recognised two of them, who had belonged to the delegation at Edoras. Then a hillman caught Hilberon's attention, and only out of the corner of his eye he saw King Elessar move his steed to where King Éomer's armour and helmet could be seen.

  “Éomer! Éomer!” It was Aragorn’s voice that rang out over the noise of the raging battle. The Rohirrim king sheathed his sword and grasped the polearm of a very surprised Dunlending, wrenching it out of his hands with one fierce tug as he rode by and swinging it against another one, the knifed end cutting the other weapon in half. Only then did Éomer dare to look for the Gondorian. Aragorn was over to his left, anxiously indicating something that lay behind Éomer. Turning Battleaxe in a tight circle, Éomer’s gaze went up to where his friend was pointing, briefly becoming aware of movement, scurrying shapes in fur and ragged clothing high above them on a mountain path. For a second, he thought he saw the stout shape of one of the leaders who had been at Meduseld – Rulen, he remembered – then it too disappeared behind the rocks.

  “I’m going after them!” Aragorn shouted. In the time it had taken Éomer to see what his friend had meant, Aragorn had made it over the field of battle to his side. “Can you and your men hold your own against them?”

  “Are you jesting?” Éomer snorted. “Go! But see that you find Thor first. He’ll be able to tell you how to get up there. As soon as we’re finished here, we’ll come after you.” Another group of attackers came charging at him, ending their brief discussion.

------------------------

  Galdur lashed out a mighty strike, cutting through the polearm that was swinging toward him. A vicious kick sent his attacker sprawling, and with a quick shift of his weight, he threw Axálar around to run over the fallen body. Hardly caring for the agonised scream from below, he turned toward the next enemy, but as soon as the hillman saw what had happened to his kinsman, he turned on his tail and fled. A grim smile tugged at Galdur’s mouth as he directed his steed in a quick circle, momentarily free of attackers. Not far from him, his king was in the middle of a melee with three attackers, his attention bound, and directed away from him.

  The thought came to Galdur like a bolt of lightning, and before he had fully realised his own intent, Axálar was already accelerating toward Éomer. He drew back his arm with the spear, preparing to put all of his weight and strength behind the thrust. It was now or never. No one would ever know what had happened in the heat of the battle. The Valar had granted him a moment of clarity in the heat of the skirmish, and he was determined to seize it. The Rohirrim would thank him for this. Tensing for the deadly thrust, the captain suddenly caught a blur of dark brown from the left, then something crashed into him with the force of a battering ram! Shrieking, Axálar came off his legs, and for an awful moment, his grey neck appeared over Galdur as he fell backwards, taking his rider along.

  An awful scream from behind! Having deterred his attackers, who were running from Battleaxe’s powerful frame, Éomer thrust the stallion around to look, and the sight froze him. Galdur was down, pinned under the weight of his horse and screaming in agony! Before he knew what he was doing, the king had slid from his saddle and was running toward his fallen kinsman. Axálar was wildly thrashing and still screaming, unable to get up. Most likely he had broken a leg in the fall, but at this second, the Rohirrim king cared only for his captain as he already saw more Dunlendings charge toward them like seasoned scavengers closing in for the kill. A well-known mighty bay horse briefly charged through his field of vision as Éomer ran around Axálar’s hindquarters.

  “Elfhelm, keep them off!”

  “Éomer, no!”

------------------------

  The king was coming for him. The king had not seen what happened. The chance was still there. Through the haze of agony that ravaged his body, Galdur saw his sword lying close by. His fingers closed around it.

------------------------

  “Captain, hold on! Be prepared to pull back!” Éomer moved to the fallen’s side, dropping Gúthwine and laying his hands on the grey stallion’s saddle to shove him from Galdur’s legs, yelling for help. Missing his kinsman’s hard look and the sudden flash of his moving sword.

  “Éomer, back!”

  The king’s head shot up at the panic in Elfhelm’s voice, but what he saw could not possibly be: a spear was flying toward him, released from the marshal’s hand!

  With a gasp, Éomer jumped back, and Galdur’s agonised scream rang over the battlefield as the lance skewered him through the armour and through the abdomen!

  “Elfhelm!”

  “Stay away, Éomer! He’s a traitor!” The marshal’s face was a mask of unrelenting disdain as he brought his steed to an abrupt stop next to them, almost causing the stallion to tread onto the seriously injured soldier in the process. “He was trying to kill you.” 

  His words were clear. Even the noises of the battle were dying down around them, so there was no way to misunderstand what the new Lord of Westfold had said. Yet Éomer’s mind was unable to grasp their meaning as he stood rooted to the spot, staring at his friend of many years before he stared at the fallen captain.

  “What?”

  A brief glance confirmed to the older warrior that their attackers were indeed under control and being herded toward a shallow niche in the rock wall. From the corners of his eyes, he also saw Thor coming their way with the reins of Éomer’s stallion in hand. His gaze grew cold as he stared down on Erkenbrand’s second-in-command.

  “He was coming up behind you with his spear readied when you were fighting the three Dunlendings. Had I not intercepted him, it would be you lying on the ground impaled. Apparently, the expression of ‘having your back’ has quite a different meaning in the Westfold, does it, scum?” Elfhelm snorted, feeling tempted to grasp the shaft of his protruding spear and twist it. In answer, the deadly pale man on the ground spat at his feet, a mixture of saliva and blood.

  “Galdur? Captain…” Éomer felt as if he had been hit over the head by a troll. His own soldier had attempted to assassinate him? Numbly, barely noticing what he was doing, he accepted Battleaxe’s reins from his scout’s hands as Thor rode up at his side. “Why?”

  “Sire, I hate to interrupt, but we have rounded up the enemy against the wall. You will need to talk to them, my lord. Before they try a feint, or whatever comes to their minds.” Slowly, as if he was waking from deep sleep, his king’s eyes turned to him. Then, suddenly shifting his attention to what lay behind the captain’s shoulder, he seemed to return to reality.

  “Aye…” With a last confused glance at the man on the ground, he stepped over to his stallion’s side and swung into the saddle. “Elfhelm, watch him. Make sure he survives until he can be questioned, or try now and see what you can find out. I will be back shortly.”

  The marshal nodded and cast a meaningful glance at the wounded soldier.

  “Aye, sire. My pleasure.”

  Éomer’s expression darkened even more when he turned his attention to the captain’s steed. It was obvious the stallion would not get back on his legs again. He hated to give the next order, but it was the merciful thing to do. A small nod towards the grey.

  “Put him out of his misery, Elfhelm. He should not be forced to suffer any longer.“ The Lord of Westfold knew what he had to do, and his expression told Éomer clearly how much he dreaded his task. Killing their beloved horses, even if the case was hopeless, was hard for any Rohirrim. They were partners in battle, no less. It was their horses who had enabled their people who were spread over such a vast land to endure against all odds. It was with a heavy heart that the older warrior drew his sword. Éomer chose not to wait. He turned to Thor.

  “Come with me. I need you to speak some Dunlendish for me.”

------------------------

  The moment he had seen them was the moment they had already vanished among the rocks. When Aragorn turned to spur on his horse, fighting two Dunlendings blocking his way, he followed only the direction the men must have taken since they had not appeared on the battlefield. He called to his men to follow him, but they only heard his command when Fáred on the other side of the battle repeated it. Shedding off their screaming enemies the ranks of the Royal Guard formed anew to accompany their king. Gazing upwards at the rugged walls Aragorn stood in the stirrups, silently hoping that the leaders had not escaped into the mountains. There was no way to be sure, but only to follow the narrow path along the mountain slope which he could see from his position. Hilberon in front of him suddenly pointed out to some shapes in dark clothes, mingling with the colours of the mountains. Closing in Aragorn distinguished two broad frames and one, considering that one to belong to a younger man. His face he could not see, but they would soon reach them. Upon his command the soldiers spurred their steeds into gallop, only to notice that the figures eluded their pursuers once more as if they could blend into the rocks and stones. Hilberon turned in the saddle, guilt in his features. The king signalled him to move on. There had to be a way to find them and – if they were not willing to halt by themselves – stop and hinder them from escaping again.

  “There!” Tarés suddenly shouted raising his arm. “They take that curve!” He looked over his shoulder to see the king and the others follow and wondered how the Dunlendings could have been so quick compared to the speed of the soldiers' horses. But there would be time to dwell on this subject later. Right now they all only wanted to reach the hillmen as fast as possible before they had a chance to vanish again.

------------------------

  “People of Dunland!” Éomer’s gaze swept the rows of defeated, anxious hillmen his éored had herded into the cornice. Worried black eyes met his gaze in dread. Some of the men were bleeding, some holding various body parts in pain, but all in all, it appeared as if the Rohirrim and their Gondorian brothers had largely succeeded in disarming their attackers and keeping them alive. “We have not come to kill you, this much should be clear to you by now. If we wanted to slaughter you, it would have been easy to do, and even now, as you are standing disarmed, unable to defend yourselves, doing what you expected us to do would be far easier than achieving our real goal.” He inhaled, waiting for Thor at his side to finish and meeting the eyes of a particularly broad, yet not very tall man he remembered from Edoras. One of the guards, if he was not mistaken.

  “We are here because we want to talk. Because we want to salvage of our peace talks what can be salvaged, but since you would not listen, some of you have been wounded now, and a few even killed, although that had not been our intention.”

  “Lies!” An angry voice yelled out of the crowd, and Éomer’s attention shifted to the stout man who was making his way to the front row now. He locked eyes with his scout who lowly repeated the uttered accusations in Rohirric. “You killed the leader of our delegation, and now you have come to finish what you have begun!”

  “So why is it you’re still alive then, Durden? Why did we allow you to return to your land and alert your people? Why did we not slaughter you before you left the Mark, for it would have been the easiest thing in the world. Tell me!” Éomer urged Battleaxe a few steps forward, forcing the angry Dunlending back. Furious glances sized him up, contemplating whether it there was a possibility to drag the king from his horse and drastically change their position in these negotiations. Yet the Rohirrim king was smart enough to halt just outside their reach, and his guards were watchful. “And why did we not kill you and your men even though you ambushed us? Why did we take the greater risk of only disarming you?”

  The leader snorted angrily.

  “What do I know about forgoil-tactics?”

  “Right,” Éomer repeated, glowering down. “What do you know? Nothing we could do would ever convince you of our good intentions. I meant what I said during the parley. I am as devastated by what happened as you. Never had blood been spilled in the Golden Hall, and whoever desecrated its sanctity will have to pay for it. I have set my mind on finding out who it was, and if you should know one thing about me, Durden, it is that I always achieve what I set out to do. Here and now, I give you my word that Grodes’ murderer will be brought to justice, no matter whether he is Dunlending or Rohirrim.”

  Low muttering went through the rows when Thor had finished.

  “You, however, should ask yourself whether it is really in your people’s best interest to simply shun the prospects of being granted farmland in the Mark. Have you already told these men who fought against us so courageously of our proposal? Do they know that if they would have killed us, the prospects of ever settling our conflict and being able to sustain themselves would have vanished? Did you tell them, Durden?”

  The muttering increased in volume under Thor’s calm voice, and suddenly the Dunlending leader found himself in the focus of his kinsmen’s attention, their expressions ranging from bewilderment to anger.

  “That is right,” Éomer took the opportunity to speak into the dumbfounded confusion. “We offered your leaders land in the Mark for a hundred and fifty of your people to plough. We offered them the protection of an éored and the knowledge of our people to help them with the work on the field. Our offer still stands, which is why we have come here to reconfirm it. Ask yourself whether you really want to throw this opportunity away. Ask your leaders. We will grant you the time to discuss this among yourselves. We left our main host at the Rohan side of the Isen. We will wait there for ten days. If you accept to continue the negotiations, you will get there in time and bring the Rohirrim captives you took from the two settlements you raided. If you are not there, we will know that you have no more interest in peace talks, and you will then have to face the consequences of your decision.”

  “What choice is this?” Durden grumbled, yet sounding insecure under the close scrutiny of his people. Éomer stared him down.

  “It is the choice between life and death for your people, Durden. Nothing less. Choose wisely.” He turned Battleaxe around and sent the stallion into a swift trot that brought him up next to his scout. “Let us follow Elessar, Thor. Lead the way.”

------------------------

  The sandy turf turned to slippery stone, and their surroundings closed them in. Pillars of stone loomed like watchmen at the entrance of the southern part of the Misty Mountains, forcing those who wanted to follow the path to do so on their feet. Brego already reared, unwilling to set his hoofs into the hollow-sounding gorge. Aragorn looked up to the ledge the tribal leaders had been standing on not long ago. They must have passed through here; there was no other way leading into the mountains. The king had made up his mind before: he had to move on. Quickly he dismounted and named two of his company to watch over the horses, while the others marched behind him.

  Halamin gave the reins to his comrade and strode beside Hilberon. The young man felt the same uneasiness he had experienced since the pursuit had begun. But if the king commanded it they both would go with him wherever they had to. That did not keep them from worrying about the outcome. Halamin glanced at his younger companion.

  “Well, Hilberon, that’s when the troll swings the club, hum?” he tried to tease him, but Hilberon only twitched his lips, unable to react to the joke.

  Aragorn would have liked time to explore the narrow path, but time was the least of his resources. Already in the distance, hard to make out in the mist that hung in the air like a spider’s thick net, shadows were vanishing. He called to them.

  “Don’t run away! We come in peace! We will do you no harm!“ But the light footsteps did not stop, and instead ran further until they were hardly audible.

  To their right and left rough vertical walls rose, and through the haze - which had not lifted though it was already noon - it was impossible to look further than a few feet. With every step Aragorn took, the feeling of imminent danger rose. He knew that the cliffs within the narrow gorge they were marching through could bear peril out of their view, but their only chance of finally making contact with the tribal leaders lay ahead. If he did not succeed now, they would retreat into the mountains where it would be hard if not impossible to follow them. Stories were told about caves and paths in the Misty Mountains, some so old that their existence had turned into myth and most of the living had no knowledge of them at all. If at least some of these stories bore truth, the Dunlendings could hide quickly and their pursuers would pass them by without noticing.

  Quickening their steps Tarés and Fáred flanked their king, and their ruler admitted them with a nod. With his hand on the hilt of his sword Tarés looked pale but nonetheless determined enough to skewer everything that got too close. He would not let anything happen to his king. Hilberon behind them breathed shallowly. This situation looked even worse than observing the Easterlings at their campsite in Ithilien. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, and though Halamin stayed at his side he knew instinctively that this might not keep the danger at bay. He wanted to swallow his fear, but when he glanced sideways he saw Halamin’s face bear the same tense and worried expression. It was too strange a path to be harmless.

------------------------

EDORAS

  Passing under the warm afternoon sun Lothíriel and Arwen overlooked the plains, but no comfort could be gained from the rolling meadows. Watching the birds in the distance, they left the garden behind and entered the Golden Hall. Compared to the bright light it was dim, and the outlines of the hearth, benches and tables could hardly be seen. Suddenly Arwen fell on her knees with a choked cry, clutching her right hand to her throat.

  “Arwen, what happened?” Lothíriel cried out and knelt beside her, but the Queen of Gondor could not answer. A weight, immeasurably heavy lay on her breast, cutting off air. She opened her mouth in a painful grimace, trying to inhale, but it was impossible. Her face turned ashen when the pain intensified. Pictures of an impenetrable darkness rushed her mind, of loneliness and pain. Arwen would have wanted to cry, but even that was impossible. Lothíriel gently touched her arm. “Arwen, how can I help you?” she asked desperately. Arwen shook her head slightly, closed her eyes, and concentrated, bowing her head. The images of darkness were without any scheme, but a threat of great amount still lingered. With an effort she then sucked in air as if it had to force its way to her lungs. Twice, three times she inhaled, and finally tears trickled down her cheeks. With her eyes still closed she murmured in a voice that seemed to come from afar:

  “He is in fear. Such a deep fear.”

------------------------

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  Aragorn could rush now, push forward without looking left or right to gain on the ones they were desperately searching for, or he could proceed slowly, carefully and risk falling behind the group. Determined to not let the chance slip through his fingers he marched on, hand on the hilt of his sword, vigilant, watchful, and tensed to be ready if anything unexpected should happen. The clanging of chain mail and the drumming of boots behind him on the stony path made it hard to distinguish between the sounds echoing from the walls and those stirred by others. They had reached the narrowest place yet on the path when a crackle, no more than the rolling of small stones across an incline, made him strain his senses even more while the group proceeded. Unwillingly they had slowed down; they all were tense to their core.

  All of a sudden there was movement six feet above them on both sides of the wall. The men drew theirs swords immediately, but not quick enough.

  “Nets!“ Fáred shouted at the top of his voice.

  A dark mass of thick and tight-knotted nets, encumbered on their outer edges with wrapped stones, rained down on them, smashing some of the screaming soldiers to the ground. Others stumbled back under the weight, raising their arms and trying to get rid of the ropes at once. Blades clanked on the hard ground. Aragorn hacked his sword through the tethers surrounding him, but his weapon got stuck. The ropes were drenched with a liquid that hampered the blade from cutting through fast enough. The men got entangled in the mass and with every move the ropes wrapped them up even more. The king shouted orders to cut through the ropes with knives without too much movement and was still fighting his way out of the tight embrace when screams came from above: Men jumped from the steep ledge where they had lain hidden. Dunlendings, dark-haired, bearded, wild-looking men in rough garments with clubs in their hands rushed the trapped soldiers. Fáred cursed, spiked the first in the leg with his sword, but the same moment he lost his weapon to two other attackers tearing it from his hands. He rewarded them with heavy blows to their dirty faces, shoving them out of his reach. Shouts echoed through the narrow passage; more men poured from their hideouts, gaining on them, overwhelming those who could not cut themselves out quickly enough. Tarés counted fifteen, then twenty. They were outnumbering them!

  Aragorn hit the Dunlending standing next to him with his fist, still entangled in the sticky rope, hardly able to see. Since a sword was useless he had drawn his hunting knife. Pushing aside two enemies with his shoulder he managed at least to cut the two ropes right in front of him to gain more range. Waving their clubs more attackers appeared in his view. Aragorn was hit on his right shoulder, but still stood, forcing the hunting knife into the man’s upper arm and shoved him into the next one coming up to him. Behind him Tarés held the swinging arm of a Dunlending to save the king’s head from being cloven by a club, when a second foe tore at his legs, bringing him down with a crash. The Dunlending fell upon him, and Tarés struggled ferociously to push him away and get on his feet again. He had to protect the king's back! Aragorn spun around, blocking the arm of yet another enemy going for Hilberon, who defended Dumarin lying already on the ground. The young soldier was bathed in sweat, but still on his feet, bleeding from an arm-wound, and aiming his dagger left-handedly for a very broad, troll-like man, who, when the stab went ill, simply grabbed his shoulders and pushed him backwards with a roar. Hilberon fell against Halamin, and they both went down, unable to get up again. Within the minute the fight lasted the enemy’s intention was obvious: none should be killed. The king knocked out another man close to him, saw the captain stab his dagger into a Dunlending’s throat with an expression of grim satisfaction, but that ended the moment Fáred was torn aside and fell, dropping his weapon. Aragorn tried to move forward, tried to aid the captain who was immediately held down by four hands. A strong blow to his back knocked the air out of his lungs. He stumbled, tried to turn, and tripped over the heavy net. A club hit him on his left temple, forced him onto his knees. In a flash of light the king saw Hilberon’s face, wide-eyed and shocked, then -- nothing.

  Harishdane stood on a projecting stone four feet away from the fight, which was over more quickly than she had expected. All the training lessons -- some of them more frustrating than she now liked to recall -- and her flawless planning had worked out to her satisfaction, though one Dunlending had been killed and already been taken away. The last of the thirteen men in the king’s company was overwhelmed. Most of the soldiers lay motionless on the ground, but not for long, as she knew. Her allies and the women in her service quickly freed them from the nets and bound the soldiers’ wrists. The first men stirred already, and Harishdane shouted a short command in her tongue to gag those soldiers at once. The plan consisted of speed and little noise, though she had to admit that in the latter the Dunlendings were not open to reason. Now speed was their worthiest ally. The soldiers the king had left with the horses waited a mile beyond the gorge's entrance, but within the mountains sound travelled far. The very eager Dunlendings and Harishdane’s followers had to leave this path as fast as possible. She would not want the Gondorians to become suspicious and follow their ruler. Until now too short a time had passed to disquiet the soldiers. She looked down on the King of Gondor. The net was lifted, but he did not stir. While two Dunlendings grudgingly bound his hands in front of his body, Sisune, a female soldier of her own tribe, bent down to grab the shining silver chain with the attached pendant the king wore. With catlike grace Harishdane left her lookout and stopped Sisune with a sharp command.

  “That belongs to me,“ she growled menacingly, and the young woman retreated with a bow though her yearning glance at the jewel betrayed her humble obedience. When her leader looked away she quickly grabbed the hunting knife that lay near the king's left hand and hid it under her tunic. Harishdane knelt beside the king. Over his left temple blood trickled down to his eye and cheek; the blow had been harder than she had thought from her viewpoint, which made her curse the fool who had done it, but she did not utter any accusation while the Dunlendings gagged their valuable prisoner with a piece of cloth. They did not know who they now called their captive. Only Harishdane herself and her second-in-command, Asentis, knew now – with the leaders of the Dunlendings gone – who that man on the ground was. With grim satisfaction Harishdane took the jewel and added the ring he had worn to the chain to put on her neck. The simple tribesmen eyed her silently; Harishdane knew that they would not have befriended her were it not for the skill and the weapons they urgently needed to fulfil their goal. She shot a quick glance to the men in her company. “Don’t leave the weapons or anything else behind!“ the tall slender woman ordered. She took Andúril and its scabbard for herself, and the way she handled it betrayed the impression that she was weak due to her slender appearance. Getting up she watched Url, the Dunlending who headed the group, remove the loose stones guarding the secret pathway. It was narrow, and the way behind the entrance dark and stifling. Two Dunlendings went in first, pulling in the struggling captives, and lifting those over the threshold who were still unconscious. Harishdane was satisfied when the king at last was carried to the entrance. She looked around. Two of her kinsmen wiped the ground with long fresh branches to hide the traces of the fight, took knives and bows and the last net the Dunlendings had forgotten. Then all they hurried to the path in the mountain.

