Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: Middle-earth with all his parts and peoples, especially the Rohirrim and the Dúnedain, is not mine. I wish they were, but let's face it, they are not. They belong to the Great Professor Tolkien, whom I've been admiring for the last thirty-odd years of my life. Yes, I am actually that old! Nor do I make any money of this. Dou you think I'd still work if I did?

Now, on the other hand, the peoples of Rhûn are all mine. Their history, their customs, their twisted personalities – I developed them for my own fantasy universe in the early 1980es and simply adapted them to Middle-earth for the sake of this story.

The story plot is mine, too. Originally, it didn't include the Rohirrim or the Dúnedain, of course, since I had my own peoples instead. This is still no crossover, though. Being a borderline tale, written rather as an afterthought, it has little to nothing to do with the great events of my own universe. I wrote it because I liked Imogen and wanted to give her a story on her own.

So, when I wanted to do something more original than rewriting the Fellowship of the Ring from Boromir's POV (not that I would not be proud of that one, mind you), I started to think about Rhûn. We know literally nothing of this part of Middle-earth, except that, and I quote Aragorn, “the stars are strange” there.

Then I brought out the map from The Unfinished Tales and saw a huge land, reaching from the Iron Hills to Khand, trapped between Mordor and Dol Guldur... and it strongly reminded me of a certain part of my own universe.

I decided to use an old concept of mine, complete with tribal struggles and tragically-fated characters and a fully developed story plot, to write an action/adventure fic after all that major gloom and angst I went through with Boromir, Elladan and partly Éowyn, too. I wanted to write a story with an actual happy end. Advanced age can do that to a writer.

I also wanted a fresh and underused LOTR-character for this story, one that was not yet tugged through all that now so fashionable smut; one that was practically unknown, with little to nothing personal background, so that he would blend in with my original characters, but still known enough even for those who only knew the three books of LOTR to get interested in him.

I've been fond of him from the first time on when I read LOTR, somewhen in the Elder Days. He was the one who helped Éowyn to sneak her way into the host of Rohan and into battle, under the disguise of Dernhelm – which alone is enough to fall in love with the guy forever, if you are an Éowyn-fan. Well, I am one.

So I chose Elfhelm, made him Éomer's kinsman from Eastfold, gave him a complex family background and sent him (well, actually Théoden sent him, but that's a formality only) on an important quest, negotiating some peace treaty with the Prince of Rhûn.

Where he would not only run into the most interesting people like Elves and Dwarves and the Dúnedain of the North, but he also would have dangerous adventures, be able to save the day and at the end get the girl, too.

If you have not, it's your loss, but you will understand this story nevertheless, since it's a stand-alone. You'll miss some well-placed hints to other stories, though.

Father: Lord Hengest, the Maegtheow of Clan Éowain and the Lord of the Eastfold. Kinsman of Éomund of Eastfold, probably an elder cousin first or second grade. Close enough for Elfhelm to become Marshal

I rated the story for the age up of 14, for war themes, fighting scenes and violence, and well, some implied het content. Yes, this is a straight story. As straight as a board.

So. You've been properly warned. It's your choice to hit the Back button. Still with me? I'm proud of you – and we're almost done here, anyway, so hold on a little longer.

The portrayal of the Rohirrim is based on The Books and Michael Martinez' articles at suite 101_com.

Unfortunately, that site seems to be gone for good now, which is a pity. It had such excellent background worked out on the Rohirrim.

If you are reading this, you know who the Dúnedain are. Or the Elves. Or the Dwarves.

1. The Khimmerians, who are basically a warrior-like old German folk, living in a very harsh environment, under the domination of Sauron and Khamúl, the Captain of Dol Guldur, though secretly trying to get lose from their overlords. They have a culture like that of the Hallstatt people of the Iron Age.

2. The Morduins, who live under their rule and do all the field work. The Morduins were developed on the basis of Finno-Ugric people, living still in some parts of Russia and having the same folk name... well, almost. Finno-Ugric folklore and folk art played a great role when I made them up. They have two subgroups, the Erza-Morduins, to which the people of Elfhelm’s mother belongs, and the Moksha-Morduins, who are, basically, the Mannish people enslaved by Mordor, labouring at the Sea of Núrn.

There are some pictures on my website, showing these people in their own environment – take a look if you are interested. You can even see Ragnar the Smith, Ingolf and Imogen there, painted by the wonderfully talented Zdenek Burian – for a book about prehistorical human cultures, concerning particularly the Hallstatt-culture.

This is a simplified version of Chapter 1, without all the weird Old English phrases and expressions. The original version, which is also several paragraphs longer, can be seen on the edhellondawards LJ community.

1) The religion of the Rohirrim is entirely my creation, made up on the basis of the pagan Anglo-Saxon beliefs. The Angelseaxisce website was a great help with the rituals.

2) Frána son of Gálmód was a name first considered (and then rejected) by Tolkien for Wormtongue. I found it in the HoME-books and created the character.

3) Idis, Théoden’s daughter existed shortly aside (or, at some point, instead) of Éowyn. Since it is explicitly said that Queen Elfhild died in childbirth, I made Idis a bastard child, who was acknowledged by her father nevertheless.

4) The Lady Aud, Théodred’s wife and the rest of Erkenbrand’s family are my OCs. About Aud’s fate see: “Ice Blossom”.

[Edoras – the 4^th day of Eostre-monath ⁽¹⁾, in the year 3014 of the Third Age]

It was late noon when Elfhelm son of Hengest, the Marshal of the garrison of Edoras and that of the Household Guard of Théoden King, finally managed to set out for the golden hall of Meduseld. He would have come earlier, but he had to break up a short but ugly fight between a few warriors under his command, who already had celebrated the return of spring with a few tankards of mead beyond their endurance (and that meant a lot among the Riders of the Mark). Then he had to regroup the next watch, as one of the wounded had been supposed to be on duty within the next cycle.

Truth be told, he could have had his second-in-command to deal with his men. Not only was Ahaewan twelve summers older than Elfhelm and fully capable of keeping an éored of more or less drunken warriors under control, he had also been appointed to celebrate the feast of Eostre with them in the garrison, while the ealdormen and the King’s thegens were called to the royal table in Meduseld. Usually, Elfhelm would have left things in Ahaewan’s most capable hands. But today he felt somewhat restless, and – strangely enough – getting in the middle of a brawl helped to set his mind at ease.

Unfortunately, this also meant that he had to return to the town house of his own family, on the other side of Edoras, to put on something more appropriate than his mail shirt and the tunic that had got stained with the blood of his fighting, drunk warriors. To his relief, his kin had already left for the feast; the last thing he wanted was his father seeing him in this shape. He washed himself quickly, put on some finer clothes, and hurried off to climb all those endless steps up to the doors of the Golden Hall. ‘Twas a wonder in itself that he did not come too late.

Which would have been a very bad thing indeed. This was the night of the High Symbel, held in the Golden Hall by Théoden King himself – one of the greatest feasts of the year, and Elfhelm had been invited by his King to celebrate Eostre at the royal table, as he was the son of one of the most powerful ealdormen of the Mark, aside from being the Marshal of Edoras.

The festivities had already begun in the early morning. A procession by torchlight had been held around the whole city. The boundaries had been beaten with besoms and birch sticks, to drive away ill wishing wights that might cause illness by man and horse, playfully swatting at the laughing and shrieking children in the process. Unwed lads had been chasing the maidens to pour buckets of water all over them ensuring this way that they would remain beautiful and fertile for their future husbands.

Now quite a few hours later, the same children were still roaming the streets, wearing wreaths of new green upon their heads, begging for eggs on the doorsteps of the houses or seeking for hidden eggs in the gardens. The maidens, now in dry clothes again, were singing in the houses, while making their own preparations for the feast. The lads were standing in small groups, talking, jesting and drinking, or wandering from house to house, so that each and every one could sing a self-made song under the window of his beloved.

The whole town was full of music and laughter and mouth-watering scents, and Elfhelm smiled in delight, seeing the happiness of the people he was oath-bound to protect. They might be living in dark times, but Eostre had returned to the Éothéod, and mayhap, just mayhap, the upcoming year would be better than the previous one had been.

The Marshal quickened his steps and finally reached the stone-paved terrace at the head of the long stairway that led from the gates of Edoras to the doors of Meduseld. There he stood for a moment, looking straight in the laughing blue eyes of Háma, the Doorward of the King and also the doorward of the High Symbel – meaning, that during the feast it was not only his duty to guard the doors, but also to welcome the guests as they arrived, and to prevent the uninvited from entering.

Elfhelm found that Háma was the perfect choice for all those tasks. The man could only be described as… imposing. The men of the Mark were all tall and strong, but Háma could only be compared with the ice giants of the old sagas. He towered over the Marshal, who was no Dwarf himself, looking twice as big in his polished armour as a common Rider, his heavy braids flowing down his broad back like molten gold. He barely fit under the doorway with the high helmet upon his head.

“Welcome,” the Doorward said with a broad grin almost splitting his handsome face in two, using the traditional words of the rarely spoken old dialect. “Théoden-King greets his knights in friendship. Welcome, my Lord. Be thou hale.’

“Be thou hale,” replied Elfhelm in kind and clasped forearms with the Doorward in warrior fashion. “I hope I am not late,” he then added, switching back to the common dialect spoken in these late days.

“Almost… but not quite,” answered Háma, stepping aside to allow him entrance. “The blowhorn has not sounded yet. But you need to hurry up.”

Elfhelm nodded his thanks and entered the Golden Hall. It was brightly lit with torches, the long tables arranged in a U-shape, the open end to the doors, and already set. Théoden King sat on his usual place, in a great, gilded chair upon the dais at the far end of the Hall. The guests were still standing along the walls, on both sides, waiting for the horn-call that would signalise the beginning of the symbel.

A young esquire came forth with a wide copper bow and a white cloth, bowed to Elfhelm and held the bowl before him, so that he could was his hands according to custom. He did so and thanked the lad; and barely had he finished, when another esquire stepped forth and blew a beautifully-crafted ceremonial horn.

At this sign, a thin, dark-haired and pale-faced man in rich garment – Gríma son of Gálmód, the chief counsellor of the King – rose from the steps of the dais where he had been sitting at Théoden’s feet and took upon the task to get the guests seated. Sternly seen, this was a little… unusual, as the symbelgifa – the host of the feast – was supposed to do that. But Théoden’s health had not been what it used to be lately, and it seemed only reasonable that he would be spared this small task, so that he could save his strength for the later, more important one. Still, Elfhelm felt strangely uncomfortable to see the counsellor act in the King’s stead. He knew not for certain, why, but it made him feel… uneasy.

In the meantime, the celebrants were seated at the King’s table, according to their rank and seniority in the gathering. Thus Prince Théodred the Brave was seated to the right of his sire’s chair, while Théoden’s sister-son, Éomer son of Éomund, barely old enough to sit among the grown warriors, sat to his left.

On Prince Théodred’s other side sat his wife, Aud of the deep eyes, with her father Erkenbrand, the Master of the Westfold and lord of the Hornburg, while to Éomer’s left his sister, the Lady Éowyn sat – tall and slender and proud, called Steelsheen among the men of the Mark. She was clad in flawless white, and a blackened silver clasp, adorned with the likeness of the White Tree of Mundburg – an old family heirloom from her grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach – fastened her cloak on one shoulder.

She had been officially introduced to the court during the latest Yuletide feast and still seemed a little uncertain about her place among the noble women. Elfhelm smiled fondly, remembering a long-limbed and very determined little girl who had wanted naught else but to be taught how to wield a sword – and learned she had it, marvellously. There were few Riders who could have matched the skills of Éowyn Éomundsdaughter, shieldmaiden of the Mark.

Gríma stepped up to Elfhelm’s side now and escorted him to the table where his kin had already been seated. His father, the maegtheow⁽²⁾ of Clan Éowain and Lord of the Eastfold, sat opposite Erkenbrand, next to the Lady Éowyn, with his firstborn and second-born sons and their wives, and there was also a seat left free for Elfhelm, on the side of Idis, his brother Adhemar’s wife.

The seating order, dictated by rank and age, was a time-honoured custom and therefore never questioned. For his part, though, Elfhelm wished now that there had been a way to change that order. Even after two years, it still hurt him to be so close to the golden princess who had chosen his second-eldest brother above him.

For a princess the golden Idis was, not given the name “the Lady” without reason, albeit born in the wrong bed. Ever since Queen Elfhild had died in childbirth, four times ten years ago, Théoden-King had steadfastly refused to take a second wife. And yet the time had come when the burden of loneliness proved to too heavy for him, and he succumbed the charm of a fair common maid. He had fallen in love with her whom he could not wed nor make his new Queen, and from their tender love Idis had been born, a daughter of great beauty and the golden light of the King’s heart.

Only two summers after her birth, however, sunny young Ebba – her mother – had caught some strange fewer and died slowly and painfully during the next winter, to the never-ending grief of the King. Idis had been sent to Aldburg, to the sister of her sire, and there she had been raised by gentle Lady Théodwyn, until the Lady, too, had died.

Idis had then returned to Edoras with Éowyn and Éomer, and there she had remained and had been raised and taught as any princess would; and she was beloved by the people of the court. Then, nearly ten years ago, young Elfhelm had been sent to Edoras, to serve in the éored of the King’s knights, had met the princess and fallen in love with a passion only a youth of barely twenty summers could love with. That Idis was two years his elder bothered him not – unlike the people of Mundburg, who had the disgusting custom to wed their daughters to gnarled old men that could have been their fathers thrice over – the men of the Mark often bond themselves to slightly older women. Prince Théodred, too, was three years younger than the Lady Aud.

But Idis returned Elfhelm’s passionate feelings not, though she never was aught but friendly to him. Yet when – three summers later – he had finally dared to offer her his heart, she gently but firmly rejected him. Telling him that she already had been promised – to Adhemar, his own brother, no less –, and that even if she were not, she never had seen and never would see aught but a brother in him.

That had hit Elfhelm hard, and he had been glad that shortly thereafter he had beem sent out to the Gap with the troops that guarded the Fords of Isen. Later he had been sent to Mundburg, for he spoke Westron flawlessly, and served near the garrison of Cair Andros, where cavalry was desperately needed. Finally, two years ago, Théoden-King had chosen him for the difficult post of the Marshal of Edoras. He became the chief protector of the heahburg⁽³⁾ and the King’s Lands – the most important officer in the Edoras, aside from Háma, the Captain of the Household Guard. What was more, at times of war even Háma and his Guards stood under Elfhelm’s command.

That was a great honour for a third-born son and such a young man at that. It showed clearly Théoden King’s trust in his loyalty and his abilities, and Elfhelm was, indeed, very proud of his King’s trust. Only his heart had been ultimately broken; for on the very Midsummer Feast that marked the beginning of his new duties, Idis finally had accepted Adhemar’s proposal, married him and left Edoras to live with her new husband’s family in Stowburg, Elfhelm’s home of old.

Long had they waited for this day to come; for Adhemar, too, had served on perilous places, then had caught a long and painful illness, and it had taken him years to fully recover. But now they were married for two full years – and that was the very length of time that Elfhelm had not seen the princess, avoiding the rare chances to go home. He had not even seen his little brother-sons, the younger of which had been born during last winter.

In all that time he had hoped that one day his heart would heal; that he would be able to look at Idis as one should look at a sister and a dear friend only. And yet it was not so. His passion had all but burned out during these years, but the pain was still sharp and bitter upon seeing her again, and it proved nigh impossible to keep his shaking hands under control. Yet hide his feelings he had to, not for his brother’s sake alone but because he felt the cold, almost colourless eyes of Gríma Gámódsson upon himself as he was escorted to his seat. The last thing he wanted to allow was that man getting wind of his inner turmoil.

“Marshal,” murmured the counsellor in a voice too low for anyone but Elfhelm to hear, “am I assuming rightly that you would make a béot before the King again, as it is custom among the knights of the court during a High Symbel?”

“You are,” answered Elfhelm, although he was uncertain what to promise his King, save trying to keep Edoras safe even harder. “Why would you want to know that wise man of the King?”

“The King might ask you something after the symbel,” whispered Gríma. “He is of two hearts whether to speak his request or not, though, as the quest he needs to send you out on is a perilous one. You… might want to assure him of your willingness in advance.”

With that, the counsellor smoothly withdrew to take care for the other guests, ere Elfhelm could have asked him more. The young Marshal shivered, as if he had touched something cold and slimy. There had been a time when he had respected and admired the scholarly advisor for his great wisdom and knowledge – lore-masters were rare and highly valued in the Mark, and Gríma had been a good and loyal counsellor, keeping in the background and never forcing his advice upon the King.

And this had been so until his brother Frána, Théoden’s most trusted friend and the chief of his thegens had been slain in a battle against the Easterlings. Gríma could not fully take over his brother’s duties, as he had been born with a somewhat crippled leg, but he had risen to the rank of the Chief Advisor, and since then his power and influence had slowly but steadily grown. Soon he might have become the King’s only advisor, as Théoden seemed to value his opinion more with every passing year.

Lately, Elfhelm – who had frequent dealings with the counsellor, due to his duties – had begun to feel uncomfortable around Gríma. He knew not why. But his instincts warned him of something he could not quite put his finger upon, every time he had to be in the company of the counsellor. And the feeling grew as slowly and steadily as Gríma’s power did.

He shook his head and exchanged a few casual words with his family and with Erkenbrand, while the other guests were being seated. Then the blowhorn sounded again, and the Golden Hall became silent at once.

The old King – acting as the host of the feast – rose from his seat and opened the High Symbel with the traditional words.

“Sit now to symbel and unwind your measures, victory hearted heroes,⁽⁹⁾” he said in a strong voice that belied his age, and then he sat down again. The gathering murmured the customary answer.

When the King was comfortably seated once more, the ealubora entered, the ale-bearer, with the great horn full of mead in her hand. This most important task always fell to the lady of the house in which the symbel was hosted, and it was considered the greatest honour possible during a feast. In case of the royal family the ladies shared the honour, and while in most occasions ‘twas the Lady Aud who carried out the task, this time the honour had been given to the Lady Aelfgifu, the granddaughter of the King’s oldest sister.

Twenty-and-five summers had she seen, the fair Aelfgifu, a scholarly princess and gifted musician, whose skills with the harp exceeded even those of Gléowine, the head minstrel of the King. A long gown of grass-green silk she wore, above that a sideless surcoat of heavy, dark-green velvet, richly embroidered with gold, her hair hidden under the thin white veil of a seeress that was kept firmly in place by a thin silver circle adorned with small, white gems.

A true daughter of the Mark, as strong as she was lovely, she carried the heavy drinking horn easily across the hall – greeting the guests with light-hearted rhymes as she went – and presented the King with it, saying, “Take this full, my lord dryhten, hoard sharer, be thou happy, warriors' golden friend, and speak to the Geats with mild words...”⁽¹⁰⁾

And with that, she poured the King – the host of this feast – the first drink of mead. The King drank and made the obligatory boast in honour of Eostre, golden-haired goddess of dawn, spring and new life. The ealubora then took the symbelhorn to each guest by arung, starting with Prince Théodred, so that they, too, Could make their boasts to Eostre or any other deity they wanted.

When the first full was completed, Lady Aelfgifu took her seat at the royal table, next to the Lady Aud, and the coup-bearers took over the task of carrying the symbelhorn around. The small drinking horns were refilled, as this was the time for the minni – a chance for each celebrant to speak of and drink to their dead kinsmen and friends.

This took quite some time, which the servants used to carry in the gifts that had been prepared for the gift-giving ceremony that followed the minni. No high Symbel was imaginable without gift-giving, even less one hosted by the King himself, and the ealdormen, as usual, were eager to outdo each other. Generosity was a trait deeply rooted in the men and women of the Mark, thus the gift-giving usually took just as much time as the boasts and oaths that followed.

As a rule, ‘twas the host who began to give out his gifts, first to his own cynn, then to his guests, according to their status and rank, followed by gifts given to him, personally. Then came the gifts given by the guests to heir kin and friends. ‘Twas a long and joyous process, spiked with jests and funny little rhymes recited with the one or other gift.

Elfhelm, however, could not get into the spirit of festivities. He sat morosely, wishing he were at home with his mother and younger siblings and gave short, clipped answers to Erkenbrand’s younger daughter, Déorwyn, who was seated opposite him, hoping desperately that the feast would be over, soon. He found Idis’ closeness painful, was anxious about what the King might want from him and what sort of béot should he made. Gríma’s remark had not helped to calm him – he knew the counsellor had a hidden agenda with that warning, but he could not imagine what that could be,

Fortunately, to make the waiting more pleasurable, Gléowine the minstrel came forth to sing a léod in praise of Eostre first, the King second and finally in that of the folk. The guests momentarily not involved in the exchange of gifts leaned back in their seats in anticipation. Gléowine might have begun his career as a simple storyteller, travelling from village to village, telling tales in exchange for food, lodging and coin – there was no shame in that. But he had become a Master Singer and a court poet many years ago, and he rarely sung alone anymore. Usually, he performed in the company of several other musicians, each of which played a different instrument.

The musicians formed a half-circle at the open end of the tables, and servants brought in a low stool for the Lady Aelfgifu. Unlike Gléowine, who preferred a twelve-string gut-strung harp, the fair lady owned a great, 24-string standing harp, one of those made in Dol Amroth – the kind that needed to be put firmly on the floor and even so reached above the head of a sitting player.

This particular instrument had once belonged to Queen Morwen, the late mother of Théoden-King and had been brought by her to the Mark, as the Queen was a Dúnadan lady of Lossarnach, a province of Gondor and knew many skills the women of the Mark did not. After her death, the harp was given to Aelfgifu, as soon as she had grown tall enough to play it, for the other ladies of the royal family showed no talent nor interest in this particular art. Of course, she only played publicly at court – anything else would have been inappropriate for her as the granddaughter of a King and a seeress.

She came forth now, joining the other musicians, and took her seat at the great hearpe, and even those not yet done with the gift-giving became silent and waited eagerly. Gléowine plucked a few strings of his harp, to give the others the theme, and they picked it up immediately, readjusting their instruments so that their tones matched. They played the melody for a few moments, then Gléowine raised the song with a clear voice that echoed from the walls of the Golden Hall like a horn-call in the hills, in perfect harmony with the sweet tone of the instruments.

He bore the title of a Master Singer with right, indeed. Most skilfully he sang, weaving the words together fluently to tell the tale of Eostre’s awakening, and after the first verse, the Lady Aelfgifu joined him, her voice sweet and smooth like the spring rain. Even Elfhelm forgot about his worries for a moment while listening.

More songs followed, ‘til the gift-giving was finished. Then the musicians retreated and Lady Aelfgifu took on her role as the ealubora again, for ‘twas time for the bragaful, when the boasts and oaths were to be made. For today’s High Symbel, Erkenbrand had been selected to act as the thyle – the one to challenge the others’ béots with the traditional teasings, testing their resolve, and ability to keep their oaths.

Those not of the Éothéod often misunderstood the nature of the bragaful. They believed the boast to be simple or false bragging, although in truth it was a truthful recitation of one's past deeds that had resulted in something good for one's self or the folk, preceded by a proud counting of one's forebearers. Similarly, a vow was not a mere promise, but a holy oath enforced with the most powerful of obligations to complete.

For a folk like the Éothéod that ad no high regards for written treaties this was the simplest way to bind an ealdorman to the King and the free warriors to their Clan leaders – and it had worked just finely from way back when they lived in the far North, at the sources of Anduin, from the times of Fram the Dragon Slayer on, to this very day. And it had worked better than any written treaty could have. The men of the Mark believed that no-one could escape their sacred duties and their fate with false oaths or idle boasts and that it was in their best interest to be truthful in such matters – so they were truthful. This was their way of life.

According to custom it would have been the King’s due to make the first boast, but to everyone’s surprise, he let his son and Heir make the honours in his stead. And Prince Théodred went great lengths to impress the guests. After having counted his forefathers back to Eorl the Young and beyond, to Fram the Dragon Slayer and his father Frumgar, he unexpectedly launched into telling the tale how Meduseld had been built.

“Then was given to Brego-King success against the Eastmen, honour in war, by driving his foes out of the Wold, so that his retainers fervently served him, until the young éoreds grew into a mighty army, and the Mark was not attacked again for many years. Then it came into the mind of Baldor Bregoson that a hall-house, he wished to command, as sign of their victory – a great mead-hall, be built by men, which the sons of the Éothéod should hear of forever, and there within share out all to young and old, such as the gods gave him, save the common land and the lives of men. Then, ‘tis told, widely was the work commissioned from many people throughout the Mark, to furnish this hall of the folk. For him in time it came to pass, early, through the men, that it was fully finished, the best of royal halls; he named it Meduseld, he whose words weight had everywhere; he did not lie when he boasted; rings he dealt out, riches at his feasts. The hall towered, high and horn-gabled, upon the hill in the middle of Edoras, showing the strength and wealth and open-handedness of the Kings to everyone who might have rode this way.”⁽⁶⁾

Théodred here paused, emptying his drinking horn that had been filled by the cup-bringers, and people looked at him in rapt attention, as he was one of the best story-tellers among the ealdormen of the Mark. Then he continued with reminding the feasting crowd of the lightly-taken oath of Baldor son of Brego; that he would tread the Paths of the Dead, and of how he had never been seen in the Mark again.

“This old and sad tale should show us that no sacred oath should be taken lightly,” he finished. “And yet I swear to you, my brethren, by Béma, protector of horses and Riders, by whom the glory and honour is given to the warriors, that I shall tread the same path myself, should the need arise, to protect my King, my people and our homes.”

The gathering answered the Prince’s boast and his oath with thumping their fists on the long tables enthusiastically. Not even the thyle thought of challenging Théodred’s boast – the Prince wore the byname of ‘the Brave’ for a good reason, and no-one doubted that he would, indeed, walk that cursed path, if there was no other way to defend the Mark. The King gazed at his son with love and pride, and the deep eyes of the Lady Aud were full of admiration.

But Lady Aelfgifu just shook her head and stated in a low but firm voice that only could be heard by a few people who sat near, “That path would not be yours to walk, my Prince. The one who is chosen to go there shall have the power to master that which dwells under Dúnharg the Dark – but ‘tis not you; nor any of your kin.”

Young Éomer was next, counting his forefathers back to Éofor, the third son of Brego Eorlsson and reciting his own deeds in the bloody skirmishes against the Orcs that had been foraying into the Eastmark more and more frequently in the recent years. The thyle did challenge him this time, but his teasing was more playful than truly insulting, and Éomer replied condignly, making a sacred oath that he would keep the fell creatures out of the Mark, and should try to stay in his way friend or foe or even close kin, he would fulfil his oath nevertheless.

‘Twas an uncommonly solemn oath for a warrior this young, but Éomer was the scion of great Kings of the Mark, strong in body and shrewd in mind, and no-one would imagine to question his honesty and devotion to his people, to his land or to his King. His whole family smiled at him in fond appreciation and haeled him as the cup-bearer once again took the symbelhorn around and poured more mead for everyone.

Now the Lady Éowyn rose, and everyone became silent, for though the bragaful was usually a business of men, shieldmaidens had the privilege and the right to make their own boasts and oaths, and they never hesitated to do so. Thus the daughter of Éomund raised her clear voice and re-counted Éofor’s line, telling the tale of how she had earned the right of wearing a chain mail, a shield and a sword and of riding to battle along the Riders of the Mark.

“Back to the beginning of the Éothéod the roots of our order reach,” she finished her boast, “to the times when our people still dwelt at the Langflood and the Greyflood, the far northern sources of Anduin, where Fram slew Scatha the Worm in defence of his folk. And I, Éowyn Éomundsdaughter, who I am called Steelsheen among the Men of the Mark, swear this sacred oath before you all: never shall my hand waver when I raise my sword to defend my Lord and King. For whether living or dark undead, I shall smite whoever might stand between me and him and dare to touch him.”

“Young and of the blood of Kings you are, shieldmaiden of the Mark,” said Erkenbrand, although unable to hide his admiration completely. “There may be many years yet ere you shall have to prove the strength of your sword-arm against the foes of the King.”

“That may be so, my good Lord,” she replied, “yet this is my oath to him and to you all, and naught shall keep me from fulfilling it – no darkness nor death, not even my love for him or his love for me.”

There she stood, her face pale and her eyes blazing with blue fire, and Elfhelm’s heart went out for her. So brave she was, so strong and so devoted, not a mite less than her brother. Had she not been born in the body of a maiden, she could have become a Marshal of the Mark one day. But so, being a daughter of Kings and of great importance for her Lord, she might spend her entire life at court, without a chance to raise her sword against any foe. The battle-fire of the Éothéod burned brightly in her heart, kindled by the pride and honour of her forebearers, and for a moment Elfhelm felt something akin concern, for a fire like that could not remain contained in the golden cage of Meduseld for long without consuming its bearer from the inside. And in his heart Elfhelm swore secretly that should he ever get the chance to free that fire from its prison, he would do so.

But the Lady Aelfgifu only looked at Éowyn in sympathy and said, “Fear not, daughter of Kings, for you shall prove that your oath was a truthful one.”

Éowyn blushed and sat down, and Elfhelm got a little distracted during the boasts of his own father and brothers and those of Hereward son of Erkenbrand. But then his turn finally came, and ere he rose to make his own boast, the Lady Aelfgifu suddenly looked him straight in the eyes and said in that strange voice she always spoke with when a sudden sight overcame her, “Remember, Marshal, the words of the worm’s tongue and the task that awaits you.”

This startled Elfhelm more than a little, as ‘Wormtongue’ was the name people had been calling Gríma behind his back ever since he had risen to the power of Chief Advisor. Of course, the words of a seeress were always double-edged, never taking away a man’s freedom of choice. Elfhelm could or could not follow Gríma’s hint to swear an oath concerning whatever the King might have been planning to ask him. Aelfgifu’s words could have been a warning as much as a demand – there was no way to tell.

But the counsellor had already manipulated Elfhelm into a corner with the given hint – a corner from where the young Marshal could not escape with his honour intact. His choices had already been limited.

Thus he rose and spoke, “Hear me, ealdormen, and you, noble ladies of the Mark, for I am Elfhelm Hengestsson of the line of Éofor, of the blood of Eorl. From the founding of the Mark on have my forefathers served the throne faithfully, and so have I, ever since I grew strong enough to wield a sword. At the Gap and in Mundburg have I fought the fell beasts of Mordor and the foes from Dunland and the East. For two years by now have I protected Edoras, the seat of the Kings from all perils that might have come our way. Proud I am of the trust my Lord and King gifted upon me, and I swear to go wherever he wishes to send me, be it even Rhûn or Harad, where the stars are strange.”

He was surprised to see the King stiffen in the great chair when he finished his oath – ‘twas an old phrase, after all, often used when one wanted to describe the ends of the world in a flowery manner. He also saw the pale eyes of Gríma glitter in a fashion that made him more than a little wary, getting the uncomfortable feeling that the counsellor had him on the very place he had wanted him to be. ‘Twas highly unsettling, to tell the truth.

But he had no time to ponder this, as he had to answer Erkenbrand’s challenge; and after that, he got caught up listening to the boasts of the others, and forgot about the issue for a while.

When all eight ealdormen and their sons from each region of the Mark had made their boasts, finally the time for the sacred feast came. The animals – given that this was a spring symbel in the honour of Eostre, they were chickens, rabbits and hares – had already been slaughtered in the hof, outside the walls, their meat boiled or roasted, and now the procession was taking place: garlanded servers escorted the food with much revelry from the kitchens to the feasting tables, in a manner of slow dance, while the musicians played in the shadowed corners of the hall.

Once again, the Lady Aelfgifu came forth, carrying the sacred fire in a wide iron bowl. She circled the entire hall with it, to drive away any evil spirits or disease that might lurk in the shadows, and chanting the ancient charm of making the peace of the feast sacred.

After having made a full circle, she placed the fire bowl before the King, so that the hallowing could take place. The food and drink carried by the servers were then passed over the flame, and the King blessed it ere speaking his prayer to Eostre and beginning to symbolically carve the first roast hare and to send his guests bits of choice as the sign of his appreciation.

“My Lady Eostre, bringer of dawn, bringer of spring, bringer of new life,” he invoked solemnly. “I ask you now, make wealth and bliss wax, grant us growing yield that every kind of corn may come to us for our use. Make wealth increase to make life easier.”

The hallowing complete, the fire bowl was taken away, and the saex, the ceremonial knife was offered to the King, who accepted it and began with the carving of the roast. Soon, the servers were bringing the bits of his choice to the guests – the feast could only begin after those had been consumed.

Elfhelm was not feeling hungry, and not even the mastery of the King’s cooks could stir his appetite, although they had outdone themselves creating the meal for this feast. There was onion-ale soup served over bread, with stuffed and boiled eggs. There was roasted hare, enough to feed half the garrison. There was rabbit cooked in broth, rabbit in wine-currant sauce, tartes (pie filled with rabbit and chicken meat), lamb stewed with sage and parsley, pork and egg pie seasoned with honey and pepper, batter-fried carrots, parsnips and apples dressed in almond milk, pastries boasted in honey… he ceased to count after a while. His own father set a good table back in Stowburg, but no feast of theirs could be compared with the High Symbel of the King at one of the Holy Tides.

‘Twas a feast like no other, and thus was expected from the guests to eat, drink and have a good time, singing and jesting and reciting merry poems as the feasted. Elfhelm tried to force himself to due merriment, he honestly did. But his gloomy mood lifted not, and he sat with downcast eyes, picking on his food and sipping from his ale, wishing that the whole thing would be over, soon. Watching Aeldamar feeding particularly tasty bits to Idis was amost more than he could bear.

Which was an idle wish, of course. The feast of a High Symbel was a serious matter, which usually lasted ‘til the next morn – besides, everyone but he seemed to enjoy themselves greatly. Even young Lady Éowyn, usually much too grave for her tender age, giggled delightedly with her family. The smile only froze on her lovely face when she happened to meet the pale eyes of Gríma. In those moments she almost seemed to whither like a flower in a sudden frost.

Elfhelm found this strange – not to mention a reason to worry, as the Lady Éowyn had seen less than twenty summers, and her brother was still too young to protect her properly. Thus the Marshal decided to speak to the Crown Prince as soon as he could find the chance; or to the lady Aud. For he liked not what he had seen.

When everyone was sated, the servers collected the leftovers and – together with the parts already promised to Eostre – took them to the hof, the sacred place outside the walls. There the offerings to Eostre were burned and the ashes strewn into the sacred well, while the leftovers were given to the poor who could not afford a feast of their own. Thusly demanded the old custom of yielding, which the Éothéod had brought with them from the far North. And the penniless ceorls and their families sat along the buttred outer walls of the hof, eating the fine dishes they could never have dreamed of otherwise and blessed the name and generosity of their King.

Théoden himself rose from his great chair again and led his guests out of the Golden Hall, out to the pawed terrace before his doors. There they stood, waiting for the new dawn, for Eostre’s return. When the first reddish light appeared on the horizon, the old King raised his arms and chanted in a powerful voice that echoed from the hillside.

Dawn broke in the very moment in which the King finished his bede; and he spoke the words of leave and his guests returned to their own homes. When Elfhelm readied himself to follow his father, though, he felt the cold hand of Gríma upon his forearm again.

“The King musts need to rest,” whispered the counsellor, “but he expects you to come before him in the ninth hour. And you would do well to remember the sacred oath you have sworn at the symbel, son of Hengest.”

He bowed and vanished in the crowd, leaving a worried and very unhappy Elfhelm behind.

(2) Maegtheow = Clan-Master – the highest authority among Clan Éowain. I consider Éomund, Éomer’s father as a member of this Clan, though from another House. Further references to Elfhelm’s family can be found in chapter 3 of “The White Lady of Rohan”.

(3) heahburg = capital; burgsteal = city, also called burgstede, burgturn or eard

(6) See: Beowulf, lines 64-82. Théodred’s boast is a paraphrasing of those lines.

(7) Source: the AEcer-Bót, and Anglo-Saxon rite found in the manuscript known as the Lacnunga.

Originally all this would have belonged to Chapter 1. But it grew so long that I thought it would be better in two shorter parts.

In the next morn almost everyone in Edoras was sleeping out the drunken stupor of the feast. The men of the Mark could keep their mead and ale like no-one else, but even they needed to recover after the High Symbel. Such a feast was held once at every High Tide – one owed the gods and the honoured dead to get stone-drunk.

As he had eaten and drunk very little the previous night, Elfhelm woke shortly after sunrise, as was his wont. Life in a garrison made a Marshal an early riser. For a moment, he was a little confused, ere he remembered that he had spent the night – well, what had been left of it – in the townhouse of his cynn instead of the garrison. ‘Twas a rare thing for him to do, but again, his father did not come to the heahburg often.

Realizing that he would need to return to the garrison in an hour’s time, Elfhelm descended to the ground level of the house, where the kitchens were, to find some breakfast first. What he found instead was Idis, brewing some herbal tea against hangover for the men still sleeping in the upper chambers. Elfhelm froze on the doorstep, but ere he could have made a hasty retreat, Idis turned and spotted him.

“Elfhelm,” she said with a solemn nod, her deep blue eyes uncommonly stern. “’Tis good to see you. I have wanted to speak with you for quite some time.”

“What is there left to speak of, between you and me?” asked Elfhelm bitterly. “You have made your choice, and I respected it. I still do.”

“True,” she said gravely, “But this cannot go on between us any longer. We have not seen eye to eye since my wedding. You avoid me, and by doing so, you avoid your home, your mother and your siblings. ‘Tis not right.”

“I have a burdensome task to master,” replied Elfhelm evasively. “Being the Marshal of Edoras is no small duty to fulfil. I have no time to go home often. My cynn understands that.”

But Idis shook her golden head disapprovingly. “We both know why you would not come home anymore.”

“And what if we do?” he shot back. “Surely, you of all people can understand my reasons?”

“I do,” she said, “yet what you are doing is still wrong. You are hurting your brother who has done naught to deserve this, aside from loving me, and you cannot blame him for that.”

“Who could blame anyone for loving you?” murmured Elfhelm sadly. “How can anyone who knows you not love you?”

“Leave that,” she said sternly. “Your brother is no less worthy your love and respect than I am, and you are not giving him that. You did not come to the name-giving of our first child, and you are very fortunate that Adhemar chose to overlook such insult from his own brother. Not many men would have done so.”

Elfhelm tried to say something, but she gave him a look that was worth the King’s glare twice over. She might have been born in the wrong bed, but she did have Théoden’s steely strength just as well.

“No, I shall not listen to any cheap excuses. My second child is due to be born around Harvest tide – I expect you to attend to the name-giving, or else I shall have your father make you. Fight me not in this, Elfhelm, for you cannot win. I shall have you honour my husband and my children as it is appropriate, even if I have to force you.”

Driven by righteous anger, the golden princes grabbed the teapot and rushed back to the upper level of the house.

“She is right, you know,” and only half-amused voice commented. Elfhelm whirled around and saw his father standing in the anteroom of the kitchen, watching him with narrowing eyes.

Lord Hengest, bearer of the third-highest arung of the Mark after the King and Erkenbrand, and owner of the greatest wealth seconding the King only, was the prime example of a warrior of the Mark – tall and strong, with a handsome, open face, sharp, ice-blue eyes and a thick mane of molten gold that had not shown any streaks of grey yet. The maegtheow of Clan Éowain and the head of Fréabold’s House, he was about six summers younger than his King, yet, as he had married at a rather young age, Iminric, his firstborn, was but a year or so younger than the Crown Prince.

Part of the respect paid him all the time was due to the size of his family – after all, which other ealdorman could proudly state that nine strong sons sat at his table? Nine strong, honourable sons and two fair daughters, neither of them afraid of defending their home to their last breath. And he was a grandsire, too, four times over, through Iminric and Adhemar, and through Hereswidh, his older daughter.

“Idis is right,” he repeated, all hints of amusement gone from his voice. “You have wronged both her and your brother when you were not present at little Octa’s name-giving. You should think long and hard about how to mend the broken frith between you and them.”

“Father, Idis may be cross with me, but I very much doubt that Adhemar would have any harsh feelings. He is the one who has come out of our contest victoriously, after all. If anyone, he ought to understand why I am avoiding them,” said Elfhelm defensively. But his father was not mellowed.

“Frith is more than a mere lack of harsh feelings, and you know that. ‘Tis the one-ness with your cynn that you have broken; ‘tis an obligation towards your family, which you have failed to fulfil.”

“My obligation right now is first and foremost towards my King,” said Elfhelm, “for I am oath-bound to protect not only him and the heahburg but all the people between its walls.”

His father gave him an icy look. “You lived too long among the people of Mundburg, it seems, and their strange code of honour has confused your heart,” he said. “Or else you would remember that when it comes to choose between your cynn-frith and your oath-frith, your cynn should come first. And I do know that Théoden-King would never keep you from honouring your obligation towards your cynn. Nay, my son, ‘tis you who tore a hole in our cynn-fence, this is your task to make it heal again.”

“I cannot waste my time for this now,” replied Elfhelm, harsher than intended in his distress. “The King expects me in his presence at the ninth hour. If Gríma’s hints could be any indication, I shall be sent out on a perilous quest, and soon.”

“A quest you have just oath-bound yourself to undertake during the bragafull,” his father commented grimly. “I have to wonder sometimes, my son, if you are trying to get slain with all your might.”

“And I am not certain that I can believe that,” replied Lord Hengest. “Your mother and I are most unhappy about how little respect you seem to have for your own life. Being a warrior cannot mean that one strives for carelessly throwing away one’s own life. Less so ere one would have begotten heirs in the Mark. Your younger brothers, Caelin and Eadwine, are already bargaining for their brides, and even Osred has begun to look. Only you are stubbornly refusing to wed, weakening the cynn-fence the lady Imoleth and I have been building for twice twenty summers. But I tell you now, my son, your mother and I shall have none of it any longer. When you return from this quest, whatever it might be, you will begin to look for a wife – or we will.”

“Be silent! We have waited for you to make up your mind for ten summers and more. We are tired of waiting. If you do not want us to take care of the matter, then you should hurry. I give you time ‘til Harvest tide. You will be wedded by Yule, one way or another – ‘tis your choice.”

It was a seriously troubled Elfhelm who returned to the Golden Hall at the ninth hour, to finally learn which quest it may be his King wanted to send him on. All remnants of last night’s symbel had been removed already, the Hall glittering again in its dim golden glory – and it was empty, save Háma, who was standing before the doors as always, unwavering like a gold-topped tower.

Raedan, the King’s old manservant came to greet Elfhelm and led him to one of the side rooms, which the King used both for holding counsel with his most trusted advisors and to have his letters, addressed to foreign Lords and the ealdormen of the Mark, written. Unlike most of his subjects, Théoden was well-versed in the arts of reading and writing, thus the same room also served as his study and library, although he was said to find less pleasure in those things than Thengel-King, his late father, had.

Entering the study, Elfhelm was surprised to find Prince Théodred there as well. The Crown Prince had little interest for lore or the books of his grandsire (brought to the Mark from Mundburg), as everyone knew. Lady Aelfgifu – who also served as the King’s personal scribe – was the scholarly one in the royal family, as had been Idis before her marriage.

Recently, Éowyn, too, could be seen in the King’s study on occasion, keeping Aelfgifu some company. That was unusual for a shieldmaiden, but Éowyn had a proud heritage and the blood of Westernesse in her veins as well as that of the Mark. She needed a proper education, in case she should be married off to Mundburg one day. With Lord Denethor having two still-unwed sons of the best age, that was not an entire impossibility.

The King looked old, grim and weary – wearier than even a whole night spent feasting and celebrating should have made him. He greeted Elfhelm with a short, almost reluctant nod, as if what he was about to do had been against his better judgement.

“Sit, son of Hengest,” he said. “I need to send you out on a quest… on a difficult and most likely perilous one. Long have I hesitated to ask you to do this, but Gríma never doubted that you would be willing to take the risk, and the sacred oath you swore on the High Symbel proved your readiness, indeed.”

Elfhelm suppressed the urge to groan. As he had suspected, the Worm had skilfully manipulated him into this particular trap. And now it was too late – he had sworn the oath, there was no way out anymore.

“Where the stars are strange,” the old King replied cryptically. “I need you to go to Rhûn for me.”

There was a long silence following his words. The huge realm of Rhûn, reaching from the Iron Hills in the North to the Ash Mountains (Mordor’s Northern fence) in the South and from Mirkwood and the Brown Lands in the West to unknown reaches in the East, was a realm where the stars were strange, indeed. It also was the home of many quarrelling Easterling chieftains that fought each other just as much as they fought Rohan and Gondor in the service of the Black Lands and were a source of constant peril for the Mark. For one of the Éothéod, it was suicidal to go there. Not even the Dunlendings hated them as fiercely as the Easterlings did.

The King looked at his first advisor to speak for him – something that had happened more and more frequently in recent times, found Elfhelm. And seeing the grim expression on Théodred’s face, he realized that the Crown Prince, too, had noticed t his.

“The King needs you to find a way to the Underground Forges of Nimwarkinh,” said Gríma smoothly, “where Ragnar the Smith resides. We learned that he had become some sort of warlord or prince among the Khimmer jarls… and that he wishes to loosen his ties to the Lord of the Black Lands, seeking out new alliances that could bring his people more food and less suffering. The King intends to offer him exactly that.”

“My Lord King,” Elfhelm still addressed Théoden with his questions, “can we be certain about the intentions of this Easterling?”

“Nay, we cannot,” Théodred answered bluntly, ere Gríma could have said aught,

“That is true,” the counsellor admitted, unperturbed, as if the Crown Prince had not interefered. “Nor can we know whether the rumour is true in the first place. That is why the King needs you to go there and see it for yourself. For if it is true, Rohan can hope for a powerful ally – or for a truce with the Easterlings, at the very least.”

“And if the rumour is false, all Elfhelm can hope for is a quick death,” growled Théodred.

“That would be unfortunate,” replied Gríma without a flinch, “yet the chance is too good to let it pass.”

“But why me?” asked Elfhelm. “I am a warrior, not a negotiator. I shall go where ever my King chooses to send me, for so I have sworn before the court at the symbel – and I would do the same without a sacred oath. But surely, there must be a reason why my King’s choice fell upon me.”

“There is,” said Gríma in Théoden’s stead again. “More than one reason, in truth. You are young and strong enough to bear the burden of the journey across the unwelcoming lands of Rhûn. As the Marshal of Edoras, you have the authority to speak for the King. And you cannot be recognized as one of the Éothéod at once, thus the peril is less grave for you than for anyone else.”

“What is more, you even speak their tongue, thanks to the Lady Imoleth,” added Théodred softly. “You can easily disguise yourself as a half-bred huntsman.”

“So can all my brothers,” Elfhelm pointed out. He did not truly want to send any of his siblings into mortal peril; he just wanted to understand the true reason behind his being chosen. “And they have not the care and responsibility for Edoras entrusted to them.”

“Which is the very reason they would not do,” once again, Gríma spoke ere the King or the Crown Prince could have done so. “They have no rank at court which the Khimmer jarls would recognize as equal to theirs. Besides, you are the only one who has been to Rhûn before.”

“I did not get very far,” shrugged Elfhelm dismissively, “and I very nearly did not return. Yet I shall go there again, when my King wants me to.”

“This is a most important quest, one that could turn out either disastrous or fruitful,” added the counsellor. “The King trusts you to make it fruitful, of course.”

Gríma lifted an eyebrow. “Then we all hope it will be enough,” he said, the doubt eminently obvious in his tone.

To that, Elfhelm gave no answer. He understood now how skilfully the First Advisor had manipulated him – first into making the sacred oath and now, using his own oath against him, so that he at the end would have no other choice than accept to go on this quest of no return. But there was no way out now – he was oath-bound to obey.

Gríma now whispered in the King’s ear again, and Théoden rose from his seat, looking older and more tired than Elfhelm could remember having ever seen him. The King moved stiffly and ungelenk, as if he had aged years since last night and his tendons protested against moving in the most unpleasant manner.

“The King thanks you for your offer,’ said the advisor. “He needs to retire to his chambers for a short rest now, as he is still weary from last night. Long feasts can be such a burden for an old man of his age.”

The King nodded wearily and left his study, leaning heavily upon his staff. Gríma supported him, wearing a worried expression as they walked out. Elfhelm looked at Théodred with a frown.

“What is wrong with our King? Sixty and six summers had he only seen – that is not such a high age for a Man of the Mark, and he descends from the long-living Men of Mundburg from his mother’s side. And since when does he need a staff to lean upon? A year ago he still wielded his sword with us on the practicing yards.”

“I know not what is wrong,” sighed the Crown Prince. “All I can see is that my father is aging before his time, and I cannot do aught against it. My word reaches his ear and his heart less and less frequently in these days… Gríma is the only one to whom he listens, usually.”

“This is not good,” said Elfhelm in concern. “I feel less and less trust for the Chief Advisor nowadays.”

“And you do well not to trust him,” replied Théodred grimly. “His heart seems to have darkened since the death of Frána; as if the perishing of his brother had unleashed some dark spirit that had been imprisoned in his heart for long and now has been set free.”

“Which still does not explain why he wanted me to go on this quest,” said Elfhelm. “It was his plan to send me to Rhûn, was it not?”

“That was my feeling, too, aye,” replied Théodred. “And there is one reason he might have had for waving this particular web… a reason that explains it all.”

Théodred nodded. “’Twould make sense if the Worm wished to weaken the Mark, for some reason. See, he cannot touch me or your father or Erkenbrand. But as the Marshal of Edoras, you are the strongest tower in the heahburg’s defence. Should anything happen to you, ‘twould take quite some time for a new Marshal to learn doing your duties. Your removal would weaken Edoras greatly.”

