He urged his mount to go faster, faster, although the creature was near collapse. Lather flew from its mouth, and its flanks heaved with every harsh breath. But it faithfully kept going despite its fatigue, sensing the great need of its rider.

Hooves pounded the earth and sent sod flying, stirring up a cloud of dust and dirt that trailed in its wake. Overhead, gray clouds scudded along the sky, threatening heavy rains, but so far they had been fortunate and the downpour had not yet materialized.

The rider peered ahead along the equine neck, squinting against the rushing wind that whipped through his hair and tugged at his cloak. The colors were fading from the lands around him as the clouds thickened and the storm approached. Far, far ahead, dark mountains shimmered on the horizon.

His mount stumbled, caught itself, tripped again, and the rider's breath stuck in his throat for an endless moment before the animal regained its balance and continued its mad gallop. The poor beast ran on its last legs. How much further, until he reached his destination? How much longer before he could deliver the dire news he carried? He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, back at the way he had come. Time was running out.

There it sat, keeping its secrets. As it had for many years.

The wizard had searched crumbling scrolls, reading the faded histories of Numenor, yet he had learned little that he did not already know. Each palantir could gaze over great distances, through mountain and forest, and it could peer into its sister stones. Contrived to bear tidings to the rulers of Numenor, it knew its rightful master, the king or his chosen deputy, and was so contrived that only they could turn it to their wills. Of men now living in Gondor, none save Denethor and his sons could use the seeing stones by right. Barring this right of use, one would have to posses a mind of great power. The wizard thought with unease of the lord of Barad Dur. The sister stones were lost, but the chronicles did not say destroyed. Could one have fallen into his withered hands? If Sauron espied him while he used the palantir, the outcome could be deadly. Yet against this risk, he must weigh the gain. To see distant tidings of war could shift the balance in his favor.

The gleaming curve of the palantir showed nothing except his distorted reflection. Dark eyes stared back at him from a face as pale as carven ivory. “Still you keep your secrets,” he whispered to the stone.

***********************************************

Their party had set out from Aldburg three days past. They had been few in number and lightly encumbered, for haste was needed on this journey. They had taken the road to the west, stopping only to rest when the moon had set, for they traveled even in the darkness, leading the horses at a walk. They were already weary, when a troop of Uruk-hai had surprised them on the road. Swiftly surrounded, the Riders had tried to fight their way out. Eomund and one other man, his cousin Wulfgar, had escaped, but the enemy had pursued them. They were puzzled by this determined chase, for these creatures were wont to raid swiftly then return to their mountain lairs. It was as if the orcs traveled west on some errand, and the riders had merely chanced to be in their path. After several leagues, the two men had left the highway, hoping to lose their pursuers by striking north across the plain. Later, they would have to turn west to rejoin the road near Isengard.

His kinsman’s horse had been wounded and the poor beast grew weaker until she could no longer bear him. They both knew that the remaining mount would make poor progress if she had to carry two riders, and his cousin’s arm had been mangled in the fight. The choice had been clear if not easy. They rode not only as messengers but also in search of wise counsel, for they carried tidings that boded destruction for the Riddermark. Yet still it was a hard deed, to leave his kinsman, unhorsed and wounded. "I will follow on foot and meet up with you later," Wulfgar had told him with a wry smile. "Here, take the rest of the oats. May you ride to good fortune." As Eomund trotted away, his kinsman had sat by the horse, stroking her mane with his uninjured arm. Eomund did not look back again until he had ridden some leagues.

When the mare stumbled again, he had no choice but to slide down from the saddle and lead her at a walk. He dared not let her rest for long, for though the enemy followed on foot, these creatures were tireless and in time they would close the distance between them.

“Leofa Heruwine,” he murmured. At the sound of his voice, she lifted her weary head. The breath rattled in her chest, and foam dripped from her mouth. Even if by some wonder they reached their destination, her lungs were ruined and she had not long to live.

He emptied the last of their water into the hollow of the shield and held it under her nose. She gulped the water but turned her face away from the bag of oats. Eomund walked beside her, talking quietly and stroking along the withers. When her breathing was somewhat easier, he swung into the saddle and urged her into an unsteady trot. "Be strong for the sake of your kindred," he told her. The mare answered with a low whicker, so he deemed she understood.