  Url closed the entrance and scurried after them.

------------------------

  “There are two of his men! They left their horses behind!” Thor indicated the distant shapes at the foot of the mountain they had been riding alongside. The éored followed his lead, their thunder echoing from the granite walls.

  Éomer’s gaze went up the cliffs above their heads in search for a sign of his ally or the hillmen he had followed. He half expected an attack from above, another rockslide grinding its deadly path towards them, but nothing happened. Reining in Battleaxe, he signalled his men to slow down and came to a halt next to the waiting Gondorian soldiers.

  “Where is your king?”

  “They took that way, sire,” one of the men answered, indicating a steep narrow path that went up into the mountains. “The king and his guard. They were close behind our foes!”

  “Then they might need our aid,” Éomer determined, turning his stallion in a tight circle to address his men. “I need fifteen men to accompany me! Thor, Arnhelm, you are coming along. Elfhelm, Fráccas, you will remain here with the rest of the men. If we are not back in two hours, you come after us. ” His gaze became persistent when he saw the silent protest in the older warrior’s eyes, and he directed Battleaxe next to his friend’s long-legged bay and lowered his voice. “Elfhelm, I need you to question Galdur. Tolgor says his wounds are mortal, and I need to know what he knows before he dies. I need to know whether there is a bigger conspiracy behind him. Question him, but do not let our men know about it. Only you can do this for me.”

  Reluctant, but seeing the wisdom behind the younger man’s words, Elfhelm gave him the nod he had been waiting for.

  “I will see it done then. But watch out on that mountain path. This terrain is treacherous. We do not know our way here, and it may be full of traps.”

  “Thor will know them.” The king slid from the saddle and gave the reins to one of the Gondorians, also shedding his helm as he made for the narrow path with great strides. Once again his gaze went up to the Lord of Westfold, who was still looking uncomfortable at the separation of their forces. “And Elfhelm? Keep an eye out for the Dunlendings. I do not know what they are up to now; they may follow us and dare another attack.”

  “If they do, they shall regret the attempt. I cannot promise I will be as merciful as you if they attack us twice in one day.” He did not waver at Éomer’s stern expression, and his gaze stayed on the young king as he and his men strode over to the beginning of the path. Hands on the hilts of their swords, ready for whatever would await them, the Rohirrim climbed up into the mountains.

------------------------

  Hilberon had watched the king go down, but his shout had ended with a thick piece of cloth in his mouth. Though he had struggled with all he had the young soldier had been no match for the tall and broadly-built Dunlending who had bound his wrists at last. Now he was pushed into the narrow path through the mountain. He had hit his head at the entrance trying to look back and find out what had happened to the king, but the Dunlending had at once poked him with a primitive looking knife, and since Halamin was before him Hilberon followed the older man into the dark and endless tunnel that seemed to breathe the mouldy stench of decay. The young soldier felt miserable, and though he should not fear anything his heart beat in his throat, and he could only breathe shallowly. He shivered involuntarily. In the distance he could make out a man with a torch. Around him it was too dark to see anything, and more than once he hit his forehead on a projecting stone and stumbled back, only to feel -- more than he could see -- the presence of his captor right behind him, pushing him forward with even more determination, growling threats in his tongue. Again he turned his head and saw the entrance being closed with the last fitting stone. In the last rays of daylight he recognised the limp figure of the king being carried in by two Dunlendings, then all the lights went out. Hilberon swallowed trying to recall what Halamin had told him – that courage was good and fear was good. One needed both to survive. While trudging through the darkness, bound, gagged, and in pain, Hilberon knew that at this time his courage was struggling with his fear.

------------------------

CHAPTER 21 – Facing the Enemy

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  After a march in the utter darkness Halamin came to a halt, and Hilberon stumbled into him. The pain in his right arm from the inflicted wound had grown since he had hit and ripped it at the rough wall. It had been the moment he had almost fainted, and only the stab in his back had propelled him further. More blood had oozed out; he could feel it like a worm wriggling over his skin. Now he touched and smelt the hard leather of Halamin's jerkin in front of him, and from behind shouts he did not understand resounded. One of the hillmen was bellowing back, and Hilberon craned his neck to see more. Some feet ahead a torch lit the tunnel and the rocks which had fallen from the ceiling, blocking their way, leaving not enough space for a boy to crawl through. More clamour, angry and commanding, echoed from the walls, and since they could not go on, the strong hand of one of the captors pressed Hilberon down. He sat, leaning against the wall, and Halamin was forced down beside him. A swarthy hand tested if the gags were still in place before the man moved on. Another shout to the Dunlendings followed, whereupon a second and third torch appeared nearby. Two men approached, dragging the unconscious king with them and putting him down on the left side of the path. A short, bellowed conversation followed, and while the broadly-built men moved forward some slender persons, whose faces Hilberon found strangely familiar, guarded the prisoners.

  Halamin pointed with his chin to their ruler lying opposite to them. They could see his face in the dim light, but he was still unconscious. Halamin looked up to one of the strangers, clad in a dark tunic and trousers, which were quite simply sewn, but not ragged as the Dunlendings' clothes. The lower half of his face was covered by a red scarf, and the dark eyes did not give away whether it was a man or a woman. From the outer appearance Halamin assumed that he was of the same race as the woman Captain Fáred had shot in Eastern Ithilien, but then he dismissed the thought: What should an Easterling do in Dunland? The stranger watched the prisoners intently, and it was simple enough to see that from this position no escape was possible. Then he stooped over the unconscious king to take the knife's scabbard from his back and hide it under his tunic. Hilberon watched in stunned disbelief, but when the stranger pierced him with his stare, he shivered and looked down upon his hands. What had they gotten into? Where were those men heading for? What would happen to Halamin, Fáred, and all the others he could not see in the darkness behind them?

  The Dunlendings carried the rubble past the soldiers, grunting and growling in their tongue. When they moved forward again, Hilberon saw the king stir. From his temple to his left eye and down to his bearded cheek blood had spread and clotted. When Aragorn tried to open his eyes it seemed to be with effort. And once he could see the outlines of the dimly-lit tunnel and the men standing in it he jerked up his head with a cry, muffled by the cloth in his mouth. Hilberon thought the king to be in great pain, and flinched compassionately. Aragorn lowered his head again, raising his hands to his face, touching his temple, but at the same moment realising that his wrists were bound. In the torchlight the young soldier saw fear in his ruler's eyes, but it could not be. Halamin had told Hilberon about King Elessar and the courage and stamina the man possessed. It was impossible to think of him and fear at the same time. It had to be a trick of the light, and when he looked a second time the expression had changed. Fully conscious now the king was surveying the tunnel, their captors, and the barrier which had been cleared away, with keen eyes. Hilberon thanked the Valar that the king was still with them. With him the obstacles would be overcome, and they would all return to Gondor.

-----------------------------

  The mouldy, stifling air in the tunnel was now, after the hillmen had carried away the barrier, pestered with the sharp stench of sweat and wet clothing. The captives slurred over the stony path, bowing their heads from time to time when the ceiling turned low. They were only moving slowly, resistant to their captors, who pushed them now and then, and needlessly poked the tips of their knives into their backs, growling and menacing, but knowing at the same time that the prisoners should not be harmed. It had been a demand the strangers had made, but the hillmen would have preferred to neglect it since one of their men had been killed in the ambush. Woldro and Url had been very clear: No one was allowed to kill a prisoner. So far the agreement had worked, but with the dead body of their kinsman the lust for revenge grew.

  Harishdane longed for fresh air and the clear sky above her. She despised the uncared-for paths through the mountains which were always covered with rubble and other jagged stones, but had quickly learned that it was the fastest way to reach Dunland if one needed to avoid Rohan. It was the stealthiest, too. She had walked it before many times, and together with Asentis, her second-in-command, she was the only one who knew all the secret side paths and hideouts the Dunlendings had discovered or built within the last hundred years. She could follow these trails and always find a place to hide if necessary. She knew that after the seemingly endless darkness, light shone yonder on the mountain, and that they were close now. They would reach the lowest peak before nightfall, and after another mile through the rough surroundings a small plateau would serve as a campsite. She could hardly wait to see it, and yet she did not outrun the group to reach the open range first. Too valuable was the one prisoner to leave him to these unrefined hillmen. They were good workers and, in some ways, willing to listen, but she would not trust them.

  The Dunlendings had become aware of the king being awake and had pulled him to his feet. Pushing and shoving they made him walk in front of one of their comrades, ignoring that their prisoner was swaying. With a deep growl the hillman poked the king's back when he fell behind. In the darkness Aragorn was fighting the feelings that desperately wanted to surface. He had to control himself and find out what had happened after the moment he had passed out. He had to concentrate on the way ahead and remain watchful. The guilt of having misled his men weighed him down. He had known about the danger and had proceeded nevertheless. The Dunlendings’ tribal leaders had set a trap for his men, and he had foolishly stepped into it. Guilt mingled with rage when he thought about his soldiers being led like cattle through this narrow tunnel. Again he had made a choice to the ill fortune of his company, and he could do naught to change their fate at the moment. The darkness enclosed him, and the feeling of fear returned. Fear. He must not think of it. For the sake of his people Aragorn had to remain sombre and alert. He must not give into the memory of the threat that darkness and constriction meant to him. ‘Do not fear the darkness,’ Arwen had said upon his leave. He wondered if she had seen his fate, and for a short time the thought of his wife calmed him.

  Hilberon felt his right arm again, but the pain that had followed the numbness of the second hit was not easy to endure. He clenched his teeth and went on, sometimes almost falling into Halamin in front of him, sometimes lagging behind, only to be pushed forward again, stumbling on through the darkness. He knew not for how long they had been trudging through the tunnel or where it led to. He wished for nothing more than to get rid of the gag and ropes to fight those men keeping him hostage. Through his fear he felt rage growing. He wanted to do something and not be taken far away from his home in the hands of these wild men. At Edoras rumours had spread that the strange men from Dunland had abducted some Rohirrim for unknown reasons, and some peasants had said that the Dunlendings would eat their captives, but Hilberon had never thought to live through the same ordeal of being shoved around like animals in a herd. He only knew that with the king among them this captivity would not last long. He trusted his ruler, though he had never been at his side during the Ring War. He trusted in those deeds the stories told of, and the confidence Halamin and Tarés had always voiced. They would not fail. They would return home again. Another hard push and a growl from behind; he should move faster, but he just swayed and tripped over a pile of loose stones on the path. A big hand grabbed his shoulder, steadied him, only to order him harshly again. He did not understand a word. The young soldier closed his eyes for a moment, then moved on.

  Not more than twenty feet away, daylight could be guessed through the narrow exit of the tunnel, and, finally, Harishdane left the company to reach it first. She climbed through the hole and, halting on a rock high enough to overlook the valleys beyond, inhaled deeply. The sun set as if it was dreading the thick clouds floating in from the south, and orange light covered them with patches of dark gold. But the clouds would not lose their rain over the mountains. Not on this evening anyway; she could always smell it when rain drew near. With her hands pressed on her hips Harishdane sucked in air, relieved and... satisfied. The first part of the always strenuous journey to her homeland was fulfilled. Surefooted she jumped down one step from her lookout as the Dunlendings pulled the prisoners out of the tunnel one by one, caring little if they hit their heads. She could see Sisune, a rather young woman of her kin, following the first two captives, and as usual, she averted her eyes obediently as was the rule. Harishdane knew about Sisune’s loyalty, and it added to her lifting mood. Bound like this the captives were no more than cattle, and Harishdane could not wait to see the faces of her kinsmen upon delivering them to serve her tribe. It would be a day of pure bliss, a day closer to the fulfilment of their common goal, and, again, she allowed herself a moment of contemplation surveying the row of men squinting into the light. The hillmen made them walk faster since the terrain was clear to see now, and the men obeyed the continued threat though their eyes shot fierce glances at their captors. An older soldier with a mighty reddish beard shoved a Dunlending aside, and the captor pushed him forward even harder, making him fall on his knees. He got to his feet again, willing to take up the challenge again, but the next soldier, younger and rather fat but with more sense for the situation, took his upper arm and signalled him to move on. Harishdane waited for the one to come, and when he emerged from the shadow, held forcefully by Url, who almost threw him on the path, he became aware of her. She stood proud and erect in the sunset, unflinching under the menacing stare of the king. She mocked him with her glance, challenged him, so sure she was that no harm could be done to her since Asentis came after the ruler, shoving the resisting king further on the path his men had already taken. He looked back with a threat in his grey eyes, but she only returned a radiant look of victory. Then the moment was gone, the king turned the next curve, and Asentis bowed curtly to Harishdane before he quickly strode behind the prisoners.

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ON THE PATH

  Thor straightened, pressing one hand against his back with an unconscious grimace, while his dark eyes swept the rugged landscape for the umpteenth time to no result. Midday had come and gone; by now they had advanced much further into the mountains than they had expected to in their search, and it was well into the afternoon. Only a few hours of daylight still remained in which to find their ally.

  At first, the trail made by Elessar and his men had been easy to pick up and follow, but on their ascent, hard rock had soon replaced the last remains of soil, and no more tracks had been found for hours now. Occasionally, their entire group had halted and strained for noises that carried well in this barren, rocky territory. However, apart from birds and a few other animals, they had found nothing moving. Desperate for a sign of life from his friend, Éomer had finally shouted, and the echo had carried his voice through the mountains... to no reply other than the wind.

  The men had stared at each other then, the worry in their expressions deepening. King Elessar must indeed be very far away to neither hear them nor be able to answer. That... or something had happened to him and his men. Under the best circumstances, they were close by and gagged, or someone was holding a knife to their throat to prevent them from answering. Under the worst circumstances... the King of Gondor and his guards were already lying somewhere on the side of these mountains, slain and left as fodder for the crows.

  It was this image in his mind that brought Thor back to reality and made him take up his task with renewed effort.

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MISTY MOUNTAINS

  In the waning daylight the hillmen hurried their prisoners through narrow pathways, under overhanging sharp-edged rocks, and through ancient and dry gullies which were only wide enough for two men to cross at the same time. The path wound through many curves, through gorges and under arches, and ever again even smaller paths crossed it. Hilberon did not know where they led to, but when he looked back he knew that even if he had been set free at once it would not have been easy to find the way back to the tunnel.

  Aragorn had been aware of one of the slender persons who could not be of Dunlending descent a few feet in front of him, and upon seeing the tall woman on top of the hillock he knew who had taught the hillmen to fight and equipped them with the necessary weapons. The Easterlings had aided the primitive hillmen, but the reason was still unclear. Turning his head he got another glimpse of the leading woman who bore an expression of arrogance. She did not wear any armour, but only a dark red tunic with fitting trousers and soft leather boots, and from a distance she had not been recognisable as an Easterling, but he was sure to have seen her figure among the tribal leaders on the ledge. She was responsible for the ambush and the capture! Suddenly and with growing fury he realised that the Dunlendings were only willing helpers, and that the whole time Éomer and he had been looking in the wrong direction. They both should have known that another evil stood behind the hillmen's actions, but they had not pressed hard enough to find out. But what had that woman offered the tribal leaders? The expulsion of the Rohirrim? Victory over their foes? Still the king did not understand why men were abducted if those reasons applied. Aragorn could not determine how, but he would do anything necessary to free his men and end the Easterlings' conspiracy.

  The wind sped up, whirling round the stones and over hillocks ahead, on which the prisoners could sometimes see the slender woman standing and peering into the distance. The gusts tangled with her black, sleek hair and billowed her loose-hanging tunic, but she seemed to enjoy being outdoors, lifting her chin and inhaling deeply. The way of the group led over the top of the lowest mountain and then, with the light almost gone, further down again, forcing the prisoners to be careful not to miss their footing, since they could hardly hold onto protruding stones. The Dunlendings did not care, but roughly pulled a soldier down when he did not walk fast enough. He fell with a muffled scream and was shoved forward, while the Dunlending huffed. In some places water dripped from a source unseen, and the captors filled their water-skins without letting the group halt or even sharing the water. Hilberon’s tongue felt as dry as the cloth sticking in his mouth. He was already weary, his feet hurt, and even more pain flooded from his arm up to his shoulder. He stumbled down the steep path and halted briefly at a corner before a hillman rushed him on. The way seemed to be filled with never ending threats and hurts. While he did not know if he could survive this ordeal, Hilberon thought about his father and what he would say if his only son did not return home. The picture in his head showed him a man in grief, waiting day and night at the gates of the White City until he finally realised that the one he longed to see would never cross the Pelennors again. Hilberon pressed his lips tight and forced himself on. He would not make his father grieve.

  Halamin looked back over his shoulder, his expression likewise worried and weary. Behind them and the slender woman, who kept a shimmering token under her dark brown tunic, the king was pressed forward. Halamin grimaced at seeing him battered like the others. Though the soldier was afraid of what would happen to them, he was filled with hatred as well. As far as he had understood they had come to these mountains to parley with the Dunlendings, and now they were betrayed and captured! Far behind the others Tarés and Fáred trudged, both drenched with sweat, but at the same time vigilant and determined. The day’s march had been long already, and their captors still pushed them forward, unrelenting. Hilberon followed the king’s gaze uphill. The tall woman, who seemed to be the leader though she was of another race, stared at the King of Gondor, her face a mask. However when her eyes narrowed she revealed her hatred, and Hilberon turned away from the threat these eyes bore. His heart was pounding suddenly, and without knowing why or how, he felt a deep fear as if he could not defend himself against an evil lurking around the next corner; it was as if he were meant to lose a fight for his life. He swallowed hard, and, unbeknownst to him, the group had slowed down. Only with a sharp order from another Easterling did they gain speed again.

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  At nightfall they reached a plateau amid a rock formation which looked like a mass of thick spikes shooting off the ground. Between these roughly hewn pillars the northern part of the Misty Mountains could be seen, covered now by darkness and clouds. Torches were lit, and Asentis, tall and wiry unlike the rest of his kin, stacked the firewood they had carried with them to kindle a fire. The prisoners were gathered to sit on one side of the campsite, and though they had covered much ground during the long march, the gags and ropes remained in place. The Dunlendings still feared that shouts could be heard by the enemy; for in the long hollow paths an echo was carried far. But Url also did not want them to talk with each other. Had they not said that those Gondorians were dangerous? That they might use their voices like wizards? He would not take any chances. So he nodded to three of his men to guard the prisoners and turned away from them.

  Though they were out in the open again Aragorn could still recall the dreadful feeling he had experienced in the long darkness. He could not escape the memory of the two days he had spent in the lowest part of the dungeon at Deromonor. He had seen nothing and had only heard the sounds of scurrying rats, centipedes, beetles, and other many-legged creatures in that room, which had been almost too small to stretch out his legs. His ribcage felt too tight to breathe and he forced his mind away from the impression, concentrating on their surroundings, pretending to examine the wound on his temple while he surveyed the campsite. Dunlendings and Easterlings were outnumbering his men, and since they were armed and most of them unharmed the king's guard would not be able to stand up against them. He glanced over his soldiers. They were weary, tired, and many of them had scratches and bruises. Another wave of guilt hit the king. Had he not been able to look through this plan? Why had he not seen it form in the beginning? The traitor at Meduseld who had killed Grodes could have been one of his own kin! The negotiations had been meant to fail from the beginning. It had been a part of the plan! But still Aragorn had believed that a change of perception was possible. He had been so willing to mediate between Éomer and Grodes that he had neglected the Dunlendings' history: the hatred was stronger than any will to overcome it.

  On the other side of the fire Harishdane stood with Asentis and Sisune, both listening intently to her orders. She didn’t need to do more than whisper, and while Sisune nodded obediently Harishdane faced Asentis. The young man of no more than twenty-five winters, who was clad in a dark brown tunic with black trousers and boots instead of his otherwise impressive armour, had been her favourite partner since the plan to deal with the Dunlendings had been evolved. He was taller than the usual male and equipped with a strength that did not show for he was as slender as were all of their race. With warm affection she remembered the fights he had won for her tribe. He had been the hero of the Easterlings’ ritual fight – the scásh - against an older and far more experienced fighter from the western shore of the sea. It had been a long fight, but according to the rules neither of them had been allowed to change weapons or leave the circle once they had entered. And Asentis had finally won. ‘Asentis Henosina – Asentis the Mighty’ they had called him henceforth. Harishdane had then decided that only he would be worthy to stand beside her, and so far he had more than once proved his qualities. Gently the leader’s hand stroked over the long, black hair behind his ear, then touched his muscled shoulder. His expression softened at the contact he had missed during the entire day. He longed for more but knew it was impossible at the moment. Harishdane rewarded him with the hint of a smile for his understanding and took back her hand while she continued talking.

  Url growled into his beard that he would not allow them to exclude him, and on his stout legs crossed the gap with heavy steps.

  “You tell me, Harishdane, what you talk of,“ he demanded in broken Westron. Harishdane did not answer, but dismissed her followers with a short nod. “Tell me!“ Url repeated. Though Woldro had told him to obey that woman he did not wish to be treated like an outcast. He knew not exactly where the sudden rush of fear an hour ago had come from, but his instincts told him not to take his eyes off the leader of those strangers.

  “We will rest only till first daylight,“ she said in her husky voice that was neither a man’s nor a woman’s. “Then we will go on. Some folk of mine await us. Rest now, Url. Don’t let anything happen. Keep the watch tight.“

  Url was hardly able to restrain himself from shouting at her. He knew she was lying!

  “Aye, we watch. And you?“

  But Harishdane had already left.