Elfhelm stared at him in shock. “Are you saying that Gríma is a traitor? That he is planning to open Edoras for an invasion from the East?”

Théodred shrugged. “I cannot tell. I had a few of my trusted men watch his steps for a long time, but the only place he had visited in recent years outside of the Mark was Isengard.”

“Isengard? What could he have done there?” Elfhelm was getting a very bad feeling about this. The White Wizard had not been a good friend for the Mark for quite some time.

“We know not,” replied the Crown Prince. “My men could not follow him any further than the Wizard’s Vale. ‘Tis said that Saruman sees everything within the borders of his valley. His ominous birds are always in the sky, watching. His spies slip through every net. I cannot risk sending men there. They would be caught and killed, and we would not gather any more knowledge.”

“But if the Worm has allied himself with the White Wizard, ‘tis almost as bad as if he had sold us to the Dunlendings or the Easterlings,” said Elfhelm darkly.

Théodred nodded in grim agreement. “I know. I just cannot find a way to make my father and King listen to me.”

For a moment they were both silent, deep in worried thoughts. Then Elfhelm shook himself to attention again. “Well, it cannot be helped, not now. I have to leave… what time exactly?”

“In two days’ time,” answered the Crown Prince. “Aelfgifu has collected everything we know about Ragnar the Smith and the balance of power in Rhûn at the moment – unfortunately, ‘tis not much. And once you cross the borders, you will be on your own. Our contacts to the eastern lands are sparse at best. I cannot promise you any help.”

“I know that,” said Elfhelm. “I have been to Rhûn before, ere I was sent to the Gap. ‘Tis an unfriendly land, full of evil things, even without the raiding Khimmer bands. But I came out then, and mayhap I shall come out again.”

“I hope so,” said Théodred gravely. “You are sorely needed here. I beg you, be very careful. We cannot afford to lose you.”

He squeezed Elfhelm’s shoulder and left, letting in the Lady Aelfgifu, who carried several books and scrolls. She looked not the least tired, as if she had not served as the ealubora all night at the High Symbel. She wore a simple brown dress now, with a pale red undergown, and was veiled, as always.

“Prince Théodred asked me to collect for you all that we know about Ragnar the Smith,” she said, putting her books and scrolls down on the desk. “And I have found a map of Rhûn for you – ‘tis not very detailed, but it will help you to find the Mountains of Nimvarkinh and shows the assumed territories of the various Khimmer clans.”

“There are no clear borders,” replied Aelfgifu, spreading the map across the desk. “The Khimmer share the lands with Orcs, wolves and other foul things. They serve the Lord of the Black Lands, for they fear him deathly, yet that does not mean they would be spared.”

“Which is the reason why they might be interested in a truce,” realized Elfhelm.

Aelfgifu nodded. “As far as we know, they have been trying to loosen their bonds to Mordor for generations. Beloberch was the first warlord who could unite all the other jarls under his leadership. ‘Tis said, he married a woman from the North, from a city named Esgaroth at the Long Lake, near Mirkwood. Ever since then, his sons and their sons have had some contacts to the Northmen. He was the great-grandfather of Ragnar the Smith and wore the byname ‘the Bear-slayer’. ‘Tis also said that he made a law that each new warlord has to kill a cave bear with his bare hands, ere he is allowed to take leadership.”

“The bear is the sacred animal of the Khimmer people,” explained Aelfgifu. “By fighting and killing a bear, without the help of any weapon, they believe to absorb its strength, bravery and magical powers. Then they skin the bear and take a formerly untouched maiden on the bearskin – they believe that the child fathered in this fashion would be the bear reborn and would ensure the good luck of their people.”

Elfhelm shook his head in mild disgust. “My mother never spoke about these things.”

“The Lady Imoleth cannot know of this custom, as her clan was separated from their Khimmer overlords a long time ago,” said Aelfgifu. “The Erza-Morduin people only became the subjects of the Khimmer jarls in Rhûn after Mount Doom had burst into flame again. Your mother’s people had been trying to cross the Brown Lands at that time already.”

“Thengel-King used to have a captain from the North, serving among the thegens,” replied Aelfgifu. “The Men of the Mark called him Heretoga, ‘the Commander’, for he could command both man and beast to yield to his will, quiet and gentle-mannered though he was. ‘Tis said that he knew Rhûn better than all other people, and Thengel-King’s scribe wrote down everything Heretoga had told him.”

“A man like him must have been most helpful for Thengel-King,” said Elfhelm. “What happened to him?”

“He left Edoras for Mundburg, to serve Steward Ecthelion,” answered Aelfgifu with a shrug, “or so the Elders say. No-one has ever heard of him afterwards, and he never returned to the Mark. Now, take a look at this map and plan your journey carefully, for it will be a long and perilous one. Alas, I cannot give you the map, as this is the only one we have. Had I known of your quest in advance, I could have made you a copy...”

“No-one did know of this quest in advance,” said Elfhelm grimly, “not even me. I shall have to learn the map by heart, it seems. Mayhap ‘tis better so; a drawn map could raise the suspicions of a Khimmer patrol. What else can you tell me about these lands?”

“Not much,” admitted Aelfgifu gloomily. “As you can see, the Mountains of Nimvarkinh are marked some fifty miles East from the Sea of Rhûn, but that is by no means certain. Still as they are supposed to be the only mountains beyond the Brown Lands, ‘twould be hard to miss them.”

“Hmmm...” Elfhelm scratched his chin thoughtfully. “If I rode up to the Entwade, I could easily cross the Entwash and travel through the Wold quickly and safely. I could avoid the Brown Lands either from the North or from the South...”

“Both of those paths would have their own perils,” interrupted Aelfgifu warningly. “If you choose to ride along the northern border of the Brown Lands, you will come dangerously close to Southern Mirkwood, which is a very evil place, I hear. Or to Dwimordene, which might be even more dangerous, under the rule of that Elven sorceress.”

“But if I travel South from the Brown Lands, that way would bring me close to the Dead Marshes and the Ash Mountains,” pointed out Elfhelm reasonably. “Not to mention the Khimmer patrols and the Orc hordes roaming the lands between the Great River and the Emyn Muil.”

Aelfgifu nodded in agreement. “True enough. You have to choose between the frying pan and the fire, as they say... unless you want to cross the Brown Lands themselves.”

“Nay,” said Elfhelm promptly. “No son of my mother will ever go there.”

“You may not have any other choice,” said Aelfgifu. “They are the safest of all routes. Neither Orcs nor Khimmer patrols would go there.”

“And we know all too well why not,” riposted Elfhelm. “By Béma, two-third of my mother’s clan died in there, for those lands are as barren as Mordor itself, and what water might be found there is poisonous. I cannot make a journey this long on foot and hope to return before winter – but not even the toughest pack horses bred by my father would survive in the Brown Lands.”

“Then you should choose the northern route,” said Aelfgifu. “’Tis very dangerous, but shorter than the southern one – and it is more likely that you would meet friendly travellers there. The Woodmen of Mirkwood do travel South sometimes, and Dwarves, too, are known to use those paths.”

As she was no mere scribe but also the seeress and a close confidant of her great-uncle, the King, Elfhelm was tempted to follow her advice. Aelfgifu was privy to all secret reports the spies made to the King, as it was her duty to take notes, even though Gríma had tried to take over that particular duty from her a few times. At the moment, though, Aelfgifu knew more about what was going on beyond the Wall of Rohan than anyone else, save the King and the Crown Prince – and mayhap the Lady Aud, with whom Théodred shared everything he knew.

“I might do so,” said Elfhelm, determined to speak to Bercthun first, one of the trackers from his mother’s clan still alive. Although an old man now, Bercthun still had extensive knowledge about the western part of Rhûn – and what was more, he had, by pure chance, accompanied Lord Hengest on this trip to Edoras.

Aelfgifu nodded. “’Tis your choice. I shall not ask you about your route. The less I know the safer you will be.”

“Any insights into the near future you might have to offer?” asked Elfhelm, only half-jesting. Aelfgifu gave him a concerned look.

“All I can offer are possibilities,” she said slowly. “The choices are always yours. But if you make the right choices, you might not only return from a successful quest, but also fulfil the wish of your father.”

Elfhelm startled a little. Aelfgifu’s ability to know things she should not have known could be... unsettling at times.

“Why?” he asked teasingly. “Are you saying that when I return victoriously, I may begin to bargain for your hand, my Lady?”

“I am not the one meant for you, son of Hengest,” replied Aelfgifu calmly. “Even if I were not the Seeress of the King’s House, I would not be the right match for you. ‘Tis a sword that you need, not a quill pen.”

With that cryptic remark, she rose, leaving the books and scrolls on the King’s desk, to Elfhelm’s disposal.

“Read them here,” she said, for they must not leave this room. If you need my help, I shall be in the scriptorium for another three or four hours. Try to keep the details in your mind, for your best chance to come back alive is to be well-prepared.”

The lonely traveller had been wandering between the thick, dark forests of Southern Mirkwood and the Brown Lands for days by now. He tried no to look at the brown and withered slopes that stretched up and away towards the sky to his right. They looked as if fire had passed over them, leaving no living blade of green, despite the spring that was blooming all over the rest of Middle-earth.

‘Twas like a living nightmare of his childhood. Like the ghostly tales his mother and her kin had told on long winter evenings. An unfriendly waste it was, without even a broken hill or a bold stone to relieve the emptiness. A place where the houseless spirits of vengeful Elves, slain in the Battle upon Dagorlad, might haunt the hills, while their bodies lay slowly rotting under the Dead Marshes.

The traveller was a tall, strong man with powerful shoulders and a broad chest. He wore a knee-length tunic of rough, brown wool, with a broad weapon-belt and a leaf-green, woollen hood. His leather breeches and soft, high boots revealed him as one of the Woodmen. On his back he had a great bow with a full quiver. From his belt, in a nicely-embroidered sheet, a short, two-edged hunting knife hung, a small pouch with flint and steel for fire-making and a short drinking horn. Another horn, this one larger and nicely carved, in the fashion hunters used, hung from his shoulder. He carried a short hunting spear, the point of which was board and leaf-shaped and obviously the work of a very skilled blacksmith. He travelled on foot, leading his steed and a well-packed, heavy-limbed mare on the bridle.

This alone would not have raised any suspicions. In spite of the increasingly dangerous roads, wandering Woodmen without a permanent home often travelled across the lordless lands between the free realms and the Black Lands, seeking out game to hunt or some merchant who could need another good archer to keep his wares safe. But rarely did the Woodmen cross the imaginary borders of Rhûn, unless they had a death wish – or some important business with one of the Khimmer jarls.

This particular Woodman did not seem to have a death wish. On the contrary, he seemed quite determined to bring whatever business had brought him to these forbidding lands, to a satisfying end. His tanned face revealed that he spent most of his days outdoors, exposed to the sun and the wind. His hair, thick and dark and a little coarse like that of the people of Rhûn, he wore in one tight braid on the nape of his neck, while the rest of it was held together by a thin copper circlet upon his brow. But his cheekbones were higher than usually seen in Rhûn, and his eyes were wide and deep blue, revealing him as a half-bred from the Riddermark. Not that his horses would not have given him away first.

Elfhelm – for he was the lonely traveller – had debated the matter of the horses with himself and the old tracker of his father ere he had left for Rhûn. The Woodmen did not have such great horses as were bred in the Lord Hengest’s lands, nor did the Easterlings, as a rule. But in the end Elfhelm decided that the advantages of having two horses raised by his father and bound to him outweighed the risk of raising suspicions. The gelding, Hafoc (Hawk) was almost as fast as the mearas, and for a pack animal, Shebna, the mare, could move surprisingly quickly, too. As all horses of the Mark, they followed obediently when called by their names, and Elfhelm never needed a whip or spores. The braided-together strands of his hair and Hafoc’s mane he wore on his wrist as a bracelet reminded both him and the horse of their unique bond.

Elfhelm had crossed the Great River over the North Undeeps several days earlier and had been travelling along the northern border of the Brown Lands ever since. He had already come deeper than he had ever been before, as his first journey to Rhûn only served the purpose of looking out for any possible intrusions from the Brown Lands. Back then, he had found none. But now it seemed that things had changed since his last visit, and that these lands were not quite as abandoned as everyone in the Mark would have liked to believe.

He had seen no living creature since crossing the Anduin, not even birds or small beasts. But it seemed as if the wood would have wandered south in the recent years, almost but not quite reaching the border of the Brown Lands. The nights were full of noises, none of them very trustworthy, unless one liked the company of wolves (which he did not), and in the side of the one or other low, rocky hill he found shallow caves, not all of them made by nature. Sometimes there was even a small storage of firewood.

Elfhelm had not lit any fire, of course. That would have been foolish for someone who wanted to cross the lordless lands unnoticed. In truth, he had gone great lengths to remain unnoticed. He had covered the hooves of his horses with thick woollen cloths, so that they would make less noise and their footprints would be harder to recognize. They also were covered with shadowy-grey blankets, which gave them excellent disguise among the crippled firs that grew in small, irregular groups between the bizarre rock formations rising up unexpectedly.

The weather here was surprisingly chill and damp, despite the warm spring elsewhere, the rocks and boulders lying around and over the almost invisible path were slick and covered by rotting moss. Elfhelm had to be very careful, as a wrong step could have caused one of his horses to slip and break a leg.

Finally, after several days – he lost count on the time – he left that stretch behind him and reached a more or less regular forest, dark and dense and full of unknown perils, stretching out before his eyes for many, many miles in width and length. At the horizon, above the black treetops, the destination of his journey was looming. A long chain of very high, steep mountains rose almost vertically towards the sky, from the North to the South, as an immense wall. The three highest peaks were flattened, as if cut off by the hands of some mythical giant, and an ancient, crumbled ring of stones crowned each of them – the broken remnants of once strong watchtowers. Those were the high peaks of the Mountains of Nimvarkinh, named in the legends Falûn, Grenaar and Skâgen.

The legends told that once there had been one of the greatest underground cities of the Dwarves – not as huge and famous as Moria, but just as old, and at least as grand as Govedar had been, where the Dwarves of the Grey Mountains tried to slay Fram, the Dragon Slayer for the hoard of the worm. The Watchful Towers, now broken and empty, had been strong and proud back then, Dwarven warriors keeping a sharp eye on the lands below.

Elfhelm knew that the emptiness of those watchposts could be naught but a dangerous illusion, given that the Khimmer warlords had taken up residence under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh at least four generations ago. Just as the seeming closeness of the high peaks to each other was an illusion. In truth, there was a journey of several days between them.

The surroundings seemed quiet at the moment, thus Elfhelm decided to begin the most dangerous part of his journey so far: the crossing of the woods. In this dense forest, where the narrow paths were covered with a thick layer of slippery, rotten leaves, his horses would be of no use for him; nor would his great bow.

There was a constant twilight under the trees, the air was heavy and moist and full of the stench of mould. There were no safe hiding places, either. Elfhelm sought refuge among the huge roots of a large oak or beech when the shadows began to deepen, for not even his sharp eyes could penetrate the ink-black night in these dark woods.

Besides, the wild wolves were on the hunt during the night, and they were said to be able to see even the wind in this darkness, not to speak of their sense of smell. And as moving increased the smell of every living body, the best way to fool their noses for a man was to lie, unmoving, in a shallow dent on the forest floor, to keep out the way of the thin, chilly wind that blew low along the tree-roots every night and made the chillness even more unpleasant after the dampness of the day.

Elfhelm had little previous experience with the weather of Rhûn, but he thought of something to keep the wolves away. He made the horses lie down with him in the dent, covered with wet wolfskins that fooled the beasts’ noses, while remaining quiet and motionless fooled their eyes and ears. First he was a little afraid that the horses might bolt, crazed with fear. For even if he managed to save his own hide, what could he do alone, without his supplies in these evil woods?

But the good, faithful beasts did not abandon him and he had travelled through the woods, unharmed, for five days. A few starving wolves found him during the fourth night, despite all precautions, but he was able to slay the lead wolf, and the others fled in terror. The stench of fresh wolfskin scared other predators away after this encounter.

Thus he reached, in the morn of the sixth day, the low limestone hills east from the woods. These led to the shallow, uneven valley between the two nearest chains of the Mountains of Nimvarkinh, the ones watched by the peak of Skâgen and leading to the ones under Grenaar. No trees were there, just stunted grey grass and bramble bushes with hideous, foot-long thorns, as barbed and sharp as the daggers of Orcs – twisted bushes that had sprawled over from Mordor in the recent years, like coils of steel wire.

These lands were barely able to offer the horses some food, but this was where Elfhelm had to continue his journey northwards, straight as the crow flies. According to the King’s spies, there, under the slopes of Falûn, lay the underground halls of Ragnar the Smith. He calculated that it would take him another five days to reach his destination, if everything went well. Probably even more. There was no way to tell what the paths among the mountain chains might be like.

The journey across such open lands was just as dangerous as that in the woods had been, thus he began to look out for a hiding place already when the shadows started to deepen. It took him quite some time, and it happened almost by accident, but he did find a well-hidden, dry cave, big enough for even his horses to spend the night there.

The cave seemed abandoned, but Elfhelm knew that appearances could be deceiving. And indeed, when he walked around to check out the place, he discovered hidden niches, carved by skilled hands in the back wall of the cave, and in the niches stood leather sacks with dried and grated meat, dried mushrooms, fruits and berries and other, less appealing but well-preserved food. There were a few wolf- and bearskins that could be used as bedrolls or blankets, too, and in a dark corner he found a small store of firewood, neatly stocked.

Elfhelm knew he was taking a great risk by staying in this obviously well-known and frequently used hideout. But it was too late already to start looking for another resting place. Darkness was falling quickly outside, and to spend the night under the free sky would be even more dangerous. The best choice was to keep as close to the entrance of the cave as possible, to have his weapons in reach and to hope that he would not get any company during this night. Mayhap he would be lucky enough to remain undiscovered.

Under these circumstances he found little sleep, of course, just as in the nights before, and he asked himself how long he would be able to go on like this. But he could spend the night in the cave undisturbed, aside from the ever-present howling of wolves. The company he did hope to avoid had not arrived ‘til before sunrise.

The two man-shaped shadows appeared as noiselessly as ghosts, seemingly out of nowhere. They seemed very alike in the slowly vanishing darkness – tall, long-limbed and agile – and they descended the rocky hillsides without disturbing the loose stones and causing any noise. They seemed to follow the same direction Elfhelm had followed so far, but turning to the East shortly after they had reached the valley.

As they came closer, Elfhelm saw that the first one was a tall, weather-beaten man, wearing a travel-stained cloak of heavy, dark-green cloth. The hood of the cloth was overshadowing his face. Elfhelm wondered how the man was able to see properly, with that hood pulled into his face, but it seemed not to disturb the stranger. He was wrapped into his cloak so tightly that only his high boots of supple leather – well-worn and caked with mud – could be seen.

His companion, following him from a distance of a few steps, was only an inch or two shorter. He wore a cloak, too, but one of a lighter cloth, and only casually fastened on his shoulders. Under the cloak he had a short-sleeved jerkin made of soft, moss-green leather, breaches of rough, brown linen and a surprisingly fine-looking, silvery grey undershirt. His wrist-guards would have given him away as an archer, even without the great bow and the full quiver strapped to his back. He had auburn hair, worn in an intricate, coronet-like five-strand braid, and very bright, slightly slanted green eyes.

His face was fair beyond anything Elfhelm had seen before, but what caught the Marshal’s eyes were his ears. His delicately-curved, leaf-shaped ears that ended in fine points. There could be no doubt about it – the second traveller was an Elf.

Elfhelm had never seen an Elf in his whole life – no-one in the Mark had, as long as the Elders could remember – not even during his years of service in the garrison of Cair Andros. Elves did not come to Gondor anymore, ‘twas said, although there had been rumours about an ancient haven of theirs near Dol Amroth, and that the Princes of that mighty fief still had some contact to them. But those were just that – rumours.

Nonetheless, there still existed ancient legends among the Men of the Mark, too, about the old times when the Éothéod had dwelt in the far North, at the sources of the Great River. Legends about the beautiful, elusive and dangerous creatures that had lived in the trees of the great forest and sometimes lured the careless into their dark woods with magnificent songs and bewitching dances, only to leave them behind, somewhere from where they could not find the way back on their own.

And there were other legends, darker and even more malevolent ones, about the Elves slain in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad. About Elves, whose houseless spirits could not find peace and haunted the lands of the living, looking for a host body. If some unfortunate fool was careless enough to invite them in, ‘twas said, they would take over his body, forcing him out of it, so that he would never find his way to the afterlife. The Elven spirit, though, would switch from host body to host body, wreaking havoc on everyone who would stand in its way.

Elfhelm was not certain whether to believe these legends – or the even more disturbing tales about the Lady of the Golden Wood – or not. At least it seemed that the legends had described the looks of Elves truthfully. They were beyond fair. He could not help but stare from his hiding place at this mysterious creature that had just walked out of the legends of his people into the bright daylight.

Which was a mistake, apparently. The Elf must have felt the watching eyes upon himself, for he gave his companion some sign Elfhelm could not quite notice. They both dropped to the ground noiselessly, merging with the grass and the shadows so seamlessly that though Elfhelm knew where they should be, he could not see them anymore nevertheless.

He realized he was sitting in a trap but could not – would not – leave his horses behind. All he could perhaps do was to lure these two away and return for the faithful beasts later. The choice to leave the cave without getting caught was slim – unlike him, these two obviously were experienced woodmen, more skilled in tracking and hiding – but he had to try, at the very least.

About twenty feet had he been able to crawl from the cave when a hand grabbed his shoulder, immobilizing him with an iron grip. He looked up in defeat – right into the bright eyes of the Elf. It surprised him to no end, to find such strength in the slender, graceful creature.

“What have we found?” a deep voice asked from his other side. ‘Twas the Man, obviously. The Elf shrugged.

“He does not look like one of the Woodmen,” he answered in Westron, the same tongue the question had been asked. “Nor seems he to be one of the Khimmer people – or one of their subjects. You have more frequent dealings with your own kind – you tell me.”

The Man threw back his hood, revealing a shaggy head of dark hair, stroked with grey that tumbled over his shoulder. His face was pale and stern and strangely noble; the sharp features and keen grey eyes reminded Elfhelm of the Men of Gondor he had served with.

“Strange,” the Man said in a low voice. “The hair and the features of one of the Erza, but the stature and the eyes of a Man of Rohan.”

The Elf frowned. “Since when do the Riders of Rohan have any business with the Easterlings?”

“Other than fighting them?” asked the Man with a faint smile. “I know not. They had none when I lived among them – but times change. And so do people.”

“Mortal people, perhaps,” replied the Elf with a dismissive shrug. “Can I let go of him now? He cannot run from us; not here.”

“Nor would he try and leave his horses behind,” said the Man. “Not if he has any blood of the Mark in his veins.”

“So, you have felt them, too?” asked the Elf with a broad grin. “They are still in the cave, I deem.”

“They are remarkably quiet,” replied the Man. “Had we not known of the cave already, we might have overlooked them.”

“You perhaps,” the Elf gave a derisive snort but let go of Elfhelm. “Talk to this Man; I shall keep watch.”

Without waiting for an answer, he run up the closest hill with an almost feline grace and became one with his surroundings. The Man squatted down next to Elfhelm and gave the young Marshal a good, hard look.

“So... we are among us Men now. ‘Tis time for open speech. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Ossiach,” replied Elfhelm; which was the truth. It was his name – his Erza name, given him and used by his mother alone. All his siblings had two names, one in the tongue of the Mark and one in the tongue of their mother’s people. “I am a messenger, as you have already guessed.”

“That,” answered Elfhelm coldly, “is my business alone. And I shall not tell anyone of it but those who are concerned. You are not.”

The Man raised an eyebrow and a slight smile appeared on his face again. “Maybe so. I assume you are oath-bound to this quest of yours. I know the Rohirrim well enough not to waste my time trying to ask questions you would not answer.”

“And who are you to pretend knowing so much about the Mark and its people?” asked Elfhelm, a little annoyed by this interrogation. He was used to do the interrogating, not to be the subject of it.

“I am called Strider,” said the other calmly. “I am a Ranger of the North, and I am looking for a creature that might cause great trouble; for he is small, but full of mischief.”

“None of your concern,” said Strider. “I think not you would ever cross his way, and even if you did, he would hide from you. It takes the eyes of a huntsman – or that of a Wood-Elf,” he added, nodding towards his unseen companion, “to spot him, and even for us, ‘tis not easy to follow his trail.”

“So you lost him and asked the Elf to help you find him again?” asked Elfhelm. “’Tis strange that he would help you. Elves are said to be unfriendly to Men.”

“This might be said among your people, who chose to forget all about their past dealings with the Elves of the Greenwood,” said Strider. “But I am an Elf-friend, as have been all my forefathers, and no-one of us has ever regretted it. To answer your question, though: yea, I have lost the trail of my prey, and the Elf is helping me. He was coming upon a different errand, and we met by accident. And this choice meeting made me very glad, for I have known him for many long years and trust him with my life.”

Elfhelm shrugged, not quite convinced. “’Tis your life you are putting at risk. Can we go our separate ways now?”

“I fear not,” replied Strider with a grim smile. “Firstly, I need a safe hideout for the night myself, and you have already taken the place I had in my mind. Like it or not, you will have to share.”

Elfhelm glared daggers at the stranger, but he had to admit that Strider was right. Unless he wanted to fight both the Ranger and the Elf for the cave – a fight he was not certain he could win – he had to share it with them. No-one in their right mind would spend the night outside, with the wolves, if they could avoid it.

“I might trust you that you are an honest messenger,” said Strider, “but leaving you in my back, unwatched, would be foolish. I shall accompany you on the rest of your journey. Have you been honest, it will be beneficial for you, as my skills in woodcraft are doubtlessly better than yours. Should you have lied to me... well, that would be unfortunate.”

“The Men of the Mark do not lie,” replied Elfhelm indignantly, instinct winning over carefulness for a moment. Strider smiled.

“Indeed, they do not. But I still cannot be certain who – or what – you are. Thus I choose to err on the safe side and go with you.”

The smile vanished from the older man’s face. “I think not that you have a choice in this, messenger... unless you want to kill me. You are welcome to try, of course. You will fail.”

There was no threat in the Ranger’s voice, no arrogance, only the calm certainty in his own abilities. Elfhelm mumbled something in his own tongue but stopped arguing. He was angry, but he was no fool. On the open battlefield, on horseback, he could probably beat this man... it depended on the horses. But there was little hope to shake off a Ranger in the woods or in the mountains. If the Rangers of the North were half as skilled as the ones in Ithilien, he truly had no chance against this man out in the wilderness.

The Ranger apparently did not expect any answer. He whistled softly, and the Elf returned to them, quickly and noiselessly like some big, hunting cat.

“Not much. There are no trees to talk to, and the heart of the bramble bushes is black. They wrap themselves in malevolent silence. The rocks here have long forgotten how to speak with an Elf, if indeed they had ever known. I doubt that many of my kind would have come here in this Age... save from some houseless spirits of those slain in the Battle upon Dagorlad,” he added with a grin; obviously, he had heard about the ghost stories of Men before. “But I cannot sense any of those, either.”

“Their howling comes from the North, but it is faint now and I could only hear it from a great distance,” said the Elf. “They will not bother you for days yet, if nothing unexpected happens. Besides, they sound like ordinary wolves, although one cannot tell the presence of a Warg by hearing alone. You will have to be careful.”

“Does it mean you are not coming with us any longer?” Strider frowned slightly. The Elf shook his head.

“Nay, I must meet our trackers at the ford in four days’ time. ‘Twould be a tough journey, even for me. I shall part company with you at daybreak.”

“So will I,” smiled the Elf, for the first time since they met, and Elfhelm had the feeling as if spring had suddenly arrived to these bleak lands, “yet we shall meet again, my friend. We have promised Mithrandir to take custody of the creature once you caught him, have we not?”

“You have,” agreed Strider, “and never have I heard that the Elves of Mirkwood would have failed to keep their promises. Let us return to the cave now. I know you would prefer a treetop, my friend, but the cave is safer.”

The Elf laughed. ‘Twas a light, peeling laughter, refreshing like the spring rain.

“You seem to forget where I dwell at home. This modest little cave would make me no more uncomfortable than any house of Men might. Besides, can you see here any trees in which I could sleep?”

They both laughed now, and the Ranger looked much, much younger in his mirth that he had earlier.

“Let us rest,” he then said, “for we shall have a long and arduous journey before us. The paths are not pleasant among the Mountains of Nimvarkinh.”

“Have you been there before?” asked Elfhelm, following them into the cave, where his horses greeted him with a happy neigh.

The Elf went to the good beasts at once, singing to them softly in his own, strange tongue, and the horses, to Elfhelm’s surprise, allowed him to stroke their necks and flanks. Mayhap it was true that Elves could become friends with all good beasts... or bewitch them with their songs.

“I have been to Rhûn once, long ago,” answered Strider, “in the days of Hademar, the father of Ragnar the Smith. He was a great warlord among the Easterlings, but also a wise leader, who kept good contacts to the Dwarves of the Iron Hills and to the Men of Esgaroth, in the far North, at the Long Lake by Mirkwood. ‘Twas under his rule that the Deep Forges under the Mountains became strong and the smiths numerous, so that they could forge more and stronger weapons. While his forefathers had been mere warlords, Hademar was a prince already, in all but the title itself.”

“Him, and Ragnar in his youth, too. Hademar’s rule was less disturbed than Ragnar’s is, for in those times Dol Guldur was quiet and empty, and the Orcs less numerous, after having been beaten in the Battle of the Five Armies. But ever since the power in the Black Lands is moving again, the fate of the Easterlings has become a grim one, and Rhûn suffers greatly under the yoke of Mordor.”

“Are they not the allies of the Dark Lord, then?” Elfhelm frowned. “Why have they not broken free while the enemy was still weak?”

Strider gave him a surprised glance. “Have you been sent forth without being taught anything about these lands and the peoples who dwell here? Gondor and the Mark had peace from the Dark Lord for a while, however short it might have been, but the North was less fortunate. For during that time of peace, the Enemy dwelt in Dol Guldur, poisoning Southern Mirkwood with darkness and fell creatures, and tightening his iron grip on the peoples of Rhûn.”

“They say that a house which is divided unto itself cannot stand forth,” added the Elf softly, “and the Khimmer jarls are known to fight each other all the time.”

“Fortunately for us,” replied Elfhelm dryly, but Strider shook that shaggy head of his a little impatiently.

“Nay, ‘tis where you are wrong. Truly, a united Rhûn under the rule of a strong warlord could be a threat for the Mark. But only a strong Warlord, supported by all the lesser jarls, can hope to break free from Mordor. Why can you not see this?”

He took a deep breath, calming himself, and continued. “Ragnar the Smith has a very narrow path to walk. As long as his people are starving, he cannot keep the jarls from raiding the more fortunate lands. He does not have the title or the power of a King; his people will only follow him as long as he can provide them with what they need. And he cannot turn against Sauron openly while his warriors are raiding the free people of Middle-earth, for that would mean fighting a war on two fronts, neither of which he could truly hope to win. Few of the Easterlings serve Mordor by choice. Most of them serve it out of fear.”

“And even so, they are not spared,” added the Elf. “The Orcs and other fell creatures make no difference between friend and foe when they are hungry, unless told so. And why would Sauron tell them to spare the Easterlings? Fear is his mightiest weapon; it keeps his reluctant allies on the short leash.”

“What if the Khimmer warlord tried to find new alliances?” asked Elfhelm carefully, for these two seemed to know a lot more about the affairs of Rhûn than anyone in the Mark. “What if he sought out a truce with some of the lands his jarls used to raid? Could he be trusted?”

“I would say, one can trust Ragnar the Smith to choose whatever might serve his people’s best interests,” replied Strider, just as carefully. “He would choose it above his own flesh and blood, if he had to. ‘Tis said he was made to wrestle with bear cubs as a child, to make him hard and strong – I know not if that is true. But he will show no mercy towards anyone when it comes to defend his people – not even towards himself.”

“He might,” said the Ranger, “but not all the mighty jarls would agree with him. ‘Tis in the nature of the Khimmer warriors to rather take what they want by force than to ask for it. But if Ragnar is willing, he will find a way to negotiate for a truce. Though you might not find that way to your liking.”

Elfhelm remained silent for a while, pondering over possible choices. Aelfgifu had provided him with so little knowledge – as she had not had more to her disposal – that he was in dire need of help. Strangely enough, even though the company of the Elf made him uncomfortable, Elfhelm had the feeling that he could trust this Ranger.

“I cannot do this alone,” he admitted freely. “I know nigh to nothing of these people, and what I do know is thrice ten years old. Would you come with me to Ragnar the Smith and help me in this battle of wits and will for peace? I can offer you some modest reward after my return home. My family does have the means to pay for your help. With coin if you want; in horses, if that is what you prefer.”

Strider looked into his eyes for an endless moment, and Elfhelm felt as if the older man could read his mind and his heart like an open scroll. He did not try to resist – this was about trust, and he was the one who needed to prove trustworthy first, if he wanted the Ranger’s help.

“I have no need for your coin or your horses,” Strider finally said. “But I can see that you are honest and truly need my help. I will show you the way to the West-gate of Nimvarkinh, and I will accompany you into the presence of Ragnar the Smith. With your quest I cannot help much, aside from offering my advice. ‘Tis you who must decide to follow it – or not, if that seems more suitable for you.”

“I am grateful for that,” said Elfhelm. “At the very least this gives me the hope to get to Ragnar the Smith in the first place. And who knows, mayhap you will find a trace of the creature you are hunting, too.”

“I doubt it,” replied Strider. “The Deep Furnaces would be too hot and too bright for him – he would never go there. But the Khimmer patrols stray far into the East – someone might have useful tidings. Let us rest ‘till daybreak, and then go on swiftly. For time is something neither of us has aplenty right now.”

The others followed his advice and lay down on their makeshift bedrolls. Elfhelm tried to sleep but his heart was too much in unease. He rolled from one side to the other several times, feeling bad about disturbing the sleep of his companions – if the Elf’s standing motionlessly and humming in a low, barely audible voice at the cavern’s mouth could be called sleep.

After a while, though, weariness overwhelmed even Elfhelm’s mind, and he fell into a deep sleep, one deeper and more peaceful than he ever had since he had left the Mark.

‘Twas the Elf who woke them in the next morn, shortly before daybreak. They ate something, fed the horses and gave them some water, but they used their own supplies rather than touching whatever was stored in the cave. Elfhelm had thought that this would be an old hideout of Strider’s, but the Ranger said that last time he had been there it was just an empty cave. The Khimmer patrols must have made it to one of their regular resting places.

Shortly thereafter the Elf parted company with them, turning back on the path he and the Ranger had come and vanishing from their view in no time. Elfhelm and Strider made themselves on their way, and the young Marshal was thankful to have a companion who knew at least a little about these strange lands. Even though Striders knowledge, too, was a little... well, outdated.

“When I was here, Thorvald the One-handed, Ragnar’s grandsire was still alive,” he said thoughtfully. “As far as I can tell, he was the most respected Warlord of the Khimmer people. He was renowned of his berserk fury in battle. With only one arm, he was able to beat any adversary, or so the Khimmer warriors told.”

“’Tis unusual for an Easterling chieftain,” said Elfhelm, “to lack a limb yet rise to power nevertheless.”

“He lost his arm during the bear-fight, or so they say,” answered the Ranger, “and that he survived it at all was seen as a sign that the bear has been reborn in him. But he is said to have been sly as well as strong. He was the one who secured Nimvarkinh for the Warlords, by marrying the daughter of an old yet unimportant clan, which owned the Deep Furnaces back then. ‘Tis said that the Easterlings used to fear the Furnaces, for the fire that burned in them came from the inside of the earth and needed no coal nor wood to feed them. But I doubt that very much. I deem ‘tis but a legend. Not even the Dwarves of Moria could do without coal to heat up their smithies.”

“Is it not said that Nimvarkinh, too, used to be a Dwarf city once?” asked Elfhelm. “Mayhap there is more hidden in its deep shafts than just Easterlings hiding from both, friend and foe.”

“That might be so,” admitted the Ranger, “just as ‘tis true that once the Broadbeam Dwarves had a great city under the Mountains of Nimvarkinh. But that was a long time ago, back in the Elder Days. They are gone now, save a few families that are said still to be dwelling in the deepest shafts, which the Khimmer cannot reach. No-one knows aught about their true fate.”

“And the Khimmer tolerate them?” asked Elfhelm in surprise. Strider shrugged.

“The Dwarves bother them not. Sometimes they even accept a skilled Khimmer lad as an apprentice. Ragnar himself was taught by a Dwarf master in his youth, ‘tis said.”

“Then let us hope the Khimmer are just half as patient with us,” said Elfhelm, eyeing the horizon worriedly, “for it seems that we are about to have some company.”

Strider looked into the same direction and saw about a dozen sturdy, muscular, russet-haired men, approaching quickly. They wore soft leather shirts and breeches, and above those rough wolfshide tunics. Their legs were wrapped in some rough, woollen cloth, the sandals fastened with thin leather thongs above them. Their heavy leather belts were at least a span wide, and from them hung knives, leather pouches and battle-axes, while the men held short, broad-pointed spears in their hands. The round iron helmets they wore had narrow, upturned brims like hats. The men had short-cropped, full beards and thick moustaches, in the fashion of the Easterlings.

“Be quiet,” said the Ranger warningly. “Khimmer warriors on patrol are quite irritable. The best thing is to wait for them to make the first move, or else you can get killed ere you state your business here.”

“But I cannot fulfil my quest if I get captured by the raiding bands of some Khimmer chieftain,” pointed out Elfhelm in worry.

Strider shrugged. “I would not worry about that. Look at their helmets; they wear the iron sign of a rampant bear. And their weapons were undoubtedly made by a skilled ironsmith. These are the Warlord’s people all right. Now all you have to do is to persuade them to bring you before their Lord. Alive.”

Elfhelm was not sure he liked the amused tone of the Ranger, but at the moment he was too busy watching the approaching Easterlings to respond in kind. They came on foot; only their leader and his two companions rode big-boned, heavy horses. It was the leader, particularly, who had caught Elfhelm’s interest.

The Easterling leader was a young man of roughly Elfhelm’s age, a true giant among his own people, with big bones and heavy limbs. His chest was broad like the bellows in a Dwarf smithy, his arms like the branches of a great tree, with the wide sleeves of his fine leather shirt rolled up over his elbows. His tunic was made of the hide of a cave bear, the sacred animal of his people, which alone revealed his high rank and importance among his own people.

His breastplate and pointed helmet was of polished bronze and adorned with ancient symbols representing the sun – a reminder of the Easterlings’ old faith, way before the bear cult. Like his men, he pulled his hair back into a tight ponytail, and as he turned his head to the side to say something to one of his companions, the sparkle of small jewels could be seen in the clap holding it together. His heavy weapons’ belt and his boots were fitted with gold. He alone of all men had a short broadsword, hanging from his belt in a jewelled scabbard, and a gilded oval shield in his hand, adorned with the image of the rearing black bear.

“Impressive,” murmured Elfhelm. “This must be one of the Warlord’s captains, I deem.”

“More than that, I assume,” answered Strider quietly. “I tend to believe that he might belong to Ragnar’s family. They are known to be taller than their subjects, and the symbols upon his helmet and breastplate cannot be worn by any other clan than that of the Warlord.”

“And who are the women with him?” asked Elfhelm, looking at the young man’s companions. “Do Khimmer chieftains take their wives to battle with them?”

“Nay,” the Ranger shook his head, “these are Khimmer shieldmaidens. Be careful with them – they are not quite the same shieldmaidens you know from the Mark. These live only to fight – and to die honourably. ‘Tis a short and violent life, and they know no mercy, not in giving it, nor in expecting it.”

Elfhelm eyed the two young women curiously. They wore mail shirts that covered their knees but were open on the side, up to the hip, so that they could move unhindered. Their weapons’ belts were like those of the men, but aside the battle-axes they also wore long swords. Their muscular arms were naked under the short-sleeved shirts, but they wore strong vambrances for protection. Their helmets were pointed like the leader’s, but they wore the symbol of their order upon them – a small golden shield and across it two silver arrows – and a piece of chain mail hung from those helmets, protecting their necks. The same symbol as on their helmets could be seen painted upon their shields.

One of them was the usual voluptuous, russet-haired, round-faced Khimmer woman the likes of which could be seen all across Rhûn. The other one, however, had a fine, oval face, clear grey eyes, raven hair and a more slender build, confirming the rumour that some Khimmer chieftains took wives from the Northern Dúnedain – even though it might not have been a voluntary match from the women’s side.

This shieldmaiden most certainly was a half-bred; her arched eyebrows and high forehead revealed a quick wit and a strong will, while her full, slightly wide mouth spoke of passion. Her sword hilt and the handle of her axe were set with gold and jewels, signalling her high rank among her own people. And yet it was her strange, almost angry beauty that caught Elfhelm’s eye most.

She radiated sadness, pride and cool strength, and the young Marshal got the inexplicable feeling that there were few powers in this world that could resist her iron will. Which was strange, as the women of the Easterlings lived, as a rule, in complete submission to their men. Therefore, this shieldmaiden could not be just any common woman. Either her bloodline or her own deeds – or, most likely, both of these factors together – had apparently raised her above the others. Unlike her shield-sister, she rode on the side of their leader with a blank face, without stealing admiring looks at him.

The bear-sized young man rode up so close that the nostrils of his horse nearly reached Elfhelm’s face. His steely blue eyes sized up the strangers suspiciously; then he asked in a deep, rough voice.

“Who are you and what are you doing here? These are our lands; outsiders have no business crossing our borders.”

He spoke Westron, and not badly at all, but with the harsh accent that revealed an Easterling at once.

“I am called Strider,” he replied calmly. “I am a huntsman from the North. I have visited Rhûn before, and my name is known among the older chieftains of the East. This is Ossiach, a messenger sent out on an urgent errand. But who are you to hinder us in going on our own ways?”

“Choose your words carefully, stranger, or I shall make you choke on them,” he answered heatedly. “I do not have to justify myself to strangers in our own realm. But if you must know, I am Ingolf Ragnarsson, and I have every right to question any trespassers in the lands under my father’s rule. So, tell me at once who has sent you and why, or I might shake it out of you!”

Strider did not lose his calm for a moment. His manners reminded Elfhelm of those of a patient adult, dealing with an angry child.

“You are mistaken, if you think you could frighten me, Ingolf Ragnarsson,” said the Ranger with a shrug. “And these lands are far from belonging to your father yet… ‘tis doubtful, indeed, whether they ever will, unless the Dark Lord falls from power and his fell creatures scatter in all winds. Boast not ere you have achieved victory. But if you truly are the son of Ragnar the Smith, Lord of the Deep Furnaces, you need not to fear us. ‘Tis he my companion has been sent to.”

“Fear you?” Ingolf laughed disdainfully; a booming laughter that echoed from the hills. “Why should the warriors of Rhûn fear two puny spies? If I swung my fist, the mere draught of it would knock you off your feet. I can bend an iron bar with one hand – why should I fear you?”

“Trust not the strength of your arm alone, son of Ragnar the Smith,” said Stride with a thin smile. “The poisonous snake is thin like the finger of a man; yet one bite of it could kill the biggest, clumsiest oaf. And the snake can hit you as quick as lightning, if angered.”

“Are you threatening me?” Ingolf’s big hand clenched into fists and he towered over the Ranger like and angry mountain bear. “You think you can frighten me?”

“I am warning you, young one,” answered Strider, his eyes glittering now. “You deem yourself safe, protected by your men and your own strength. But there are other powers in this world, higher and deeper, brighter and darker, but certainly more dangerous ones than yours.”

“I knew it; you are spies,” declared Ingolf in satisfaction. “Half-breds like your companion never walk straight paths, and they often seek out the help of dark arts. Are you a sorcerer of some sort?”

The accusation was so ridiculous it would have made Elfhelm laugh, had their situation not been so dangerous. Strider, however, looked more than a little annoyed by now.

“Young fool,” he replied, not caring any longer about angering the Khimmer leader. “Were I a sorcerer, I had already turned you into a lump of rock, for that is what your mind resembles. Fortunately for you, I am no sorcerer, nor a wizard of any sort, just a simple huntsman, like many others. And Ossiach here is a messenger, sent to Ragnar the Smith on an important errand, as I have already told you. So, would you cease bothering us?”

A slight murmur arose among the Khimmer warriors. Messengers had been spared and protected since the oldest times in Rhûn, for their errands could mean life or death for a clan… or for the entire folk. More than that, the Ranger’s words and manners radiated a kind of authority these rough warriors could not help but respect. Unlearned they might have been, but they recognized true leadership when they saw it.

The raven-haired shieldmaiden gave first Strider, then Elfhelm a thoughtful look, as if trying to decide if they were trustworthy. But Ingolf was not easily persuaded.

“If you think us such fools that we would lead you to the gates of our city and open the secret doors of Nimvarkinh for you, then you are mistaken,” he said angrily. “So that you can show the way for all outlaws and brigands to our halls? Nay; visitors like your kind are welcomed with the tip of a sword, in safe distance from home.”

The Ranger shrugged. The cold flame of wrath had gone from his eyes already, and he looked rather… bored with both Ingolf and the whole affair.

“My name is known in the court of Ragnar the Smith,” he said simply. “I have been there before, in the times of your grandsire; I am older than I look. You cannot remember me, for you are barely more than a child. My last visit in Nimvarkinh was before your birth.”

The hint that he might be too young to be involved in the important issues of his father’s court angered Ingolf very much, but he felt – and rightly so – that despite his raw strength, he would be no match for the Ranger. Seeking easier prey, he now turned to Elfhelm, crossing his muscular arms before his broad chest challengingly.

“You pretend to be a messenger, then? Sent to my father, no less? What important message is it you are carrying, eh?”

“I have been sent to your father, not to you,” replied Elfhelm curtly. “Those sent to the head do not go to the feet,” he added, quoting the old Morduin saying of his mother’s people, and refused to answer any more questions.

The Khimmer warriors growled angrily; tempers started running high among them again. A few even began to agree with Ingolf that they should simply kill these spies and be done with them.

“We can always kill them if we find proof hat they are indeed spies,” said the raven-haired, grey-eyed shieldmaiden. “Yet what if this one truly carries an important message for our Lord? If we kill them now, although we would need them alive later, we would harm ourselves and our own people. Besides… it would not be right. They should be given the chance to prove themselves.”

Ingolf became thoughtful, silencing his men. This surprised Elfhelm, for his mother had always said that the Khimmer men did not care for the opinions of their women. It was thinkable, though, that this fair and proud shieldmaiden would have a privileged status, even among her shieldmates. Shieldmaidens of the East were known to have a certain influence in Khimmer society, depending on their heritage and on the level of their skills. What kind of connection might have been between this one and Ingolf, Elfhelm could not guess, but something was there, even an outsider like him could see that.

“What do you suggest, Beryl?” the young Khimmer leader finally asked. The shieldmaiden – Beryl was probably a name she wore only inside her order – shrugged.

“Let us take them to Nimvarkinh; we are returning home anyway. If the messenger turns out to be honest, good foor him. If not, we still can break his neck… both their necks. Have they lied, at least we can beat out of them who sent them and why.”

The suggestion was a strange mix of well-meaning cruelty. The men discussed it shortly – then Ingolf decided to follow it.

“This is unusual,” murmured Strider. “She behaves herself like someone whose opinions are usually respected – it does not happen frequently to Khimmer women. Not even to shieldmaidens.”

“I was told that shieldmaidens of the East have a different status than those of the Mark,” answered Elfhelm in an equally low voice, “but I know not what the differences are. Do you know?”

“Shieldmaidens of the East are chosen for life,” said the Ranger thoughtfully. “They are not allowed to marry or to become pregnant; to avoid the latter, they use a special draught.”

“What for? If they are not allowed to marry anyway…” Elfhelm trailed off, realizing the truth ere the other man could have answered.

“They are sometimes offered to an important guest, an emissary or an ally,” said Strider nevertheless, his even voice not revealing what he would think about such practices. “And they are allowed to choose lovers during their times of rest.”

Elfhelm stole a glance at Beryl, admiring her stern, almost angry beauty, wondering if she could avoid becoming a bargaining offer. Mayhap not; she would be greatly desired for her unusual looks. Her weapons were well-made and richly adorned, unlike those of her shield-sister, and she seemed to be respected, too, but still… she was a woman, and women had little worth in the East, or so the rumours said.

“I wonder if she is related to Ingolf,” he murmured. Strider shook his head.

“I think not,” said Elfhelm. “He does not look at her as a man looks at a woman who has caught his eye. More like one looks at a trusted ally.”

He could not finish, for Ingolf stepped closer again, with Beryl in trail, and measured them from head to toe with a suspicious look.

“Very well,” he said to Beryl, “we take them with us. But they are your responsibility. You will answer to me if they escape.”

“They will not have the chance,” announced Beryl coldly, winking to two of the men. “Bind their arms to their backs safely and fasten the lash to my saddle. If they want to get to Nimvarkinh, they will have to run.”

The prospect of a run of many miles to Nimvarkinh’s West-gate did not seem to bother Strider. Rangers were used to cover great expanses on foot. But Elfhelm had already had more of it than he liked to, and could barely suppress a groan.

They travelled ‘til the onset of darkness. The speed was not one that would have been beyond Elfhelm’s abilities; still, he was deathly tired when they finally reached another hideout, larger and better supplied than the one in which they had spent the previous night. This had a huge main cave and several smaller chambers that opened from the central room, providing some semblance of privacy to the leader and the shieldmaidens.