Six leagues of grassland lay between them and the foot of the mountains. He imagined he could see the tall fortress, a darker smudge that rose where the plain met the cliffs. Only a few more hours before they reached its shelter.

The mare struggled onward, as the wind hissed through the long grass, the unchanging sound lulling him to sleep. He was dozing in the saddle when she staggered to a sudden halt. Without thinking, he kicked free of the stirrups and rolled from her back as she fell to her knees. A gleeful shout was blown over the grass; the enemy had seen her go down. The heavy saddlebags could be left behind, though he shoved some dried meat and apples in a sack. Eomund deemed it unlikely he would have need of a bedroll this night, but he took the shield and also the spear. Well it will serve for a walking stick, he told himself.

The mare gazed ahead with unseeing eyes, but she whickered when he called her name. She was not the first friend he had had to abandon on this journey, but unlike the others, she at least could be saved from torment at the hands of the enemy. It took but a moment to cut her throat; then he slung the shield over his shoulder and hurried into the grass.

The wind rose, but still the storm held off, the dark clouds skirting the mountains. From the top of the last ridge, he had espied the white stones of the road. He hurried onward, stopping neither to eat nor rest, but when the wind shifted, he could hear the sound of pursuit, harsh cries of command and the clank of heavy armor. The dark band was less than a furlong behind him. They had captured two of the horses and laden them with weapons and other gear to hasten their march. Though he had almost reached the road and the ring of Isengard lay scarcely two leagues ahead, Eomund knew he could not outrun the enemy so he cast about him for means of defence. The grassland was unbroken by rocks or streams, but a short distance ahead, an oak tree crowned a high ridge. The endless winds had stunted its branches, and its trunk had been riven by lightening. There on the ridge he would make his stand, with the ancient tree to guard his back.

Eomund watched closely as the enemy drew near. One of the horses—by the blaze on her face, she was Aelfric’s little mare--shied and aimed a kick at her handler. As she turned, he realized what burden was slung across her saddle. A man lay facedown, his head dangling limply against the horse’s flank. They had pulled off his helm, and his fair hair fell almost to the horse’s knees. Alive, Eomund thought, and his heart froze within him. One of the orcs stayed behind with the horses, while the rest, twenty or more, clambered up the ridge. A few of the enemy were clad in mail, but most wore armor of leather. None carried bows or quivers, he saw with some relief. The fight would be short, but he hoped to make it bloody.

The slope below the tree was steep, and the dry dirt slid under the orcs’ heavy boots. Two of them reached the summit ahead of the others. He swung the spear shaft down on the first orc’s helm, stunning him so he rolled down the slope, then Eomund drove the iron point into the second enemy’s throat. Four others took their place. He threw the spear, skewering the closest orc, then the three who remained rushed forward. One was felled with a sword thrust under the ribs, but as Eomund raised his shield against an attack from the left, he felt the bite of iron in his right shoulder. Behind him on the ridge, he heard the rattle of stones underfoot. The enemy had circled around to reach him from both sides.

At a blur of movement to his right, he turned to meet the attack. With a flash of steel, a tall figure darted forward, bringing a sword down on the nearest orc and neatly severing his neck. Eomund nearly dropped his sword as the creature’s head went flying. The remaining orc gaped in surprise until the stranger beheaded him on the back stroke. 

“Stay here!” the man shouted in the Common Speech. A troop of soldiers, clad in black and heavily armored, had scaled the far side of the ridge and now they ran down the slope, driving the orcs before them. The tall soldier raised a great shout of “Gondor!” and the others took up the cry. Two Riders bearing green and white shields fought alongside them. The orcs were cut down as they turned and fled. The footing was too steep for horses so the men had attacked on foot, but even so the fight lasted but a few moments.

Eomund yanked a spear from an orc and, leaning on the shaft, he stumbled down the slope as fast as he could, looking for Aelfric’s mare. He feared she had taken flight, but she stood calmly grazing where he last had seen her. Wulfgar lay on the ground nearby. His eyes were closed, and his pale face was streaked with blood and dirt. A grey-haired man knelt beside him, prodding at the injured arm and searching for signs of other hurt. As he worked, he spoke rapidly in Sindarin to a tall officer who leaned down to listen. When the old healer saw Eomund, he said in the Common Speech, “There is no cause for worry. That arm will take some weeks to mend, but his other wounds are slight and he should awaken within the hour.”