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ROHIRRIM CAMP

  The fading daylight commanded an end to their search for that day, and both Rohirrim and Gondorians trod down the steep mountain path with low spirits. Éomer stayed on the outcropping he had chosen to survey their efforts until he was certain to be the last one before he followed them. He cast a last desperate glance at his surroundings for a sign they might have overlooked. But yet again, the place did not betray its secrets under his scrutinising stare, and with a brusque motion, the Rohirrim king turned to leave, his face grim and his mind flowing over with all sorts of dark images.

  Where was Aragorn? How could he and his men have simply disappeared without leaving the slightest trace? Were they dealing with wizardry here? That his friend had fallen prey to some ill scheme was obvious to Éomer. Even in the exhilaration of the hunt, his friend would have thought to leave some clues behind for them to follow. Yet there was nothing. No tracks, no disturbance of the ground or foliage, nothing that would give them even the slightest hint that someone had used this path, and now that night was drawing closer, the mountains lived up to their name and veiled everything under a thick white blanket again, making it impossible to see until the morning. No, they had to abandon the search for now.

  His jaw set and his lips a thin line, Éomer descended the uneven path to the place where he had ordered his men to pitch camp. Fires had already been lit and bathed the atmosphere in an orange veil of flames and mist as he kicked in frustration at the ground, sending a cascade of gravel and small rocks tumbling over the side. Faces turned his way as he reached the camp, but as his men had learnt to read their former Third Marshal’s expression quite well, none dared address him. None except Elfhelm, who was just exiting one of the larger tents in the middle of the camp and strode his way over to his commander with unmistakable urgency on his face.

  “You did not find him,” he stated the obvious, yet even so casting a brief glance over Éomer’s shoulder as if to see for himself. “Thor already told me.”

  “There was nothing,” Éomer grumbled, coming to a halt, his hands unbeknownst to him clenched into fists at his side. “Not even the slightest sign of them. As if the earth opened up and swallowed them. Curse those Dunlendings! We should never have split up!”

  Elfhelm inhaled. He felt the same uneasiness about the King of Gondor’s disappearance, but there was another matter Éomer would have to concern his mind with right now.

  “I am certain we will find something tomorrow. They can’t have simply disappeared.” He took a deep breath. Elfhelm lowered his voice, as if he didn’t want for the men next to them to hear. He hated having to bother his brother-in-arms of many years with another grim matter. “Galdur is dying. Tolgor has been with him since you left, and he says that the captain won’t last the night. Even though we didn’t draw the spear from the wound, he’s getting weaker and weaker. It can only be a matter of time until he’ll lose consciousness. If you still want to interrogate him, you should do so now.” He could see that the captain-turned-assassin had been the last thing on the king’s mind. Too much had happened this day, and even the attempt on his own life had been pushed back in Éomer’s mind behind the abduction of the Gondorians. Until now.

  “Aye. You are right, Elfhelm.” Wiping his brow, Éomer’s tired gaze swept the camp. Several men were looking his way, their expressions strangely guarded. Had anyone witnessed the assassination? Had someone seen Elfhelm throw that spear at his own man? What were his soldiers thinking? Waking from his dark contemplation, the king gave himself a nudge to proceed. “Let’s get it over with. Come with me.” Motioning for his friend to follow, Éomer strode over to the tent and pulled aside the flap to enter. The thick stench of blood, sweat and vomit greeted him, and instinctively, he held his breath as he took in the small space. Their healer was sitting on the ground next to the cot where the captain had been laid, resting his back on a saddle that had been deposited there for just that reason. Upon the king’s entrance, he stood up and bowed.

  “It is good you have come, sire. I fear he won’t hold out much longer. He must be bleeding inwardly.” Both men’s gazes went to the wounded man on and under the pile of blankets. He was looking up to them, but his gaze was distant, and his drawn expression clearly indicated the pain he was in. Sweat beaded his face. Upon seeing the king though, a white-hot sparkle once again ignited the veiled blue eyes, and his lips twitched in disdain. Seeing such open hatred on the face of his once trusted soldier sent a sharp pain through Éomer’s gut. He had to literally force himself to avert his eyes from Galdur to look at the healer. “Leave us alone.”

  “Sire…” The man gave him a curt nod and departed. For a moment, leaden silence hung in the air as Éomer paced the narrow space in order to rid his mind of the gruesome thoughts accompanying Aragorn’s disappearance.

  “Captain…” he took a deep breath and exchanged a glance with the silently waiting Elfhelm before he directed his gaze towards the wounded man. “I admit it is hard for me to comprehend what happened. I trusted in you to watch my back, but instead you tried to stab it. Why? Because you wanted to avert the peace with Dunland?”

  “Your plan will be our ruin,” Galdur breathed, hissing at the pain the words inflicted in him. “It means our doom! Everyone sees it but you! I had to try to avert it at all costs. That’s why I killed that filth at Meduseld! You allowed them to soil the Hall of Kings! How could you? You let them disgrace our most sacred place! Something had to be done, and since you banished Erkenbrand, it was my responsibility. I failed, but at least I die in defence of the Mark! It is an honourable death, which is more than you can expect!”

  “Killing your king is an honourable act in your eyes?” Elfhelm pressed from behind, both furious and shattered. He had foreseen something like this, but that it would be Erkenbrand’s always trustworthy and valiant second-in-command… An even worse thought sprang up in his mind, but before he could utter it, Galdur, with his eyes on Éomer, spat:

  “Destiny was against me, but someone else will take my place, son of Éomund, and it will be soon! You’re not worthy to be our king! Your father would have been, and you would have been during your times as marshal, but something happened to you when you wed that witch from Gondor. Something that made you turn traitor on the people under your care!”

  “You will mind your tone, captain, no matter what!” Elfhelm boomed from behind, but Éomer did not look at him, and when he spoke, his tone was strangely low, not furious as the marshal would have expected in the face of the uttered insults. Squatting next to his fallen man, the king gazed intently into the pained eyes and shivered at the unrelenting disdain he read there.

  “You think me a traitor for wanting peace for our people?”

  “Peace? You’re leading us to our doom! All know it but you! Have you not seen the people’s faces as we rode through the villages? Have you not noticed how your men look at you? They’re still obedient, but it can only be a matter of time. The marshal tried to stop you, he tried to make you see, and for all his pains, you incarcerated him! You disgraced a man who gave his blood for the Mark more often than anyone can count! You’re a disgrace to Rohan! Curse you, slave of Gondor!” The strength for words left him, and so Galdur, in making an effort at collecting what was left of his strength, raised his head and spat into Éomer’s face.

  “Captain!” Elfhelm stormed forth, but was stopped by the king who rose from his crouch, slowly, as if he weren’t fully there. Trancelike, he raised a hand to wipe the blood-speckled saliva off his cheek. The way he moved, Elfhelm thought with horror, he might as well have been hit over the head with a club.

  “Leave him be, Elfhelm. He is already dying.” Éomer’s voice betrayed nothing, but the expression on his face was one the older man had only seen once before – in the Houses of Healing at Minas Tirith, when they had been waiting together for the healer’s verdict for Éowyn, not knowing whether she was already dead. Valar, Éomer looked dead right now, Elfhelm thought, his stomach twitching. Deadly pale and wounded to the very core. Utterly destroyed, where he should have been righteously outraged. Éomer swallowed, trying to force his shock-numbed mind into action as he turned to the captain again.

  “I take it you acted on Erkenbrand’s orders then, both at Meduseld and here?”

  “Marshal Erkenbrand would never order regicide, Éomer-King,” Galdur breathed, hardly able to make himself understood. His teeth clattered, and his body began to turn numb, washing away the agony he had been in for hours. Death was around the corner. The Ghost Horse would come soon to guide his soul up to the realm of his forefathers. “The marshal would never betray his ruler. He’s too loyal for his own good. No, it was my responsibility alone. Your death, sire, is the only thing that would still help the Mark. That, or you stepping down.” He coughed, and a red rivulet welled up on his lips and began to flow down over his left cheek. Breathing became difficult. “Have the grace to denounce the throne before you become the first King of Rohan who is murdered by his own people.”

  “Éomer?” Elfhelm had enough. The unthinkable was happening: the king was being shattered to pieces right in front of his eyes, and not by violence, but by words. Éomer had been under enormous strain for weeks now, but so far he had managed to appear convinced and strong to the men that served him, but right here, right now, Elfhelm could see the end of his former apprentice’s mental strength. First the battle with the unexpected turn of events, the assault on his life by one of his most trusted men, followed by Aragorn’s disappearance and now the discovery of the depth of the disdain his people held for him. Enough was enough, and he had to end it right here. Rohan could not afford for its king to lose his self-confidence now. Even if Éomer’s decision had been questionable, the path they were travelling now was too narrow to turn and head back.

Tugging at the younger man’s sleeve to get his attention, the marshal pressed, “You don’t have to hear these insults from a filthy traitor, Éomer. Leave. You know what you came here to learn, and there is no use in staying longer. Let him die like he deserves to without granting him the satisfaction of insulting you further.” He shoved the king out of the tent without meeting resistance, and faces turned their way.

  “Thor?” The dark-haired scout had been sitting by the fire, looking their way, and upon Elfhelm’s gesture came to his feet and met the older man outside the tent in which Éomer had just disappeared.

  “You spoke with Galdur?”

  “Éomer did. He wouldn’t talk with me earlier. Listen, you have been sitting with the men for a while now. Can you say anything about their disposition? For I do not like the glances they are giving the king and me.”

  Thor’s eyebrows twitched.

  “I’d lie if I said the mood was good.” His eyes went to the tent. “He should have addressed them, or maybe you should, marshal. There were one or two men who witnessed what happened, and they spread the word. The men are quite distraught over being left out.”

  For a long moment, Elfhelm stared at the men that were left sitting by the fire, well noticing how they avoided his glance once their eyes met. At last, he nodded.

  “Aye… I agree it would be better. But this is the king’s decision, and the king’s speech to give, if he deems it necessary. I cannot interfere with that, and I wouldn’t ask it of him today, either. The day has been rough enough for him as it is.” Another pause, then the grey eyes returned to his scout as he motioned for him to turn his back on the men further back. “Still, it would probably be for the best if we kept watch in front of his tent… and mine, too.” Seeing Thor’s perplexed expression, he added, “I do not believe it will be necessary, but I want to take no chances. One attempt on the king’s life was more than enough. I think I know one or two men of whose loyalty to Éomer I’m convinced, and if you know one or two more…”

“I think I do.”

  “Good. Summon them, and then we will determine a watch plan for the night.”

------------------------

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  Captain Fáred looked up to the guards and the other men, who unfolded their blankets on the stony ground to sleep. The wind had calmed down, and those, who were allowed to rest, quickly closed their eyes. He counted ten to be still awake, and with a short nod to Tarés and Halamin he indicated what they would do. What they had to do. And they would fulfil this duty without delay.

  Hilberon had seen the king being pushed among the soldiers already sitting with their back to the cliff. They were not given enough space to lie down, so they all sat with their legs drawn up. Crouching their ruler had looked tired like all of them, and had grimaced with pain, but he had been watchful when the Dunlendings and their company had settled down to rest. Hilberon assumed that he already thought about the same idea as Captain Fáred. The fire had burnt down, and on the tall grey stones shadows danced in various shapes, sending those off-guard to sleep. Without the wind nothing more than a few whispers and the crackling of the fire could be heard. The three guards still stood where Url had commanded them, and now and then they shot their prisoners hateful glances from under bushy brows.

  Halamin nudged the young soldier in his side to make him turn his head. Captain Fáred now had the attention of his soldiers nearby. There was never more than a look and a nod between the captain and his king. Then Fáred pointed to the hillmen closest to them, turning his head only slightly to not wake the guard's attention. Tarés returned the almost imperceptible nod as well as Dumarin and Halamin. Hilberon swallowed. He concentrated hard on not moving his head more than necessary. His heartbeat accelerated. So much was at stake here, and he knew what the captain was up to. It was the only thing and their duty to do it. It would be the moment to prove himself worthy of the honour of serving in the Royal Guard, and also the chance to free the king. Fáred let his gaze wander back to Aragorn, who frowned, his look intent. He indicated that the captain should remain still, but Fáred was confident and would not hesitate to go on. His index finger, unseen by the guard to his left, pointed the way they had come, and now, realising that the captain would not give in, Aragorn gave a short nod. Fáred's eyes seemed to shine in the fire-lit darkness, and though there was danger ahead he almost seemed to smile to himself. Hilberon had never seen the captain so proud and determined. It lifted his heart to know that they would do something. They would take out the guards and somehow provide the king time for his escape. Suddenly he was excited, and the fear that had encumbered him the whole day fell off.

  The same moment Fáred was on his feet, quicker and more agile than any had expected. He hit the guard to his left square in the face with both hands, and while the man stumbled back two steps Fáred grabbed his sword and whirled around, wide-eyed and grimly determined, ready to strike the third man on watch and cutting through cloth and skin. The guard yelped in pain. The soldiers leapt to their feet, rushing the enemies near the campfire, pushing hard against those who were not yet fully awake. Some grabbed stones to hit their opponents, some tried to seize a dagger or short sword from them, and within seconds the Gondorians were entangled in fights.

  Aragorn rammed himself against the guard to his right and, with the man's knife in his hands, aimed at the next, knocking the enemy out before he could even think of drawing his sword. The king ran down the pathway south through which the group had entered the plateau, fighting another Dunlending who blocked his way. Shouts were coming after him, growling commands in Dunlendish as well as in another tongue Aragorn found strangely familiar. Leaving the unconscious hillman behind, he jumped down a step, and passed through a narrow arch. Tearing down the gag he quickly gazed back over his shoulder. He breathed through his mouth, feeling his heart beat fast. No one was following him. The fire was already out of sight, and he could only hear the punches and blows, the clanking of metal on metal. He was loath to leave his men behind, but he would return as quickly as possible. Though it was unlikely that he would find the path at night he was certain that he could reach the tunnel - and behind it Éomer and his men - till noon the following day. He felt much lighter now. Breathing heavily he used a moment to slow down and turn the dagger in his hands to cut the rope.

  It was the moment the pursuer in the shadow had waited for.

------------------------

Chapter 22 – Display of Power

  Hilberon had jumped up with the others at the same time, tearing down the gag as they all had done. He wanted this fight. He needed it in a way he could not describe. He wanted to stand up against his enemy who had shoved him around the whole day. He was willing to stand up and push his fists into their bearded faces and hear them grunt with pain. He saw Tarés tearing down the head of a Dunlending to ram his knee against his nose, and while the man went down bleeding, the soldier had already turned to face the next. Hilberon grimaced when the enemy's backhand hit the wound on his upper arm, but clenched his teeth to avenge the act in a breath. The dark haired man stumbled back, but attacked again, grinning and mocking his opponent. Hilberon tripped over wood behind him and sat on the hard ground with a yell. The man was over him at once, hitting his fist into the young soldier's face, knocking him out.

  Fáred cursed under his breath. Already five of his group were down, unable to defend themselves against the force unleashed against them. The slender warriors joined the Dunlendings, and though they looked weak they were more capable of fighting than the stout and broad hillmen. Fáred could see his men lose though they fought bravely. Halamin was forced to the ground where Hilberon already lay motionless. Dumarin yelled at Fáred to seek safety in the distance, but the captain would never leave his men behind. They had reached their goal: The king had been able to escape the fight. He would reach the tunnel again and return with help. Fáred did not flinch at the punch to his face though he fell sideways and hit his shoulder. Dumarin defended him, but the heavy man of the guard was neither fast enough nor had the stamina to stand against two of the strangers attacking him. He went down like the others. The captain was not allowed to get up again; four hands held him, and a hard kick to his stomach left him breathless. Through the haze of pain Fáred gazed around: his fellow Gondorians were losing the fight. He wondered about the exceptional ability of those strangers; they were skilled like he had seen no others, and used their power effectively.

------------------------

  Hearing loose stones fall behind him Aragorn swivelled, but the enemy knocked him down the same instant. They both fell, and the king lost the knife. For the wink of an eye Aragorn saw a silvery glow in the utter darkness like the reflection of light on gems. He grabbed his opponent, feeling something soft like fur between his fingers. He tried to withhold the enemy breathing down on him, pushing him aside. He succeeded – for a moment. The king jumped to his feet again, but could not detect his foe. With his hands still bound he breathed shallowly, straining his senses. Silence. Nothing but his own breathing. He heard a low growl and felt a sudden fear, but he did not give in, instead forced it out of his mind. He had to win this fight to escape and help his men. There was no space for fear. Without a sound his opponent attacked again, tearing the king off his feet, pressing him down on the ground. Aragorn hit the figure in the dark with both hands, gaining some range in a short moment of strength, but he was unable to knock out the enemy before he was out of his reach again. The king was pulled forcefully at the shoulders and struck against the wall. Aragorn shook his head to stay conscious, but he could not rise again. His defence was broken.

  The figure grabbed collar and belt with his hands and dragged the king back the way they had come.

------------------------

  Harishdane stepped back to let her glance sweep over the prisoners with grim satisfaction. They had dared to stand up against her! They had dared to resist her command! She was still breathing heavily deriving from the fight and her anger about the unbelievable disobedience these boorish Gondorians had shown. But now they were defeated and sat or lay on the ground at the same place they had been before. And though some were shouting at their captors Harishdane knew that for now their fighting spirit was broken. She knew she would have to take action for it to stay that way. Four Dunlendings – who were responsible for not having subdued the prisoners' assault in the first place – stood on guard, and their hate-filled eyes gave away that they would have preferred killing over watching, but Harishdane had ordered Url to speak with his men and make sure that even now that none of the prisoners were to be killed. Url hat protested – three of his company were badly wounded – but Harishdane had not given in, only offered help in tending those men with some medicine she carried with her. She needed the prisoners alive.

  Asentis stood at her side awaiting her commands. He had fought as bravely and determinedly as his leader knew him. He had not even drawn a knife; needing no weapon to triumph over his enemies. She was proud of him. Again he proven his value to her, and when their eyes met, she saw the pride she felt mirrored on his face. He was well aware of his abilities, and besides the second man in her company, Nisenur, who was reliable as well, Asentis was the guarantor for her success.

  Harishdane stepped forward to face the prisoners on the ground. They looked miserable, even more so than during the day, and she took her time eyeing them closely, letting them know that that their lives hung by a thread. She could almost smell their fear and relished on it. Some other feelings mingled with it – satisfaction, even glee. Harishdane searched the contact of those who did not avert their eyes at once. She could find only three, and the man with the reddish beard was one of them. She frowned and upon making up her mind what to do with those she heard noise from the gorge.

  Nisenur appeared on the plateau, but not alone. Harishdane lifted her eyebrows in acknowledgement when the soldier of her tribe dragged the almost unconscious king to the middle of his men on the ground and released him. His soldiers moaned lowly and grimaced upon seeing their king lying in front of them, battered, breathing heavily, and too weak to rise. The king's face bore signs of the fight; blood oozed from his nose and lips, and his hair was drenched with sweat. When he lifted his blood-shot eyes she could see his rage and how much he hated his defeat. How he hated to have disappointed his men. And how much he wanted to avenge what had been done to his company.

  Harishdane turned her head back to the Gondorians.

  “Who is your leader?”

  Captain Fáred did not even look at his ruler. He neither flinched nor hesitated as he sat upright and spoke loud and clear:

  “I am their captain. You are allowed to call me Captain Fáred, snake.” Harishdane narrowed her eyes. Was he truly mocking her? She could not believe it. They were beaten. Their king was beaten. And yet they gained new strength from the captain's foolish words. More of the soldiers lifted their eyes to her in a challenge she could not understand. “And no matter what you do you can never win against a true Gondorian leader.”

  For only a brief moment the king looked at his captain with an expression Harishdane could not explain. Was it pride, pity, or even anxiety? She kept her thoughts to herself and exchanged a glance with Asentis. The young man stepped forward. With a quick movement he pulled Fáred at the shoulders close to him, turned him around to have his back before him and held him in a stranglehold.

  “No!” the king screamed trying to get on his feet. His men yelled too, raising their voices to shouts of anger. A guard poked his short sword against Aragorn's side to keep him down. “You cannot do this!” He looked at the captain, terror in his eyes, knowing too well what was about to happen. “This is not -”

  “This revolt will not happen again,” Harishdane cut him off in a cold voice, not even bothering to look at the struggling king who was pressed down now by two men, and faced the rest of the soldiers, who where staring at her terrified. “This will teach you not to resist us again.”

  Fáred was still wrestling Asentis' grip. His face was red; he was fighting for air. Staring at his king with an urgent plea his lips parted and a pressed “Don't let this… be in vain…” was uttered.

  “Let go of him!” Aragorn shouted, but Harishdane only turned to her second-in-command. “No! There is no need to…” He fell silent when Asentis – upon a short nod of his commander – broke the captain's neck. It was only a low cracking sound, but it stopped the soldiers' heartbeats. The captain's eyes broke. His body went limp in Asentis' strong arms, and he hung like a puppet, his mouth ajar as if he had not been granted last words. Aragorn closed his eyes and gave up the fight, lowering his head and covering his face with his bound hands. His lips moved, but no words passed them.

  There was a shocked silence. Only breathing could be heard. Asentis stepped away from the body to let the prisoners see their captain, his eyes open and bereft of life. Harishdane nodded her approval, but her focus remained on the stunned soldiers. Some had cast down their eyes. Some murmured words in Westron. She knew not if they had prayers, but the time seemed appropriate to use them. The Dunlendings cheered gleefully, and praised Harishdane in their tongue: Their dead comrade had been avenged! The king raised his head in an outbreak of hate, about to jump up and attack his foes, but the two guards pressed him down again forcefully.

  “There was no need for this act of cruelty!” he accused Harishdane, his face contorted with fury and grief. Again she narrowed her eyes, annoyed by his still flickering disobedience. His men immediately listened. She nodded at the Dunlending behind the king. “You could have –“ A blow to the back of his head knocked him out, and he fell on his side. The murmurs of the soldiers rose to angry shouts, and some seemed willing to stand up again. To stand up and fight with the same determination – even with the same outcome – to avenge their king.

