Twilight of the Gods - A Different Twist of Events

A short note:

When the writing of my part of the main story with Aragorn and his men as well as Ridasha and her tribe was done back in July 2004, I turned to the question, “What would have happened if Éomer hadn’t arrived on time to save his friend?”

It’s a short piece since I solely concentrated on the different developments, which might have evolved, and left out everything else that stays the same.

Since it is just a mind game the part is not beta-read. If someone is up to the job I will gladly accept help.

T.

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Chapter One – No relief

NORTHERN DUNLAND

   The simple festivities of the warriors about being united again had lasted half the night. Now Harishdane was the last to leave the campsite, and with a quick glance she made sure nothing had been left behind. The tents were broken down and carried in parts by some soldiers, the fires had been extinguished and covered with loose rocks, and the grass would soon stand up again. It was still early morning, and the mist had not yet risen, when she followed her kindred into the gorge that would lead them through the Misty Mountains eastward to end north of Fangorn Forest. Quick and sure-footed she overtook the last of her kin to reach the leading two, Asentis and Sisune. They greeted her with a curt bow, and she outstretched her hand to touch her second-in-command. He smiled with warmth and love, and finally, after the toil they had had to face she felt at ease. Content that all parts of her plan had worked so far, she looked forward to meeting Lomarin again, expecting him to have fulfilled his part of the plan as well.

* * *

   The King of Rohan raised his hand to let the éored come to a halt. For nearly six days now they had ridden hard and fast, and both riders and steeds were exhausted, but the sight of the empty campsite alerted them again.

   Immediately Thor dismounted and crouched to inspect the ground with his hands. Undoubtedly a camp had been pitched here, and it had been left not long ago, but the traces leading away from it vanished on the rocky grounds. It appeared that the men, who had rested here during the night, had climbed up the sheer walls. It was impossible, but he could offer his ruler no other explanation.

   Éomer ground his teeth. It had been time consuming to find Aragorn's trace in the first place, and now that they knew that the men, who had abducted the Gondorians, must have come down here, it was even harder to accept that they had missed them again. Éomer cursed and turned to his men.

   “Search the surroundings! I want to know about everything that happened here! Thor, tell me if the captives were among them. Did they come here? And how many men were resting here?”

   Thor lifted his brows.

   “More than forty, my lord, but… as I see it, this was no camp of the Dunlendings. It is far too… noble. They had tents, firewood, and…” He took up a piece of leaf that had lain near the fire's rim. Its edges were black from the soot. “And this. Whatever it is no Dunlending ever uses to put leaves into the fire.”

   “Did we find their allies then?” Éomer asked heatedly and with bitter mockery, scanning the area with his eyes to find anything he could concentrate on. This defeat was hard to take.

   “We might. The whole camp looks unfamiliar to me, my lord.” Thor let go the leaf. There was a strange and bitter smell to it, and he did not like it. “I have never seen anything like it, and the footprints were not left by boots of the Dunlendings. They are far smaller and very light. Only a few are among them were made by boots we know.”

   “So the captives have been with them?” Éomer pressed. He needed some good tidings; at least to know that the captives were still alive if rescuing them had failed.

   “Yes, this is quite likely,” Thor admitted lowly, disappointed to not bring better news. He searched the surroundings again. There had to be a sign where the men had gone. Something he had missed until now. He exhaled, glancing at the ground. Whoever walked left prints or scratches. The strangers had used tents, so they would have carried them on their backs when entering the mountains again. He lifted his gaze to a man's height and followed the stony path at the slope again.

   Elfhelm saw the deep frustration in his ruler's face. They had lost too much time in the search for the tunnel's entrance, and now they paid bitterly for the delay. Though Woldro had helped them, he, too, had not mentioned the strangers, who had trained them to fight, and Éomer had not pressed him since the Dunlending had at least been willing to accompany them. And even though it was likely the Gondorian soldiers and Aragorn would still be alive, they had again disappeared within the mountains. The Lord of Westfold took off his helmet to wipe his sweaty face. No one could say where the captives were taken from hereon. And for what purpose.

   Éomer turned to him as if knowing he had been watched.

   “Thor says the captives are not in the hands of hillmen. Who else could be responsible of taking them?”

   Elfhelm stroked his beard and said lowly:

   “Woldro and Durden will know.” He lifted his brows, and Éomer nodded slowly. “Will you have us ride back to ask them?”

   “I have found something!” Thor announced running up to them. “There is an entrance into that gorge over there. But it's narrow. No horse will fit through.” The king and Elfhelm followed him swiftly, and they inspected the passage where the scout had finally found a scratch on the stone.

   “Well done,” Éomer said when they followed the steep path uphill. It was hard to tread and partly they had to walk sideways to reach the next ledge. After half an hour they stopped, overlooking the way that wound itself through the mountain north-eastward. “There is no use in following them any further. They are gone.” The king turned, but Thor hesitated. “Yes?”

   “If they have to take captives along they won't be fast. I could take four or five men and follow them.”

   “I need you to communicate with the Dunlendings. But your idea shall not be neglected. Elfhelm, choose five of your men with experience to take this path. We will ride back to gather information from the Dunlendings. I am sure they know more about this charade,” he growled. “And they will tell us.”

   “Aye, my lord.” But Éomer had noticed his older friend's worried expression, and when asked Elfhelm said, “I would not count on those five men to free the captives. And we need to inform Prince Faramir.”

   “Not to mention Lady Arwen,” Éomer closed gloomily, and they went the way back to inform the waiting soldiers about their decisions.

* * *

MISTY MOUNTAINS

   During the whole day Harishdane pressed her kinsmen and the captives to move on faster. She wanted to return home as soon as she could, now that her goal had been achieved. She glanced over her shoulder. Like the other captives the king had been blindfolded and gagged for the first part of the journey, taking away every possibility to communicate or to know where they were heading for. The Gondorians had tried to slow down the group, but Asentis' quick and effective retaliation of one of them had ended that resistance. Now they trod the paths like they should, and with every mile they covered the Easterling leader felt her spirits rise. With Asentis at her side she would win without shooting a single arrow. No army would dare to fight them, for the king – long thought to be lost – was the most valuable man the kingdom possessed, the last of his bloodline. Without him Gondor would fall back into insignificance. Harishdane shuddered with delight and smiled.

   Gishvané was used to long marches, but since her younger days she had not been forced to such a hurry. To see how her leader treated the captives added to her discomfort. Since the day she had been consecrated a high priestess she had taught the tribal leaders to treat servants and slaves with respect and lead them into a fulfilled life. Harishdane was not open to reason and only in the evening when they pitched a camp still within the mountain she allowed the gags and blindfolds to be taken off. Gishvané looked into sweat-drenched faces full of fear and pain, and heard the men ask for water. The Easterlings took care of the Gondorians, and there were many among her own people, who questioned Harishdane's decisions, but none of them would ever openly accuse her. It was not their way, and they would follow Harishdane since the decisions she had made up to now had led to their fortune. The dream of occupying land to breed sharos on was tempting, and they hoped it would soon be fulfilled.

   Ridasha let the healer drink and handed him bread and dried fruits, noticing the bloody weals the rope had caused during the long time. The wounds in his face were healing, but where the garb over his right shoulder was cut still the scytejé shone red and rough as if it would not get better. Ridasha frowned and decided to talk with Gishvané about this. She watched his face again. The healer looked exhausted enough to sleep at once, and for some time he only stared at the food without intending to eat it.

   “Are you sick?” the woman asked frowning.

   “Where are you taking us?”

   “Home.”

   “That cannot be true. We would be of no use there – on land bereft of life as you said.” She evaded his stare, but did not flee like she had done before. “Since our fate is set – tell me the truth. What is Harishdane about to do?”

   “You will work as I already told you. Do not ask more questions,” she added when Nisenur passed them by, growling in shék that she should better keep quiet. “You have no right to. Try to sleep.” She rose and left and the king did not dare to look into the eyes of his men. He heard their whispers and got painfully aware that they expected him to decide what to do, but all his hopes were devastated. There would be no more chances to escape, and none would search for them within the mountains again. He had not seen the entrance to the gorge from the campsite and yet it had taken them only minutes to enter the narrow path. He had felt hard stone under his feet, and the sound of the footsteps had changed. From that moment on he had known his men and he would be at the mercy of the Easterlings for a long time.

   Hilberon hid his face behind his hands. For an evening and a night there had been the smallest chance of King Éomer reaching the campsite of their enemies. He had expected the King of Rohan to find traces, footprints, any sign where the captives had been taken to, and that he would do something to help them. Yearningly he remembered the proud and strong Rohirrim on their fast steeds. If they had known where to search they would have been there. And they would have fought the Easterlings and won. He was sure of that. But since the moment King Elessar and his men had been dragged through the mountain the King of Rohan had had no indications of how to follow them. They were alone. And they were defeated. Wearily he slid to one side and closed his eyes.

* * *

DUNLAND

   Through worry and anger Éomer felt pride to see how Battleaxe galloped without exhausting. He was fast and strong, a steed worth the choice. They had been riding as fast as all horses allowed to reach the first settlements again, hoping to meet Durden or Woldro. Éomer was in a bad mood, and he would let the hillmen know that they only had a chance to escape his wrath by telling the truth about their sudden ability at warfare. He longed to threaten a Dunlending until he gave in. It pained him to have lost so much valuable time in a pursuit that had led to nothing. Now the enemies were way ahead of them, and he did not count on the five men, whom he had sent to follow them, to be able to beat the group. If anything the men could return to Rohan to report about the direction the enemies had taken.

   Determined to solve the riddle of his missing men as well as his missing friend he spurred Battleaxe one more time. There was still one day-ride ahead, and he would not lose more time than he already had.

* * *

MISTY MOUNTAINS

   Though the blindfolds had been taken away and the captives were allowed to speak again – a measure Gishvané had insisted on with raising fury – the Gondorians trod their way in silence. The information seeped through to all of them that they were taken to the home of the Easterlings and would have to work for them until their lives' ending. Especially for Hilberon this news was like a stab to his heart, and he could not grasp its true meaning until late the following day. A part of him still believed that with the king at their side they would escape every evil fate, but Halamin had to destroy that noble hope. The Easterling leader watched King Elessar closely, and Ridasha was at his side most of the time. In opposite to the other soldiers the king's ankles were bound during the night, and the ropes holding him were checked by the guards frequently. Harishdane was not taking any chances, and reluctantly Halamin agreed with Hilberon that the woman from the east knew that she held the King of Gondor captive. There was no other explanation. But still he did not see her intention. Would she try invading Northern Ithilien with those three hundred unarmed women, who had gathered there? It seemed ridiculous to hope for victory.

   Halamin walked behind Tarés and the king when suddenly the group was called to a halt. Their way through the mountain came to its end; the path wound downward and was almost even. They had marched through the haze in the morning hours, and the wind brought the smell of bark and leaves, of wet soil and pine needles. To his right the sight grew darker. They had finally reached Fangorn Forest, but would pass it by along its northern rim instead of walking through. Halamin longed to be free. It seemed months ago that he had ridden with his fellows through Ithilien's waste woodlands. Now they would march over the plain between the forest and Lórien without hope of getting help from anyone. From the head of the group Nisenur appeared and bound a rope around the waist of the first captive and connected all other prisoners like this before ordering them to move on.

   Aragorn's heart beat fast recognising the place of their exit to the lands south of Lórien. Emerging from the morning's mist the woodland of the Elves could be spotted far yonder. He had walked this plain long before and knew what he would find when turning north. A sudden jolt of refreshed hope rushed through him. The Elves still lingered in their realm, and why should they not journey beyond their borders? But how could they attract their attention? There were not many of them left, and with the speed Harishdane hurried they would only remain in the Elves' range for two days. A sharp pull on the rope made him move forward. Aragorn inhaled deeply. Not all hope was lost, and he was willing to count on anything to find help for his men.

* * *

SOUTHERN DUNLAND

   Éomer's patience reached its end. They had lost a whole day near the River Isen to find Durden's hideout. To drag him and two other tribal leaders into the king's camp had not been easier. Now the Dunlending faced the Rohan king with forced politeness.

   “There can only be negotiations if the others are present,” Durden growled. “And where is the King of Gondor?”

   Éomer closed in on him, hissing into his face:

   “You will now tell me with whom you allied yourself with, or I will teach you a lesson in Rohirric wrath.”

   “You cannot threaten me!”

   “I already do! My men are still missing! King Elessar is missing, and Woldro already told us that they are brought through the mountains as captives! And since we found neither my men nor the Gondorians you will now tell us about your allies, or I swear you will not forget this night!”

   Durden retreated, only to find Lord Elfhelm's broad frame behind him, blocking the exit as effectively as a stone pillar. His own two companions were outnumbered by the soldiers of the éoreds, and the tribal leader could see in Éomer's face that this time he would not get away with trite answers. Still he dreaded to reveal the Dunlendings' plans.

   “You better speak quickly, Durden!” the king demanded. “I have no time to lose!”

   “Why you think we allied with any other people?” he asked to gain some time, but Éomer glared at him unrelenting. Already he felt like running out of time by talking with that primitive, and a bitter voice in the back of his head asked him why he had started those negotiations at all. He had drawn his Gondorian friend into this, and now he was dragged somewhere Éomer could not follow.

   “Don't try that, Durden. Give me the answers I need, and I will let you go free. If not I will hold you captive until the missing men are delivered. Have we got an agreement?”

   Durden swallowed. At Edoras he had come to know a ruler, who had at least tried to control his temper. He had been a man with the will to talk peacefully, and Durden had to admit that his answers and offers had been uttered with politeness. And he had stuck to his word to let the leaders return to Dunland unharmed and unharassed – a fact all tribal leaders had never imagined possible. He exchanged a quick glance with his men.

   “What you found up north?”

   “A campsite,” Elfhelm stepped in, “of more than forty people. They were not of your folk, we know that, so don't try to cheat us. They left before we reached them. And they had the captives with them.”

   Again Durden and Rulen met eyes. The man in the background growled some words in their tongue, and Thor, standing close to Éomer translated that the hillmen had already known about the regretted departure of their allies. Durden turned.

   “Our allies take the men to Rhûn,” he admitted reluctantly. “Your men will already be there.”

   “What for? Are they still alive?”

   Rulen spoke in Dunlendish, and Thor translated,

   “They were taken to become workers for this people. In exchange for the men the Dunlendings got weapons.”

   “You bartered weapons for my men?” Éomer growled. He was stunned and unable to grasp the meaning of these tidings. “You allowed my people to be abducted to Rhûn to become… servants?” He swallowed dryly. He would have thought them to be dead by the demeanour the Dunlendings had shown, but their fate seemed far worse. Abducted by Easterlings… It was hard to imagine that the people from the far-east had walked such a long way for that reason. What would they gain from an alliance like that? Durden looked at him, uncertain how the king would take the revelations. Éomer breathed heavily, and it was Elfhelm, who spoke into the lasting silence,

   “We have to summon all éoreds and ride to Rhûn immediately, my lord.” The king nodded, but still he seemed overwhelmed by the news.

   “That means King Elessar will be among them?” he uttered and faced Durden again.

   “Yes. She wanted to have him.”

   “What do you mean?” Did the bad tidings never end? Éomer brushed his hair out of his face. “Who is she?”

   “Their leader. She said she would bring more of her own soldiers if we gave her one of the kings.” His expression closed. “But… I know not when she will come.”

   “She wanted a king in exchange for her army?” Éomer had a bad feeling. His instincts told him that the Dunlending did not tell him the whole truth, or that he did not know it himself. “What did she promise you?”

   “She said her army is ready. But she wants one king to make sure Rohan would not be defended.” Durden growled a curse in his tongue, and Thor refrained from translating.

   Éomer nodded, but his glance found Elfhelm. He recognised the same uneasiness he felt. If it was true that the leader of the allies needed a king to threaten Rohan, why should King Elessar be led north through the mountains and now – as it looked like - to Rhûn? The king kept his doubts to himself.

   “What else was planned?” he pressed the hillman instead. “Tell me! I am loath asking for every detail!”

   “Nothing! We should wait! And…” He clamped his mouth shut.

   “And?”

   “And nothing! We emptied our settlements! We retreated into the mountains! We had enough to do without you strawheads harassing us!”

   Éomer believed him. He dismissed the Dunlendings, and when he was sure they could not be eavesdropped he spoke lowly to Elfhelm.

   “There is something else planned. They will not keep King Elessar within the mountains until their army arrives. Which means they have taken him and his men to Rhûn – but not to aid the Dunlendings.”

   “Right what I feared.” Elfhelm exhaled loudly. “And that leader knows who she got…”

   “I am sure she does. And though he did not tell in detail, Aragorn seemed to have faced trouble in his own land. There must be a connection between those incidents. We have to depart with the morning's first light.”

* * *

MISTY MOUNTAINS

   The Rohirrim scouts proceeded carefully, trying to follow the tracks of the group they pursued, but unless there were some small fragments of cloth between two stones or a footprint where some soil had remained it was close to impossible to determine the way the captors had taken. The soldiers lost more than three hours of daylight when they chose a wrong turn only to find out that it led nowhere. They had to walk back the whole way and try the second turn, venturing north-east. None of them was an experienced wanderer, but their king had trusted them with this mission, and they would fulfil it.

   When they finally reached the end of the path, it was more by luck than by knowledge that they saw the small, wound passage that brought them to the open plain again. On the grass the tracks were already lost due to the time that had passed since the Easterlings had wandered here, but they went on, looking far to the east, and when they still could not see the anything they trudged on the whole day, keeping their eyes on the ground, hoping to find a hint that they were still marching into the right direction. It was finally the youngest of them, who proudly showed them the remnants of a small fire though it had been covered with stones and grass. The leader of the pursuers nodded grimly. The captors took the Gondorians further to the east. They would neither linger nor turn now. With replenished strength he ordered his men to run on. His hope was that the River Anduin beyond the Field of Celebrant would stop the enemies.