The officer smiled grimly at Eomund. Though tall and broad-shouldered, he looked no more than twenty years of age. “You, my friend, are the second luckiest man in Rohan.” The old healer gave a short laugh.

Eomund placed a hand on his breast and bowed, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “I and my kinsman are in your debt. I am Eomund son of Eohric, and my kinsman is Wulfgar son of Wulfhere.”

The tall man bowed his dark head in return. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor. We journey to Isengard, and as chance would have it, we saw their attack from the road.” His grey eyes narrowed. “You are Eomund of Eastfold? First Marshal of Rohan?”

Eomund bowed again. “Theoden King has honored me with that office, my lord.”

“You are far from Aldburg and the eastern watches, Marshal. But I see you are weary and hurt. There will be time to speak later, after you and your kinsman have rested.”

“Nay, lord, we must not tarry here. Our errand to Isengard is most urgent.” Then he told Lord Boromir of the strange sickness that had first appeared in East Emnet and was swiftly spreading westward. The stricken horses would begin to cough, and then black ulcers appeared on their skin. The healers had tried sundry herbs and treatments but to no avail. The illness killed the weakest members of the herd, the foals and heavy mares. Many thought it was borne on the winds from the Dark Land, but Eomund did not know.

“When did this begin?” Lord Boromir asked. “I heard naught of a plague when I stopped at Edoras.”

“Two weeks ago, lord, though at first we did not realize that the deaths in the herds were from the same illness.” Eomund closed his eyes as he remembered seeing a mare nudge anxiously at her lifeless foal. “If we cannot find a cure, this will be the ruin of our people,” he said in a low voice.

“Have messengers been sent to the healers of Minas Tirith? Mayhap they have heard of this plague.”

“Riders set out from Aldburg on the day that we left. Though if this is the work of the Enemy, we will need the counsel of Saruman the Wise.”

“I will do all I can to speed you on your way. Our road lies together, for I journey to Isengard on behalf of the Steward. For it has been too many years since Gondor sent an envoy to these parts.” Lord Boromir tapped the hilt of his sword as he stared at the dead orcs. “Though indeed it is strange that these orcs pursued you for so great a distance. They followed you nigh to the outwalls of Isengard. Bold for their kind, for they risked discovery by a passing patrol.”

Lord Boromir questioned him at length about Isengard and its warden, though Eomund was from the east and knew little of these matters. Then the lord asked him to wait with his kinsman while the soldiers readied the horses.

“How does he fare?” Eomund asked the healer. Wulfgar lay wrapped in blankets, and the injured arm had been splinted and swathed in linen.

At the sound of his voice, the wounded man opened his eyes and squinted unsteadily. “Eomund?”

“Rest easy. We are safe among friends.”

“He needs to drink some water,” the healer said, handing Eomund a waterskin. “And then I will look at that cut on your shoulder.”

“Curse those wretched orcs, my head hurts.” Wulfgar put a hand to his brow as the healer helped him sit. “What happened? The last I knew, I was slung across the saddle like a sack of oats. Who are these folk?” He spoke in the language of the Mark.

“Boromir of Gondor and his escort,” Eomund told him. “He travels with a troop of horse and two Riders for guides. Needless to say, their victory was swift.” Eomund held up the waterskin. “Drink.”

“I am truly sorry to have missed the slaughter.” His kinsman spoke between gulps of water. “I had heard Lord Boromir was in Edoras, but why does he journey to this forsaken place?”

“The lord seems most eager to see the defenses of Isengard.”

“Perhaps he grows bored with feasting. They say he cares for naught but glory and feats of arms”

Eomund and Wulgar sat talking as they watched the men feeding and watering their steeds. Neither of them spoke of the Riders and horses who had been lost.

At the sight of the sacks of grain, the horses whickered and tossed their heads. A black-haired man in the garb of a Rider held the bridle of a restless grey, stroking the creature’s neck as he tried to quiet him.

“Who is the guide with the dark hair?” Wulfgar asked. “He has the look of a Dunlending.”