  “Stay on the ground!” Harishdane ordered harshly, and her kinsmen moved in closer, threatening the men with their presence, their hands on their weapons. “If only one of you gets up this man too will fall!” She looked from one to the other, silently conveying her sincerity to them. The soldiers were piercing her with their stare, but she stood firm. Finally, after a time neither of the men could count, she turned and left the plateau with a nod to her kinsmen to leave the guard to the hillmen.

------------------------

  Hilberon sat in shocked silence. He was too old to cry openly, but the sight of his dead captain made him swallow hard. Fáred would never again accuse him for his follies, or make him run for errands. He had been killed for his bravery, but not within the fight. He had been killed by the brutal force of that Easterling, and amid the sorrow about the loss a hatred grew in Hilberon he had never expected to feel. He had clenched his teeth, but had been the first to shout at their enemies when the king had been knocked out. Now, after the threat of that Easterling woman the young soldier dared not to utter another word. Like the others he watched the unconscious king, stunned by the brutality their captors had demonstrated. Their ruler had done what had been in his power at that time - he had thrown himself in and had been willing to fight, but Hilberon knew that no act would have stopped the woman from ordering Fáred to be killed. Hilberon shivered with weariness, pain, and, he had to admit, hopelessness. He was tired and yet would be unable to find rest. Again his gaze fell upon the king. The soldier next to him had turned him on his back, but his eyes were closed and he gave no sign of wakening. His face looked terribly bruised and bloodied, and Hilberon shot a hate-filled glance at the Dunlending guard. The man growled a curse in response. Glee shone in his eyes, and it was good that the young soldier did not understand the words; he might not have been able to restrain himself.

  Tarés felt sorrow and a shrewd kind of pride at the same time, and he could see in the eyes of his comrades that they thought the same. Their captain had lost his life the way he had lived: In defence of his king. He had kept his honour, had not retreated when there had been the possibility. He had waged everything… and lost. Tarés bowed his head thinking of the captain's wife at home in Minas Tirith. At least Tarés would be able to comfort her with the tale of her husband's bravery.

  If they would not share the same destiny.

------------------------

  The dreadful night had not yet waned when Aragorn woke to see his men bereft of confidence. His head hurt, but pain was secondary compared to the desolate look of his dozen soldiers waiting for him to speak to them, and encourage them to go on. Dumarin handed him a water-skin their captors had provided. He drank and while the Dunlendings yelled at them to get up, he addressed his soldiers, lowly, but with an urgent undertone.

  “I know what you think. I know about your fear. But this will not be the end. The captain will not have given his life needlessly. Right now we have to gather our strength, we have to wait until we are ready. There will be a way to freedom, so do not give up hope.” They wanted to believe him for there was nothing else they could lean on. They were soldiers, but they were men from Gondor as well. Men who had lived through two years without war; without the anxious thoughts about losing a comrade in a fight. To them it was like a new outburst of evil when they had hoped the evil to be eradicated from earth. Behind the king a Dunlending guard bellowed to rise at once. Aragorn finished nevertheless, “Keep the faith. Do not let sorrow or despair take a hold of you.” He could see their faith dwindle; the wound of having lost their captain was still fresh, but Aragorn knew not how to encourage them any further. He had to be the symbol of their strength; of their belief and hope.

  “Move! Quick!“ Url commanded in Westron and growled something in his tongue. His men poked the captives with their daggers to bring them to their feet immediately, but the soldiers were unwilling and weary. Their thoughts still lingered on the incidents of the night. The captain had been carried away, and the complaints they had dared to utter about the cruelty of the enemy had been rewarded with more threats to their lives. Their goal had not been reached: their king was still a prisoner among them, and their future uncertain.

  Aragorn got up. A hillman tore the water-skin from his hands, and upon turning he saw Hilberon's face contorted with pain. Another Dunlending pulled him roughly at the shoulder, and he suppressed a cry.

  “Wait!” the king yelled at the guard shoving him. “Hilberon, let me see this.” He stepped forward, and the young soldier clenched his teeth, swaying where he stood.

  “It’s just…,” but he got no further. Url grabbed Aragorn's arm, tearing him away from his man with brutal force.

  “I say move!” he yelled at the king, pointing to the northern rim of the plateau.

  Aragorn freed his arm in a fluent motion, and with the same speed and vigour he thrust his elbow at Url's chest, hissing,

  “Let me take care of this man! He is wounded!”

  The hillman involuntarily stepped back, trembling with anger.

  “You go, or I make you!” Url shouted heatedly, and three of his men stressed the threat by pushing the king away from his soldiers. He stumbled. Another one took over, shoving him forward. “And you,” the leader barked at the Gondorians, “you walk or you get hurt!” With a nod to the guards Url seized Tarés brutally and pulled him on the pathway. The others followed, resisting their captors as much as they could, but they stood no chance. In front of them waited the Easterlings, overlooking the quarrel with faces devoid of any expression. Harishdane could be seen two steps above them, watching intently. Then she led the way, and among the prisoners the Dunlendings ensured that no one tarried.

  The captives had to walk faster though the terrain beyond the plateau was rugged, winding through a small canyon that led eastward after half a mile. Northward the path had given way; large rocks blocked the view, and it was impossible to climb over them. The sun rose, but could not penetrate the mist, and a clammy cold lingered within. The soldiers’ gaze was constricted to the grey walls on each side, and they had to watch out to not slip on the rubble when the slope bent downward again.

  “Stay alert,” Aragorn uttered lowly to Tarés when they were walking side by side for a short while. “We will have to work for our chance.“ The soldier nodded grimly though he too was saddened more than he found words to describe. Captain Fáred had not been his friend, but a respected soldier apt to lead his men nevertheless. But there was no time for mourning, and Tarés hoped there would be when they would have returned to the White City.

  “Just let us know when,” he whispered.

  Turning his head Aragorn saw how deplorable most of his people looked, but still they kept their heads high, meeting his stare determined to go on. They were willing to undertake another attempt to escape whenever their leader would command it. The night had shown that his people would have been able to overpower the Dunlendings, but the Easterlings were quick and agile, and the king still pondered how that male Easterling had been able to attack him in the utter darkness. And what he had seen. A reflection of light on the tokens? Two glimmering crystals? He had searched for proof, but the young man had only worn a black cord wrapped round with thick brown fur around his neck, framed by some small, bone-coloured stones. And his clothing was as plain as it could be. Only the scabbard, which he carried on the left side of his lean frame, was richly decorated with golden patterns, though the chape at the tip was missing. The hilt of the sword was engraved, the pommel of a round shape and embedded with the same patterns. It was a very valuable weapon, and Aragorn assumed that it had been crafted for one of their enemies. Taking the weapons and belongings of their foes seemed to be a part of showing their victory.

  The king gazed at the tall and slender men and women from the east. They walked with natural grace, and always found the right step to climb up the rocks sure-footedly. There they stood, surveying the group treading below them, passing them by. The Dunlendings dreaded to be commanded by the Easterling woman who walked in front or even above them most of the time. Aragorn had seen that she had stolen his chain, ring, and his sword and proudly carried these tokens. He longed for the moment when he would claim them back. As if she knew that he looked at her she returned his glance and - with a gesture of ascendancy - lifted her chin, only to outrun the group again at the next corner.

  Harishdane breathed deeply. Standing high up over the ground, watching the men proceed she relished on the gratitude and honour she would earn upon reaching their destination. It had been easier than she had thought, and now that the second day had begun without another revolt she was confident to reach the open plains beyond the mountain faster than expected. The group had covered about two miles when a shout from the top of the mountain slope echoed through the gorge, and Url commanded them to stop, hurrying uphill to meet Harishdane and Asentis at her side.

  “What happened? Tell me!“ he called to her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. They were out of sight of the group, and for a moment Url realised that he was the only Dunlending around. Asentis stared him down, and Url shrank lowering his eyes. Fear crept into him, made his heart beat faster and stole his breath. He fought against it, and the moment passed by.

  Harishdane smiled without joy at the boorish man. Url had only been chosen to head the group because the Easterling leader had needed an older man as an interpreter, but she would grant him no further rights than translating her orders. Like most of the Dunlendings Url was overestimating his position.

  “I said more of my kin would be coming. Here they are.“ And with a warmer smile she greeted two men and six women who offered her their heads to be touched, whispering words in shék to show their obedience and gratitude. Like the others already in Harishdane's company they wore plain clothes and hid their swords under dark cloaks. Only the cords with personal tokens and jewels as well as the wooden combs the women wore bore glyphs of their race. Only one of them was of Harishdane's tribe, but they all were loyal, and she had chosen them long ago to guard the way between Dunland and the northern rim of Fangorn Forest because unlike others of her kin they were able to ride. The stealing of horses during the past two years had proven useful in exchanging tidings with her homeland. Now she would allow some of them to go with her north while others would be sent back with two Dunlendings to lead the way.

  Harishdane greeted her kin in shék, and they looked at her and Asentis, waiting for orders. Though they had walked fast and with little rest to meet their leader they were not tired. Ridasha, a woman of twenty-eight winters, whom Harishdane remembered to be as curious as she was apt in wielding her polearm, spoke lowly when asked.

  “The high priestess of the Mushéni-Rhûneshan sends you her greetings of respect, Harishdane, my leader,” the woman recited in a polite and dark voice. “She and her people are six days north of us. Shall I go back to announce your coming?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” The leader allowed Ridasha to straighten, and for a moment her gaze rested on the artfully drawn symbols on her forehead. “You will stay with me now. I have a task for you. Send Sisune.”

  “It will happen as you wish.” Ridasha obediently moved backwards before turning while the others of her company stared at Url with disgust. Harishdane continued talking in her tongue, so Url was excluded again.

  “Talk so I understand!” the dishevelled looking man demanded. His thick black beard trembled with restrained anger. “You say naught to me! But you want guard till plains in sight! So, tell me!”

  Harishdane turned to him, and her voice was as sharp as the surrounding rocks. The mist that had not yet risen seemed to thicken around her slender body, and Url felt his inferiority like a dull punch to his stomach.

  “We proceed. You obey, or I leave you behind. Do you understand me now?”

  “You need us,” Url objected and lifted his eyes again, trying to gather his strength. “You work with us. We cannot be left behind.”

  “Beware of me,” Harishdane closed, letting her voice drop to a threatening whisper, “and never forget who I am.”

------------------------

  Ridasha met her friend at the vantage point where she had crouched to survey the row of waiting prisoners. The Dunlendings among them growled and bared their sharp teeth. Sisune still looked downhill when Ridasha closed in and knelt beside her.

  “They will be good workers,” Sisune said lowly and nodded to herself. “Look, most of them are young and strong.” She faced her friend. “The Gods are with us, and Úshemor will be delighted. We made good prey and lost only one.”

  “You lost one? Whom?” Ridasha wanted to know immediately and smoothed her dark grey tunic. She did not like to wear plain clothes, but since their presence in Dunland had to remain a secret, she had had no other choice than leaving her armour and polearm behind. The only remainder of her usual clothing was a dark red scarf she hid under the tunic.

  “One of the soldiers. He led a revolt last night, but to no avail.” Briefly Sisune reported about the incidents when her gaze fell upon a jewel around Ridasha's neck. “Where did you get that from?”

  “We made prey too,” the woman answered and stroke back her long black hair over her shoulder. Sisune stared at her neck with wide-open eyes. “Would you wish to have it?”

  Sisune was surprised.

  “You would barter?”

  “Have you got something?” Sisune's face gleamed with delight when she uncovered the hunting knife from under her brown tunic. Ridasha took the weapon out of its sheath with a smile. “This is a very nice token. Where did you get it from?”

  “One of those down there,” Sisune said with a nod. “I wanted the chain he wore, but Harishdane wanted it for herself.”

  “I saw it. It is a beautiful token. But I accept this one.” She nodded, gave back the hunting knife and opened the chain to hand it Sisune. Both women smiled at each other, when, with sudden realisation Ridasha said, “I was sent to fetch you. Harishdane wants to see you. Hurry!”

  Still smiling Sisune got up, left the hunting knife and put on the chain while Ridasha remained on the outlook after fastening the new weapon to her belt. She counted thirteen men, all bound and guarded by both Dunlendings and Easterlings. She spotted Nisenur among them and was glad to meet him again. She knew he was loath of always having to stay behind the second-in-command to Harishdane, but Ridasha hoped he would find his strength in the time to come. It had been hard to see strong men from the tribes lose against Asentis, but Harishdane's tribe had proven superior from the beginning. Their men and women were stronger than any other tribesmen, and their skills exceeded all Ridasha had known in her entire life. And though they were superior in a way that was frightening from time to time, they were all satisfied with the outcome of the fights. Now the Jásheni-Rhûvenan ruled them with Harishdane as their leader, and it had been to the fortune of them all. The better times had begun, and the prisoners down on the path were only one more proof for this. Harishdane's qualities were undoubted now, and she instructed her people well. Ridasha was confident that her people would be led to victory.

------------------------

  Standing under a protruding stone shaped like a gigantic table, the king had not been able to see why the group had come to a halt, but his men gratefully accepted the chance to sit down and recover from the strenuous march. The Dunlendings were restless, and kept the prisoners separated to hinder them from talking with each other. Url had left his orders, and every Dunlending seemed to be eager to fulfil his duty since the soldiers were considered dangerous, and some whispered that there was a wizard among them, who could bewitch them with the sound of his voice alone. The Easterlings on the other side seemed to be eagerly expecting someone. Their usually inscrutable faces had betrayed signs of happiness. Url had descended the steep path from the top of the rock, cursing in Dunlendish, but looking disturbed at the same time. With a curt gesture he had then ordered five of his men to leave the group westward, back to their land and their tribes. Url's mood worsened upon the sight of more Easterlings at the prisoners' sides where they took the position his men had had before. The Dunlending leader bared his yellow teeth and grudgingly passed them by. The king turned as he became aware of a woman with the same smooth, tanned features and the long black hair all of her kin shared. He had not heard her approach, and could not imagine how she had gotten there so quickly. Dark brown eyes stared at him as she compared him to the rest of the soldiers. Frowning she let her gaze travel up and down, unable to make up her mind what to think of his outer appearance. He returned the inspection, and saw a silver shimmer from under her tunic. Finishing the scrutiny she unsheathed the knife and held it between her hands, frowning. She cocked her head and, taking the knife into her right hand, let her fingers pass over the shining, well kept blade. A small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

  “These are Elvish runes,” Aragorn explained when she turned the knife around as if to find the translation on the other side. She looked up, cautiously and distrustfully. “They say Gud Daedheloth.”

  The Dunlending guard stepped closer with a club in his hands, a threat to remain silent, but the woman said two words in Dunlendish and made him retreat.

  “Elvish runes?” she then replied to the king, and her frown deepened. “How do you know that?”

  “It was my knife.” Aragorn as well as Tarés behind him had noticed the obedience the guard had displayed. Though reluctant the Dunlending now stood like a soldier without a duty watching both the king and the Easterling woman while his hand still clutched the haft of his club. “The Elves made it long ago.”

  Her eyes narrowed to a mocking stare.

  “And where did you steal it, man from Gondor?”

  The king held her stare unflinchingly.

  “It was a gift.”

  “The Elves do not make gifts,” she retorted. “They are a treacherous people.” When Aragorn did not reply she turned the blade so he could see the inscription. “Tell me what it means.”

  Now it was he who returned a mocking glance.

  “You accuse me of stealing, and expect at the same time that I am able to read Sindarin?” She challenged him without words, and he gave in. A few steps away the guard growled deep in his throat, but she ignored him. “It says ‘Foe of Morgoth's realm’.”

  Her gaze travelled proudly over the weapon again, then she sheathed it with a delighted sigh, but let her hand rest on the hilt, not willing to leave it like that.

  “It is a skilful weapon you possessed, but… I do not believe you.” She turned before Aragorn found time to answer. Harishdane had appeared at the top of the rock and commanded the group to proceed.

  “Why’d you speak with her?” Tarés said lowly in Aragorn's back while they trudged on. “She's only a thief.”

  “But a thief who talks.”

------------------------

Chapter 23 -- Discoveries

  Hilberon had regained his breath and part of his strength during the break, but since the march was becoming strenuous to a degree where each step had to be well considered, he felt the urgent need to stop and rest again. Noon passed, and still their way along scored and weathered rocks wound uphill, and while the Easterlings and their allies seemed untouched by the difficult territory they covered, Hilberon struggled to stay on his feet. He was thirsty and hungry, and the pain in his arm intensified. He swayed and wiped his brow. Though the temperatures in the mountains were by far lower than on the open plain he was drenched in sweat. Swallowing dryly the thought of getting water from their captors occupied his mind. He needed a rest. He needed to sit down somewhere. He needed to close his eyes for a moment… On an incline that seemed to appear out of nowhere he slipped and fell, hitting the ground unable to stop himself with his bound hands, and cried out. He had not meant to and clamped down his teeth. The stones in front of him seemed to spin. He struggled to get up, and already heard the shouts of the guards, but he could not move.

  Swivelling when the cry resounded Aragorn pushed the guard aside to see what had happened. Tarés tried to stop the broad-shouldered Dunlending, but he held the king fast, blocking him with his body.

  “Let me help that man!” Aragorn cried, pressing his weight and strength against his enemy. “He is wounded!” But the guard countered his opponent's fury, and only barked at him to stay where he was. The king looked over his shoulder. The Easterling woman stood three feet away from him, surveying the group without as much as a frown. “Please, let me tend the man's wound!”

  She stepped closer, her keen eyes set on the king.

  “Who are you to say you can do that?” she asked cautiously in her dark voice and let her gaze wander from face to face. She spoke Westron with an accent, but her wording was much better than that of the Dunlendings.

  “He is the healer of our group,” Tarés cut in. “His name is Strider.”

  “A healer?” she repeated lifting her brows. For a moment she looked up to the rocks, then to the head of the group. Neither Harishdane nor Asentis could be seen. With a nod and a few Dunlendish words she dismissed the guard to face the king. “Go, look after your man.”

  With a curt nod Aragorn rushed past his people, kneeling at Hilberon's side a moment later. The young man was pale, and his eyes clearly betrayed his pain as Halamin crouched beside him with deep concern in his expression. Coming to a stand at the king’s side, the Easterling woman eyed him closely. Two Dunlending guards with the hands on their clubs objected in their tongue, and Url appeared to inquire about what had happened.

  “Let me see,” the king said quietly to Hilberon who turned, clenching his teeth. Through the torn sleeve the ugly wound could be seen, clotted with dried blood, but too deep to heal without treatment. Aragorn turned to the woman, stretching out his hands. “Take these off – please. I cannot help him bound like this.”

  “Never!” Url shouted at once, and his men closed in. The Dunlending glared hatefully, and he almost spat. “He escapes. He tried before!”

  “He did?” the woman echoed, and though the situation was tense she was still unafraid and her voice low. “He will not now, will he?” she asked Url, who stared down at the king. The woman's eyes were keen and knowing, and Aragorn was surprised how deeply she seemed to understand the hillmen. Her voice bore none of the haughtiness he had heard from the other Easterlings. “Your men are here, mine are here. And there is no place he could go to from hereon. He would not stand a chance, would he?” Url shook his head, but his piercing stare never left Aragorn, when the woman stooped to cut the knot with a small knife. The rope fell, and for a second the king rubbed his wrists. “Go on, but hurry. We have much ground to cover.”

  “Thank you.” Aragorn turned back to Hilberon. Disbelief shone in the young soldier's eyes, but he did not utter a word. The king’s expression told him that it was not the time to ask questions, and a second later he pressed his lips tight. Aragorn ripped off the sleeve and could not help grimacing at the cut the weapon had caused. He looked back at the woman. Url was still angry enough to tear the king away, but with the Easterling at his side he constricted himself to bitter grumbling. And the woman was as unafraid as one could be invested by strangers seething with hatred. “I need water to clean the wound, and he needs water to drink.” The woman handed him her water-skin without a word, but when he had given it to Hilberon and reached for his belt she was alarmed.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded to know, her voice suddenly hard. Aragorn unfastened a small pouch and showed her its contents. She sniffed and turned up her nose at the smell. “What is it for?”

  “These are herbs. They will prevent the wound from getting infected and help the healing.”

  “He shall heal on the way. We must move on.” The woman lifted her eyes to the rock formation above. Asentis stood there demonstrating his impatience. “Hurry,” she then ordered the king. “They are waiting for us.”

  After cleaning the wound Aragorn wrapped the arm with a part of the sleeve to fasten the wet herbs. Hilberon still looked wretched, but the pain slowly ebbed away.

  “Can you move on?” he asked lowly while helping the young soldier to his feet, who nodded in an attempt to return the encouraging look. “Good.” The king put away the pouch. “I will change the bandage tonight.”

  “Thank you,… Strider.”

  “You be bound first!” Url cut in by grabbing the king’s shoulder, tearing him away from his man. Hilberon had no breath left to protest, but Halamin quickly stepped in, willing to intervene for the king's sake.

  “Leave him alone! He just wanted to help!”

  “I will not resist!” Aragorn stated firmly through clenched teeth, lifting his hands in front of him. The two Dunlending guards quickly took the rope to bind his wrists again while he locked eyes with the young woman from the east. She had taken back her water-skin to fasten it to her belt and only nodded slightly. Her expression was unreadable as she turned to signal her kin to move on.

------------------------

ROHIRRIM CAMP

  It had been a long night without much sleep. A night haunted by deep concerns for his friend, and the stunning realisation that one of his most trusted kinsmen had attempted to murder him because he deemed his own king a danger to their land. Éomer had been tossing and turning on his cot without finding peace. For hours, he had lain awake, staring at the ceiling of the tent with unseeing eyes and hearing the muted muttering of his soldiers outside. He would have much preferred to sleep outside, with nothing but the stars over his head, just like he had done during his time as a simple rider or even as Third Marshal, but deep inside, he had also felt the need to seclude himself from his men.