* * *

SOUTH OF LÓRIEN

   Harishdane sent scouts north and south to make sure their trespassing would go unnoticed. With her went forty armed soldiers, but she would not risk a fight that would delay her return to Rhûn. With a smirk she remembered the last meeting with the Dunlending leaders. They had been so easily deceived, so willing to follow her orders, hoping to get more weapons and more lessons in using them! Harishdane had even allowed polearms to be taken to Dunland, and some of those primitives had earned quite a skill with that weapon. Harishdane knew that especially Ridasha had been willing to train the hillmen. Now she would be nothing more than the caretaker of the captives, and the leader knew she was angry about that decision. She was far more than a usual soldier, but the sentence Gishvané had spoken about her had been far too generous. For her rebelliousness Ridasha would be regarded as a low soldier for a long time, and as long as the King of Gondor was a valuable prisoner Ridasha was ordered to stay with him.

   Asentis breathed at her side. Finally they were in the open plain again, and he wished to run the whole day. She smiled at him benevolently. He would become the father of her children, and the tribe would expand further with the years to come. The Jásheni would remain the mightiest tribe even if the war would be over. She would make sure. Her gaze found Gishvané, and her bliss turned bitter. The high priestess had sentenced her severely, but she would deal with her in the time to come. Knowing that the other high priestesses would prefer to listen to Harishdane, there was no great risk expected when her case would be stated again. If it would be stated again at all. And with her victory to demonstrate her power, who should dare to question her measures?

   Harishdane surveyed the group, and found the King of Gondor in the row behind one of his men. His attention was directed north, and she knew he still hoped for help by the Elves, who had so violently betrayed the Easterlings long ago. But she had walked this path more than once, and at no time she had seen one of those traitors rove south of their realm. The Elves prepared to leave Middle-earth and would not return. Their gaze was directed to the Sea, and they cared little for other races roaming beyond their borders. If any of them strayed south her scouts would see them and warn the others or get rid of the threat by themselves. She was content with her planning, though she had preferred the King of Gondor to aid his ally with more troops, but now that the king was her prisoner the strength of his army was unimportant.

* * *

ROHAN

   Lord Elfhelm could not help but worry for the sanity of his young king. Any time they spoke he blamed himself for having failed his friend. Feeling that every hour counted to save Aragorn, Éomer pressed his horse hard enough to ruin the young steed. But he did not see it. He did not want to see what he did to the horse or himself.

   “We have to reach Edoras tomorrow,” the King of Rohan stated while his men, exhausted and weary like their ruler, pitched the camp. “We change horses and ride on – the same day if possible.”

   “Éomer, you do not even know if King Elessar is brought to Rhûn!”

   “I will not count on those strangers to keep him in the Misty Mountains. That is unlikely. Why should they take him so far north if they expected their army to come from the east?”

   Elfhelm could not deny the logic to this point, but he still wished his king to be more considerate.

   “You will not change his fate by a few hours,” he quietly replied, but found only cold determination in Éomer's features.

   “You are not telling me to slow down! Elfhelm, we almost got to them! It had been for those few hours that we could have fought them to release their prisoners! Now I stand here empty-handed! He came to Edoras on my request! He accompanied me to Dunland, and now I failed to free him out of the hands of his captors! No, Elfhelm, there is no time to slow down and take time to prepare. We will take as many men as can be readied in haste and then ride on!”

   “The éoreds in the Eastfold are not ready to ride in a few hours! You need at least two days to take them with you!”

   “Then they have to follow.” He locked eyes with his friend. “Lord Erkenbrand will command them and follow me to Rhûn and to battle.”

   Elfhelm bowed curtly, sensing there was nothing to gain by further argument.

   “Aye, it will be as you wish.”

   “It will be as my friend and my men deserve.”

* * *

   Edoras came into view. Éomer had wanted the sight of the Golden Hall of Meduseld to be soothing to his weary eyes, but now he knew he had little time to rest. From the main gate of the city riders approached, and it took him a moment to realise that not only the men of the Royal Guard came to meet him, but also his wife and the Queen of Gondor.

   “Lothíriel…,” he muttered exhaling, seeing her cloak, green and cold, billow over the hindquarters of her horse. How he had longed to see her again, to embrace and kiss her. And now he would have to tell her that he would only stay for one night.

   The riders reached the host, and Lothíriel gleamed with joy, bringing her steed close to his, laughing and weeping at the same time.

   “Éomer! Éomer! It is so good to see you again!” she exclaimed merrily, and he granted her a moment of embrace and kiss. During his absence his wife's belly had rounded even more, and he was grateful to see her so healthy and happy. It was a shame he had to ruin her hopes for his staying. Then his gaze fell upon the beautiful but sad face of the other woman.

   “Where is Aragorn?” Arwen asked, and she could read in Éomer's face that her husband had suffered a different fate. “What happened to him?” She brought Asfaloth on the other side of Battleaxe, concerned and eager to hear the tidings.

   “He was captured,” the King of Rohan admitted regretfully and saw Arwen press her lips tight. “He was abducted by the allies of the Dunlendings. We followed their way, but came too late to seize them. We learned that he was led through the mountains to… to Rhûn,” he closed quietly and depressed. Arwen but looked at him, and though he knew she would never accuse him, Éomer felt beat by the loss he could see in her face. “But as far as we could find out he is still alive.”

   “He is.” Arwen turned her horse and spurred him, back to the city.

* * *

   Lothíriel followed Arwen into her chamber and found the Elf gathering her few belongings.

   “You are not leaving to search for him alone, are you?” Lothíriel asked worriedly.

   Arwen turned, and the Queen of Rohan was stunned by her fierceness.

   “I will not leave him to the mercy of his captors. He is still alive, and whatever I can do to save him I will.”

   “Éomer will ride with his men tomorrow morning. Will you not wait for them to accompany you? You cannot go on your own!”

   “Asfaloth is the fastest horse. He even outran the Nazgul, so do not ask me to stay here and wait. They would not be able to follow me.”

   “But it is a six days' ride to Minas Tirith! You do not know what lies on your path.”

   “But I will not waste any time.”

   Lothíriel reached out to touch the other woman's arm.

   “I do know, Arwen, but Éomer won't linger either. Please, for the sake of the Valar, wait that one night.”

   “I do not wish to. Aragorn is led far away. With every hour passing, there is less chance to reach out for him. I do not want to lose the contact.”

   Lothíriel found herself moving forward, and she embraced the elven queen.

   “You will find him again, Arwen. He is strong. He will know how to help himself.”

   Arwen stood rigid to the queen's compassion. Lothíriel knew not how close the King of Gondor had come to lose his life before.

   “I dearly hope he does not give in to the darkness.”

* * *

   Lothíriel met her husband after he had dismissed Gamling to prepare all soldiers under arms to depart for Minas Tirith the next morning.

   “Queen Arwen will accompany you,” she told him and quietly put her hand into his. “Please, Éomer, take care of her. She is so worried for him that I fear for her safety.”

   “She knows then what happened to him?”

   “Yes. In a way they are connected, and she could feel that something happened to him. And that he is in fear.” Gently she caressed the deep lines on her husband's face. “It was not in your power to find him now. But I know you will do anything to save him.”

   “I saw their camp.” Éomer shook his head, pivoting; unable to stand the compassion Lothíriel was willing to grant him. He did not deserve it. “We came only hours too late, and still we did hardly find a trace of them.”

   “Who are they? Who abducted them? Dunlendings?”

   “Easterlings.” The king faced her again. “They bartered weapons for our men.” He could see how the news devastated her. “So it is not only King Elessar we have to find, but our people too.”

* * *

Chapter Two – Rhûn

EAST OF THE FIELD OF CELEBRANT

   Two more days had passed, and still they were alone on the long way to Rhûn. Aragorn strained his eyes to find any sign of the Elves still walking this part of the earth, but he could find none. They had abandoned these lands, constricted themselves to their realm for the last days of their stay on these shores, and his hopes of freedom sank. Still bound in a row the captives were pushed forward relentlessly, as if Harishdane feared the attack of other races, but they had not seen a single man walking here though the land was not bereft of people. Though no one would enter Fangorn Forest the Rohirrim had settled along its rim, but even there no peasants had been spotted. In the night before Aragorn had heard growling and hissing echoing from the south, but in the morning he could not notice that anything had changed. Only Asentis seemed to be in a better mood than the days before.

   The group had by now crossed the Field of Celebrant and was about to ferry across the River Anduin. If Aragorn had thought that at least here the captives would be released of their bonds he erred. Harishdane had left boats at the riverside and two men to steer them. It took a whole day for all of them to cross the river, but in the evening they pitched a camp on the eastern shore, and again Aragorn felt the leader's victorious glare resting on him. He still offered resistance against the hopelessness trying to sweep him away, but he knew his men could not. He heard the quiet conversation between Halamin and Hilberon, and his heart sank.

   “What will they have us do?” the young man asked, and Halamin glanced at Harishdane, standing tall in her pride, overlooking the plain ahead in yet another warm summer evening.

   “I do not know. It looks like we are going to work for them. They will not kill us, that's for sure.”

   “They will then… mark us?”

   “Might be, yes. Who knows what goes on in their minds? Do not worry now, Hilberon. We are soldiers. We face the enemy as he comes.”

   “But we can't do anything! We have lost.”

   “Who knows?” Halamin tried to cheer him up. “Who knows who comes around the next corner to meet us? Or sails down the river and sees us? We are still alive, and none of us is threatened to be killed. Stick to that, Hilberon, and remain calm.”

   The young soldier nodded without believing. He had longed to see his father again and tell him about the happenings on the journey. How the king had taught him a lesson in swordplay, and how they had fought against the hillmen later. But now he feared that he would not see the White City again.

   Only a few steps away his king fought the same thought of defeat.

* * *

RIVER ANDUIN

   The pursuers reached the river and far on the eastern shore small boats could be spotted. The leader cursed in Rohirric, but shook his head, knowing that there was no way to follow the captors any further. Grudgingly he turned south with his men, following the river's turns to Gondor.

* * *

RHÛN

   Harishdane felt light-hearted coming to the borderline again. Further south the Gondorian army was waiting; her scouts had told her so. But they went by at night, unnoticed, and as far north as they could without risking getting into the marshes. The Easterlings had walked this path before many times and were sure-footed. Knowing the enemy so close by she had again ordered the captives to be gagged, and so the group trudged on in silence, stealthily for the last time.

   The Easterling leader let the group move on and vanished into the darkness. Her eyesight was superior to that of Men, and she enjoyed the soft coolness of the night under her feet. Gracefully she ran southward, covering half a league in a short time, then, panting, she waited for a few moments, straining her ears to listen to the sounds of the soldiers resting near by. Their fires were low and hidden between the tents. She got closer, careful, and always watchful. Guards in shining armour stood on their posts, their attention turned eastward. They did not see her, not even thought of someone getting closer from the north. She crouched and halted. Muffled sounds of a conversation came to her ears, and she dared to move closer. On one of the tents a banner hung lifelessly in the calm night. She had not seen it before and guessed it to belong of the man in command over the hundreds of soldiers in the camp. Again she ventured on, until a horse neighed and fidgeted to her right. Immediately a guard pivoted and looked after it, and Harishdane realised that she would not be able to get any closer. But she had already seen enough. Evading the returning guard to the left, she went around the camp at safe distance and then ran back to the group to lead them over the border.

   She had never felt so alive.

* * *

ROHAN

   The King of Rohan cursed silently upon getting the news that the éoreds of the Eastfold would need two days to assemble for departure. Grinding his teeth, he ordered Lord Erkenbrand to summon and head them to Ithilien.

   “I would prefer another man to take over command,” the Lord of Eastfold replied sternly, but Éomer had neither the time nor the patience to discuss the matter of loyalty and regret with his marshal.

   “Will you desert me or our allies in time of need? Is that what you are about to say?”

   “My lord…”

   “If it's not, make haste to gather them and depart as soon as possible. I will send a messenger to meet you half-way if I know where exactly we will be riding to.”

   “Yes, my lord.” Erkenbrand still looked confused when he left the tent, but Lord Elfhelm exhaled noisily.

   Éomer turned to him.

   “Don't ever tell me something about diplomacy. I have no time for that. With how many men are we riding right now?”

   “The first éored is nearly complete. They will accompany us. The other two must be informed first.”

   “Good. We leave before dawn.”

   “The supplies…”

   “We have no time to collect supplies. The men shall take what they can carry on their horses. I won't stop if there is no need to.”

   “Aye, my lord.”

   Elfhelm left, and Éomer stood in front of his tent. His gaze found the Queen of Gondor, who quietly and with deep worry looked north. She had pressed her lips tight, her hands clenched into fists, and with the minute passing Éomer saw tears trickling down her cheeks. He wanted to go to her, soothe her, but he knew that he would not be able to. A guard came to report to him, and when he turned back again the queen had left the place in front of the tent.

* * *

RHÛN

   It was a smooth and cool morning breeze on her face, and she relished on the moment of relaxation before she turned to face the group she had outrun to reach the borders of her home first. All of the captives were alive and healthy though her men had made them run where the terrain had allowed it, making up for the delay they had caused on the first part of the journey through the mountains. Now they were exhausted, and their faces haggard. At least, she thought, they had not shown any signs of resistance on the way, and the expression on the king's face could only be read as complete defeat. She smiled and turned again, seeing Lomarin bow to her as she had expected.

   “My leader, we welcome you back with the utmost delight,” he said evenly, and she briefly touched his black hair.

   “I bring more slaves for Úshemor,” she told him, and he lifted his head again to smile broadly. “See that they are taken to the others, but not the one with the marking.”

   “A marking?” Lomarin echoed surprised and almost stepped back seeing her angered expression.

   “Yes, this one stays. Ridasha shall take him to Asentis' tent. I expect your report shortly.”

   “As you wish, my leader.”

   She turned and left with Asentis to inspect the campsite while Lomarin regained his composure. He briefly wondered about the necessity to mark a prisoner on the way, and how it could have been down without the high priestess with her, but he put the thought aside. There were other, more important things he had to take care of. He met the group entering the campsite and helped to loosen the rope connecting the captives, and ordered the gags to be removed.

   “What did she say?” Ridasha requested with the undertone of disbelief, but Lomarin looked at her haughtily.

   “Do as ordered, soldier. Take this one to Asentis' tent and make sure he stays there. The rest of the soldiers will be taken to the other slaves.”

   He pivoted and gave the order to his waiting kinsmen. Without delay the Gondorians were shoved in their backs to get them going again. Ridasha took the healer's arm to lead him further into the campsite.

   “No!” he protested and broke free of her grip. “Where are my men taken? Why do you separate me from them?”

   “I have my order.” She grasped his arm again. “Do not defend yourself, Strider, or I make you go!”

   “I demand an answer, Ridasha! Tell me what will be done with my men!” Ridasha overlooked the camp. It had grown since the last news she had got from her kindred, and she was impressed to see the forces gathering here. It might be seven hundred by now and about two hundred tents. Some women coming up to them greeted her, and she replied politely, feeling at home again. Finally she would take on her armour to fight and gain land. Again the healer resisted to be taken away. He craned his neck to see what happened to the other captives. And they – with expressions of fear and worry – followed the healer with looks. “Ridasha!”

   She exhaled noisily.

   “Your men are brought to the others. Deeper into our land. They will be marked soon and dispersed on the other tribes.” Seeing that she needed help, a man came to aid, taking the healer's left arm. They both pulled him roughly, and when he still fought them, a quick and hard blow to his stomach broke that resistance. Ridasha frowned and regretted the measure her fellow had taken, but kept her face blank of any expression. The prisoner coughed and grimaced with pain, but straightened to catch a last glimpse of his men, before he was steered through the rows of tents to finally reach the one that belonged to Asentis. Ridasha moved the flap aside, shoving the captive into the empty room. “You will stay here.”

   “Why? What is Harishdane up to?”

   “Sit down. Asentis will soon get here.” She pressed his shoulder, but he resisted, turning away from her grip furiously. She glared at him. “What did you expect? You knew before. They will find their peace in serving the tribes. And you will serve the Jásheni. That is your fate! Don't fight it. And don't fight me!” She nodded to the other soldier to make the captive sit down, and they both struggled to bring him down. “You can resist me, yes, but not all of us!”

   “I will resist as long as I can!” Aragorn shouted, his face covered with sweat. “You will not make me serve my enemy!”

   “You cannot escape your fate.” They held him fast until steps were drawing near. Asentis entered, surprised to see them. “I was ordered to bring him here,” she told him on his question.

   “Then we will see that he stays here.”

   “You will not break me!” Aragorn cried, trying to free himself from the tight grip. Asentis dismissed the other soldier and forced the king on the ground in the tent's centre, ignoring the pain he caused.

   “Take the rope and bind him,” he ordered, weighing the captive down like he had done before. He considered it a pity that the man was quite weak now, and held him though he struggled until Ridasha had wound the rope around the captive's waist and the pole supporting the tent. “Bind his ankles too.” Asentis stood and smirked seeing the healer glare at him. He would no longer be a threat. He watched Ridasha end the knot and turned to leave again. “You may give him water and food. The leader will come to him later.”

   Ridasha exhaled and crouched in front of him. Aragorn coughed and lowered his head, panting. The pain in his neck and shoulder had increased that it was nauseating.

   “What is she up to?” he asked. His voice was hoarse and she took the water-skin from her belt to let him drink.

   “I am not sure.” She frowned. “She might keep you here because you are already marked.”

   “Where exactly are my men taken?” He swallowed and tried to shift his body, but the ropes held his arms tight, and he could not even lie down as long as he was bound to the pole.

   “There is another campsite north-east of here. All prisoners are gathered there and the high priestesses will mark them in the ceremony.”