Eomund had heard of this man, Grima Galmodson. The black hair was not common among their people, and it was whispered that his father was a fur trader from Dunland. Eomund never allowed this talk to go unchallenged, for Grima had ever been loyal and had shown some bravery in skirmishes with the enemy.

Grima met his gaze then quickly looked down. No doubt the young Rider guessed that they spoke of him.

“No man should be blamed for the terms of his own begetting. His name is Grima son of Galmod. He rides with Elfhelm’s eored, and I have never heard aught but good of him. Though that orc might say otherwise.” Eomund nodded toward a corpse that had a spear shaft sticking from its back.

“Point well-taken,” his cousin replied. “I will count this Grima my life-long friend.”

The soldiers began to mount up, and a handsome bay gelding was brought for Eomund to ride. He was so weary that he feared he would doze and fall from the saddle. Unfit to ride, Wulfgar was handed up to one of the officers.

They set out with Eomund riding beside the lord Boromir, followed by the standard bearer and then the officers leading the rest of the troop. Night was falling when they reached the outwalls of Isengard. The garrison had seen them from afar, for torches were lit about the gate. The walls rose many feet above the plain, and behind them the ancient stonework of the tower gleamed blackly in the twilight. A guard of honor was drawn up beside the massive steel doors.

The horsemen from Gondor formed orderly ranks then waited for someone to greet them. Stars began to appear in the sky.

“This wizard lacks in courtesy, Marshal,” the lord said after a while.

“It is said their ways are not the ways of men, my lord,” Eomund replied, though in truth he agreed.

When the guard of honor still showed no sign of moving, Lord Boromir muttered under his breath in Sindarin then wheeled his horse about and snatched the banner from the standard bearer. Holding the banner aloft, he trotted toward the gate. None of his own men followed him, though perhaps they were wise for no doubt they could guess the mood of their lord. Eomund urged his horse forward. To his surprise, for he had given no order, Grima son of Galmod trotted swiftly behind him.

Just as Lord Boromir reached the place where the honor guard stood in rigid silence, the air was rent by a great screeching and grinding of metal as the high doors swung open. A brilliant light, brighter than any torchlight, streamed out of the opening. In a swirl of white robes, a tall figure stepped out of the glare.

“Greetings, Boromir, heir of Denethor, son of the House of Hurin.”

For a moment nothing stirred and no word was spoken; the air itself seemed to still at the sight of the tall wizard who exited the tower. His robes were of a pearly white and had it been day and not night, Boromir was certain that the pureness of them would have blinded him. For a moment, he simply stared at the wizard, feeling caught in his gaze. But then the spell, if it had been one, broke, and Boromir cleared his throat, „I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor. I ride in the company of Eomund, Eohris’s son, Marshal of the Riddermark. I come on behalf of the Lord Steward, seeking council. “

Smiling, the wizard nodded his head once, “Of course you do.”

Then, he turned his piercing eyes on the rest of the group, pausing briefly at the wounded Wulfgar, and then on Grima, who still stood besides Eomund’s horse. Finally, the wizard’s eyes came to rest on Eomund, who shifted almost imperceptibly on his horse. “Welcome, Eomund, Marshal of Thengel King. Long has it been since Thengel King sought my council.”

“And still we honor it whenever it is given.” Eomund replied, bowing slightly.

The wizard gave Eomund another long look, before he gestured behind him. “Come, then, my Lords. Night has already come and coldness will swiftly follow. Rooms will be prepared for you and your men.” And then the wizard turned and entered the high tower, leaving a tired and slightly uneasy group of riders behind.
* *

A shiver crawled down Boromir’s spine, and when he turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling, he swallowed nervously. Never had he been in a room that was so spacious that one could not even make out the ceiling! Not even in the Citadel where rooms of this enourmous size. The fact that the walls were polished black marble, here and there broken with white stone, did not help his feeling of being deep underground any. Although, he knew he was not, for he had climbed so many stairs to reach this room, that he had not been able to count them all. He must he in a room high above the ground.

Shifting in his wooden chair, Boromir took a deep breath to calm himself, before he shot a quick look over his shoulder.