Beryl ordered the captives to be brought to one of the smaller caves, where she intended to watch them personally. As usual, her orders were followed without objections. Their weapons and Elfhelm’s horses were kept with the men in the main cave. Still, Beryl had their legs be bound, too.

“If they manage to escape now, I deserve my fate,” she said to her shield-sister who wore the name of Emerald.

“Do you want me to help guarding them?” asked Emerald. The calculating look with which she eyed the two captured men revealed that the offer was not entirely selfless.

“Oh no, Emerald, my dear,” she replied coldly, “I need no help from you to keep my captives under tight watch. I saved them from being killed for their big mouths; they are mine now. I shall present them to our Lord, so that they can prove their trustworthiness… if they can, that is.”

“You, always you!” she hissed. “You are grabbing every scrap of honour and glory, as if it would do you any good! What do you hope for? You not even have what we do – the young Lord never looks at you, not once. You got your wish and became our captain – what good has it brought you? Do you hope to get into the good graces of our Lord himself? What if your captives are lying?”

“Then I shall cut their throats with my own hand,” replied Beryl coldly and lay down on the floor, next to the two men. Emerald and she were talking in their own tongue, unlike earlier, when they had confronted the strangers in Westron. They could not know, of course, that both Elfhelm and the Ranger understood them.

“You ask me why I am chasing glory tirelessly?” Beryl continued, without as much as looking at Emerald; her voice was dripping with disdain. “How could you even begin to understand, you and the others? You are only trying to exceed to catch the eye of a powerful man. You want to be called shieldmaidens, followers of Freya the Great? Nay, miserable little wenches you are, fearing the hard fate of wives, the childbirth and the ageing, so you flee to battle and an early death. But you wish not to give up the pleasantries of womanhood, either. Zephyr is the only one truly seeking honour and glory, craving the great deeds of battle, like men do. Zephyr… aye, she is a shieldmaiden like all of us should be.”

“I have not reached yet the same level,” she added with fierce determination, “but I shall, one day. That has been my ultimate goal, ever since my initiation. This is why I am willing to cross the empty lands between Nimvarkinh and the Ash Mountains, seeking out good weapons masters that could teach me new things. I care not what their price would be… they all want the same thing anyway.”

Her disdainful voice left no doubt about the nature of that price. Emerald squatted down next to her. Jealousy gone for now, she asked her admired – and much hated – captain with open curiosity.

“Is it true what they say? That Zephyr is your sister, by blood, too? And that you both belong to the kin of the young Lord? Is this why he would never touch either of you?”

“You babble a lot or rubbish, you and the others,” replied Beryl, not even opening her eyes.

Beryl now sat up and gave the fleshy, russet-haired shieldmaiden a stern, almost angry look.

“Have you not sworn the Oath of Silence? Do you want me to report you to the Tanfana?”

Emerald shut her mouth with an audible snap. Her round face mirrored such fear that Elfhelm almost felt pity for her. She seemed to wish to beg her captain not to report her, but obviously dared not to do so.

‘Twas Ingolf who saved her from this trap. They young lord appeared in the entrance of the inner cave and winked her to him. Emerald laid down her helmet and her weapons belt and hurried to obey. She could not afford to keep the young lord waiting.

Beryl looked after them in bitter disdain as they retired to the private chamber that opened from the main cave.

“Well, he is just a man, like all the others,” she murmured, more to herself than to her captives. “They are all the same.”

She stepped out into the outer cave, too, joining the men for supper. No-one of them bothered to offer Elfhelm or the Ranger any food.

“I do not know much, either,” said Strider, trying to move his arms and legs a little, despite the tight leather thongs they had been bound with. “I was told that the shieldmaidens fight for nine moons in every year. After three moons, they have one free. They return to their tribe, let their kin celebrate them and choose a lover, usually a well-respected warrior, to spend a few pleasant days with him.”

“But why is it forbidden to know their true names?” asked Elfhelm. “And what about that Oath of Silence?”

“I am not entirely certain,” answered the Ranger, “but as I understand it, their lives in the order and in their families are completely separated. At home, they use their given names and do not speak of what happens to them during their time of fighting.”

“The Tanfana,” corrected Strider. “That is the high priestess of their order – an old woman who alone knows all their secrets and who has taught them the mysteries of their order. She can decide about life or death of a shieldmaiden; no wonder they all fear her.”

Elfhelm taught about that for a while. Compared with the lives of the shieldmaidens of the Mark, all this seemed cruel and barbaric to him. He said so. Strider sighed and nodded reluctantly.

“And still, the fate of the shieldmaidens is somewhat more bearable than that of the other women in Rhûn,” he said grimly. “At least they get out of the caves and see the sunlight. Most other women spend their entire lives underground, as the bed-warmers of a powerful jarl or a respected warrior. There are too many women among the Khimmer people, and they are not valued at all.”

“Not even them. I have heard that sometimes, even though ‘tis a rare thing, they are freed from their oaths, whether they want it or not, so that they could be given to an important ally as a wife. Marriages like these happen when the shieldmaiden is the daughter of a respected jarl.

“That is just… just not right,” said Elfhelm. “When we bargain for a bride, ‘tis because a daughter is of great value for her cynn. ‘Tis a long ritual, based on the consent of both parties, and it is seen as a way to unite the members of the two clans into one family. Women are the carriers of the family maegen; they are more closely connected to their kinfolk than men are. They serve as the head of the household and do many of the chores that ensure the survival of the whole community. Even if some of them use to pick up the sword, they can change their minds any time they want and get married. Most of them do, in fact, after having fought a few years.”

“I know,” said the Ranger quietly. “I heard that the Lady Aud, Prince Théodred’s wife, used to be a shieldmaiden once. Is that true?”

Elfhelm nodded. “It is. Nonetheless, she accompanied Prince Théodred in many of his battles. They are childless, unfortunately; and though the law would allow Prince Théodred to release her and take another wife, he refused to do so when the Elders advised him.”

Elfhelm shrugged. “’Twould not be the first time that kingship went to the King’s sister-son. ‘Twas how Fréaláf Hildeson became King after the death of Helm Hammerhand and his sons. Éomer son of Éomund might be young, but the bravery and greatness of his forefathers is already showing in him.”

“Not yet,” answered Elfhelm, wondering a little why the other man seemed so interested in the affairs of the Mark, but he saw no reason not to tell him something that was widely known anyway. “But it is only a matter of time. He is a good choice; the sooner the King names him as Heir, the better.”

“It would give the throne stability,” said Elfhelm. “When all know who is to follow the Crown Prince, usurpers have less chance to seize the throne, and a kin-strife can be avoided. Prince Théodred and Éomer are like brothers to each other – Éomer’s naming as Heir would ensure the peace in the Mark.”

Strider gave him an odd look. “You know much about what is going on at court,” he said. “’Tis unusual for a simple messenger.”

Elfhelm looked back at him blankly. “None of this is some great secret in the Mark. We like to know what our King and his cynn is doing.”

“If you say so,” the Ranger replied, clearly not believing him, but not pressing the issue, either. “We should try to sleep now. ‘Tis bad enough that we have to spend the night with an empty stomach. The lack of sleep would make tomorrow’s journey even more unpleasant.”

“You truly believe it could get any more unpleasant than it already is?” grumbled Elfhelm, but he knew the Ranger was right.

They tried to find a slightly less uncomfortable position on the hard stone floor of the cave and forced themselves to sleep. Neither of them noticed the return of Beryl. The shieldmaiden gave them a long, suspicious look. When she was certain that they were truly sleeping, she covered them with wolfskins ere leaving again.

Author’s note: I’ve changed my mind about the spelling of some names. Later, I will go back to previous chapters to make the changes there, too. Until then, please bear with me.

Also, I know that in “The Web of Darkness”, the shieldmaidens of the East were called walkyrie. But that is a name given them by the people of Rhovanion. Neithan is how they call themselves.

On the next morn, both Elfhelm and the Ranger awoke in a sore state. Their limbs had lost feeling from the tight bounds, their backs hurt from having slept on the hard rock floor; and they were hungry. Beryl had been awake for some time already; now she loosened their bonds and they rubbed their stiff arms and legs vigorously to return circulation into the numb appendages.

“I shall have you something to eat,” told them Beryl. “You may remind unbound while you eat – but if you try to flee, I shall not only cut your throats but also pull every sinew from your body.”

Strider remained unimpressed, but Elfhelm could not resist the urge to tease the shieldmaiden a little.

Beryl stepped up close to him, so close that their bodies almost touched, and looked him in the eyes. Although a woman – and one of the Easterlings, at that – she was mere inches shorter than him.

“For my heart says that you were telling the truth,” she said, and a sudden, inexplicable sadness clouded her face, “and my heart is seldom wrong in these things. But woe him who manages to mislead me; I would know no mercy towards him, and my vengeance would find him to the end of the world and beyond.”

Elfhelm knew he should stop this game – it could be dangerous, not like the teasing between the Riders of the Mark and the shieldmaidens of his own people – but he could not resist his playful mood. Where this mood had come, he had no idea, but he found he was enjoying himself immensely – more than he ought to, in truth.

“And what if you find proof of my honesty and trustworthiness?” he asked, unable to suppress a grin. “What would be my reward and my compensation for a very unpleasant night, spent tightly bound on the hard cave floor?”

“If you prove to be truthful, Ragnar the Smith will welcome you in his wide halls under the mountains and honour you before his entire court,” replied Beryl, “for he is a generous host. But if that all would seem not enough for you,” she added with a sultry smile, “I might think of something to reward you.”

“Is that part of your duties, too?” he asked gravely, realizing that he might have gone too far with playing. To his surprise, though, Beryl laughed quietly.

“I shall not have any duties for the next moon,” she said. “I am going home now – to Nimvarkinh.”

“You ask too many questions, stranger,” she said. “But the neithan of Rhûn are good at keeping secrets – before all else their own ones. Be ready now; eat and prepare yourselves for a long march. We are leaving, soon.”

She turned to leave but changed her mind in the last moment, grabbing Elfhelm’s face and kissing him on the mouth, long and hard, before whirling around and leaving with long, purposeful strides.

The two men stared after her, slightly dazzled. After a while, the Ranger shook off his surprise and said. “If I were you, Ossiach, I would watch my steps carefully. One does not play games with the shieldmaiden of the East.”

“’Twas not my intention,” assured him Elfhelm hurriedly, “though her actions do amaze me. Is this custom among Khimmerian women to act so freely around men, even strangers?”

Strider shook his shaggy head. “Nay, not usually. As a rule, Khimmer women never leave their homes, unless brought to the household of a powerful jarl in the hope that they might be chosen as his next wife – or bed mate. Shieldmaidens, however, have their privileges. One of those is to take a lover feely when they are at home between fights. ‘Tis considered an honour to be chosen by a neithan – a Khimmer warrior cannot refuse without being teased mercilessly about his manliness… or the lack thereof. Not man enough for a neithan is among the worst insults among them. Fortunately, they are more… forgiving towards strangers who are not bound by their customs,” he added with a faint smile.

“Has this happened to you at the time you visited here?” asked Elfhelm. The Ranger nodded.

“I was much younger and a lot less grave then,” he said, “and the shieldmaidens recognize a warrior when they see one. However, they accepted that my customs would not allow me to know any other woman than the one I was already spoken for.”

“You are wedded, then?” That surprised Elfhelm, for the Ranger seemed more a loner to him. He had difficulties to imagine the older man with a wife and a family.

“Still betrothed,” answered Strider with a wistful smile. “There were… complications. ‘Tis a long tale, and one I shall not bother you with. We should eat, though, for I doubt our capturers would leave us alone much longer. Young Ingolf seems to have taken a disliking to me.”

“I wonder why,” teased Elfhelm, but chomped down the dried meat and flat bread that had been left for them with little appetite. Both tasted like ashes. The long draught of mead could not wash the bitter taste away.

In the meantime, the Khimmer warriors had brought forth the horses from the other cave. There were only three steeds among them: for Ingolf and the two shieldmaidens. Khimmerian axe-men usually fought and travelled on foot, leading their pack-horses on rein. Big, raw-boned horses with rough, dun-coloured coats, both the steeds and the beasts of burden, heavy-set like their owners. The Khimmer were not horse-breeders. They used the beasts bred by their Mordvin subjects or took them when raiding the settlements of Gondor or the Mark.

As they had to ride slowly, so that the axe-men could keep up with them, Beryl ordered that the two prisoners should share Elfhelm’s steed, since Strider had no horse of his own.

“Bind their arms and legs,” she said; then, giving Elfhelm’s steed an envious glance, she added matter-of-factly. “Should you turn out a spy, it would still be my gain. I would get your weapons and horses.” She paused, then said with a somewhat brittle smile. “I would be glad if you could prove your truthfulness, though.”

“Why would she say that?” wondered Elfhelm sometime later, when Strider was already sitting pillion behind him on Hafoc’s back, both of them bound tightly with leather thongs.

“You have caught her eye,” although he could not see the Ranger’s face, the voice revealed that the older man was smiling.

“By Béma, I hope not!” exclaimed Elfhelm in honest panic. “I cannot claim to have a wife or a betrothed to evade her advances.”

“’Tis unusual for an Eorling of your age to be still unwed,” he finally said.

“Not if the one we have lost our heart to chooses someone else,” he said bitterly. “I shall not stay alone much longer, though. My father has given me an ultimatum.”

“Complete with the speech about tearing a hole into the cynn-fence?” There was a smile again in the Ranger’s voice, and Elfhelm laughed.

“As I told you, I used to live among your people during Thengel-king’s reign,” answered Strider.

“Under Thengel?” repeated Elfhelm, slightly baffled. “You must have been very young then.”

“I was younger,” agreed the Ranger, “but not as young as you might think. I am older than I look.”

“When I served in the garrison of Cair Andros, I heard that the nobles of Mundburg age very slowly,” said Elfhelm thoughtfully. “I knew not that it happens in the North, too.”

“Especially in the North,” replied Strider,” and not just among the nobles. We have mingled less with other people than our cousins in the South.”

Elfhelm would have asked more questions, but he was distracted by the sudden argument between Ingolf and Beryl. He could not hear what they were saying, but the way they gestured into different directions made it clear that they were arguing about the possible route they should choose to reach their ultimate goal: the Mountains of Nimvarkinh and the halls of their Prince beneath the Mountains.

The argument went on for quite some time, ‘til Beryl gave up in obvious exasperation and stomped off to mount her steed. The other shieldmaiden wisely kept out of the fight, waiting patiently for the others to ready themselves. Finally everyone was mounted, the pack-horses on rein, the group formed the way the Khimmer preferred when travelling, and they could set off at last.

Elfhelm lost track of their route soon enough. He had never before forayed into Rhûn, and Aelfgifu’s map did not even show the steep, winding path they were following. He suspected that Strider might have recognized it, but if that was so, the Ranger gave no sign of recognition.

‘Twas a breakneck route, and not an easy one to follow, as the path forked at every hundred yards or so, sometimes in multiple directions. Even Ingolf, who knew the land like the back of his hand, had to be careful not to get lost. At one of those forks, Emerald and the rest of the patrol left them, turning to the North, where they had to relieve one of the hidden outposts. Ingolf, Beryl and the two prisoners, however, reached the South-Gate of Nimwarkinh at nightfall, on the fourth day.

“This is supposed to be the Gate?” Elfhelm eyed the entrance doubtfully. All he could see was a narrow crack in the side of a large, steeply rising rock wall. It seemed way too narrow for even a man to get through, and less so for a horse – not to mention the foot-long, needle-sharp dripstone formations hanging from above.

“It is the Gate,” answered Strider from behind his back, “but it is well hidden, of course. Only those who know the place well can find and open it.”

“You said you knew the Gate,” he retorted. “Well, let us see if there is anything behind your bold words. Free him, Beryl, but keep an eye on the other one.”

That was an unnecessary order, as the shieldmaiden had watched Elfhelm all the way like a kestrel its prey. Now she unbound Strider’s arms and legs, and after clenching and unclenching his hands a few times to fight off the numbness of his fingers, the Ranger reached into the crack – slowly and carefully, to keep the dripstone needles from severing his hand. He tried to feel his way around, ‘til he finally found the shallow little dent meant for the fingertips. He pressed hard, repeating the opening spell thrice in the Khimmer tongue, for the Gates of Nimwarkinh could only be opened from the outside by multiple tricks.

As soon as he had spoken the last word, the stone gave way under his fingers, and his hand sank into the living rock to the wrist – or so it seemed to Elfhelm’s shocked eyes. He pressed even harder, and turned the invisible opening mechanism forcefully to the left. There was some faint creaking and rumbling within the rock, and then a large slab of stone – as big as the wall of a house – turned slowly inward. The Ranger barely had time to pull his hand back.

Behind the stone door, there was a dark, narrow gateway, with just enough room between the sheer, unhewn rock walls for a man to walk with outstretched arms. The horses became restless and frightened and had to be held on tight rein, or else they would have bolted and hurt themselves. Fortunately, the gateway was not long. When the Gate closed behind them with a small creak, they were already leading their beasts out at the far end.

And so they came to the highlands called the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh; an enormous rocky plateau, surrounded by high, steep mountains on every side. ‘Twas not a fertile land, barely good enough as grazing fields. But these were the only arable lands in Nimwarkinh, tended to by the back-breaking labour of Mordvin serfs that had been moved there by their Khimmer overlords generations ago. All they could produce was a little barley and some oats; and they kept some livestock, too: undemanding, stocky hill bisons, thickly-woolled sheep and half-wild goats whose large, curved horns were used to make drinking vessels and bows.

As there was not even enough clay to make sun-dried bricks for wattle houses – and besides, every handful of soil was precious and had to be used for growing food, no matter how meagre – the serfs lived in caves: natural ones, or ones cut into the rock wall by their own hands. Wood being just as rare and precious, the sheepfolds, too, were encircled by low stone walls, to keep the beasts out of the crop. The horses had their own cave-stables.

The Mordvin serfs, labouring on the fields in their drab, undyed homespun, did not as much as look up when Ingolf and Beryl rode by with their prisoners. The bare-footed women, who were carrying water to the fields in heavy leather buckets, also ignored them, all senses focused on balancing their burden, so that no precious water would be spilled or wasted. Elfhelm found it strange at first that no children were running up to great the newcomers with their merry noise, but he soon found out the reason. It seemed that even the smallest children, barely able to walk, were given small tasks, fitting their age and skills, to ease the workload of their parents.

Elfhelm remembered the merry, carefree life of the children of the Mark, their laughter and their sometimes too noisy playing and singing, and his heart went out for these quiet, downtrodden little creatures who had to learn hard work at such a tender age, when they should have been fooling around joyfully. They were his mother’s people, after all. Not cynn, but still the same folk. Children like these were swarming by the dozens in the farmsteads around Stowburg: round-faced, brown-eyed urchins with unruly mops of brown hair. Had his mother’s clan not risked the long and perilous journey through the Brown Lands, their children would be probably labouring on these meagre fields, too.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the guardians of the Gate – stocky, heavy-set Khimmer warriors in wolfskin tunics and girdled with richly ornated weapons belts, each at least a handspan broad – who came forth from their hidden watchposts to greet and question them. Recognizing Ingolf at once, they saluted him with their short, broad-leafed spears, their rough, bearded faces splitting in huge grins. The young warlord must have been well-loved by his people.

“Welcome back to the lands of your father, Ingolf Jarl,’ spoke the head guard, a stout, good-natured fellow, in their own tongue. “Did you have a good ride?”

“Greetings, brave Gunnar,” replied Ingolf, “’tis good to be back. Have any tidings come while I was away? Has Ingmar Karason returned from the other side of the border yet?”

Gunnar shook his shaggy head grimly. “Not through this Gate, he has not… and ‘tis unlikely that he would risk the other way. Either he was waylaid and slain in the Ash Mountains – or delayed, just as I am delaying you. Forgive me. May your journey to the Mead Hall be a joyful one,” then, turning to the prisoners, he added in thickly accented but acceptable Westron. “And may you win the favour of the Lord of the Deep Forges, strangers.”

Elfhelm exchanged a look with Strider; the Ranger’s face was grim. The Ered Lithui – the Ash Mountains – were the northern border of Mordor. If Ragnar the Smith had sent a messenger (or a spy) beyond that border, then his intentions were questionable at least. Unwillingly, the head guard – who could not know they both understood his language – had given them a most valuable piece of information.

Ingolf seemed not to realize this – or else he was confident enough that the strangers will never see the daylight again, once brought before his father’s throne. He clasped forearms with Gunnar – Beryl did not waste as much as a glance at the head guard – and they continued their journey in a hurry. This time on foot, with a Mordvin groom leading Elfhelm’s horses, as his and Strider’s arms were still bound to their backs. It felt good to be able to stretch their legs, at least, all the same.

To Elfhelm’s surprise, they were heading right to the nearest mountainside. There was a steep path between the bare rocks, leading upwards and to the North-East. After some five hundred yards of laboured climbing in the mercilessly burning sun that exhausted Elfhelm’s pack horse greatly, they turned onto an even narrower path, that led in a sweeping, unbroken arch to the North, where the mountainside was scattered with twisted, dark pine trees.

Beryl apparently did not like the route, and she made no secret of her reluctance to get under those trees. Their growth might not be dense, but they could still hide whole packs of hunting wolves – a frequent peril among the Mountains of Nimwarkinh, as she pointed out.

“Wargs, more likely, rather than ordinary wolves,” murmured Strider in Rohirric, audible only for Elfhelm’s ears. “She is right. We should not follow an unwatched path among the trees as long as there is any other way.”

But Ingolf swept aside the shieldmaiden’s concerns with the argument that he wanted the strangers to see as little of Nimwarkinh as possible. Needless to say that Beryl showed little understanding for that, too.

“At least the Ranger has proved his truthfulness already,” she said. “There is no denying that he knew the South-Gate… and how to open it.”

“That proves not his good intentions,” interrupted Ingolf. “We have seen skilled spies before; spies who had found out the secret of our Gates. They never lived long enough to tell it any-one, and I shall see that these,” he glanced at his prisoners with open hostility, “cannot do so, either.”

Beryl shrugged impatiently. In her eyes, the Ranger’s knowledge of the Gate and the opening spell were proof enough. One could not just find out the secret of Nimwarkinh’s Gates. Someone had to show where the opening mechanism was hidden. The opening spell had to be spoken correctly, which had to be taught, more so to a stranger. So nay, she did not believe that he Ranger was a spy, and that vouched for his travelling companion, too. But she was not the one to choose the route.

“Very well,” she said. “You are the warlord, and as long as I am with your troops, I have to accept your choices. Even if they are foolish; like now.”

“Are you forgetting whom you are talking too?” he asked, with a clear hint of menace in his rough voice.

“I am not,” replied Beryl coldly. “But it seems to have been too long since we last fought side by side. Otherwise you would not forget that there is no living thing that could frighten me; least of all you.”

For a moment, they glared at each other with unveiled wrath, and Elfhelm feared the shieldmaiden would pay for her reckless bravery dearly. Surprisingly enough, though, Ingolf Jarl backed off again. He reeled his horse and took the head without a further word.

“Go before me, Jouko,” Beryl waved at the groom who was leading Elfhelm’s horses. “I shall take the rear.”

The groom was a tall, big-boned young fellow, broad of shoulders but very spare of flesh, with a shock of straw-coloured hair that reached the open neck of his rough homespun shirt. He had, perhaps, some Northern blood in his veins – from the Woodmen of Southern Mirkwood, or perhaps he was a scion of some captured Rider or abducted woman of the Mark. That would explain why he had to do the lowly work of the serf, instead of being accepted as a warrior. He had an open, brave face, framed by a neatly trimmed beard of reddish hue, darker than his hair, and the piercing blue eyes of a woodman or a huntsman. Elfhelm liked him immediately; he seemed to have kept his spirit, and that was a rare thing here, unless the signs were misleading.

On they went, following Ingolf who was still riding his heavy-boned steed. The rocky path was smooth and almost entirely level, and yet it was hard to tread, for the sticky brown fog that was drifting over from the Ash Mountains all the time, even from such a great distance, lay heavily upon the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh. It made their breath laboured and their mouths dry.

Also, darkness was falling quickly, and wandering around at night was a perilous task, even within the more or less safe embrace of the Mountains of Nimwarkinh. For the wolves of Mordor – as Strider had said, more likely Wargs than ordinary wolves – always found a way along the hidden passes into the Courtyard. These fell beasts not only spied on the people of Rhûn; they also lived on man-flesh and hunted in large packs. Thus the serfs of the Courtyard returned to their fortified cave-dwellings at each nightfall, taking the livestock with them.

There was a good reason for Beryl to dislike this route so much even though the groom Jouko was one of the best wolf-hunters and lived with his family high up in the mountains in a well-protected cave. Fortunately, he also knew the mountain paths like the back of his hand, and he brought them to his dwellings just before the world had sunk into the ink-black darkness of night.

Jouko’s ‘house’, as he called it, consisted of two spacious, dry caves: one for the family, one for the livestock, which, in his case, was a small flock of mountain goats. The two caves were connected by a low archway that allowed the family to get to the animals but kept the good beasts from getting into the living area. As soon as they arrived, they blocked both entrances with heavy boulders; after that, they could finally rest. Jouko’s wife, Maryatta – a young but already weary and used-up Mordvin woman – got them seated at a long, low stone table and offered them a meagre meal: fresh goat milk, cheese and some dry, hardened flatbread that was called flarn by the peoples of Rhûn.

The woman herself ate nothing, leaving their frugal meal to the three whipcord-thin, hungry-eyed children; she just sat on the stone bench lining the cave walls with a bent back, exhausted. She could not be much older than Elfhelm’s sister Osdhryd, but the thick, dark braid hanging over one shoulder was interwoven with grey already. The blue veins were swollen on her rough, reddened hands and her naked feet that lay flat upon the rocky floor of the cave. Her gaunt face mirrored past sufferings and wore the signs of a very hard life, but Elfhelm could still see the shadows of her now gone beauty lingering in her features; features that had aged before time. Unlike his Khimmer masters, though, who saw nought but cattle in their women, Jouko treated his wife with respect and tenderness.

“I assume his ancestors hailed from Laketown,” murmured Strider in Rohirric, “and he was taught to respect women the way the Lakemen do.”

“Why does he not return to his own people, then, and takes his family with him?” asked Elfhelm. Strider shrugged.

“That is a long way from here, full of perils, even for well-armed, strong men. Who would put his children to such risks in the wilderness between the Sea of Rhûn and Southern Mirkwood? ‘Tis full of Orcs, Wargs and other dangerous creatures. Those lands have become very dark since Dol Guldur come to new power. For though the Necromancer has been driven out quite a few years ago, his evil minions are still dwelling in the dark tower upon Amon Lanc, the Naked Hill and hold their reign of terror over the lands there.”

Elfhelm digested this for a while. As was the norm among the Marshals of the Mark he knew very little of what was going on in the North, his main concern being the safety of their own borders, which was not an easy thing to achieve. Now that he had forayed into the lordless lands east of Anduin deeper than ever before, he began to understand the true extent of the threat not only from raiding Khimmer parties but also from all the strange, untamed creatures full of shrewd malevolence that dwelt in these huge, wild countries. The necessity of an alliance with the self-proclaimed Prince of Rhûn, the most powerful chieftain with the largest, best-trained army of the Easterlings, became glaringly clear for him.

And if I succeed to forge an alliance, then mayhap the life of the Mordvin serfs would become somewhat easier in time, he thought, glancing at the three children. The two boys, Matti and Leino, had outlandish names like their father; most likely inherited from their Northern ancestors. The little girl was called Jerne; ‘Twas a Mordvin name, Elfhelm knew, as it was used among his mother’s people as well. All three children wore rough homespun tunics and breeches of goat wool; only her thick, dark braid made the girl Jerne different from her straw-haired brothers.

Barely had they all surrounded the roughly-cut stone table, when the wolves began to howl in the outside. Their howling, high-pitched and long-drawn, could freeze the blood in a man’s veins. Even the boldest Khimmer axe-men were afraid of these wolves, as they had more than a little Warg blood in them, and had no qualms of attacking armed warriors if ravenous enough.

Elfhelm saw Beryl grab the hilt of her sword involuntarily, and Ingolf reached out for his axe, too. Jouko, however, kept gnawing on his stone-hard flatbread undisturbed, having left milk and cheese for the children.

“No need to fear,” he said. “They cannot get in. And by dawn, they will be gone, for the sunlight fills their black hearts with dread.”

He broke the flatbread in two, dipped the untouched half into the milk and handed it to his wife.

“You should eat at least a bite,” he said, “or else you will lose all your strength.”

Maryatta smiled tiredly, her eyes weary and resigned, but she began to nip on the meagre fare obediently. The children had long devoured their share, of course, and were now eyeing the rest greedily; Matti more than the others, as he was about twelve – an age in which boys are permanently hungry. His mother was visibly tempted to leave him what little had been saved for her by her husband, but Jouko would not have it.

“My son, you have nearly grown into manhood; you must learn that life is full of sacrifices,” he warned his firstborn sternly. “Your mother labours tirelessly from dawn till dusk for you and your siblings. She would deny herself each bite, just so that you can eat, if I let her. While you were but babes, I did let her do so; ‘tis the duty of parents to care for their children. But you area no longer a child. A lad who has already slain his first wolf cannot latch onto his mother for food.”

Elfhelm remembered the abundance of the Mark; that the crumbs falling from his father’s table could feed this entire family… and was ashamed. While no food was wasted in the house of Lord Hengest (his mother, a fugitive from Rhûn herself, felt very strongly about that), he felt bad at the sight of such poverty.

Jouko must have read the thoughts from the stranger’s face, for he turned to Elfhelm with a friendly smile.

“Think not, stranger, that our life is unbearably hard or that it lacks all joy. ’Tis hard and full of want, true. But there is peace in the protection of the Mountains; and safety that cannot be found anywhere else under the shadow of the Black Lands. What else could we wish for? So far, we have always had something to eat. Our children are healthy and obeying, and neither peril nor want can quench the love we feel for each other. Believe me: even though I wish an easier life for Maryatta and our children with all my heart, I would not change with any house where the table is laded but the hearts are full of hatred.”

“I readily believe that,” Elfhelm nodded. “Still, would it not be easier to forsake the Mountains and try your luck in the South or the West? Others have done so and found a better life.”

“Nay, stranger. These lands, meagre and ungrateful though they may be, groaning under the shadow of Mordor, are our home. As long as we are here, the servants of the Dark Lord cannot take them as their own. And we shall defend these barren rocks to our last breath.” He stood. “’Tis growing late, though, and you wanted to leave with the first sunlight. I shall show you the sleeping chambers.”

Several small, dark holes opened from the main cave; narrow ones, with such a low ceiling that they had to bend low to get in in the first place. Each had enough room but for two people. Beryl, however, insisted on sleeping in the prisoner’s chamber to guard them, even though they could hardly escape from this place. Still, she was not willing to take any risks, Ingolf took the next chamber all for himself, and the children went into the third one.

Jouko and Maryatta retired to their own sleeping room. They called it their bedchamber, with the stubborn pride of the poor, even though their ‘bed’ consisted of a few wolfskins, piled atop each other. Taking off her rough garb, Maryatta cuddled to her husband under the thick skin, shivering with cold and concern.

Jouko was one of the best mountain scouts, thus he was often forced to leave his family alone. Maryatta always feared that he would not return one day. There were hidden perils, looming along the mountain paths that no-one could spy and avoid in time. Today, however, she needed not to worry.

“They shan’t need me,” her husband stroked her hair soothingly. “Ingolf Jarl wishes to use the Old Dwarf-Road to return.”

“Does he wish to break his neck?” she wondered, as she knew well enough the hidden paths of Nimwarkinh.

“’Tis not our concern,” she could hear the smile in Jouko’s voice. “He will manage somehow; he always does.”

“What about the strangers?” asked Maryatta. “Do you believe they are spies of the Horse-lords indeed? They do not look like spies.”

“Nay,” her husband agreed. “I am uncertain about the huntsman, but the other… I have heard about his kind from the Woodmen, evens aw one from afar, once when I had business to take care of in Rhovanion. They come from the West sometimes, from beyond the Misty Mountains. They are called Rangers; you can recognize them on the star-shaped pin that keeps their cloaks fastened. ‘Tis said that they are the last remnants of the Sea-kings’ people; though whether ‘tis true or not, I cannot tell.”

“And get whipped for meddling with his business?” asked Jouko. “Nay, my word would have no weight in his eyes. So let him eat the soup he has cooked! The neithan will give him enough grief for two – for she shan’t like the road he has chosen.

Author’s note: Originally, this would have been the last part of Chapter 5. As it would have made the chapter too long, however, I’ve decided to split them.

The description of the Old Dwarf-road was inspired by the Skocjan Caves in Slovenia. Visit them if you get the chance – they are a marvel.

Strider tells Elfhelm a couple of chapters earlier that Nimwarkinh used to be a city of the BroadBeam Dwarves, while in “The Book of Mazarbul”, there is mentioned that certain Petty Dwarves probably still live there. That seems to be a contradiction; however, it is a fact that Petty Dwarves often got booted out by their more powerful cousins from their dwellings (Nargothrond anyone?).

As Jouko had foretold, Beryl indeed protested against the road of Ingolf’s choosing in the next morning. This time, however, the young warlord would not back off.

“I hate that road as much as you do,” he admitted. “’Tis perilous, uncomfortable and unpredictable. However, at least it is short and fast. I do not wish to walk through the inhabited halls with these spies. I want them behind lock and under guard as soon as possible, without giving them the opportunity to spy on us any more.”

“You are my commander…’til we reach home,” was alls he said. After that, she spoke no more, neither to her lord nor to the prisoners.

After a meagre breakfast, they took their leave from the family and returned to the rock path from the previous day. They had to climb some more, ere they reached a fork of paths; there they turned to the West, and after having dragged the horses up a long stairway of flat, broken steps with considerable difficulty – Dwarf handiwork if Elfhelm had ever seen any – they finally came to a small rock plateau with its surface cracked in several places. It was not the surest footing for the horses, but they managed somehow, putting one hoof before the other with great care.

Enormously tall, sheer and rough rock walls encircled the plateau, blotting out the Sun itself; yet – right opposite the end of the stairway – a weather-beaten, arched stone door was outlined in the seemingly untouched face of the rock. It had no keyhole, nor a doorknob, nor any visible means, by which it could have been opened, thus Ingolf, gathering his bear-like strength, tore it open with one powerful move.

The ancient, warped stone door gave in with a long screech, and after his first glimpse in the inside, Elfhelm understood why the shieldmaiden had been so reluctant to follow this path. Nonetheless, Ingolf urged them forward, and they led their horses under the earth. Elfhelm had never been more grateful for the fact that the Horses of the Mark followed their masters everywhere, even if frightened out of their minds. Had Hafoc bolted, trying to get away from the horrors of an underground path, he would never been able to find the good animal again.

An enormous cavern lay behind the flat, stone doorstep; so huge that its other end was lost in the shadows, as it stretched endlessly before their stunned eyes. Its high, arched ceiling, too, was obscured by shadows, somewhere high above their heads; only the tips of icicle-like stone formations, hanging from the said ceiling like the petrified strains of frozen rain were visible. Narrow galleries, cut masterfully out of the living rock, framed the walls, one above another, as far as the eye could see. Some of them were half-collapsed, their broken pieces lying around in random heaps, blocking the way.

“These once served as scaffolding for the Dwarven miners to reach the trails of ore everywhere,” explained Strider in a low voice. “They use the same method in the Iron Hills and Erebor. These mines, though, must have been abandoned for a very long time. As a rule, Dwarves keep their shafts in a good shape.”

Ingolf turned back and shot them an angry glare. Strider shrugged and fell in silence. Not that he would have been afraid of the irascible young warrior; he just did not want another meaningless confrontation. They continued their way, keeping to the middle of the road, where it was the least damaged, winding among the broken stones that were too large and heavy to move them out of the path.

Columns of stone rose like the trunks of trees towards the arched ceiling; some of them broken and crumbled, too, so that the four travellers had to feel their way forward with the utmost care. Once the row of galleries came to an end, huge outcroppings sprang forth along the shadowy walls, like some bizarre, petrified flowers; if natural or Dwarf-made, ‘twas hard to tell. Neither were the walls just grey any longer. Threads of scarlet and malachite twisted through luminous shafts of rock, and white tendrils of white crystal curled around jagged walls that gleamed with rivulets of water.

The air was stifling after the icy wind of the surface, and heavy with dust and a musty smell. Strange echoes jumped to and fro in trail of their steps, like flocks of bats, as they made their way forward on the long-abandoned path, stumbling and wavering at times. The Khimmer might use this road when in need to get home faster, but they most certainly did nothing to make it easier to tread.

Still other caverns lay behind the first one, and as they slowly crossed them, Elfhelm caught sight of wide pools, further back on the left and the right, behind silent rows of even more crumbling stone pillars, flat and glistening like mirrors. Some had a dull, greenish glow in the light of the torches, others were pale blue, yet none of them seemed particularly inviting.

“What is this place?” whispered Elfhelm to the Ranger. “Could this have been part of the ancient Dwarf city you have mentioned earlier?”

“Mayhap,” answered Strider quietly, “’tis hard to tell. The Annals of Elves speak very little about the East, and even less about Dwarves, as the two races have some long-held grudges towards each other. Perchance the Dwarves in Erebor can tell more about the adventures of their brethren in these parts. I shall ask them next time I run into one of them, but ‘tis uncertain if I would get an answer or not. Dwarves are a secretive lot.”

“Quiet!” Beryl hissed, pushing him forward, and not too gently. “These caves are unstable and treacherous. Even loud speak can cause the huge stones to fall down upon our heads. Keep your mouths shut and hurry up!”

They left the first cavern in silence and entered the second one. Ingolf lifted the torch above his head to take a look – and their breath caught. The cave was every bit as grand as the previous one… and every bit as damaged. Yet on both sides of the half-collapsed road, sparkling gemstones framed their path: deep blue and translucent green ones, some of a pale, mauve red, some crystal clear, others speckled with gold or silver. Their size varied from that of a dove egg to that of a man’s clenched fist, This must once have been a mine, rich beyond belief… and indeed, part of some forgotten Dwarf-realm, which had been pillaged Ages ago.

“These remains would still count as immeasurable treasure in the eyes of many Men,” Elfhelm commented in a low voice that would not raise Beryl’s ire – or call down the danger of falling stones upon their heads.

“And they could easily be the death of every treasure-hunter,” answered Strider, his voice barely above a whisper. “Dwarves are fiercely jealous of that which they consider theirs, and thus they tend to build lethal traps in their mines to protect their pleasure. Often they do not dismantle those traps, even after abandoning a mine, in the hope that one day they might return.”

“It looks not like they had returned, though,” said Elfhelm, with a sweeping glance at the desolate state of the once doubtlessly splendid halls.

“Nay,” Strider agreed, “which is why we ought to be very careful. Keep an eye on your horses; they are not used to such paths and may panic easily.”

Elfhelm found that a useful piece of advice. More so as the ground suddenly dipped upon entering the third cavern, and they found themselves amid stones that jutted like huge, ragged teeth from the ground. One false step, and either Hafoc or his mare could impale themselves on any of those stone pikes. Thus Elfhelm focused on calming the good beasts and getting them through this evil path unharmed.

Further on the cavern floor rolled and twisted like frozen waves of some enchanted sea, and getting forward had become even more difficult. They had to slow down considerably, as the thudding of hooves could have loosened the already crumbling stones; ‘Twas not an easy walk with the horses already frightened out their minds.

The fourth cavern had massive piles of broken rock, as if it had been mined dry. There, again, were outcroppings along the rock walls; some of them looking like petrified canopies; others had the shape of unmoving clouds. Here Beryl seemed to calm down somewhat, which – hopefully – meant that they must have reached a more stable region.

One of the rock formations particularly caught Elfhelm’s attention. It looked like a cluster of oversized frying pans, growing right out of the living rock in a terraced pattern, up to the ceiling, as far as he could tell. They were three to four foot in diameter, and some of them seemed at least a foot deep, if not deeper. They were filled with water; not the murky water of the pools they had seen before, but water that seemed clean and fresh. Proving this, Ingolf called a break and led the horses to the lowest ‘pan’ to drink.

“What are these things?” asked Elfhelm in awe. “I have never seen anything like this.”

“But I have,” replied Strider, “when I visited the great Dwarf-kingdom under the Lonely Mountain, in the company of Gandalf the Grey. The Dwarves call these stone vessels the Gours, and use them as part of their water distribution system.”

“Nay; they are natural formations. Rain water, and the water of small springs higher up in the Mountains, sinks and drains underground through fissures in the limestone rock, and gets filtered through the process. As a result, the water gathered in the Gours is always fresh, cool and wholesome.”

Elfhelm could test the truth of these words as they, too, were allowed a taste ere continuing their journey. The water was indeed wondrously fresh and sweet. That reminded him of the Glittering Caves at home once again and that he should truly take a closer look at them. Assuming he would get out of Rhûn alive, that is.

Strider shrugged. “I truly cannot tell. The only time I visited Nimwarkinh I followed the mountain paths. It took me four or five days to reach the seat of the chieftain in the Deep Forges, starting from the East Gate. We are being led along a quick and secret path here, though. One that does not follow the natural twists and turns of the underground caves but cuts through the roots of the Mountains in a straight line, as Dwarf-made mining shafts usually do.”

“They are,” answered Strider, “but I would bet they were not always connected this way. Dwarves have a strong feeling for the stone; they always seem to know where they can make a doorway between caverns and where they cannot.”

“Still, four or five days?” Elfhelm shook his head in awe. Strider nodded.

“This is the largest settlement of Khimmer warriors in the entire Rhûn,” he explained. “Ragnar the Smith dwells near the western border of the Mountains of Nimwarkinh, under the roots of Falùn. From the throne room of his halls, a huge spiral staircase of flat stone steps raises in an unbroken line, up to a rock plateau atop the mountain, where a rebuilt Dwarf watchtower stands. It has been a long time since the watchtowers of Nimwarkinh were last abandoned, or so ‘tis said. Even though the Easterlings kept the broken look on the outside, to mislead their enemies.”

“What enemies can they have in their own land?” asked Elfhelm. “I understand the need to fight off wolves or stray Orcs, but for that, one would not need such fortifications.”

“The greatest enemies of the Easterlings are themselves,” Strider lowered his voice so much that Elfhelm had to strain his ears to understand what was being said. “The various Khimmer tribes are in constant struggle with each other for more power, more booty, and more lands. Every chieftain could, theoretically, achieve overlordship – they only have to slay the current overlord in hand-to-hand combat. The line of Ragnar has held overlordship for the last three or four generations, but ‘tis by no means certain that they will be able to keep it for good. Ruling power is not hereditary in Rhûn; Ragnar might call himself the Prince, but Ingolf, or whichever of his sons he chooses to follow him, will have to fight his way to the throne.”

“Mayhap so; but their lands are not very kind to them,” answered Strider. “With all that ash being blown over here all the time from the Ered Lithui, growing food is a hard task in Rhûn. ‘Tis part of the reason why they keep raiding the more fortunate countries. Without Mordor’s yoke upon their necks, they might have established good trading relationships with their neighbours – some smaller tribes still trade with Esgaroth and Birka, the merchant towns at the Long Lake – but that is still a long way to go.”

“May that be the reason why Ragnar showed interest in an alliance with the Mark?” asked Elfhelm.

Strider nodded. “Food is an important factor in keeping leadership. As long as he can feed his people, he is seen as a good leader… at least by the Mordvin serfs. The jarls and the simple warriors are a different matter. They live for the fight and their greatest pride is to live in joy, die a heroic dead and have a splendid funeral. To get those used to peace will be a long way to go.”

About ten yards before them, Ingolf suddenly stopped. The light of his torch fell upon a sheer, grey rock wall that seemed to block their way. Ingolf, however, simply handed his torch to Beryl and set his heavy shoulders against the seemingly bare rock. After a moment, it gave way with a grating sound. From the slowly opening door a breeze of fresher, cooler air streamed in, and far away Elfhelm could hear a low, thumping noise, like the fall of huge hammers onto enormous anvils.

“What is that?” he asked in a whisper. “It sounds like a smithy of giants would be at work somewhere before us.”

“You are hearing the sounds of the Deep Forges,” replied Strider. “I suppose we must be somewhere under Grenaar. There, on both sides of the many-miles-long Middle Hall, are countless smithies in side caves.”

In the meantime Ingolf had crossed the doorway and they were pushed forward by Beryl to follow his example. The door was barely high enough for the horses to get through, but after some resistance they managed somehow.

“Take the head, Beryl,” said Ingolf, but the shieldmaiden gave him a scathing look.

‘Twas no longer even surprising that Ingolf gave in again, leading his horse away from the door. Elfhelm and Strider followed him without being ordered to, for truly, what else could they have done? There was only one way out of the caves: forward. Beryl cajoled her horse through the doorway last, and then, just as Ingolf had done earlier, set her shoulder against the door. She was not as strong as the young warlord – shieldmaiden she might be, but Ingolf had the bulk of a cave bear – but she seemed to know how to deal with it. Inch by inch, the door shut closed. Beryl wiped her sweaty brow with a bare forearm and followed the men wordlessly. Elfhelm wisely refrained from whistling in appreciation, regardless how impressed he was. That would only have earned him a broken nose.

Behind the door, they stopped a throbbing light, changing from deep red to faint rosy rhythmically. Strider nodded to himself.

“Indeed we have come to the Middle Hall of the Deep Forges with their great anvils,” he said. “They lie not very far from the Western Caves, where Ragnar the Smith dwells in his deep halls; about nine hours by foot, if one is well used to long, steady walks. The major part of the journey lies already behind us. Falùn and Grenaar lie fairly close to each other, unlike Skâgen, whose huge arms encircle the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh.

Following their capturers they came into the largest of all caverns yet; it was so huge that its true dimensions could barely be guessed in that strange, throbbing reddish light. Elfhelm had been in the Glittering Caves of Aglarond a few times, but those were mere rabbit-holes compared with the enormity of these halls. Clustered columns of black stone held the high ceiling, marble-smooth and unadorned and flawless as only Dwarven handiwork could be, even after many hundreds of years; their capitals were lost in the shadows above, giving the Middle Hall the look of a colonnade in some strange giant king’s fortress.

The reddish glow came from the long chain of side caves, which also were the source of the thudding of forges and the rhythmic jingle of hammers and anvils. From time to time a short, squat, thick-legged pony trotted out of one or other side cave, pulling a four-wheeled iron cart, filled with coal, ore, raw iron or finished iron- or bronzeworks. These small, very strong and durable ponies were related with the powerful beasts of Dwarves once bred by the StiffBeard Clans. They were blind from birth and would never leave the caves, as they also served as a food source. When they became too old and weak to work, they were slaughtered and eaten, Strider explained. Elfhelm found the custom barbaric (any Rider of the Mark would have), but he knew the Easterlings saw their beasts with a different eye; and besides, they needed to eat.

Armed watchmen came from one of the side passages armed, dressed in the same wolfskin tunics, painted shields and broadswords as the guards of the South Gate, and armed with short, broad-headed spears. Their round bronze helmets bore the sign of a raging bear; that and their scaled harnesses with the shiny brass mountings on their heavy weapons belts revealed them as the chieftain’s own troops. Seeing Ingolf, they raised their spears in greeting, and exchanged hand signs with him, as they would not have understood any spoken words over the loud noise of the Forges.

Finally coming to an agreement, the guards grabbed the captives, and again bound their arms to their backs with raw leather tongs and dragged them away, through the same side passage they had come. As far as Elfhelm could tell, they were taken westwards; and quite far away, too. Then they were dragged down some chipped stone stairway, deeper and deeper… at least four levels below the Middle Hall, if his guess was right. Finally, they were tossed through a narrow door into a windowless little chamber, which, judging by its heavy iron door, must have been the local version of gaol.

In the middle of the stone-paved floor, there was a heavy, rectangular stone plate with a large iron ring in its centre. By this ring, one of the guards yanked up the plate like a trapdoor. Icy cold air and a murky smell streamed from the black hole below. The guards now bound the legs of the prisoners, too, and tossed them carelessly and without a word into the hole and lowered the heavy stone plate in place. ‘Twas so thick and so tightly fitted that they could barely hear the thick iron door thudding close and the grating of the huge bolts above. They were trapped, and doubly so, and had no hope to come free on their own.

Fortunately, while their dungeon was deep and dark, its floor was also padded with half-dried mud, thus they survived the fall without any broken bones. Still, ‘twas a very unpleasant place, even as gaols go, and it considerably lowered Elfhelm’s hopes for a successful meeting with the self-proclaimed Prince of Rhûn.

“They have a truly awful dungeon, the Easterlings do,” he commented, just as the deaf silence became too much. His voice sounded strangely hollow down there.

“This is no ordinary dungeon,” said Strider. “This is the Black Pit of Nimwarkinh, where many enemies of the Tribe of the Bear have vanished without a trace. But it had been here long before the Dwarves had abandoned this place and the Easterlings took over. There are many Dwarven legends about it.”

“Mostly ominous ones,” replied Strider. “They say that at some time the Pit was inhabited by nameless, blind creatures, older than mankind, mayhap even older than the Dwarves themselves. Creatures that were born of darkness, lived in darkness and spread decay and darkness around them. The great change of the world, after the Second Age, when Númenor was destroyed and the Sea bent, wiped out the hideous inhabitants of the Pit as well. But in the thick mud that remained, other creatures made their dwellings: slimy and spidery things that make one’s stomach turn upside down; and huge rats that build their nests in the cracks of the wall and feed on worms and insects that live in the mud. I fear that we are facing a very unpleasant night; sore so as with our hands and legs bound, we shall have limited means to protect ourselves from the rats.”