   “That is not your reason for being here,” he replied, taking in the surroundings for the first time. It was a spacious and splendidly decorated tent, worth that of a leader. In every corner the colours of the Easterling banner were repeated, and with the sun shining through it was an impressive mixture of different shades of red. “You have come here to stay for a longer time.”

   “We might.” She rose. “I get you something to eat.”

* * *

ANÓRIEN

   Asfaloth sensed the urgency of his rider, and with a speed that could only be outmatched by Shadowfax the great white stallion rushed through the darkness. Arwen kept him on the Old East Road, outrunning the Rohirrim soldiers. She had been unable to wait any longer. Stretching her senses and closing her eyes she tried to touch Aragorn's feelings again, tried to restore the bond that she had lost. And somewhere, faint and distant, she felt his sadness and his pain.

   “Do not give in,” she uttered under her breath. “Please, my love, do not give in.”

* * *

RHÛN

   The order had been clear, and Ridasha was still furious about it. Harishdane had sentenced her with staying at the healer's side as if she was an old woman, for whom she had no other use. She would have to watch over the prisoner instead of marching with the vanguard! Since the leader had the right to place the soldiers anywhere she thought them useful, Ridasha had not objected, but it had been obvious that this measure resulted from her insubordination during the night of the marking.

   “You are quiet,” Aragorn stated quietly when she had finished feeding him. “Tell me what happened.”

   She looked at him and still found a truthfulness that astonished her like it had done the night Strider had asked her to loosen his bonds.

   “My leader refused to let me take my proper place in the army,” she said lowly and depressed, and before Aragorn could ask for the meaning, Harishdane entered. Lomarin and Asentis followed. The leader looked at her captive with cold eyes.

   “Tell me who heads the army waiting at the borderline.”

   Lomarin lifted his brows, astonished at the question, but he remained silent, eager to learn details about the strange prisoner. Aragorn faced Harishdane sternly, and when he spoke he let her know that still she had not broken him.

   “No matter who leads the soldiers into a war you are about to provoke you cannot win.”

   “I will win. In a few hours there will be no more resistance, and it will be your deed to make them retreat.”

   Aragorn stared at her, unflinching.

   “You are a coward, Harishdane. You think you can win by blackmail! You do not dare to fight openly because you know…” He broke off, gasping for air.

   Harishdane fought to restrain her anger, but for a moment it shone through, and like a bolt of lightning the king felt pain rush from his neck and shoulder through his whole body. He cried out in pain and terror, unable to hold it back. The torment seized him, made him clench his fists and shut his eyes. He could not fight it. He could not breathe. His body went limp within the excruciating pain; his chin fell on his chest, when, finally, the hurting ended. Aragorn heard himself moan. He swallowed, unwilling to look up again only to find Harishdane sneering at him.

   “You will not contradict me again, slave, or you will find out about my measures to gain your obedience.”

   He panted, listening to his wild beating heart, and the rush of blood in his head. Outside the wind sped up, causing the cloth to ruffle. Warm blood trickled down his shoulder-blade, and he felt weak, beaten again. Looking at his hands, he saw his vision blur due to an exhaustion that left him shuddering.

   “You can torture me like that,” he croaked between shallow breaths, still staring at his bound and shaking hands, “and you can kill me if you want to, but I will give you nothing.”

   Harishdane stooped.

   “You already did,” she hissed, and Aragorn felt her warm breath on his sweat-covered face. “You gave yourself into my hands. And your men too. You will not evade your destiny.” She gazed at Lomarin and Asentis, then took a cloth out of her bundle and unwrapped a piece of dark red bark, about the size of a small nut. She looked at Ridasha. “You will put that in his mouth and make sure he won’t spit it out.” Perplexed the young woman took the cloth, and with a nod Harishdane signalled the two men to leave the tent.

   Ridasha, still kneeling, was too shocked to say anything, and when she realised the leaders were gone, she whispered:

   “Why did she do that?” but Aragorn only looked at her, so that she lowered her gaze on the bark. She had seen it before and, frowning, she wondered about the strange order. “Why…?” she whispered and was startled when the healer rasped:

   “Will you obey her order?”

   Ridasha looked into pain-filled grey eyes, honestly unable to answer that question.

   “I… I must,” she finally said, but her gaze betrayed her words.

   He drew up his nose as a thin rivulet of blood dripped from his beard on his sleeves. Still he held her in his stare.

   “If you think her to be right, you should obey. I will not be able to offer you resistance.”

   Ridasha frowned; disgusted by the mere thought of treating the healer like that after he had done so much for her. She wrapped the bark again, still uncertain about a proper behaviour.

   “It's the bark she used that night,” she said flat-voiced. “It must be what causes you pain.” He did not answer and she rose slowly. “But first I will…” She realised he was no longer listening and left. Outside she searched the camp for Gishvané to bring her to the captive. “She caused him much pain,” the young woman explained upon entering. Quickly Gishvané knelt beside the captive, moving the torn cloth aside to look at the scar.

   “It bled,” she stated, puzzled, and put a hand on the captive's bearded cheek to make him look at her. His eyes were out of focus, and he flinched at the movement. “Tell me what you felt, Strider.” He but moaned, pressed his eyes shut and licked his lips. “Give him water and wash his face. It might help.”

   “Could you not make one of your teas?” Ridasha asked quietly when she held the water-skin to the healer's lips. “They always help.”

   Gishvané did not listen to her, but looked closely at the marking.

   “It is indeed a strange scytejé, so dark and rough,” she muttered and faced the healer again. “What has happened?”

   “Harishdane was angry,” Ridasha stepped in. “And then… he was in great pain suddenly though no one had touched him.”

   “In great pain?” The high priestess lifted her brows. “I never heard of that. And I never saw it bleed after a week.”

   “It hurts… all of the time.” The healer's voice was but a breath. “It is like a knife stabbed into my back.”

   Gishvané shook her head and looked at Ridasha.

   “Harishdane has somehow done more than marking him. She causes him pain on her will.” Angered she exhaled. “What else has she done?”

   “She gave me that bark,” Ridasha showed it to the high priestess. “I shall put it in his mouth. And make sure it stays there.” With a curse Ridasha had never thought Gishvané to know the old woman sniffed the bark and with a disgusted grimace folded the cloth over it again.

   “You will truly not do it.”

   “But she said…”

   “Our leader annoys the goddess with her action. Her insolence has gone further than I feared.” Considering her options, she stared at the captive. “Why should she do this to a healer?” Then she left.

* * *

ROHAN

   The news of Queen Arwen having left the host to ride alone did not surprise him, but added to his worry. Lord Elfhelm watched Éomer's sagged shoulders as he crossed the campsite to mount along with the rest of the éored, which had been gathered in the short time. Erkenbrand stayed behind to follow him as soon as he could. The new Lord of Westfold hoped it would not be too late.

   Éomer glanced at his men. They all had had hope the time of war would be over. They had lost so many men during the Ring War and still recovered. And now the king sent them to yet another battlefield. The tidings to enter Rhûn for the salvage of their own kindred and the Gondorians had roused questions only the soldiers, who had been to Dunland, were able to answer. Éomer had heard their conversations in the evening. They all were proud and courageous men and none of them doubted to win the battle. The Easterlings had once been beaten. They would beat them again. King Éomer was not that confident since they did not even know how many of them they would encounter in Rhûn. And the absence of a errand-rider from Minas Tirith or Ithilien made it even harder to judge about the situation in Gondor.

   This time the Rohirrim did not know what they would face.

* * *

GONDOR

   Arwen clung to Asfaloth's mane with the last of her strength. The onslaught of pain had left her breathless, and the last whisper had been to her steed to carry her on, to not stop whatever she did. The horse's ears twitched as he galloped on, and, recovering from the assault of feelings she had endured, Arwen tried to recall the pictures that had accompanied them. She knew she had seen the strange and threatening eyes of that woman before; she had felt the coldness in them. And she knew that that woman held her husband captive. She wanted something from him. And she was confident to get it.

   Arwen breathed through deeply, regaining her composure. She would not let it come to this. She would not let the enemy win while she had strength left to fight.

* * *

RHÛN

   Harishdane commanded the preparation of her army until late in the evening. Finally and with delight the soldiers put on their armour, grabbed their polearms and checked their scimitars. A messenger had been sent to the waiting reinforcement a day-ride to the east, and within three days her army would be double as strong. She watched the cart being prepared and the tents broken down under cover of night. All fighters of the Jásheni-Rhûvenan were gathered to form the vanguard. They were eager to depart, hungry for the first battle they were allowed to fight. For long weeks they had grudgingly watched the spies from Ithilien enter their land; they had been there when they had lain in the darkness to count their enemy. But none of those vanguard soldiers had known that the army of Gondor would soon be in great peril.

   Lomarin came up to her to report that the tents had been taken down except those of the leaders.

   “Well done,” she said evenly, her gaze directed to the west though not much could be seen. The moon was veiled, and the air smelled of rain. “You will lead them, Lomarin.”

   “As you command.” He bowed and left. Harishdane found Asentis. His bare-chested body attracted her, but her touch was only gentle and caressing. The time for closeness would come, but tonight they had to stay vigilant.

   “Are you looking forward to it?” She stroked his black hair over his shoulder, and he exhaled with a smile.

   “I have longed to fight a very long time, Harishdane. Be assured it will happen as you think it will.”

   “I am sure,” she purred in his ear.

* * *

   Ridasha brought the healer warm tea and held it to his lips. He had drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the day, and she was worried if Harishdane had hurt him too much to be of any use for her.

   “Drink,” she said quietly, and he opened his blood-shot eyes to focus on her. He drank and thanked her. “Gishvané made it for you. You will recover.”

   “I do not wish to.”

   She frowned.

   “Why do you say that?” She put down the empty cup. “There is always a reason to live on. One does not just decide to end a life.”

   Aragorn swallowed and summoned his strength to look at her. His voice was bereft of the vigour it usually transported.

   “Ridasha, you have to help me escape.”

   The young woman looked to the entrance at once, utterly surprised by his request. Her eyes were wide when she focused on him again.

   “She sentenced me to be your caretaker instead of holding a place in the first row of the army.” She shook her head. “Don’t expect more from me than I am ordered to do.”

   “There is no other. Do not let Harishdane win like that.” She frowned and crouched closer to him, again quickly gazing over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. “If you cannot do that you should better kill me.”

   “Why should you want that?”

   “Do you not see? She will try to use me as a shield against the army of Gondor. I could hear your soldiers prepare themselves. They cheered as if they had already won.”

   Her frown deepened, and her voice fell to a hushed whisper.

   “Who are you to make that happen?”

   Aragorn took her hand between his, and the contact made her shudder.

   “I am King Elessar of Gondor.”

   She gaped at him. For seconds her mouth stood ajar, and she seemed hardly able to breathe.

   “You are their king? Not a healer?”

   “I am both. Do you doubt that?” She shook her head as if she was numb. “You have to help me.”

   Ridasha needed a moment to collect her thoughts, and her voice was as low as it was intense.

   “So that was her plan from the beginning. She knew whom she held captive.” Aragorn nodded regretfully. “She knew how useful you would be.”

   “Yes.”

   “That is why she risked the anger of the goddess and marked you.”

   “And if you do not help me she will blackmail my army. If you do nothing she might win in spite of that insolence.”

   “But that is why we came here.” Ridasha drew back her hand, and her tone became hard. “We came to conquer Ithilien. We need the land to survive!”

   “But this will be no open challenge, only blackmail,” he rebuked, leaning forward as much as the shackles aloud. “Is that what you could be proud of and tell your child? That you needed an enemy to win?” For a moment she pondered over that accusation, but then shook her head. “There are other ways, Ridasha! You cannot expel the settlers from Ithilien to take their land. You would condemn them too. Make their wives and children homeless. There are alternatives to find new land!”

   “We have got nothing to lose,” she closed emotionless and rose.

   “Then you better kill me,” he insisted. “Do not let me become the bane of my people.”

   “You would prefer to die?” She could read the honesty in his exhausted and marred features and inhaled deeply. “You would choose death over their defeat?”

   “I would take any sentence to guarantee their freedom.”

   She still could not believe it.

   “Have you got a son to follow you as king?”

   “No.”

   Ridasha's eyes widened.

   “But that would mean your land loses more than its ruler.” He nodded. “You are a strange man, King of Gondor.”

   “Will you help me, Ridasha?”

   She hesitated, but then said in a low voice:

   “I cannot let my people die. We need the land, and we went a long way to finally get here.”

   “I can help you find another place to live on.”

   “Can you promise that?”

   “I can promise you that I would not send your people to their deaths.”

   Ridasha stood and looked down on the deplorable man, who held her with his intensive grey eyes, waiting for her decision.

   “You demand from me to act against my people. To commit treason in order to rely on your promise, which I cannot prove true.”

   “There is another way to find land to settle on than the one your leader chose. You have to believe me.”

   “I believe that we have a chance to win. There are only a few hundred of your army gathered. They will surrender themselves quickly. And I would risk everything if I helped you.” She turned and left the tent.

* * *

Chapter Three - Preparations

MINAS TIRITH

   Asfaloth reached the main gate of Minas Tirith covered with foam and sweat. The wardens gaped at him and at their queen, clutching to the steed's mane as if she would fall off any moment. The gates were opened, her coming announced, but she did not react to the greetings. With restless eyes she searched for the captain of the guard, and when he came up to her she asked:

   “Are there tidings from Ithilien or Rhûn?”

   “No, Queen Arwen. We have not heard from Prince Faramir and his men in weeks.”

   She steered the stallion up to the sixth ring. Sliding out of the saddle she was grateful for the smith to come to her aid. The broadly built man blushed deeply when capturing her from falling, and she thanked him for it. Panting heavily, she stood again on weak legs.

   “Your highness, my lady, what happened? Why did you ride as if there was evil behind you?”

   “The evil already got to him,” she breathed.

   Hiregon was puzzled, but did not dare asking. He called for Vlohiri, and he ran up to them. Stunned and wide-eyed he recognised the Queen of Gondor and quickly bent his knee.

   “Get up and take care of the horse!” Hiregon ordered sternly, but when the young boy hurried to oblige she held him back.

   “Vlohiri… the healers, are they all gathered by now?”

   “No, mylady…” His head turned to the old man with the grey beard, standing at the other side of the stable's entrance. “Lomac is still here.”

   “Lomac!” A feeble smile broke through her weariness. “Where…”

   “I am here, Queen Arwen.” Lomac came to her, slightly bowing, with his hands folded in front of his belly. And while Vlohiri led away the tired horse the queen looked into his face with utmost concern. “How can I be of help?”

   “Follow me.” She led him beyond the Hall of Kings to their private house, and while the guards greeted her she shed out of her cloak. A maiden came to take it, astonished but quiet about the exhausted appearance of the lady. The young woman hastened back to bring tea, bread, and cheese, while the lady and her guest sat down. “The king was captured and is probably taken to Rhûn,” Arwen explained, gratefully accepting the tea to drink and a wet cloth to wipe her dusty face. “He was… hurt by something, a dagger I suppose, and even now he is in pain.”

   Lomac cleared his throat. He had heard about the various abilities of Elves, but still he did not understand.

   “May I ask how you know about that?”

   “I know. He was hurt by an Easterling woman, and now, from time to time he seems to be… under another one's control.” Lomac lifted his bushy brows. “King Éomer and his men will arrive here shortly. I want you to ride with them.”

   “Ride?” He swallowed his reply and pursed his lips. “I will cross that bridge when I come to it,” he mumbled to himself, and louder he said, “It will be as you wish, Queen Arwen.”

   “Do not fail me, Lomac,” Arwen said rising, and the urgency of her plea made the old man flinch. “That woman did something to him… I fear she set him under her spell. You have to help him.”

   “I cannot promise anything that is beyond my power, my queen. But I will do as you bid.” He bowed and left.

   While the queen went to the embrasure to overlook the Pelennor and tried to sense her husband again somewhere in the wilderness, Lomac hurried as fast as his old feet allowed to meet his friend, Tinungelen. He had not seen him for many years, but when it came to spells and evil power he was the one to ask for help.

* * *

RHÛN

   Aragorn was not able to fend off his captors when they steered him out of the tent to a cart waiting in front of it with a horse already harnessed. But at the sight of the diagonal cross on the cart, the king's resistance flared anew.

   “You will not make me the bane of my people!” he cried and pressed his feet against the rim of the cart, fighting the hands pulling him up.

   Ridasha watched the procedure reluctantly. She would not have wanted to be a part of it, but since three men were needed to press the Gondorian ruler against the cross, her help was not required. The king kicked the first man against the knee, driving him back. Yet he gained no room and no advantage. Another warrior took his place, and when they held the captive firmly, the fourth man cut the bonds, only to pull up Aragorn's arms against the wood and bind his wrists and ankles again. The king tested the rope, but gave in. He would not waste his strength now.

   Aragorn's defeat was bitter, all the more upon seeing the readied army of Easterlings gathering along both sides and behind him. There were long rows of armed men and women, the pride of the Easterlings, who had waited for this day for two years. Their looks were confident and eager, and the knowledge of having the King of Gondor as their captive, heightened their moods.

   “You will do exactly what you were supposed to do,” Harishdane sneered when she got closer, and shot him an evil glance out of suddenly yellow eyes.

   “You will gain no victory!” the king shouted back. “You are but a leader of cowards!”

   Harishdane almost smiled.

   “Your whole army will do nothing. They will not even think of defending themselves against my people because we hold your life in our hands. Now, tell me, king, who are the cowards?”

   Ridasha listened to the conversation with a frown. Now that she knew his position, many details formed a greater picture, and she realised that indeed Harishdane had planned all of this to conquer Ithilien by blackmail. It had been an incredible long way to gain what she wanted, but in the end it would prove true what she had promised her kindred before: They would settle on new land without much loss of warriors. It had sounded like a promise impossible to keep, yet the men and women, who had lost many relatives in the Ring War, had gladly believed it. Ridasha had been among those, who had voted to leave the land to the east, and had remained sceptical when the promise had been made, but within the months stretching to years, Harishdane had proved to be a worthy leader. The doubts of many had faded, and they all had been content with Harishdane's decisions. And now, in the dead of the night, Ridasha saw faces of soldiers finally getting into the agitation of battle close at hand. The vanguard had left an hour ago and would reach the Gondorian soldiers close to sunrise. The army would march behind – with the king as its shield.