He was not afraid, after all, he was in Orthanc and Saruman was a friend of Gondor, but still. This place was giving him the creeps. Maybe it was the fact that he mean to hear sound coming from deep down the tower, as if dogs or wolves where howling. The sounds were weak and whenever he concentrated on them, they seemed to vanish. Or it was because he had been in this tower for nearly three hours now, and beside the servant who had brought him to this dining room, he had met no other living soul. Or, he mused darkly, it was because he had the constant feeling of being watched. The fact that this room was to huge that he could not make out all the dark corners, did not help his feeling at all either.

Suddenly, a door to his right opened, and to his relief Eomund entered, followed by the same servant who had brought Boromir here. Eomund thanked the servant, then sat down opposite Boromir, staring around the room. When his eyes locked on Boromir’s across the stone table, he shrugged, “Not bad. Not as beautiful as the golden hall, but charming nonetheless.”

And before Boromir could decide whether this had been a bad joke or not, the door opened once more, and Saruman the White entered. Sitting down at the head of the table, with Boromir to his right and Eomund to his left, he snipped his fingers, and a moment later a number of servants appeared, filling goblets with deep red wine.

"My Lords.” Saruman said. “What a coincidence to have such illustrious guest here tonight. But tell me now, what brings you to my home?” His voice was deep and monotonous, but caught the two men nevertheless. It was almost entrancing to listen to the wizard.

Reaching for the goblet that stood in front of him and driking a sip of wine, Boromir took the lead. “Long has it been since we came to Isengard for council, and my father, the Lord Steward, saw it fit to strengthen the relationship of Gondor and Isengard in these dark times.”

“Is that so?” Saruman said, before he turned his gaze of Eomund. “And what brought you here, Marshal?”

Swallowing thickly, Eomund began to tell everything he knew of the strange desease that had befallen the herds, of the death of the fowls and the helplessness that they all felt. “It is horrible,” he finally said, “there is nothing we can do to stop this, and if it does not soon, Rohan might lose all that is has.”

“Intresting.” Was all Saruman said, before he tilted his head to the side, steepled his fingers, and gazed into the distance of the huge room. It was silent, and Boromir and Eomud exchanged a confused look. Both had never met the wizard and therefore did not know what to expect, but surey not this. To be ignored like that, it was unthinkable. On the other hand, Saruman was a wizard, and wizards lived by their own rules.

When the silence became unbearing, Eomund clreared his throat, which seemed to bring Saruman back to life.

“Marshall, I have not heard of what you speak. But maybe one of my books has the asnwer to your question. I will have to consult them.” Then, he snipped his fingers again, and a moment later servants appeared, laden with bowls of food and more wine. When the table was filled, nearly breaking under the weight of food, Saruman gestured at it. “Please, you must he hungry.”

Not needing to be told twice, Boromir and Eomund filled their plates with as much food as curtesy allowed. They spoke of trivial matters, until their talk turned to the events leading to the meeting of the Steward of Gondor and the Marshal of the Riddermark.

“I think it strange.” Boromir said, leaning back in his chair. “Those orcs had what they wanted. Why did they pursue you and your companion for such a long time?”

“And almost up the steps of Isengard.” Eomund answered, sipping his wine. “They seemed fearless, as if they knew the terrain.”

“Maybe they did.” Boromir said, shrugging. “Master Saruman, have orcs raided these lands lately?”

“No, not that I have heard of.” Saruman said. “But, there are no settlements close by, nothing of value for orcs. It must have been by chance that they found you and your men, Marshal, and pure bloodlust that drove them so close to my home.” And with that, the topic seemed to be closed, and neither Boromir nor Eomund dared to dispute with the White wizard.
* *
Late that night, when all was dark and nothing stirred inside the tower, almost silent footsteps neared a huge wooden door.

It creacked when opened, and the blackness of the room that lay behind it was bathed in the flickering light of a singel candle. The door closed with another creak, before the soft footsteps crossed the room until they stopped in the middle. Almost gently, a piece of black cloth was taken from a round object, and in the next second, the light of the candle was reflected from the polished surface of the palantir.

The gnarled hand of Saruman hoved over it, only an inch away, unwilling to touch. “Soon” Saruman whispered. “One has come who had the right to look into your depth. And he will tell me what secrets you hide.”