  Had Galdur been the only one to think like this? Éomer knew that however much he wanted to believe it, it was unlikely. It would be safer to assume that most of his men were against what he was ordering them to do. They were still obedient, but as a long-time marshal and simple rider, the young king had sensed their reservations and reluctance ever since they had left Edoras. There had been the general notion of tension among their group for days now, and it was not just the tension that came naturally with riding into the enemy’s territory without knowing what to expect. He had noticed all those secretive and furtive glances they had given him, even if he had pretended that he hadn’t. He had noticed how conversations had abruptly died with his approach, and how they had picked up again after he had left. So far, he had paid those signs of his men’s distrust no heed, but in the light of Galdur’s deed, he was not sure of anything anymore. Was the Westfold-captain the only one whose sense of duty had led him to consider regicide, or had he merely set an example for other doubters to follow? Was Éomer still in danger… and Elfhelm and Thor, too, because it was well-known whom their loyalty belonged to? There were no answers to be found.

  All night long he had brooded, instead of sleeping seeing all the horrible things that had potentially happened to Aragorn and his men – an ambush, a rock-slide, an attack by some force they had not counted on – and Galdur’s disdainful expression as he spat into his face. And when the morning had finally arrived, the Rohirrim king had at least come to one conclusion: he needed to address his men. They had a right to know what had happened. He had to counter the deep insecurity he had felt among them the night before, an insecurity he could not afford to let stand.

  When he exited the tent, his body stiff and aching from the night on the hard ground, something he was not used to anymore since patrols were no longer part of his life, a pale sun hung low in the sky like a tarnished silver coin. Its warming golden face was still veiled by thick morning mist, and the air was cool and moist. From all around him, the sounds of the slowly wakening camp rose. Further behind, he saw Battleaxe’s tall shape. The horse was grazing peacefully side by side with the others, a wonderful picture of normality which brought a distant smile to its master’s face for a moment before the frown returned. Abruptly, he turned his back on the horses. Aragorn had disappeared without a trace. A trusted man had attempted to murder him. Right now, normality lay in another world. The sound of a voice he did not recognise startled him.

  “Good morning, sire.” A young man stood next to him, close to the tent. From his posture, Éomer concluded the lad had stood there for hours already. He had not noticed him when he had exited. “I hope you slept well.”

  Elfhelm had ordered those guards. Good old Elfhelm, Éomer thought, he always considered everything. No matter how beat the marshal himself felt -- and he must, being fifteen years older than his king -- he would never seek rest before everything had been prepared, even for the unlikeliest eventuality. And yesterday... he had saved his life. A warm feeling spread through Éomer’s stomach.

  “Aye, soldier, I did, thank you. What is your name?” The man blushed, and in doing so, confirmed to the king that he was indeed quite young. The way it looked, he could barely be older than Éomer had been when he had begun his duty among the riders.

  “Foldwyne, my lord.” The lad bowed, his face a deep shade of crimson that brought a smile to the older man’s features.

  “Is there any news of King Elessar and his men, Foldwyne? He has not returned during the night, has he?”

“I am afraid not, my lord.”

Éomer nodded, not really having expected a positive answer. He would have heard the commotion. And they would have woken him.

“For how long have you been standing here, Foldwyne?”

  “I... I am not sure, my lord. A few hours, maybe...”

  “Then you must be hungry and cold.” A brief nod. “See that you get something in your stomach before we continue our search. It looks to me as if they have tea ready at the fire. Go.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The youth took off, unmistakably relieved to be dismissed, and Éomer took a moment to let his gaze sweep over the camp. His men were already in various phases of waking and preparing their breakfasts, and heads turned his way as they became aware of his presence. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed their healer coming his way with a grim expression on his face.

  “Tolgor! What news can you give me of the captain?”

  The man lowered his head.

  “He is dead, sire. He died during the night. His injuries were too severe.” He looked over to the campfire where the marshal sat among his men, drinking from a steaming pot and looking their way. Éomer looked unsurprised. “Sire, I know what happened during the battle yesterday. But most of the men don’t, and there are rumours flying around... One of them saw the marshal throw his spear at Galdur.”

  “I know, Tolgor.” Éomer laid a heavy hand on the healer’s shoulder, aware that more and more of his riders were staring his way. A truly Rohirric character-trait: their nature made it impossible for them to mask their feelings. He took a deep breath. “I will address them before we continue our search.”

--------------------------- 

  Another hour had passed before the men of the king’s éored were ready for departure. They had eaten, and those who would not search in the mountains had already saddled and bridled their horses. Now they were awaiting Éomer’s orders for the second day of the search, and expectant faces turned towards him as he stepped out to face their rows and raised his voice.

  “Riders of Rohan! Before we head off to search for our allies, there are a few things that have to be addressed in the light of yesterday’s events. I am aware that some of you have heard of Captain Galdur’s passing in the wake of the battle. A few of you may even have witnessed what happened, and I understand that it must be a source of deep concern. Yet Marshal Elfhelm had a very good reason to do what he has done, and I am going to share this reason with you now.” He scanned the faces in front of him and found many sceptical and insecure expressions among them. One of them had been killed, and not by the enemy, but by their own marshal. There had to be a very good reason for that, but just what reason none of them could imagine.

  Éomer straightened, and his gaze found Elfhelm and Thor at his side, facing the éored with blank features. Tensing for his task, the Rohirrim king’s expression hardened in an unspoken yet distinct warning to his men.

  “Captain Galdur is dead because he attempted to kill me during the skirmish. I trusted him to have my back in the battle, but he raised his spear against me instead. Had Marshal Elfhelm not been there to stop him, Rohan would be left kingless now.” His hard stare remained on the men as low groans and muttering went through the rows. Blue and grey eyes narrowed in disbelief or dismay. Éomer chose a particularly sceptical-looking captain in the first row to address by holding him captive with his piercing gaze. This was the point where he had to make it clear to all who were harbouring silent doubts in their king that he would not tolerate disobedience, and that mutiny and treason would come at the highest price.

  “Captain Galdur thought that we should not be here. Or – while being here – that we should be doing other things than trying to reach an understanding with our ancient foes. He saw my actions as a sign of weakness and a source of shame too great for the Mark to bear. In his opinion, the only possible answer to the attack on the Westfold would have been the annihilation of our enemy, and I know that he stood not alone in seeing things this way.” Éomer paused, and his gaze wandered over the rows of his listening kinsmen.

  “Yet those doubting our reasons for being here should ask themselves whether they want to carry on living the way we have been living for centuries: always preparing for the worst, always having to be distrustful and wary of strangers because we cannot afford otherwise. Never being allowed to let down our guard. Constantly having to ride into battle without knowing whether we or our friends and kin will return from it, or whether we will find our homes destroyed and our families slain upon our return. Listening to the silent crying of our children at night because of the family members we lost, or because there is not sufficient food to fill their stomachs, as there are none left to work on the fields anymore. Is that what you indeed wish for?” He inhaled, and the intensity of his gaze became burning. The first soldiers lowered their eyes, unable to meet their king’s fierce stare.

  He reached the end of the row, and his gaze found Thor. There was nothing but pride and affirmation in the dark eyes, and the sight strengthened his determination. Éomer turned around.

  “We won the battle against the Dark Lord, but two years after the end of the fights, we are yet in danger of losing the war. The glory of our victories came at a price which sees us on our knees in the wake of the armed disputes. Our land is ravaged by famine, and if it were not for our allies, our kinsmen would be dying by the hundreds. We are, in fact, in the same position the Dunlendings have been in for centuries, except for the fact that they were not blessed with friends who would help them sustain themselves.” His eyes found another man and stared him down. “What would we do if we had to depend on only ourselves in this time of need? What would we do if we were starving and our neighbours had all they needed?” A deep breath. He raised his chin and addressed all listeners. “I’ll tell you what we would do: at first, we would send a delegation to talk them into sharing their wealth with us. And if they would refuse, making excuses about not having enough to eat themselves, and yet we would see that they’d still have infinitely more than we, wouldn’t we come back to take what we needed by force, also? Or would we let our families die of hunger?”

  Again he let his gaze wander through the rows to see expressions from sceptical to thoughtful.

  “No one said it would be easy to reach an understanding with our neighbours. To find peace after five hundred years of hatred. Peace, like everything else, has to be fought for. It doesn’t simply happen. It takes an effort from all involved parties, or it will fail. This much must be understood. Our two peoples need each other. We have been granted a historic chance, and I am determined to seize it, no matter what. Most of you have known me as a hound of war in my youth, and it is only understandable that the path I’ve decided to lead Rohan on is met with scepticism and disbelief by most of you. Yet it is a path I firmly believe in, and it is a path the King of Gondor believed in enough to leave his land in their own time of uncertainty to help us walk it all the way to the end. You should keep this in mind when you decide which side you choose to stand on. Choose my side, and choose a potentially bright future and prosperity for our people. Oppose me, and Rohan will fall before long. I leave that decision to you. Since I know, however, that all of you would give their last drop of blood for their kin, I trust in you to make the right choice.” A meaningful pause. Now all warriors, even the ones that had been evading his stare, were looking at him, their features pensive. Éomer nodded. “We’ll continue our search now. You have been divided into groups and know your tasks. Let’s go!”

------------------------

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  Halamin steadied his friend on their exhausting way further uphill. The sharp-edged stones to their right were hard to avoid since the terrain on their left opened the view to inclines, which ended ten feet below between rugged cliffs. They had to grab a hold sometimes when – due to overhanging rocks – the path was too narrow to walk on. The older soldier could feel Hilberon shiver and he wished that this second ride with the king would have been merrier. The captain had said to Halamin that he wondered why King Elessar had volunteered to join the Rohan forces riding to Dunland. This was not his realm and not his duty. The peace negotiations had failed, and it was unlikely that the Dunlendings would agree to a second parley while fearing for their lives. Now his assumptions had proved true in yet another way. But like the rest of them Halamin had been surprised at the sight of Easterlings in the Misty Mountains. And even more he had been surprised when that young woman had allowed the king to treat Hilberon a few hours ago. She had even cut his bonds! Halamin tried to spot her among the men walking in front of him, and when he got a glimpse of her slender and small figure he admired her for her self-confidence. After the brutal force the Easterling leader had demonstrated he had not expected any of her kin to be merciful, and he had erred. He knew not if it could be regarded as a sign of strength of that woman or of the weakness of her leader who had not interfered.

  Reaching a wider path close to the second southern peak the Dunlendings hurried their prisoners again, shoving them in the backs, growling threats. The wind freshened and cooled their sweaty faces, but could not wipe away their weariness. Url bellowed sharp orders, which echoed in a nearby gorge, and overtook the group of prisoners to reach the Easterling leader again. The sun set, and they had to decide where to pitch camp.

  Tarés stumbled and fell forward, almost pulling down the king who turned to help the soldier get up again. Like many others his body was battered, and on his face some dark purple bruises spoke clearly about the fights he had led. His left eye was swollen shut, and below it a sharp hit had deeply scratched his cheekbone.

  “My apology,” Tarés murmured, coughing. He needed a moment to straighten, and all who came behind him stopped, glad for a few moments of rest. Without food and only little water they all were kept on their feet purely by will. “I did not…”

  “No need to. Can you go on?” the king asked, encouraging his man with a look, his lips pressed to a thin line.

  “It doesn’t look like I had a chance to decide otherwise.” He flinched with pain. “The sun's setting. Hope they won’t march... ” He was cut off when a guard, taller than the rest of his kin and with a mighty black beard, rushed them. Tarés froze. The Dunlending’s dark brown eyes gleamed with fury.

  “Go on! Now!” the guard shouted in broken Westron and forcefully tore Aragorn away from his man. The king pivoted, freeing his arm, challenging the bulky man with his stare. The guard's eyes narrowed, and, grumbling, he attacked Aragorn again. Instantly the king stepped aside, shielding Tarés, and letting the hillman go astray. He ran on, wide-eyed, unable to stop himself. Losing his footing at the rim of the stony path, he stumbled down the incline with an outcry, rolling over his shoulder, and suddenly screaming with pain when he crashed upon the cliffs.

  The soldiers ahead turned and halted, and when they saw the broad figure waving his arms and shrieking at his comrades to help him up, they cheered and laughed, and for that time the toil seemed to lighten. Tarés shook his head with a smile.

  “Well done,” he said, and with grim satisfaction the king accepted the compliment. Looking into the faces of his people he realised that they were drawing strength from this incident, even though it could not be considered a revolt. He knew the soldiers' confidence and courage hung by a thread. There had to be a way to gain freedom soon, or they would give up.

  The soldiers' joy did not last long. Immediately more hillmen appeared, shoving the prisoners forward, angered and frustrated since they were not allowed to kill them, while two others slid down the rubble to assist their kinsman. Url had turned when the news reached him. Now he unsheathed his sword to face the king, who raised his bound hands, watching his opponent cautiously. Tarés stood by his side, determined to defend his ruler if necessary.

  “This was the last time, prisoner!” Url snarled, and the sword in his swarthy hand shone when he shook it against his enemy. “You will not bring more pain to my men!”

  “He did this to himself alone!”

  “Stop that!” Harishdane shouted getting closer, her voice firm and without room for objection. “Put away your sword, Url. Leave the prisoners alone.” She nodded to Ridasha and Nisenur to get the group going again, and without hesitation they forced the men to go on. Harishdane stared down on the hillman though she did not match him in size or build. “If your men cannot walk properly,” she hissed, “they should not enter the mountains.”

  Url fumed, brandishing his weapon against the Easterling.

  “Should not… You cannot say that! We are born in the mountains! That prisoner want to kill my man! See? They only kill!” He pointed to where two Dunlendings escorted their wounded comrade back up the hill, but Harishdane's gaze followed the soldiers and their king. That moment of glee and the shouts of joy and praise still lingered on her mind. Those Gondorians were laughing – grinning as they passed her by – when they should have been frightened to death! She frowned. “He is wounded!” Url complained noisily. “Another! How shall we…”

  “Stop your complaints! I ordered you to put away your sword! Do it now!” Harishdane waited until Url obeyed, though he still cursed viciously. “There is no need for this. You only have to make sure no one escapes,” she closed and moved on. With the elegance and speed that belonged to her race she reached Asentis quickly and called to him. They met at the head of the procession, and she said quietly in shék, “We have to leave this path. We need to go south tonight.”

  “That would lead us away from our direction,” Asentis objected with his head bowed. He was always careful when uttering his opinion. Sometimes the leader was not in the mood to take it, and not even his position as second-in-command changed that. “We should turn northward in about a mile. The campsite…”

  “I know. But I have an urgent errand that I will see to tonight.”

  He nodded obediently, hiding his puzzled look as best as he could.

  “Is my help required?”

  “It is.” She eyed him closely, but did not touch him since Dunlendings as well as the prisoners were behind them. He understood. “I will reward you,” she closed with a meaningful glance and hurried on.

------------------------

  Url expected to see the group crawl over the jagged cliffs on the northern side of the winding path, but to his surprise Asentis, whom he could recognise due to his height and length of hair, guided them southward. His thick brows furrowed. They would miss the place for the camp that way! And though he did not like to admit it he needed some rest too. And there would only be light for the lesser part of an hour. The Dunlending leader hurried along the tired soldiers, shoving them aside if they did not see him coming.

  “That is wrong way!” Url shouted across the distance, and Aragorn as well as Tarés and Halamin behind him raised their heads again. “You must turn north!”

  Asentis awaited him with the usual annoyed expression he spared for Url. He was loath to give any answer at all. In his opinion the Dunlendings were as painful as stabs in the back, and he longed for the moment when they could leave them behind. But that time was yet to come, and he collected his thoughts to fulfil Harishdane's commands.

  “We turn south,” he snapped, unwilling to grant any further explanation. A few steps ahead Ridasha ordered the men to move on, calling to the hillmen in their tongue, but when they saw Url standing at Asentis' side they hesitated. Ridasha repeated her order and at least some of them moved to go about their duty. Ridasha's effort in learning their primitive allies' language during her long stay in the mountains proved useful again. “She wants it that way,” Asentis added reluctantly.

  “Why?” Stubbornly Url stood on his two stout legs, his hands propped on his hips, almost blocking the way with his elbows.

  Asentis was willing to strike at this unrefined, stinking hillman with all the power he could summon, but that would take away Harishdane's benevolence, and he could not afford to let this happen.

  “She orders and you follow,” the Easterling closed with a growl, and his nostrils flared as he thought of another, stronger rebuke. But he controlled his temper and hurried on to reach the head of the group again.

  Url stayed behind, pondering over the possibilities at hand. His men's eyes rested on him as they awaited his decision. What could he do? Resist and challenge Harishdane's anger? He had gotten to know a share of her fury during their meetings, and with a shiver he could still recall the moment of utter helplessness. He would be unable to stand this kind of… attack again, and he was sure she would not hesitate to punish him in the same way a second time. Grimly he nodded to his men to follow the orders given. At last he took the southern way too.

  “Where are they taking us to?” Tarés whispered to the king's back. “At the crossroad they could have turned north.”

  “I cannot say, but Url does not seem pleased with the decision.”

  “You mean they might turn to fight against each other?”

  Aragorn watched Harishdane high above on a plateau. Her hair shone jet black in the setting sun, and within the tanned face dark brown eyes glowed. She seemed to have grown and looked powerful enough to threaten the hillmen from a distance.

  “No, they would not. She has a hold on them – somehow, but not by strength.”

------------------------

ROHIRRIM CAMP

  The twilight thickened in the narrow gorge. Darkness was drawing near yet again, and the constant rain which had set in approximately an hour ago was doing its share of lowering the men’s already shattered spirits. Éomer’s heart sank as he surveyed the line of drenched soldiers upon their return from the upper part of the steep mountain path with miserable expressions, hunched under their dripping capes. Even from a distance, he could see that there was no one with them. They had lost him. They had lost Aragorn. Something ill had happened to the King of Gondor at this place, and despite their frantic search over nearly the last two days, they had failed to discover even the tiniest bit of evidence pointing towards his whereabouts. What was there left to do for them? Was there anything they could still do?

  Thor was as drenched as the men behind him as he came to a halt in front of Éomer, his boots and trousers and the lower half of his rain-cape mud-splattered. If possible, the half-Dunlending’s expression was even more crushed than those of the rest of the soldiers, and the king’s expression only added to his misery. Éomer had trusted in his scouting skills. As the one who was supposed to make sense even of the smallest disturbance of their surroundings, Thor felt responsible for failing his king in a way the others did not. He was supposed to know his homeland in and out, so how could it be that fourteen men had simply disappeared on a narrow mountain path without a trace? He wished he could say something to give the young ruler hope, yet he could think of nothing.

  Éomer only had to see his scout’s face to understand the situation, and he shook his head in a dispirited way as his gaze swept over the rock and rivulets of water that were running down the sheer rock cliffs to both sides of the path. It was hard having to admit defeat. It was not something the former Third Marshal was used to.

  “My lord Éomer…” Thor began, but interrupted himself since he had nothing to add. Behind him, the others trod down the steeply descending path, only a few of them managing to look their desperate king in the eye as they passed. “I am sorry,” he uttered, and then paused as he felt that his ruler’s attention was somewhere else, his expression telling of guilt and blame. “Night’s falling. We should leave this place, my lord.” Lest whatever happened to the King of Gondor should happen to us, too.

Éomer did not care to look at him.

  “Go then.” He made no move to follow as the younger man passed him. Confused, Thor turned around, hating the gloomy expression on the king’s face as he scanned their surroundings for the umpteenth time for signs they had overlooked.

  “Sire, you should not stay here all alone. We do not know what happened.”

  For a moment, Éomer’s eyes did focus on him.

  “We searched this accursed mountain for two days without finding anything. We left no stone unturned. Whatever danger had been lurking here, it’s gone.” ‘And it took our friends with it.’ He inhaled, and his gaze grew distant again. “Go and report to Elfhelm, Thor. I will follow soon. Right now, I need to think, and I need to be alone for it.”

  It was with a heavy heart and against his better judgement that Thor finally complied. The thought of leaving his king back all alone at this godforsaken evil place was something that turned his gut into a tight knot, but he had received his orders. And after all, wasn’t Éomer right? After their thorough search, there could be no danger left in the vicinity. Still…

  “Aye, my lord. But if you’re not back by nightfall –“

  “I won’t take long.” Éomer turned his back on him, and it was clear to the scout that he had just been dismissed. Swallowing what he had meant to add and nodding to himself instead, he wandered down the uneven path and soon disappeared in the darkening twilight.

------------------------

  It was quiet. From below, muffled voices and the noises emitting from their camp could be faintly heard even though it lay some distance away. Apart from that, there was only the omnipresent rush of the rain as it searched its way down the face of the mountain. For a time span he could not define, Éomer stood rooted to the ground, drenched without even noticing it despite the growing evening chill, his eyes on the surrounding cliffs. What had happened here? The stinking Dunlendings, how had they lured Aragorn and his men into their trap? What had he and his men overlooked? And what would he do if his friend stayed gone? Aragorn had not said anything openly, yet from their conversations during the ride Éomer had received the distinct notion that his friend had had to brave internal problems with the Gondorian council to come to his aid. And if the King remained missing in the wake of this controversial service to his ally… Éomer exhaled. It could not happen. He would not allow it!

  From below, more voices could be heard, and there seemed to be some kind of commotion within the camp, but Éomer felt too emotionally beaten to walk back to investigate just now. He needed a few more moments of solitude before he would be able to concern himself with his still obedient, yet reluctant, éored again. Not minding the wet surface, he sat down on a rock close to the left side of the wall, staring unseeing into the misty wet grey, his mind concerned with the daunting consequences of a failed mission.

  What was he supposed to do now? Linger here and continue to search the site, which, as they already knew, held nothing revealing to their cause? Turn back and interrogate the group of Dunlendings they had subdued the day before in a desperate attempt to extract information from them? Even if he had acted mercifully by releasing them unharmed, they would not tell him anything. That whole skirmish had, after all, been designed for a sole reason: to lure the King of Gondor into their trap. It had worked flawlessly, and Éomer knew enough about his adversaries to understand that they would not spring it themselves. Which brought him back to the beginning of his initial thought – what to do?