   Ridasha turned and met eyes with Gishvané. The old woman shared her worries, but there was no way to deny Harishdane's leadership and the decisions she made. Reluctantly they both stayed at the side of the cart while it rolled westward.

* * *

BORDERLINE OF ITHILIEN

   The horses neighed and fidgeted suddenly. Though calm and docile most of the time, now they were irritated and seemed to have caught a strange scent from somewhere in the wet, but warm summer night after the rain had ceased. The guards moved to check after them, tried to calm them down. Gently they talked to them, took their bridles and stroked their manes, but the steeds’ nostrils flared, and some of them reared. The soldiers jumped back, and with a yell of surprise evaded the thrashing hoofs. None of them turned. They did not see the eyes in the darkness, reflecting yellow on the flames’ shine. The soldiers kept their attention on the nervous steeds, knowing that something was wrong, but unable to determine what it might be. For weeks these plain had been still.

   When the first man turned it was because of a low growl emitting from the darkness. The soldier strained his eyes, still holding fast to the reins of his restless horse. He frowned, calling out to the next man, and he turned too. The darkness, an hour before dawn, was impenetrable like a blanket woven of velvet. Nothing shone; nothing seemed to move, but yet… An awkward feeling crept upon the soldiers, speeding their hearts up, making them feel uneasy. A soldier called out when his steed furiously threw up his head, and from his tent Prince Faramir came, putting on his jerkin, asking the guards about the unusual clamour, but already on alert. The growling resounded, low, but with a threat that reached every man's heart in the camp. The prince stood still and gazed northward. But the origin of the sound was hard to determine. The next time it seemed to come from the east. Faramir unsheathed his sword and yelled:

   “Prepare to defend yourself! There is something coming!”

   It was the moment the army of Gondor was caught by surprise. Without a sound of their own black beasts emerged from the shadows, taller than dogs, hideous as wargs. With their fangs bared and hissing, they attacked the horses first. Some got to the men nearby. Their sharp teeth bit flesh, ripped open trousers and greaves. The soldiers cried out with pain. Others nearby were rooted to the earth by terror, unable to move, and would have become an easy prey if it had not been for the stout-hearted, who simply thrust their swords forward with a cry of war.

   The beasts jumped at the horses’ broad chests, quick enough to evade the hoofs, biting them, terrifying them to make them turn to flee headless. Touching the ground, they immediately went for the next prey, growling with bloodlust, gaining on the shocked men. But more soldiers recovered and thrust their swords forward. Some of the beasts were slain, but there were many to take their places; they seemed to come from every side, and more and more filled the camp, causing chaos and death. The night was suddenly filled with cries, loud neighing, and the shouted orders of the Gondorian leader, who tried to bring his petrified men to order. He saw how devastating these beasts were, how agile and hungry for blood. But amid the turmoil he saw them halt and look as if they were deciding where to turn to next. Faramir brought his sword down on one of them, and with the elegance only cats possess it jumped aside to attack him the next moment from another angle. The captain of the guard beside him swung his weapon to strike, cutting the beast’s mighty body, but its claws had already ripped the pauldrons of Faramir’s right arm. The prince cried out and stepped back, renewing the grip on the hilt of his sword. When he turned, he saw amidst the fires and tents his men fighting back the beasts one by one. Though they still assaulted from behind, the animals seemed to retreat. Faramir’s gaze fell upon the horses. Some were dead, some reared and neighed still, and those, which had torn the ropes, galloped into the darkness, blind with fear.

   Faramir panted, and raised his sword once again to hit the neck of one mighty beast. He wounded it, and it broke off the attack, saving itself by running away. Others followed. The growling and hissing continued, but the enemies drew back into the night they had come from.

   With the same speed they had attacked they were suddenly gone, leaving the Gondorians wounded, in fear, and in disorder.

   Catching his breath, the prince lowered his sword and made sure that none of those catlike attackers still roamed the camp. Though he had seen them with his own eyes, he could hardly believe that the stories the settlers had told him had turned out to be true.

   “They are gone! Take care of the wounded and kindle the fires!” he shouted over the campsite, but he had not yet ended the command when another sound could be heard, and all his men stood motionless. It was the dull sound of feet on the soft ground. Marching boots. Many of them. The ground seemed to vibrate with every step innumerable men took. They were like muffled drums, played by an enemy they could not yet see. “No…,” Faramir mumbled. He swallowed dryly, glancing over his men, who were not even on the verge of recovering from the vicious attack of those beasts of prey. He could not risk another fight. Suddenly – though he could not explain how – the Easterlings marched up on them: Eight hundred men stood against his army. Faramir would not have thought about fleeing them, but at the moment there was no order to be brought back at once.

   The dull noise rose. It was a threat, very distinct, clear enough to all of the soldiers, who stood like rooted in the ground. It grew louder with every step, and the Prince of Ithilien hated the decision he had to make.

   “Retreat!” he cried aloud to be heard everywhere. “Retreat! Take the horses! Make haste!” He ran to his own steed and mounted. The sun slowly rose and with the first light the impressive ranks of the attackers could be spotted as they emerged from the east. But Faramir could see more than soldiers. Up front between the red and golden armour and the many polearms, raised like a wood of young trees, there was a cart with a grey horse and upon it a figure with his arms widespread and bound. Though the decision had been made, and his men were already leaving, the prince could not spur his horse. The man at the cross seemed so familiar, and yet Faramir could not believe what a first glimpse tried to insinuate. It could not be…

   He waited a perilous moment longer. His captain rode up to him and urged him to leave, but the prince simply lifted his hand to quieten him. His eyes rested on the cart, and the person on it, unable to move. Now he could determine who the man was. Unbeknown Faramir shook his head. Another group of men passed him by - yelling, urging him to follow - and still he pondered over his decision. Could he indeed abandon his king and friend to the mercy of the enemy? Yet there was nothing he could do at the moment. There was no force left to fight eight hundred strongly armed Easterlings, whose ranks seemed to reach from end of the glowing horizon to the other. He wished that there was something he could do. He turned to his captain, who had followed his line of sight.

   “We ride south and alarm all men under arms-”

   “My lord, but…”

   “We have to hurry!” With utmost regret and the painful feeling of making a wrong decision at the worst time Faramir spurred his horse and quickly joined his men already on the way.

* * *

   The King of Gondor had never before seen men shift their shape, and the realisation of how long those catlike creatures had already roamed Ithilien took his breath away. He saw them return to Harishdane with bloodied jaws and hideous growls, and shortly after their arrival they turned into the men and women they had been before at the campsite. He stared at them in utter disbelief. He had heard about strange beasts during his long years of wandering Middle-earth, but all those stories he had considered to be myths. Now he had seen with his own eyes how Harishdane would gain her victory. But he saw, too, that Faramir's men had caused the creatures injuries, which had to be treated. Still those observations bore no comfort since the host was still so strong it could have beaten the Gondorians in a fair fight.

   Aragorn hung his head. Faramir had made the right decision to order a retreat, but that would only save his men for now. The host of enemies represented a strong force, and even if the prince gathered the garrisons from Osgiliath, there was a bitter fight ahead. He hoped that Faramir would bring forward all men under arms to defy Harishdane.

   Ridasha had watched the Gondorian retreat disappointed. She had supposed those fighters to stand and try to free their king. Now she saw that they all had turned and fled, leaving behind their dead and their gear. The Easterling soldiers mocked their cowardice, and, after the riders had disappeared, roared with laughter at their easy victory. Ridasha knew that the herds of sharos with a few men to guard them followed their march south and would take possession of the grassland. The animals had been starving for weeks and had been hard to hold back for such a long time.

* * *

   Faramir had never fled an enemy before, and the dread that befell him as he rode away from the Easterlings and his captured friend was almost too much to bear. He found no way to convince himself that he had decided upon the voice of reason. His heart told him he had deserted his ruler and left him at the mercy of his foes. Though stout-hearted, the memory of his friend - bound and helpless - almost brought tears to his eyes.

   “My lord, how can we turn our backs on them?”

   Faramir looked at the juvenile features of his second captain, and though he thought the same, he answered with grim determination:

   “And what could we have done, Captain Delion? What would have been our options? Face them? Or asked them politely to release him?” His words were poignant, and Delion averted his eyes from the fierceness of the prince's voice. “They have come for but one reason: To conquer Ithilien by threat. We need a force stronger than ours to hinder that.”

   “My Prince, there are only two garrisons waiting at Osgiliath, and they won’t be…”

   “I know. We have to send messengers to Lebennin and Rohan and ask for their immediate support.”

   “They will need days to get here!”

   “They had already been informed and will be prepared to depart immediately.” He shook his head slightly. “Now our advantage must be that we are mounted. Hurry!” He spurred his horse once more and with the picture of his bound friend still on his mind he rode on.

* * *

   The day stretched to uncounted hours of pain in the heat of the late summer sun. Aragorn but heard the dull sound of marching boots around him, and ever and ever again he fell unconscious. When he woke again, the face of Ridasha was in front of him, and he felt water on his lips. He drank greedily, but still he was too hoarse to speak. She understood by his gaze.

   “We stopped for a midday break, but will march on soon.” For a moment she looked at him. How deplorable the mightiest man from Gondor now looked. Tightly bound, marked, and deserted by his own people. “Do your own people not like you?” she asked quietly after giving him some bread and dried fruits to eat.

   “He was wise to leave,” Aragorn croaked.

   “Wise? He’s a coward! He abandoned you without a fight! You must hate him!”

   Wearily the king lifted his head.

   “Why should he have stayed to surrender himself?”

   “He could have fought for your life.” Ridasha lifted her brows. “Harishdane was right: There is no pride in Men.”

   “Pride is treacherous.” He coughed, and once again she gave him water.

   “But should they not at least be loyal? Are they not bound by an oath to serve their king?”

   He nodded slightly, and held her challenging stare.

   “They will serve the kingdom, Ridasha, not the man.”

   She did not believe his words and left him disappointed. She climbed down the cart and met eyes with Gishvané. Her bearing was that of a woman longing to get into action after hours of contemplation, and Ridasha frowned. Never before had she seen the high priestess so restless and worried. When asked, Gishvané tried to soothe her, but her smile was less benign than it used to be.

   “Do not worry, Rilon Avas. There will be a time when you will understand.”

   “I understand that you are discontented with our leader's behaviour.”

   “It is more than that. Úshemor commands us to treat our slaves well, not to let them suffer.” Her gaze wandered up the cart. The king hung his head and seemed barely conscious. “By her insolence Harishdane has angered the goddess and the wrath of Úshemor will come down upon us all if we give in.”

   Ridasha’s eyes widened.

   “You mean…”

   Gishvané silenced her with a raised hand.

   “That should not concern you, my child, for you have done what was in your might. It is upon all of us to change our fate. Go now,” she said evenly, “Go and see after your duties. We will march on soon.”

* * *

NORTH OF OSGILIATH

   Faramir sent errand-riders on the swiftest steeds southward once they had reached the forces at Osgiliath. With fresh horses the men departed, dismayed upon hearing the tidings of the king's captivity. The message the prince had given them to deliver was quite simple: They needed all strength the King of Rohan and the lords of the south could muster in haste to attack the Easterlings in spite of the blackmail.

* * *

   Pondering over the prospect of facing the host of enemies alone for the reinforcements would hardly be able to support them quickly, the prince rested in his tent when a young soldier entered and stood at attention.

   “Speak!” Faramir ordered sitting up.

   “I met a messenger from Minas Tirith, my lord. The Riders from Rohan are on their way. They have already reached the City.”

   He stood and his features brightened with surprise and bliss.

   “By the Valar! These are good tidings, Finon.” Quickly he made up his mind. “Ride up to them and tell them to approach the enemy from the west. Once the Easterlings have come hither, we will make them a fight they will never forget.”

   “Aye, my lord.”

* * *

   On the night's camp Harishdane allowed Ridasha again to untie the king from his cross. She sent Nisenur to aid her and to watch over the valuable prisoner. The young woman flinched at the sight of the Gondorian, who did not resist or even try to break into a run the moment the bonds were loosened. He but sank to his right side with closed eyes and seemed unaware of the ropes holding him hence on the ground. She hurried to hold the water-skin to his parched lips, and only then he moved slightly to finally look at her.

   “Drink,” she urged him, and when he did, she noticed that he gazed over the arrangements at the campsite, and she was relieved that his condition was not as bad as she had thought. “I get you some food.” She stood and left the cart.

   Harishdane watched her and was content with the developments so far. She was sure there would be no resistance once they would have reached Osgiliath. She even considered that many garrisons from Gondor had been called to Rohan to invade Dunland for rescuing the King of Gondor, but even if their army remained in their own land, she was convinced her threat would not be answered by force. For once the king had proven to be a worthy shield; the captain and his garrison had fled in complete disorder and fear. Though Lomarin still uttered concern she would not stray from her path now. The prospect of new land in Ithilien, of overthrowing the hated Gondorian regime was too blissful to even think about failure. She had walked too far to gain a victory to now back off.

* * *

   Aragorn watched the men rise in the morning. The guards reported in, and they seemed pleased that no one had yet challenged them. Harishdane ordered the host to break camp, and Asentis climbed up the cart to bind the king on the cross again, sneering:

   “You are already defeated, King of Cowards! Your little, pitiful army will diminish and crumble only seeing you like that. If they ever dare to approach.”

   “You hide yourself behind me. So tell me, who is the coward?” Aragorn replied, staring at the Easterling and hiding the pain the other man caused him. “You would not be able to win an open challenge, and you will not gain anything by blackmailing my people.”

   Asentis bared his teeth to a malevolent laughter.

   “You try to trick me, you fool! We know about the strength of your army. We know everything about the few men, who might oppose us! But still they won’t, for they fear you to be killed. So they will retreat instead of fight. Your land is beyond any defence, and you well know of it.”

   Aragorn did not grant him to see his worry.

   “And then what?” he demanded, his face stern. “Even if they retreat; do you think they will retreat forever? That they will leave the land to usurpers like you? Again, you are a fool to believe Ithilien will be yours.”

   Asentis stooped to meet eyes with the king.

   “Right now sharos by their thousands are led into Northern Ithilien,” he hissed. “Who will hinder them? Who will throw them out? You are weak, king. You will do as Harishdane bids, and all of this land, with its plains and woodlands, will be ours to rule and cultivate.” With that he jumped down and ordered the host to gather and move on. He knew his words had struck a vital cord, but when he glanced over his shoulder, the King of Gondor held his stare unflinchingly.

* * *

NORTH OF MINAS TIRITH

   Receiving the tidings from the errand-rider, Éomer commanded his éoreds north for an approach as Faramir had requested. He only hoped to be fast enough to be of help.

   It was then when he came to meet with his five men he had sent on pursuit of the Easterlings. They told him how the enemy had escaped over the River Anduin and how they had reached the northern frontier of Gondor in a strenuous march and with the help of fishermen, who had taken them in their boats for a part of the journey. King Éomer thanked them and with renewed strength and vigour hastened to reach his position in Ithilien within a day-ride.

* * *

OSGILIATH

   Faramir met the captains of the forces at the eastern shore of the River Anduin, including those, who had ridden as fast as their steeds allowed from Minas Tirith to meet the prince at the base camp. Others from the south were set in march, but only when the tidings from Éomer's host reached him that the éoreds would be in position shortly, he was relieved of the thought to have deserted King Elessar. Still he could read in the faces of his men that they dreaded the confrontation.

   “They know we won’t risk his life,” an old warrior uttered, shaking his head worriedly. “What use is all this force we can bring forward, if there is no chance to gain a victory?”

   “There will be a chance,” Faramir objected adamantly. “We will use every chance to free him. If it comes to a fight they will threaten his life, I know that well. But they will also hesitate to kill him since he is their only pledge that we will not attack with all our forces.” He still saw disbelief. “The Riders of Rohan are on their way to the western plain. Their diversion will give us the opportunity to save the king. We must rely on this option.”

   “It is his hope that you do,” a voice from the tent's entrance suddenly said, and all men turned their heads. A moment later they bowed deeply to the Queen of Gondor as she entered and threw back the hood of her cloak. “For it cannot be assumed that he will be able to escape alone.”

   “My queen,” Faramir greeted her and lowered his head. “We did not expect you.”

   Arwen nodded slightly to all men present to rise again.

   “You may proceed with your preparations, Lord Faramir. The army's command lies in your hands. Use it wisely.”

   “Of course I will, my queen.”

   Arwen looked into the faces of the men gathered.

   “Still you should consider that not only his life is at stake. If Ithilien is taken by the enemy, no one can tell if they would continue their conquest. The Easterlings must be stopped and thrown back.” She faced Faramir, who could not hide his reluctance. “And even though you are his friend, and he is my husband, and we both love him dearly, your concern, my prince, is the whole land with its entire people. If the king falls it will be for the sake of his kingdom.”

   “My heart is heavy to agree with you, Queen Arwen.” Faramir bowed to her. “But let me assure you, that I will not accept King Elessar's death unless there is no other option to throw back the enemy.”

* * *

Chapter Four – Battle

WESTERN ITHILIEN

   The scouts returned to the assembly point. Éomer awaited them in front of his tent, and the rain, which had lasted throughout the day, now drenched his clothes.

   “The enemy is still moving,” Thor reported and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “They will reach the Gondorian forces by nightfall.”

   The king nodded grimly.

   “So we will move too. Prepare the men for departure immediately. We will give them a not so warm welcome.” He turned and strode back to his tent. Finally the time for revenge for the capturing of his men and the Gondorian King had come.