“What will happen tomorrow, though?” asked Elfhelm in concern. “They shan’t leave us here to rot, shall they?”

“Of course not,” Strider laughed quietly. “Ingolf Ragnarsson is a spoiled brat and a hothead, but not even he would dare to kill people who have come to see his father. In truth, I fear he will suffer severe punishment; Ragnar the Smith takes great pains to appear civilized – which, in his own way, he truly is. No need to worry, my friend; I assume that it is too late to bother him now, but once we stand before his throne, he will hear us out – and compensate you for your sufferings.”

“If he believes me in the first place,” said Elfhelm darkly. “Otherwise, I see little hope to bring my errand to a successful end.”

“Worry not,” said Strider. “He might not believe you, but he will, without doubt, recognize me; and I shall vouch for you if I have to.”

“True; but his father gave me a token and a secret word, by which his sons would recognize me as a friend. All will be good tomorrow; try to survive the night unharmed.”

‘Twas easier said than done, for the rats soon discovered them and made their stay even more uncomfortable. Adding insult to injury, their limbs went numb from the too-tight bounds after a while, and the mud was not as soft as it had first seemed. But all that was merely annoying, not life-threatening, and the hope to bring his quest to a successful end gave Elfhelm the strength to endure.

Author’s notes: Time: about four years before the Ring War. Aðalbrandr is an existing Old Norse name and means “Noble Sword”. I thought it fitting for the one who would one day wield Andúril.

Siltric Silkbeard, chieftain of the Tribe of the White Kine, was the Khimmer warlord leading the Easterling attack on Dale in my other story, “The Web of Darkness”.

Ragnar Jarl’s attire and appearance is based on an amazing pencil drawing by Czech artist Zdenek Burian, from an illustration to the Hallstatt culture.

Unlikely as it first seemed, Elfhelm was actually able to sleep even in his highly uncomfortable position. There was some truth in the old saying of his mother’s people that there were no beds too uncomfortable, if only one was tired enough.

When he woke up, he found Strider awake and humming quietly under his breath, seeming fairly unconcerned. Despite the other man’s assurances given the day before, he did find that a little strange.

“It must be early morning; I can feel in my bones that Anor has risen already,” answered Strider. “I did sleep a little, for I, too, was weary. The hunt that now lies behind me was a long and relentless one.”

“And still not finished, if I have understood you and your friend the Elf rightly,” said Elfhelm.

“Indeed so,” admitted Strider, “and I hope I can continue it, soon. For with each day the creature I am hunting spends unwatched, the danger of it doing some mischief grows.”

“Are you not afraid that you might lose track of him in the meantime?” asked Elfhelm, feeling a little guilty. It was for him, after all, that Strider had put his task aside, at least temporarily.

He could not see the Ranger in the dark, of course, but he could perceive the smile in Strider’s voice. “I was trained by Elves for many years, my friend. ’Tis not so easy to keep me off a track, once I have found it. Worry not. Soon, we shall be brought before Ragnar the Smith, and once your task has been fulfilled, I can pick up mine again.”

As if proving his words, the screeching noise of the stone trap door of the Black Pit could be heard as it was removed; and there were some people talking overhead. The guards – whether the same ones as last night or not, Elfhelm could not tell – let down iron hooks fastened to long ropes into the Pit. With impressive skill, they manipulated the ropes until the hooks got caught in the restraints of the prisoners and pulled them up into the upper cell.

Elfhelm gritted his teeth as the razor-sharp iron hook nicked his flesh in the process but refused to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him moan. He only hoped he would not get blood poisoning – he seriously doubted that the hooks had been cleaned before use.

Finally, they were up in the cell. The guards loosened their bonds, and when feeling had returned to their limbs and they could stand on their feet without support again, they were led back up into the Middle Hall.

At the first fork in the underground road they turned to the left, into a straight little side tunnel with polished stone walls as smooth as glass. The floor of the tunnel led slightly upward and it was remarkably smooth, too.

“It appears we are not being taken to the Great Hall, which also serves as the throne room of Ragnar Jarl, but to his private audience chamber,” commented Strider softly.

“The direction,” replied Strider. “You forget that I’ve been here before. More than that; I lived among these people and therefore know their dwelling reasonably well. This is a private path, leading straight and quickly to the audience chamber. Only emissaries and the councillors of Ragnar Jarl’s court are allowed to use it.”

“What are we doing here, then?” asked Elfhelm. “Are we not supposed to be prisoners and spies?”

“I can think of two reasons,” said Strider thoughtfully. “Either Ragnar Jarl wants to keep our presence secret, at least for the time being; or he is already guessing that his son has made a mistake and tries to control the damage by honouring us properly. We shall see, and soon enough. Here we are, on the threshold of the Lesser Hall.”

Passing through an arched doorway they came into a hall of moderate size but of exquisite beauty, considering the barbaric nature of their hosts. It had vague resemblance to a longhouse, as might be seen among the Northmen, although it was, of course, a cave. Tapestries of thick wool, depicting hunting scenes, hung from both long walls, partly to keep the hall warmer, but also to make it look impressive, which goal was fully reached.

Elfhelm wondered briefly whether the chieftain had obtained them from other people – the women of Esgaroth were renowned in the North for their waving skills – or if his wives and concubines had made them here. In either case, they were most excellently crafted.

The floor, which was paved with stones of many hues in a meandering pattern, spoke clearly of the skill of the Khimmer craftsmen; and so did the elaborately carved stone benches along the longer walls, meant for the visitors of the chieftain. Their hard coldness was softened by animal skins thrown across them.

Opposite the arched entrance, the short wall was covered by a floor-to-ceiling mosaic, depicting a raging black bear in front of a plain gold background. On both sides of the tribe’s animal ancestor – as the Khimmer believed it – a few short rows of runes could be read. They were written in the cirth used in the North, and Elfhelm realized that those were the names of Ragnar’s ancestors.

In front of the wall mosaic a low, two-step dais of red marble was built. A richly carved stone chair with no back stood in the middle of the dais, covered with a bearskin. The animal to which the pelt had once belonged must have been an exceptionally huge one, by the sight of it. On either side of the dais, fragrant oil burned in flat bronze vessels, the three legs of which were twisted into one slender column. And in the chair itself sat Ragnar the Smith, chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear, currently the most powerful of all Khimmer jarls.

He was a squarely built, muscular man of middle age, the Lord of Nimwarkinh, with heavy shoulders, a chest broad like the bellows of his great smithies, and arms like tree-trunks. He wore a tunic of homespun, russet wool, interwoven with blue symbols, the meaning of which Elfhelm could not even begin to guess. Over that was a sleeveless bearskin surcoat, girdled by a heavy bull skin belt, at least two spans wide, with beautifully made gold fittings. His heavy boats were adorned with gemstones of many hues, encased in gold.

His russet hair and beard were wavy and not yet touched with grey; his bronze headpiece hugged his square forehead at an unusual angle and flared out along his temples in three gradually lengthening layers, like the wings of a bird, also adorned with large, many-coloured gemstones. On his massive upper arms, right above his elbows, he wore masterfully crafted bronze bracelets, which accentuated his already impressive muscles. From his decorative belt a large battle axe hung on a short chain, its hilt inlaid with silver. The symbol of his power, a huge, two-edged broadsword, washed with copper, rested upon his knees.

On his left, upon a low, bronze-legged little table with an onyx plate, stood a silver decanter and a large, elaborately wrought jug, for wine and water, respectively. His own, handleless drinking cup of bronze also hung on a short chain from his belt. Other, two-handled, stemmed bronze cups – masterpieces of Khimmer smithcraft – stood ready for the visitors around the decanter.

Right from the throne stood Ingolf, the lord’s son, this time without helmet or armour, clad in the same barbaric pomp. The marked resemblance between father and son was unignorable, even though Ingolf probably still had a long way to go to reach the level of his father’s shrewd wisdom and dignity. And at the foot of the throne, on a flat, gilded leather cushion thrown onto the lower step of the dais, sat Beryl, the shieldmaiden, her back straight and her head raised proudly.

She was not wearing her mail shirt, either, but the everyday garb of Khimmer noblewomen: a knee-length, soft leather tunic, trimmed with fur, over a long gown of russet homespun wool shot with blue, and light, embroidered leather slippers. However, her true rank was shown by her fine, soft, very expensive mantle called the vol. This royal piece of clothing, made of the fur of the extremely rare grey mole, was draped around her broad shoulders in carefully arranged folds and held together upon her throat by a jewelled bronze clasp.

Aside from that, she was also wearing an odd double belt as had been fashionable among the nobles of Dale a hundred or so years earlier – perchance inherited from her mother. The upper, narrow tail of the belt encircled her trim waist tightly, while the lower tail, twice as broad, lay loosely around her hips, fitted with small golden sun-symbols in high relief. The same design could be seen on the broad golden circlet worn upon her brow.

Elfhelm was now quite sure that she belonged to the chieftain’s cynn. However, he could not figure out just yet how closely they were related.

Only two of the witan of Ragnar Jarl’s court were present in this early hour, and – strangely enough – neither of them was a Khimmer jarl. The older one, based on his greying, straw blond hair and bushy beard, was either a Northman or an expatriate from Esgaroth. He wore a fine grey woolen robe, girdled with silver, and a dark green cloak, fastened on one shoulder with an old-fashioned silver pin. His high brow was bound with a silver circlet, adorned with a hazelnut-sized white gem, from which three small silver leaves sprouted.

“Do you know him?” asked Elfhelm in a low voice, speaking in Rohirric, just in case.

Strider shrugged. “Not in person. But I do know that Ragnar the Smith used to have a foreign tutor: a scholarly Northman by the name of Dallben. I reckon this would be him.”

Strider glanced at the other witan – a somewhat taller, powerfully built man, raven-haired and grey-eyed, roughly of the same age as the chieftain. He was clad in an ankle-length grey linen tunic, girdled with a sash of black velvet; his belt buckle was of silver, shaped like the crescent moon. Around his neck on a fine silver chain, he also wore the silver shape of the waxing moon, like an amulet; but the moon also served as the case for a round crystal lens. His sleeveless surcoat, floor-length and of black wool, was embroidered with small silver stars on the hem, the high collar and the arm holes. His face was broad and pale, with strong, wide cheekbones; both his collar-length hair and his neatly trimmed beard looked a little coarse.

“He does have the looks of the Men of Dale,” Strider finally decided, “but that amulet… I heard that the druids of Rhovanion of old had a symbol like that. Long, long ago, before their descendants came to live in Dale, after the Kin-strife of Gondor. I always thought that their order had died out hundreds of years ago; their Celestial Temple, with the huge standing stones, had been abandoned for so very long.”

“Perhaps not that abandoned as many would think,” said Elfhelm. “Perhaps they were just hiding. Sacred places have the tendency to draw people, even long after official worship has stopped.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Strider. “I still cannot imagine how one of the last druids would end up in the court of a Khimmer jarl, of all places. Those two peoples have never been friends; and their beliefs are very different, too.”

“Perhaps he had no other choice, if he wanted to survive,” suggested Elfhelm.

He fell silent abruptly, for Ragnar the Smith was now slowly rising from his throne upon seeing them, turned, and gave his son a sharp look.

“Are these the spies that you have caught near the Brown Lands, you and your patrol?” he asked in his deep, rough voice.

Out of courtesy towards these strangers, he spoke Westron, although with a heavy accent. Ingolf Ragnarsson nodded, and Strider could see identical, faint smiles flicker across the faces of the two counsellors. Those two had already guessed the truth and imagined the possible consequences, it seemed – and they clearly enjoyed the possibility of Ingolf being taken down a peg or two.

The Lord of Nimwarkinh’s face remained impassive. For a few moments, he studied his prisoners grimly, taking in their dishevelled appearance: the smears of mud and blood upon their faces that, like their hands, bore the marks of rat bites.

“Who are you?” he finally asked, aiming his question at Strider, in whom his experienced eye recognized the leader.

“I am a Ranger of the North,” answered Strider. “I was visiting the Elves of Mirkwood when I ran into this huntsman, carrying a message for you from the Riddermark. As he knows the roads across your lands but a little, I offered to guide him, lest message and messenger would be lost under the shadows of the Ash Mountains.”

“I see,” the Khimmer lord seemed less than content with that answer. “So you say, and it does sound believable. But we are living in dark times – so who can vouch for the truth of your words?”

“You lord father can,” replied Strider, removing a small, flat object from his belt pouch and offering it to the chieftain in his open palm. Elfhelm could see that it was a piece of wax, bearing the mark of a seal. “After all, are we not all made of the bones of the earth?”

The change in the chieftain’s demeanour was nothing short dramatic. With an impatient gesture, he ordered all guards to leave the room; then he offered his hand to Strider in a warrior’s greeting.

“Lord Aðalbrandr,” he said with obvious respect, in the most formal manner, ”thy deeds of strength and bravery in my father’s service have long become legend and been made into song among our people. Ragnar’s heart is gladdened to greet thee in the Western Halls of Nimwarkinh. The greater is the shame upon Ragnar’s House, though, that thou hast arrived under such unfortunate circumstances.”

They clasped forearms, Strider giving no sign of discomfort from the chieftain’s iron grip.

“Such is often the case with us, Rangers, in our lonely travels,” he replied with a smile. “For I admit freely that we do not always look trustworthy; therefore I stake no claim for reparation from you. Your son, however, ought to learn to listen to people ere he would resort to violence.”

“I fear thou art right about my son, good sir,” admitted the chieftain, his pride obviously suffering even from such friendly lecturing. “Now, wouldst thou introduce us thy companion? Thou sayst he was sent with a message to me; I would hear more about that.”

Strider grinned. “He is man enough to speak for himself, thus I shall let him do so. I only know him as Ossiach the huntsman; but I deem he has other names aside from that one.”

“So I have,” Elfhelm confessed. “For Ossiach is but the name I was given as a child by my mother, who hails from these lands. Back home, though, among the Riders of Rohan, I am known as Elfhelm Hengestsson. I am, the Marshal of the garrison of Edoras and the Household Guard of Théoden-cyning; and I have come to you on his behalf.”

If Ragnar Jarl had been surprised by Strider’s revelation, now he seemed to be shocked beyond belief. For several heartbeats’ time, he was unable to speak. Then his temper visibly flared, and he needed another couple of moments to bring it under control before turning back to his son.

“Never since our forefather wrestled strength and power from the Bear has such an outrage happened among us,” he said slowly, icily. “That an emissary – and the emissary of a King at that – should be captured and thrown into the Black Pit, without being given the chance to reveal himself and declare his intentions! Your foolish deed will cost me dearly,* me and our whole tribe. It makes me wonder if you are truly the right son to become chieftain after me, or if the sons of the Bear would be better led by one of your brothers – even though they were born in the wrong bed.”

Ingolf became deathly pale, and that with good reason. If Elfhelm understood correctly what Lady Aelfgifu had told him about Khimmer customs, a legitimate son was usually preferred to illegitimate ones when it came to take over the father’s heritage. Usually – but not necessarily. Whenever a chieftain appointed an heir, leadership skills and bravery in battle played an important role in the decision.

More so as the heir was supposed to defend his position in a number of duels after his father’s death - as long as there were any challengers. Some jarls, who had secured a desired position, had to defend it all their lives. Elfhelm could imagine that being the Lord of Nimwarkinh was such a position. Ragnar the Smith was not the kind of unquestioned sovereign as was his own King. It was not merely the lack of a crown or a proper title. Ragnar’s leadership could still be challenged.

“Have water and other necessities brought, so that our guests can at least wash their hands and faces, after a night spent in such undignified manner,” he ordered.

The beautiful shieldmaiden rose from her cushion with the boneless grace of a snake, without using her hands, and hurried off. Soon, barefooted female servants in coarse tunics came in, carrying copper washbasins, jugs of hot water, some kind of root that lathered when getting wet, and pieces of rough linen cloth. With downcast eyes, they knelt before the guests, so that they could have a quick wash… as much as it was possible in the chieftain’s own hall.

With a sideways glance, Elfhelm watched Strider’s use of the soap root and followed the older man’s example. The… thing actually had a nice, clean herbal smell, which surprised him. Clearly, the Khimmer people – or at least their nobles – were not half as barbaric as the Riders of the Mark often assumed.

Of course, he should have known that. His mother had often complained about the Men of the Mark not caring enough for cleanliness.

“Thank you, Beryl,” he said, vaguely ashamed for his previous thoughts, but the shieldmaiden smiled and shook her head.

“Nay, my lord. That is a name I take off, together with my armour, whenever I cross the threshold of my father’s hall.” Seeing Elfhelm’s surprise, she smiled again and nodded, with just a hint of pride, even haughtiness. “You have heard rightly. I am Imogen Ragnarsdaughter; and I am glad that you were able to prove your truthfulness.”

Elfhelm was only moderately surprised. Ingolf’s unusual leniency towards the shieldmaiden had already suggested that she could not be just anybody – but that she would be Ragnar’s own daughter, that he had not expected.

He did not forget, however, that she had intervened with Ingolf on his behalf, and thus he bowed deeply and kissed her hand in Gondorian fashion, which seemed more chivalrous than the customs of his own people.

“My fair and brave lady,” he said, “I shall not forget that I owe you my life. Should you need my sword, call upon me; and if by life or death I can protect you, you shall not remain unprotected. That I swear by the blood of my Clan and the honour of my House.”

Imogen smiled indulgently. “I thank thee, good sir,” she replied. “Rest assured, though, that I need no man’s protection, as I am protected well enough by Heloic, my own sword. But tell me about that Clan and that House of thine. I would like to know whose hide I have saved.”

“Well,” Elfhelm began a bit hesitantly, not certain how much of himself he should reveal. “My father is the Lord of the Eastfold, the Maegtheow – Clan Master; you would probably say chieftain – of Clan Éowain and the head of the House of Fréablod. Ours is an ancient house, related to the royal clan. My father is also the chief stallion master of the Mark, which means he supervises the breeding in the Mark. No major decisions about horses are made without his approval, as he has been selected by the King himself for this task. My mother, the Lady Imoleth, is sister to a Mordvin chieftain who fled with her people across the Brown Lands. I am their third son. I have eight brothers and two sisters. And, as I already told you, I am the Marshal of Edoras, the King’s own city, and the head of his Household Guard.”

He could see that his hosts were impressed, even though little could be read on the rough Khimmer faces. Imogen’s eyes were sparkling with interest, however, and for some reason, that flattered him.

“I assume your King sent you on this errand because you had the best chances to blend in,” said the druid in a smooth, calm voice.

Elfhelm nodded. “That, too; and because I am accustomed to living with foreign people.” He looked at the druid with interest. “I would know your name, good sir; and what your role is at Ragnar Jarl’s court.”

“And why would you wish to know that?” asked the druid. “I am not one of the jarls of the Tribe who would have a voice in any of their decisions.”

“Yet you are clearly one of the witan, whose voice has a way to your lord’s ear,” answered Elfhelm. “And as you know who I am, while I know not who you are, that gives you an advantage upon me.”

“Doubtlessly,” answered the druid in unsmiling amusement. “And a wise man would not give up such an advantage without a sound reason.”

“Would not building a bridge over the wide gap of centuries-old mistrust not be reason enough?” asked Strider quietly. “Your people once ruled over Rhovanion; or did not King Vidugavia’s realm stretch from Mirkwood to the River Running, the Vales of Anduin and the grassy plains? Was he not a stout ally of the Kings of Gondor? Did not Princess Vidumavi – or the Lady Galadwen as she was known in Gondor – sit upon the throne of Osgiliath, next to King Valacar?”

“You know much about my people’s fate, it seems,” said the druid. “But then you must also know that it has been almost two thousand years since we held any power within Middle-earth. We have perished from the face of Middle-earth as a people, and very few of us are still there to remember.”

“Yet you are still there, and you seem to have some influence, too,” pointed out Strider. “Is it not time for the people of Rhûn to turn away from its unholy alliance with the land of Mordor and follow the lead of your people of old? To seek out new alliances, if not with Gondor itself, then with Rohan, its closest and most steadfast ally?”

“For even offering such a suggestion, many of the Khimmer jarls would demand your death,” said the druid, “as they are well content with the lead Mordor offers them. Here, however, your words will find open ears, Lord Aðalbrandr; for your name is a known and respected one among the sons of the Bear – and as you are suggesting something that we, too, have been considering for a while.”

“However, we must move carefully, for few of the other chieftains would agree,” added Ragnar. “And my ability to negotiate an alliance, even a secret one, has just been weakened considerably,” he added, giving his son an angry glare. “How can I expect the King of Rohan to ignore what has happened to his emissary, who is also his kinsman? Having him mistreated and nearly slain will hardly endear Théoden-king towards us. And if he makes too harsh demands, there will be no alliance, needful and advantageous though it might be for both sides. I cannot – and shall not – beg for better conditions. That would be a weakness that I cannot afford.”

“My King is wise and generous,” said Elfhelm slowly. “He would never endanger an alliance the Mark would benefit from for personal grievances; nor am I important enough to act thusly for my sake alone. Not if I do not insist on reparation – and why should I? The Lady Imogen,” he glanced briefly at the silently listening shieldmaiden, “saw to it that I would come to no irreparable harm. Therefore I consider the rest of what happened as part of the risks I had to take on this errand.”

“That is not so simple, I fear,” said the venerable Dallben, speaking for the first time. “You may relinquish your due right for wergild, yet Ragnar Jarl cannot afford not to compensate you. Blood was drawn, although more by accident than by design, and the guards of the court have seen it. The chieftain is honour-bound by the laws and customs of the Tribe. If he fails to honour them, his leadership is forfeit.”

“True enough,” the warlord nodded, his face grim. “And that is something I cannot afford. I must not lose the respect of the lesser jarls. Right now, there is no-one whose grip would be strong enough to keep them in line, at least those from the Tribe of the Bear and the lesser tribes that follow our lead. As for the other powerful tribes, the sons of the White Kine, the Wolf or the Elk, they would fall upon us the moment their chieftains see any weakness in my actions.”

“Are you not the overlord of all Khimmer chieftains then?” asked Elfhelm in surprise.

That was bad news. If Ragnar could only speak for himself and for a handful of the less important tribes, then his errand was doomed to fail from the beginning. Could their knowledge about the customs of Rhûn been so wrong? Or had Gríma kept important things from him deliberately, to bring about his fall?

“I am,” replied the warlord, “for my tribe is the strongest, the richest and the most numerous of all. We are also the ones who provide the others with armour and weapons, for I alone control the Deep Furnaces, and there are no other smithies in Rhûn that could be compared with ours. But it does not mean they would follow my lead without questioning. And Siltric Silkbeard from the Tribe of the White Kine has been eyeing my throne with envy for a long time.”

Ragnar Jarl shook his head. “No; but his firstborn, Sigurrd, is almost Ingolf’s equal in man-to-man combat. And should word get out that my heir has dishonoured the sacred right of an emissary to hospitality and protection, and that no wergild was paid for that trespassing, Sigurrd would not even need to challenge him. The lesser jarls of our own Tribe would declare him unfit to lead them, and that could mean the end of our power altogether.”

“But you said yourself that you have other sons, more than capable of leading your armies,” reminded him Strider.

“I did, and they are, and most of the lesser jarls would accept them, even if they were born from my other women, not from any of my wives,” replied the warlord. “But the chieftains of the other tribes would not, if only to find a reason to rise up against my leadership.” He sighed. “Let us not discuss this matter any longer. This is a decision I shall have to make this day, but there is no need for you to listen to our debate. In the meantime, proper quarters will be prepared for you – for both of you – and I shall have the bathing chamber heated while you have something to eat. At nightfall, a feast will be held to your honour, if you would grace it with your presence.”

“The honour is mine,” said Ragnar; then he sounded the small bronze bell that hung on his left from an elaborately wrought stand.

The rich sound of the bell was still reverberating through the hall when two young men entered. They were richly clad, wearing the same polished bronze breastplate as Ingolf had on patrol, adorned with the symbols of Ragnar’s House. Great broadswords hung from their broad weapons belts that were decorated with polished bronze fittings.

One of them had the same square, heavy build and russet hair as Ragnar, and there was a marked resemblance in their features, too. The other one was half a head taller, with straw blond hair and icy blue eyes. He seemed more a Northman than a Khimmer warrior, but he, too, bore a resemblance to the warlord. They were probably both Ragnar’s bastard sons, which explained their position at court.

Khimmer chieftains had, as a rule, multiple wives – or rather one legitimate wife at all time, and many women, as their concubines were called – and they liked to build their personal guard of their own sons. That way, they needed not to worry about their safety, as their sons would die for them without a second thought. The obvious respect these two young men paid their sire made it clear that Ragnar’s sons felt the same.

“Ybba, Einarr, see that the guest chambers are prepared for the emissary and his guide,” Ragnar ordered. “Have the bath heated and food brought to their chambers, so that they can refresh themselves and rest before tonight’s feast.”

“It will be done, lord,” the blond one said; then he turned to the guests. “Follow me, good sirs; you look like you need a good, hot bath and a cup of mead or two.”

“I cannot say no to that offer,” Elfhelm laughed, following the two young warriors out of the Lesser Hall and towards the promise of a good, long soak.

Thengwer means, according the most knowledgeable Fiondil, Thane’s wergild – compensation at the highest level. Imogen’s name is supposed to mean Oak-tree in the (nonexistent) language of Rhûn, hence the pet name her father uses.

Grotharr Jarl featured in my crossover story “The Web of Darkness”. He was one of the Easterling chieftains sent against Dale.

When the emissary of the Mark and his guide had left the audience chamber, the Lord of Nimwarkinh gave his son and heir a long, icy look.

“’Tis already too late for accusations, my son, though in truth, I should have you flogged before the eyes of all our warriors,” he said, and Ingolf blanched, for flogging was considered the most shameful punishment among the Khimmer people, usually reserved for slaves. “Can you imagine the harm you have caused? The King of the Horselords is our last, best hope to free ourselves from Mordor’s yoke, and even with his support, it would be a long and hard struggle.”

“If we do not make our move now, soon enough it will be too late,” added the venerable Dallben. “’Tis already hard enough to feed the Mordvin slaves, and without them, what would you brave warriors do? Who will tend to the land, take care of the beasts, build the fences around the villages, cure leather, spin and weave the wool, carve wood and stone? The only craftsmen your people have are the metalsmiths; and while one can wear metal, one cannot eat it.”

Ingolf, still not willing to accept all the blame, shrugged. “There are other places to trade with.”

“Would you care to name them?” asked the druid coldly. “The northern tribes have already cut us off from the trade routes heading to Dale and Esgaroth and Birka, the important merchants towns around the Long Lake. Through southern Mirkwood we cannot go – not with the Necromancer’s Tower on one side and the Witch of the Golden Wood on the other. In the east, there is naught but the desolation of the Khandian Desert where we would not survive. In the south, there are the black lands of Mordor. Our only way still open leads to the southwest: to Rohan and Gondor, and from Gondor we cannot hope much. The Steward is a hard man who would never believe in our sincerity. Théoden-king, on the other hand, might.”

“Not after his emissary, who had taken great risks to get to us, ended up in the Black Pit, he will not,” said Ragnar sourly. “The King of the Horselords is old, but he is no fool. Tell me, Master Dallben: the family of this young man, just how important are they?”

“More important than you may believe,” said Dallben. “They are perhaps the most respected ones after the royal clan. For they, too, descended from Eorl the Young, through Éofor, the third son of Brego Eorlsson. They no longer count as royalty, but their word has nearly the same weight. Our hopes for this alliance stand or fall depending on what he tells his King upon his return.”

“Elfhelm Hengestsson must be properly compensated,” said the druid with emphasis. “And it must be thegnwer, the highest price there is. Not just for his life being threatened; also for the shameful fact that he was thrown into the Black Pit, without being heard out first, like some lowly slave. Small wonder that the Khimmer jarls have such a bad reputation among other people.”

A heavy, unpleasant silence fell upon the Lesser Hall. The remnants of the once so mighty people of Rhovanion might have made their peace with the Khimmer jarls – what other choice would they have? – but they never made any secret of the fact that the Khimmer people were uncouth barbarians in their eyes and the chieftains naught but brutes. Still, most chieftains did their best to cajole druids into their court, for even with the greatness of their realm long gone and mostly forgotten, the druids themselves had an uncanny knack of learning things and could deal with foreigners well.

Ragnar was shrewd enough to take their counsels under consideration, even if he decided otherwise in the end – after all, they were knowledgeable and had great influence not among the Mordvin slaves only but also among the lesser jarls. His son and heir, however, had not yet reached the age of wisdom that would tame his haughty and irascible ways.

Had Imogen been born a boy-child, the matter of inheritance would probably lead to embittered fights in Nimwarkinh. According to Khimmer law, leadership went to the most capable legitimate son, not necessarily to the firstborn. As Imogen’s mother, Lady Branwen, came from the same clan as the head druid, they would have supported her child against Ingolf, and perchance might have won. Imogen, who loved her brother despite his faults, often had to mediate between him and the influential druids, who had little patience with his antics.

“But the emissary said himself that his King would not endanger a possible alliance between his people and ours because of personal grievances,” she now said quietly, in an attempt to pacify her father’s chancellors. “And he was willing to forget what had happened to him, for the sake of his errand among us.”

“I know he was,” replied her father gravely, “but that is an offer we cannot accept. You know that my throne does not stand at the same height as that of Théoden-king; I am not the King of Rhûn yet, and ‘tis doubtful that I ever will be. An insult towards his emissary is an insult towards the King of the Horsemen himself. Unless we can right this particular wrong, we shall never be equals. And if I lowered myself as far as swearing a vassal’s oath to Théoden-king, do you believe the other jarls would allow me to remain the chief warlord of our people?”

The answer to that was so obvious that all Imogen could do was to shake her head, dejected. Ragnar Jarl nodded grimly.

“Your deeds would put any man to shame, daughter, therefore I shall speak to you as I would to a son. Not only would the pride of the other jarls not allow Ragnar to become the vassal of a foreign King – Ragnar himself could not bear it, either.”

“Nor could his daughter, the captain of the shieldmaidens, bear it,” said Imogen proudly. “Never have the children of the Bear served foreign lords and never will. Not while there is a single hand strong enough to wield the sword.”

Which, of course, was not entirely true. While the Tribe of the Bear usually did not take part in Mordor’s campaigns, had not done so since Hademar Jarl, in fact, other tribes did. They were a people of raiders and plunderers, after all, whether by choice or by necessity. And even Ragnar had to pretend allegiance to the Dark Lord, or else he would have been replaced as the chief warlord of Rhûn in no time at all.

Siltric Silkbeard, to name just one of his rivals, was devoted enough to Mordor’s long-term agenda to subjugate the Wilderland – and all the lands west of the great mountains afterwards – and foolish enough to believe that he and his tribe would be spared, once all else had fallen and been conquered. Ragnar, however, knew better; which had been the reason to start the tentative approach towards the Horselords.

“Our strength may not be enough to hold back the dark storm coming from the south,” he said heavily. “We could try to ride its waves, as some other tribes do, but that would only mean sending our warriors to fight someone else’s battles and be slain for nothing. In the end, we would not fare any better than those whom we have slaughtered on Mordor’s behalf.”

“If we have to die anyway, at least we should die freely, with our knees unbent and our heads held high proudly, as we have lived,” said Imogen. “And when that day comes, the daughters of the Bear will show their brethren that their hearts are just as brave and proud as those of the men who had treated them like cattle all their lives.”

“’Tis said that in the elder days, when your forefathers were still a young people, Khimmer women, too, were treated with respect and valued as they deserve,” he said.

Ragnar nodded. “So I have heard, too. But the Shadow crept over our lands early on, and our men became rough-hearted in the never-ending warfare, and we have forgotten almost everything we once knew. Had the witan not lived among us,” he glanced at Dallben and the grave-faced druid, “we would be no better than the wild Men of Far-Harad. But not all is lost, not yet. Should we make this alliance work, we would, at least, have a chance to break free from Mordor. And then, perhaps, our lives may become easier; even those of our women.”

Imogen shook her head bitterly, disbelief clearly written in her beautiful face. Her father sighed.

“Do you think you are the only who mourns the fate of our women?” he asked. “Do you think my heart was easy when I had to send your sisters, even though they were born to me by my other women, not by my wives, to the burial wagons of their husbands? Do you think I like sending you into the bedchambers of unsteady allies for Nimwarkinh’s sake? You think ’tis easy for me? You are all that is left from my beloved Branwen, and I would do anything in my power to protect you. But I am the lord of a falling people, not merely your father. And as I cannot listen to my heart when the survival of our people is at stake, I must use your beauty and the desire it awakens in men’s hearts to our advantage. This is a life-and-death struggle, my little oak, and as your father, I cannot spare you when there is so much at stake.”

The sad look in his eyes made the meaning of his words very clear, and Imogen became stark white with anger.

“No!” she whispered harshly. “You cannot force me to do that, not now! This is my resting cycle, the first one in two seasons. I owe you no service, least of all this one! This is my time! I have earned it with bitter fights. You cannot make me to go to him. We have privileges that not even you can cut short!”

“It must be, Imogen!” the voice of the warlord was full of compassion, but he brooked no disobedience. “Truly, I cannot force a shieldmaiden to service during her resting cycle; and I would never do it, if there were any other way. But there is none, not yet. The fate of our entire House is at stake. The emissary was mistreated by our House – therefore the compensation, too, must come from our House. And as both his life and his honour were threatened, he is entitled to thegnwer indeed.”

“It was not I who mistreated him,” reminded him Imogen coldly. “On the contrary: I was the one who saved him from coming to serious harm. Why should I be the one to pay the price?”

“Because ’tis you whom he desires,” answered her father calmly. “I could see the want in his eyes as he was watching you. He would not accept the wergild paid in gold or silver or jewels; and where could I find enough of those to compensate someone of his rank and his high birth? Even if I emptied every treasure chest in Nimwarkinh, it would never be enough.”

That, sadly, was very true. The wealth of the Deep Furnaces was in copper and iron – useful and necessary metals that made the Tribe of the Bear rich and respected among their own, but not truly suited to pay off a foreign dignitary. Even the gemstones they had dared to remove from the abandoned old Dwarf-mine would not do. They were beautiful to look at, but of lesser value, which was probably the reason why they had been left behind.

“A life could only be bought by another life; or a wergild of equal value,” Ragnar Jarl continued. “As my treasure would not be enough, I have only two ways to right the wrong done to the emissary and save the last chance to make this alliance we so badly need work. Either I send you in his chambers, or the head of your brother on a plate. But as much as he would deserve to be beheaded for his folly, I cannot afford that,” he added dryly, without looking at the fuming Ingolf. “He is my only heir; none of my other sons could hold the Tribe together.”

Imogen knew all too well how true that was. His bastard half-brothers were fierce warriors, and many of them would have supporters among the lesser jarls and the simple warriors, should they stake claim of leadership. They were well loved among the people, and they had family ties to many clans within the Tribe.

And therein lay the problem: too many of them had supporters, yet neither had the advantage of legitimacy. With Ingolf removed, the Tribe would be torn to pieces by kin-strife, as all the others would have equal rights to step into his place. More than that: being equally ambitious and strong-willed, none of them would step back for another’s sake.

Therefore Imogen knew that in the end she would have no choice but do as her father had ordered. This was not the first time that she would be sent in the bedchamber of an important emissary or a jarl of uncertain allegiances. Her beauty and skill always ensured that Ragnar Jarl would get what he wanted. In truth, she had accepted that long ago. As a shieldmaiden, at least she could escape the helplessness of married life – or that of a concubine. Like all things, the privileges of a shieldmaiden had their price-

When she had applied for a place in their order, she had done so with her eyes wide open. She had known what the price would be. But she had decided that the freedom and respect no other Khimmer woman could even dream of was well worth that price. She had been taught by the norna how to serve in the bedchamber as well as on the battlefield, and most of the time, she could live with that fate.

The sole purpose of every Khimmer woman was to serve every whim of her men. The shieldmaidens, protected by their privileges, could count themselves fortunate, compared with the others.

Imogen knew all this, and as a rule, she valued her privileged status both as the legitimate daughter of Rhûn’s chief warlord and as a shieldmaiden. No woman had ever stood higher than her among the children of the Bear, and she was content with what she had and had no need nor interest in men, be they of her own kind or from elsewhere – ’til now. For the emissary of the Mark was different from all the others to whose bedchambers her father had sent her. He was proud and brave and generous and noble – someone she could have liked for himself.

She had never chosen a lover to this day; her life had been composed of battle and of preparing herself for battle. She had to be the best of the best to keep her position, and she had succeeded. But she knew that her secret, the one she had carried with her for seasons, would be revealed one day, and thus she had been playing with the idea of taking a lover during this very sleeping cycle; to know some pleasure as long as there was still time.

The thought of having to lie with a man whom she might have chosen freely, just to hammer out the dent her brother had caused in the family’s honour filled her heart with great bitterness.

Ragnar the Smith could easily follow the struggle of contradictory feelings upon the beautiful face of his daughter. He could see that Imogen had already fought the battle against her own pride, and he knew she would obey as always. But he also knew how hard it was for her, for she had inherited her stubborn pride and her courage from him. And the heart of the warlord was heavy; for he knew that – unless a miracle happened – Imogen would seek out deadly peril in her pride and her desire to win renown, and that he would lose her before time.

“’Tis well, my child,” he said gently. “I know you would not let me down. It cannot be helped; the strength of our men is not enough to forge a better future for our people. We need the sacrifice of the women, too, as much as I wished things were different. Go now and rest; you will need your strength this evening. And if you can think of a reward I could give you, name it – you shall have it.”

“I do not need to think about it,” said Imogen, “neither have you to ask. You know what I have wanted from the day on I received my sword: to fight on the side of Zadya, in the first line of battle. I have asked you time and again to let me join her, but you never agreed.”

“Nay, and I never will,” replied her father decisively. “Grotharr Jarl is mad with battle lust. Had I not needed to keep the Tribe of the Wolf on our side, I would never have allowed Zadya to live among them, either. ’Tis bad enough that one daughter of mine courts death every day. I shall not allow you to meet an untimely end, too.”

“At least that end would be a glorious one, preserved in song and legend, as long as one scop remains in these caves to touch the strings of a lute,” answered Imogen bitterly; then she bowed from the shoulder, like a man, and left the Lesser Hall without a further word.

Ragnar Jarl looked after her in concern. The apparent death wish of his daughter had him more worried with each passing season.

In the meantime, Elfhelm and Strider were led to the bath – which was a surprisingly elaborate one for a tribe of uncouth barbarians.

The small stone chamber serving as sweat lodge was at least as fine as the ones Elfhelm was used to at home. The spacious marble basin was filled with the water from an underground hot spring, the water flowing from the maws of three dragon heads on either side, wrought of bronze and now glittering green, due to the wetness, and left the basin through some hidden vent, so that the basin itself always remained clean. Low, broad massage benches, carved of stone and polished smoother than marble, framed the basin from all sides.

“This is the most beautiful bath-house I have ever seen,” admitted Elfhelm, speaking in Rohirric, to avoid insulting their hosts. “Who would have expected to find something like this among the Easterlings?”

“’Tis Dwarf-work, definitely,” answered Strider in the same language. “Dwarves are almost as fastidious as Elves, and that is saying a lot. It speaks for these people, though, to put such an excellent place to good use. Not all Easterlings would know to appreciate it, and I assume that only the chieftain, his family and his honoured guests are allowed to use it. I certainly didn’t seen it from the inside during all the time I lived among them.”

Elfhelm nodded, but they could not continue, as now a few lovely young women came in to take care of them. One of them was a redhead; another one blond; a third one raven-haired, and another three the usual auburn-maned, voluptuous Khimmer beauties, while the last one, the oldest of all, was clearly a Mordvin slave: round-faced, doe-eyed, with coarse, dark brown hair. And yet she seemed to be the one in charge of the others.

“They are Ingolf’s women,” Einarr, who had stayed with them in the bath, told Elfhelm; then, with a smug grin, he added. “He must have insulted you badly, if he goes such lengths to placate you. As a rule, he does not allow his women to be even seen by other men, though Birgid here,” he glanced at the redhead, “used to be mine. I was the one who cut her girdle after I had wrestled the power from the Bear. Alas, she caught Ingolf’s eye, and that was it. The heir of the Sword can have whatever – or whomever – he wants.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised both guests. They had thought that Ragnar’s sons would stand as a united front behind Ingolf.

“We stand as a shieldwall before our father, as long as he is the one to wield the Sword,” replied Einarr, when Strider voiced that opinion. “But I for my part do not wish to serve Ingolf, once he comes into his own – and I may not be the only one. Others have their grievances, too.”

He stood and stretched, displaying impressive muscles as he did so, to the unabashed delight of Ingolf’s women. The redhead in particular seemed to appreciate the sight.

“I shall leave you to enjoy your bath now,” he said. “Ybba has ordered your belongings to be brought to your chambers and breakfast to be served. The wenches will take you there when you are done here, and I shall come and escort you to the Mead Hall before the feast begins.”

I admit that I while writing the scene in the Mead Hall, I was unduly inspired by the godawful CGI Beowulf movie featuring Ray Winstone. Or a creepy animation that was supposed to look like him.

The Mead Hall of Nimwarkinh was an amazing place, Elfhelm found. It was the greatest among the Western Halls that served as the Warlord’s dwelling place and fortress – save for the enormous cavern in which the furnaces were situated – Einarr had told them when coming to lead them there. Originally it had been made by the Dwarves and probably served the same purpose. One could not know for certain, he explained, as the few Dwarves still lurking in the deepest shafts did not share their ancient tales with Men.

“In all the lands of Rhûn, there is no other mead hall to equal ours in size or grandeur,” Einarr had added proudly, “and tonight, it will be awash with song and laughter; with the clatter of plates and knives, and the rise and fall of a hundred voices speaking all at once.”

Entering the Mead Hall, Elfhelm had to admit that the warlord’s son had been right, on both accounts.

The cavernous hall was long and relatively narrow for its length, with a high, arched ceiling, held – as was common in Dwarf-made halls – by tall stone pillars carved in the likeness of flowering trees. The boughs of the trees formed the arches, and the blossoms were made of clusters of small gemstones – or perhaps not so small ones. Perhaps they just seemed small, for they were so far above one’s head.

The long tables and benches along either side of the hall were made of stone, too, their legs carved like the clawed foot of some mythical beasts, for wood was more precious and less enduring in such underground dwellings, while stone was there in abundance. The plates and drinking vessels – tankards, cups or drinking horns – were wrought of bronze, copper or zinc, enamelled or set with jewels.

Above the wide fire pits in the middle – filled with glowing coal – wild boars, deer, wild hares and pigs roasted on spits. Clearly, game was more abundant on the northern side of the Mountains than in the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh, and the Khimmer warriors were apparently skilled hunters, too. The flames of the fire pits leapt and danced, throwing flickering shadows across the walls and laughing faces and the wall-hangings beyond the pillars, depicting scenes of warfare and hunt or the graven images of gods and monsters.

Large barrels, in which a dozen men could have been drowned, stood between the tables, filled with mead, and serving wenches poured the fine drink with large copper ladles into the drinking vessels, which then were carried to the guests by their personal slaves.

Between the pillars sat the musicians of the court – all young boys or old men, for while scops were highly respected for their skills and seated at the lord’s table, no self-respecting Khimmer man would choose to become a lowly drummer or piper. Ragnar’s personal scop, a straw-headed, slightly portly man of middle age, sat at the end of the table, with a voluptuous redhead on his lap, apparently enjoying himself.

Ragnar the Smith sat at the far end of the Hall, presiding over the high table that stood on a flat dais. His stone chair, albeit less elaborately carved than his throne, was high-backed and inlaid with onyx, cushioned with bearskins. He was sitting there relaxed and impassive like a resting bear – almost a little bored. Elfhelm was certain nonetheless that nothing happening within the Hall would escape his attention.

On his right sat Ingolf, his son, looking morose and more than a little discontent – not to mention fairly drunk already. On his left, the two seats of honour were empty, clearly reserved for Elfhelm and Strider, and next to the empty seats sat Imogen, decked out splendidly in heavy red velvet, gold and jewels, in the fashion of Dale.

On Ingolf’s right sat Master Dallben and the druid, whose name Elfhelm still had not learned, as it was their privilege as the witan of the court, and beyond them an old man of considerable girth, whose long beard and thick braids had gone white with age like snow. His battle years were well beyond him now, but he was obviously one of the lesser jarls of the Tribe, and one who still commanded respect.

“I wonder who that old warrior may be,” said Elfhelm in a low voice to Strider, who shrugged.

“Had I met him the last time I was here, he must have been a young man still. But based on his place at the chieftain’s table, my guess is that he would be Weohstan Jarl, Ragnar’s chief vassal; and also the father of Ingolf’s late mother, the Lady Herta.”

Elfhelm gave him a suspicious look. “For a man who has not been here for decades, you are surprisingly knowledgeable about this place and its dwellers.”

Stride laughed quietly. “Why you were enjoying your bath and resting, I used the time to talk to people. Some of the oldest ones still remember me and were more open-hearted than they would ever be to you. For I used to live with them and fight Orcs and Trolls with them, and they know they can trust me.”

Elfhelm nodded his understanding. It made sense. Strider was something akin a sword-brother for these people, even if not one from their own blood. He, on the other hand, was a stranger and would likely remain one.

“I am grateful that you chose to come with me,” he admitted. “I could not fulfil my task without your help.”

“Peace between Rhûn and Rohan is something that will serve the good of all free peoples,” said the Ranger simply. “Even if only the Tribe of the Bear holds to a peace agreement, that would mean thousands of warriors not fighting alongside of Mordor’s armies. Come now; ’twould be offensive to make Ragnar Jarl wait.”

Familiar with the customs at the Khimmer court, he strode forward confidently to the high table, bowed from the shoulders and spoke in the Khimmer language, acting as Elfhelm’s herald.

“Ragnar Jarl, may I present the emissary of the Mark, Elfhelm Hengestsson, who has come to you on an errand of his King? He carries the greetings of Théoden-king and is desirous to present the guest-gift sent by Théoden himself, to your pleasure.”

Elfhelm, who had been given back all his gear by the warlord’s orders, now stepped forth and placed a richly carved wooden box on the table before Ragnar – with the lid open, so that the Lord of Nimwarkinh could see the gift of Théoden-king.

It was a drinking horn; a breath-taking piece of artistry, fashioned by Dwarves in the Second Age, and which came into the possession of the Kings of the Mark with the hoard of Scatha the Worm. Wrought of the finest gold, its entire surface was etched with strange runes that not even the White Wizard had been able to decipher, back in the times when he had still been friendly towards Théoden’s forefathers. All he could say had been that it had to be ancient Dwarven script, used before Mahal’s Children adopted the Angerthas of Daeron.

Two clawed feet were mounted on one side of the vessel, so that it could be set down without rolling or spilling. Its handle was wrought in the shape of a winged dragon, also of the purest gold, with a single, perfect ruby set in its breast: the only place where the worms were vulnerable. The dragon’s horns, fangs, the ragged trace of its long, sinuous razor spine, were worked out in minute detail – so perfectly, in fact, that it almost seemed alive.

“Allow me, my lord, to deliver you the greetings and best wishes of Théoden-cyning,” announced Elfhelm, also in the Khimmer tongue, shocking the court with that single act. “May the mead never run dry in your barrels.”

“Give thy king my thanks upon thy return,” answered Ragnar formally, “and allow me to honour thee with a small gift of my own; to express my respect for thy person and thy errand among us. Eiríkr, bring the chest!”

A young warrior in the distinctive armour of the warlord’s personal guard – tall, blond and blue-eyed, looking so much like Einarr that they had to be brothers, perchance even twins – carried in a large wooden chest most other men would fail to lift alone. It was open and filled almost to overflowing with gold and silver, with coins minted in far-away, foreign countries, with jewel-encrusted brooches and other treasures.

The warlord selected a single gold torque from the chest, studded with white and green gems in the colours of the Mark, and held it above his head for everyone to see.

“See this, sons of the Bear, and witness,” he said in a voice that carried all over the cavernous hall, “for this is how Ragnar the Smith honours the emissary of the Mark!”

The people in the hall cheered, and Elfhelm wondered what particular meaning this short ceremony might have, for it had been too formal not to have one. Ere he could have asked, though, he felt Strider elbow him in the ribs sharply.

Still a bit bewildered, Elfhelm did as he was told, and the warlord leaned forward in his seat to place the golden torque about his neck. It fit perfectly, and the feasting crowd cheered again loudly, thumping the tables with their fists.

Given the drunken state of the majority, even most women, Elfhelm suspected that only a few of them knew why they were cheering – and that things were happening exactly how Ragnar wanted them to happen. Give the belligerent warriors a feast, with enough mead to drown in it, with enough willing young wenches who were desperately looking for a benefactor and with entertainment they would not forget for seasons to come, and they would be more inclined to accept the idea of allying themselves with the Mark, whose emissary had been honoured that way.

It was a shrewd move. Ragnar clearly knew his people well – and how he had to handle them.

The warlord now lifted the magnificent drinking horn, Théoden-king’s gift, from its wooden box, and held it before him for a moment, so that all could see and admire it. Then he glanced at his daughter.

“Bring me mead,” he ordered. “I have a boast to speak, as the people of our honoured guest would call it.”