  Waiting for an epiphany or at least an idea, his eyes glided over the slope to his right, following the hundreds of little rivers the rain had born down to where they poured onto the track at his feet and turning it into a muddy puddle. Lost in thought, he stared at the pile of stones for what seemed to him like an eternity before it gradually seeped into his conscious that there was something odd about it: The stream of rainwater coming from the mountain top did not continue after it disappeared from sight behind a thorny thicket of weeds just above the rocks. Neither was it redirected. The little river simply ended just on top of the stones. Slowly waking from his thoughts, Éomer narrowed his eyes at the strange finding. He came to his feet. Where was the water going?

  Carefully choosing his footing on the treacherous terrain, Éomer made his way over to the strange phenomenon and came to a halt under the hanging weeds. The surface was slippery, and for a moment, he balanced precariously on the plate of granite he was standing on before he could concern himself with his findings. What he saw catapulted his heart into acceleration: the water disappeared into fissures between the rocks. If nature had fit them together, Éomer mused, unable to restrain his rising excitement, it had to be a truly strange coincidence, as their fit seemed almost too smooth to be natural. Before he knew it, he had sunk to his knees and pried his fingers into one of the wider cracks, pulling. The rock moved just the smallest bit before he lost his grip on the surface, and another wave of adrenaline flushed his veins. This had to be the solution to the secret! From behind him, voices advanced on the path, among them Elfhelm’s baritone, but Éomer hardly heard them.

  “Elfhelm! Thor! Come quickly!” He renewed his grasp, working his fingers in further and pulling with his entire body weight, and again the rock shifted slightly before it finally rolled to the side like a dead beetle. A narrow hollow was revealed, and a whiff of mouldy air hit Éomer’s face as he stared into an almost solid blackness. Urgent footsteps came up behind him now. They were running, obviously in fear that he was in some kind of danger. He turned his head, already pulling at the rock below the one he had removed. “I found it! It’s a cave!”

Chapter 24 – The Marking

  The flickering glow of a lit torch bathed the atmosphere in a poisonous swirling orange as his two commanders came into view… followed by two of the Dunlending tribal leaders they had come to search for! Éomer recognised the stout figures of Durden and Woldro and froze. So that had been the cause for the commotion he had heard earlier. What had happened? Still kneeling on the wet rock, Éomer turned towards the approaching men and registered the bewildered expression on their faces – as well as the shocked expression on their guests’ features. Apparently, they knew about this secret path and were now dismayed that it was a secret no more.

  “My lord?” Elfhelm narrowed his eyes at his commander’s strange stance and then stared perplexed at the opening. At last he remembered why he had come. The words he directed at Éomer were in Rohirric. “We have guests. Their delegation just arrived. They said they wanted to talk to you.” A curt nod. “You found a cave? How could we have missed it?”

  “We’ll see about that in a moment.” Éomer shifted his attention to the Dunlending leaders and switched to Westron. “You still want to negotiate? That is interesting. What is it, Durden? Have you realised you made a mistake by attacking us?”

  “Our leader was murdered in your house, Éomer-King!” the Dunlending spat, hardly able to control his temper. It had been Woldro who had persuaded him to seek out the Rohirrim after what they had learnt upon their return to their defeated, yet still living, people. Yet he was far from being convinced. “What you expected? A welcoming ceremony? You received the welcome you asked for!”

  Éomer squared his shoulders.

“It was the deed of a solitary man, Durden. He is dead now, and your leader has been avenged. There was no conspiracy. We found that out yesterday, when he attempted to kill me, too. Perhaps it is a small consolation for you to hear that. However, you should be very clear about one thing: I am here against the advice of my marshals and against the will of my people, but as much as I want to see this undertaking through, there are limits to what I am willing to take for peace’s sake. If the King of Gondor remains missing or is found dead, there will be no peace. If you know anything about his whereabouts or what has happened to him, now is the time to share that knowledge.”

  The two hillmen exchanged an unreadable glance. Clearly, these revelations were not what they had expected. It was Woldro who finally spoke.

“And you expect us to believe you.”

  “We did not kill your men when they attacked us. Instead, we let them go free. If that speaks not clearly enough of our intentions, then there is nothing left to say between us. But then tell me, Woldro, why you came if you suspect that we are only here to continue what unfortunately happened in Meduseld?” Éomer stared at his opposite, hardly aware of the rain that was running over his face. It was getting very dark.

  At last the tribal leader granted him a short nod.

  “Give us a moment, horse-lord. We must discuss.” He turned his back on the Rohirrim and mumbled something to the other leader in their guttural Dunlending tongue. Éomer shifted his attention to his waiting men and motioned them over. Right now, his priority had to be to find out what was lying behind this rock. He could not concern himself with Durden and Woldro further for now.

“Elfhelm, Thor, I need a hand with this. There is something behind these rocks, and I think it holds the answer to the riddle!”

Thor handed Éomer the torch and then climbed up the same way as his king had, followed by the marshal. Éomer pointed at the gap between the rocks. “I only saw it because it began to rain and the water didn’t reach the ground. There must be a cave behind it – or a tunnel!” He pried his fingers into the opening and waited until his men had joined him, then counted them in – and pulled. The rock shifted, but rolled back when their fingers slipped on the wet surface. Groaning and swearing, they tried again, using their accumulated weight. Finally, with a low grinding noise, it rolled to the side to reveal more of the narrow crack in the mountain’s face, hardly wide enough for one man to walk through.

Rubbing his chafed fingers on his breeches, Éomer took the torch and held it into the opening, almost extinguishing the feeble flame in the draft of wet air. Further sticking his head in, he strained for noises. And in the same heartbeat, called himself a fool to assume that someone would still be waiting for him in there after two days. Hearing Thor’s low curse and Elfhelm’s faint objection from behind, he carefully probed the darkness with his foot before he entered, almost at once hitting his head on the ceiling.

Swearing and rubbing the base of his skull, Éomer moved the torch around to see where he had landed and found himself in a puddle of water. Next to him lay a dark unmoving shape. A Dunlending.

  “Éomer?” Elfhelm’s voice sounded dull in the narrow chasm. “Is it a cave or a tunnel? Does it continue?”

  Waving the torch and then stepping over to the body, Éomer narrowed his eyes to peer into the solid blackness beyond the reach of his light.

  “It appears that it does.” He rolled the corpse over with his boot. A deep cut to the neck had ended this one’s life, and the sight caused him to grind his jaw in satisfaction. At least the Gondorians had not gone down without a fight. “There is a dead Dunlending down here. I suppose we truly found the path Aragorn’s captors have taken.” He plodded a few more steps further into the mountain, but returned to the opening after he found that the chasm seemed to go on and exited to confront Woldro and Durden. “You know of this way, it is written in your eyes. Where does it lead?”

  The hillmen just stared at him, obviously fighting with themselves over what they should tell. Éomer granted them the time by looking at his own scout.

  “Thor?”

  The younger man’s expression spoke volumes as he shook his head in perplexed rejection. He blamed himself for failing his king. They had lost two days with the search, passing this entrance again and again without noticing it. How could he ever make up for this?

  “I cannot say, sire. I…” Words failed him. What were they supposed to do now? They could not follow that path into the mountain right now, unprepared, with night approaching. The tunnel could be swarming with all kinds of foul things. It was likely, too, that it was rigged with traps. An undertaking like this had to be thoroughly planned. And besides, their enemy had a lead on them they could not hope to diminish without knowledge of the territory. Not without horses. And they would have to leave the horses behind. Yet worse, if the enemy had horses waiting for them on the other side, they would never be able to overtake them. Still, the longer he stared at the opening, the more he felt an indistinct tug, like the shadow of a memory, yet too distant to be named.

  “Have you heard about this tunnel?” When no answer came, Éomer handed the feebly burning torch to his scout, wordlessly inviting him to go investigate himself. While the younger man disappeared inside the crack, the king turned towards the Dunlendings who were staring at him uncomfortably, very much aware that their answer would define the further relations with their eastern neighbours. “There is a dead kinsman of yours in there, so it must be the path the others took. They wiped their traces cleverly, and if it were not for the rain, they would have thrown us off their track for good. But it is your decision now: you either tell me where the path ends, or you can consider the peace talks over once and for all. Do we understand each other?”

  Durden knit his bushy eyebrows in distress.

  “Let us look at the dead. Then we consider.”

  Éomer shook his head, determined.

  “You have considered enough, and the dead doesn’t change anything. Tell me now, or choose to remain silent, but then my army will raid your villages like yours raided ours. There are four hundred mounted warriors positioned at the river Isen, not far from here, awaiting my orders. It is in your hands now to determine what their orders will be. If I were you, I would pray to my gods that King Elessar is alive and well. If anything has happened to him, you shall find that the combined wrath of Rohan and Gondor will be too much for you to handle.”

  “The path leads through the mountains,” Woldro at last could be heard, his dark gaze on the mouth of the cave. It was now almost too dark to see. “It is a passage few know about.” He felt Durden’s angry gaze upon himself, but chose to ignore him.

  “And it ends where?”

  Another long pause, another exchange between the two leaders.

  “North of here. Seven to eight days of hard marching. On the western side of the mountains, still in Dunland.”

  “So approximately four to five days on horseback,” Elfhelm estimated, feeling despair rise in him. “And we already lost two days searching this forsaken place! We must leave at once!”

  “And ride during the night?” Éomer shook his head and gave the two hillmen a wary glance. “It would make it too easy for them to ambush us. And the moon is hardly half-full. This terrain is treacherous, and we need to see where we are going. No, as much as I am loath to lose yet more time, we cannot ride through the darkness. Tomorrow at first light, we shall make haste, but not tonight.”

  “I agree, sire,” Thor’s made himself heard as he squeezed through the exit of the tunnel. The torch in his hands was almost extinguished. “I followed the chasm to an intersection. It seems to be a great system of tunnels, and I fear it would be hopeless to try and find a way through ourselves. We would get lost.”

  “So you know nothing about this place.”

  “I had once heard of a way through the mountains, years back when I was only beginning to develop my skills, but I have to admit that I never wandered that path myself. It was said to be a way only few were shown.” He inhaled. “My lord, we should really head back to the camp. The torch has almost burnt down, and very soon, it will be so dark that we cannot see our hands in front of our eyes anymore.”

  “Aye.” Éomer turned to the Dunlendings, motioning them to leave along with them. “Durden, Woldro... you’re coming with us. I suppose you are well-versed in the use of a map. You show me where the path ends, and you will let your people know that we are not to be attacked as we’re riding north. Or… no. I know something better. You will be coming with us, at least one of you.”

  “Coming with you?” Woldro grumbled, unhappy about being given orders by the strawheads’ king, but sensing that his obedience was the only connection to the greatest chance at peace they had ever had. “How? We cannot ride. And I refuse…” An intense glare silenced him.

  “You know how to stay on a horse, and that is good enough. You will clear the way for us if we meet any of your tribe. And I will not take ‘no’ for an answer! One of you will remain here for the night and accompany us on the ride north. Decide who it will be.”

  “So this means you are taking one of us prisoner?” Durden asked, incredulous. His eyes were shooting daggers at his comrade. He had foreseen trouble with Woldro’s suggestion. “We have come to parley! You cannot...”

  “Do you want this peace or not, Durden? Leave if you think you must, but then our next meeting won’t be friendly!”

  “I will go,” Woldro made himself heard over the heated discussion. It took both opponents a while to register what he had said. “I will accompany you, Éomer-king. But only for two days. My influence does not reach further, and having to walk back through territory that is unknown even to me could easily claim my life. You must understand.”

  Contemplating his offer, the Rohirrim stared at him. At length, he nodded.

  “Very well, Woldro. I appreciate your gesture. Be assured that you will have nothing to fear from my men. We will keep you safe.”

  “Like Grodes?” Durden threw in acidly. Searching Thor’s gaze, Éomer continued.

  “Stay close to the captain. He will see to it that no harm will be done to you. You have my word.”

  The exchange between the two men continued for another long moment, and then Woldro turned his head to cast an equally long, scrutinising glance at Thor. Finally, he nodded.

  “I put my trust in you, Éomer-king. But do not fail us again.”

------------------------

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  Nisenur and Ridasha had shared a short conversation while the prisoners as well as the Dunlendings had slurred along the path, and now that he had left to fulfil his duty her mood had lightened. Nisenur had reported to her how well Harishdane had prepared the trap in which the Gondorians had been caught and that the Dunlendings had followed their orders without great mistakes. Still her ruler's decision to turn south in the coming night troubled her, but she was sure that Harishdane must have her reasons. She did not question her, but after an hour's walk in the darkness led the soldiers through a short tunnel which ended in a wide circle divided by mighty rocks, which lay scattered as if a giant had played with them long ago. It was a dead end; the surrounding inclines were too steep to climb, and the circle bore only one exit. Since the wind had calmed the place was as sombre as a meadow. It was a perfect place to guard the prisoners, and Ridasha silently praised her leader again for her flawless planning.

  Asentis and Ridasha gathered the prisoners on one side of the rocks, and tired and weary from the day’s efforts, they sat down moaning and flinching with pain. The youngest soldier the healer had treated along the way almost fell to the ground, and Ridasha was sure not even the call to arms would have forced him to his feet again. Some men demanded food and water, and the guards handed them water-skins while the Easterlings provided pieces of flat-baked bread and dried fruits. Only one of them was still standing, and when Ridasha turned she found his gaze fixed on her.

  “I have to tend to these men,” the Gondorian in the plain leather clothes said urgently when she approached him. Again he held out his hands. “Most of them are wounded and they will get worse if I do not take care of them.”

  Ridasha considered the possibility that that prisoner – ‘Strider’ as the soldier had called him – would break into a run, but then saw the Dunlendings take position at the entrance to the tunnel leading northward. And her own kinsmen would be even faster to prevent an escape than any of the hillmen. A fire was kindled in the centre of the circle; no one would escape unnoticed, and she did not count on the healer to be a very capable soldier. She made up her mind and drew her knife.

  “You will not live to see the morning sun if you try to betray me, Strider,” she said in a dark and low voice that did not sound like a threat. Rather it was a statement, and he understood that her generosity had limits. She cut the knot, and with a bow, the healer turned to look after the young soldier first. Ridasha remained at his side, eyeing him closely to let him know with her hand on the hilt of his own hunting knife that any wrong move would have bitter consequences. At the same moment she acknowledged his abilities. To their fortune a healer was among the captives, and though he had received his share in battle, he was still able to perform his duty.

  “What is your name?” the healer asked when he had changed the bandage around the man's arm. He looked up to her. She hesitated as if giving her name would mean the same as laying down all weapons. “You know mine.”

  She looked into his eyes, searching for the reason for his question and when she found only truthfulness, she answered quietly,

  “Ridasha.”

  The healer nodded curtly.

  “I thank you, Ridasha, that I may take care of these men.”

  “They have a long walk ahead of them,” she said plainly, lifting her brows. “And they walk better when they are healthy.”

  “A long walk?” he immediately asked. “How long? Where are you taking us?”

  Suddenly Ridasha was aware of her leader at one of the huge rocks on the other side of the campsite. She seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and her angry stare was fixed on Ridasha. The female soldier swallowed, but stayed close to the prisoner; he was under her supervision, and she would not neglect her duty. Harishdane called Asentis to her, then Nisenur, and another woman, who left the illuminated side of the circle with a load of matchwood.

  Aragorn had followed Ridasha's gaze, alarmed by the stern face of the leader.

  “What is happening?” he asked her, but she neither answered nor moved. The leader's mouth was set, her words poignant, and her stare never left Ridasha. When Harishdane ended, Asentis had taken a long rope in his hands and crossed the campsite with long strides. The young woman frowned, uncertain what this conversation meant, and all the Gondorian soldiers looked up, suddenly tense and disturbed. “Ridasha, what is this about?” Aragorn asked urgently, getting up.

  But Asentis was already close, his appearance and posture a threat by itself. She had experienced that before and felt a shiver running down her spine. She did not dare to utter another word.

  “Leave,” he ordered her in shék, and his position demanded her unconditional obedience. Swallowing the words she would have wanted to utter, she bowed to him and retreated. Though she was no apprentice in the work of war, she was only a soldier who followed commands. Asentis turned his dark eyes to the healer, who was facing him warily but without fear. “Hold out your hands.”

  The king's frown deepened, and with a last glance at Ridasha, he stepped back. The woman seemed troubled and obviously could not imagine what Asentis had in mind.

  “I was only treating the injured,” Aragorn tried to explain, but Asentis did not listen.

  “Deliver yourself or I will fight you.” His voice and his eyes sparkled with hatred. He moved forward, but Aragorn quickly side-stepped Asentis' attempt to seize him, feeling the sudden impact of fear again like a cold hand touching his heart. “Surrender!”

  “What is this about?” Aragorn shouted, glancing again at Ridasha, but the woman watched the developing quarrel without any indication of wanting to intervene. “I am their healer!”

  Ridasha turned to watch Harishdane. The leader's face gleamed with determination. Asentis was only fulfilling her order. Ridasha's frown deepened. The prisoner was already under her control! Why had Harishdane sent Asentis to bind him when that man was only doing his work? And why was the second-in-command so eager to overthrow that man? Was it not so that their goddess told them to take care of the prisoners of war?

  The other soldiers suddenly came to their feet, determined to protect their healer against Asentis. Waking from her musings, Ridasha moved in and ordered them to sit down again. She pushed those down who did not obey at once, but at the same time she admired the beaten-looking men for their courage. With a few commands she stopped the hillmen from misusing the chance to hurt the soldiers. They barked at her, but she insulted them back.

  Asentis attacked Aragorn at the same moment. He was as agile as he was vicious, distracting his opponent while Nisenur moved in from behind.

  “Watch out!” Halamin screamed, unable to help on his own.

  The king parried two strikes aimed at his face and chest, but was caught by a punch to his back. He evaded to his right. And while his comrades were kept down he fought back, holding Nisenur at a distance, searching with his eyes for a weapon to use. Ridasha stood aside, puzzled and unable to understand what her kinsman was doing. Aragorn caught Nisenur's arm and twisted it. The man screamed in pain, but Asentis ended the moment by taking the king in a stranglehold, cutting off his breath. Using the diversion, Nisenur punched his opponent hard enough to break his grip. The king thrust his elbow back, but could not sufficiently hurt Asentis to free himself. The Easterling's face was contorted with effort when he ordered Nisenur to bind the prisoner again. The king still wrestled ferociously in Asentis' grip when Nisenur took up the rope to wind it around the prisoner's wrists. He tore at the bonds, and kicked Nisenur, but his strength was fading. The Easterling pulled the cord tight, and still Asentis held fast though the prisoner no longer resisted. When his captor finally loosened the grip, Aragorn coughed and sucked in air

  “Move!” Asentis growled and held the captive's upper arm to forcefully steer him to the place from where Harishdane had observed the fight. Now she was gone, knowing that her man had won.

  “Where are you taking me?” the king demanded to know and coughed again. His men shouted, but Asentis pretended not to hear them. “What do you want?”

  Ridasha was bothered by the same question since the healer had not been thrown back among his people as she had expected. She took up the pouch the healer had left behind, and, closing the thin cord around its opening, followed the three men around the rock formation to the place beyond the campsite. A small fire had been kindled within the secluded space, and Harishdane looked up to them.

  “Put him down here,” she simply said, and Asentis nodded and pressed the captive to the ground, close to where his leader waited. “Bind his ankles.”

  Aragorn caught no more than a glimpse of the things on the stone in front of the leading woman, but he gasped in shock. A knife was lying in the middle. Had he been brought here to be killed? Would that woman sacrifice him as an offering to one of their gods?

  Nisenur moved in to help by holding the prisoner down on his belly until Asentis had fastened the knots. Ridasha stepped closer. Carefully and curiously she eyed what Harishdane was doing hardly five feet away from the healer. He had turned on his right side, and rested his head on the ground, panting in exhaustion. Nisenur stood aside, watchful and ready to act if the man dared to move.

  On the smooth surface of a stone in front of her the leader had spread out the contents of her small sack, and the items looked very familiar to Ridasha. She gasped in utter surprise and confusion.

  “You cut his bonds,” Harishdane accused her in shék, cutting off the soldier's question. “Twice.” She had knelt behind the stone, but her voice bore enough superiority and threat to make the woman swallow with nervousness.

  “He is their healer,” she answered lowly, but without hesitation. “I thought not…”

  “You will not do that again.”

  The order made Ridasha frown. She suddenly knew that her assumption was right when Harishdane unfolded a piece of cloth to reveal a piece of dark red bark.

  “What harm could he do?” she dared to ask, her eyes fixed on the small bowl and the knife on the stone. “He wanted to help his men.” Her gaze found the healer's who watched her intently, unable to understand a word. He asked her with his stare to explain, but the leader's next words caused Ridasha to shift her attention back at her.

  “He will do no more harm when he is under the guidance of Úshemor,” Harishdane decided. “Then he can no longer rouse his people.”

  “Rouse? He helped them, he treated their wounds!” She could not believe what was about to happen. Harishdane would not… “What will you do?” Her voice was but a breath.

  “Do not question me, Ridasha,” Harishdane warned, and the young woman pressed her lips tight. Again her eyes found those of the healer, and he frowned deeply.

  “What devilry is on her mind, Ridasha?” The leader's lips twitched upon hearing her soldier's name spoken by that impure creature. “Is she about to kill me?” He received no answer, and she averted her eyes. When he turned his head he saw Asentis crouching in front of the fire he maintained, murmuring words that sounded like a strange, hissed prayer. Ridasha still stood at the same place, her lips slightly parted but without saying a word. “What is it, Ridasha?” he pressed. “What is she up to?”

  “She will mark you.” Her voice bore no feeling, too deep was the cut she had just received.

  “What for?” he asked horrified.

  “To indicate that you are her slave,” she stated flatly, still eyeing Harishdane in utter disbelief. “To make sure you belong to her tribe for your time to come.”