* * *

NORTH OF OSGILIATH

   The beasts had already returned, and Harishdane watched them shift their shape to hear their report of the small Gondorian army that waited for them with their banners raised in the setting sun. The order to rest had been given for the night, for there was no way even for the catlike creatures to attack during complete darkness. After the rain had ceased, clouds still veiled the stars, and no moon brought light to guide them. It would have been too risky since the Gondorians were warned now and had placed horses alongside the camp. Even with all of the beasts gathered, the enemy's strength was too great to be confronted at once. Reluctantly the leader prepared for a last night within the foe's sight, but out of reach of their archers. Their reinforcements would arrive soon, and then, she knew, there was no hope for Gondor to win against them. Until then they would hold position, for an assault from their foes was not to be expected. It was on Asentis to lighten her mood, as they both retreated to enjoy their closeness. He whispered into her ear how they would live up once the battle would be over, and he assured her that even without the king as their captive no army would stand the host of her people.

   The two guards at the cart did not hinder her, even helped her up the tall rim to watch the bound captive lying on the ground. Gishvané thanked the men and quickly knelt at the king's side, holding the water-skin she had brought to the prisoner's lips. The man looked wretched and seemed exhausted beyond measure. The high priestess sighed. She had waited during the long hours of the night, until her prayers had subsided and her mind had been cleared of doubts. She had weighed up in her mind Harishdane's leadership against the will of the goddess and finally considered that she owed her obedience to Úshemor, whom she had served for the span of her life. Still it was no easy decision. She knew why Harishdane had gone the long way to ally her people with the primitives of the Misty Mountains, and first it had seemed like wisdom to draw the Rohirrim and Gondorian forces into a fight with the Dunlendings to hinder them from protecting their own realms. No one could have expected the Rohirrim to be a people of peace suddenly, a fact, which had almost ruined that plan. Now, at the end of that strenuous road, Gishvané could no longer agree with her leader. The marking of a captive without the blessing of a high priestess, and the treatment the prisoner had received opposing the goddess' bidding was something unheard of, and Gishvané's fear of Úshemor's wrath had risen during the weeks of marching. The strange power Harishdane had used to control the captive only added to the high priestess' unrest.

   The little knife plunged into her hand as she took away the water-skin. The king squinted and might only have recognised her due to her long black and grey hair, but he was on alert the moment he saw the blade.

   “What is this about?” he asked in a hushed voice, raising his head to quickly take a look around.

   “Will you stay true to your word?” she whispered, and when he frowned, added, “You told Ridasha there are other ways to find new land. Will you promise me to not slaughter my people the moment I free you?”

   Aragorn nodded slightly, and his heart pounded hard against his ribcage, thinking that he was suddenly given the opportunity to escape.

   “If you let me return to my people I will not order an attack, but dare a parley if your leader is willing to listen.”

   “That must serve well enough.” She cut the bonds. “You must have the strength to flee alone,” she whispered as she hid the knife again in her sleeve. Her face wore a deep frown. It was a risky plan, and never before had she ventured so much in her life. “I cannot do anything more for you, but send a prayer to our goddess to let you go unharmed and keep both our peoples alive.” She touched his head with a weary smile that quickly vanished. “Forgive your enemies, Strider, if you can.”

   “I have done so before,” he replied.

   Gishvané's features softened.

   “I thought so.” Then she rose, leaving the water-skin, and climbed down the cart. Aragorn remained at his place motionlessly. His muscles hurt, and he felt stiff. He waited until everything was quiet before he slowly crawled to the rim of the cart and glimpsed at the guards. There was one on either side, and they both seemed bored with the task given.

   Ridasha had watched the high priestess leave the cart, and when she had been about to doze off she saw movement again at the rim. She knew what had happened, and, turning her head, recognised Gishvané's concerned expression. She, too, was watching the king climb down the cart. Ridasha's heart sped up. She had to intervene! She had to call for help! The hope of her people to win rested on that prisoner, who quickly knocked out both guards. The woman lifted her head further to see what he was doing. Still she pondered over her decision. She had let him escape once. How could she stay and let him flee a second time? But when her gaze found the high priestess again, she realised that this escape was meant to be. She had not hindered him before, and she would not now.

   The king had hesitated only for a moment. It was close to dawn, and already the outlines of the many warriors could be guessed within the first light. He rubbed his wrists to improve the blood circulation, and when the first guard turned, leapt at him and threw him down. A quick blow to the man's head robbed him of his consciousness, and he pulled him between the wheels. Aragorn knelt at the ground for a moment, listening intently. Only when there was no movement, he ducked under the shafts of the cart to bring the second guard down. He took the man's scimitar and dagger and pivoted to run southward, hoping his escape would go unnoticed.

   Faramir had hardly slept, and with a tankard of warm water stood near the front-line. The night guards told him of a scheme that moved at the Easterling campsite, and the prince quickly ordered to rouse the men. He wanted to be prepared if there was any fast attack before sunrise. Captain Delion, blessed with excellent eyesight, stood at his side and stared north while the others readied themselves.

   “There is someone moving toward us, my lord, but… it looks like he's fleeing. He's running, but he's yet quite far away.”

   “It could be a trick,” Faramir growled and put down the tankard. “Be aware he could be accompanied by one of those beasts.” He had his bow ready as they watched the figure intently.

   Aragorn could only guess the Gondorian front-line, but with the strength he had left he hurried on, hunched over to be a small target. After the weeks of captivity the homecoming seemed like pure bliss even if he had to fight the Easterlings one more time. He would gladly take up a sword and lead his men into battle. This time it would be for revenge.

   Suddenly a wave of pain hit his neck. He cried out, putting his right hand on the wound. His legs quivered and gave in. He felt like he had hit a rock and slumped forward, breathless, stopping the fall with his hands and elbows. The grass was cool under his touch and moist from the dew, and he dug his fingers into the soil, trying to rise onto his knees, trying to move on. Anguish blurred his vision, but he was sure he could see the banner of the Prince of Ithilien somewhere in the distance as the light grew stronger. He could not get up. He panted heavily and his gaze was still directed south. Pain pressed him on the ground, and his legs did not obey his command, but were a useless weight.

   The captain suddenly exclaimed, “It's the king, my lord! It is King Elessar out there!” And only a moment later he muttered, “But what is this? He's fallen on the ground.” Faramir squinted, still holding arrow and bow ready.

   It was but a second of hesitation, and Faramir knew his men would run to aid their ruler if he ordered it. Those, who had heard Delion's words, had already turned their heads, expecting the command to cross the plain. But the prince saw the movement at the enemy's ranks. And the king was still much closer to the Easterlings than to his own men. If he ordered an approach now, it would mean the beginning of the battle – and the certain death of Aragorn.

   “Keep in line!” he shouted, as he watched in horror what happened.

* * *

   A force other than his own commanded him, and he heard a voice in his head as dreadful as the shrieking of a fell beast. His tunic was drenched again, and he felt weak as if life was bleeding out of him. When the king turned his head with a effort, he saw Asentis standing beside him. The Easterling stared down at him, but did neither speak nor move. It was Aragorn, who slowly made it to his feet, but he could not run from his enemy. He could not draw the sword to slay him. Horrified Aragorn realised that an evil power had captured him, and he turned away from his own host, when Asentis took his arm to steer him back over the plain. All resistance the king thought of was futile. His legs moved, he kept his balance, but it was not him commanding this. He blanched at the thought of being led against his will like King Théoden, whose mind had been overthrown by Saruman. Panting, the king tried once again to free himself. He broke into sweat, and his heart raced. Still he followed the pull by Asentis back to the ranks of Easterlings. Only then he spotted Harishdane among them, and by her look he knew what had befallen him.

* * *

   “He goes with him!” Delion shouted in disbelief. “It cannot be! My lord, we have to do something!”

   Faramir exhaled. With his eyes he followed the king, who was taken back to the cart without struggle. He frowned, deeply concerned by the strange behaviour of his friend. The prince was a learned man, and for long years he had listened to the wisdom and knowledge Mithrandir had taught him. There were more spells and evil powers at work in Middle-earth than the one destroyed by the Hobbits two years ago. Not all that was evil had been eradicated, and the prince realised that they would fight more than just Easterlings on this battlefield.

* * *

   Aragorn fought in his mind against the voice commanding him, but his legs brought him back to the cart, while the pain in his neck almost threw him off balance. His weapons were taken away, and he stood like rooted to the ground when Asentis sneered at him. He could neither move nor resist, and his opponent knew.

   Harishdane’s lips curled as she watched the king return to the ranks of her men. Profound confusion and - she relished that sight - fear lasted on his marred features. Asentis had disarmed him and nodded curtly in her direction. She stepped forward. In the first light, when the sun was only a shape to be guessed at the eastern horizon, and an expectant silence lasted over the plain, she raised her voice:

   “See, despicable worms from Gondor! See and mourn your ruler, for he has turned away from you! He is at my hands now, and he will remain under my command! If you want to spare his life you must lay down your weapons. If you dare fight us, he is bound to die!” With that she cocked her head in Aragorn's direction, and the Gondorian writhed with pain suddenly. His cry resounded over the battlefield, and he fell on his knees, his right hand clutching the scar on his neck. “Do not dare battle with us!”

   Harishdane saw the terror and almost heard the gasps on the enemy's side. She briefly nodded and released the prisoner from her mental grasp. Aragorn knelt with his head bowed, unable to catch his breath. Asentis at his side held the rope ready to bind him again, but knew there was no need to rush. He was silently amused about the sight: The king would not go anywhere without Harishdane's permission.

* * *

   Faramir felt a strange coldness touch his heart. Fear suddenly spread. He thought of defeat, of murdered people, of bloodshed beyond measure among his men. He wished to escape immediately and knew somehow that he had to leave this place or would perish among his doomed, inept soldiers. The grip on his bow loosened. He watched his friend on the other side of the front-line go down and cry with pain. Faramir realised that he had no chance to win by fighting. His friend would die, and he would have caused his death. There would be no help for all the people in Ithilien and beyond if he gave the order to attack. Only if the Easterlings were allowed to roam Ithilien, all of them would survive…

   Delion at his side grimaced and half turned to leave his post.

   “Wait!” Faramir said. The fear grew stronger, clutching his heart inescapably, but at the same time, as his men turned to flee, he knew that a spell had been cast upon them to make them headless and force them to become cowards. Regaining his composure and ignoring the fear that made his heart pound, he shouted over the ranks, “Do not fear her! She tries to put a spell on us! Do not despair! Keep in line!” And those, who heard him, remained in line, trusting their beloved leader, though they still looked at each other uneasily and disturbed by the foul thoughts that woman from the east put into their minds. “Stay where you are and draw your swords!”

* * *

   Asentis pulled Aragorn up again. With an effort the prisoner turned his head to watch the faith of his army reel. What he had feared seemed to prove true: The army waited instead of sending the first volley of arrows while advancing. He dreaded that sight. It added up to the pain he received by Harishdane and that kept him at his place though he longed to join his forces. He would have wanted to shout at Faramir to proceed, to not heed the fear the woman used to control and withhold them, but, alas, there was no way to tell him.

   “Lay down your weapons!” Harishdane shouted again. She sensed uncertainty among the Gondorians. She sensed their vulnerability and knew victory was close at hand. Her eyes were small slits as she concentrated again. She would break that army and make it surrender.

   Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a horn was blown and yet another, closer by, joined it. And over the hill in the west dust rose. The horns sounded again.

   Rohan had come.

* * *

   Harishdane swivelled around, and watched horrified the many horses breaking into the lines of her kinsmen, yelling, roaring, thrusting spears and wielding swords. Hoofs thundered on the ground as the King of Rohan led his men into the fight. Fierce was his look, and grim his demeanour. On Battleaxe he swung his spear and threw it against the first warrior, who crossed his path. Without losing speed he reclaimed the weapon to aim it at the next foe. Skewered the man fell with a cry of agony, and others quickly evaded, terrified by the sight of the éoreds bursting into their lines. Many were thrown down by the thrashing hoofs. Finally Éomer could avenge his men and vanquish the foes he had sought for so long! Crying aloud, he rode into their ranks, and the Easterlings – prepared for battle, but taken by surprise nevertheless – broke away in fear and disorder. Harishdane, Lomarin, and Asentis shouted at their men to regroup and hold position.

* * *

   Free of the pressure of the evil thoughts, Faramir shook his head and breathed through deeply. He saw his men do the same, and determined he raised his voice:

   “Charge!”

   The archers took position and fired a first volley into the ranks of Easterlings. The enemies ran away, disordered, terror-stricken. Within minutes the Rohirrim had broken their first line of defence, killed and wounded many. Only Harishdane's command from an elevated position brought her warriors to a halt, and they fixed their polearms to withstand the onslaught of the Rohirrim Riders, shielding the King of Gondor at the same time. Horses as well as men were hit and wounded. Soldiers fell off their steeds and got entangled in groundfights. The Easterlings used their polearms with skill, but their fight suddenly took place on two flanks. Their hope of outnumbering the enemy and forcing him down without a fight was crushed by the arrival of Éomer and his riders.

* * *

   Faramir shouted over the campsite, and all his men advanced in a rush, some mounted, but most of them on foot, to meet the Easterlings. The prince's gaze was fixed on Aragorn. He watched his friend take up the scimitar of a fallen warrior, and his heart was lifted with joy. The king would lead them! He had got rid of the evil power controlling him! Only then an enemy crossed Faramir's path and blocked his view. He slew him, but when he raised his sword again, looked in vain for his friend. More enemies were closing in on the prince and his soldiers, and they had to fight at all sides, unable to cover ground, but faced with fierce opponents, who handled their two-spiked weapons with deadly precision.

* * *

   Aragorn pivoted, punched a warrior from the east straight into his tanned face and grabbed his weapon when he fell. With the scimitar held firmly in both hands, Aragorn turned to face Asentis, but the second-in-command no longer stood close to him. He had moved backwards, and a strange, mocking smile lasted on his lips. The king shook his head, trying to clear his vision and to ignore the pain that spread over his back. He moved forward, willing to support his people and relieved that the onslaught had begun without Harishdane's chance to misuse him. He intercepted an Easterling to fight him, but the scimitar stuck in mid-air, and no longer did his arms obey.

* * *

   Faramir had shed the thought of fear for his friend's life the moment the king had taken up a scimitar and had run forward to aid his soldiers. Now, as he watched again, he realised that it had been but a brief moment of release. The torment Aragorn faced was not over yet. Determined to not let him stand alone, Faramir fought his way through, punching aside foes uncounted, only crossing blades if unavoidable, but not standing the fight to kill his opponents. He needed to get through to Aragorn fast, and his men shielded him the best they could.

* * *

   The king gasped for air, and doubled his effort, but to no avail. The warrior from the east glared at him, ready to attack. By then Faramir had reached him to thrust his sword into the enemy's body from behind. The Easterling fell with his eyes wide. The prince quickly pulled the blade to defend himself against yet another soldier.

* * *

   Harishdane had collected her most trusted warriors to protect her against the onslaught of both Rohirrim and Gondorians. She had no time for reconsideration, but to know that her prisoner had not proven as valuable as she had expected, deeply troubled her. Her whole plan to make the Gondorians retreat had failed! They had come in greater numbers than expected, and those hated Rohirrim had ambushed her kinsmen! Still her men held their ground, and made the enemies a hard fight. She sought the king again, and her wrath fell upon him like a dark, thick cloud.

* * *

   “Come with me, Aragorn!” the prince shouted over the clamour. “I get you out of harm's way!” He parried and hit an assaulting enemy with the hilt in his face. Screaming, the man went down. The prince turned to his friend again. “Come!”

   Aragorn clenched his teeth, willing to remain on his feet. If he could not fight his enemies, he would at least not let Harishdane command him on the ground again. Blurred by anguish, he watched Faramir reach out his hand. With him came ten soldiers close by his side, keeping the usurpers at bay. The king wanted to join them in their fights, but by all the strength he possessed there was no way to deny Harishdane's command over his actions. He feared the eruption of her malice when the scimitar in his hands seemed to rise all by itself. Panting he tried to lower it again, to not cross blades with his friend, but he could not stop himself.

   The king squinted, and opened his mouth for a reply that never came. Suddenly, without a warning or hesitation, he swung the scimitar and aimed at his friend's chest. He saw Faramir jump back and watched horrified how the weapon came down. It would have caught the prince's breastplate if it had not been for his fast reaction.

   “No! Do not fight me!” Faramir cried with his left hand raised, but instead of lowering the blade the king charged again. “I am your friend! Aragorn, do you not know me?” The prince parried the next blow. He could read mere terror in Aragorn's eyes. In the blink of an eye their blades met again. Faramir twisted his, irritating the king for a moment, and rushed forward to hit him. The king evaded. He was as quick on his feet as usual, but Faramir knew by the haunted look of his friend that he did not control his actions. More than once it seemed that Aragorn was about to say something, but he could not. Though he hated the thought, Faramir knew what he had to do.

* * *

Chapter Five – Harishdane’s Fall

   The King of Rohan had felt his spirits rise, watching the Easterling army shy away from his riders. And even now that they had regrouped, Éomer was certain to beat them since there were only few on horses among them. With forceful blows he threw down a red-clad warrior, and cried out with anguish as a polearm spiked his lower mail-shirt, scratching his thigh. He swivelled around and cut the wood with his sword, but the blade twisted, ripping open the wound. Éomer parried yet another thrust and killed his enemy. When he spurred his horse, he pulled out the blade and cast it down. He would not let any foe threw him out of this battle, even if he had to fight on held up by nothing more than his will.

* * *

   Arwen held fast to the pole of the major tent. She felt a strange force subduing her husband and the malice emitting from that force was so strong, she could hardly touch Aragorn's mind any more. She sensed his fear and his anguish, but when she tried to reach him, both feelings rose. He called out to her. Arwen closed her eyes. She had to concentrate to help him fend off that evil, but the moment she threw the strange voice back was the moment she lost contact.