Elfhelm blinked in surprise. He would never expect the Khimmer warlord to know the customs of the Mark so well. Apparently, he had underestimated Ragnar the Smith. That had been a mistake he advised himself never to make again.

Imogen rose from her seat with that boneless grace of hers, took the golden horn in both hands, like an offering, and carried it to the nearest barrel to have it filled with mead. Then she brought it to her father and offered it to him, saying:

Ragnar accepted the drinking horn from her, but he did not empty it just yet. Instead, he held it before him with both hands and addressed the crowd again.

“You know me, sons of the Bear,” he said in a powerful voice that carried to the farthest corners of the Hall. “You know who I am and what I have done. Some of you are old enough to have seen me wrestle my power from the Bear. Some of you are young enough to have learned to wield the sword or the battle-axe under my tutelage. Some of you are my kin, by blood or by marriage. But in one thing you are all the same: you all have followed me to battle at one time or another. So tell me, sons of the Bear: have I not always led you well?”

An enthusiastic cheer rose from the crowd, answering that question. Old and young began thumping their fists on the table again, chanting Ragnar’s name.

“A year ago,” continued the warlord, “I, Ragnar the Smith, son of Hademar, the greatest warrior of our people, promised to find strong allies for our clan, so that we can fight our own wars, if needs must be, instead of fighting for the Lord of the Black Lands who cares not whether we live or die.” He gestured in Elfhelm’s direction with one hand. “Behold the emissary of the Mark, who has come to us to negotiate an alliance. Now, do tell me, sons of the Bear – have I not kept my promise? Have I not found the stoutest warriors to fight side by side with us?”

The crowd cheered again, too drunk to realise that the negotiations had not even begun yet. But Elfhelm understood that the needful thing for Ragnar was to win the support of his jarls and warriors for the idea of an alliance; that from now on the Mark could no longer be the goal for raiding troops. How well that would work remained to be seen, but they had, at least, to agree.

“And therefore,” went on Ragnar, “I empty my horn to honour our new allies, the horse-lords of the Mark, and their emissary, Elfhelm Hengestsson.”

He lifted the magnificent drinking vessel to his lips and drank deeply, emptying it at one draught, to the encouraging calls and whistles of his men. Then he had it filled again and sent it to Elfhelm by way of Imogen, as a sure sign of his goodwill and respect.

“You, too, must empty the horn at one draught,” warned Strider in a low voice. “Otherwise you would insult our host.”

A Gondorian noble, used to the sharp yellow wine of Lebennin, or occasionally to the heavy Dorwinion red, would likely have been challenged by such task. But Elfhelm was a Rider of the Mark, used to the potent ale brewed by his own people, which he had drunk before he would have been considered a man grown. Thus he accepted the golden horn from Imogen, suppressing the involuntary shiver of excitement when their fingers touched briefly, and held it up with both hands as he had seen from the warlord.

“Westu Ragnar hál!” he cried in his own language, draining the horn at one draught, as expected. He found the mead of the Easterlings a bit sweet for his taste but otherwise excellent. It certainly had a kick like a mule, but nothing a Man of the Mark could not take.

The crowd cheered him on and Ragnar clapped his hands in obvious delight. Whether that feeling was true or only feigned for the sake of his people, Elfhelm could not tell.

“Such a joyous event must be celebrated properly,” the warlord then announced, looking at his son Eiríkr. “Let us hand out some treasure, shall we?”

Eiríkr lifted the heavy lid of the treasure chest, so that his father could dip both hands into all that gold and silver and jewels and coins, and toss a few handfuls into the eagerly waiting crowd. Some of it got snatched directly from the air by greedy hands before it could hit any surface. Other pieces rained down noisily upon the stone tables, rolling around or down to the floor, with everyone scrambling greedily to get some of them.

But Elfhelm could see that the warlord would hand out his treasure rather sparsely and wondered if this was the last such chest in Nimwarkinh. If it was, then Ragnar’s throne could be in peril. Only a generous chieftain could count on his men’s loyalty.

“Be merry and enjoy your meal, mead and music,” encouraged them Ragnar. “Show your women what a true Khimmer warrior is like. Ulfarr, you lazy lout, leave that wench of yours alone for a moment and give us a proper song!”

The portly scop simply tossed the red-haired wench from his lap, scrambled to his feet and grabbed his lute to lead the drunken warriors and their women in a chant everyone seemed familiar with. Soon enough, most of the Hall had joined him. The warriors banged their fists and cups against the tabletops, and some of the wenches leapt onto the tables and stomped their feet while the Mead Hall rang out with song. As far as Elfhelm could tell, for it was sung in a dialect he was not fluent in, it was all about the brave deeds of Ragnar, from the day he killed his first bear to the present.

When the song came to an end, the musicians sitting between the side pillars took over, playing some fast and loud dancing tune on their cymbals, copper drums and shrieking pipes. More mead was brought to jarls and common warriors alike, and more and more people were dancing on or between the tables.

The two witan left after a while, clearly not fond of the bawdy scene, but old Weohstan Jarl seemed to enjoy himself enough for two, with a large drinking horn on one hand and the ample breast of a very young, very willing wench in the other one. There could be little doubt where that would lead; and indeed, some of the more inebriated jarls had already gone down to business with their women behind the pillars putting the animal hides stored there to good use and not caring who might watch them in their amusement.

Elfhelm was getting uncomfortable, but he knew he could not simply leave; not without insulting his host and ruining what little he had achieved so far. Granted, sometimes even the symbels of the Mark would become fairly bawdy, but the scene unfolding before his eyes was almost too much, even for his hardened sensitivities.

If anything, this feast clearly showed that the Easterlings were barbarians indeed – even the Tribe of the Bear that had appeared different at first sight.

He watched with morbid curiosity as several richly-clad warriors dragged a young woman to the end of the hall and nailed her thick braid to a wooden beam. Then they began to throw their short battle-axes at her.

“That is one of my brother Ybba’s women,” explained Imogen from Strider’s other side. “She has been accused of cheating on him, but no-one could bring proof either for it or against it. So the Bear will have to decide. If the aim of one of my brothers is not true, and she dies, then she was unfaithful. If someone succeeds in cutting through her braid, she is innocent and can return to Ybba’s chambers.”

One by one, the well-clad young men whom Imogen had identified as her half-brothers, gave it a try, but – being way too drunk from all the mead they had already consumed – missed wildly. Elfhelm was disgusted by the cruel play and moved by the almost animal fear in the woman’s eyes. At one point he almost rose to interfere, but the heavy hand of Eiríkr, who was standing behind his chair, shoved him back onto his seat.

“Do not meddle in our affairs, stranger,” he warned. “There are things that concern only the sons of the Bear.”

“But that poor woman!” Elfhelm balled his fist in hapless anger. “Even if she was unfaithful, ’tis a cruel thing to make fun of her fear.”

“Perhaps,” said Eiríkr coldly. “But at least she will be more careful not to raise any doubts about herself in the future… if she survives, that is,” then he called across the table to Ingolf, laughing. “Hey, Ingolf, care to show us how true your aim is?”

Their other brothers laughed and gave Ragnar’s heir encouraging calls. Ingolf tossed back another cup of mead; then he rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and strolled to the middle of the Hall. The crowd became eerily quiet at once; everyone leaned forward in their chairs with expectation. Ingolf removed the battle axe from his broad, gold-fitted belt, grabbed it at the end of the hilt, where the decorative bronze rings were applied, and threw it with a quick, deadly accurate move, without actually taking aim.

The razor-sharp weapon flew through the thick air, humming like a swarm of angry bees, and slammed into the wooden beam with a screeching noise, barely two fingers’ breadth above the victim’s head. It cut through the red-blond braid that was thicker than a man's arm cleanly, and the woman, who had hung on her hair with her full weight, crumpled to the stone floor like a heap of lifeless rags. Her entire body was trembling with fear – but also with relief that she had been proven innocent and allowed to live a little longer.

Cheers and whistles rose in the Hall as Ybba elbowed his way through the crowd to pick up his woman unceremoniously and threw her over his heavy shoulder. He slapped her on the firm backside and carried her behind the pillars to celebrate.

“You owe me for that, brother!” Ingolf called after him, returning to his place.

“In a manner, yea, he does. Ybba likes Maren a lot; he would hate to lose her.”

“And you think she is truly innocent?” Elfhelm did not believe such practices, and neither did Eiríkr, apparently.

“Does it matter?” he asked back. “What counts is that people believe in her innocence. Although it is possible that she was, in truth, faithful,” he added with a wide grin. “Ybba, unless he has to lead a raid somewhere far from home, takes good care of his women. They rarely have enough strength left for adventures once he is done with them,” and he nodded in the direction where Ybba was already taking good care of the freshly rehabilitated Maren – to put it delicately.

Satisfied with his achievement, Ingolf Ragnarsson looked around in the Mead Hall for his slave who should have long since come to refill his empty cup. To his annoyance there was no sign of the lazy, useless lout anywhere. All he could see were the shiny, drunken faces of the singing, laughing warriors and their equally drunken women.

And the cold, hard face of his sister – probably the only one aside from their father who was not drunk tonight. His sister, who would have to bed a stranger to save him. To correct a grievous mistake that he had made and that could still cause his downfall… and the downfall of their entire family.

Saved by the loins of a woman. Could there be humiliation worse than that for a Khimmer warrior? For one supposed to become the chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear and the warlord of the entire Rhûn one day? As if having a shieldmaiden as a sister, one whose deeds at least equalled his own, weren’t bad enough, now he would also owe a life-debt to Imogen?

His slightly improved mood turned dark again, and he looked around to find a safe outlet for his building rage. He finally spotted his slave, a lean, beardless man twice his age but half his weight, trying to find a way through the crowd, clutching a large drinking horn in both hands. The slow progress of the man only fuelled his anger.

“Ban, you lazy idiot!” he shouted, his rough voice cutting through the general noise of the Hall like a sword. “Where is my mead?”

“Here, my lord, I have it right here,” replied the slave, a lot less frightened than he ought to be. Either he was a very brave man, or he had learned the hard way that showing weakness would only make things worse, Elfhelm guessed.

He traced his path among the boisterous warriors and their drunken wenches carefully; this could not have been the first time he had to do it. He reached that dais and was about to fill Ingolf’s cup, when someone accidentally shoved him from behind. The mead sloshed over the rim of the cup and splashed over the sleeve of Ingolf’s festive tunic.

Elfhelm winced involuntarily, assuming that it would end badly for the poor man.

He snatched old Weohstan Jarl’s walking stick – a sturdy, knotted length of birch wood the old man needed whenever the pain in his stiff limbs made walking difficult for him – and struck Ban hard across the brow. The man reeled from the blow but found his balance quickly enough, which, considering Ingolf’s brutal strength, was no small feat.

However, he could not keep the horn straight enough at the same time, and thus the rest of the mead was spilled, splattering on the step of the dais.

“You clumsy bastard!” roared Ingolf, hitting him again. “How dare you to waste my father’s mead?”

The slave gave no answer, nor did he try to apologize or beg for mercy – which would have been a pointless thing to do anyway. He just stood there with gritted teeth while Ingolf continued to beat him with the stick. He did not try to protect himself, he did not turn his face away, just glared at his enraged master with the stubborn courage of those who had nothing left to lose.

At first, the warriors watching the scene chuckled at his predicament and gave Ingolf encouraging calls. But soon they became slightly uncomfortable with his silent strength and turned away.

“That is enough,” said Ragnar Jarl in a low, even voice that brooked no argument and reached his son and heir even in his drunken rage. “You have made your displeasure known and you have meted out punishment. Sit down. Ban, you can go.”

“Useless worm!” sneered Ingolf at the slave who bowed to the warlord and backed off slowly, not caring for the thin rivulet of blood trickling down his face. “I should feed you to the wild pigs and be done with it!”

“You would just poison those poor pigs,” he howled, reclaiming his stick and leaning on it heavily as he clambered to his feet, never letting go of the young wench for a moment. “Well, this old man needs his rest. Will you be so kind as to help me find my way to the bedchamber, my pretty? Sometimes I think I have almost forgotten the path.”

The wench giggled and supported him readily as they made their way towards the main doors. Ragnar Jarl stared after them for a moment, his impassive face revealing nothing. Then he turned to his daughter.

“Things are getting out of hand, Imogen,” he said in the same low voice that could nonetheless be heard well through the noise of the Hall. “The rest is not for the eyes of honoured guests. Would you mind seeing Lord Elfhelm and Lord Aðalbrandr to their chambers?”

Imogen’s face revealed that her father’s request was, in truth, a politely phrased order. She rose from her seat with obvious reluctance, as if assigned to some hard and unpleasant task, which surprised Elfhelm, as she had not appeared to enjoy herself – or the feast – very much so far. But he knew better than to ask questions.

“Follow me, my lords,” she then said and strode briskly forward, without looking back to see if they were following her.

The crowd gave way as she made her way with long, purposeful strides, her head held high proudly, her shoulders squared like those of a warrior ready to go to battle. But there was a sway in her gait that only a woman could display. A woman who knew she was being watched by hungry eyes.

Author’s notes: The Wild Goose Path is the Rohirric equivalent of the Milky Way. At least in my stories.

Imogen led the two guests back to the guest house, where they had been assigned the best chambers the Western Halls of Nimwarkinh could offer. These were small, remarkably dry caves, the walls covered with thick, beautifully woven carpets of goat wool, and the stone floor with heavy bear skins to keep the cold at bay. The four-poster beds were made of the wood of back firs that grew all over the Mountains of Nimwarkinh – not a very high-quality wood, admittedly, but the masterful carving hid the flaws skilfully.

Instead of curtains, they were hung with woollen carpets and cushioned with bearskins. Bed linens were an unknown luxury in Nimwarkinh, apparently. A low, marble-plated table stood on twisted bronze legs at the head of each bed, the saddlebags of the guests placed on the floor next to the tables. A small washstand, also made of bronze, with a copper washing basin and large jugs of hot and cold water offered them some comfort before retiring for the night.

Imogen escorted Strider to his chambers first, wished him a restful night and closed the door firmly behind him. Then she led Elfhelm to the other chambers, but instead of leaving him alone as well, she went in with him, closed the door behind them and secured the latch from within. Elfhelm watched her with wide-eyed surprise.

“What do you think?” she asked in bitter amusement. “My family owes a life debt to you, and I was sent to pay it.” Seeing Elfhelm’s baffled expression, she laughed mirthlessly. “You think this to be such a rare wonder? Rest assured that it is not. ’Tis not the first time for me; and not the last one either, most likely. Not as long as my youth and beauty last.”

“I thought you had no obligations in your resting cycle,” said Elfhelm, having finally found his voice.

“Usually, I do not,” she agreed with a sigh. “But we are in your debt. You can afford to forget how Ingolf threatened you with death; how he had you thrown into the Black Pit. We cannot. Or do you believe my father would give me to any random strangers? Then you are mistaken. He only does it when much is at stake. For he knows I can get him whatever he wants. Whatever we need.”

“Then, for the first time, he shall have to live with a disappointment,” said Elfhelm coldly. “I do not sell favours for favours; less so when ladies are involved.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes glittering in challenge. “Dou you not know what to do with a woman in your bed?”

Not man enough for a shieldmaiden, Elfhelm remembered the worst Khimmer insult one could think of. But he knew he was being provoked and was not about to play her game. He smiled involuntarily, though, for she was bold in pursuing her goals; he had to give her that.

“I certainly would know how to give a girl a good time,” he answered. “I had no complaints so far. But what kind of father sells the virtue of his daughter as a Dunlending wool merchant would sell his fleeces on the market?”

“One that has no other choice,” replied Imogen grimly. “If word got out that you had not been given proper compensation, my father’s throne would fall and the uncertain bond between the tribes would fall apart again. How long, do you think, would we last against the marauding Orcs on one side and the forces of Gondor, in whose eyes we are the marauders, on the other? Divided, we would fall and perish, no matter which side may emerge victoriously at the end of the upcoming great war.”

“The other chieftains do not seem to share your father’s concerns,” said Elfhelm. “On the contrary: they appear content enough to continue a life as raiders and pillagers.”

“Which is why my father must hold his position, at any costs,” returned Imogen. “He is the only one strong enough to keep this tentative bond together. And he is the only one wise enough to seek out other ways to get us what we need. He is the only one who can break us free from the Shadow that our people have served too long. But he can only keep the Sword as long as his reputation remains unblemished.”

“I understand that,” said Elfhelm, and truly, he did. The Men of the Mark took hospitality very seriously, too. “But why must you be the one who has to pay a debt in which you had no part? In truth, I owe you a life debt as well, since you have saved me from the worst.”

“The price for a life is a life, or something of equal value,” she quoted the old law. “Our treasure chambers are all but depleted. Evil winds have been blowing from the Ash Mountains for years by now, poisoning the meagre soil in the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh; growing food there has become increasingly difficult. Even the game has become rare since the number of wolves has grown. Father held back the raids as much as he could, to make these negotiations possible at all, but that meant we had to trade our treasure for food, so that our people would not starve. We no longer have enough gold and silver to pay you a proper wergild for the threat to your life.”

Elfhelm, remembering Joukko and his starving family, understood that, too. Still…

“And so your father trades you instead?” he asked with a disapproving frown.

Imogen shrugged. “Would you prefer my brother’s head on a platter? You would be entitled to that as well.”

“In all honesty? I would,” replied Elfhelm bluntly. “But I assume that losing his only heir would not make Ragnar Jarl’s position any safer.”

“Nay, it would not,” agreed Imogen. “It would lead to kin-strife, and to the fall of the entire Tribe. You cannot reject our offer, unless you want my father’s fall – and a fate worse than death for me. You must know that all women and daughters of a fallen chieftain become the spoils of the new warlord’s warriors. Is that the fate you would wish upon me? Then you are either a very cruel man or you have never seen our warriors at their worst.”

Elfhelm had seen enough farmsteads raided and destroyed by Easterlings to know what Khimmer warriors were capable of when battle madness and bloodlust came over them. He had also learned during his stay that Ragnar the Smith had quite a number of rivals; rich, powerful and respected chieftains like Siltric Silkbeard, who watched his throne with envious eyes for the slightest sign of weakness. He had no doubts that – should Ragnar fall from power – his family would suffer a terrible fate. Particularly the women; particularly Imogen, who as a shieldmaiden was a sworn protector of her father’s position.

Still, such a bargain was not acceptable to the honour of a thegn of the Mark. And the Éothéod held their honour in high regard, higher than they would regard their life. He knew, however, that he could not simply reject the offered compensation. Not if he wanted his mission to succeed.

There had to be another way… and in a sudden moment of clarity he saw it, shining more brightly than the Wild Goose Path shone among the stars.

“Answer me one question ere I would say either aye or nay; and be honest with me,” he said. “If things were different between me and your father – would you choose me nonetheless?”

Imogen’s pale face gained some colour. Tears flooded her clear grey eyes all of a sudden, as if the bitter frost around her heart had begun to thaw a little.

“I never had a lover of my own choice,” she admitted quietly. “I never truly wanted one. Exceeding in battle was almost more important for me, and my entire life was dedicated to that. But had we met under happier circumstances, I may indeed have chosen you I might even be happy with you, for a short while -- for long as happiness is granted to a shieldmaiden.”

“I am honoured,” said Elfhelm, and he meant it. She might hail from a tribe of uncouth barbarians, but her personal bravery and honour elevated her to the same rank as any noblewoman of the Mark. “You must understand, though, that the thews of the Mark do not allow me to accept such an offer from a free lady of my own rank – unless we intended to wed. Evenhead is sacred to us.”

“Why would it be?” Elfhelm shrugged. “’This would not be the first time someone of our family married outside the Mark. My own mother came from Rhûn, you may wish to know.”

“But was she also a shieldmaiden?” asked Imogen gravely. “Had she been used as a bargaining tool by her family?”

“Nay; she was more fortunate,” he admitted. “But she was a penniless refugee, on the verge of starving, she and her entire clan, when my father found them, hunting for white kine just outside the Brown Lands. And I was told that shieldmaidens can be released from the bond of their order – for the good of their people.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But do you know what you are asking of me? To give up everything l lived for, everything I fought for all my life, so that your honour can remain unblemished? What makes you think you have the right to ask this of me?”

“Nothing,” he admitted freely, “save perhaps the fact that I have come to admire you greatly and would not mind sharing my life with you. For you are bold and honourable and valiant – and so beautiful, I swear, that not even the Elven minstrels would find the right words to sing about your virtues properly. Your deeds would place you among the Ruling Queens of Westernesse, had you been born to a different people – women like you are highly praised and valued in the Mark.”

Elfhelm nodded. “I would never ask you to lay down your sword, should you agree to become my wife. We, too, have our shieldmaidens who ride to battle with the Men of the Mark. The Lady Aud herself, wife to Prince Théodred, is one of those, and admired for her battle-boldness.”

“And kinship through marriage would smooth the paths between our people,” said Imogen slowly. “Yea, I see where you are going with this. But if that is what you have in mind, I have to confess something to you, something no-one knows. I may not be with you long enough to make the alliance work.”

“Two years ago, I fell ill with the lung fever and have suffered from a dry cough ever since,” she admitted. “’Tis a common enough thing among our women; some get it from the brown vapours blown over from the Ash Mountains, some because they spend their entire life in these underground caves. Few of us live to such a high age as Old Weohstan Jarl; and never the women. Less so the shieldmaidens who cannot afford to show any weakness.”

“But you cannot hope to keep it a secret forever,” warned Elfhelm. “A dry cough following the lung fever is one of the most dangerous illnesses. It may appear harmless at first, but inevitably leads to a slow and painful death if not treated.”

“I know,” she sighed dejectedly, “but what can I do? Our healers know not how to treat this illness; and besides, the others must not learn that I have fallen ill. They hate me and are jealous of my fame that outshines theirs by far. Do you think they would not give me a slow and painful death should they understand how I have misled them for the last two years?”

“I imagine they would,” replied Elfhelm. Like in the Mark, sooth – meaning truth and honesty – was valued among the Khimmer warriors, shown by their strong avoidance of lies, which they considered a weakness. In a culture that knew no written contracts, honesty was a necessity; again, very much like in the Mark. “Yet I do not believe all would be lost just yet. If you come with me, away from the poisonous breath of the Ash Mountains, perchance the wide, free grasslands of the Mark would bring you ease – perhaps even healing, who knows? We can call in healers from Mundburg; they are said to be the best in Middle-earth, and may know a cure for your illness.”

“If they cannot, you shall at least have a few years left to ride across the green meadows of my homeland, with the wind blowing freely in your hair,” said Elfhelm, using an old metaphor of the Mark. “You can ride to battle with me, or you can stay at home and rule our household – whichever you desire. And we can make this alliance between our peoples work.”

“Is that the only reason why you want me to become your wife?” asked Imogen doubtfully. “For the alliance?”

“Nay,” admitted Elfhelm freely. “My father has been urging me to take a wife for some time. He said either I find one or he will do it for me. I would prefer it to remain my choice, if I can. You would give me the freedom of that choice.”

“While you deny me the same,” pointed out Imogen mercilessly. “I see, though, how it would serve your purpose. Wedding me now would placate your father, and once I am dead, which is only a matter of a year or two, you can choose a more proper bride of your taste.”

Elfhelm shook his head. “Nay, my lady. The maiden I loved with all my heart chose my own brother over me; even if he died, I could never have her. But I can learn to love you, given enough time; for you are worth being loved and admired.”

“You are right; I am,” she replied simply. “But you cannot force your heart to love somebody, whether they are worth it or not.”

“Not force, nay,” he admitted. “However, my people believe that love between a man and a woman united in marriage begins to grow after the first embrace and the exchange of proper gifts – a way to share the luck and holiness of their respective families – and thus ensuring that their union is blessed. Therefore, I can teach my heart to love – and in the end, does it truly matter how I got there?”

“I do not know,” said Imogen thoughtfully. “All I know is what I have to do to save my father’s throne and my brother’s head. And if you only accept me if I marry you, then that is what I will have to do. Even if it means having to leave behind everything that I have known and loved and wanted all my life.”

“You speak of marriage as if it were the worst fate one could imagine,” teased Elfhelm. “I happen to know that most people find it very satisfying.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I am sure it is – if it is your own choosing. Which is why you have tried to avoid that fate in any way you could, well beyond the age the Men of the Mark usually get wedded, is it not?”

“Which is why I want it to be my choice – not that of my father,” countered Elfhelm.

“Or mine,” she said. “But that cannot be helped now. As we are both using each other to get what we want – or what my father wants, in my case – we can be honest about it. I will marry you; I give you my word, the word of a shieldmaiden that is as good here as it that of any warrior’s – better even. But first you must lie with me, so that my family can be free of any debt when my father sits down to negotiate that alliance with you in the morrow.”

“I see we have come to an agreement then,” Elfhelm opened one of the saddlebags and sifted through its contents ’til he found a small, flat wooden box. “But ere we would lie with each other as weorman and wife, I must give you this.”

Elfhelm opened the box. It contained a golden bracelet lying on a small velvet cushion; the kind the women of the Mark wore on their wrists. It was three fingers broad, beautifully made and richly set with rubies and amethysts – clearly not Rohirric craftsmanship but brought from somewhere in the far South; Harad, most likely.

“’Tis called the brydcéap in my tongue, also known as the bridesgift,” he explained, “supposed to be given the bride by the groom’s family as a sign of mutual agreement and as the symbolic proof that the groom can support his future wife. ’Tis given the evening before their first night together. Since my family is not here, I have to give it you myself – and I ask you to accept it as a sign of your willingness to marry me.”

Imogen inclined her head with great dignity and allowed him to slip the bracelet onto her wrist. It fit surprisingly well, considering that her hands were larger than those of most women, due to the fact that she had been training with weapons since childhood.

“I accept your gift, my lord, and accept your courtship – such as it can be under the circumstances,” she said. “Now, let us get done with which needs to be done – my father expects me at sunrise at the last, to tell him that I have succeeded.”

“Aye, that you have,” Elfhelm took her face in his hands and smiled into her clear, sober eyes. “Fear not what is about to come, my lady. There will be joy in it, I promise.”

The Lord of Nimwarkinh found no sleep that night. He never did when he was forced to sacrifice his youngest, most cherished daughter – the only child of his beloved Branwen – for the good of their Tribe. At such times he did not want to see anyone, not even his son and heir – less so now, when Ingolf had been the reason for his problem. At such times, he wanted no mead, nor the warm bodies of his women.

Grim-faced as a wounded bear, he retired to the small, rotund cave whose only furniture was a low stone bench running around the walls, and stared into the dying fire in the bronze brazier standing in the middle. Here, in this round little hall did he always ponder over his far-reaching plans. Here did he make his hardest, often risky decisions. Here did he come always when he wanted to be alone; for no-one was allowed to enter here.

There was no need to place guards outside the massive bronze door. No-one, not even Imogen, would have dared to cross the threshold of this particular cave. It had been considered sacred and inaccessible for everyone save the lord since the times of Beloberch Jarl the Wise, the great-grandfather of Ragnar the Smith.

People still believed that their chieftain would hold counsel here with the spirit of his ancestor, the mythical bear. Ragnar Jarl had believed thusly himself in his youth. He had only learned the truth when his father, Hademar Jarl, had handed over leadership to him and ceremoniously led him to the Ancestor’s Cave for the first time.

It had been a long time ago. Hademar Jarl had been dead for decades, and Ragnar the Smith knew all too well by now that the only spirit he could hold counsel here with was his own restless soul. For restless was the soul of the Lord of Nimwarkinh, despite having risen higher in power at the noon of his life than any Khimmer warlord before him.

For he alone knew that the long-planned great war was no longer just a distant possibility. The power of Mordor had been growing slowly, steadily for many years, and now its forces were getting into motion. ’Twas only a matter of years and the black wave would sweep over the still free peoples of Middle-earth, burying friend and foe alike on its way.

Perhaps alone of all Khimmer jarls, Ragnar understood that the tribes of Rhûn were not the friends or allies of Mordor. They were but tools in the Black Hand, to be used and discarded at will. They could not hope any better fate than all other peoples, once Mordor’s monsters had swarmed across the mountains.

He also knew that he could not save everyone. There were too many chieftains like Siltric Silkbeard who lived for a chance to raid and pillage and kill. They would follow Mordor willingly – and die to smooth the road for Orcs, Trolls and who knew what other horrible creatures, in the hope of rich spoils in Rhovanion, Gondor or Rohan.

Ragnar was not willing to have his warriors massacred on Mordor’s behalf. But he knew he could not simply declare freedom from the Dark Lord. Too long had the tribes of Rhûn fought under the black banner of Mordor. He could only hope to save his own tribe, and those smaller ones that had followed his lead, by holding back, instead of breaking free openly, by secretly assisting the King of the Mark in his ongoing struggle with the Dunlendings, the Hill-men and the marauding Orcs.

In the rather unlikely case that the united forces of Gondor and Rohan could defeat Mordor, or at least keep the black wave behind the fence of the Ash Mountains and the Shadow Mountains, he had to make sure that no blame would be put on his tribe – or himself.

For that, however, he had to make this alliance with the Mark possible. The Horselords were a fierce and valiant people, their realm rich and strong. Théoden-king might be elderly now, but his son and heir, Prince Théodred, was said to be the greatest warrior since Eorl the Young, and if their emissary was anything to judge by, their thegns were not much behind him. Together, the two people would present a formidable force, even if their alliance would have to remain secret for a while yet.

The warlord rose from the stone bench. He had already sent for his daughter several times, to learn how things were going, but every time, his slave had come back with the news that Imogen was not in her chambers.

The news disturbed Ragnar Jarl greatly. As a rule, his daughter did not need the entire night to win the favour of a potential ally. Was the young emissary so hard to please? Or had Imogen failed, for the first time since she had outgrown the care of her tutors? A failure like that would mean the end of them all.

This time he went himself, instead of sending a slave, and this time, he was fortunate. He found Imogen in her bedchambers, sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing a simple night shift and combing her hair. It was a familiar sight. It was how she always prepared herself for the night, even if daybreak was not very far by now.

She looked up unsurprised when the door opened, revealing her father. She knew he would come. He always did, on such nights.

“Is it done?” he asked, cutting to the core without preamble. There was no need for that. They were always honest to each other.

“Done – but not over yet,” she answered. “Our debt is paid; but he would not accept his wergild unless I consented to become his wife.”

“Did you?” Ragnar Jarl’s face was unreadable. The thought of losing his cherished daughter hurt, but winning kinship within the Mark in the process would serve the Tribe well. Still, he was not about to force Imogen; he loved her too much, almost to a fault.

She shrugged. “What other choice do I have? What other choice do we have? You know what the lesser jarls would say: that if the price is just a wench, then that price must be paid, one way or another. ’Tis better if I do this of my own will than be forced to do it.”

“You may not, but the others would; and you cannot risk losing their support on my behalf. We both know that.”

“Losing you will be hard for me to bear,” confessed the warlord. “And losing your hamingja will weaken the Tribe. There are few equalling the power and luck you possess.”

“You would lose me sooner or later anyway,” she reminded him. “Shieldmaidens die young.” She chose not to tell him about her illness; she did not want to dishonour him by making him part of her deceit. “And by carrying the hamingja of our clan to his family, I shall receive his in exchange; that of a rich and powerful clan, represented by the bridesgift given me before our first embrace.”

She raised her hand, showing him the precious bracelet. The pure gold gleamed in the dimly lit chamber and the many-coloured jewels sparkled like the stars on the night sky.

“You have accepted his gift?” said his father, stunned. “You have accepted his courtship, ere he would have sent his friends to me to negotiate the marriage?”

“The matter of the outstanding wergild has forced my hand,” she pointed out. “But he will send Lord Aðalbrandr to you in the morrow. He wants do this properly, although he insists on taking me with him when he leaves our halls.”

“Disguising our alliance with the Mark as a marriage contract between his clan and ours would make things much easier,” admitted Ragnar. “I am still loath to have to bargain you for the sake of the Tribe. You always wanted to live and die as a warrior; and now we are about to take it from you, him and me. It may be for the greater good, but it will be done at your cost, and that breaks my heart.”

She smiled up at him, surprisingly enough. “Do not concern yourself about me, Father. He gave me his word that I can keep my sword and ride with him to battle, should I wish to. The people of the Mark have shieldmaidens, too; some of them are of royal blood. I will have a good enough life there.”

“You will have to live among strangers who see us as barbarians,” said her father. “It will not be easy for you.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But if his clan has accepted his mother, a penniless Mordvin refugee, they will accept me, too – given enough time.”

And if she died before that would happen, none of this would matter anyway. But she could not tell her father that, not yet. Perhaps before she left Rhûn for good; he deserved the truth, and once she was gone, her deceit would no longer cast an unfavourable light upon his honour.

Ragnar Jarl nodded, knowing that it was true. Imogen would have a much better life in the Mark; perchance a much longer one, too. And in time, she would win over the proud Riders of the Mark: with her boldness, her strength and her beauty. The Rohirrim valued such traits. What mattered the loss of a father when everyone else would benefit from it?

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, and was not surprised when Imogen shook her head.

“Nay, I do not want to do this,” she admitted bluntly. “But it will be better for everyone else. You wanted me to make this alliance possible, and that is what I am doing.”

“I assume that the fact that Lord Elfhelm is bold, handsome and honourable does help a little,” said the warlord with a wry smile. Imogen shrugged.

“He promised me that there would be joy – and he kept his promise. It will be pleasant enough to be his wife. As long as I can keep my sword, I can live with it… with him. Besides,” she added, her clear grey eyes darkening in sorrow, “this arrangement gets me far away from Ingolf, which is a good thing. Owing me a life debt would turn him from a brother to an enemy in the long run. When I am gone, he will no longer be reminded of his shame whenever we meet.”

Ragnar nodded, knowing that it was very true again. With Imogen gone, Ingolf’s dishonourable actions would be soon forgotten, and he would be able to take over leadership once the time came.

“I shall not send you alone, though,” he said. “You are the daughter of the mightiest man of Rhûn; you are entitled to take your slaves and maids with you.”

“Can I do that?” asked Imogen with a frown. “Is slavery allowed in the Mark?”

“Nay, ’tis not,” admitted the warlord. “But if I give you Alajar and Unga, they will know to value their new status. Even as bondsmen, they, too, will have a better life there than here; and you shall have your own servants who will answer only to you.”

Imogen nodded thoughtfully. Unga and Alajar were both very young still, the children of enslaved Northmen from Rhovanion. As their parents had been born free, they were still way too proud for their own good; they would not last long in Nimwarkinh. They would blend well into a household of the Mark, though; more so as they were both blond and blue-eyed.

“Do you think Elfhelm will agree?” she asked. “Surely they have enough servants in his father’s manors.”

“I am certain that they have,” replied his father. “But this is a point where I shall not back off when the marriage contract is negotiated. You need your own servants; your birth entitles you to that. You are to build your own household – this will be something that you can contribute. I would prefer to send some guards with you, too, but I doubt that would be allowed.”

“I need no guards,” said Imogen coldly. “I can guard myself well enough.”

“You can,” her father agreed. “But you are not going there as a nameless shieldmaiden selling her sword to a liege lord. You are going there as a bride of noble birth, and your rank would demand that you have guards of your own people.”

Imogen shook her head. “They would never agree to have Khimmer warriors in their midst – and can you blame them? Our people have been raiding their borders for more years than anyone can remember.”

“Not our tribe; not since I hold the Sword,” corrected Ragnar, but Imogen waved off his protest.

“I doubt that the people of the Mark can tell one Khimmer tribe from another. I cannot take any warriors with me, Father.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Ragnar. “Unless they are your half-brothers who want to follow their sister to a foreign land. No-one could truly oppose the support of kinfolk.”

“But they are your guards, and you need them,” she reminded him. “Besides, which ones would be willing to leave Nimwarkinh and follow me? I am not that close to any one of them.”

“I was thinking of Einarr and Eiríkr,” said the warlord. “They have always been loud-mouthed about not wanting to serve Ingolf once he comes in his own. This would be their chance to find another place to live.”

“You want to send them into exile for not suffering being wronged by Ingolf in silence?”

“I cannot afford to allow them to continue mouthing off against my heir,” replied the chieftain grimly. “Were they not my own flesh and blood – or such staunch warriors – I would have dealt with them much earlier. This way, they can still be of use for me… for us all.”

“Oh, they will leave, one way or another,” said her father icily. “Either with you or into true exile; ’tis their choice. I can do with a dozen guards instead of fourteen. What I cannot do with is that my own sons would tear a hole into my shieldwall by bringing the common warriors against my heir,” he rose. “Rest now, my little oak. The new day will bring counsel; it always does. There is no need to concern ourselves with it tonight.”

Author’s notes: The marriage and courtship customs described here are based on the old pagan Anglo-Saxon beliefs and rituals. My profound apologies for the abundance of detail. For the lack of actual currency names I invented the taler as the largest unit of silver coin and the ducat for gold.

Elfhelm did not go to sleep after Imogen had left his chambers. Although he was weary, for various reasons – some of which had been most pleasurable, he had to admit – he still had much to do ere he would face Ragnar Jarl at the negotiations, and very little time to do them. Therefore, after a quick cat wash to clear his head, he went over to Strider’s chambers and shook the Ranger awake.

“I regret to rob you of your well-earned rest,” he said, “but I need your help.”

Strider was awake at once. Like those who spend much time in the great outdoors on their own, he tended to be a very light sleeper.

“Ragnar Jarl chose to pay the life debt of his son by the gift of his daughter,” answered Elfhelm bluntly. “I chose to accept it in the manner of wedding Imogen Ragnarsdaughter. She accepted my courtship and my bridesgift. Now I need someone to negotiate the marriage contract for me.”

“And you want me to do it?” asked the Ranger when he found his voice again. Few things could still shock him, but this news was clearly one of those.

Elfhelm shrugged. “Back at home, prestigious friends would do it; here, I have none of them at hand. You, however, seem to know our customs well enough – and theirs. I could not think of anyone better suited to purchase my bride for me.”

He grinned a little as he saw the Ranger wince from his choice of words. Strider might know the customs of the Mark but he clearly did not understand their true meaning. Otherwise he would not think the Men of the Mark would treat their women like cattle.

“I am not certain that I can do it properly,” admitted the Ranger, his discomfort obvious. “My people do not have this custom and…”

“You must,” interrupted Elfhelm. “There is no-one else I could turn to. Someone must negotiate the bargain between her cynn and mine, and this person must not be from either family, so that he or she can build up frith between the two clans: a relationship founded on peace and trust.”

Strider was familiar with the concept of frith and its extreme importance for the Men of the Mark as well as for any alliance, be it friendship, sworn brotherhood, marriage or a peace agreement with another clan that they were willing to enter. He did have his doubts, though, that the Easterlings would see themselves honour-bound by such a lofty concept. Even if they did have similar ideals.

“Between you and her, between your cynn and hers, between the Mark and Rhûn, there is no foundation of frith yet in place,” he said. “How do you hope to establish it, after so many years of hostility?”

“Such things have their proper way to come,” replied Elfhelm. “For frith to be built between us, ’tis necessary for trust to be there. For trust to occur a bargain has to take place; and a bargain is created and sealed by the giving and accepting of gifts, rich in meagen and luck. Marriage, like every other alliance, is founded on gifts. Of greatest importance are those of the bridegroom – or rather of his clan – to the family of the bride. Those are supplemented by smaller gifts and trinkets and gems, given by the bridegroom to his betrothed, and later his wife. Further gifts are bestowed on the kinsmen of the bridegroom by the family of the bride’s father, upon the wedding guests by the woman, and ’tis also a custom that the bridegroom presents each of his brothers-in-law with a proper gift.”

“That is a lot more than you can probably have hidden in your saddlebags,” said Strider, “even if there were naught else in them.”

Elfhelm laughed. “Of course. No-one would expect me to present al those gifts at once – that is why you shall have to negotiate the terms for me.”

“And Ragnar will trust you to hold your word?” Strider knew the Rohirrim were honourable to a fault, but he also knew how mistrustful the Easterlings could be; more so towards foreigners.

Elfhelm nodded. “What little I have learned about their customs from Aelfgifu’s scrolls tells me that in some areas they are very much like ours. Perhaps our ancestors had once dwelt border to border in the North; who knows? All I know is that they, like us, believe that there is holiness in treasure; that possessions can absorb meagen – or hamingja, as they call it – and luck from their owners. Ancient treasures passed down in the family line have their meagen enhanced by each generation and can reach legendary proportions thereby.”

“Like the drinking horn from the dragon’s hoard, Théoden-king’s gift to Ragnar the Smith,” said Strider, beginning to understand the true depths he had never considered while living among the Rohirrim – or among the Easterlings.

“Or Ragnar Jarl’s gift to me, aye; or my bridesgift to Imogen,” Elfhelm nodded, relieved that he could make the Ranger see things through the eyes of a Man of the Mark. “If such treasures are shared, as part of forging an alliance – marriage, friendship or peace agreement – then the alliance is strengthened, proportionally to the meagen and luck carried by the gifts.”

“And thus the foundation of an alliance between Nimwarkinh and the Mark has already been laid yestereve, when Ragnar Jarl and you exchanged gifts on Théoden-king’s behalf,” realized Strider. Elfhelm nodded.

“Gifts are the basis of each bargain; and the bargain is the basis of any alliance, including marriage,” he explained. “If a suitor can but get so far as to lay his gift in the maiden’s lap, he has already won her favour.”

“Aye, but there is much more that needs to be negotiated. First of all the morgengifu – the morning gift due to the bride, meant to confirm the consummation of the first embrace. Usually, it is promised on the day the union of bride and groom is decided upon and must be given on the morning after the pair had slept one night together.”

“By custom, aye, but our case is a little more… complicated,” Elfhelm sighed. “Therefore I must prepare you thoroughly, so that both the marriage and the alliance between our two peoples can be forged on the solid foundation of frith that would provide us with equal terms, in both cases.”

Ragnar the Smith summoned his counsellors to the Lesser Hall in the next morning. Aside from Master Dallbenn and the druid Amanar, some of the lesser – yet still powerful – jarls were also present – the ones known for their shrewd and moderate nature. These were also the ones with whom he had already discussed a possible alliance with the Mark and the gain they could hope from it.

While they were understandably sceptical, at least they were agreeable. Detlev Jarl, a true bear of a man with a long white scar across his left cheek, whose people lived closest to the Ash Mountains, considerably more so than the others. Fortunately, he had great influence among his peers as well as among the smaller tribes who followed the lead of the Tribe of the Bear. Ragnar counted on Detlev’s support greatly.

He had not told them about the marriage proposal of the emissary, though. Not even the witan, although he would have liked to hold counsel with them first. Alas, what remained from the previous night had not been enough for that. Neither had there been enough time to summon the chieftains of the smaller tribes that had sworn fealty to him. The emissary had come unexpected and unannounced. They had to begin the negotiations at once, despite the concerns of Detlev Jarl that their vassals might feel slighted.

Well, at least negotiating the alliance in the form of a marriage bargain would enable him to avoid that particular offence. Or so Ragnar hoped.

Besides the two witan, the six lesser jarls and Ragnar himself, Ingolf had been summoned to the negotiations, too. ’Twas high time for him to learn something about dealing with strangers – without a sword, that is. He came in the company of a lean, yet muscle-bound, russet-haired and bearded man, who was clad in the drab grey tunic and brown leathers of the scouts yet girdled with a heavy weapons belt richly set with jewels and with a bejewelled bronze circlet upon his brow.

Ingmar Karason was the captain of Nimwarkinh’s scouts – basically the spymaster of the warlord’s seat – and related to him on his late mother’s side. Ragnar trusted him more than any of his vassals; more than his own heir, in fact, for while he had no doubts about Ingolf’s unwavering loyalty, Ingmar was more level-headed and more experienced, and one could build on his carefully weighed opinion.

The head scout was in his late thirties, but his deeply lined and tanned face made him look older; much older. He had recently returned from a long and dangerous journey, gathering news about the movements of Mordor’s troops east of the Ash Mountains, and had not yet found the time to rest. Being second to Ingolf only, his presence at such important negotiations was required.

Ragnar and his counsellors discussed Ingmar’s news briefly before the arrival of the emissary, and they all agreed that in the light of those tidings an alliance was more important than ever. That messengers from Mordor had repeatedly visited the tribes dwelling on the northern shores of the Sea of Rhûn was more than disturbing. Those were the tribes that counted as their greatest rivals: the Tribe of the White Kine and the Tribe of the Wolf… always eager vassals of Mordor.

To balance out the power within Rhûn, Ragnar had only two choices: to compete with Siltric and Grotharr for the favour of Mordor – or to forge a strong alliance elsewhere.

“And as we know that the Lord of the Black Lands has no true goodwill towards his vassals and would willingly sacrifice us all to further his own plans, we need to find allies elsewhere,” summarized Ragnar, not for the first time. This time, ’twas for Ingmar’s sake as he had not been there when the choice had been made.

Ere the head scout could have formed an opinion, the heavy bronze doors of the Lesser Hall opened, and in came Yvarr the Weak-boned, Ragnar’s youngest son, with his brother Ruríkr, probably the tallest of the warlord’s sons. Despite his byname, Yvarr was no weakling of course; he was more slightly built than the average Khimmer warrior, but more than made up for the lack of huge muscles by being lightning-fast and tougher than cooked swine-hide. He was also said to be shrewd and cruel and cold like a snake.

“Lord Aðalbrandr, on the behalf of the emissary of the Mark,” he announced.

“Let him in,” Ragnar hid his smirk, seeing the surprise of the others. Elfhelm Hengestsson had been wise to choose the man to negotiate the bargain for him: a man who had lived both in the Mark and in Rhûn, had gained respect among the warriors of both peoples and knew the customs of both fairly well.

The man who now entered the Lesser Hall had little in common with the battered traveller Ingolf’s men had captured together with the emissary. He was clad in the fashion of a Khimmer nobleman, in fine leathers and wool – most likely a loan from one of the older warriors who had known him in their youth – and his proud carriage commanded respect from all that saw him. He was very tall, taller than the emissary even, towering over the rather squat Khimmer men like a giant. The folds of the heavy woollen cloak – dark green, in the colour of the Mark – made him look even larger.

His greying black hair, now neatly combed and ordered upon his broad shoulders, was bound with an unadorned silver circlet. Nonetheless, he looked as kingly as if he had worn the Winged Crown of Gondor – an item of legends yet unseen by any living man for many hundreds of years. His clear grey eyes mirrored wisdom and strength of will one could not but admire. A large sword in an unadorned scabbard hung from his weapons belt; the hilt, however simple, revealed to the trained eye that it was the handiwork of an excellent weaponsmith.

He came in with long, purposeful strides, stopped in the middle of the Hall, and extended both hands, with upturned palms towards Ragnar’s throne.

“Westu Ragnar hál!” he cried in a clear, ringing voice, using the tongue of the Mark; the party that he represented. Then he switched to the local dialect, for the sake of his bargaining partners. “I offer you the greetings of Lord Elfhelm Hengestsson, kinsman and emissary of Théoden, King of the Riddermark. He asked me, according to the time-honoured custom of his people, to bargain for him for the hand of Lady Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, whom he desires to take as his wife.”

The shock of the gathered Khimmer nobles was palpable, and Ragnar had to admit that he enjoyed their reaction. They may have agreed that closer ties to the Riddermark would be advantageous, yet secretly hoped that such efforts might remain unsuccessful. After all, why ask for something if you could simply take it? Khimmer warriors were not known to think in long terms or to consider the possible consequences of their actions. Raiding and pillaging was in their blood, and as Mordor openly encouraged such actions, it was hard to make other, more fruitful – yet slower – ways appealing for them.

If Ragnar the Smith became kin by marriage to the Lord of the Eastfold – and through him, however indirectly, to the King of the Mark – then at least the Tribe of the Bear would have to build different relations with the Riders of the Mark. Kinship through marriage – or frith, as the Men of the Mark called it – did not merely lead kinsmen to spare each other. It also forced them to support one another’s case, to help and vouch for each other, and to trust one another.

Kinsmen by frith were the doers of one another’s deed and could be called upon to perform that responsibility. Even if Ragnar himself, too, wondered how that would be possible between him, his tribe and his vassals on one side and the third most powerful ealdorman of the Mark on the other. More so as said ealdorman was, by all means and purposes, oath-bound to his King, and the Men of the Mark took nothing as seriously as their oath of fealty, not even family obligations.

Similar thoughts must have occupied the other nobles present, for one of the lesser jarls, an old yet still powerful warrior by the name of Swain, asked with a heavy frown upon his broad, bearded face, “How does the young one hope to fulfil such obligations? Does he, or does his father have power enough to go against the wishes of their King, should Théoden Thengelsson choose to make war upon us?”

“Théoden-cyning is an old man who has known no true war all his life,” answered Lord Aðalbrandr. “Now more than ever in his youth, he wishes to keep his people safe and prospering. But yea, Hengest Lord of the Eastfold, Clan Master of the Éowain and Chief Stallion Master of the Mark, does have the ear of his King. For he is entitled and empowered to rule over all East-mark regions in the name of Théoden and ~~yet~~ mostly independently.”

“Aye, but can the young one, indeed, can his father promise to aid the Tribe in our struggle against the rival Tribes… or other enemies?” asked Swain doubtfully.

“They can promise to aid you against the rival Tribes… or the Dunlendings, or pillaging Orcs,” replied Lord Aðalbrandr, choosing his words with meticulous care. “They can promise not to start a war against you. But if the Tribe of the Bear makes war on the Riddermark, then all promises will be nullified. As long as you keep your promises, though, they will be keeping theirs. The Men of the Mark never break an oath, be it given to a lord or to an ally.”

“But what if his King orders him to ride to war against us?” demanded Ingmar Karason.