  “A slave?” The word stuck in Aragorn's throat like a bad piece of meat. “She…”

  But Ridasha had already turned to talk to Harishdane, who examined and cleaned the small shining ceremonial dagger. The young soldier looked down on her and waited until her leader looked up. She summoned her strength to get the words on her tongue past her lips.

  “The high priestess of the Mushéni-Rhûneshan is not with us. She awaits us five days away from here. It is impossible to do what you are about to do without a proper ceremony. And you know that we agreed to share the prisoners with all other tribes, Harishdane. To mark them back home.” The leader shot her an angry look, but continued with her preparations, and for a moment of hesitation Ridasha fell silent. She swallowed hard. It was not her place to remind the leader of her duties, but she could not keep quiet about this. Too old were the rituals they were all living by. Not even Harishdane should be allowed to break them. “You have no right to…”

  Infuriated, the leader cut Ridasha off with a few harsh words in shék, which made even the man at the fire raise his head. Ridasha went on, pleading, demanding, and Aragorn's eyes were fixed on both faces. It was obvious Ridasha could hardly restrain her anger and again exchanged words that sounded like accusations with her superior. The leader answered curtly and determinedly, and finally Ridasha bowed deeply to her. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her fists clenched tight, and she was breathing heavily. Though Aragorn had not understood a word, the woman's eyes were telling everything. She did not dare to contradict anymore. All her words were spent, and the quarrel settled. Avoiding her leader's angry look, she waited for the command to fetch water. She brought it and put down the bowl with gestures and prayers that indicated that she – for her part – followed the ceremony as she knew it. The Easterling leader gave her an intimidating look, but for a moment she stood fast.

  Aragorn looked around, desperately searching for a way out. He would do everything in his power to not be set under a spell by that witch from Rhûn. He had to escape somehow, but he knew he had only one attempt left. There was no need to try and free himself; the ropes were tight, and they were watching him. If he could only make it back to the main fire… He tried to gain Ridasha's attention, but she had cast her eyes down to the ground. Her cheeks were flushing red, and she was still tense. He could not expect her to help him; she had already lost her battle.

  Harishdane took a deep breath. She had needed far too long to gain Ridasha's obedience and would not forget her obstinate replies. But right now she was one of those who had attended the ceremony often enough that she could be of assistance, so she allowed Ridasha to stay. There would be another time and opportunity to punish her. She started singing while she ground a small piece of the red-coloured bark into a little wooden bowl and mixed the powder with a handful of water. She lifted the bowl, let it be praised by the goddess, and put it down again. Glancing at Asentis she rose to present the dagger to the sky where Úshemor would watch her. Then the dagger was rinsed with fresh water. Harishdane continued singing quietly in shék. It was a monotonous up and down melody and a string of words that was repeated again and again, to wake Úshemor and ask for her attendance and blessing of the ceremony. The Easterlings' leader nodded to Asentis and he stepped closer to Aragorn. The king met his fierce stare.

  “What do you want?” he frowned, when he saw the dagger in Harishdane's hands, its blade shining in the fire's glow. “What are you about to do?”

  Harishdane ignored him, but praised the goddess for dedicating the artfully crafted ceremonial dagger with its light brown handle and engraved symbols to her task. Its blade was curved and split at the tip, the metal embossed with glyphs. Asentis and Ridasha, whose face still glowed with restrained anger, fell into the singing when they approached their prisoner.

  “You will not put a spell on me,” Aragorn said hoarsely when Asentis was about to kneel at his legs. In a fluent motion he drew up his feet and thrust at the man with all his strength, but Asentis evaded narrowly. Aragorn tried again, hit the soldier's knees and turned around to regain his feet. Asentis fell back against a stone, grimacing with pain, but was up again at once, while Ridasha stood unmoving. Aragorn rose half way to hit him with his bound hands, but not hard enough to make him stumble. Holding Nisenur back with a word Asentis grabbed the king's upper arm and kicked his knee into his back to bring him down. Aragorn spun around, tried to free his arm, and pushed Asentis aside, but with the limited range he was bound to lose the fight. The second-in-command did not hesitate to throw him on the stones again. The king suppressed a cry and closed his eyes for a moment. He was panting, but he promised himself it was not over yet.

  “Hold him!” Harishdane ordered, and Asentis pressed his weight on the healer's legs. Ridasha could not believe it – Asentis too misused the ritual. It was wrong, and Ridasha feared that the strong resistance the captive showed was a sign by Úshemor to leave the man alone and wait for the right time and place to put him under the goddess' command. With a deep frown she watched how the healer still struggled and tried to rise and hit Asentis, who was holding him. The veins on his neck and temples stood out, and with the supreme effort he broke into sweat. Clenching his teeth he used every bit of strength attempting to get rid of the enemy forcing him down. Asentis ordered Ridasha to sit down at the other side and pull the prisoner by his shoulders, but she was unable to gain control over the ferociously fighting healer. Upon a call Nisenur came to take her place, and when she sat aside, the young man pressed the healer's head down on a flat stone Asentis had placed there so he could no longer move. Sweat streamed down his forehead and cheeks, and his eyes bulged when he saw Harishdane nearing. The Ring of Barahir and the Evenstar hung loosely around her slender neck and shone in the fire's gleam. She held the ceremonial dagger in her right hand and lowered herself on her knees beside the prisoner, ending the calling to the goddess. “It is time.”

  “NO!”

  Ridasha flinched at the desperate tone, and again she sent a prayer to Úshemor to not punish them all for their wrong-doing.

  Harishdane nodded to her while she moved a strand of hair from the healer's neck and cut open the collar of the tunic to bare his neck and the upper part of his shoulder-blade. Ridasha took off a glove and pressed it into the prisoner's mouth, trying to keep her emotions to herself, before the dagger's tip sank into the flesh of his neck. The leather muffled his scream, and the singing continued in the same rhythm while the blade cut the first set of lines from behind the ear to an inch above the shoulder-blade. Ridasha's lips parted for another inaudible prayer for forgiveness. Blood oozed out of the wound, but the bleeding did not last long. The red creamy liquid the leader applied with her thumb soon afterwards sank in and spread under the skin in both directions. Asking Úshemor for assistance Harishdane lowered the dagger to let it be rinsed again by Ridasha. The young soldier obeyed, but with the utmost reluctance, wishing for the ritual to be interrupted by anything – even by the wrath of the goddess herself – but it did not happen. With a new line of words Harishdane let the blade come to rest again on the prisoner's neck. The singing continued. Úshemor was asked to praise the tribe and keep the slave obedient to the demands of his new life. Ridasha closed her eyes for a moment, unable to watch the healer struggle ferociously under the firm grip of four hands holding him down, and the urgent plea of his eyes for help. She had never before witnessed such resistance, and her prayers became desperate. The leader had to wait to continue, but Ridasha dared not to utter a word of contradiction again.

  Aragorn was panting, still fighting to keep that woman from hurting him, though his strength was almost spent. The pain sank in, but there was more than pain. There was a threat behind it he could not name or grasp. He shivered involuntarily. The fear of being helpless took hold of him. It was a fear of facing a power too great to master. The fear of surrendering to a faceless enemy. He could hardly breathe and the shock went deeper when his eyes could no longer focus, and the pain quickly spread.

  Harishdane seemed unaware of the prisoner's misery. She knew that his struggling made the liquid only move faster into his body. With a stern look she again ordered the two men to hold him down. With yet another repetition of the prayer's lines the dagger cut again. The second double line of the sign was fulfilled, crossing the first one. The red liquid spread over it flew rapidly like a small creature forcing its way through the open vein. Harishdane's eyes glowed with satisfaction when she watched the king's defences lessen.

  Ridasha feared Úshemor's revenge at any moment. Her leader had taken a wrong way; she walked a path that would lead to the doom of them all. Ridasha watched the prisoner's pain-contorted face. Blood trickled from his nose to the ground. He shivered and his eyes stared into her direction as if the goddess herself accused her for disregarding the ritual. She swallowed hard, knowing that she would be punished.

  Aragorn clenched his fists, when, suddenly, he could no longer feel his hands. The moment he realised the numbness he tried to raise his head from the stone but failed. His strength was fading fast now. The smell of the leather glove in his mouth mingled with the strange, bitter scent of the red liquid he could feel in his neck and trickling down between his shoulder-blades. His eyes were out of focus, and he could only see the blurred shape of Ridasha kneeling in front of him. He wanted to make her help him, but he could not speak, and all words seemed useless the next moment.

  The dagger was rinsed and praised a third time, and a third set of lines was cut into his skin. Aragorn still heard the singing, but it seemed to come from afar. He heard himself breathe and was dimly aware of the hands and weights on his body, but the impressions faded away. Only the strong pain remained, seizing his body, and making him wish to escape this awful place. Another sting, and the hurting extended from his neck down his shoulder and arm, then along his spine. He was still fighting it, knowing instinctively that giving in would worsen it. But though his heart beat fast he could no longer resist. A fourth short and hard cut ended the marking. Aragorn suddenly felt a soft pressure on the base of his nose, and while the pain ebbed away along with his consciousness he saw pictures in his head he could not explain. Then the darkness closed in.

  “Don’t do this,” Harishdane ordered, and Ridasha opened her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The leader shot her a disapproving glare, but the young soldier held her right thumb on the base of the healer's nose a moment longer while she took the glove out of his mouth with the other. If he had to suffer like that she would at least grant him ease now that the ceremony was over. “He does not deserve your pity.” Harishdane rose after she had rinsed the dagger. Bowing to their leader Asentis and Nisenur retreated since there was no further resistance to be expected from the new slave of the Jásheni-Rhûvenan. Ridasha still knelt in front of the healer and involuntarily stared at the blood red sign on the back of his neck. The colour of the bark had mingled with the lighter one of the blood, which still oozed from the wounds. The ritual required the slave not be washed before sunrise, but she was uncertain if the rule applied in this case. Again she watched her leader and could not help but despise her for the breach of tradition. Since the days of her childhood she had been told by her tribe to value the rituals. She had been instructed in many of them, and never had she witnessed a simple tribesman execute the prayers and songs belonging to the rituals. The high priestess was the only one allowed to guide her tribe in the ceremonies. Ridasha swallowed bitterly. What would her priestess say upon seeing that Gondorian healer already marked with Harishdane's tribal sign?

------------------------

  Hilberon had been half asleep when the cry echoed from the steep grey walls, covered now with darkness. It had been a cry piercing the heart of every man, making Hilberon shiver. He looked around. The other soldiers were frowning, fearing for their leader's life. Hilberon remembered the encouraging look the king had given him on the path. But behind it the young soldier had seen deep worry. He feared for the king – and if he died what would become of his comrades? ‘As long as there is life there is hope’ his father had once told him. Never before had Hilberon wanted to trust these words more.

  Tarés clenched his teeth. He had vowed to protect the king, and now that the captain was gone he had taken over the responsibility. It would be considered his fault if the king was killed. Tarés closed his eyes for a moment. He reproached himself that he should have watched better over Elessar. He could have tried to rescue him from that Easterling, and he was ashamed to have obeyed that female soldier. Now he felt as useless and helpless as the rest of the Royal Guard. He could see it in their expressions. Something terrible had happened to the king and none of them had been able to prevent it.

------------------------

EDORAS

  Queen Arwen had fought against her uneasiness the whole day, telling herself that her husband would be safe: that he knew how to take care of himself. But when the night closed in, the feelings intensified, holding her in a tight embrace she could not break. She went to bed and during a restless sleep, she tossed from one side to the other, unable to escape the clutches of the nightmare. In the fire-lit darkness a knife shone. In a face behind it dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  She heard Aragorn cry in despair.

Ch 25 - Aftermath

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  Ridasha watched the healer's face. He was fighting within himself. His brows furrowed, he moved his head and parted his lips in a painful expression as if to contradict his treatment, but no words came. She leant forward, almost expecting him to say something – or to hear Úshemor speak to her through him. Any accusation would be justified. Ridasha swallowed hard. Harishdane had collected her belongings and had left her with the order to watch over the prisoner, and the young soldier had silently accepted the task with an obedient bow. An hour had passed, and she still sat close by the captive, only stood up once in a while to feed the small fire. What would the goddess do with her tribe – and with Harishdane's tribe? She had always considered the gods to be merciful, but the last years had taught her kin otherwise until the Jásheni-Rhûvenan had reached their shores. Ridasha remembered the day of their arrival. All other tribes had thought that only hopelessness remained and they had been willing to leave their home behind. The Jásheni were different, and they had demonstrated their superiority from the first moment on till their strength and skills had been known to all other tribes. The high priestesses had praised their arrival as a day of the gods' generosity and said that Harishdane and her kin were sent by them to lead the Easterlings to a better future. Ridasha could still recall the high spirits spreading among those present the moment Harishdane had been proclaimed as the leader of all tribes.

  Rising slowly she went over to the stone Harishdane had used and knelt in front of it. Using her scarf to cover the surface she placed a small bowl with water on it and bowed to the simplest of shrines, praying quietly. She sang to Úshemor for forgiveness for herself, telling her that she had not willingly helped. But she was not sure that the goddess would listen. She remained on her knees for a time uncounted, and when she returned and hid her scarf under her tunic again, she looked again into the healer's face. He sweated and panted, and though he was still unconscious his mind seemed to scream for release. This night had turned out different from all others. Harishdane would be known for crossing a border that should not be crossed, and she would have to face the high priestess' punishment for her wrong-doing if Úshemor allowed them to even get this far. Ridasha shivered with anxiety. How could it have come to this? What had convinced her leader to mark this healer? How could she have thought it an unavoidable deed? He was a simple man taught in the skills of healing people, no wizard to fear. And he could not truly be a mighty soldier even though a pretty hunting knife had once belonged to him.

  Aragorn felt paralysed. Something hot as well as cold quivered through his veins. From his neck down to his shoulder and his right arm. He flexed his fist – it still worked, and he could feel his cold fingers again. But the sensation of a creeping, crawling entity travelling through his body lasted much longer. A weakness still spread over him and finally grasped his whole body, making him shiver ceaselessly. He did not want to move, not even open his eyes. The strange scent was still in the air and made him heave. He heard the crackle of fire behind him, and voices talking in the distance. He assumed it to still be night. His body felt heavy and limp, and the fear that he might be unable to move at all made him slowly turn his head though the pain rose at once. He forced his eyes to open. Ridasha stared at him as if waiting for an important announcement, but he was unable to speak. Frowning she took her water-skin, opened it and held it to his lips to let him drink.

  “Did you meet the goddess?” she asked lowly, and her look indicated how important the question was to her. He did not understand. “Did you see Úshemor?” He found no words and only shook his head slightly. She put away the water-skin. “You probably do not remember.”

  He swallowed and looked around, and when he saw that they were alone he asked quietly,

  “What did you do?” His voice rasped. “I felt… something on my nose.”

  “Oh, it was nothing.” The feeble smile lasted only seconds, but she still looked at him.

  “I saw… pictures of green grass and animals roaming there.”

  “Sharos, yes. It is a peaceful picture, isn't it? But it is long gone. A mere memory.”

  He wet his lips.

  “Why?”

  “What we had lies in ruins. Mordor's poisonous breath bereft us of our land.” She exhaled and her shoulders sagged. She rested her hands beside her drawn-up legs. “I do not dare to hope that we will ever return to peaceful times.” Again her gaze travelled to the red lines on the healer's neck, and regret made her flinch.

  He gathered his strength to ask,

  “Why did you speak up?” Ridasha did not answer. She was still unwilling to believe that their well-respected leader had executed a ritual that belonged to one of the oldest the Easterling tribes knew. Harishdane had insulted all that Ridasha believed in. Her confusion ran deep and she let the healer see it. “Was she… not allowed to do this?” he asked hoarsely and clenched his teeth when he tried to move.

  “Úshemor will guide you from now on,” she said flat-voiced and was unwilling to say more.

------------------------

  Ridasha leant back. The healer had fallen asleep, and she felt the same exhaustion overcome her. Resting the back of her head against a stone she closed her eyes, but her sleep was filled with strange pictures of how the goddess would come over them to judge their doings. When she woke and found the campsite untouched and the captive still on the ground she breathed with relief.

  Asentis stood in front of her. His beardless features with the dark brown eyes had always impressed her, but her admiration for the strength and skill of this man was spoiled.

  “Make him get up,” he ordered, and she nodded curtly. “Quick. We need to move on!” Asentis turned and left. Since their camp lay within the mountain the morning light would not touch it for another half hour, but the sky had already turned to a pale blue. She drank water and found the healer awake. Getting closer she realised that the man had hardly moved.

  Frowning, she asked,

  “Does it still hurt?“ He nodded only slightly. Even his breathing seemed laboured. Kneeling before him, Ridasha gently pushed away the hair from his neck and let her finger rest at the edge of the symbol. “It is still swollen. This is quite unusual. You seemed to be in real pain too.” Again a nod. “That is… strange.” From a sack she carried with her she took a piece of cloth, drenched it with water and gently wiped away the blood.

  He turned his head slightly so he could look into her face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In those markings I witnessed during a proper ceremony the men and women did not feel much pain.”

  “So this…” He could not go on, shut his eyes again.

  “These markings are given to every prisoner of war,” Ridasha explained emotionless, moving back a step, but still crouching on her heels. Twisting the wet cloth between her hands she waited until he looked at her again, and the sound of her voice turned bitter. “In a ceremony at noon all the tribe’s prisoners are brought forward and the high priestess marks them and puts them under the guidance of Úshemor. This is our goddess who watches over all slaves so that they work properly and do not stand up against their tribe.” She looked down upon the cloth, letting the healer drew his conclusion. He did not utter a word, so she leant forward again to wipe the blood from his nose before she unbound his ankles. “You have to get up, Strider. The sun’s rising. We move on.”

------------------------

  Halamin could not believe what he saw. A gasp and a cry of shock escaped him, and he stared with wide eyes at his ruler being led to them from behind the rocks separating the circle. He knew he should be glad to see him alive, but that moment of joy was short-lived. The king's face was pale and haggard, his lips pressed tight as if to suppress pain, and the collar of his jerkin had been cut and partly bared his shoulder. The other soldiers turned and craned their necks, and murmurs rose to shouts of horror. A hillman grabbed Halamin's arm, but he angrily broke free, not even looking at his captor. All prisoners stood unmoving until their ruler had reached them.

  “Strider…,” Halamin whispered sympathetically, “by the Valar, we feared the worst. What have they done to you?”

  The king shot him a commanding look.

  “Move on, Halamin, right now.” His voice was but a breath, and it took him strength to walk upright, but he passed his fellows, who still stood gaping, and took the lead of the group leaving the campsite through the tunnel.

  “Aye,” Halamin answered quietly, exchanging a glance with Tarés as they followed. Both had seen the red lines on the king’s back shining through his dark hair. Tarés' face was ashen. ‘King Elessar has to return home,’ the captain had stressed to his second-in-command. ‘It is not his fight in Dunland, and no one at home would understand if he were to fall for his Rohan ally.’ He swallowed hard. The king was losing strength, and there was no help for it.

------------------------

ROHIRRIM CAMP

  The night had been short, but now that he finally knew where to go, even the few hours of rest which darkness had dictated had seemed like an eternity for Éomer. Eagerness, determination and impatience personified, he stepped out of his tent when only the barest hint of the approaching daylight was showing itself on the horizon. The camp was already brimming with activity, every grasp well-practised and efficient. Soon, all signs that there had been ever a Rohirrim camp at the foot of these mountains would be gone, while they’d be chasing Aragorn’s captors. Slightly shifting his view, he recognised two approaching shapes through the early morning’s fog, and turned to greet them by raising his chin.

  “Thor! Any occurrences during the night?” Éomer’s gaze briefly glided down to the shorter, squarely-built Dunlending at his scout’s side. The man looked uncomfortable, which was understandable given his status as a semi-captive.

  “Nothing, sire. The men are ready to leave.”

  “What will you do if you find them?” Woldro asked, casting more than one nervous side-glance at the Rohirrim soldiers around him. He was painfully aware of his exposed position and knew that his life was safe only for as long as the men’s leader held his protective hand above him. “Kill them?”

  “That depends on the manner in which they confront us,” his opposite stated. “If they surrender, I might consider sparing their lives. But if they want the fight, I shall gladly bring it to them. And if they have laid but a finger on the King of Gondor, they will wish they had never heard of a realm called Rohan!” His fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword as if he could barely await the moment of the confrontation, Éomer’s gaze remained on the Dunlending for another moment before he finally addressed his kinsman. “Thor, you and Arnhelm ride ahead. Woldro will ride with Elfhelm. And make haste, we have lost too much time already.”

The sun was not up when the thunder of the great Rohirrim host echoed from the mountains, the sound travelling ahead for many leagues and announcing the coming of an army of riders, out for revenge...

------------------------

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  The whisperings of her kinsmen behind her continued – “Why was he marked?” “How can this be done without Gishvané?” – and she lowered her head, unwilling to stare at the healer's back any longer. Upon leaving the campsite Harishdane had ordered Ridasha to watch over the prisoner, and had added with the same anger that she would hold her responsible for any action that the healer might take. Ridasha knew it was part of the leader's revenge for her obstinacy, and she had accepted it without argument, knowing she was walking a thin line now. The leader could decide her fate until they met the high priestess, and Ridasha was aware that her accusations the night before had brought her close to a severe punishment. She did not know if Harishdane had been benevolent for now or had acted out of necessity.

  The two Easterling women shot her an angry glance and moved on, shoving the healer aside to take their places along the row of prisoners. Ridasha knew they considered her to be a member of the ceremony, and no words would change that. Not that she wanted to talk. Since the ritual had been violated she feared the wrath of Úshemor to come over them all, and the same anxiety had been uttered by others of her kin, who had seen the deep red mark. They knew that Harishdane had taken the healer to be her slave though it was forbidden, but, aside from the doubts and the whispered indignation, they would not openly accuse their leader. They would obey and march on and hope that the goddess might forgive the one mistake among the many brave and valuable deeds Harishdane had accomplished for the tribes.