Saruman withdrew his hand from above the sphere and unconsciously ran his thumb across his finger tips in an almost lusting fashion. He took a deep breath and moved silently to the balcony, his eyes slowly scanning the darkened vistas before him. The wizard's eyes were keener and more far-seeing than a man's, yet that which he most desired to look upon – and to hold – was hidden from him.

His last, best hope of finding the Ruling Ring was the Stone of Orthanc, one of the seven palantir brought by Elendil from Numenor. Of the seven originally made, two were lost in the shipwreck of Arvedui Last-king. The palantir of Osgiliath was lost during Gondor's civil war and the Ithil-stone was assumed destroyed by the defenders of Minas Ithil before that city was captured in 2002. The Elostirion-stone was in the possession of the elves as it looked only to the Undying Lands. The remaining two known stones were the one in the chamber behind him and the Anor-stone in Minas Tirith, which Saruman believed the Steward of Gondor had been employing since the death of his father Ecthelion, if not before. If Denethor of Gondor could bend the palantir to his will, then so too could Saruman the Wise, one chosen by the Valar as an emissary to Middle-earth!

Sitting those thoughts temporarily aside, Saruman turned his mind to his guests and what he had learned from them this day.

Though Eomund of Rohan and Boromir of Gondor were both well-respected leaders, it was clear to Saruman that the son of Denethor was the stronger willed of the two. There had been a flicker of surprise in the Gondorian's eyes when Saruman had greeted the Marshall of *Thengel* King, and then those same eyes had widened almost imperceptibly when *Theoden* King's brother by law had let the misnomer go unchallenged. The Steward's heir probably assumed the Marshall had held his tongue to avoid offending their host, but would be unlikely to mention it to Eomund, due to the embarrassment it would cause.

Saruman smiled. What would Boromir of Gondor think if he were to learn Eomund had no recollection at all of the brief conversation? It had been a simple, but telling test, one easily excused as a slip of the tongue. Yet from it, Saruman had learned something of great value…Eomund was like the majority of men…those who fell under the spell of the White Wizard's voice. He would remember hearing Saruman's pleasant tones, but would have no memory of what had actually been said, though he would feel certain that he and Saruman had been in complete agreement.

Where Eomund was in the vast majority, Boromir unfortunately fell into the rare minority. Few were the men who could withstand the enchantment in Saruman's voice. The wizard inwardly cursed the fact that Denethor's Heir was one of them. It would make his task more challenging, but it could still be done.

All he need do was to have Boromir in the room when he broke the news to Eomund that there was no help for Rohan's plague in Saruman's books or scrolls. Indeed, that the only possible aid for Rohan was from the palantir, which could only be lawfully used by Denethor or his heir. The young commander of Gondor would find it difficult – nay, impossible - to refuse Saruman's offer of the Stone of Orthanc when in the presence of the Marshall. To refuse was to display open contempt for the oaths exchanged by Eorl and Cirion and all but ensure a permanent breech in relations between Rohan and Gondor.

The only other thing Saruman need do was to make sure the Steward's Heir did not face Minas Tirith when he utilized the palantir, for how unfortunate would it be for Boromir to look into the stone and find his father looking back?

In the morning, after they had breakfasted, Saruman summoned both men to his study. He had set the stage carefully, with books and scrolls scattered across the desk and tables; some wedged open at strategic pages, others lying discarded on the floor as if they were of no use.

As Éomund and Boromir sat, he ran a hand across his brow, feigning weariness. “I have spent the night studying my library searching for an answer to your questions,” he began. I have books from Harad and lands even further south, scrolls from lost Númenor, and letters in languages long since forgotten.” He paused for effect, watching as Éomund twitched impatiently, though he held his tongue. “Perhaps if I search for longer, or open the oldest archives I may yet find something that may be of use to you, but I fear that so far I have been unsuccessful. I am more sorry than I can say that I cannot help you.”

Éomund’s impatience boiled over. “Is there nothing you can do?” he burst out. Boromir gave him a reproving glance. “Your pardon, Lord Saruman,” he amended. “But my people are desperate!”

Saruman paused as if deep in thought, his fingers steepled. “There is perhaps one answer mentioned in some of the older scrolls,” he began. “But I am not sure it would be possible.”

“What?” Éomund demanded. “Please, we must try – anything!”