“Théoden-king would never give such an order. The ealdormen of the Mark know what they owe their vassals. And more than any other lord, the King holds the honour of those oath-bound to him in his hands. When they accept the oath of a lesser thegn, or even that of a simple Rider they accept the responsibility of keeping that man’s honour intact. And the Horse-lords take their responsibilities very seriously. Théoden-king would never ask Lord Hengest something that would make him an oathbreaker whether he obeyed or rebelled.”

“The Lord of the Dark Lands will not be so courteous,” muttered Detlev Jarl bitterly under his breath.

“That is true. Would the summons come now, we would have no other choice but follow. Yet even then, we would still have the freedom to choose where we would fight in his service. There will be many battlefields, I fear, once he had set his plans in movement. We could turn to the North, against the Dwarves in the Iron Hills, the Men of Dale and of Esgaroth, the Elves in Mirkwood. Or we could turn to the South, against Gondor. We could afford not to turn against Rohan; there would be enough other Tribes for that.”

Lord Aðalbrandr kept his face carefully neutral. Ragnar knew, of course, that he was of the blood of the Sea-kings of old, and thus the Men of Gondor were kin to his own people. But if he wanted to forge this alliance with the Mark, Ragnar could not afford to spare the feelings of the mediator.

He only hoped that Lord Aðalbrandr understood that. Fortunately, it seemed that he did.

“You are free to do that, of course,” said the Ranger neutrally. “Although you might find that Gondor is not so easily subdued as the Dark Lord might hope. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. We are here to negotiate an alliance by marriage between the Tribe of the Bear and Clan Éowain of the Eastfold, manifested by the union of Lord Elfhelm and Lady Imogen. That alone will be a difficult enough task.”

“Why would it be difficult?” sneered the old Weohstan. “Is he too poor to pay a handgeld worth a chieftain’s daughter?”

“Elfhelm Hengestsson is wealthy enough to pay the handgeld of a royal princess; as indeed one of his brothers did a few years ago,” he replied. “But the Lady Imogen is a shieldmaiden; her oath needs to be dissolved ere we could even begin our bargain in earnest.”

“The norna can and will release her from her oath, for the good of the Tribe,” said Ingmar Karason dismissively. “That is how my marriage was forged, too.”

“And that is why you are still going in holy fear of the old hag,” laughed Ingolf. “She was less than pleased when she had to release Thyri, if memory serves me well.”

“Her pleasure or displeasure is of no importance,” replied Ingmar. “My marriage was needed to end a decades-long blood feud between our families as long as there were still sons or daughters on either side. Imogen’s marriage is needed to protect the whole Tribe. The norna will obey.”

Ingmar Karason shrugged. “I will, if I have to. At least I would not insult her and bring down her wrath upon us all. Unlike you.”

“That is enough,” said Ragnar, ere his heir and his spymaster could have launched into another one of their endless verbal fights. “I shall speak to the norna. ’Tis my burden both as Imogen’s father and chieftain and as the Warlord. As Ingmar says, the norna will do that which serves the Tribe best. She always does.”

Then he turned to the Ranger. “Well, Lord Aðalbrandr, Lord Elfhelm has already given my daughter the morgengifu proper; so let us discuss the handgeld and the brydgifu proper, as well as the wedding ceremony.”

The Ranger nodded, being somewhat familiar with the customs of Rhûn as well as having been given every necessary detail about how things were done in the Mark. The terms were different but their meaning surprisingly similar, he found.

The handgeld – or, as the Rohirrim called it, the brydcéap – was paid by the groom to the family of the bride, to prove that he could support his future wife. It also carried the maegen (or hamingja) of the groom, and its intent was to reimburse the bride’s family for their loss of maegen – the spiritual luck or power of the family – carried by the bride.

At least that was how the Rohirrim saw things. Among the Rhûnim it might have been simple reparation for the loss of the bride’s labour. Or, in Imogen’s case, the loss of her sword in battle; which, in the case of a shieldmaiden, would be considerable.

The brydgifu, on the other hand, was paid by the family of the bride. Basically, this was the bride’s dowry – forever hers and untouchable by her husband. It was to ensure, in the event of the husband’s death or a divorce, that she and her children were provided for.

Mostly in case of the man’s death; divorce, while in theory possible (when one of the spouses proved barren), hardly ever happened among the Men of the Mark. Not even Prince Théodred would release his barren wife, making young Éomer his heir instead. The Rohirrim took their marriage oaths – or indeed any oaths – very seriously.

Again, customs in Rhûn – where women counted little more than cattle – were much rougher. But Ragnar would follow the proper rituals of the Mark to make this alliance work. Of that the Ranger was certain.

“It is custom among the noble families of the Mark to pay the handgeld in lands or horses,” he explained. “However, lands cannot be given to those not of the Mark, thus Lord Elfhelm offers the family of his bride horses; also cattle and sheep, if you agree. Or gold and silver, if that is what you would prefer.”

“Of how much gold and silver are we talking?” asked Old Weohstan with hunger in his eyes, which was understandable. As the father of Ragnar’s late wife, he belonged to the chieftain’s family, so the good fortune of that family was his good fortune, too.

“Lord Elfhelm is offering to pay what counts as the brydcéap of a royal princess; indeed, the same brydcéap his brother paid to Théoden-cyning for the hand of Princess Idis,” replied Lord Aðalbrandr. “That would be the worth of two thousand silver talers, either in horses and livestock or in gold and silver – or half and half, whatever your choice might be.”

For a moment, there was shocked silence in the Lesser Hall, for this was a handgeld the likes of which had never been paid in the Halls of Nimwarkinh, not even when the children of powerful chieftains were given away in marriage. The jarls had only now begun to understand how rich and powerful the Lord of the Eastfold had to be if he could afford to pay such fortunes every time one of his sons married.

And he had what? Nine sons and two daughters? The man had to be richer than his King! Kinship like this definitely bode well for the Tribe!

“We need to discuss the details among ourselves,” said Ragnar finally. “But you are welcome to stay and listen, Lord Aðalbrandr. We have no secrets – not in this matter.”

The Ranger appreciated the fine distinction, for of all things Ragnar the Smith could have said, this was most likely true; and a promise he could actually keep. So Lord Aðalbrandr sat down a little aside from the gathering and listened with interest to the debate.

It revealed much about the current situation in Rhûn, or at least within Ragnar’s territory. Perchance more than Ragnar would have been willing to reveal under different circumstances. The discussion made it clear that Nimwarkinh’s sources were all but depleted in many ways. The only question was where the need would be the greatest.

Some of the jarls were eager to take the gold and silver, arguing that for riches they could buy everything they needed (preferably weapons). Others wanted the famous horses of the Mark, while Ragnar himself insisted on taking cattle and sheep to keep their people fed and clothed. It was a long and heated debate, as everyone had good arguments and hard facts to back their opinion.

In the end, it came to a compromise – as Ragnar had known it would if he allowed everyone to say their piece and argue to their heart’s desire.

They agreed to accept half the handgeld in gold and silver, as it was a matter of life or death for the chieftain to be able to give out rich gifts to his followers and allies. The other half they wanted in horses and livestock, in the hope to breed better steeds for themselves and to secure, at least for the chieftain’s household, a steady source of food and wool.

It was a surprisingly wise decision from a people that most other peoples considered bloodthirsty barbarians. The Ranger could not help being impressed. He had known Ragnar and his family to be shrewd and long-planning, but he had not expected the lesser jarls to be of the same stock.

Now that the matter of the handgeld had been settled, they had to discuss the brydgifu. Ragnar, of course, could not offer anything that would match the generous gifts of Elfhelm’s family, but that was not needed, either. He was giving the bride, after all. But he did offer weapons and jewellery and such clothes as the wife of a chieftain was expected to possess, as well as some bond servants and guards for Imogen’s own household.

“Since the brydelea, the wedding feast, is to be held in Rohan, we can hardly take part of it,” he explained, seeing the Ranger’s surprise. “So I shall send two of Imogen’s half-brothers to stand with her for the rest of the family, as well as to be her personal guards.”

“I understand, and I’m sure so will Lord Hengest,” said the Ranger. “But bond servants are not allowed in the Mark. Why would you send them with your daughter?”

“They were born in captivity and will, no doubt, welcome the chance to leave our deep caverns,” answered the warlord. “They are Northmen and have been wilting here; perhaps the wide green fields of the Mark will suit them better. If the Men of the Mark choose to free them, ’tis not our concern.”

If Lord Aðalbrandr recognized the offer for what it was – a welcome chance to get rid of two troublesome sons and a couple of sulking, ailing slaves – he gave no sign of it; nor did he protest any more.

The rest of the agreement was worked out in no time then and, although this was no Khimmer custom, the druid even made a written contract, so that it could not be questioned by anyone in the future. The Ranger read it through carefully, looking for any hidden meaning behind the actual written words, but found none. It seemed that – at least this time – the Easterlings actually meant what they had promised. So he signed the contract in Elfhelm’s name as his role in the marriage negotiations demanded, using both names under which he was known in Rhûn and in the Mark, respectively.

Ragnar then called for mead to be brought and they drank deeply, celebrating the agreement and, hopefully, the lasting peace between the Eastfold and the Tribe of the Bear, at the very least. It was a small victory, true, but the fact that it would be possible at all gave the Ranger new hope.

The eastern borders of the Mark would be a little safer for a while. Ant though it might mean more potential raids for Gondor, the South-kingdom of Men had better natural protection. Most Khimmer jarls would think twice before crossing the Dead Marshes or the treacherous swamps of the Wetwang.

And who knew, perhaps family ties between Rhûn and the Mark would lay the foundation for a lasting peace, sometime in the distant future.

In a time when Sauron had been dealt with and the peoples of the East had been freed from his tyranny – if ever.

meagen = the spiritual luck or gift of the entire kinfolk, mainly carried by the women

morgengifu or hamingja = the morning gift, given by the groom to the bride, after consummating the marriage; this will belong to the bride forever and cannot be taken back.

brydcéap or handgeld = gift given by the groom to the family of the bride, to prove that he can provide for his future wife.

brydgifu or bridesgift = gift given to the bride by her own family; her dowry that cannot be touched by her husband and is forever hers.

The ceremony of releasing a shieldmaiden from her oath is my own creation and has been originally written for my original fantasy epos, but I find it fits well into the Ardaverse. I only had to alter the purpose of the sword a bit.

It was several hours later – time being measured in Nimwarkinh by a clever, Dwarf-made clock driven by the steadily dripping water of an underground stream that trickled down from the upper levels to the Lesser Hall – when Ragnar the Smith made his way to the ancient priestess to ask for Imogen’s release from the bond of the shieldmaidens. He had sent a message by one of the frightened slave girls to announce his visit, although he knew the norna would grant him an audience anyway. Theirs was a relationship of carefully maintained balance and both were mindful to keep it that way.

Deep in the heart of the mountains, not even under the roots of Falûn but under Grenaar, roughly three or four miles afar from Ragnar’s Halls dwelt Tanfana, the norna, the timeless tutor of all shieldmaidens. The caverns of her dwellings reached far under the northern outskirts of Grenaar; beyond them only the few deep halls of the Dwarves still alive under Nimwarkinh could be found, but those were beyond the reach of all living Men.

The Meeting Chamber – the only one where outsiders, especially men, were allowed – was a cavernous room. Its arched ceiling was held up by natural dripstone pillars shaped by the trickling water during countless Ages. The walls of the cave, too, were smoothed by the relentless work of water, resulting in the most fantastic formations. Neither Man nor Dwarf had ever laid hand upon these stones, and yet the mortal eye was tempted to find familiar shapes in them: a candle, a draped curtain, the likeness of animals and monsters.

The norna sat in the middle of the otherwise empty cave, next to the small fire dancing in a stone ring. She was a stockily built woman of middle height, wearing a heavy robe of coarse blue wool, the sweeping sleeves of which revealed a tight-sleeved undergown of a somewhat darker blue underneath. It was girdled with an unadorned leather belt, the bronze buckle of which bore the likeness of a bear’s head. Her blue veil covered her shoulders and her ample bosom, and it was pulled deeply into her face, shadowing her features beyond recognition.

She sat cross-legged on a heavy bearskin, leaning back against a slab of natural stone that could be perceived, by a considerable stretch of imagination, as resembling a resting bear. Across her knees a thick oakwood staff lay, covered by ancient runes, in some places faded illegible. Its upper end was shaped like the head of a dragon, with a multifaceted white jewel in the dragon’s open maw.

Strange tales coursed around the norna, making everyone shiver with fear when they had to deal with her, rare though such cases were. Some said that her true name was Ursla; that her mother had conceived her from a bear, and that she, too, would mate with bears from time to time. Others said that she had lived in these caves for many lifetimes of Men, practicing her dark sorcery; that she had never been truly young but neither would she get any older, regardless of the passing of time. They said that whenever a new chieftain was chosen, he had to come down to the norna’s caves and mate with her; this was supposed to be the initiation of the new warlord, the mysterious bear test.

Imogen did not know whether to believe all these rumours or not. She did not dare to ask her father, as Ragnar Jarl was quick to anger when asked unwanted questions. As the chieftain’s daughter, though, she knew at least that much: the bear-test had nothing to do with the norna. Nothing at all.

To kill a bear with one’s bare hands was a great and dangerous deed – only who had done it could be considered fit for leadership – but not impossible. Neither did it require any kind of magic. Several of Ragnar’s sons had already done the deed, although Ingolf was not yet among those.

Still, Imogen often asked herself if her father’s authority as the chief warlord extended over Tanfana’s caves or the norna was a rival in the power struggle for the leadership over Nimwarkinh.

Ragnar Jarl himself knew all too well how much power the norna held over his people’s hearts. The peoples of Rhûn had long forgotten the true meaning of the symbols of their faith during the long, bitter struggle against the Orc-hordes of Mordor and against their own unforgiving lands. They had become a rustic people, plagued by horrible superstitions. Only the norna was still in possession of the old knowledge and, to a much lesser extent, the handful of Druids who still lived in their small coven, hidden under the roots of Skâgen.

As the Dark Lord of Mordor glared with disdain at the sacred stone rings from where once the stars had been watched and where the great annual feasts had once been held, the Druids did not risk visiting those places often. But they still had some knowledge, and that was the reason why Ragnar Jarl had chosen the head of their coven as his chancellor. He no longer could use the rune staffs himself, although he could still read the runes themselves with some effort. Most of his jarls couldn’t even do that.

He needed allies against Tanfana’s vast ancient wisdom. For the throne of the chief warlord was a fairly new position; that of the norna, however, was older than Nimwarkinh itself and was said to have originated from the farthest shores of West, beyond the Great Sea. The warlord had no doubt that Tanfana could have him and his entire clan killed, merely through her influence and the terror she could awaken in anyone, without even appearing before the Gathering. He had to tread carefully not to raise her ire against himself.

Therefore he decided to allow her daughter to discuss the conditions of her release with the norna; she knew the old crone best. He would only speak if asked a question – or if Imogen needed his support, which was unlikely but not impossible to happen.

Imogen entered and bowed deeply in the norna’s direction; and although Tanfana had not looked up, nor did she give any sign that she would have taken notice of her visitors, Imogen knew that she had seen their arrival and her gesture.

“Greetings, Eldest,” the shieldmaiden murmured with downcast eyes and knelt before her tutor. “I have come in a matter of importance and trust.”

The norna laid her staff aside and rested her large, white hands on her knees. She seemed timeless and unmovable like a rock. She always did.

“I know why you are here,” she said in her deep, hollow voice. “Ingmar Karason has already sought me out.”

Imogen could not help shivering as her glance fell upon those broad, strong hands. As always, she expected to see a bear’s claws on the end of the thick fingers; but as always, all she could see were flat, square white fingernails, the one or other even broken.

Then she gave her father a sharp look. “Is this how you silence him?” she asked accusingly.

Ragnar Jarl shrugged. “I was too slow, it seems. I should have acted at once. I trusted him; that was a mistake I shall not make again.”

“Ingmar Karason was driven by his concern over Nimwarkinh’s fate,” the norna cut in. “He does not desire my company out of habit,” her deep, hollow chuckle made even the warlord shiver; but she became grave again soon enough. “None of this truly matters, though. You are here – that means you have come to a decision. I assume you have chosen to give the maiden to her foreign suitor and want me to release her from her oath.”

Tanfana nodded slowly. “Yea, I will. I could not prevent it anyway; the laws of Nimwarkinh demand it, and as long as I live here, I am bound by those laws. But I would do it anyway. ‘Tis better for the maiden to leave this place ere the others would spot the death mark of the dry sickness upon her face.”

Imogen stared at the norna in abject horror. “How could you know?” she whispered. “I never told anyone…”

“Child,” said the norna gently. “Do you think me as blind as the others are? You have been marked by death for two years; without the draughts I have been giving you would already be dead by now.”

“Why would you care?” asked Imogen, stunned. Shieldmaidens were always treated equally; privileges had no place in their bond.

“Because you have been my best pupil since Zephyr left and I wanted to give you a little more time to win renown,” answered the norna. “I wished upon you to commit great deeds and to gain an honourable death in battle. Now that you are leaving us, you shall leave a breach in our shield-wall that shan’t be easily repaired. ‘Tis always hard to release a shieldmaiden from her oath; I was loath to hand Topaz over to Ingmar and Ingmar knows that and that is why he fears me. But I loathe even more to release you. For there has never been a sword like your among us, save for that of Zephyr.”

“I shall not betray my oath, Eldest, even if you do release me,” promised Imogen, her throat so tight she could barely breathe. “I asked my lord-to-be and he agreed to let me keep my sword; and whenever he rides out to fight the foul creatures of the Black Lands, I shall ride on his side.”

“You are one of the very few who were born with a true warrior’s heart,” said the norna. “Therefore I cannot release you from your battle oath. I can release you from the bonds of our sisterhood, if needs must be; but whenever the fires of war are lit, the battle oath will burst in flame in your heart, too, and your hand will reach for the sword.”

Imogen bowed her head. “So be it. I chose the sword freely; and freely did I give my oath. Freely shall I renew it now, in the parting hour, before the Lord of Nimwarkinh and before you. For even if the bonds of our sisterhood are about to fall off me, my sword will never rest as long as the people of Nimwarkinh may need it. This oath I, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, swear solemnly.”

“And I have heard your oath and the Lord of Nimwarkinh has witnessed it,” replied the norna formally. “Therefore, in the hour of need, I am willing to release you from your bond, for the good of us all. Follow me to the Chamber of the Honoured Dead.”

The Chamber! Imogen’s heart was hammering wildly upon crossing the high and broad stone threshold. This was the most sacred place for the sisterhood and its source of strength: the place where the shieldmaidens were initiated, their oaths accepted; where they were rewarded or punished, according to their deeds – and where they were laid to their final rest.

Only that neither Beryl nor Topaz would ever be part of that. For the good of their people, both had been – or would be – torn them both from this unique bond between the living and the dead.

Hundreds of white stonework urns stood in their arched little niches carved into the sheer, grey rock wall. They were all exactly the same, to the tiniest detail: small, rotund little vessels with a rounded foot and a lid with a gemstone on the top – the same jewel their owner had been named after. In the front of the urn, written in old runes, stood the shieldmaiden’s given name and that of her clan and tribe – if one could read them.

The narrow wall opposite the entrance was covered by a mosaic that reached from the floor to the ceiling. It showed a golden shield with two arrows crossed on it, and a great sword with a golden hilt before an argent background. The image of a hand holding a burning torch had been engraved into the blade, right under the hilt. The blade itself appeared to be of back steel.

In front of the mosaic lay a huge, hollowed-out slab of white stone; not quite marble but looking almost like it. Upon it stood a lamp wrought of some untarnished white metal that appeared to be silver but was much more precious. It was shaped like a lily flower, and on the tips of its seven petals seven broad, pointy yellow flames fluttered.

Nay, it was not the golden Seven-Flame, the sacred fire that had fallen from the skies in the times before Man’s remembrance and had been kept by the druids in the hallowed stone ring of Shalihtirlir. That flame had been lost when the world changed; some said it had been extinguished when the Star-isle of Westernesse had drowned. Others said that it had been snatched away by the first Dark Lord, infested with his evil and used to feed the great Forges of Utumno. Whatever the truth might be, it was lost for the people of Rhûn forever.

This here was merely a reminder, a faint echo and a longing memory of what once had been. Nonetheless, not even the Lord of Nimwarkinh could suppress a shiver as he was descending the seven flat, broad steps that led from the heavy stone door to the inside of the Chamber – the only man allowed to do so.

Imogen, carrying on her arm the armour of the shieldmaidens that she would never put on again, followed him with a bowed head. Tanfana came last; and as she closed the door, seven young women appeared as if out of thin air and wordlessly surrounded the altar. They were clad in heavy, dark blue robes, girdled with gold, silver, copper, bronze, iron or zinc, according to the degree of their initiation or their knowledge. Their faces were hidden behind semi-transparent veils. They were the Guardians of the Fire, the adepts of the norna – some said one of them would take over her place one day.

Until then, however, they had to study the ancient lore and go through dangerous tests. They had been chosen by the portents, based on the time of their birth and, more importantly, by its circumstances. Once the lot had fallen upon a girl, she was given into the custody of the norna at the age of seven and was considered dead by her family.

Some would indeed die, proving too weak for the task before them. Others proved worthy and spent their entire lives down here. These seven had survived for many years by now.

Imogen knew them all, though she had never exchanged a word with any of them. She did not even know their names; but perhaps they did not even have names anymore. Or perhaps they had been re-named after the star whose image adorned the buckles of their girdles.

Their lives were spent here, in this very chamber. They witnessed every ceremony and recorded everything in their heavy, leather-bound books hidden in places known to them alone. They were the living memory of the Chamber.

Imogen’s tears were falling as she laid her armour and weapons down in the middle of the Navel. A round plate of white marble was the Navel, about three feet in diameter, embedded in the grey stone floor of the Chamber and encircled by a broad frame of black onyx. Here, in the middle of this circle every shieldmaiden had stood when she was initiated and given her first armour, sword and shield; when she spoke her oath and when she accepted reward or punishment. Here her body was laid out before taken to the funeral pyre – an honour granted to no other Khimmer woman.

This was the last time Imogen would touch this sacred place. And though she was heading towards a better future than anyone, even a shieldmaiden could have hoped for in Nimwarkinh, it was in bitter tears that she took her leave from the mysteries of the sisterhood. Here alone could a Khimmer woman be equal to the male warriors, limited though that might be.

There, they were privileged above any other woman in Rhûn. No man, save the Lord of Nimwarkinh, was allowed to come here; and even he only on urgent family business. Like now.

And Imogen was crying openly as her eyes swept along the endless rows of stone urns. Those urns held the memory of shieldmaidens of old who all had performed great deeds in their short lives, winning never-fading honour for themselves, so that their names would be always remembered. Shieldmaidens with whom she had lived in a mystic bond all her life, trying to prove herself worthy to their company.

Now, however, she would be removed from this bond, due to the illness ravaging her body and for the good of her people. The stone urn bearing her name since her initiation would be smashed, as Topaz’s had been when they had handed her over to Ingmar to become his wife. Imogen could still hear the shriek of the shattered stone and buried her face in her hands.

One of the Guardians, the one girdled with gold, now left the circle and went to the Wall with noiseless, gliding steps. She removed the urn bearing Imogen’s name, placing it quietly next to the armour and the weapons in the Navel.

The one girdled with silver brought a large hammer and offered it to the norna wordlessly. Imogen fell to the cold marble, pressing both hands to her ears; she did not want to hear the sounds of destruction.

“Rise, child,” said the norna, her face deep and distant as if coming through a thick layer of earth and rock. “We shall keep your place in the Wall, for you have not broken your oath. You shall leave the sisterhood, that is true; but even if you shall never rest here, among your sisters, this empty vessel shall remain here forever – to remind them of Beryl, who was peerless among their rows. No-one shall bear that name again; for the name Beryl has become one with you, child, and your memory shall not fade from the Chamber, as long as one of us is alive.”

Imogen rose to her knees and looked at Tanfana in awe. The norna nodded slowly.

“You all feared me, and it was good so, for you needed to learn and to obey. Many shieldmaidens would break the rules, would fear not keep them in their reins. You, however, just like Zephyr, lived for the fight and the honour alone. You have sacrificed everything, even your pride, to improve your skills. Zephyr achieved more, as she is older and more experienced, but I know you would have grown beyond even her skills, were you not forced to leave. ‘Tis a shame, it truly is. But sometimes we have to give up that which is dearest to our hearts to protect something even more precious. You will be missed. Your strength and your sword will be sorely missed.”

“At least I can keep wielding a sword,” replied Imogen quietly. “The tradition of the shieldmaidens of the East is still alive in the Riddermark. Perchance I can still improve my skills some more before the illness weakens me too much.”

The norna nodded. “You can and you will; I know that. We have read the portents, and the portents say that your going to the Mark to be reunited with your northern sisters is a changing point in history. We have known for a very long time that this hour will come when times seem darker and more dangerous than ever before. Many generations have waited and hoped – and been disappointed. Yet now the day foretold has come; and you will receive a new sword to fulfil your destiny. One that is better and more glorious than your old one, no matter how many great deeds you might have done with it.”

She gave the Guardian with the golden girdle a sign. The young woman walked around the altar three times, murmuring something in a language too ancient for them to know; then she stopped, reached out with a pale hand and turned the heavy upper plate to the side.

Underneath was a long, narrow slot, and in that slot, upon a red velvet cushion, lay a sword.

It was a longsword like those the Sea-kings of Westernesse had once made – and before them their masters, the Elves, if was said – but the long, narrow blade, albeit forged of steel, gleamed blue-black in the seven flames of the altar lamp. The silver hilt bore the stamp of Dwarven masters of old; older than the great Dwarf cities of the First Age. The golden wire wrapped around it served as adornment and as the means to make the wielder’s grip steady on it. The pommel was a multi-faceted white diamond of the size of a dove’s egg. Between the hilt and the blood channel, the image of a hand holding a burning torch was engraved into the blade.

“This is Helôic,” said the norna, “the sword of ancient legends, forged by Dwarven smiths for the kings of old, the ones who had ruled Eriador in the times before the return of the Sea-Kings. The very sword over which the warrior princesses of Rhovanion, Freya the Fire-haired and Alrun the Brave, quarrelled bitterly – and even fought to the death. Freya won… but was banned from her father’s court, and she came here and brought the sisterhood of the shieldmaidens to the East. She was bitter about how she and her sisters were treated by the Khimmer warriors and ordered Helôic to be hidden, until a shieldmaiden of the East, one worthy to wield a sword like this, is given the chance to be reunited with her northern sisters.”

Imogen listened to the tale in awe. Of course, she knew that Freya had been the first shieldmaiden in Rhûn – everyone knew that. But the tale behind it, the horrible deed and the enchanted sword, was something she had never heard of before; and she looked at the sword with a mix of longing and dread.

“No-one has wielded it for more than two thousand years,” continued the norna, “for a powerful enchantment had been laid upon it: if unworthy hands touch it, that touch would carry a sudden death. I believe you are worthy to wield Helôic, but the ultimate choice is yours. No mortal man or woman can foretell how the powers slumbering in the sword would judge; should you prove unworthy, after all, they would burn you to ashes.”

“’Tis a risk I am willing to take,” replied Imogen in a low, steady voice. “Should the sword reject me, that will be a good death. Should it find me worthy, however, I can still perform great deeds that will make my name unforgettable.”

Imogen obeyed. The ancient weapon proved surprisingly lightweight, at least compared with the clumsier Khimmer broadswords, but it had an excellent balance. As if it had been made to be wielded by a woman; which, considering its history, it probably had. Imogen lifted it carefully with both hands, holding it with outstretched arms, so that the lowered point of the black blade would point straight at the middle of the Nave.

In that very moment it seemed as if the sword had come alive in her hand. The hilt grow warn very quickly. Startled, Imogen tried to release it, but she found that she could not. Her fingers seemed to wrap themselves around the hilt on their own volition and would not obey her will. The waves of throbbing heat that clearly came from the heart of the glowing pommel stone ran along the blade and along her entire body.

The heat was followed by a prickling feeling that started in her fingers and her palms, grew stronger and ran through her every nerve like lightning, from the top of her head down to her toes. Every single hair upon her head was tense like a bowstring and crackled with the awakening of the great, ancient powers, worked into the cold metal by Dwarven magic in the Elder Days; powers that seemed to test her; to test if the hand disturbing their millennia-old slumber was a worthy one.

Light spilled over the long blade; its edges glowed in a cold, pale blue fire. This strange, otherworldly light mirrored palely upon Imogen’s deathly white face, upon her wide, seemingly lifeless eyes. Ragnar Jarl was seized by the helpless rage of terror. He wanted to run to his daughter, to tear that cursed magic weapon from her hands, but he was held back by a slim hand resting on his heavy arm.

A bright eye looked at him calmly through the obscuring veil and a soft voice said, “Worry not. All is as it should be.”

At the same moment Helôic’s light began to dim and soon was gone. Imogen’s fingers relaxed around the hilt, and she looked at her mentor in awe, for she could see something no shieldmaiden had ever seen before: Tanfana was smiling.

“Good,” said the norna. “You have passed the test. You are from now on the rightful bearer of Helôic. Wield her with honour, as you have wielded all your weapons; and should you see the need to pass it on, be careful whom you choose as your heir. Helôic’s powers would fade forever, should you entrust it into a man’s hand, even if that man should be your own son. It has also been prophesized that they would be gone when the sword comes to its third owner, for it has been determined by its forging that they would only ever serve three mistresses. Those three, however, would be able to slay enemies no other weapon could kill.”

“Go now in peace, Beryl, most valiant of the shieldmaidens of the East. May the powers of Helôic protect you and our blessings go with you on all your paths.”

The shieldmaidens of the East had no farewell rituals – save those for the dead before funeral. The norna merely nodded at Imogen and returned to her private chambers, without as much as a backward glance.

The Guardians bowed and melded with the shadows, as if they had never been there. The one with the golden girdle put back Imogen’s urn into its niche in the Wall and turned the altar plate back into position. Then she brought a sword-belt and a scabbard for Helôic and, kneeling before Imogen, girdled it around her waist ere she would disappear, too.

Imogen carefully shoved Helôic into the scabbard; it was a perfect fit. Blade and hilt were dull and cold again, as if nothing had happened. She knelt and kissed the cold marble of the Navel one last time. Then she rose and climbed the wide, flat stone steps leading to the door, never to return as a woman alive.

Author’s notes: The rite of the hallowing of the bride is based on what I have read on the net about Anglo-Saxon heathen religion. Based on it, yet not the same.

The second part of this chapter wasn’t originally intended. It’s a birthday gift (Hobbit-style) for my good friend, Linda Hoyland, who wanted herself some more Aragorn. *g*

The news of the upcoming marriage of Imogen Ragnarsdaughter to a rich and powerful thegn of the Riddermark – and a remote kinsman to the King of the Horse-lords, at that – spread like wildfire through the Halls of Nimwarkinh. Some of the lesser jarls, belligerent and greedy ones, always hungry for livestock, slaves and riches that could be taken from the less-protected farmsteads and villages of the East-mark, were unhappy with the thought that the raids had to end (or, at the very least, turned to other places), of course, and mourned the loss of the easy booty.

But these were few and quickly silenced. As a whole, the Tribe of the Bear was content to have a new, steady trading partner and one enemy less in their backs.

And so on the next evening the feasting began, filling the Mead Hall with people, with the pleasant aroma of woodfire and with music. A trestle table had been carried onto the throne dais, and there the two men who had forged this alliance by marriage – Lord Elfhelm of the Mark, the bridegroom, and his friend, Lord Aðalbrandr of the people of the Sea-kings, who had negotiated on his behalf – sat in a place of distinction, both decked out in festive garb in the fashion of the Horse-lords. Members of the chieftain’s family and his chief vassals also sat at that table.

Khimmer warriors needed little to have a good time. Soon enough, the Hall was alive with the boisterous noise of merrymaking, with laughter and bawdy jokes and drunken curses, with song and the harpestry, with carefree, blissful celebration, untained by any thought of the Shadow growing in the East. The cooking fire sent smoke and delicious smells up the cleverly hidden shafts, cut into the rock by Dwarven stone-masons Ages ago, out into the night. The fattest hog that could be found was hefted onto the chieftain’s table, its skin steaming and crisp, the mead flowed freely, and sweetmeats were distributed generously among the feasting crowd.

Imogen, too, had a place of distinction on her father’s left, between Ragnar and her future husband. Such thing had never happened before, as not even shieldmaidens could claim a place at the chieftain’s table, but today was her day, the feast in her honour, and no-one could question it. She looked exquisite: a slender young woman, adorned with gold, furs and glittering jewels, her raven hair braided in the most intricate manner and covered with a veil, as it was due to a noble bride on the night of her hallowing, the beautiful bracelet, the morgengifu of her groom, glittering on her wrist for everyone to see, just as Elfhelm was wearing the torque, Ragnar’s welcoming gift from the first evening.

Her grey eyes were calm, her beautiful face was carefully schooled into a serene smile, but behind that, she was watching the crowd with cold disdain. Regardless of the understanding between her and her bridegroom, these people had sold her to their own advantage, and that was something she did not intend to forget. Ever.

Ingolf, the ultimate cause of this all, was sitting on their father’s right, hands clenched into fists on the table before him, silent, his jaw set, his teeth clenched. He was the only one not drinking, and though his face showed nothing of his true feelings, everyone present knew this feast to be the greatest humiliation of his life – the very life bought by his sister’s marriage.

The two witan, seated further down the High Table, exchanged looks of grim understanding. They knew that Ragnar might be forced to name another heir yet. For –unless Ingolf found a way to perform great deeds that would make his name remembered by future generations – the warriors might choose not to follow him after his father’s death, seeing that his life had been bought by a woman’s sacrifice.

Choices were there enough – which made things even more worrisome. Ybba, Ragnar’s firstborn, was well of age and beyond the bear-test, but so were Rollo and Knud and Einarr and Wulfstan – and even though Ragnar had chosen to send Einarr and his brother Eyríkr into exile under the thin mantle of making them Imogen’s personal guards and his own eyes and ears in Lord Hengest’s house, three of the other four could also rightfully expect to be chose. Each of them had a considerable following, and each had skills that could prove useful for a future chieftain.

Of all of Ragnar’s son, Ybba was the most experienced; a good warrior, but also a man of even temper. A bit heavy-handed perhaps when dealing with belligerent warriors – resulting in some of them losing their heads – but still the best-suited for leadership.

However, many of the lesser jarls would wish for a chieftain who would be a warlord, first and foremost, and Rollo the Large would fit that requirement best. He was a true bear of a man, in whom the mythical ancestor of the Tribe could be recognised best. He was also a berserk who, if his blood grew hot with battle-rage, could mow down entire armies on his own – or so his admirers liked to say anyway.

Unfortunately, he was also a bit slow-witted, easy for others to manipulate. An excellent weapon in the hand of an able leader, but not a leader himself. With him on Nimwarkinh’s throne, the Tribe would soon return to the old ways of raiding and pillaging, and everything Ragnar had worked for all his life would be lost.

Knud was an able warrior, too, of great strength and virtue, but he had little interest for anything else but weapons, women and mead. He could be amazingly shrewd if he needed to, but he would get bored quickly with the burden of caring for the entire Tribe. And again, all Ragnar had built through decades of slow, painful struggle, would be lost.

Einarr was the quickest of mind from all. He alone had inherited the wisdom of their father; the ability to plan ahead and the patience to follow his plans. Alas that his temper was as quick as his mind; he made enemies as fast as he made friends. And he was good at holding long grudges; they both were, he and his brother Eyríkr. They never forgave Ingolf for taking their women and spoke openly against the rightful heir, getting exiled for their pains. Which was a great loss for the Tribe but could not be helped.

It was unfortunate that Ingolf had never learned to control his rage, the druid thought. His mistake with Lords Elfhelm and Aðalbrandr had led to the fact that now he was the heir by sufferance only. And should the fate of the Tribe take a turn to the worse – which Amanar knew it would happen sooner or later, with he power of the Black Land growing steadily – that sufferance might grow very thin, very quickly… a thought that worried the druid greatly.

Amanar and his brethren were the last remnants of the once powerful people of Rhovanion; a kingdom that had been able to measure itself with Gondor in its heyday. They had learned from their own history that trapped between Mordor in the East, Gondor in the South and hostile other tribes all around could bring down a realm very quickly. He had tried to make Ingolf understand that – so far with no results.

The head druid looked around in the Mead Hall. The lesser jarls and their wives and women had all assembled; the night was full of drunken laughter and of the clatter of plates and knives. The harpists were playing and the scop was singing, off-key yet merrily. They all lived for the present, without learning from the past, without thinking of the future. And that, in Amanar’s experience, was a perilous way to live.

Yet it seemed the only way of living the Tribe of the Bear – or indeed any of the Khimmer tribes – had ever known. All of them, save for Ragnar and his father and his father before them. Only the men of that particular bloodline appeared to have been born with some limited foresight and were willing to follow their inspiration. It was a shame that Ingolf, the last of that line born in wedlock, apparently had not inherited the same gift at all.

“Let us hear the bride!” howled Old Weohstan, interrupting the druid’s thoughts. “’Tis her hallowing feast, is it not? She should sing for us!”

Strictly seen, this was an insult, as only slave women were supposed to sing on feasts. And as Old Weohstan was the father of Ingolf’s late mother, there could be little doubt that the offence had been very much intended. After all, a woman – and one who did no longer count as a shieldmaiden – could not beat him up or challenge him to the duel to the death to satisfy her honour. Doing so would have dire consequences. Not doing so would mean that she accepted her lessened position. In either way, she would lose face in the eyes of the warriors.

Yet Imogen did not even blink at the provocation. Instead, she rose from her seat and left the dais, moving through the drunken crowd like a naked sword would go through water, ‘til she reached the corner where the musicians had gathered.

One of the harpists stood, surrendering his instrument, and she took his place. Her long, graceful fingers – who would have thought that they were wrapped around a sword-hilt most of the time? – plucked the strings with a skill that spoke of long practice, and she began a ballad that was both lovely and melancholy; a song of elder days, of great deeds and of loss. Her voice was low and clear, as the other musicians accompanied her, sending shivers down the spines of all men present. Well… most of them anyway.

Even Old Weohstan’s beady eyes gleamed wetly, making Amanar wonder if the old man was in tears.

Both Elfhelm and Aðalbrandr raised their cups to toast Imogen; seeing the gesture she smiled with unexpected warm and nodded to them from her place at the harp. And it seemed to Elfhelm that there was something more to her smile than mere gratitude; something not so far removed from desire and invitation.

And for the first time since he had set foot in Nimwarkinh, the Marshal of Edoras actually began to believe that their marriage might work, beyond its political purpose.

Now the time of hallowing the bride had come – the only part of the wedding ceremony that would take place in her home of old, according to the agreement between her father and her future husband. Finishing her song. Imogen returned the harp to the harpist and crossed the Hall to the seat that had been prepared for the ceremony and sat down.

The guests followed suit, for it was required that all should be seated at the beginning of the rite. It was one that the people of Rhûn and those of the Mark actually shared; the latter ones called it the brydeala, the “bride ale”.

According to ancient custom, the hallowing of the bride should have been performed by her mother. As Imogen’s mother had died many years ago, however, and she had no older female kin left, the norna had offered to do it – and offer that could not be refused. She had been her tutor all her life, after all.

The Hall fell in respectful silence as the door swung open. The harpists stopped playing, the scop stopped singing, and even the drunken jarls fell silent, following with their eyes the square, veiled shape of Tanfana, as she all but glided in, carrying the great sword Helôic on her outstretched arm.

She was followed by two of Ingolf’s women, the red-headed Brigid and the gold-tressed Hemma, who carried the blot bowl and the so-called loving cup: a fairly large drinking vessel of gold that had two handles and was engraved with running horses al around it, under its rim – clearly a part of Lord Elfhelm’s handgeld to his bride.

The norna now laid the sword across Imogen’s lap and said, “Hertha, Earth-lady, bless the bride hallowed by the sword in her father’s hall.”

Then she helped Imogen to her feet, allowing her to put Helôic back to its scabbard, held by the young servant that would follow him to the Mark.

Now fire-haired Brigid stepped forth with the blot bowl, and Hemma handed the loving cup to Imogen who filled it from the bowl with mead. The norna then led them to the fire pit in the middle of the Hall and had them pass both bowl and cup over the flame, saying, “Hertha, Earth-mother, wassail this mead.”

The flame and the words were intended to ensure that the mead would bring health, by driving away any illness caused by wights. And even if one did not believe that the rite alone could do that, no-one doubted that the one speaking the blessing would.

When this was done, Imogen and Elfhelm and Imogen spoke the time-honoured words of blessing between bride and groom, each in her or his own tongue. Imogen then assisted the norna in sprinkling the gathered guests with mead by carrying the blot bowl while Tanfana blessed all present.

After they had done their round in the Hall, the bride and the groom used the loving cup to make their toast to Hertha, the Earth-lady – whom the Men of the Mark called Eostre and those of Gondor Yavanna – to ensure a good marriage. Finally, when their toasts were spoken, they both drank from the cup at once.

With that, the official part of the brydeala was finished, and the Fulls continued until well beyond midnight, even after the departure of the bride of the groom, to the inevitable point sometime near dawn when everybody still in the Hall had passed out and was left to sleep out their drunken stupor.

Aragorn left the betrothal feast as soon as it was possible without insulting his hosts. The wanton debauchery displayed by the Khimmer jarls at any feasts was something he had learned to endure while serving Ragnar’s father, but he did not indulge if he could help it. Fortunately, now that Elfhelm and Imogen were the centre of attention – until everyone got too drunk to care – no-one really gave him any of that attention.

Or so he thought… but he was apparently mistaken. For barely had he left the Mead Hall, heading towards his guest chamber, when someone intercepted him in the empty corridor.

It was a woman if indeterminate age, wearing a long leather skirt and a fur-lined tunic of rough, homespun wool. Her long, greying black hair was braided away from her face, ands he looked at him in a manner no Khimmer woman save the shieldmaidens ever did: directly and calmly, from equal to equal.

And yet this woman was not – and had likely never been – a shieldmaiden. Her strong, white hands were roughened by hard work and not by weapons training, and her body was too lean and angular for a female warrior, even for a former one. She walked with a slight limp yet carried herself proudly, and her dark grey eyes seemed unnaturally large in her hawkish face. Clearly, she was of the old, now almost extinct people of Rhovanion; perhaps a kinswoman of one of the druids.

“Lord Aðalbrandr,” she said with a slight bow. “I am Sigga, tirewoman of Mistress Tanfana. My mistress would speak with you if you were amenable.”

Her voice was low and soft, almost gentle, and she spoke in a more refined manner than Easterlings usually did; also with a faint northern accent, just like the head druid.

“I thought men were not allowed in the deep halls of the norna,” said Aragorn in surprise.

In all the years he had spent in Rhûn, he had never caught a glimpse of the norna before this very day, and he had been warned repeatedly to stay away from her halls.

“They are not,” the woman whose name was Sigga replied. “But my mistress has not yet returned to her halls. And as you are both here for a short while yet, she would make good use of that time.”

Refusing the norna’s invitation would have been a mortal insult not only towards her but towards the entire Tribe. And admittedly, Aragorn was curious. Curious at the most powerful person seconded only by Ragnar himself (if indeed that was true) whom even the Khimmer nobles hardly got to see once in a lifetime.

Besides, if she had asked to see a stranger in private, she must have had her reasons. Important reasons.

Therefore Aragorn agreed to accept the invitation and followed the woman to the chambers assigned to the norna for the time of her stay in Ragnar’s court, knowing that he would be probably the first man for many years to see her face to face. Sigga led him to the women’s wing of Ragnar’s family, for the old priestess was Imogen’s guest.

Then she halted before the heavy wooden door and knocked with the brass knocker shaped like a bear’s paw… and entered without waiting for an answer.

“Lord Aðalbrandr is come, Mistress,” she said with a bow and melded with the shadows in the back of the chamber.

“Come closer, son of the Sea-kings,” said a deep, hollow voice, and Aragorn obeyed.

A small crystal lamp was lit, although he could not tell what did keep it burning, as he could not see any actual flame, but it was enough to illuminate the chamber, and he looked with interest at the blue-clad figure that was sitting in a low stone chair in the middle of the room, solid and unmovable as if made of stone herself.

As he went obediently closer, the norna stood and looked him directly in the eyes, as if she were looking straight into his thoughts, indeed, into his very heart. She was taller than he had originally thought, albeit still a head shorter than him – and very obviously not a Khimmer woman. Her oval face was pale – understandably, as she spent her entire life in the deep halls under the mountains – and while she seemed ageless, there were depths in her gold-flecked, grey-blue eyes that spoke of high age and wisdom Aragorn had only seen by Elves before - and yet she was not an Elf, either.

In any case wariness and proper courtesy seemed the right way when dealing with her.

“My lady,” he said with a respectful bow. “You asked to see me. To what do I owe the honour?”

“To your own deeds,” she replied promptly. “You have forged a bond here – you and that young warrior from the Mark – that will have a great effect on the future and needs to be discussed between people who understand the ramifications… and you and I are the only people here who do.”

It was fairly obvious that she meant it, but Aragorn found I better to clarify. She nodded.

“I do. The alliance you have forged may give both sides a few more years of peace, at least with each other; but the great war, long planned by the Dark Lord of Mordor, will come sooner or later. Within your lifetime, I fear. And Rohan is in greater peril than ever before; for the Mark is not threatened by the forces of the Dark Lord and the other Khimmer tribes alone.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding; these facts had been known to him for a long time.

‘Twas nothing new. Rohan and the Dunland had been enemies since the coming of Eorl the Young; the Dunlendings, understandably enough when one considered that they lived in harsh and ungrateful lands, were still angered by the fact that Steward Cirion had gifted the fertile land of Calenardhon to his new northern allies.

“The Dunlendings,” she agreed. “But this is growing worse than the usual skirmishes along the borders or the occasional raid; bad enough those might be. Dunland is preparing for an all-out war with the Mark; they have even tried to forge an alliance with the Lord of Nimwarkinh. Fortunately, Ragnar Jarl has not trust in their promises of friendship and chose to seek an alliance with the Mark instead of helping Dunland to rise as a new rival realm on the West. Yet they are growing in strength and will soon become a serious danger. Théoden-king must be warned.”

“I cannot turn to the South right now,” said Aragorn. “I have got other obligations that have already been dangerously delayed by my coming here. Elfhelm will have to do it… if Théoden is willing to listen. He seems to have become oddly dependent on his counsellor lately, or so Elfhelm says.”

“Then he must go to the King’s son and heir,” warned the norna. “The rising of a strong Dunlending realm could upset the balance of power in Middle-earth to the disadvantage of all free peoples.”

“Can Saruman not help?” asked Aragorn. “Isengard has always been the last time of defence against Dunland, and it has stood, unshaken, ever since Steward Beren entrusted it to Saruman. And has the White Wizard not been a friend and supporter of the Mark ever since?”

“He was; for a while rather actively so,” she agreed. “However, it concerns me deeply that his thoughts have been closed to me for some time. Ever since the last meeting of the White Council.”

Aragorn stared at her in shock. “What do you mean with that? What could you possibly know about Saruman and the White Council?”

She gave him a wry almost-smile. “I know about a great many things, Scion of the Kings of Westernesse. That I chose to live with the Tribe of the Bear did not mean that I would share their ignorance.”

“Nay, it does not,” she agreed amiably. “Yet that is the only answer you will get from me.”

“I fear that may not be enough,” Said Aragorn. “Who are you? For you certainly are not from the peoples of Rhûn.”

“You are right; I am not,” she answered calmly. “Yet I have been living among them much longer than Saruman has been living in Isengard. Almost as long as Radagast has been living in Rhosgobel, although my brother Pallando and I came to Middle-earth earlier than him.”

Having heard her mention those great wizards in such a casual manner finally helped Aragorn to make the necessary connections – although that only made him even more confused.

“I see that Gandalf the Grey told you a few things not even the Heirs of Isildur were supposed to know,” she said. “But he has always been a risk-taker. However, he apparently did not tell you everything that is there to know about us. What do you know about the Five?”

“That they were sent by the Powers from the West to help the peoples of Middle-earth in their struggle against Sauron,” replied Aragorn. “They came in the shape of Men, for they were supposed to influence and advise only, not to take an active role in the fight itself. They were never truly young, but they also age very slowly. Radagast the Brown settled in the Gerenwood – in Mirkwood – almost immediately. Saruman the White used to travel in the East for a while, before becoming a counsellor of the Stewards of Gondor, and later received Isengard from Steward Beren to dwell there and protect the Mark from the Dunlendings. Gandalf the Grey, however, kept wandering all over Middle-earth, meddling with the affairs of Elves and men, and later of Hobbits, too; for which we are all grateful, for his help was always invaluable.”

Aragorn nodded. “The Blue Wizards came with Saruman, it is said. Their names were Alatar and Pallando. As far as anyone knows, they went to the East and were never heard of again.”

“That is mostly correct,” she said with another of those almost-smiles. “Save for one minor detail: the name of the one Blue Wizard was, in truth, Alatariel.”

“But that is one of the Lady Galadriel’s names!” cried out Aragorn in surprise.

“I do not understand,” confessed Aragorn. “If you truly are one of the Ithryn Luin, why have you come in the disguise of a man? And why have you spent all this time among such barbarians?”