  When Asentis ordered the group to come to a halt, Ridasha lifted her eyes from the ground. After covering broken pathways which were treacherous to step on, they had reached a small arch which shielded them from the sun's heat. The Dunlendings ordered the prisoners to sit down and remain still. In times before she would have smiled about the primitive hillmen and their fear of the Gondorians and their voices, but today she was too concerned to even react. Her gaze found the healer again. He had been plodding himself along the path for the hours until noon, and when he almost fell to the ground two of his men quickly aided him to sit and let him drink first. Ridasha drank herself and stared at the blue sky, bare of any clouds. Half a day had passed since the violation, and still the goddess seemed to ponder about a proper punishment. Maybe she would strike so hard that none of them would be left alive. She shivered with the thought of all of her kinsmen being killed because of Harishdane's wrong decision. Lowering her gaze she watched the soldiers talk with the healer. He looked wretched and too exhausted to move on, and Ridasha asked herself what her leader would do if the wounds hampered him from going on. Would she let them all wait or make some of his men carry him? There was no way to leave him behind now. With marking him as a slave Harishdane had – at the same time – taken up the responsibility for his well-being. Ridasha suddenly realised that her leader had commanded her at the healer's side for that reason – to make sure the man moved on. Her lips curled to a bitter smile she quickly hid. Harishdane had executed a lesson in shrewdness, and Ridasha was the apprentice to get the blame.

  Aragorn gave back the water-skin to Tarés and wiped his weary eyes with his palms. The soldier bent forward, whispering,

  “My lord, what will you have us do?“

  After a quick glance at the female Easterling who had stayed at the king’s side since their departure, Hilberon on the other side added:

  “You command us, and we follow. Just let us know.“

  With an effort Aragorn raised his head again. The hours of marching had been long, and he wished for nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes. He faced the young man.

  “How is your arm doing?“

  The son of Hiregon stood firm to his ruler’s look.

  “It is healing,” he stated and could not cover his obstinacy. “When will we fight?“

  Aragorn’s lips twitched.

  “Not now. We move on,“ he simply said.

  “We have to do something, have we not?” the young soldier pressed.

  Tarés exhaled noisily. He had stayed at the king's side since they had left the campsite, and he cared too much for the well-being of his ruler to remain silent.

  “But you are exhausted. You cannot...“

  The king’s head snapped to his second-in-command, and though his voice was still low the finality in his tone could not be missed.

  “I am getting better.“

  The older soldier cast down his eyes, setting his jaw.

  “Aye.“

  Ridasha stepped closer, unfastening a small sack from under her tunic. Immediately the men next to the healer looked up, a threat in their eyes to defend their comrade if necessary. Not for the first time the Easterling found their behaviour admirable and at the same time strange. Harishdane had told her that, aside from their kin, other races were no more than unrefined peasants with only little honour, pride, or skill. She had told them that she would lead the Easterlings to victory for the enemies would not be able to withstand a longer fight, and would soon give into their destiny.

  “Why did you do this to him?” the elder of the soldiers accused her through clenched teeth. “He’s…”

  “It was not she,” the healer silenced his fellow. His voice sounded as beaten and tired as he looked. “It was her leader.”

  “You look like you are still in pain,“ Ridasha said quietly, and took a small dark brown leaf out of the sac. The healer looked at her, and though pride would keep him from admitting the fact, his eyes did not. She handed him the leaf. “This might help. Put it on your tongue.“

  “Do not take it,” the elder soldier warned quietly. “It could be poison.”

  The healer took it, asking:

  “What is it for?”

  Ridasha looked from the hateful eyes of the soldier back to the healer, who seemed cautious, but not utterly distrustful of her offer.

  “It is only mishénian,” she explained, “it numbs the pain.” She paused a moment before asking, “Are you not of the race of Man?“

  He raised his brows in astonishment.

  “Why do you say that?“

  Ridasha hesitated, anxious suddenly that she had revealed some valuable knowledge to him, but then decided to move on.

  “I never...“ She swivelled around, but only a hillman passed her by. Exhaling she turned back again, careful now that no one listened. “I told you… I never saw this happening... after the ritual.“ The healer held her in his stare. His grey eyes seemed to look right into her, and she swallowed. “So I wanted to know if you are not Man.“

  He tasted the slightly bitter leaf, frowning, thinking. From the head of the group shouts echoed. They would soon go on.

  “You tell me that there are more prisoners bearing this mark? Men from Rohan and Gondor?“

  Ridasha wanted to cast down her eyes, but could not. Though the question had been uttered without accusation she could read the horror in his expression. Finally she admitted,

  “There are more prisoners... They will belong to the tribes.“

  “Men you abducted from Rohan?“ The sudden realisation in his eyes made her frown. She had to be careful now. He seemed to know more that she had expected. “During the raids on the Rohirric settlements?“ She could not hide the answer he clearly saw in her face. “Where did you take them? What did you do with them?“

  “They will be set under the guidance of Úshemor,“ she answered quietly and left the men alone, unwilling to endure the healer’s penetrating stare any longer.

  “So they are not dead, but not better off than we,” Tarés muttered and stared after the woman. “Who knows where they are by now.”

  “What did she mean?” Hilberon asked, rising when the Dunlendings got closer. “Will we all be…” He chewed on the word and swallowed hard. “Will this be done to us all?”

  “I cannot say.” The king got up, trying to lighten the dreadful thoughts Hilberon bared on his juvenile features, but feeling unable to convince him. “But it has not happened yet, and if we stand true to each other, we will not let it happen.” He stared at the soldier, who was unable to accept the encouragement, but nodded nevertheless.

  “Aye.”

------------------------

  While the pain eased to a tolerable level Aragorn thought about Hilberon's words. Would it be the destiny of his people to be marked and led to Rhûn? He clenched his fists, dreading the thought alone. There had to be a chance to evade this doom, even if it would cost him. Seeing the worried faces of the soldiers only strengthened his determination to take whatever action to free his men.

  He still pondered what the sign he bore now meant. Having heard the agitated whispers by other Easterlings behind him he had guessed that they disapproved of Harishdane's arrogation, but would this bear any consequences for him or his men? Would the Easterlings in the leader's company act against her? And what did the mark signify? Did it only show what Ridasha had talked about? But why had her leader been so eager to mark him instead of waiting until the ceremony would have been led by the high priestess? The king shivered and trudged on.

  Behind Halamin, Dumarin snorted with exhaustion. The younger man had heard his comrade breathing heavily for most of the way, and now that the day waned he seemed hardly able to lift his feet any more. With every step he slurred over the stony ground, tripping time and time again in the dim light of yet another long tunnel leading through the mountains. He cursed and complained quietly until he finally asked:

  “What did the king say? Where are we going?”

  Halamin looked back over his shoulder. Dumarin's reddened face was covered with sweat, his shoulders sagged, and his uniform was partly torn.

  “For now we move on. He will tell us when…”

  “Move on!” Dumarin sneered and squinted when the Dunlending with the torch took a curve and left the group in complete darkness. “For how long? The end of days? There is no hope of escaping them!” He cursed again viciously when he hit his head.

  “Don't say that! We should not lose our faith so easily!”

  “Faith… hope! The captain is dead because he hoped to save…”

  “Don't!” Halamin cut him off, and the stout man clamped his mouth shut. They took the curve and found the rugged path winding downward again. Dumarin grumbled ceaselessly, afraid that they would be led even deeper into the mountain. He hated the smell alone, and the stories told about the depth of the world he did not like either. “There will be a chance.” Halamin caught the glance of an Easterling guard with a torch and knew that his confidence relied on his ruler and his leadership. He did not want to think any further.

  “Aye,” Dumarin replied with a bitter expression. “Did you not hear him last night? Did not your blood freeze when he cried?” Halamin lowered his head. He had been afraid he would not see his ruler again, and yet he had seen him – seen him tread the way with diminishing strength, keeping himself upright with nothing more than his will – and feared even more. “And still you think he’ll lead us out of captivity?”

  “If he can't do it alone we must help him.”

  Again Dumarin snorted, as if saying that Halamin was nothing but a dreamer, obstinately refusing to open his eyes to the truth.

  “Look at him, my friend,” he therefore said, “look and tell me what you see! By nightfall he will be so spent he cannot even think about another attempt to escape. Or to lead us anywhere. If he lasts the night…”

  “Dumarin!” Halamin almost shouted, “One should never think about such fates or even utter it! He is…” He stopped himself. He would never leave his king behind. And not until he saw his cold and dead body he would think of his ruler's death. He had prayed for his life last night and knew Tarés had done the same.

  “He is losing,” Dumarin huffed, knowing that his comrade had meant something else. “And even if he regains his health on the way, how do we know that he will still be the same man then?” Dumarin exhaled noisily upon climbing down a steep staircase, which steps were partly broken and slippery due to the water dripping from an unseen spring. Without using his hands it was a difficult undertaking, and he panted even more when they reached the end of it. He longed for a rest and wondered if the sun had already set. The whole day he had pondered over their foes and their intentions, and finally Halamin was close enough to share his thoughts with him. “What if this mark… changes him? Turns him into one of them?” Halamin faced him again shortly, disbelief in his green eyes. “Now, do not look like this! She's a witch, don't you think? Put him under her spell for good and won't release him! How could we know he'll lead us to freedom, hum? He might do what she bids.”

  “How can you say that?” Halamin shook his head and moved on, unwilling to listen to the stout man, but when he had fallen silent the younger soldier was pinched by the thoughts Dumarin had set in his mind. Though the great evil force in the east had been smashed he knew that it was impossible to eradicate it for good. He had to admit that he did not know anything about the way the Easterlings lived. Dumarin had told him about the fights along the mountains during the last days of the Ring War, but all the fat man had stressed had been his hatred and his despising the enemies for robbing the dead. Why should it not be possible they had witches among them? Women who used their knowledge of trees, herbs, and soil to brew strange potions? Could it not be that Dumarin was right? And if he allowed that possibility – what would it mean for the rest of the company?

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EDORAS

  The sun was mercilessly gleaming down on the dry, burnt grass as Lothíriel slid from her saddle. Up ahead, Récceleas was sitting on his still-twitching prey, his talons dug deeply into the rabbit’s flesh which would enrich their stew tonight. His keen eyes looked at his master as the Queen of Rohan approached him.

  “Impressive,” Féofor uttered, amazed by how easily the animal was giving up its prey to accept a seat on the queen’s leathern glove. “I wonder how she trains them. I have never seen anyone hunt with the aid of birds before.”

  “It is something the people in the settlements could well use,” the rider next to him said. “Meat is scarce and hard to come by in winter, and this method of attaining it looks easy enough.”

  Lothíriel paid no heed to the two men who had accompanied her onto the plains, as she picked up the dead rabbit and put it into a leathern pouch. Her thoughts had been elsewhere for the entire day, and even though she had tried to flee from them by riding out and escaping the gloomy mood of Meduseld, at least for a few hours, she knew that her efforts were in vain. It was impossible to shake the mental image of Queen Arwen’s grief, her face as pale as moonlight; the lady having fallen deep into the clutches of a despair so deep that it left her frozen with fear.

  Lothíriel knew about the power of elven premonition, even though she carried but a hint of that in her own blood. Something horrible was happening in Dunland, and both their husbands were caught up in it. Whereas, as dreadful as the emotions she had picked up from Elessar had been, Arwen at least knew that her husband was still alive, Lothíriel felt nothing of that sort concerning Éomer. Her connection was too weak, and so she had been doomed to watch helplessly, trying to comfort the Elf with words she had not believed in herself, until, this morning, she had likewise woken to a portentous feeling of foreboding. The feeling had followed her around like a shadow, a dark cloud over her head, robbing her of her breath.

  In despair, she had sought out the captain of the Edoras-based éored and asked him to accompany her on her ride to the plains. But even here, in the middle of the sun-flooded meadows, the shadow had not lifted from her mind.

  “Thank you, Récceleas,” she whispered, stroking the falcon’s throat and offering him a small piece of meat which he gratefully took from her fingers. “Your skill leaves us with a wonderful meal for tonight... not that she will eat much of it, I fear.” She closed the saddlebag in which she had laid the sack with the rabbit and fiddled with the clasp, when it hit her with a force that chased all breath from her lungs!

  Her surroundings gone, her unfocussed eyes caught the flickering of fire while the taste of blood filled her mouth. And there were voices all around her, rising and falling in a mystic chant, and over them, the bright, threatening sound of steel meeting steel. Shouts. The reflection of fire in predatory eyes and glistening fangs, jumping towards her. A slashing sound, and an agonised yell, then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. And blood. Lots of blood. And-

  “My lady?”

  With a gasp, she returned into the world and found herself looking into Féofor’s concerned haggard face.

  “My lady, are you well? What is it? You are deadly pale!” The captain had noticed how the queen’s fingernails were still digging into the leather of the saddlebag, and Lothíriel’s eyes were wide with dismay as she stared at him as if she had just woken from a bad dream. Worriedly, he stretched out a hand to steady her.

  Lothíriel swallowed, her knees shaking and the quivering travelling up her body as a clammy coldness spilled through her veins, a dread the likes of which she had only experienced once before.

  “I fear I am not well, Captain. Please, take me back to Edoras. I need to lie down!”

  “Very well, my lady. Can you ride on your own, or would you wish for support? I can also send for a wagon.”

  “No wagon,” Lothíriel mumbled as she placed a foot in the stirrup and pulled herself into the saddle. “I can ride. I just want to head back now.” She turned her mare and urged her into a swift trot, paying no further heed to the following guards. What was it she had seen? Something that lay in the past? Something that was happening this moment or something that would come to pass in the future? Or was it, like the wave, merely an abstract warning, not to be taken for real? If only she knew!

  By initiating the peace talks, she had dreamt of a peaceful life for the people of Rohan. Now it looked as if the noble quest she had sent her husband on was about to claim his life. Lothíriel knew that she would never ever be able to forgive herself if she had sent Éomer to his death. What if he didn’t come back? What if his child would have to be raised without a father and to a mother the entire kingdom despised for first having turned their king against them and then getting him killed? What if…

  ‘Nothing has happened,’ she admonished herself, trying to deny it though she already knew better. ‘Éomer has his riders with him. Nothing evil can come his way.’

  If only she could have believed it.

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Chapter 26: Assault in the Dark

MISTY MOUNTAINS

  When finally the order came to stop for the night – in a wider part of a tunnel that seemed to lead on for leagues – Hilberon watched the king. Amid these paths which led through the mountains instead of over them for some time, only the Dunlendings still seemed able to distinguish day from night. The soldiers were footsore and weary. Still carrying their armour it was hard to trudge along all day, not knowing where to, and with bound hands. The young soldier sat where he stood; there was no need to search for a better place. The whole terrain looked stony and uncomfortable. Upon an unmistakable order by the male Easterling leader the king let himself down a few feet away from his men, and the Easterling woman stood by his side. His chin dropped to his chest when he rested his elbows on his knees; he shivered and looked as worn out as Hilberon felt. But the difference between them was obvious when Aragorn’s hair fell forward. The red lines of the mark could be seen on his neck extending down to his shoulder-blade.

  Hilberon turned to Halamin, who sat next to him, and whispered urgently,

  “I know what he said, but… We have to do something, Halamin. We cannot just watch!”

  Halamin raised his bound hands and took a look round at the mass of jagged, grey stones surrounding them before he answered:

  “I would like to tell you, my young friend, that there is a way and what we can do, but… see for yourself. We are outnumbered… battered, tired. And we are in the mountains. Even if we overthrew them all we would not know how to get out. There are many sideways. This tunnel might lead… anywhere.”

  “The king would find a way,” the young soldier whispered. “And by all means, we cannot again let anything happen to him. I fear their leader over there knows who he is.”

  “What do you mean?” Halamin was instantly alarmed and turned his head slightly so he could see the Easterling woman walk to one of the men of her company. By now Halamin knew his name was Asentis, and he had sworn he would never forget the name or the man. There would be a chance to avenge the captain, and when it came Halamin would be ready. Softly the woman caressed the man’s temple and cheek before her gaze found the king again. Her expression grew hard and determined. She whispered some words in his ear, and the man beside her nodded grimly before they both left for the northern side of the tunnel.

  “Don’t you see it?” Hilberon pressed. “She only marked him, not us. And it doesn’t look like this would change tonight, right? And now she is keeping him away from us.”

  Halamin swallowed. He would not share the ugly thought Dumarin had uttered on the way. He looked from the couple back to the king, remembering that he had only briefly resisted when ordered to sit aside from his men.

  “That is easily explained. She would not want us to help him again. It almost worked the first time.” Halamin released his breath. “I wish we could do something. I’d take his suffering if I could.”

  “We have to find a way, Halamin,” Hilberon insisted. “We have to try! If we wait too long he might not be able to escape anymore.” His gaze travelled back to the king. The female Easterling gave Aragorn a water-skin, and for a long moment the king and the woman held eye contact. Hilberon frowned. He was young, but he was not completely stupid. Something was going on, but he could not make out what it was.

  “Why did you separate me from my people?” The king asked the woman. Ridasha gave no answer, but only looked at him as if the truth were nothing she would like to reveal. “Let me go back to them, tend the wounded.” He held her in his stare for a moment longer, waiting for her to change her mind.

  “Did the pain of the scytejé subside?” Ridasha asked, taking back the water-skin. He nodded curtly, exhaling with frustration. His gaze wandered to his men sitting against the walls of the tunnel. At least they were given water and food. He saw Hilberon among them, with an expression of low burning anger. The young man averted his eyes the moment the king made contact, and he asked himself why, hoping at the same time that he would not attempt another folly.

  “Why did you do it?” The king looked up at the young women, and as before she hesitated before answering. Glancing around she made sure that Harishdane was no longer close.

  “Úshemor… would not want you to be in pain,” she admitted quietly, handing him a piece of bread. His expression indicated he did not understand. He ate and she added, “Did you not see the goddess?” Ridasha frowned when he shook his head. For a moment she stared into the fire a few feet away. The Dunlendings had sat down to eat and talk while the others watched the ways out of their scanty campsite. Finally her gaze returned to him. “We honour the goddess, and she… takes care of the slaves. But the tribes have to treat the slaves well and shall not make them suffer.”

  Aragorn waited a moment and then asked,

  “Who is that woman leading you?”

  “Harishdane. She is the leader of the Jásheni-Rhûvenan. Her tribe comes from the east. From beyond the Sea.” It should sound proud, but Ridasha could not convince the king. Instead she smirked as if naming Harishdane’s descent was a kind of mockery in itself by now. “All other tribes were conquered by her kin shortly after their arrival.”

  “Why?”

  Ridasha paused, fumbling with her tunic.

  “They are strong,” she then admitted quietly, and lifted her head to where the leader and her man had left the campsite. “Stronger than others.”

  “But… she has no rights like a high priestess?” he carefully asked, not wanting her to shy away from the conversation. But he could see the distress his question caused her. It took her time to summon her strength to at least shake her head slightly. “Then tell me why I got this mark. Please!” he added in an urgent tone seeing that she was ready to flee from the answer. “Do not run away.” He lowered his hands which he had raised upon her withdrawal. She stayed, but her mouth was set, and he knew he would get no answer. Exhaling, he decided on another approach. “Where are you taking us?”

  Ridasha shot him another unwilling look.

  “Where you are needed. You will work on the field or be a herder of the sharos.”

  “But you said your land is no longer fertile. Mordor bereft you of your home.”

  “There will be a way,” she stated, and he could see her reluctance grow, but there was something else in her expression. He could not explain if it was insecurity or even anxiety.

  “So sure are you?” he asked and hoped she would not see that he already knew of the gathering of Easterlings near Dagorlad.

  Ridasha paused again to make sure she was not watched.

  “Yes, and you will be of as much help as the other men.” Aragorn kept his face blank of any expression when he asked for the reason. Ridasha looked at him as if talking to an ignorant child. “In the war many of our kinsmen lost their lives. Those who survived are too few to find new land to live on and serve as soldiers. You will relieve our men of their lower duties and help them to rise in standing again.”

  The realisation took his breath away.

  “Be a slave in the field? Is that what your culture is founded upon? Owning people and making them work for you?”

  She did not understand. Her brows furrowed and her voice was angry when she replied,

  “It is an honourable task to serve. Many of our folks have served for the wellbeing of all of us.”

  The king leant forward, stressing his argument.

  “But they do not do it because they want to. You said the slaves belong to the tribes. This is not…”

  “The weaker submits himself to the stronger,” she defended heatedly, and her brows furrowed with rising anger. “He has to do the work that is given to him. It has been like this for many generations. Why do you look at me like this would be a wrong solution?”

  Aragorn sensed that no argument he would choose could change her mind. Instead of showing his disbelief he asked,

  “Is that what will happen to the men from Rohan?” Ridasha breathed deeply, but nodded. “Your kin will… abduct more of them if the raids continue?”

  “We will make them work for us,” she said as if it was self-evident, and the king’s eyes widened when he understood the reason for the Easterlings’ alliance with the hillmen.

  “But… you cannot do this! Rohan lost dearly in the war! They too need their people to sustain themselves. Or did you think they would walk into the Shire and ask for help?”

  “The Shire?” she interrupted him wide-eyed. “You know about the Shire? Tell me!”

  “Do you not listen to me? Do you not understand?”

  Ridasha’s face hardened due to the urgency in the king’s words. She stared down on him, and her words were poignant.

  “The survival of our kin is the only importance to us. It is the only task worth doing, and you will become a part of that task, as well as your fellows.”

  Aragorn cast down his eyes. His heart beat fast realising that the Easterlings’ conspiracy reached further than Éomer or he had assumed. The hillmen would settle on Rohan’s realm while the Rohirrim were abducted to Rhûn. It was an elaborated plan, and until now every part of it had been fulfilled. They all had acted as Harishdane had expected. Aragorn swallowed hard. The kings had been led astray, and now it was too late to change that.

  “Rest,” Ridasha closed, her voice low and composed again. “There’s a long climb ahead of us.”