* * *

   The prince panted heavily as he lowered his sword. The Gondorian soldiers next to him made sure he could stoop to the unconscious king. Faramir sighed. For only one moment Aragorn had looked straight into his eyes and had stopped the fight, but the same instant Faramir had knocked him out and had caught him when he fell. Now he ordered two men to carry the king back to the camp.

   “Bind his wrists and legs and do not listen to him! He is not himself!”

   The men looked at him in utter bewilderment, and he repeated his order harshly before he surveyed the battlefield to regroup his men. Beyond the fights he descried the banner of Rohan, and when he turned south there was the garrison from yonder southern Ithilien, who had come to aid. The trumpets rang, and the Easterlings, who thought they would outnumber their enemies, stared in shock. But it did not last long: From the northern part of Ithilien soldiers afoot, with the red and black banner with a serpent on it, marched onto the battlefield. The prince's stare turned fierce. The toll would be heavy, but the united armies held the strength to defeat the invaders. He glanced at the back of his men, who were accompanied by other soldiers clearing the way for the unconscious king. Faramir hoped they would obey his orders.

* * *

   Harishdane withdrew her influence from the king. She had seen him go down and that he was taken away by his men. For some time there would be joy among the Gondorians to have reclaimed their ruler, but she would use him for the destruction of his own army once he would have regained consciousness. By her guards she had been told that the high priestess had been with the king before his attempt to escape, but she would deal with that insubordinate woman later. She turned and watched Asentis' unrelenting force move through the ranks of their enemies. With the two-bladed polearm he was a master, and it showed in all his movements. He was unhurt, but defended his wounded fellows and attacked viciously Rohirrim and Gondorians. He could not be stopped, and she was content to watch him slay his enemies while her own vantage point was still defended by her best men. Again she called her warriors to order and to gather for a new onslaught when the Rohirrim concentrated their men in her direction.

* * *

   Ridasha had watched in stunned disbelief the king's return at Asentis' side, and now that the battle had begun, she feared for the healer's life and for her own. Though skilled in war, Ridasha would have wished to take Ithilien without force. There would be hard fights at hand ere the day would be over, and she was not sure to see its dusk.

* * *

   Faramir's gaze followed the men carrying the king one last time, when a man beside him cried:

   “My lord, watch out!”

   The prince pivoted and brought up his sword in one fluent motion. The tall and wiry built Easterling let his polearm fall on the blade forcefully, almost disarming Faramir, who had to step back to steady himself. For a second he thought to have looked into strange, intense yellow eyes, and he was irritated. His opponent used the moment to swivel the weapon and recharge. Faramir gasped at the strength the Easterling possessed. The steel vibrated in his hands. His arms hurt from the impact, and he flinched. The enemy sneered at him and rolled his shoulders as if preparing for an interesting match, of which the outcome was already known.

* * *

   Full of worry Arwen watched the arrival of her husband as he was laid down on a makeshift bed in the tent. She knelt beside him and with a wet cloth wiped blood and dirt out of his face. Arwen cried with fear and joy at the same time, before she realised that Lomac had entered. With him came Vlohiri, who had been the one able to ride. She was glad to see him too, and made way for the healer, who looked exhausted and grim from the unusual ride, as he knelt beside the king. He flinched at the shreds the ruler wore, and the many wounds he had received. Gently he pulled away the torn and drenched cloth to unveil the marking. The boy almost cried out in terror, and quickly put a hand over his mouth, while the queen sat aside her husband and took his marred hand into hers.

   “Can you help him?” she asked quietly, and only then turned to the soldiers still waiting.

   “Prince Faramir ordered him to be bound,” the first man uttered respectfully and cast down his eyes when he saw the disbelieving face of the queen. She was about to send him away, rejecting the proposal, but the healer lifted his head and, squinting like an owl, nodded, his bearded face blank of any expression.

   “He will know why. Have you got a rope ready? Good, then see the work done.” He sat aside, and not a moment too late. Aragorn stirred and moaned when the men bound him. Opening his eyes, he tore at the bonds immediately.

   “Untie me!” he demanded loudly, straining his muscles to break the rope, for a moment unaware of his wife holding his hand. With a brief nod the healer dismissed the puzzled soldiers and ordered them to stay on guard. Lomac sat down again, and, grimacing, the king turned his head to glare at him. “Cut that rope, Lomac! I've been a prisoner long enough!”

   “In good time, my lord,” the healer answered sternly. “Your imprisonment is not yet over. Go, Vlohiri, fetch water and a cup!” The boy left the tent, and Arwen renewed her grip.

   “You have to set me free!” Aragorn demanded. The pain in his shoulder and neck rose, and a wave of nausea hit him. He panted and closed his eyes.

   Quiet and unable to hide his worry Lomac added:

   “I will set you free, my lord, when my task is done.” He opened his sac with different herbs and spread some of them on a piece of cloth. A sharp smell rose. “Until then try to calm down and breathe evenly.”

   “My men…,” Aragorn mumbled through clenched teeth. Coldness crept through him, and shuddering, he remembered the night of the marking. All the evil of that hour seemed to culminate in his body. And with it came the malevolent voice he could still hear.

   “Your men defend themselves well, my love,” Arwen told him in her deep voice, soothing him. She caressed his hand, sad to see the weals on his wrists, and yet still she felt the malice that only waited to take possession of him again. She dreaded the thought of an unknown evil he could not defeat. “It is upon you to fend off the evil that's holding you captive.”

   “Let me…” The rest of the sentence went unheard past his lips. His breathing sped up, and again – unbeknown to him - he fought the bonds holding him. “No…, do not make me…” And there was no solace his wife could provide.

   Vlohiri returned with a bucket of water, and Lomac thanked him for it. Carefully he added some water to the herbs and drenched the cloth. Exhaling he turned to the queen.

   “Keep holding his hand, Queen Arwen, and do not let go. He will need your strength. And you, Vlohiri, put that twig from over there between his teeth and keep his head down by any means.” The boy gaped at him, and Aragorn immediately protested in a strange, accusing voice that frightened the boy to his core.

   “You will not do this to me!” but Lomac pretended to not have heard his command. He still addressed Vlohiri.

   “You will not loosen the rope, and you will not allow him to sit up. Is that understood?” Vlohiri's mouth was too dry to speak; he only nodded, irritated by the healer's fierceness and Aragorn's strange behaviour. “Good.”

   Trembling Vlohiri took the twig and glanced at the king's face full of anger, uncertain if he could carry out his task if the king himself objected. But behind the anger he saw fear, and the notion hit him hard. Quickly he pressed the twig between Aragorn's teeth and braced himself for the task given as the ruler shot him an angry glance.

   Lomac prayed silently that Tinungelen would be wrong with his apprehension as he applied the wet cloth with the herbs onto the still open wound. For a long moment nothing happened, and Lomac was about to thank the Valar for the stamina of the Gondorian ruler when he cried out under the gag and jerked up his head. Vlohiri pressed him down, but whimpered about using such force against the king. He almost let go when the resistance grew stronger.

   “Hold him!” Lomac insisted, and the boy pressed Aragorn's head back on the curled up sheet. “He must not move so much!” Determined the healer held the cloth on the wound, feeling its warmth underneath. Vlohiri parted his lips when he watched a thin rivulet of blood oozing from Aragorn's nose, but he could not say a word. He locked eyes with the king, and tried in vain to hold back the tears. All too vividly he remembered the day he had had to take away the soaked bandages on the king's back, and the cry the prisoner had let go then. He wished the king to get well again, but that day seemed far away. Outside the clamour from the battlefield could be heard; though the Gondorians had been able to send their reinforcements in time, the war was far from over.

   Aragorn closed his eyes. In his right shoulder a fierce battle of its own took place, and the vibrations made his hands tremble. Soon his whole body was shaking, and between shallow gasps he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to see into Arwen’s face.

   “I am with you, beloved, you have to hold on.”

   Her voice was calming him, and he felt strength returning to his weakened body. Harishdane’s voice was faint now, only a whisper, and when he tried to clench his left hand into a fist, his muscles obeyed. Though he was still in pain, the abilities of his elven wife had outmatched the malice the Easterling leader had spread over him.

* * *

   Faramir retreated once again, avoiding a hit by mere luck. His opponent was both faster and stronger than he, and there was no hope to win for the prince. He evaded, parried, and launched, but could not hurt the warrior. The duel went on, pressing Faramir harder until he was too slow to bring up his blade. The polearm hit his shoulder, barely missing his head. The armour deflected the force of the impact and kept him from being maimed, but his right arm went limp. He quickly charged with his left hand, and was hit the same instant onto his left arm. Faramir cried out, almost dropping his sword. The warrior grinned behind his helmet, realising the defeat of the Gondorian, and already added the victory to the many he had collected during his life. He raised his polearm once again. Faramir held his sword, and ground his teeth against the pain. Horrified he watched the weapon come down on him. He knew he would not be able to defend himself one more time. Already his left hand was numb and he would lose his sword with the next attack. From out of nowhere a great black horse was between the opponents, and the polearm crashed on its saddle. Before the Easterling could recharge, Éomer thrust his sword into the enemy's neck, right beneath the helmet. The Easterling cried out in agony and went down. Blood spilled on the ground, and the fierce eyes of Asentis Henosina broke. Grimly Éomer pulled back the blade and turned to Faramir, checking Battleaxe with a word.

   “Are you unharmed?” the king shouted over the skirmish, while the white horsetail waved with the wind.

   “I am, and I thank you!” Faramir replied, catching his breath and trying to straighten. “I am in your debt!”

   The King of Rohan grinned, and his brown eyes blazed with a wild fire.

   “Well met, Prince of Ithilien! Keep your defence strong! We will meet again in due time!” With that he spurred his horse again.

* * *

   Aragorn sat up slowly. He breathed through deeply, and looked into worried faces.

   “Untie me,” he demanded from Lomac, his face as stern as his look, “for I feel my strength return.” The healer stroked his beard, and Aragorn knew the old man wanted him to stay behind. “There is a fight I cannot and will not avoid. I must return.”

   “I see you commanding your wits again,” Lomac said with a nod to Vlohiri, who quickly opened the ropes and held out his hand to help the Gondorian ruler stand. Lomac followed slowly, flinching at the pain in his old knees. “But the poison she used is strong, my lord,” he added, unable to remain silent for his ruler's sake. “There is no way to tell how far my herbs can help you recover. And how much time this will take.”

   “I see.” The king turned to Arwen. She did not speak, but kissed him slightly, a gesture telling him more than words could have. His right hand shook when he took her sword, and the reassuring touch of Arwen's hand caused him to flinch. “I must go,” he stressed, plainly reading her concern as he fumbled to girt the scabbard and the knife in a sheath she had handed him. “It is my task to lead the army,” he whispered and let another kiss follow. “I will return as soon as I can.”

   “And I will be with you,” she replied softly.

* * *

    Éomer rode on swiftly, pressing the heels into his horse’s flanks to spur him once more through the tight ranks of warriors. His gaze was directed at a young soldier, desperately defending himself against an Easterling, who had already wounded him.

    Presently a polearm stuck in his breast plate. The forceful hit threw him off the saddle, and he crashed on his back. All air was pressed out of his lungs, and Lomarin was above him before Éomer could bring up his sword. He reacted on instinct, rolled to his right side. Lomarin's polearm pierced the grass where he had lain before. Furiously the Easterling pulled out his weapon and charged again, but this time Éomer held his sword to deflect it. He got on his feet, evading Battleaxe's hindquarters, when the horse danced to one side, irritated, but not fearful, and obedient to his master's command as were all Rohan horses. The king stared at his opponent. From under the golden helmet, Lomarin's eyes flickered with malice. He had seen that Rohirrim bastard kill Asentis without a proper fight, and he would avenge him! Roaring with wrath, the Easterling thrust his polearm forward. Éomer side-stepped the wood, launching his sword at his enemy's right arm, hoping to maim him, but failed. Lomarin swivelled around, holding the polearm at its lower end and with unexpected speed cut through mail and cloth below the cuirass. Éomer cried out with pain. He felt blood ooze from the wound at his waist, but could not heed it. Lomarin was still in front of him, grinning malevolently, charging anew.

* * *

    Faramir caught his breath after defeating a warrior, who had got to him from behind. He could not tell if his backplate was cut, but the hurt was only dull. He spotted the Easterling woman on the plateau and heard her shout commands. He was convinced it had been she to control the king's actions. And it would be his task to end her doings. By his order three of his men accompanied him in direction of that elevated rock, fighting as they went.

* * *

    Lomarin circled his enemy, never taking the eyes of him, observing every move he made. Playfully he turned the polearm in his hands, only to aim at the king a moment later. Éomer bent backwards, evading the deadly thrust. He gripped the weapon with his right hand, and pulled it tightly. Lomarin was taken by surprise. He lost his weapon, yet not all of his defence. Quickly he drew his scimitar. Éomer threw the polearm on the ground. Now the fight was even, and with his movements, agile as before, he closed in on his adversary.

* * *

    Ridasha retreated from a Rohirrim, who closed in on her on his mighty horse. Full of fear she realised that there was no way back for her. She would either take up the fight or be killed without. Her polearm struck through the vambrace of his sword-arm, and with a yell the warrior let go of his weapon. With her next strike he fell off his horse. He hit the ground and did not move. Ridasha swallowed hard. It was her decision to kill or leave.

    She left him alone.

* * *

    The Gondorians fought ferociously, but had been unable yet to break the ring of defence around the plateau, where Harishdane still surveyed the battle. It was finally on Faramir to slay the warrior in front of him and, leaving the skirmishes to his men, climb up the small hill. He felt his strength in his right arm return, and his wrath was even stronger. With his raised sword he confronted the leader.

    “Lay down your weapon and order your men to surrender!” he shouted, but she only curled her dark lips. Her voice was dark and threatening when she answered:

    “You hold no power over me!” With that she rushed him, faster than he had thought her able to move. Narrow was his escape, and she let not catch him his breath. The two-bladed weapon in her hands was used with deadly precision. The surprising move cut Faramir's right vambrace. He flinched and evaded, but was hit a second time. The blade missed his throat by a hair's breadth. He heard the scraping on the leather as he stumbled back.

    Harishdane followed.

* * *

    Lomarin pushed forward, using a second of inattention to hurt his foe. The scimitar slipped from the cuirass to slice the left sleeve. Éomer ignored the sudden pain in his arm, but could no longer keep himself upright when the anguish of the wound at his waist increased. He knew the more he moved the more he was losing blood. There was no chance to keep the enemy at bay and - with a yell of pain - he fell on his knees. The Easterling sneered with delight, believing his adversary bested. He rushed him with a cry of war, but with his face grim Éomer brought up his sword in the last moment, spiking the enemy's captain by his own rashness. Lomarin stared at him with wide-open eyes, dismayed and suddenly fearful, realising he had fallen an easy prey to the vigilant and determined Rohirrim King.

* * *

    Faramir received the next, fiendish cut, opening a gash above his knee, and still Harishdane stood her ground. The prince had fallen for her tactic like many enemies before, considering her weak because she was a woman. She concentrated fully on him now, increasing her speed and the waves of attack. Faramir evaded, parried, and evaded again, knowing painfully well that with the wounds received earlier his actions were slow. There was no way for him to gain an advantage until he jumped sideways and brought down the sword on the lance at the same time. The topmost piece of the polearm clanked on the ground, and the prince swivelled around to assault Harishdane. The shock lasted only shortly. She raised the remaining staff to deflect the blow. Faramir sensed his chance, and in a flash swung the sword again, this time scratching her breast plate. Exhaling, she stepped backwards, dropping the polearm, and drawing the sword she had robbed. Faramir gasped at the sight. The long blade gleamed in the sun as if the Elves themselves had put a light into it. Harishdane possessed the skill to wield it, and the prince parried the first hit, still disbelieving his eyes. But then he saw the chain around her slender neck and on it the Evenstar, and the Ring of Barahir. Hatred flared when Faramir attacked anew. In his heart he felt as if avenging his friend, whom he had found battered and controlled by that evil woman. He had to best her! Recklessly he stepped forward, and pushed her back, using every trick he knew to maim her. She retreated, thrown into defence. From the corner of her eyes she saw the king approach. It was time to reclaim her territory.

    Aragorn heard Harishdane's short command, but on his forward move did not heed it. Only briefly he looked up. He gripped the hilt tighter, pushing aside another Easterling, who tried to defend his leader. Then he realised that she was not alone. Presently the Prince of Ithilien challenged her and almost threw her back. There was no time for joy yet reserved for the King of Gondor, because in the same second pain assaulted him, and he heard the shrieking voice in his head again.

* * *

    Lomarin fell to the ground as the King of Rohan pulled out his blood-stained sword and slowly stood. Lord Elfhelm came up to his side, steadying his friend when he swayed.

    “I take you out of here!” he shouted over the clamour. “Bring you to the Gondorian camp!”

    Éomer shook his head, and with an effort, mounted Battleaxe again, needing a moment to fight the increasing pain.

    “No! Not yet!” he cried. “Where is Aragorn? Did you see him?”

    “Aye, my lord, he was carried from the field some time ago!”

    “Carried? By the Valar, these are bad tidings! But-“ He turned in the saddle, and a sudden smile through the exhaustion brightened his face. “No, he has returned! Look!” For a moment they watched, mesmerised, then he shook his head. “No, it cannot be…”

* * *

   Harishdane had never experienced such a disturbance of her power. Once marked the prisoners had usually followed her command without delay. Now she sensed a strange, and unwelcome influence on her valuable prisoner. At the same time her opponent charged again, but now she retreated. She lowered her chin and squinted, using her power to its full intensity.