“Your arrogance does not suit the blood of Elros Tar-Minyatur, Scion of the Sea-kings,” she said coldly. “The peoples of Rhûn are as much the Children of Ilúvatar as your own kind. They deserve a chance to struggle free from Sauron’s clutches; which, for them, is a much harder struggle than for those who have always been free. My brother in the thought of Ilúvatar, Rómestámo, who you know by the name of Pallando, and myself have been sent to the East. It was our task to hinder Sauron’s operations as well as we could, and to ensure that the forces of the East would not outnumber those of the West beyond measure.”

“You would say so, and you would be both arrogant and wrong,” she returned, her eyes glittering in cold anger. “For you do not know half as much as you think you do; nor do your tutors, for that matter. I am Morinehtar Darkness-slayer, and my brother and I came from the West a great deal earlier than the others. We journeyed the East for hundreds of years and aided the defeat of Sauron in the Last Alliance. After that, still wearing the mantle of a man, for that helped my advice to be heard, I went to Rhovanion as the advisor of their Kings.”

“You were the one who forged the bond between Valacar and Princess Vidumavi, Vidugavia’s daughter!” realised Aragorn in awe. She nodded simply.

“I did. That was a unique chance to forge a strong bond between all kingdoms east of the Anduin against a possible new threat from the Easterlings and Mordor.”

“A shame that it did not work,” said Aragon grimly. “In fact, it led straight to the Kin-strife of Gondor.”

“That it did,” she agreed. “But that was not my fault. Your forefathers have always been way too arrogant for their own good – and see where it led them! Arnor is gone, and Gondor has become isolated, under constant siege from all sides. With a strong kingdom in Rhovanion it would not have happened.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Aragorn reluctantly. “But how did you end up here?”

“By my own choice,” she replied. “When Princess Freya was banned, I shed the mantle of a man and accompanied her on her flight to Rhûn and stayed here to keep the sisterhood of the shieldmaidens alive, as the only means for Khimmer women to break out of their subjugated position. I have been here ever since; and I have helped the chieftains of the Tribe of the Bear to rise in power; for only a strong and united Rhûn could hope to free itself from Sauron’s overlordship.”

“Would that not overthrow the balance of power in Middle-earth?” asked Aragorn.

“Oh yes, it would; and in a good way,” answered the norna… or rather the Blue Wizard, unlikely as that seemed. “Alas, it is slow work. It took me many generations to help Ragnar’s family to get where they are now. Oh, he and his forefather did their part, too; they fought very hard to become chieftains. But it was I who negotiated the marriage that helped them to gain ownership over the Deep Furnaces and made them Lords of Nimwarkinh.”

“Which was no small feat,” admitted Aragorn. “But how can you live with their barbaric customs? And their superstitions, all this nonsense about descending from a bear… I certainly had a hard time to keep my disdain under control.”

Now she did truly smile. “That part is actually true… in a manner. One of Ragnar’s female ancestors was a Beorning; a daughter of the leading clan that could change into the shape of a bear.”

“Naturally. The clan supposed to lead the wild warriors of Rhûn had to be strong. And they are strong, as you can see. Of course,” she added with an amused snort, “the other tribes felt the need to find an animal ancestor, too, after that. They did not want to be outdone by the Sons of the Bear. They even created their own brand of shieldmaidens; although theirs are merely female warriors who are not taught any of the ancient knowledge our Guardians possess. ‘Tis my hope that one day Nimwarkinh will become the source of culture and wisdom for all Rhunic people.”

“You can wait for that,” Aragorn was not entirely free of the prejudices of his own people, he admitted freely; but in his case those prejudices were based on the experiences made among the Rhunim.

Tanfana… Alatariel… Morinehtar… simply shrugged. “That matters not. I have got the time; and the patience.”

“You shall need it,” commented Aragorn dryly. “What has become of the other Blue Wizard, though? Of Pallando?”

She sighed. “I cannot be certain. During the early Third Age and until the end of the Watchful Peace, we were tasked with finding where Sauron dwelt. We failed, and I turned back to go to Rhovanion. My brother went on… I never had word of him since then.”

She shook her head. “Had he been, I would know that. We are siblings in the thought of Ilúvatar; we would feel if the other one perished. Nay; he is still out there, somewhere. I strongly believe that we shall be reunited ere our task in Middle-earth is finished.”

“And what for now?” asked Aragorn. “Will you remain here, with the Tribe of the Bear?”

She nodded. “This is where I am needed most. More so as Ingolf Ragnarsson has weakened his own authority in the eyes of the lesser jarls. Ragnar Jarl will need my support; and he will have it, for he is the best possible choice to rule over a united Rhûn after the war – if there will be an after.”

Aragorn nodded in agreement, for that was certainly true. Then another question occurred to him. “Do the other Wizards know that you are here?”

“Nay, they do not,” she replied. “And they are not supposed to know, not even Radagast. They might try to use my influence for their own designs, which doubtlessly are noble, but it would upset everything I have worked for here for two thirds of the recent Age. I cannot risk that. So I must ask you, Scion of the Sea-kings to keep my secret as closely as you keep your own. Many lives depend on it.”

Aragorn nodded. “I shall do as you ask me, my lady. But allow me one last question: how can you know who I am? As you said, ‘tis one of the closely-guarded secrets of these days.”

“Child,” she replied with a true smile again. “My powers might be limited in this form, but do you truly believe I would not recognise Melian’s blood, even so? She was of the Lady Yavanna’s people, I was one of Lord Oromë’s, but we have known each other since the shaping of Arda. Go now; your secret is safe with me. Make sure that mine will be safe with you, too.”

Recognising a dismissal when he was given one, Aragorn bowed and left her chambers but did not return to his own just yet. Instead, he sought out one of the small balconies that could be accessed from the guest wing as he knew from his latest visit to Nimwarkinh, hoping that it would still exist. He had a great deal to think about, and fresh air made it easier to do so.

Note: Tolkien has changed his mind about the Blue Wizards several times. In one version they arrived in Middle-earth in the Second Age already, at the time when Sauron forged the One Ring. My solution is a mix of the various ideas, so that it would fit this story best.

Author’s notes: The description of the Emyn Muil is taken from the “Thain’s Book” website, with the necessary alterations to fit the story.

Two days later Elfhelm had taken his leave from his newly gained kinfolk and was ready to head for home. His horses and his weapons had been returned to him, and with Imogen and her household joining them, their travelling party had become a stately one.

For not only had Imogen taken her two bondservants, young Alajar and his sister Unga, with her, who appeared more than happy to leave Nimwarkinh behind and to live with their distant kin in the Mark. Einarr and Eiríkr had their bondservants, too, as it could be expected from the sons of a chieftain, even if they had been born out of wedlock, and since they would not be allowed to return, they had to take all their belongings, weapons, horses, furs and clothes and a modest chest of treasure each – even two women whose faces were hidden behind a grey veil in public, for they were obviously slaves and their beauty the sole property of their masters.

“I wonder what your father will say when the brothers of your bride arrive with slaves,” commented Aragorn, watching he banned warriors getting ready for the journey of no return.

Once again, he was wearing his rough woodman’s garb, like Elfhelm himself. They had agreed to travel across the Brown Lands together, for there was safety in numbers, as far as the Emyn Muil, at which point their way would past, with the Ranger turning to the North to hunt down the elusive creature he had been looking for at the time of their first encounter, while Elfhelm and his entourage would continue on across the East Wall of the Mark, heading home.

Ragnar Jarl did not come to see them off. He had officially taken his leave from the Emissary of the Mark in the Mead Hall the previous evening (and secretly from his beloved daughter, in the privacy of her chambers, where no-one could see his tears). He sent Ingolf in his stead, and the young lord did so in as courteous a manner as he could ever show. Which was not much, to tell the truth, but coming from him everyone was pleasantly surprised.

The other sons of Ragnar came, too – save for Sygtrygg and Thorolf who were on patrol and Óláfr who was lying in his chambers with a broken ankle – but mostly to wish Einarr and Eiríkr good luck among their new kinfolk-by-marriage. They brought parting gifts, too: furs and weapons and woven blankets and small trinkets and the likes to express their regret over the brothers’ departure.

The pointed looks they gave Ingolf in the process made it unmistakably clear that everyone knew why the two had to go into exile and that they were on their side. Ingolf endured the half-veiled hostility with tightly controlled rage.

The norna did not show up either, of course. For the sisterhood Imogen was dead, and she could not ask differently, regardless of her personal feelings. Her tirewoman, Sigga, came though, and hefted an iron-bound leather chest onto the wain with Imogen’s belongings.

“Books,” she whispered when no-one else could hear. “The Guardians copy the old tomes of lore from time to time. These are old copies but can still be read; they will last your lifetime, so that you may not forget where you have come from.”

Imogen thanked her. She nodded, and then she reached under her tunic and took out a small medallion made of solid, forged gold that she had been wearing on a leather cord around her neck. It had the image of a mountain ram on it – one of those with the long, curved, bow-like horns – standing on a mountain peak, surrounded by a circle of intertwined oak twigs and leaves.

“This is the ancient heirloom of your mother’s family that has been reached down from mother to daughter since the days when Rhovanion still had a King,” she said. “The lady Branwen entrusted it to me on her deathbed, as we all thought that you would never marry. Keep it safe; and should you ever have a daughter, give it her. For this is the symbol of the Kings of Rhovanion of old, brought here by Princess Freya herself a long time ago.”

The tirewoman shook her head. “Nay; for she had no children – how could she have? She was a shieldmaiden proper. But one of her kinswomen followed her into exile, and it is she of whose blood you are. This symbol was given to her by Freya as a token of their friendship and love and has been guarded by the women of your family ever since. Now that you would wield Freya’s own sword, ‘tis only proper that you take her coat-of-arms as well. May all our blessings go with you, daughter of the sword!”

“Have you looked into my future?” asked Imogen, for Sigga was known for her visions and her ability to read the portents.

“Nay; I dared not to do so. Some portents are slippery like snakes; and some prophecies have the terrible tendency to come true, just because we believe in them. Do not build your new life on signs and portents, child. Build it on your own strength and on the goodwill of the man you chose to marry. He seems like a good sort to me, even without throwing the bones; he will keep his oath. See that you keep yours, and then you will have a good life, both of you.”

Imogen solemnly promised that she would do so, and with hat the tirewoman of the norna left. Now there were only the witan who wanted to take their leave. And while the head druid spoke a lengthy blessing over both bride and groom and gifted ancient charms upon them to ensure that they would have numerous and healthy children, Master Dallben talked to Einarr and Eiríkr in sorrow. For not only had he once been their tutor and their first weapons master; their late mother was also kin to him. They were his only family left and it understandably hit him hard to lose them, too.

“You should have held back with your bold tongue, the two of you,” he said to Einarr accusingly. “Then your father would not send you into exile.”

Einarr shrugged. “I would have left on my own, sooner or later. I would never have served Ingolf. ‘Tis better so; Eiríkr and I may make a new life for ourselves; and should father no longer need you, you will always be welcome to join us, you know that.”

Master Dallben raised a bushy eyebrow. I thank you, lad, but when will your father not need me? Save for Amanar, he is surrounded by hot-headed, bloodthirsty fools, his own sons included,” he added with a grin, loudly enough for Ybba to hear.

Ragnar’s eldest gave him a mock scowl. “Be careful what you are saying, old man!”

“Or what?” countered the old Northman, laughing. “You will glare me to death? I think I will take that risk without much fear for my hide.”

Thy all laughed and kept bantering for a while yet. Then Sigga came again with a drinking horn made of bronze and set with small gemstones. It was as long as her forearm and full of mead.

“’Tis an old custom of the Mark to offer those who are setting off for a long journey the stirrup-cup,” she said. “Nimwarkinh may not be the Mark, but my mistress wants to honour Lord Elfhelm according to the customs of his own people.”

“Fertu, Elfhelm, hál!” she said in the tongue of the Mark, to everyone’s surprise. “Drink deeply and be merry, for your way leads homeward from now on.”

Elfhelm accepted the horn, thanked her and drank. Then he passed it on to Imogen; as a shieldmaiden, even as a former one, she had the right to drink with the warriors. She, too, drank from it and passed on to Lord Aðalbrandr, who passed it on to Einarr and finally to Eiríkr, who grinned when emptying it.

“You Men of the Mark have good traditions,” he said to Elfhelm. “I am already feeling much better about being banned from here.”

The others laughed and now that everyone had spoken his or her farewells, the small caravan set off for its distant goal: the borders of the Mark.

Elfhelm found that travelling along the northern border of the Brown Lands was far less unpleasant when one had company. They set a good, steady pace and made frequent rests, for the terrain was hard on any traveller, but they were in a good mood and food and water were aplenty, so they made decent headway, following a more or less straight path towards the West.

The heavily loaded wains, pulled by the thick-legged, sturdy workhorses of Rhûn, slowed them down considerably, however, which made the Ranger increasingly impatient, for he was needed in other places and was anxious to get there as soon as possible.

“Listen to me, friend Strider,” said Elfhelm on the fourth day of their journey. “You need not to tread with us slowly ‘til the Emyn Muil. We are three armed warriors and a shieldmaiden here, and I already have ridden this path once. If you are in a hurry, we are only slowing you down. Leave us and go your way on your own speed. No-one will blame you for that.”

The Ranger hesitated, although it was clear that he wanted nought more than ride on with the best speed his horse was capable of.

“Go on,” encouraged him Imogen, too. “We are used to such evil paths, and Elfhelm knows the way. Between the four of us, we are more than capable of protecting our goods and our lives from any possible footpads.”

“And worry not,” added Einarr, grinning. “We shan’t murder the bridegroom of our sister as soon as you have turned your back.”

“In fact, we rather like him,” added Eiríkr with an identical grin. “Even if he is a bit too serious and stiff-necked at times.”

Elfhelm have him a sour look but in the end he, too, had to laugh. The brothers turned out more cheerful a company than one would have expected. If only they had not insisted on taking their slaves with them! That was a problem that needed to be addressed, eventually. Preferable before they would reach the borders of the Mark. But not now, not within the earshot of a stranger. Even if said stranger was a friend and an ally.

After a considerable amount of hesitation the Ranger decided to take on their offer and left them in the next morning. As much as Elfhelm regretted to lose such a skilled and experienced travelling companion, he was glad for the chance to be alone with his newly acquired kinfolk.

“There is something we need to discuss ere we would continue our journey,” he said to Einarr who, as the older of the two, usually spoke for them both. “It concerns the slave women whom you have brought with you.”

The brothers exchanged amused looks as if they had expected this question to come up sooner rather than later.

“Slavery is not allowed in the Mark,” Elfhelm told him. “You shan’t be able to force them to remain in your service if they want to leave.”

“’Tis a good thing, then, that we do not want to leave,” said the cheerful voice of a woman, and one of the slaves jumped off Einarr’s wain. She did not wear her veil anymore; her bright red hair glittered in the morning light like fire.

Elfhelm recognised her at once. It was Birgid, one of Ingolf’s women; the one Ingolf had taken from Einarr by force.

“I see,” he said. “You have turned your father’s ban into your advantage and used it to get back the woman you desired from your brother.”

Elfhelm shook his head. “Nay; as long as she has followed you by her own choice ‘tis no concern of mine. Besides, Ingolf deserved it. What about the other woman, though?”

“I assure you, Lord Elfhelm, that I am here by my own choice, too,” another voice said, and the gold-tressed Hemma, another one of Ingolf’s women, leapt from Eiríkr’s wain – right into Eiríkr’s arms.

“She was brought to Ingolf’s bedchamber the same way I was,” explainer Birgid. “As long as we lived in Nimwarkinh, we could not do a thing about it. But when Ragnar Jarl told Einarr and Eiríkr that they have to leave their home for good, we used to chance to flee with them.”

“I certainly cannot blame you for taking your fate into your own hands,” said Imogen, admiring the courage of these women who had been held as little more than beast of burden in her brother’s chambers. “I fear, though, that you leaving without his knowledge and consent will undermine Ingolf’s position even more. The jarls would hardly accept a chieftain who could not even keep his own women in line.”

“And why should that be my concern?” asked Birgid with a cold glint in her hazel eyes. “No-one did as much as raise their vices when his men came and dragged me away from Einarr’s chambers to make me one of his playthings. I owe him nothing; and neither does Hemma.”

“I never said that you do,” replied Imogen. “But Nimwarkinh needs a strong chieftain, and none of my other brothers have enough support. If the lesser jarls reject Ingolf, my father’s realm could fall apart after his death.”

“Again, why should that be my concern?” returned Birgid coldly. “I am not his daughter; nor that of any man of importance. Why should I sacrifice myself for his rule like you did? Or why should Hemma? This was our only chance to make ourselves a life worth living, and we are not letting it slip through our fingers.”

“If you believe that our coming with you may endanger the newly forged peace between Nimwarkinh and the Mark, then say so, lord, and we shall go on beyond your land into the West where we may find a place to live,” she said. “Somewhere where no-one asks who we are and why we have come to live among them. But we are not going back.”

“Far be it from me to force you to turn back or to live somewhere in the wilderness,” answered Elfhelm. “We do not turn anyone away who seeks refuge among us. Not Clan Éowain and the people of the Eastfold in any case. But you are right in one thing: Ingolf might oppose the peace between us when he learns where you have gone.”

“He does not need to learn it,” said Eiríkr with a shrug. “He might suspect that they have come with us, but we can always deny, and how is he to know?”

“Nay,” said Elfhelm. “There is something you must understand if you wish to live among us. The Men of the Mark do not lie, and we expect the strangers living within our borders to do the same. Those few who do lie would soon find themselves cast our; even exiled if needs must be. We have little in the way of written contracts – mostly landbooks and royal gifts and records of marriage – everything else is agreed on by spoken oaths. The word of a Man of the Mark is sacrosanct. Breaking it would mean to cast himself out of family, Clan and the whole people. We take such things very seriously. Therefore I would rather risk a fall-out with Nimwarkinh than lie to your brother, should his messengers come and ask me if I know of the whereabouts of his women.”

“But you will not send us back, will you?” asked Hemma quietly, her blue eyes full of tears.

Elfhelm shook his head. “You will be free to do as you please, like everyone in the Mark, as long as you respect our laws. Even if I wanted, I would not have the right to send you back. We value our freedom as much as we value courage, honesty and truthfulness, and would never deny such freedom to others.”

“Of course, it would help things considerably if you would be properly wedded,” he then added. “In that case the cynn-frith would protect you from all outside attacks.”

The two blond sons of Ragnar the Smith exchanged meaningful looks with each other and with their women – and then grinned wickedly.

And so they continued their journey along the upper borders of the Brown Lands without the Ranger, and the way was still every bit as tristless as Elfhelm remembered: a desolate wilderness between the southern eaves of Mirkwood and the hills of Emyn Muil. Nothing had grown there since the Last Alliance, when Sauron had sent fire and poisonous smoke out of Barad-dûr to deny forage to the advancing armies of Elves and Men. ‘Twas hard to imagine that here once had been homes and orchards and fertile gardens… or so the ancient tales told.

Still, the knowledge that every new league would bring them closer to the end of their journey gave them the strength to struggle on, ‘til they finally spotted from afar the knotted range of hills spreading out from both shores of Nan Hithoel, a long, oval lake formed by the Great River. Not that it would have been a comforting sight in itself, as the landscape was bleak and the terrain difficult and treacherous, but at lest they knew that they had not gone awry in the Brown Lands.

On the west side of Anduin the rugged hills formed two long ridges that ran North to South. The western sides of those ridges were steep, while the eastern sides sloped more gently but were intercut with ravines and gullies. There was a deep, winding vale between the two ridges with a stream running through it. The ridge nearest the Great River was the taller of the two. The other one descended about twenty fathoms to a wide shelf which ended in a sheer cliff that was the western edge of the Emyn Muil.

Even the Rhunim, used to the impressive Mountains of Nimwarkinh, looked at the sheer rock formation with respect.

“Is it Man-made or the work of Dwarves?” asked Eiríkr. Elfhelm shook his head.

“Nay; unless the Powers themselves were at work when this part of Middle-earth was shaped. ‘Tis called so for it is the eastern border of the Mark, is all.”

“Still, it must be an excellent line of defence for your warriors,” said Einarr.

“Not good enough in these last years, I fear,” Elfhelm sighed. “Orc raiding parties have descended from the Emyn Muil time and again, to steal horses for their Dark Lord. Why, it has been little more than a decade that Lord Éomund of the Eastfold, then Chief Marshal of the Mark and guardian of the eastern marches, was slain by one of such group of raiders when he pursued them into the Emyn Muil and was ambushed.”

“There are no safe paths in these dark times, my lady,” he replied. “We shall not go into the Dreary Hills, though; on the east side of the Great River may fall away ‘til they become flat and featureless, but they are like a labyrinth of twisted rock through which no straight passage leads. Even the lower northern end of the south-eastern face of the Emyn Muil is about eighteen fathoms high. We shall go around them in the North, for further south the lands slope down into the swamps of the Wetwang and the Dead Marshes, and that is not a place any of us would wish to visit.”

The others shuddered involuntarily. The Wetwang – or Nindalf as the Men of Gondor called it – was another treacherous terrain that had swallowed many a Khimmer raiding party, either on their way to plunder or returning from a raid. And no-one in their right minds would go even close to the Dead Marshes. Not only could the faces of long-dead warriors still be seen in the wide pools in the middle of the marshes; 'twas also said that the houseless spirits of dead Elves were still haunting in the mists around the Mere of Dead Faces in the form of cold, flickering lights, looking for a body they could take over.

“Let us find a safe place to ford the river and get as far from that cursed place as possible,” said Einarr, speaking for them all.

“Fording the river should not be the problem,” replied Elfhelm. “The Anduin may be flowing swiftly past the Golden Wood, but after that it enters a region of low flatland. The Wold of the Mark, which we are trying to reach, is on the western side. At this point there are two great bends in the river, which we call the North Undeep and the South Undeep. There age many shallows and wide shoals in this region, and the river can be crossed easily.”

“Getting there in the first place,” answered Elfhelm grimly. “With those heave wains and pack horses of yours we shall have to make a wider berth around the Dreary Hills than I did no my way to Rhûn; and that will take us closer to the southern eaves of Mirkwood than I fin it comfortable. That is a very evil place and foul creatures tend to wander off from the forest; Wargs being the least of all evils.”

The Rhunim gave him disbelieving looks. They all had their experiences with the large, bloodthirsty beasts possessing a malevolent intelligence, and were hard-pressed to imagine something – anything – that would be even worse.

“What could be worse than Wargs?” asked young Alajar quietly, and his sister Unga scooted closer to him as if seeking his protection. Both their parents had been attacked and killed by Wargs many years in the past, leaving him, still but a child himself, in the charge of his even younger sister.

“Spiders,” Elfhelm told him before one of the Khimmers could have punished him for speaking without being asked. “Black, man-eating spiders of the size of ponies that hunt in packs. Or so a group of travelling Dwarves told my father when they rested in our hall on their way to the autumn fair of Halabor in Gondor, some ten or more years ago. Ere that town would have been destroyed by Orcs.”

“Are you sure those Dwarves were not just spinning a tale?” asked Eiríkr, ignoring the remark about the Gondorian town having been destroyed by Orcs.

Unfortunately, such things happened – and more and more often in recent times.

“Dwarves do like to tell a good tale,” allowed Elfhelm. “But they would never lie about the true dangers that may await one on the Road. The Wanderers among them, those who travel with their wagons from fair to fair all year, even less so than the rest of them. If you live on the Road, knowing it for true is important. I have no doubt that they told the truth about those spiders, which is why I loath getting so close to Southern Mirkwood. Alas that it is the only way we can choose.”

“How long, do you think, shall we need to reach the point where the river can be forded?” asked Imogen.

“I needed almost three days on my way here, and I was but lightly burdened and with much better horses,” he finally said. “With yours and the wains, it will take us as long as four, at the very least. Perhaps even longer.”

“I see now that you have not exaggerated,” Einarr groaned, wiping his sweaty brow. “This is an evil path if I have ever seen one; and I have sauntered into the dark valleys of the Ash Mountains for a few times, hunting down Orc packs that had attacked our people.”

“Be grateful that we are not forced to cross the Brown Lands,” replied Elfhelm dryly. “My mother’s clan tried to fly from the South of Rhûn that way and they very nearly died to the last man, woman and child on that desperate journey. Less than a hundred of them survived. Even they were at death’s door when my father’s éored found them.”

“What was your father doing in such an evil place?” asked Eiríkr with interest.

“Hunting for wild kine,” explained Elfhelm. “Back then, there used to be huge herds of white kine wandering along the eastern banks of the Great River, between the Emyn Muil and Mirkwood, and our people liked the challenge. To kill a kine bull with only a hunting spear is the greatest trophy any hunter can hope for, and my father and his brothers were passionate hunters in their youth. A shame that the Orc bands have decimated the herds so much that nowadays we must protect them instead of hunting for them.”

“Finding a dying band of fugitive slaves must have been a slightly lesser trophy, I deem,” said Eiríkr smugly.

Elfhelm raised an eyebrow. “You think so? Well, my father thought differently. Even if my mother’s people would have been slaves, he would think saving their lives infinitely more satisfying than any hunt. But they were not slaves. They were one of the last few free clans that kept wandering from the eastern outcrops of the Ash Mountains westward for more than a century. My father was most impressed with that journey; he took them home with him, where they got fattened up a bit and then offered work to feed their families. The clan leader, who happened to be my uncle, he took into his own house as an honoured guest.”

Elfhelm shook his head. “Nay, that happened a year or so later. Of course, the Clan Elders were more than a little shocked – apparently, it was the greatest outcry in the history of Clan Éowain, ever. But every man and woman of the Mark has the right to follow their hearts by choosing their spouses. And by giving Father nine sons and two daughters, Mother certainly proved herself to be a true jewel of a wife. Even though she did lose the first two babes, for she was still too weak to carry them to term.”

“I cannot promise to do the same for you,” said Imogen quietly. “All my life I took a secret brew, prepared by Tanfana’s handmaidens, to prevent conception. I know not how long it will take to flush all of it from my body – and even after that, ‘tis not certain that I shall ever be able to bear children.”

“At least you will be seen as more acceptable in the eyes of the Elders, as the daughter of the chief warlord of Rhûn,” replied Elfhelm with a shrug. “And even if we shall never have children, which is by no means certain, my brothers and sister have already given the Clan enough children and will keep doing so in the future. My father ordered me to be wedded and bedded by Harvest tide – whom I wed is my choice by right, and no-one is entitled to say aught about it. You need not to worry. The Clan Elders may be mildly shocked by my choice, but they will accept you and respect you, both for your heritage and your prowess as a shieldmaiden. Give them time.”

“Will she be dwelling with you at the court or will she have to remain with the rest of the Clan in Stowburg?” asked Birgid. “And where are we supposed to stay?”

“’Tis your choice and yours alone,” Elfhelm glanced at Imogen. “I live with the troops in the barracks in Edoras, but if you choose to come with me, you can use the townhouse of the family as your own. Sooner or later, you will have to be presented in the Golden Hall in any case; you are entitled to a place at Théoden-king’s court. But if you prefer a quiet life in the Eastfold, that is fine with me, too.”

Imogen nodded her understanding but gave no definite answer just yet, which was understandable. She had to see both places first, ere she would be able to choose.

“As for you,” Elfhelm turned back to Birgid, “I shall ask you – all of you – that wherever my lady stays, you stay with her. You are her people; and you are her family, her support in a land not her own. She will need you, and you will need her. For only as her cynn will you be accepted in the Mark,” he added, with a warning look in the brothers’ direction.

Einarr and Eiríkr nodded grimly. They knew that – unlike Imogen – they had been sent into exile as a punishment for opposing Ingolf, and they could call themselves fortunate that they had merely been sent away. The best they could hope for was to be tolerated by the Men of the Mark… until they had proved their value in the eyes of Imogen’s new kinfolk.

“Well,” said Elfhelm after a lengthy pause, “that is something to discuss in more detail when we reach home. Until then we still have many leagues to go, though. So when the horses have rested, we better continue our journey.”

The others agreed with that, and so they went on, for many more leagues and many more days, around the Emyn Muir and across the Great River at the South Undeep, south from the vast grasslands of the Wold, stretched between the Undeeps and the Fangorn Forest. It was a windy upland region, sparsely populated by a few hardy folk, so that they did not meet a soul in all that time. Only from afar could they sometimes catch a glimpse of a regular patrol or of a horse-herd, migrating leisurely from one grazing place to another.

Thus they travelled along the valley that lay between the Wold and the in-facing escarpment of the South Downs, ‘til they reached the Entwash, which the Men of Gondor knew as the River Onodló and which was the western border of the East-Emnet. There they turned South and followed the river again. It was the longer of the two possible roads to follow – the other one would have been right along the East Wall of Rohan – but the one easier on the heavy wains and the pack horses and safer for the travellers themselves.

Besides, Elfhelm saw no particular reason to hurry. The longer way would lead them directly to Stowburg, too, and despite his confident words he preferred to face his father later rather than sooner.

Author’s notes: As far as I could find out, Stowburg isn’t a canon settlement. However, it’s widely accepted in various RPGs as the seat of Clan Éowain (also not canon), and thus serves as Lord Hengest’s (and Elfhelm’s) ancestral home.

To the Great Hall of Hradschin Castle, in Prague, there is an actual stair with flat enough steps for a horse to climb – apparently, they held tournaments within the Hall occasionally. The fountain with the horses was inspired by a rather different one I saw in Herxheim, Germany.

Unlike the Men of Gondor, or even those of the Long Lake, the Horse-lords of the Mark had no great cities. Even Edoras, the chief settlement of the realm and the seat of their King, was barely more than a town in the eyes of foreign visitors. And Stowburg, built by Éofor son of Brego, while almost as old as Edoras, was even smaller; a village at best, albeit a fortified one.

“We of the East-mark are of Clan Éowain,” explained Elfhelm, when the Rhunim commented on the lack of any large settlements. “Our people have kept many of the nomadic traditions that go back to the days of the Éothéod; our ancestors who lived in the far North, at the sources of Anduin,” he added, seeing their blank looks. “They travel with their herds from the edge of the East-emnet to the swampy area around the Entwash and north from the Great West Road and the White Mountains to the Wold and the northern fringes of Fangorn Forest. Permanent settlements are few and far between in these lands, and they are more farmsteads than larger villages.”

“Why would they do so?” asked Einarr with a frown. “Only lordless people live in tents, without permanent dwellings. ‘Tis a dangerous thing.”

“Not here, ‘tis not,” replied Elfhelm. “The horse-herders follow the horses, travelling from summer pastures to winter quarters, and the horses follow the mearas. Our horses do not live in stables, not even in winter; for the mearas always find the best places where the grass never fades. These are no mere beasts; they choose to live with us, and we respect their choices.”

“Nay,” answered Elfhelm, ignoring the slight challenge in his future brother-in-law’s voice. “We are led by the Maegtheow, the Clan Master, who happens to be my father right now. ‘Tis an arunk that has been inherited in my family from father to son since the days of Léod, the father of Eorl the Young.”

“So your father is the lord of the East-mark region?” clarified Eiríkr who had not been present when Elfhelm had been introduced to his father’s court.

Elfhelm nodded. “He is. Of course, he has to listen to the Clan Council, the Maegwitan, in most matters. We are a free people who decide about our fate in all things, and the Clan Counsellors, the Maegrads, are some of the most influential people in the Clan: craft masters, landed thegns or men and women of wealth and influence. Not to mention the respected Elders of the Clan, who possess great wisdom and experience. Their counsel is invaluable, as they live with the people and know of their needs and grievances better than the Clan Master could hope to know.”

Eiríkr shook his head in bewilderment. “They must be fighting all the time!”

"Nay, they are not; they are reasonable people who take their duty to the Clan very seriously,” Elfhelm smiled. “Besides, their regular meetings make life in Stowburg more interesting. You must understand that – given the nomadic nature of our Clan – Stowburg was mostly just the home of House Fréabold: our family and retainers. Only the horse-masters of the Clan live here permanently – breeders, horse-healers and trainers, who assisting my father in his duties. He is the Erkenstedamaegister, the Chief Stallion Master of the entire Mark; not even the King makes any decision concerning the breeding of horses without asking him first.”

“But you must have warriors to protect your land,” said Einarr with a frown.

Elfhelm nodded. “We do. Father has two éoreds that regularly patrol the borders, led by my older brothers, Iminric and Adhemar. However, those éoreds have their own garrisons near other villages, so that they can reach the endangered areas much faster than if they would stay in Stowburg. Father has his House Guard to protect the family, and that is more than enough. The village has good natural defences.”

The Rhunim understood what he meant when they reached their destination on the next day. The village sat in a strategically chosen corner of the Eastfold, in the south-east of the Mark, among rolling hills that extended into the White Mountains, bounded by the Mering-stream, the Entwash and the mountain Snowbourn. Its outer walls while made of wood and of packed earth, were impressively high, strengthened with wooden watchtowers at regular intervals. The one gate they could see from this angle stood open, as it was custom among the Men of the Mark, from dawn to dusk, but guarded by two square watchtowers, made of heavy wooden logs.

Elfhelm and his entourage arrived an hour before the evening meal and entered without any sort of greeting committee, as no-one had expected him to return so soon, not to mention with such company. Therefore the guards at the gate were taken by surprise as they spotted the small caravan of wains and pack horses trotting towards them. They did recognise Elfhelm, though, and soon men were scrambling onto the walls of the palisade, and horns were sounded, answering the one blown by Elfhelm to announce his arrival.

As they rode through the gate, the wains rolling after them, the gate-keepers saluted with their spears.

“Welcome home,” one of them, a long-limbed, straw-headed youth, at least ten years Elfhelm’s junior, called out in heavily accented Westron. “Took you long enough to show your mug again. But you arrived just in time for the evening meal – as always.”

While the Rhunim were staring in disbelief at the disrespectful manner of the young man, Elfhelm dismounted and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

“’Tis good to see you, too, Raedwald,” he laughed; then, turning to the Rhunim, he explained. “This is my youngest brother who believes that just because he is finally capable of growing a beard he can be cheeky with his elders.”

The young man grinned, too, and now they could all see the family resemblance, despite the different colouring.

“Since when are you an old man, brother?” he asked. “And are you not introducing me to the ladies?”

“That must wait,” Elfhelm looked up to the gate tower where the flag of House Fréabold fluttered in the wind. “Is Father at home?”

“He has just returned from inspecting the herds,” answered his brother. “Why do I not send a messenger to the Hall to announce your arrival, lest the sitting order at the High Table gets all disturbed in the last moment, upsetting Mother, while you make your way to the house?”

Elfhelm agreed with the idea, and soon they could see a messenger boy run off in excitement to bring the news to the Master of the Hall, while Elfhelm and the others followed the only true street Stowburg could call its own, which led from the gate straight to the ancestral Hall of House Fréabold.

Imogen and her brothers had never seen Meduseld, thus they could not know that this Hall, built in the same style, was not as big as the Golden Hall of the Kings of the Mark and far less ornate. They found it most impressive, as it stood on top of a flat green hill. Around it, several other houses stood, all built in the same manner of thick oak logs, though smaller than the hall. Their narrow fronts had gabled or horned roofs and were richly carved and painted.

“The second one on the left is mine,” said Elfhelm, leading his horse on the reins.

“You have got a house of your own?” asked Imogen in surprise. Elfhelm nodded.

“Of course. I might only be a third son, but I am the son of the Maegtheow and a Marshal of the Mark. Mind you, I spend precious little time here, seeing as I serve at Edoras and must be with the troops in the most time, but yea, when I am home, I dwell in my own. Come with me and leave those wains at the foot of the hill. The grooms will take care of everything, and your belongings will be brought to the house.”

With some reluctance, the Rhunim did as he had asked them, leaving only the servants behind. Climbing the hill was no hardship, and the higher vantage point gave them a good view at the entire village.

Despite the late hour, life was still busy in Stowburg. Women were hurrying to and fro on the lively markets to make last-moment purchases. Children were running on the street, playing catch-me and dodging the occasional hound and pig that got in their way. Vendors were haggling with their customers good-naturedly. Men where returning from the meadows, having seen after their horses and ready to sit down with their families to the evening meal.

Everyone was well-fed and well-clothed, but Imogen could not see anyone wearing the distinctive armour of warriors, although all men were carrying axes, spears or swords. Even most women had long knives on their belts. That surprised her; but then she remembered that the warriors were stationed outside the village, according to Elfhelm.

The arrival of the caravan had drawn a great deal of attention, of course. Everyone knew Elfhelm, as he had been born and grew up here, in Stowburg. And, despite the Nordic looks of Einarr and Eiríkr, people obviously recognised them as Easterlings… not surprisingly, considering that their lady, too, was one of them. Not one of the Khimmer nobles, true, just the daughter of a Morduin chieftain, but still born in the East.

The stares given the strangers were curious rather than hostile; the red-headed Birgid in particular drew more than a few interested looks, making Einarr scowl jealously. Still, all the attention made Imogen uncomfortable. She walked on Elfhelm’s side with downcast eyes, but her cheeks felt hot, and she knew she was blushing; it angered her to no end.

“Worry not,” he said in a low voice. “They are good people and mean no harm. You are not the first bride coming from the East; they are merely curious.”

Imogen nodded silently; for truly, what could she have answered to that? To her relief, they soon reached the house they were heading for. Its gilded and carved double-winged door stood open, and a fair, long-boned man came striding out of it to meet them.

He was perhaps in his late thirties, of light built, with a short, neatly trimmed beard the colour of ripe wheat and a thick mane of collar-length hair of the same shade; perhaps only the warriors of the Mark were allowed to wear their hair long? He had a ruddy, open face, in which the blue Northern eyes shone brightly. His tunic and breeches were of good yet simple cloth; a clear sign that he was some sort of servant.

“Wilcume, hláford mín,” he greeted Elfhelm in the tongue of the Mark; then, measuring the other newcomers with one experienced glance and recognising them as guests, he added in Westron. “Be welcome in the home of Lord Elfhelm Hengestsson. I am Cenred, the steward of his house. I shall have a bath ready for you shortly, and food brought to the hall while you get settled. Will my lord have the evening meal here or in Heorot Hall?”

“The Lady Imogen and her brothers will come to my father’s table with me,” Elfhelm told him. “I shall leave the others in your care. See that they do not lack anything they might need.”

The steward bowed. “Everything will be in readiness as you ordered, my lord.”

His voice was loud, solicitous and warm, making everyone feel welcome and safe indeed. Preserving calm he had servants running here and there, preparing beds for the weary travellers, bringing food to the hall and wine and ale.

They all had a refreshing bath first, and Wulfgyth, Elfhelm’s chatelaine – a tall, wiry, elderly woman with the free and authoritative manner of a trusted servant who had spent many years in the confidence of her lord – had clean clothes laid out for them.

The ones meant for Imogen fit surprisingly well and were most beautiful and comfortable: a pale blue gown of the finest wool, the wide sleeves of which revealed the tight-sleeved undershirt of rough silk worn beneath. Two vertical stripes of black velvet embroidered with gold thread and set with small yellow gemstones run from the shoulder to the seam of the gown; the sleeves were adorned above the wrists in the same manner. The gown was cinched right below her breasts with a chain made of interlinked gold rings. Unga combed her lady’s hair and put it in a knot on the nape of Imogen’s neck, covering her head with the thin yellow veil that came with the dress, fixing it with the jewelled golden disks Khimmer noblewomen wore on their temples.

“My sister, Hereswith wore these clothes before she left Stowburg to marry her childhood love,” explained Elfhelm, when he was capable of speaking again, as the truly stunning sight had taken his breath at first. “She was of similar build as you… until her first child, that is. But she never looked this beautiful in them, I must admit.”

Imogen just smiled and shook her head in good humoured exasperation. But she had to secretly admit that the compliment had warmed her heart, just a little.

For Einarr and Eiríkr, the servants had brought simple yet well-made clothes of a fashion the lesser nobles of the Mark would wear on an average day: breeches of undyed wool and fine woollen tunics in moss green, the neckline of which was trimmed with black ribbon and embroidered with a meandering pattern in white. They were provided with soft leather belts that could be buckled in the front and had a soft leather pouch hanging from them, for the personal necessities.

“We do not touch the baggage of our guests without permission,” explained Wulfgyth stiffly. “These should fit, though. I have clad enough young men in my time to have a good eye for what would fit and what would not.”

And indeed, although a bit long in the sleeve and tight in the shoulder, the clothes fit the Khimmer warriors well enough. Their bondservants then opened the travelling chests to bring out their best cloaks and dressed them properly for the evening meal at the High Table. Elfhelm, who was clad similarly, had to admit that they looked fairly impressive with the jewelled bronze bands, set with many-hued gemstones, placed upon their blond heads.

To reach Heorot Hall – the Hall of the Stag, named after the enormous antlers of some long-dead animal that adorned the roof right above the entrance – they had but a short walk to the crown of the hill. There, upon a high platform above a green terrace it stood like a ship riding the crest of a high wave. A few broad and flat steps – flat enough for even a horse to climb – went up the terrace, leading to a small, stone-paved courtyard with a round, water-filled basin in the middle of it.

The water filling the basin came in high, criss-crossing arches from the mouths of horse-shaped statues, carved only partially out of large blocks of granite. Squat and powerful, the heads, chests and front legs of the horses gleamed wetly in the spray, the silver nails in their pupils making them look almost alive.

“Dwarf-made, if I ever saw Dwarf-work in my life,” judged Einarr, and Elfhelm nodded.

“And much older than Heorot Hall itself, according to family legend. The fountain and the stair had already been ancient when Éofor son of Brego began to build the Hall. We know not whom it originally belonged, but we are happy to have it, for it is unique. Come now!”

He led them up the stair, to a small portico with wooden pillars that looked like mighty trees – and trees indeed they had once been, hewn in the nearby forests and left in their natural form after cleaned from the smaller branches, yet carved with the figures of running horses in high relief; horses with flowing, gilded manes and tails and jewelled eyes. It was an amazing sight; and so were the heavy wings of the wooden door, too, adorned in the same fashion, only with leaping stags with golden antlers instead of horses.

A tall, erect, elderly man with a full head of thick, grizzled hair stood in front of the door, his face long, austere and bearded. He was handsome and well-clad in a dark grey tunic of fine wool, yet unsmiling, with a high-ridged nose and a grim set to his mouth and jaw that spoke of great hardships that he had overcome in his life.

No easy man, and perchance not easy to please, Imogen decided, wondering who he might be. He was in his mid-fifties, by the looks of him, but his dark, deep-set eyes seemed much older than his overall appearance. Much older. Those eyes had seen much in their time, little of which could have been pleasant.

Elfhelm greeted him with special courtesy, which showed the man’s importance in Lord Hengest’s Hall.

“And you,” the older man replied. “We feared this hour may never come; unlike most others, we knew what you were about to face. In you go now – the household is about to sit down to evening meal. We have only been waiting for you.”

With a light touch of his hand, he tossed the door open, allowing the light of the settling sun to stream into the central hall of Heorot. It was of moderate size, with a large fire pit in the centre and richly carved wooden pillars held up its roof that – from the inside – looked like a turned-over boat, with its carved and painted arches.

A small dais against the wall held a canopied double chair, ornately carved with the figures of stags – clearly the place of the lord and lady of the Hall. Before that stood the High Table, while the lesser tables, meant for the household and the retainers of Lord Hengest, were placed in the middle of the hall, above and below the fire pit.

The man whom Elfhelm had called Uncle Leoric – most likely the brother of his mother, as he was clearly not a Man of the Mark – went straight to the High Table, where several seats were still empty, kept for Elfhelm and his guests, no doubt.

“Your son has finally returned, Lord Hengest,” he said. “Rejoice and let him be welcome at his father’s table again.”

Imogen watched the parents of her future husband with great interest. The Lord Hengest, even while sitting, seemed to be quite tall – easily the tallest man she had ever met, save for the Lord Aðalbrandr, but the people of the Sea-kings were all ridiculously tall anyway. His fair hair, as-yet untouched by silver, was braided, and his short, neat beard and his moustaches were full. He had the blue Northern eyes of most Horse-lords, yet his features had little in common with those of Elfhelm. He was dressed in the style favoured by the Men of the Mark: in a knee-length tunic of rich green wool, embroidered with red and gold on the neckline and the sleeves, with a long, sleeveless surcoat of the same cloth over it. His breeches were of soft grey leather, and he wore comfortable ankle-boots, meant to be used within the house.

On his left a dark-haired woman sat; a glance at her was enough to see where Elfhelm had got his colouring and his features from. She wore a gown in the same dark green as her husband, but with wide, trailing sleeves and a fine linen undergown beneath, the sleeves of which were richly embroidered in red and gold. Her hair, artfully braided and collected in a knot at the nape of the neck, was covered in a gilded net, scattered with small green and yellow gemstones. Once she must have been a great beauty, and she still looked striking, despite the silver threads in her dark hair and the distinct marks that age and more than a dozen pregnancies had left on her gentle face.

There were many other people in the hall but Imogen chose to focus her interest on the parents of her intended. Those were the people who needed to accept her first. The others would follow.

Lord Hengest rose from his seat to welcome his returned son with the usual warrior’s clasp of forearms.

“’Tis good to see you again, my son – and apparently well and hale,” he said in Westron, as a courtesy for the visitors who might not understand the tongue of the Mark. “You have brought guests with you?”

“Not guests, my lord; kinfolk,” replied Elfhelm. “You told me that you wanted me wedded by Harvest tide – so I have wed. May I present my betrothed, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, and two of her brothers, Einarr and Eiríkr, who accepted the task of accompanying her in a foreign land, so that she would not be entirely bereft of her kin?”

Lord Hengest was the least shocked of all. Not that he had expected Elfhelm to return from Rhûn with a Khimmer bride – and with the daughter of Ragnar the Smith, no less! But he knew the stubborn pride of his third-born son too well to hope that he would bend under the pressure without resistance.

Well, this was a masterful stroke, he had to admit. Having known why Elfhelm was so reluctant to take a wife, Lord Hengest and his lady already had their eyes on a suitable match – one of Dúnhere’s cousins would have done nicely – but once again, Elfhelm had found a way to defy them all.

And in what way! Wedding the daughter of the chief Khimmer warlord would ensure the safety of the eastern border of the Mark, at least where the strongest, most powerful Khimmer tribe was concerned. With this marriage Elfhelm had made the first step towards a lasting alliance with Rhûn. They might not live to see it, but it would come, eventually.

Théoden-King will be most pleased – although Gríma Wormtongue likely would not.

The Lord of the Eastfold turned his eyes to the woman who made a future alliance possible and found her to his liking. She was clearly of mixed blood: more slender than Khimmer women usually were, raven-haired and grey-eyed and bitterly beautiful. Perhaps her mother came from the ancient people of Rhovanion who were all but gone by now? Her wide shoulders and strong arms that barely fit into Hereswith’s old gown spoke of someone who wielded the sword regularly.

A shieldmaiden, then. That in itself would not bother the Maegtheow of Clan Éowain. The Mark had its shieldmaidens, too, even some from the royal Clan. The shieldmaidens of the East, however, were maidens in name only – and Lord Hengest did find the thought that his son would not be the first man to know his future wife intimately a disturbing one.

As a rule, the Men of the Mark did not mind – very much – if their daughters had dallied a bit before they would find their true match. No-one liked to talk about it, but all knew that it happened, and bridegrooms generally did not expect their brides to be untouched (even less so as usually they had been the ones doing all the touching before the wedding feast). A shieldmaiden of the East, though, was a different matter entirely – and quite a few knew that.

Well, that could not be helped. Elfhelm had made his choice, for whatever reasons, and bought, hopefully, a few more years of peace for the Mark through it. Therefore Lord Hengest did the only thing he could do: he extended both hands towards the daughter of Ragnar the Smith and greeted her as one would greet one’s close kin.

“Welcome, daughter,” he said. “Welcome to Clan and family. May your stay with us be richly blessed by Béma, the Hunter, and Nogyth, the Earth-Mother.”

Imogen answered him with the time-honoured words of respectful gratitude, allowing the Lady Imoleth to embrace her with heartfelt warmth. Lord Hengest, in the meantime, was studying her brothers – or half-brothers more likely, given their different features and colouring.

Unlike Imogen, these two showed Khimmer traits beyond any doubt. Tough, square-set young men they were, brawny and bull-necked, broad in the shoulders and bowed legged from years spent as much on horseback as on their own two feet. That, at least, was promising. Good horsemen had a better chance to fit in with the Men of the Mark, assuming they learned to respect their horses as well as to ride them.

Having a fair colouring would help fitting in, too. They had the light, icy blue eyes and bold, powerful jaws of the Northmen – the remote cousins of the Éothéod – framed by beards several shades darker than their hair, which was straw-blond and shorter than the Riders of the Mark would wear theirs. It had been shorn above the shoulder, presumably to give a potential adversary no chance to grab it. Their beards were trimmed short, too, likely for the same reason.

“You have come with her who shall be as a daughter to us, therefore you are cynn; and cynn are always welcome in our halls,” said Lord Hengest, clasping forearms with them and nodding in appreciation as he felt their strength; then, with a broad grin, he added. “Give us some time to learn which is which first, though.”

“’Tis easy to keep them apart, my lord,” said Imogen, smiling. “The one who does all the talking is Einarr. The one with the ever-present scowl upon his visage is Eiríkr.”

Everyone laughed at that, and the tension in the hall was broken. Elfhelm and his newly gained kinfolk were given seats at the High Table, and then Lady Imoleth gave orders for the evening meal to be brought in, while the musicians played merry tunes to entertain their lord and his guests between dishes.