* * *

   Faramir held the sword ready, but did not use it. He suddenly saw ranks of his army slain and their mutilated bodies cast upon the soil. His heart raced, and his lungs seemed too tight to let him breathe. He wiped his forehead with his gauntleted hand, but still fear spread. He blinked and looked again: Easterlings were fighting Gondorians, Rohirrim were attacking Easterlings. The battle was still fierce and gruesome, and none could predict the outcome yet, but… the sight he had had the moment before was not true. It had been an image set in his mind like a nightmare. Faramir shook his head, forcing the pictures away. He turned to his right in time and had his sword ready to deflect the weapon aiming for his chest. Harishdane's grin he did not see.

* * *

   Ridasha fended off a Rohirrim by mere luck. She was bathed in sweat and weak in her knees. The battle went on, and she dug for cover when yet another rider came up to her, roaring, and aiming his lance at her. The horse tramped that the earth shook, and she prayed to Úshemor to let her live to see the end of the onslaught. The promise Harishdane had given was worthless, and all of her people, whom she had spotted within the skirmishes, shared her opinion. The King of Gondor had only once – and she doubted even that – proved as a shield. When she watched him approach now on a dark grey steed, he looked grim and determined, and she knew he had come to kill. Relentlessly he forced the attackers back, heeding no thought to a longer fight, only willing to get to the hill where the Easterling leader was already entangled in a fight.

* * *

   Harishdane watched her enemy as he raised his sword again, threatening, finally closing in on her. Then she lifted her gaze and found King Elessar, and her terror turned to bliss when she commanded him to get to her, and he obediently steered his horse to the small elevation. Now she could welcome the Prince of Ithilien the way he deserved it.

* * *

   Aragorn felt the strange and cold voice in his head again, and the pain in his shoulder increased to an intolerable level. Hardly able to breathe he grabbed with his left hand under the tunic to pull away the cloth, which had covered the scar. Spurring his horse again, he threw the drenched cloth on the ground, easing the anguish a little. He moved on, grimacing, but willing to reach his destination nevertheless. He could still see the woman.

   And his friend fighting her.

* * *

   The leader from Rhûn brandished with the stolen sword, retreating two steps to let Faramir come to her. He accepted the invitation. Their blades met, and with strength that no one would have thought possible Harishdane pushed him back. Faramir frowned when suddenly a yellow light shone in the leader's eyes. He had seen that before… like he had seen the image of his men dying on the field. But it was not true. Nothing was true. He charged again, only to be blocked by the long blade again. Grudgingly the prince had to admit that the woman knew how to use the weapon, but his wrath was stronger. He attacked her once more, and drove her back to the rim of the small plateau, joyous to see her dismay. It was but one more strike to leave her dying on these rocks.

   “She is mine to kill!” Aragorn suddenly shouted behind him.

   Faramir panted. He pressed down hard on the Easterling, sensing her malice; knowing he had to end this now. But within the very second of hesitation, Harishdane summoned her strength and threw him back. The Prince of Ithilien made two steps to regain his balance. His eyes never left his enemy when he shouted:

   “She must be killed now! May it be you or I doing this!”

   Aragorn had his wife's sword ready, and upon seeing the Evenstar around the woman's neck and Andúril in her hands, his fury flared. He stepped forward, but was stopped in his movement. The sword in his hands vibrated. Desperately Aragorn looked from Harishdane to Faramir. His friend frowned, and terrified he realised that the Gondorian could not fight the evil woman. Not even now he had the strength to finish his enemy. Quickly Faramir turned to fulfil the task himself when Aragorn intercepted his blade.

   “No!” Faramir cried. “No, do not do this!” He looked into his friend's face to find only terror and… fear. “Aragorn! You must not give in!” The King of Gondor crossed blades with him again, pushing the prince further away from the Easterling leader.

   Harishdane saw her influence restored, and through the exhaustion the skirmish with that Gondorian prince had caused, she smiled and urged the Gondorian King forward, making him her puppet once again.

* * *

   Éomer brandished with his sword left and right, shoving off his foes, but gaining little ground among the tight ranks. Elfhelm had been commanded to stay behind with the third éored and Lord Erkenbrand, who had arrived on the field shortly, was in front of him on the western side of the plain. The Easterlings were outnumbered, but still defended themselves, driven by the strong will of their last leader. Éomer sensed their determination to stand against their enemies, even though there would be no victory to gain. It appeared they could not stop themselves to surrender, and yet another died upon the blade of the Rohirrim King. But Éomer knew, too, that he would not be able to reach his friend in time to lend help, and with his vision blurring, he realised he would no longer hold his ground. He doubled over in the next wave of anguish, and when a strong hand steadied him on his steed, he knew Elfhelm had left his post, but the king was too weak to even curse.

* * *

   “Aragorn, hear me! She has taken command over you! Do not serve her!” But Faramir's words were useless, and in despair he deflected the blow and retreated. Aragorn followed, panting, raising his arms with the sword held fast. There was no more room to evade. In his head the king heard the hissing again. The sword in his hands seemed to have a life of its own, and it hit again, shattering Faramir's defence.

    Faramir could see only terror in the eyes of his friend as he struck the sword down on him. From within Aragorn seemed to shout at him, but no words passed his lips. The fight went on, and the prince, already wounded and on the verge of his strength, knew he would not hold the king back much longer. Still he looked into his face, searching for a sign of wakening from the spell.

    “You are an heir of Numenór!” he cried when, again, Argorn's sword collided with his. “Fight off that evil!”

   The prince fell on his knees. His right shoulder and chest hurt as if Grond had hit him with full force, and when the earth did not slow down turning, he knew he was done for. He raised his head a little, and the sight before his eyes was still covered by the tall frame of his friend, who stood about him, his face a mask of grimness. Faramir panted, his vision blurred, but there was no one at his side to aid him. Swallowing, he grabbed the hilt of his sword again, and, evading the next onslaught by instinct, he shored himself on his left hand.

   “Aragorn! Listen to me! You must not follow her command!” but his voice was thin. He looked up, only to realise that the blade was already raised for the deadly strike.

   The King of Gondor saw blood drench the leather of his friend's armour and was dismayed. Weakened like that the prince was already beaten. Again Aragorn tried to resist Harishdane's influence, and there, suddenly, was the voice in his head again. It spoke to him in Sindarin, and he clung to it, breathing heavily, renewing his own strength to force the evil out of his mind. Once more the king tore apart Faramir's defence, and deflecting from the cuirass the blade ripped open the mail-shirt of his upper arm. Blinded by anguish, the prince now was unable to fend him off anymore. He was too weak to bring up the sword in time. Blood oozed from the wound, trickling down his arm warm and wet.

    “Aragorn, no! Fight that spell!”

    He knew Faramir was talking to him, but he did not understand the words. Malice emitted from a source, encumbering him like thick molasses nothing else would penetrate. Yet from a distance, uncounted for, another voice tried to break through, soothing and deep, encouraging and with rising strength, a counterpoint to the shrieking evil, and Aragorn heeded it. Though his body still would not follow his commands, his mind sought hope to escape from the threat holding him captive. He twisted the blade, taking off the hard impact on Faramir's armour, and for the first time he found his muscles working on his command. The moment was short but precious. His breathing sped up, and again he strained his senses to hear and follow the voice, which spoke to him somewhere in his mind, and which was defending him with growing vigour against the malice from the Easterling. Faramir cried out in pain in front of his eyes, already down on his right knee, unable to push himself up again. His face under the helmet bore a grimace of pure agony, and Aragorn hated the thought alone to be forced to kill his friend in the wake of this unbidden fight. The king's right shoulder seemed to burn like fire, but his hope to be disabled by it was not fulfilled. He raised the sword again.

   Harishdane pushed the king relentlessly, ceaselessly. She did not care for his weakness, his wounds or his dismay. She only wanted to see him kill his own man. Then his mind would shatter, and she would win. She would order him to end the fights and surrender himself to her. Finally Ithilien would belong to her.

* * *

    Éomer hung over Battleaxe's withers, easing the pain on his waist a little. He was barely aware of Lord Elfhelm on one side, and the soldiers on the other, shielding him against the enemies. He saw that the skirmishes were diminishing. Here and there the Gondorian forces had already beaten the Easterlings and hurried forward to aid their companions. Éomer's wish to aid them was hindered by his still bleeding wound. His strength was fading, and Lord Elfhelm had to steady him. He snapped out of the warm embrace of unconsciousness, and again a wave of nauseating pain hit him. He clenched his teeth, but needed all of his concentration to hold on to the steed's mane.

    “You should ride in front of me,” Elfhelm muttered as they proceeded southward. Éomer but shook his head. “You might…”

    “I ride,” Éomer replied obstinately, and the older warrior knew too well that no further argument would lead to another decision. He pursed his lips. If the king wanted to fall off his horse unconsciously, he could do so. As if Éomer had heard him, he turned his head. “And I will not fall.”

* * *

    The Rohirrim had sliced her cuirass with his sword, and without remembering it, Ridasha had hit the ground, clinging with both hands to the bleeding wound. She did not know how bad the wound was or if there would be another attack, for her eyes were closed, and she did no longer bother to open them. She would neither raise her polearm nor her sword to fend the man off. If he killed her - and that was a depressing thought - she would never again see her daughter. She would have died in the pursuit of new land to live on, and, maybe, all of these fights would have been led in vain since the Gondorians had been strengthened by the Riders from Rohan and more men from the south. The plan of her leader had led to the final destruction of the Easterling people, and she wept from the pain and the hopelessness that gripped her. Unable to move she finally looked up to see only sky above her. The rider had left her, supposed her to be dead. ‘I will die in vain,’ she thought before the pain subdued her.

* * *

    Harishdane swivelled around. The ring of defence she had established around the elevation broke away, and there was not much time left until all of her men would be beaten. She must fulfil her plan now or seek safety in the distance. She already knew that Lomarin and Asentis had fallen, and that it would be on her alone to command her kin hitherto. She sensed the insubordination of her captive though, and with renewed effort tried to restore her command. The king held his sword ready to murder the prince. The blade was vibrating in his hands; he changed the grip on the hilt and, all of a sudden, turned around to face her. Harishdane watched in shock as he swung the sword around, rushing her. Fierceness and wrath shone in his grey eyes, and he attacked her with a force unstoppable. The shining blade came down on her so strong and quick she could neither evade nor raise her weapon.

    Aragorn had held the weapon high in the air, and with all speed he could muster, brought it down on his enemy. In that very moment Harishdane's shape changed, quicker than his eyes could follow. Where his blade would have hit her neck, there was thin air suddenly. The king could not stop his movement though. He turned halfway, but saved his life by that. The beast bared its fangs and jumped at him, missing him by a hair's breadth. It landed on its paws, swivelling around to attack once more. But the king anticipated the move and raised the sword to stab it into its breast in mid-air. He lost grip on the wooden hilt when the beast fell to the ground, deadly wounded. Its maw still open it spent its last breath.

Chapter Six – Ridasha

    Faramir had panted, anticipating death on the hands of his friend, when the king had suddenly turned away to swing the sword against the enemy's leader. Exhausted to his limits, the prince watched the beast being killed with one stroke of Aragorn's blade, and then, as if relieved of all pressure commanding him, the king stood motionlessly, staring down at the maimed woman from the east she had been before. Now the body of a creature unknown to them lay on the stony ground. Faramir got to his feet. He swayed and summoned his strength for a moment by putting his hands on his thighs. Then, shored up by the sword at his side, he stumbled to the king's side.

    “You bested her,” he muttered, and finally his words stirred the king from his contemplation. Slowly Aragorn turned his head to face him, heedless of the voices around him and the skirmishes still going on. His breath was shallow as if he had run. “You defeated her, Aragorn. You killed that beast.”

    Aragorn looked at him as if waking from a bad dream. His look was full of regret seeing his friend wounded. He caught his breath and squinted after stooping to take up Andúril from the ground. He then bowed his head and quietly answered:

    “I wished I could have done that sooner. I am sorry, my friend, sorry to not have been able to withstand her sooner.” The prince answered with a thin-lipped smile turning to shock a second later when some Easterling warriors rushed them with their scimitars, shrieking in dismay at seeing their beloved leader dead on the stones. Faramir stared at them and gripped his sword tight, and saw Aragorn taking up Andúril again. They prepared themselves to fight one more time.

* * *

    Gishvané had never been so reckless, and she had also never been so angered by a battle than on that very day the Easterlings had invaded Ithilien. All promises were broken; all leaders were killed, and if it was for those remaining, they would seek oblivion in death, searching for an honour already destroyed. She pushed aside her own kinsmen, who tried to protect her against the enemy, and moved forward, not heeding a thought for her own life.

    “Stop the fights!” she cried over the clamour, finally reaching the plateau, where Harishdane's mutilated body lay in a puddle of blood. “Stop it right now!” She pulled a warrior at his sleeve, and though he could have shaken her off easily, he stopped and stared at her. Being of her tribe, he heeded her order. She rose to her full height and repeated her words, loud enough for all of those standing by to hear. “It is over! Harishdane is dead!” And when some looked up to her, she added, “Put down your weapons and surrender!” They listened. Gishvané spoke again to them, and they all - her kin and the other fighters alike - stopped the fights. It was like a wave, slowly rolling through the ranks, spreading the words from mouth to mouth. Whispers, hushed and dismayed alike, arose when the clashing of weapons ceased. Gishvané felt her heart pound fast and hard in her chest. Never before had she addressed warriors like that, and even now, when they heeded her, she feared that one wrong movement would start the skirmishes again.

    After shoving back two fighters from the east, who had not immediately obeyed the priestess' words, the king slowly made his way to Gishvané's side, taken forward by will for his strength he had already spent. He knew instinctively that the woman's intervention alone would not end this battle. Faramir stood at his side when the king straightened.

    “All of you!” Aragorn cried, and his voice carried far. “Lay down your weapons! Your leader is beaten! The victory is ours! Surrender while you still can and you will be left alive!” He could not tell by their faces if they accepted his command, but slowly, hesitantly, the warriors parted from each other, still eyeing the enemy closely, but refraining from new attacks. “You need not fear if you stay peaceful!” He swallowed, blinked, and lifted his hand to steady himself on Faramir's shoulder. The prince knew by a look into his eyes that the king would not last much longer. “Lay down your weapons!” he repeated, trying to remain on his feet for there was no way to tell how the enemies would react if they saw him collapse.

    Gishvané gazed up to the king, fright in her eyes. So much depended on King Elessar now, and yet he was so weak he could not stand alone. And the prince at his side looked beaten as well, but kept himself upright though the fight before had taken the best of him. Horrified even now, the priestess' gaze wandered to the slaughtered monster she had considered her leader. There had been rumours about the sometimes strange behaviour of the men and women from beyond the Sea, but never had she believed them to be beasts until she had seen them with her own eyes after the attack of the vanguard.

    It was in that very moment that Lord Erkenbrand of Eastfold emerged from a group of riders. He quickly dismounted and with vigour unbroken joined them on the hill.

    “My lords, how can my men and I be of help?” he asked, seeing the deplorable constitution both leaders were in.

    “Your help is very much welcomed, Lord Erkenbrand,” the king said breathlessly. “Command your éored to gather the enemy on the eastern side of the plain, and guard them well. There are beasts of prey among them…”

    “Aye, my lord, I already saw them.” He nodded at the corpse. “But we will beat them as well if they ever dare to attack us.” His attention turned back to the king. “Any further orders?”

    “What about King Éomer?”

    “He was over on the other side of the battlefield. I have no tidings of him. Can you hold your ground here?”

    “We will.” Aragorn exhaled. He wished to lie down and rest, but it was not granted yet.

    Lord Erkenbrand bowed curtly and turned to address his men, who waited for his commands. Quickly his soldiers obeyed and shoved the Easterlings away. Erkenbrand mounted again to assist them.

    Swaying, Aragorn wiped his face with both hands. He breathed shallowly, and when he looked around, his vision was blurred, and the weakness, which had gripped his body, still lingered.

    “You look wretched enough to sleep a whole week,” the prince said quietly, and Aragorn gazed up and down on him.

    “You should follow your own advice,” Aragorn replied with a weary smile. He overlooked the plain, filled with soldiers of different lands. His men and the Riders of Rohan were still vigilant, ready to react to the slightest change in their enemies' behaviour, but with utmost hesitation the Easterlings had put down their weapons and surrendered. The king straightened and nodded his approval to his friend. “Well done, Faramir. I regret the recent incidents more than I can tell.” He faced the Easterling woman, who stood beside him. “And I finally have the opportunity to thank you, Gishvané of the Mushéni-Rhuneshan.” She bowed to him. “It was you, who made this outcome possible.”

    “It is on you to decide to let my people live,” she replied with an anxious undertone that made him nod sternly.

    “Be assured I will not order the killing of those who surrender.”

    “I knew your decision would be guided by wisdom, King of Gondor.”

* * *

    Weak but grimly satisfied with the outcome of the battle, Aragorn took back his belongings before he mounted to ride back. Beside him on a horse lent by a soldier of the guard rode Faramir, who bowed his head and clung to his consciousness like he clung to the mane of the steed. He did not notice that the king and two soldiers in his company left him on half of the way, and he did not hear Aragorn's cry of dismay. Only when he reached the camp and was helped down by his captain, he realised his friend's missing.

    “Where is Aragorn?” he asked alarmed, but Delion only shrugged. “He was with me. Did he fall?”

    “He is still out there,” a soldier, who had accompanied them, reported. “But I can't tell why.”

    Faramir turned as if to seek his friend, but he would have stumbled if it had not been for Delion to support him to one of the tents, where a healer was waiting.

    The king knelt at Ridasha's side, his face contorted with fear and regret. Gently he lifted her head, took off her helmet and gave a sigh of relief when he found her breathing. But her face was colourless, closer to death than to life. His gaze travelled down to her torn tunic beneath the broken breast plate. Blood oozed from an ugly wound, and he flinched compassionately.