After the meal Lord Hengest called Elfhelm and several other men – some of whom were obviously his sons – to his private chambers to ask him about his stay in the Halls of Nimwarkinh. Einarr and Eiríkr stayed in the hall for some more ale with the younger sons of the family – they were about to become kin, after all – while Imogen got invited to the Lady Imoleth’s chambers, so that they could talk undisturbed.

The women’s wing was on the east side of Heorot Hall, accessible trough a small door behind the dais of the central hall. It led to a small anteroom first, furnished sparsely yet comfortably with a trestle table and low, richly carved armchairs, their flat horse-hair cushions covered with soft, gilded leather. Drinking vessels and flagons of various sizes stood on a sidebord.

“My lord husband meets his counsellors here sometimes,” explained Lady Imoleth. “Or small groups of retainers, when a gathering in the main hall would not be necessary. Come, we shall go this way.”

There were two other doors, opposite the one they had just passed and to the right. Lady Imoleth chose the latter one, and they entered a surprisingly large, albeit somewhat narrow room, now a bit shadowed as the sun that doubtlessly lit it well in the first half of the day, had moved to the west. It had a hearth on the far end and several small tables with stools around them. The wicker baskets on the tables, with spools of thread and other sewing utensils, revealed that this was some kind of shared workroom where the women of the house did their embroidery.

There was, however, also a small writing desk in front of one window, and an open cabinet full of scrolls next to it between two windows, showing that at least some of the women could wield the pen as well as the needle.

Currently, only two of them were occupying the room, and Imogen vaguely remembered having been introduced to one of them during the evening meal. She was named Cwén, the wife of Elfhelm’s eldest brother, and came from some place named the Rómenmark. She was a lovely, mild-mannered woman in a simple gown of fine olive-green wool, her hair hidden under a crisp white wimple, stitching away on some indefinable piece of clothing – probably a child’s surcoat – at the light of a bright little oil lamp made of glass.

The other one, though… now this was how Imogen always imagined Elves must look like. A tall and slender young woman, perhaps a year or two beyond thirty, carrying herself like a queen in her dark green gown of heavy velvet, the wide, sweeping sleeves of which were embroidered with running horses in silver thread. Her hair, braided and coiled and gathered in a silver net, gleamed like the purest white gold. Her face was fine-boned and beautiful beyond measure, her skin dizzyingly fair and her eyes wide and of a clear, fierce blue. Her fine eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, arched boldly towards her temples and her firm, stubborn chin spoke of a strong character. A stubborn one, even.

“This is Idis Théodensdaughter, wife of my second son Adhemar,” introduced her Lady Imoleth. “She could not join us for evening meal; but she wanted to meet you at the first available chance.”

Imogen stared at the young woman in awe. So this was the golden princess who had turned down Elfhelm’s courtship in favour of his older brother? Théoden-King’s own daughter? It was bad enough that she was of royal blood, but no-one ever mentioned that she would be such a stunning beauty.

How was she, a rough-hewn shieldmaiden of the East, supposed to compete with that?

Lady Imoleth asked them all to sit, and while Lady Cwén continued with her stitching, the other two ladies did not bring forth their embroidery. They both watched Imogen with unabashed interest which, under different circumstances, would have made her uncomfortable. These two, however, looked at her with nought but honest curiosity, so she could endure it with a minimum of discomfort.

“Forgive me that I asked you to come here right away,” said the Lady Imoleth after a moment of thoughtful silence. “I imagine that you are weary after a long and perilous journey – believe me, I know that road and how it can drain one’s strength. But I was despairing whether my son would ever overcome his stubborn, wounded pride that had kept him unwed for far too long; and I wished to meet the one who brought him back to the path of common sense in private.”

“I fear I am not the wife you have always wanted for your son, lady,” replied Imogen with bold frankness. “Not when your other sons marry the daughters of the King himself,” he added with a sideways glance at the golden princess.

Lady Imoleth laughed. “’Tis a rare thing for most parents to agree with the choices of their children, unless they arranged the marriage themselves,” she replied. “Or do you think the Clan was happy when my lord husband chose me? For what was I back then? A fugitive from the East who had nought but the clothes on her back, way too young, didn’t even speak the tongue of the Mark – and looked like a starving rat. The outcry could be probably heard as far as Dunland. But they got used to me. They will get used to you, too.”

“Even if I prove unable to give him children?” asked Imogen doubtfully. “I am – was – a shieldmaiden. You know what that means.”

The lady nodded. “I do. But the Lady Aud, wife of Prince Théodred, the King’s only son, is also childless and yet she remains loved and respected by all. She rides into battle on her husband’s side and was the champion of tournaments for many years. The Men of the Mark are used to warrior women; they admire such women. Worry not, you will find your proper place among us.”

“Why should you not?” asked Lady Cwén in her soft voice. “Whatever grievances some might still have with your people, no-one would dare to raise a hand against you. As Elfhelm’s wife, you will be protected by the cynn-frith; you and your brothers and their families.”

“That is not what I meant; and it would take more than a few outraged men to kill me,” replied Imogen. “But as we are being honest with each other, you should know that I have caught the dry sickness, like so many of my people – and one usually does not live long with that condition.”

She expected shock, perhaps even accusations, anger and verbal abuse. But the three women simply nodded in understanding.

“Of course,” answered Imogen wearily. “I would not mislead him in such grave matters… or in any other matter. I may be a barbarian in your eyes, but I am not a liar.”

“If you are a barbarian, then so am I,” said the Lady Imoleth with a shrug. “Let us forget any such nonsense. Having the dry sickness is a grave condition indeed, but not entirely hopeless. A few of my own Clan managed to recover from it fully. The air in the Mark is clean and wholesome; and we shall ask for healers from the Stanlendings who live in big settlements and have therefore more experience with such ailments. “Tis my hope that you and Elfhelm will have a long and happy life together; just like my lord husband and myself.”

“Will we though?” Imogen glanced at the golden princess again. “Will he ever be content with me, a mere pawn of peace between our peoples, while his heart still belongs to somebody else?”

“I never encouraged his… infatuation,” said Princess Idis calmly. “My choice was Adhemar, from the very beginning; and he always knew that.”

“There are many ways that can lead to a good marriage,” added Lady Imoleth. “Familiarity leads to closeness and closeness leads to feelings that may not be born of passion but could last longer and reach deeper. What is important is that you respect each other – more important than being madly in love, for it continues on even after the fires of passion have fallen to ashes. You have a long way before you; you and that stubborn son of mine. But I want you to know that you always shall have our support.”

With that, the Lady of the Eastfold embraced her future daughter-in-law in a warm, motherly embrace, and Imogen melted into her arms like a little girl who had finally found the way home.

Two days later Elfhelm rode to the capital to present his report to Théoden-King at court and to take up his duties as the Marshal of Edoras again. He was not expected to return before the wedding, which was planned to take place during the Harvest festival. In the meantime Imogen, her brothers and their future wives were left in the Lady Imoleth’s care, to prepare themselves for - and to be made familiar with - the life in the Mark.

That meant, first and foremost, learning the language of the Mark – or, at least, the basics of it. The rest would come naturally by hearing it all the time, they were assured. One of the Clan Elders took the task upon himself – an old warrior who could no longer fight actively, due to a crippling injury. As he happened to be lettered and numbered, not to mention well-versed in the traditions of his people, he usually taught the children of the family, but declared himself willing to take adult pupils for a change.

They were also in need of proper clothes, of course, since not even their best would be good enough for the kinfolk of the Maegtheow. The handmaids of the Lady Imoleth became very busy with stitching and sewing all day long. Imogen could do some basic sewing, of course – enough to mend her own clothes after a fight – but needed to learn the finer aspects of womanly skills, now that she was about to become the wife of a respected nobleman. Birgid and Hemma were all too happy to join her in the women’s workroom – they were much more skilled with the needle anyway.

She was allowed to spar with her brothers – or with the House Guards of Lord Hengest, who had a very different fighting style – to keep her warrior’s skills sharp, though, and for that she was grateful. Soon enough, those training hours became the main event of life in Stowburg. People came to watch them, awed by her skills, and Imogen slowly began to feel like herself again. She knew that no other people would accept her for what she was – a warrior born – but the Men of the Mark who had brought the tradition of the shieldmaidens with them from the North and had great respect for woman warriors indeed.

Lady Imoleth had also sent for healers from Gondor, and they arrived just two weeks later: an herbalist and a lady healer from a place called Lossarnach, both elderly, both of great experience. They examined Imogen thoroughly and declared that her condition, while serious, was not hopeless.

“Truly, I am surprised to see that you are already slowly recovering on your own,” the healer said. “Or has your condition been treated recently?”

“I was given medicine by a man from your people, not so long ago,” replied Imogen truthfully. “He also sang over me; I thought it to be an incantation.”

“Which it likely was, to Lord Irmo, patron of us healers,” said the older woman. “I wonder, though, how he could still remember it, as such songs of power have mostly got forgotten among our kin. Unless he was one of our northern cousins, ‘Tis said they still guard much of the forgotten wisdom of our ancestors and have remained in touch with the Elves, too.”

Imogen shrugged. She truly could not tell if Lord Aðalbrandr came from the long-gone North-kingdom or from Gondor itself. Nor did she care, to be honest. All she cared about was the chance to be healed, and she swore to do everything in her power to support her own recovery.

The healers then brewed her various types of medicine – all of which tasted vile – and advised her to cut back on the sparring and other strenuous activities, so that her body could use all its strength for healing. That did not lie well with her, but she remembered her promise and obeyed.

“She is making considerable progress,” the female healer reported to lady Imoleth after a few weeks. “There is hope that she might fully recover. It will take time, but the ash free, wholesome air of the Mark will do her a wealth of good. She would not have lasted long back in Rhûn, where the air is full of poisonous fumes, coming from Mordor.”

Lady Imoleth, hailing from Rhûn herself, knew well that that was not entirely true. The Ash Mountains held the poisonous air of Mordor pretty much in Mordor itself. Only the border areas were contaminated to a certain degree. But she did not want to argue with the healers. Prejudice was not something that could be healed overnight.

“Do you believe she would be feeling well enough by Harvest tide to ride up to Edoras with us?” she asked instead.

The elderly healer nodded. “Without doubt. She is strong, and being outside is good for her. And we shall be of assistance. But why do you want her to ride to Edoras, my lady?”

“Why, for her own wedding, of course. My son, to whom she will be wed, serves at the Courts. ‘Tis only proper for the wedding feast to be held in the same place. Our townhouse is more than sufficient to host such a feast. And as my lord husband is related to the royal Clan, ‘Tis tradition for his line to wed in the hof of Edoras.”

Author’s notes: I know it seems strange that an Easterling would find life in Rohan a bit rural, but if you consider that Ragnar and his people lived in Dwarf-built halls, you must admit that wooden houses just cannot compete. J

The bonding ceremony between horse and Rider is taken from a RPG-site devoted completely to the Mark. The original site has been taken down years ago, unfortunately, but mirror sites of it still exist. Durwyn means “dear friend”.

The healers were aptly impressed by the news that the wedding would be held at the Courts; and so was Imogen herself. So far she had found life in the Mark to her liking. The buildings here could not be compared with the grim, Dwarf-made beauty of her father’s deep halls, of course, but they served their purpose well enough and the people definitely seemed happier here.

The thought of seeing the Golden Hall of Meduseld was equally exciting for her and her brothers. It was something of a legend among the Rhunim yet they had never met anyone who would have actually seen it. They would be the first. That, in Einarr’s opinion, almost made up for having been exiled. Almost.

It was finally decided that he and Eiríkr would have their weddings in Stowburg, inside the smaller circle of the Clan. But that was fine with them. It was a private matter, after all, and they were happy enough to keep it private.

And so when the family left for Edoras a week later, Einarr and Eiríkr rode as married men accompanied by their beautiful wives, even if Birgid and Hemma chose to travel on carts. They were not as comfortable in the saddle as Imogen was.

Before that, however, Imogen was to receive her own horse – a gift from her future father-in-law – and for that reason Lord Hengest took her to the herds.

“But I already have a horse – one of the best our herds could offer,” protested Imogen.

“And no-one would expect you to discard him,” answered the Chief Stallion Master of the Mark seriously. “For the Men of the Mark, a horse is not simply a nameless animal, used to carry them and their goods, but a dear companion, held in high regard and cared for lovingly. We all know the importance of our horses and that we may one day be saved by them. Therefore we highly value the companionship with our steeds and strive to form a deep bond with them – a bond of equals rather than that of master and servant.”

Imogen frowned. “I do not pretend to fully understand your bond with your horses,” she admitted. “But I dare say that I always treated mine fairly and he always served me well.”

“Aye, but he has served you in many battles and is an ageing animal now,” said Lord Hengest. “He may carry you for years to come yet; however, his fighting days are all but over. You shall need a new horse: a young one that can be taught and bent to your own hand. Also, if you truly want to ride to battle with my son, your warhorse needs to be trained in the ways all horses of the Mark are trained. Otherwise you will be a hindrance for the other warriors.”

Imogen could understand that, and thus she followed him around the wall of the town to a flat plain at the side, where the stables and a training ground for the Clan’s horses lay. Beyond that lay a broad, flat valley, which seemed to be literally filled with horses. Looking up further the valley, Imogen realised that there were several groups spaced intermittently – based on their age and bred, most likely. But they were all beautiful. The glossy coats of bays and chestnuts gleamed in a reddish highlights; the blacks seemed almost blue in the midday sun, while the greys and whites and roans glistened like pearls.

“Behold the horses of Clan Éowain,” announced Lord Hengest with proprietary pride. “The Eastfold is the region of the Mark where all kinds of horses are bred, from light through the regular types to the heavy warhorses used by the West-mark cavalry.”

“It depends on how soon you believe you would need a proper war-horse,” replied Lord Hengest. “I can give you a made horse, if that is what you want. But if you accept a suggestion from me…”

“Of course I do, my lord,” said Imogen. “You are the Chief Horse-master of the Mark; you know better than I can ever hope to what kind of steed would serve me best.”

“In that case, I would suggest a two-year-old,” said Lord Hengest. “A yearling would be too young for your purpose; but the younger you get them, the deeper the bond with them can become over the years. We should also choose a stallion for you; they are better to be trained for war.”

Imogen nodded her understanding and laid a hand upon the fence. “How do I choose?” she asked.

Lord Hengest smiled. “You do not,” he answered. “They do. Just stay where you are. The horses will come and assess you; then one will give a sign of his acceptance.”

At first the young horses kept their distance, eyeing the woman whom they clearly recognised as a stranger warily. Imogen just stood there patiently and waited. After a while curiosity overcame their fear and some of them came closer, stretching their sleek heads out cautiously. One young stallion, a particularly beautiful blond chestnut with lighter than usual coat – though not quite a dun – and pale mane and tail was bold enough to almost touch her face with his velvety nose.

“This is Durwyn,” said Lord Hengest. “A very good bloodline. He seems to have taken a liking to you. Hold out your palm to him and remain calm.”

Imogen did as she was told, and the magnificent young stallion sniffed at her palm delicately; then he licked the salty sweat from her skin and allowed her to give him a good scratching between the ears and under the chin. Lord Hengest smiled in satisfaction.

Imogen laughed in delight, stroking the young stallion’s wonderfully soft nose. Durwyn snorted in amusement, his large, liquid dark eyes sparkling. When she went on to scratch his lower neck and his chest, his lips got loose and wobbly with pleasure. Looking him over Imogen was very pleased with the choice; Durwyn was a big-boned, sure-footed horse – when fully grown, he would easily carry her even in full armour.

“That was fast,” commented Osred, the Éomaegister of Stowburg, clearly impressed. He had just finished his round and was coming out of the spacious stables, the pillars of which were as ornately carved and decorated as those of Heorot Hall itself. “Love at first sight, I would say. We can go on with the bonding ceremony at once, if you want to, my lord.”

Lord Hengest nodded in agreement. “Give me your hand,” he said to Imogen. “I will make a small cut in your palm and upon Durwyn’s neck; then you will press your hand against his wound, allowing your blood to mingle. That way he will become as a brother to you and will remain such ‘til his last breath – or yours.”

To Imogen’s surprise the horse endured the cut made upon his neck calmly, as if aware of its purpose. When she pressed her bleeding palm against the warm, trembling neck of the beautiful animal, she could feel that warmth spreading through her entire body, from the tips of her fingers up to the top of her head and down to her toes. She wondered if there was any magic involved or if she could merely feel the bond as one of the Mark was supposed to feel.

“No magic,” he said. “This simple rite merely binds you into the family consisting of Riders and horses; everyone feels it when the bond is created. ‘Tis the proof that you have been truly accepted and are one of us now. Let us finish the ceremony properly.”

He cut a few strings from the pale golden mane of Durwyn, as well as from Imogen’s raven tresses, braided them together with nimble fingers and tied the circle of braided hair about Imogen’s wrist.

“You will wear this bracelet day and night ‘til your horse dies, be it from injuries sustained in battle, due to an accident or of old age or anything else,” he explained. “When that happens, it will be up to you to perform a last service for him. This bracelet will then be cut to mark the end of your bond, and it will be burned together with the horse, to show that you have given up part of yourself as a gift for a friend. If the horse’s body cannot be retrieved or burned, only the bracelet will be burned, symbolising the rite of releasing.”

“Then the horse is free to choose a new master if he wants,” replied Lord Hengest. “Many of them, especially if the bond with their Rider was a long and deep one, do not survive the loss. Others, mostly the young ones that had been bound for a short time only, do, and are willing to go on. We never force them, one way or another.”

And so it came that by the time Lord Hengest and his family left for Edoras two days later, everyone in Stowburg knew that the horses had accepted the foreign bride of Elfhelm Hengestsson and therefore from now on she counted as a daughter of the Mark.

The road to Edoras, which had led them partially back over the very route Elfhelm and the Rhunim had come to Stowburg earlier, was uneventful and unhurried. The family and their retainers had travelled this distance uncounted times and knew by instinct how to pace their journey in order to reach The Courts on time.

After a few days they left the hill-country of the Eastfold well behind them and the White Mountains now loomed large before them, their high peeks capped with snow. It was a beautiful yet forbidding sight, Imogen decided that The Mountains of Nimwarkinh, although rising high above the plains of Rhûn, did not reach such heights as to bear snow over the whole year. She wondered what creatures might dwell above the tree-line, upon those icy peaks.

“We are almost there,” somebody said near her, startling her out of her thoughts.

Princess Idis, wearing breeches and a split-skirted kirtle of a deep forest green to enable her to ride in male fashion, with the running horse of the Mark emblazoned cunningly in white and gold upon her breast, had ridden up to her and was now pointing ahead, at the valley that had just opened up before their very eyes, with a distant green hill rising in its mouth, and encircled by a silver stream. Upon its brow, still far away, something glittered like gold in the sunlight.

“That is Edoras, with the Golden Hall of the Kings crowning the hill,” added the Princess. Her eyes gleamed, and Imogen suddenly realised that it probably meant more to her than to everyone else from the family. Edoras had once been her home, after all.

They still had a good stretch of the way laying before them, and Edoras even disappeared for a while as they rode among the trees, and then crossed a river called the Snowbourn at what appeared to be a well-used ford, But once they left behind the small wooded area on the other side, The Courts were back, high and proud, the gold-thatched roof of Meduseld shining like a beacon against the dark background of the mountain valley.

They had not quite reached the middle of the valley before they were intercepted by a large group of riders, wearing helms and mail shirts covering their knees, carrying shields and armed with with spears. They all wore the emblem of the King of the Mark – the running white horse in a green field – painted on their shields, signalling that they belonged to the éored that protected Edoras. They were tall and proud, a good head taller than the average Khimmer warrior, their golden hair floating behind them in two or more braids apiece as they rode.

Only one was not blond among them: the one with a dark horsetail trailing down from the top of his helm. That one Imogen recognised at once, despite the nose-piece that concealed half his face. It was Elfhelm.

He greeted his parents with the proper display of respect and his bride with obvious joy and relief – as if he had been worried that she might have changed her mind while they had been separated. Then he exchanged the usual warrior’s greeting with Einarr and Eiríkr, clasping forearms with them, and grinned.

“Ahaewan here,” he waved in the vague direction of a venerable-looking Rider who was obviously his second-in-command – all but begged to accompany me to welcome you all. He wanted to see the lady who had finally managed to make me come to my senses.”

“And now that I have I understand you, my lord,” returned Ahaewan, laughing. “In his place I might consider bending my head under the yoke, too.”

“It would do you a wealth of good,” commented Iminric, Elfhelm’s eldest brother. “Might cure you from your flighty ways.”

The others laughed, too, for Ahaewan was known as something of a skirt-chaser, which often drove his family to despair. Of course the Rhunim could not know that, thus they were a bit bewildered by the teasing.

“But let us not waste our time here,” continued Elfhelm. “Théoden-King has expressed his wish to see you at once upon your arrival. ‘Tis not a wise move to make a King wait.”

That was certainly true and thus they continued their way up the wale eastwards, where the steep green hill rose. Soon the Rhunim could see that the seat of the Kings of the Mark was a well-defended place indeed. A dike and a mighty wall encircled it, with a thorny fence upon the wall. Above the fence, the roofs of the usual longhouses could be seen, and in their midst, set upon a green terrace, stood aloft a great hall, thatched with gold. The sunlight gleamed upon the golden roof, drawing all looks immediately.

At the foot of the walled hill the path ran under the shadow of a number of high, green mounds that stood there like silent sentinels watching over the road. Upon their western sides the grass seemed white, as if covered with snow. When they came closer, however, the Rhunim could see that it was not snow but a great many small, star-shaped flowers that grew in abundance amid the turf.

“What flowers are these that they blossom bright like eyes in the grass?” asked Imogen in amazement.

“Those are the bright stars of evermind that the Stanlendigns call simbelmynë in their own tongue,” answered Lord Hengest quietly. “They blossom in all the seasons of the year, and grow where dead men rest.”

“Those mounds… they are tombs, then?” realised Imogen. Lord Hengest nodded.

“Aye; we are come to the great barrows where the sires of Théoden-King sleep.”

“Nay,” agreed Lord Hengest. “Upon the western side are the nine mounds of the Kings of the First Line: from Eorl the Young through Helm Hammerhand. Upon the eastern side rise the seven barrows of the Second Line: of Fréaláf Hildeson to Thengel, with the oldest of the line nearest the hill upon which the Courts stand.”

“Many long lives of Men it is since the Golden Hall was built,” added Lady Imoleth. “Even though the Men of the Mark are a young people compared with the Stanlendings, the Mark itself has a long and proud history.”

The Rhunim nodded in understanding and they all passed the barrows in silent reverence. Following the winding way up the hills, at least they came before the great gates and the broad, wind-swept walls of the Courts.

The gate guards, clad in bright mail like Elfhelm and his Riders, sprang to their feet and greeted Lord Hengest and his family by saluting with their spears, Then they hurriedly tossed the heavy gates open, so that the travellers could ride in, following Elfhelm, who had taken lead.

As soon as they had passed the gates, grooms and stable boys came running to take their horses and lead them off to the stables of Lord Hengest’s town house. The family continued its way on foot up to the Golden Hall, which stood on top of the flattened hill, surrounded by other buildings which formed a sort of larger courtyard. A bit like Stowburg, truly – only at a considerably larger scale.

The broad path leading up to it was paved with hewn stones and easy to climb, as it was winding gently upwards; in some places even climbing in short flights of well-laid steps. Imogen judged that even a sure-footed horse could have got up without much difficulty, if it had to. Still, it was easier to go on foot – and more interesting, too. She could get a better look at the artfully carved wooden houses along the path.

Beside the path a stream of clear water flowed in a stone channel, sparkling and chattering. Its source, a bright spring, gushed from a stone carved in the likeness of a horse's head at the foot of the green terrace upon which the Golden Hall stood. Beneath the stone horse-head was a wide basin from which the water spilled and fed the falling stream.

A high and broad flight of stairs of stone led up to the terrace, with a stone-hewn seat on either side of the topmost step. Upon those seats sat other guards, with naked swords laid upon their knees, the sword-hilts adorned with green gemstones. They had green shields, leaned against the side of their seats, with the sun blazoned upon them, and their long corselets were burnished bright.

As soon as Lord Hengest and his family stepped out upon the paved terrace at the stairs’ head, the guards rose as one, turning the hilts of their swords towards the guests in token of peace.

“Wilcume!” they called with clear voices in the tongue of the Mark. “Théoden-cyning gret his thegen freondlice. Hál wes thu.”

“Sy thu hál!” answered Lord Hengest in the name of the entire family, and the guards now unbarred the richly carved doors of the Hall, swinging the heavy wings slowly inwards, allowing the guests to enter.

Inside Meduseld seemed dark and warm; again, it was a lot like Heorot Hall, only larger and more ornate. The mighty pillars upholding its lofty roof were intricately carved and gilded, so that they glittered in the bright beams of sunlight that fell in glimmering shafts from the eastern windows high under the deep eaves, as if they had been encrusted in pure gold and many-coloured gems.

Above the fire pit, in which a clean wood-fire was burning, there was a louver in the roof, letting the thin wisps of issuing smoke out of the house, so that the air within remained reasonably clean. The sky showed through the louver, pale and blue. As Imogen’s eyes grew used to the semi-darkness, she saw the floor was paved with stones of many hues, depicting branching runes and strange devices intertwined beneath their feet.

Woven tapestries showing ancient legends hung on the walls, some fading with age, and some darkening in colour. One of them in particular caught the eye: a young, golden-haired man upon a white horse, blowing a mighty horn.

“Eorl the Young, who rode down with his Riders from the North to the aid of the Stanlendings,” murmured Lady Imoleth. “Thus he rode to the battle on the field of Celebrant… or so the songs say. That was the birthing day of the Mark.”

As they continued along the Hall they came, at the far end of it, to a dais with three broad steps, facing north towards the doors. In the middle of the dais stood a great, gilded chair, richly carved and painted; and upon the chair sat Théoden Thengelsson, the King of the Mark.

The sight of him shocked Imogen to the bone. This was supposed to be a King? Khimmer chieftains held power as long as they were still strong enough to beat any challengers in hand-to-hand combat. Were they defeated, they died – either by the hand of their opponent, or by their own. This man, however, was clearly no warrior any longer. He was bent with age; his thick, white hair fell in two long braids from beneath a thin golden circle set upon his brow. His beard, too, was snow-white, draped over his knees like a frozen waterfall. Yet his eyes still burned brightly, revealing a sharp and attentive mind.

One could easily imagine what he must once have been like by a glance at his right, where his son and heir was standing. Théodred the Brave, Crown Prince of the Mark, a tall, heavy-set man in his late thirties, with broad shoulders and a chest like a blacksmith’s bellows; a giant, even among his tall and powerful kin. His young cousin, Éomer, albeit a big man himself, seemed but a child next to him.

On the other side of the throne stood the ladies of the royal family. Lady Aud of the deep eyes, Prince Théodred’s wife, was tall, dark-haired and statuesque; even in her rich courtly attire, her broad shoulders revealed that she’d been wielding the sword for at least twenty years. She was very beautiful in her stern, intense way and would, no doubt, make a great Queen one day.

Next to her stood another tall woman whose hair was hidden beneath a crisp white wimple and the long white veil of a seer. Her golden lashes and eyebrows revealed that she was likely a blonde, too; her eyes a dark, greyish blue and her glance sharp and knowing.

“Lady Aelfgifu is one of the King’s nieces and the seer and wise-woman of the royal family,” explained Lady Imoleth in a low voice. “She is close to your age and very knowledgeable and open-minded. You would do well to win her as a friend.”

Imogen nodded obediently, even though she was somewhat unsure how to win a royal princess – and a scholarly one at that – as a friend.

The third woman was different from the other two; much younger, barley more than a girl. She was tall, too, but slender like a silver birch, delicately oval of face and dazzlingly fair. The sunlight glittered in her uncovered, waving hair that reached down almost to her knees like a river of pale white-gold; her eyes were dark blue like periwinkle flowers.

She was clad entirely in white, her robe girdled with silver; yet she seemed strong and stern as steel. She shared some vague likeness with Princess Idis – mostly in the exquisite beauty of her face – but her shoulders and hands revealed the warrior hiding behind the delicate surface.

“And that is Éowyn Éomundsdaughter, called the White Lady of the Mark, but also Steelsheen among the warriors, like her foremother, the wife of Thengel-king who was one of the Stanlendings,” said Lady Imoleth. “Young she still might be, but there has not been a shieldmaiden better with the sword among the daughters of the Mark for a very long time. She, too, is somebody from whose friendship you would benefit greatly… and she from yours.”

Lady Imoleth sighed. “She is the only one from her generation to choose the sword; that makes her lonely at times. Other young ladies of her age do not understand what it is to be a warrior, while Lady Aud could almost be her mother. Also, one day she will have to lay down the sword to marry according to her status; probably someone from a foreign land. In that, too, she could find great support in you, as you know what it is like to leave everything you knew and loved for the good of your people.”

That was certainly very true, and Imogen nodded in agreement. Aye, she and the young warrior woman of Eorl’s House might have a lot in common indeed.

The other thegns and nobles of the court stood in small groups further down along the pillars with their families. Only one man – a wizened figure with a pale, shrewd face and heavy-lidded eyes – sat directly upon the steps of the dais, at the old King’s feet. He was clad in dark colours, black and dark, shadowy grey, and his long, unbraided hair was dark, too, albeit mixed with grey.

“Who is that?” asked Imogen quietly. The man made her uncomfortable, without her being able to name the reason for it.

“Théoden-king’s counsellor and caegheorde, Gríma son of Gálmód of Gálmódingsdale, Lord of House Feorware and part of the Wold,” replied Lady Imoleth. “Be careful around him. The King trusts him unconditionally, but no-one else does; he is shrewd and very dangerous, more so for someone new to the court.”

“Which is exactly what he is,” agreed Lady Imoleth. “Avoid him if you can. If you cannot, answer his questions as simply as possible. If he thinks you a bit slow-witted, he might leave you alone, which is the best thing that can happen to you.”

In the meantime they had reached the dais, and the men all bent their knees before the King, while the women curtseyed deeply… with the exception of Princess Idis who hurried by the dark counsellor to kiss her father’s cheek affectionately. The King returned the kiss with obvious love and delight. He must have loved his daughter very much.

After a moment of hesitation Imogen opted to bend her knee as well. She might be a woman, but she still was a warrior; one who intended to wield her sword to protect the Mark. It was only proper to give the King of the Mark the warrior’s greeting.

“My King,” said Elfhelm respectfully. “May I present you my bride, the Lady Imogen, daughter of Ragnar the Smith from the Tribe of the Bear, the Lord of Nimwarkinh?”

The bright eyes of the old King searched Imogen’s face sharply, and she understood that he was by far not as feeble as he might appear.

“Wilcume,” he said in the tongue of the Mark; then he repeated it in Westron. “Welcome in the Riddermark, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter. Your marriage with the marshal of Edoras brings us some much-needed peace, and for that, we are grateful. ‘Tis my hope that you should find a home among us.”

“I know that you will, my lamb,” then he turned back to Imogen. “I see you have brought family with you. ‘Tis always a good thing to have kinfolk with you when you come to live in a foreign land.”

“Unless they have come to spy upon us,” said the dark counsellor; his voice was dark, too, dark and hollow.

“Let that be Lord Hengest’s concern, Gríma. I am certain that he is more than capable of reining in his own household.”

The counsellor did not seem happy with that but chose not to argue; at least not at the moment. The King nodded, clearly used to his orders to be followed, and turned to Imogen again.

“You will be cyn to the Lord of the Eastfold, one of the pillars of our throne; therefore we welcome you at the Courts. I understand that the wedding will take place in two days’ time, is that right?”

“Then I wish you much happiness,” said the King. “Prince Théodred will attend to the feast in our stead, as we are not young and strong enough to sit through such long húsels any longer – unless we have to preside over them for the people to see us. But you have our blessing and you shall receive our wedding gifts as it is proper. May your shared lives be long and blessed.”

He rose, leaning upon his staff heavily. Both Lady Aelfgifu and Lady Éowyn hurried to his side to support him, but he waved them away.

“Leave me, my children. I may be old, but I can still move around on my own well enough… with just a little help. Come with me, Gríma. We have things to discuss.”

The counsellor, too, rose obediently, and as he stepped up to the King, Imogen noticed that he was slightly favouring one of his legs; probably as a result of an old injury or a deformed foot. The King leaned on his arm with his free hand, and together they retired to the royal chambers through one of the side doors.

Prince Théodred and Princess Idis looked after them unhappily, clearly worried about the counsellor’s growing influence, and Imogen understood that – appearances notwithstanding – not everything was well at the Courts.

But she would think about it alter. Right now, her main concern was her upcoming wedding and that she would not embarrass herself in the eyes of these foreign people. She was the daughter of Ragnar the Smith, and her performance would reflect on her father; on her whole tribe. She was determined to make them proud; even if they would not be there to see it.

Author’s notes: The wedding ceremony is based on old Anglo-Saxon prayers and modern pagan rituals I found on the internet; hopefully the different parts work together convincingly. I tentatively identified Nogyth with Yavanna, although she does share some traits with Varda as well. Béma is canonically Oromë, of course.

As it was only proper for a son of House Fréabold and agreed in advance, the wedding ceremony was to be held in the royal hof of Edoras. This was, as the Rhunim learned, a sacred place that had long replaced the hallowed groves in which the Éothéod of old had worshipped in the North.

“Such places are held separate from the rest of the world,” explained Lady Imoleth to her new daughter-in law, “Even fenced off with hedges or walls to warn people that they are approaching a place hallowed to the Powers. No violence can be done within such enclosures; to commit violence there would result in death for the violator.”

The hof of Edoras was larger than the average: a hundred feet long and twenty-five feet wide, built like the usual longhouses of the Mark. Id had buttressed outer walls and inner walls lined with wattle and daub. There were two doorways in the centre of the long walls, and the main pillars, which supported the roof – richly carved with the figures of horses, painted and gilded, so that they almost seemed alive – were one at end each of the short walls. At one end was a small enclosure containing the wéofod (altar), upon which the oath ring and the hlautbolli, the blessing bowl, sat.

Directly north and in line with the hof was a mead hall of similar longhouse design and size, where people who had attended to the ceremonies cold participate in the following húsel. Even though the nobles could have entertained their guests in their own houses, it was considered better to celebrate the húsel there – the closeness of the hof meant a blessing for host and guests alike.

To the west of the hof was the slaughterhouse and the kitchens, where the food for the húsel could be prepared… by the families themselves.

“The hof has no permanent servants,” explained Lady Imoleth. “The family that uses it sees that everything is in readiness and that the place is properly cleaned afterwards.”

In a distance from the northwest of the hof stood the burial mounds of the previous Kings of the Mark, although only the tops of them could be seen above the high wall that encircled the town and the fence of the hof itself. The Men of the Mark had no fear of their dead; on the contrary, they liked to have them close, as if their strength would protect the following generations even in death.

On the same side was the blótkilda, the sacred well of the hof, surrounded by ancient oaks, yew trees and birches, all of which were considered holy, especially the oaks. These trees, Lady Imoleth said, were adorned at the time of the great annual feasts. As Harvest tide counted as one of such feasts, the trees of the hof were richly decorated with wreaths and ribbons and fruits hung up in nets.

The first part of the ritual, namely the agreement on the handgeld, morgengifu and brýdgifu, had already been performed in Rhûn, so they could continue straight to the wedding ceremony itself. The handfaestnung, however, had to be repeated for the witnesses of the Mark, as none of them had been originally present and the Ranger, who had been Elfhelm’s witness, could not accompany them to the Mark.

Therefore Elfhelm asked Prince Théodred to be his witness, who readily agreed to stand with him before chosen members of Clan and family when he took Imogen’s hand. Imogen chose Einarr to be hers (not that she would have many other choices), and Elfhelm spoke the time-honoured words, holding the hand of his bride.

“We declare before these witnesses that thou, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, bindest me in lawful betrothal, and that with a handshake thou pledge to marry me in exchange for the handgeld and morgengifu as promised, and engagest me to fulfil and observe the whole of the oath between us, which has been said in the hearing of these witnesses without wiles or cunning, as a true and honest oath.”(*)

Of course, as some of said gifts had already been exchanged, in their case the handfaestnung had only a symbolic role. But it was part of the rites, so it had to be observed.

After that, Elfhelm was banned from the house, as he was not supposed to see the bride until the wedding itself. He stayed in the barracks with the garrison, where he was the subject of much good-natured teasing that only a wild shieldmaed of the East had been desperate enough to agree to marry him. Imogen remained in the house with Lady Imoleth, Lady Cwén and Princess Idis, and the Lady Aelfgifu came over from Meduseld each day to prepare her for the ceremony.

In the morning right before the wedding ceremony, she was taken to the sweat lodge, which was called the stánbath in the tongue of the Mark, attended by her bridesmaids, namely the Lady Aelfgifu and young Éowyn, since all other women of Elfhelm’s family were already married. At first she was very self-conscious of her marred and scarred body, compared with these two golden beauties, but the two royal ladies – both the sister-daughters of Théoden-king himself, though by different sisters – just laughed.

“You should see the Lady Aud’s scars,” said Éowyn. “She often took part in tournaments, the only woman among the knights, and has many scars to prove that she fought well. And though I have never seen true battle – not yet – I, too, have got my fair share of training injuries. Neither Théodred nor my brother pull their punches when they practice with me.”

That consoled Imogen a little and she allowed them to disrobe her and lead her into the sweating lodge. She was no complete stranger to such things; the shieldmaiden of Nimwarkinh had a small sweating chamber at their disposal, but the Men of the Mark clearly liked their stánbath very much.

There was a separate bathing house behind Meduseld, of which the sweating lodge was merely part of. Within, there were low wooden benches surrounding the glowing stones in the central pit, and the attendants not only poured water over the stones but also threw fresh grass and aromatic herbs, hacked in small pieces, into the mix, which made the heat more endurable and filled the room with a pleasant smell.

“We are fortunate to have the stánbath all to us this morning, due to your wedding,” explained young Lady Éowyn, stretching in the fragrant heat luxuriously. “’Tis in much demand otherwise.”

“Truly?” that surprised Imogen. The Men of the Mark did not strike her as ones who would waste much time with personal grooming.

Éowyn grinned. “Oh, aye. We love our horses, as you might have learned by now, but we do not like smelling of horse. At least we women do not. And, according to the married ladies I know, the men can be persuaded to clean themselves ere they are allowed to enter the bedchamber. You just have to be strict with them.”

“Worry not,” said Lady Aelfgifu. “My cousins are putting Elfhelm into the stánbath right now. You shan’t have to hold perfumed kerchiefs under your nose during the ceremony.”

They laughed again, and Imogen began to enjoy herself with these delightful young women. Of royal blood they might be, yet they certainly did not make her feel beneath them – on the contrary. Perhaps, given enough time, they might even become friends. At least the love of the sword would doubtlessly connect her with Éowyn.

When she had sweated properly, they attended to her while she bathed, and then dressed her in her wedding gown – it was a beautiful one, made of dark green velvet, with a pale gold undergown beneath – and crowned her with a bridal crown. The latter did not come from Elfhelm’s family but was the same jewelled bronze circle she used to wear on feasts at home. Her hair they just combed and arranged on her shoulders; only after the wedding would it be braided.

As soon as they had finished their task, a young page came running and told them that everything was in readiness at the hof. Aelfgifu and Éowyn, also dressed in their festive best, led the bride to the entrance of the hof''s enclosure, where the other women of the family – including Brigid and Hemma, who seemed just a little intimidated – were waiting.

Eiríkr, who – as the bride’s only other kinsman present – had been chosen to be the sword-bearer, was also there, bearing the new sword to be given to the groom. Together, they went with Imogen in procession to the hof itself.

From the opposite direction, another procession was approaching: Elfhelm came, surrounded by his male kin and his groomsmen. Young Éomer, Éowyn’s brother, was bearing his ancestral blade, and Einarr represented the bride’s absent father.

The Men of the Mark had no priests and priestesses. Depending on the nature of every individual rite, the eldest man or woman of each family celebrated them – or the highest-ranking one. As the elders had their own part in the wedding rites, in this case Lady Aelfgifu, whose standing as a seer was very high indeed, and Prince Théodred shared the duties of the wéofodthegn between them.

First, Lady Aelfgifu brought forth a wide, flat iron bowl, in which charcoal embers glowed, lit from the níedefyr, the sacred fire that burned in a fire pit right in front of the wéofod day and night, never allowed to go out. Carrying this fire-bowl she now walked around the inner walls of the enclosure, to drive away any evil spirits, chanting:

She let the bowl burning next to the sacred well, from which she drew water next and sprinkled the people with the help of a green sprig, saying:

After the site had been properly cleansed and hallowed, they were allowed to enter the hof itself – the bride and the women through one entrance, the groom and the men through the opposite one – to meet before the wéofod, where Prince Théodred was waiting for them. Now followed the exchange of handgeld and brýdgifu – a symbolic act in their case, as the heads of cattle and horses had long been sent to Ragnar Jarl, together with the gold and silver, but a necessary part of the rites nonetheless.

“Elfhelm Hengestsson, do you have the handgeld as you oathed to have?” he asked, first in the tongue of the Mark, then also in Westron, to make sure that everyone understood.

“Aye, I have,” Elfhelm lifted the scroll, upon which the exact number of cattle and horses and the amount of gold and silver sent to Nimwarkinh was listed, for everyone to see. Then he turned to Einarr, who was there in his father’s stead, saying: “I give you this, the handgeld, as I oathed to do.”

“And I accept it in the name of our father, who cannot be present in person,” replied Einarr.

Now Prince Théodred turned to him. “Do you have the brýdgifu, as you oathed to have?”

“Aye, I have,” Einarr lifted the small chest with gold and jewels, all that Ragnar Jarl could spare for his daughter. “I give you this, the brýdgifu,” he said to Imogen. “It is yours to have and to hold all your days.”

“And I accept it with gratitude as I would from the hand of my father,” answered Imogen, her heart aching that she had to stand here without her father.

“The brýdgifu and handgeld have been gifted and given,” announced Prince Théodred. “The holy oaths given have been held. Now let the bridegroom and the bride exchange their oaths.”

One of Elfhelm’s brothers nudged Éomer, who seemed a bit enthralled by the beauty of the bride; he reddened and handed the groom his ancestral blade in a hurry. Holding the great sword of House Fréabold in both palms, Elfhelm now offered it to Imogen, saying:

“I give you this sword, borne by all my forefathers, to save it for our sons and daughters to have and to use.”

Imogen accepted it with the bow of a warrior rather than with the curtsey of a noble lady and signalled to Eiríkr to bring forth the new sword.

“To keep us safe, you must bear a sword,” she said. “With this sword guard our home and protect us from all perils.”

Those time-honoured words made them both smile, as Imogen was more than capable of protecting herself and her home; but the rites were ancient, coming from a time when the man had to do the protecting and safe-keeping all on his own.

Lady Aelfgifu then brought forth the rings that had been laid on the wéofod, holding them out on their silver tray, and spoke in a fair, ringing voice:

“Like stone may your love be firm. Like a star may your love be constant. Like the earth itself may your bond be fertile. Let the powers of the mind guide you. Let the strength of your wills bind you together. Let the power of love and desire make you happy. Let the strength of your oath make you inseparable.”

She then turned to Elfhelm. “Elfhelm Hengestsson, I have not the right to bind thee to thy bride; only you have this right. If it be your wish, say so at this time and place your ring in her hand.”

“It is my wish,” answered Elfhelm without hesitation and for everyone to hear.

Lady Aelfgifu turned to Imogen. “Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, if it be your wish for Elfhelm Hengestsson to be bound to you, place the ring upon his finger.”

Imogen’s hand trembled ever so slightly, knowing how irreversible this step was, but she managed to place the ring upon the index finger of Elfhelm’s left hand, where it would not hinder him in holding his sword steadily.

“Imogen Ragnarsdaughter,” continued Lady Aelfgifu,” I have not the right to bind thee to thy groom; only you have this right. If it be your wish, say so at this time and place your ring in his time and place your ring in his hand.”

“It is my wish,” said Imogen in a voice that was more steady than her true feelings, but she could not make any mistake now. She could not fail her father. They needed this alliance.

Lady Aelfgifu turned back to Elfhelm. “Elfhelm Hengestsson, if it be your wish for Imogen Ragnarsdaughter to be bond to you, place the ring upon her finger and repeat after me the sacred words of the marriage oath.”

Elfhelm slid the ring upon the index finger of Imogen’s left hand – again, the necessity of keeping the sword-hand free, clashed with tradition a bit – and spoke in a strong, steady voice:

“I, Elfhelm son of Hengest of House Fréabold, in the name of Béma, who protects our herds and the name of Nogyth who blesses our meadows, by the blood of Eorl that courses in my veins and the love that resides in my heart, take thee, Imogen daughter of Ragnar the Smith, to be my chosen one. To desire thee and be desired by thee, to possess thee, and be possessed by tee, without sin or shame. I promise to love thee without restraint, ‘til death do us part. I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy people and thy ways as I respect myself.”

Even though theirs was a marriage of convenience, for the good of their respective people, Imogen was deeply touched by the words of the marriage oath. By the customs of the Mark, she was offered a freedom she could never have dreamt of at home. Now she could be certain that no-one would demand from her to lay down the sword as she had secretly feared, despite all reassurances. If she had learned anything during her short time with the Men of the Mark, it was that they took their oaths very seriously.

She, too, repeated the same words after Lady Aelfgifu, meaning every single one of them, for Elfhelm was a man on whom she would be able to count and whom she would always support. Love, as the minstrels sang about it, may or may not come later. But they were bound for life now – and she would never be alone.

Prince Théodred now brought forth the beautiful, two-handed bronze cup – the love-cup or kasa, as it was also called – and offered it to them, saying, “May you drink your fill from the cup of love!”

Elfhelm took the cup from him to hold it while Imogen drank from the mead; then she took it to hold it for him while he drank. They handed it back to Prince Théodred then, who sat it on the wéofod again. Lady Aelfgifu then brought a plate of bread, giving it to Elfhelm, who fed Imogen, to be fed by her in exchange, symbolising how they would share everything in their future lives.

They were supposed to kiss now, which counted as the sealing of their agreement, and so they kissed, with Elfhelm’s entire family grinning in relief to finally have him properly wed.

Then Lady Imoleth came forth, carrying all keys of Elfhelm’s household in a small wicker basked, offering them to Imogen, and she said, “Accept the keys of your husband and take good care of them, for from now on you are the keeper of his household.”

Imogen accepted the keys, answering, “I shall take good care of him and all that is his, so that they may thrive under my guardianship. This I promise before the ears of you all to hear.”

“We have all witnessed the oaths given and accepted,” Prince Théoden then announced. “All has been done according to the laws and customs of the Mark. Therefore I declare you werman and wife, with all the duties and privileges that come with it,” he paused for a moment, then added with a broad grin. “Let us go to the mead hall and continue with the brýdeala!”

The wedding crowd left the hof eagerly, going over to the mead hall where the wedding húsel took place. It was an opulent feast, well-prepared by the servants of Lord Hengest’s townhouse, with great amounts of food and drink consumed and a great number of bloats and toasts made to the gods. There was music and dance and a great lot of fun, as Elfhelm had hired some jugglers and mummers and other wandering comedians to entertain the guests.

When everyone bit the bride and groom (who needed to be by their senses for the wedding night) was suitably drunk, they all escorted the newlyweds to the foot of the hill, where their horses were waiting. Everyone swung into the saddle for the brýdlhóp to take place; originally a race by the separate wedding parties to the new home. In this case, though, as Elfhelm did not have a home of his own in Edoras, nor had Einarr and Eiríkr the means to hold the next húsel, should they lose, it was merely a high-spirited race around the whole town.

Eventually, they returned to the gates, and this time they rode up ‘til the townhouse of Lord Hengest’s family. There the newlyweds were left alone; the wedding party returned to the mead hall to continue with the feast for the rest of the night. Bride and groom were supposed to have the house for themselves, for which reason Elfhelm blocked the front door from within as soon as they were inside.

“’Tis custom,” he replied, smiling. “We should not be disturbed in our wedding night.”

Elfhelm shrugged. “We pretend they do not exist. How else would my mother be able to enter the house and make breakfast for us? Besides, ‘tis the spirit that counts.”

“And what comes now?” asked Imogen when thy reached the bedchamber, prepared and decorated for their use.

“No I shall have to make sure that you do not stumble on the threshold,” answered Elfhelm, smiling. “That would be a very bad sign indeed.”

And with that he simply picked her up as if she were but a rag doll, not a heavily muscled shieldmaiden of considerable weight and carried her over the threshold on his arm. To her own surprise she found that she like being carried by him. His strength was impressive, and she like strong men that could be her equals.

In the following month the both were required to drink mead to every single meal, in order to keep up their strength, for which reason it was called the huningmonath, or honeymoon. As the Men of the Mark brew excellent mead, though, neither of them found this a great hardship.

Lord Hengest and the rest of the family rode back to Stowburg after the first week, as they were all needed at home. Einarr, Eiríkr and their wives stayed in Edoras ‘til the end of the huningmonath, at which time they escorted Imogen back to Stowburg, where she lived in Elfhelm’s house to continue healing and to learn more about the customs of the Mark, which was still somewhat foreign for her.

But Spring – and the feast of Eostre – found her in Edoras again, living in the family townhouse to be near her husband and to begin her weapons training in earnest again. And there she stayed for the next three years, ‘til war come to the Mark from Isengard, when she rode out on Elfhelm’s side to fight in both Battles at the Fords of Isen with great skill and courage.

More about Imogen’s fate will be told in “Frozen Flower”… eventually.

Emissary of the Mark by Soledad