    “Ridasha…,” he whispered, but she did not stir. Despairing, he added in a hushed whisper, “No, I will not let you die. Not now.” Afraid to have come too late, he tore a part of her tunic to temporarily stanch the bleeding. There was no time to lose, but he knew when he rose with the woman in his arms that his own strength would not last. The two soldiers at his side helped him lift her on his steed. He mounted behind her and prayed to reach the base camp in time.

* * *

    Lomac left the tent upon a shout that the king was coming. He lifted his chin and squinted, but the two persons on the horse were hardly recognisable, slumped on the saddle as they were, and he sighed, pressing his hands on his hips. He longed for his pipe, but in the haste he had forgotten all but his herbs and medicines. And he would not even have been able to reach the camp if it had not been for Vlohiri. Knowing that the boy had been taught to ride, Lomac had trusted him to take him from the City to the camp instead of waiting for the Rohirrim. He had to admit that he had been astonished to learn that Vlohiri was able to master Rohyren, the king's second horse, and by mentioning that, the boy had beamed with pride. Now – Lomac was sure of that – Vlohiri was waiting anxiously for news of the king, biting his fingernails like he had done before.

    The two figures on the horse approached slowly, and the healer could distinguish an Easterling soldier, who hung lifelessly in front of a man without any armour. Only when the man raised his head, Lomac recognised Aragorn and gave a surprised whistle. He called for the aid of some soldiers, and they quickly helped the king and the second person to dismount.

    “Lomac, you must take care of her!” Aragorn required, putting a hand hard on the healer's shoulder, who flinched under the pressure. “The wound might not be deep, but she lost a lot of blood. I cannot tell for how long she had been lying there.”

    “I will see to it.” He looked at the hand. “If you release me, my lord.” Aragorn let him go with a gesture, trying to catch his breath, but failed. He followed to the tent on stumbling feet, and when Lomac got aware of him, he frowned. “You better lie down before you fall…,” but he never ended the sentence. Aragorn collapsed on the other side of the makeshift bed Ridasha was put upon. Furrowing his brows, Lomac grumbled, “He should have learned to listen to me before.”

* * *

    When Aragorn woke, he looked into the deep grey eyes of his elven wife. For a time uncounted he relaxed by only staring at her. The sight of her being unharmed comforted him, and her reassuring touch on his bearded cheek was a solace in itself. She smiled, and he knew all was well.

    “Tinúviel,” he whispered, and her smile deepened. “Tell me…” He tried to move, but was held back by the severe pain rising from his neck and right shoulder to spread through his body. He could not even lift his right arm to reach for his wife, but had to close his eyes again until the anguish ceased.

    “The battle is over, my love. Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Elfhelm took care of those Easterlings who surrendered. The wounded have been brought here.”

    “What about…” He felt weak, even too weak to ask questions, but she understood without words.

    “King Éomer and Prince Faramir have been taken care of, and a healer looked after the wounds of the woman you brought in.”

    “Ridasha,” he mumbled. His eyelids were too heavy to hold them open. “How is she faring?”

    “She will survive. You found her in time. Lomac treated her and right now the priestess of the Easterlings is with her.” Arwen gently stroked his beard, but Aragorn had already drifted into sleep again.

* * *

    Elfhelm had brought his king back to the base camp. Éomer had insisted on commanding the éored himself and make sure the Easterlings would not take up another skirmish, and only when this task was fulfilled, he had turned his horse to ride back.

    The healer in front of Éomer, who was stitching his wounds, obviously feared to be bitten by the king – at least when his work was finished – concerning the gnashing of teeth and the wild look Éomer gave the nervous young man, who just wanted to do his duty. Elfhelm watched in concern mingled with silent amusement. Knowing that Éomer was not wounded severely, he considered it a lesson in subtlety to not interfere with the young Gondorian's work. If the King of Rohan always had to follow his own stubborn decisions, he would have to face the results of them alone.

    After the healer had left, Éomer laid back to rest and closed his eyes.

    “Keep me informed about the happenings,” he ordered when Elfhelm was on his way out of the tent.

    The Lord of Westfold stopped. He had thought Éomer to be asleep already, but hid his puzzlement.

    “Aye, sire, it will be as you command.”

* * *

    High above her was a light brown, sunlit cloth, softly ruffled by the wind. She saw stakes supporting it, and for some time she was uncertain where she was. If she still lived or if Úshemor would come to greet her among those, who are dead. She recalled being wounded on the field, and the last thought had gone to her daughter, who would not live to see her adulthood for the army had failed to conquer Ithilien. It was depressing to know she would perish like the rest of her kin on the barren lands of Rhûn, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Outside voices called commands in the Common Speech, and slowly the realisation took her that she had been caught by the enemy. She was a prisoner of the Gondorian army, and would be sentenced! She sobbed silently, and when she tried to move to one side to see the entrance of the tent she was lying in, a pain so severe seized her that she cried out. More tears welled up, and still sobbing she rested her head again on the curled up sheet. Carefully she lifted the cover. The lance wound at her belly had been tended to and skilfully bandaged. She was puzzled to recognize that someone had carried her to this tent and not let her die among her kinsmen. Her mouth was dry, and she found no voice to call to the shadow she could see through the cloth. She expected it to be a guard, but when he moved the flap aside, she saw a small, old man with a grey beard and wrinkles around his eyes.

    “Ah, you are awake. Good. Good indeed.” He crouched on his heels and looked into her face, cocked his head and when she frowned, his concerned eyes sparkled. “You wonder how you got here, I suppose?” She gave him a slight nod. “The king himself brought you in,” he explained solemnly when he held a cup of water for her to drink. She coughed, and a new hot flame of anguish from her wound made her cry. Powerlessly she sank back. “Yes, I know it hurts. Still, you are in luck, woman from the east, for the gash did not go deep.”

    “I won't-“

    “Nay,” he shook his head and again smiled, “you won't die. You will live to see the days ahead and return to your people as soon as you are well again.”

    “No, I won't,” she answered gloomily. “I will be sentenced for my crimes. That is what I shall live to see.”

    The old man scowled and rose with an effort. Her gaze followed him, and with the sun behind him, the healer looked even older and graver.

    “You know nothing of the king, do you, woman?”

    Ridasha pressed her lips as new sobs emerged.

    “He was maltreated in our captivity – against the rules of our own goddess – and there is nothing you say that can lift my doom for these evil actions.”

    He cocked his head, slight amusement in his eyes.

    “There was much an effort from his side to bring you in just to sentence you, don’t you think?” She stared at him, not knowing what to make out of this statement, and she was even more bewildered when the healer’s voice dropped deep as if imitating someone. “Take care of her, Lomac, immediately! See to her wound. It is not deep, but she lost much blood.” He wriggled his bushy brows. “When you were laid down here, he broke down beside you, woman. So, think again, before uttering such foolish words about doom!” He turned and left the tent, and Ridasha pondered long over these revelations.

* * *

    Objecting the healer's suggestion to rest, Aragorn made an effort to get up and meet the captains of the armies. Their frowns told him more about his appearance than he would have wanted to hear, but he inhaled and straightened to address them.

    “Your men and mine are still held captive by the Easterlings in the north-eastern part of Rhûn. I want you to take their chosen leader to that camp and bring our people back. Take enough men with you to break any resistance. Do not kill the enemies if it is avoidable.”

    There was mumbled objection among the men, who had seen the Easterlings fight without mercy, but the king's demand could not be ignored. They bowed to him and left, and finally Aragorn granted himself to rest.

* * *

RHÛN

    Hilberon had never felt more blessed in his life than on the day of his release from captivity. He embraced Halamin and even Tarés, who looked bewildered by the sudden outburst of joy, but rewarded him with a reserved smile. Earnest again the captain then turned to Delion to ask:

    “What tidings about King Elessar? Is he alive?”

    “Alive and recovering, Captain Tarés,” the Gondorian soldier replied with a reassuring nod. “In fact, he sent us here, and I am glad to report that the Easterlings were beaten and have surrendered to the united armies of Gondor and Rohan.”

    “Rohan!” Tarés exhaled with pure bliss. “So the King of Rohan came to our aid again!” He slapped Delion heartily on the shoulder. “These are indeed good tidings.” He turned to the Royal Guard to deliver the news, and they all cheered. His gaze fell on Hilberon. “My young man, you were more courageous and kept your spirits longer than I had expected when the king took you into his service. You proved right his trust in you.”

    Hilberon smiled and blushed the same instant, but when the cheers of appreciation rose, he felt relieved too. He would indeed return home to tell his father about the mission they all had accomplished.

    No one watched Dumarin ground his teeth, and no one realised how much the soldier regretted his distrust to the king.

* * *

    Faramir could not recall the ride back to Minas Tirith. When he woke, Éowyn sat at his bedside, holding his hand, caressing his cheek.

    “You cried,” he muttered and cleared his throat. “You should laugh. The victory is ours.”

    “I know,” she nodded and wept again. She kissed him gently, but when he tried to raise his arm to embrace her, he realised he could hardly move. Éowyn saw the puzzlement on his features. “The healers say your arm will need time to mend, until you will be able to use it in full again. The cut went through mail and cloth.” He turned his head to see the thick bandage around his shoulder and upper arm.

   “What about Aragorn? What are the tidings?”

   “The king is recovering, too, as well as Éomer and many soldiers.”

   “Éomer? By the Valar, what happened to him?”

   “My beloved but stubborn brother never grants himself a rest.” Éowyn exhaled, shaking her head, but Faramir saw that she was proud at the same time. “He fought on though he was wounded and should have retreated.” Faramir met her gaze. “The gash at his waist has been tended to at the base camp, but he will need time to recover.”

   “Then see to him,” he urged her, wearing a small but reassuring smile on his wretched features. “Go and see that he will remain in the House of Healing at least for another day.”

* * *

   Aragorn stepped closer to the bed, in which Ridasha had been laid. For a long moment he stared at her sleeping face, grateful to have saved her. Lomac had told him about her fears with a sparkle in his eyes that seemed unfit for the subject, but Aragorn had known the reason: the news of his verdict against Lady Saborian and Lord Sadur had reached Lomac at the castle, and there had been no doubt in the healer's statement that the king would not condemn a whole people to annihilation if the situation could be solved by more human measures. Already had the king sent messengers to Lórien with a request of which he hoped the Lady Galadriel would not reject.

   The king exhaled and lifted his gaze to the window. Summer had left Minas Tirith and was replaced by a sunny, but chilly autumn. The last harvest had been brought in, and wagons with supplies were on their way to Rohan. And maybe this year the Rohirrim would share the food during the first winter of peace with their Dunlending neighbours.

   Upon movement at the door the king turned. Vlohiri's fair top of the head appeared, and he stopped on the threshold.

   “I am sorry, my lord, I did not…”

   “Come in,” he invited him, and the boy put a tray with a pot of tea and a cup on a small table on the right side of the room. He looked curiously at the woman, and Aragorn smiled. “You wonder why she is here.”

   “I do not, sire, for you will have your reasons,” he replied politely.

   Aragorn lifted his brows, and Vlohiri immediately cast his eyes down.

   “You already talked with Lomac, I suppose.”

   “I did not,” he replied hesitantly, “but it is not on me to judge the king's decisions.”

   A smile tugged at the corner of the king's mouth.

   “I do not know if I did not like better the boy, who spoke his mind freely.”

   Vlohiri's head jerked up and his eyes went wide.

   “My lord, if I…”

   Aragorn raised his hand to silence him.

   “For you I am not the king, lad, so there is no need for court rules between you and me. And whatever you will do, there shall be no doubt about your straightforwardness.”

   “Yes, my lord.” They both looked at the sleeping person, and with a frown Vlohiri finally said in a high pitched tone, “Then… why is she here? The others looked at her as if she’d be an enemy. Is she not?”

   Aragorn let a moment pass before her said:

   “No, not in my eyes.”

   Ridasha stirred and woke. All sleepiness left her when she recognised the king. He turned to her with a benign smile, but was rewarded with pure anxiety. She swallowed and would have crawled away if that would have been possible.

   “Do not fear me,” he said and stepped closer to the bedside, stopping Vlohir's intention to leave the room, with a small gesture. “No one will harm you.” Still the woman stared at him. “You were brought here to heal. Did Lomac not tell you?” She nodded slightly and cleared her throat. As if by command Vlohiri took a cup of tea and got to the other side of the bed to hand it to her. Seeing her discomfort, he offered his help, and met her puzzled look. “This is Vlohiri. He is a friend of mine.” The boy concentrated on helping Ridasha to drink, but Aragorn saw his face brighten at the compliment.

   Ridasha drank, and when Vlohiri retreated with the empty cup, looked at the king again.

   “Why did you save me?” she asked hoarsely, and still fright made her shiver.

   “You shall return to your kindred. You stayed true to your beliefs and your gods. It should be on you to lead your people.”

   “You will not sentence me?”

   Vlohiri waited with the empty cup still in his hands, turning it restlessly, and his eyes were fixed on Aragorn. The king met his stare for a moment.

   “I would have sentenced your leaders, but they were killed. I will not sentence you, Rilon Avas,” he added in a gentle voice, “for your actions were meant to help, not to hurt. I will not forget what you did for me even though your leader disagreed with it.”

   Ridasha swallowed. Tears suddenly welled up, and the boy looked at her bewildered. Unbeknown he reached out to kindly touch her hand.

   “Do not weep. Do you not understand? He is the king, and he wants you to get well again. You must for he wants you to be a leader.”

   She looked at him and then back to the king, who could not hide his smile.

   “If you do not believe me, believe him.”

* * *

   Meeting Éomer, the King of Gondor could not hide his joy to see the fair-haired man up and well again. They shared a manly slap on the shoulder, and, after exchanging the tidings from the battlefield, Aragorn added with a grin:

   “So you can finally return home for yet another attempt to parley with your neighbours, I hope.”

   “There will be a parley, yes,” Éomer nodded, “now that Grodes discovered that their allies were not trustworthy, he will be eager to reach an agreement with me.”

   “And you with him.”

   “Aye.” He paused a moment, and they looked at each other, reading thoughts more than expressing them. “I regret that you had to suffer so much until that victory could be achieved.”

   Aragorn cast down his eyes for a moment of recollection.

   “Out of evil good results might come. Our friendship and alliance has proved worthy of our ancestors, who once founded that trust between our peoples. Return home in peace, Éomer, my brother.”

* * *

   Tarés was overwhelmed with cheerfulness to see his ruler again. With bright eyes he bent his knee and bowed his head upon the king's entrance. The other soldiers of the Royal Guard followed swift.

   “Rise,” Aragorn ordered and, joyfully, greeted them by name. In front of Tarés he halted and met eyes with him. “You have my back, Captain Tarés, whenever it comes to it.”

   “Aye, my lord.” He bowed again to hide how proud he was of this honour. Halamin felt no such restriction, and heartily slapped his shoulder the moment the king turned away.

   “Captain, hum? Guess you deserve this at least, my friend! Aye, what a glorious day!”

   Aragorn heard the remark, and came to Hilberon, who humbly cast his eyes down when addressed.

   “My lord…”

   “How are you faring?” The young soldier was taken by surprise, and it showed. He did not know what to answer, and the friendly smile of the king deepened. “Your wounds have healed?”

   “They have,” stuttered Hilberon and felt sheepish to be unable to say more, but the words seemed to be stuck in his throat.

   “So you will be able to serve the Royal Guard in the future.” Even Hilberon's nod was more like stuttering. “Then send my regards to your father, and tell him that I hold his son high in my service, for he did not fail me, even under the worst circumstances.”

   The young man's eyes widened as he looked up. He blushed in a second.

   “Yes… yes, my lord, I will tell him,” he managed to say and added a hardly audible “thank you, my lord.”

   “I expect you to report to the captain of the guard tomorrow.”

   “Yes, my lord.” Bowing deeply he did not see his ruler's relief that the quest had not claimed the young man's life.

* * *

   Tidings from Lórien reached the king, and with his heart filled with gladness he gave the order to summon the Royal Guard and the Easterlings to ride with him north, where the enemies were waiting for the final verdict. He had received Gishvané's gratefulness, and now, as they reached the herd of sharos in Northern Ithilien, her face brightened at the sight of her kinsmen. They greeted her from afar, and upon her quick order in shék they all lowered themselves on their knees.

   Aragorn dismounted and called to them to rise again. Bewildered and frightened glances met him, and the high priestess strode up to them to embrace a friend of her, pulling her to her feet.

   “Rise, your ordeal is over! We will be saved!”

   Slowly the men and women rose, still in awe to see the king, his queen, and the entourage they had brought with them. Gishvané laughed merrily and thanked the king for his mercy. He bowed curtly to her and then called Ridasha to him. She came, still unable to straighten, but willing to show strength in the eyes of her people. Aragorn faced the waiting crowd.

   “See here Rilon Avas Damelon Rhûneshan, the woman of the tribe of the Musheni, who stayed true to your gods and rules, even though the leader of all of you angered the goddess by her behaviour. Rilon Avas never strayed from the right path, so it shall be that she will lead you west under the guidance of your gods and with the blessings of Men and Elves, who grant you to live on the lands near Dol Goldur. It was once occupied by the Dark Lord, but lies now deserted. No evil you will find there, but fertile soil to breed your animals.” He paused and watched the reactions. Bewilderment mingled with regret to leave their former home, but the prospect of a life on land that would suffice their needs lightened the dread to leave behind Rhûn for the time to come. “Maybe the next generation will be able to return to your former settlements, but until then you are allowed to live west of the mountains.”

   For a long moment there was silence. It was on Gishvané to finally speak.

   “Our gratefulness is immeasurable, King of Gondor. Your mercy exceeds our highest hopes. We will remember this day in joyful celebrations as the beginning of a new era for our people.” She bowed deeply to him as did her kinsmen.

   The king nodded to Ridasha, who now stood close by her friends.

   “Go then as a free folk and live in peace.”

The End

Note: This was my little mind game concerning another way to develop the plot. Any other version - maybe with King Elessar and his men remaining workers for the Easterlings and what might happen then - is totally up to you *g*. Have fun!

- T.