“It is a palantír,” he explained, his voice soft and lyrical. “One of the seeing stones crafted by the Noldor. They were made long, long ago, beyond Westernesse. Of the seven that were made, most have been lost, or destroyed. But I believe I have found one that remains.”

Boromir stirred, fighting the spell, and spoke for the first time. “A palantír?” he questioned. “What is that? What do you mean by a ‘seeing stone’?”

Saruman smiled inwardly. Good. Both men were following the bait obediently, and would soon fall into his trap. Boromir might not be swayed by his voice, but there were other weaknesses which could be exploited. “It means ‘that which sees far off’,” he explained. “The men and elves of old used them to converse in thought over great distance. And it is said that if one who has the power and skill and birth-right to use the stone looks into it …”

“What?” breathed Éomund, seduced by his voice. “What will he see?”

“The answers he seeks, whatever the questions may be,” he purred, his voice silky. “It is my belief that the stone can be used to reveal images of the future, or show you the answers you require.”

“Your belief?” Boromir questioned. “You do not know?”

“Alas …” Saruman hesitated. “I do not have the power or knowledge to use it. It is said that only those bearing the blood of the high Númenoreans may look into the stone. I have tried for many long days and nights, but it remains dark and silent. It will not speak to me.” He watched the despair grow on Éomund’s face.

“Then why do you speak to us of it? You give me false hope that I may find a cure and save my people, when it is all for naught!” Éomund, impulsive, had leapt to his feet and now paced the chamber restlessly.

Boromir stirred uneasily. “Peace, Éomund,” he murmured. He looked at Saruman, still wary, but lured by the promise of power. “You said the blood of Númenor?”

“Aye – but who, now, is of pure-blooded descent?” He sighed with regret. “The fall of Númenor was long ago. The survivors are scattered and lost, their blood diluted by lesser men. Who knows if the true Númenoreans still live?”

“They live.” Boromir’s voice was soft but determined. “The house of the Stewards is descended in direct line from Húrin, Steward to King Minardil. I can trace my lineage through a thousand and more years to him, and thence to Númenor itself!”

Saruman hid his smile. The great lord Boromir was as vulnerable as Éomund in his way – though his weakness was in his pride and lust for power. It would be easy now.

“Boromir!” Éomund pleaded. “If you have the right and power to do this, to look into the stone, then please help me! Help me find a cure!”

“Aye, lord Boromir. Will you do it? You have the birth-right, but can you be sure you have the strength of mind for such a venture?” With this final prod to Boromir’s pride, Saruman watched as the man stepped willingly into the trap.

“I will do it,” he vowed.

Saruman nodded gravely. “Thank you. With your help, perhaps we may find a solution to this distressing plague.”

Éomund rounded on them eagerly. “Then do it now! There is no time to waste – the horses, the mares and foals – they are dying as we speak. Do it now, Boromir, I beg of you!”

Saruman eyed him gravely, and Éomund fell silent. “It is a difficult and possibly dangerous task we ask of our companion. It would be best if lord Boromir had peace and silence around him. Your impatience and eagerness is understandable, but I must ask you to leave, lord Éomund.” He smiled coldly. “I will send for you later.”

Chastened, but unable to protest, Éomund left silently. Saruman turned to Boromir, and led him to the curtained alcove that concealed the stone. In silence, he drew back the dark cloth that covered it, revealing the stone.

It was a perfect sphere of black crystal, highly polished so that the flickering candles reflected in its surface. Boromir stared at it, stretching his hand towards the stone, but then withdrawing it. He licked his lips, and glanced at Saruman.

“It is time. Come now, and look into the stone,” Saruman encouraged. “Use it to your advantage, and Rohan’s. Seek the solution to this devastating plague. Find the cure, and you will have the undying gratitude of the kings of Rohan for all time. They will honour and revere Lord Boromir above all others, and your name will be celebrated in song throughout the land. Look now, and see.”

He stepped back, and Boromir approached the stone. It stood on a plinth at chest height, and he placed his hands upon the dark sphere reverently as he gazed into the depths. Slowly his eyes lost focus and became blank as the power of the stone ensnared him, and his hands tightened.

Deep within the heart of the black crystal, a red glow began to flicker, pulsing like a heartbeat.

For many long minutes, Boromir of Gondor stood, hands clenched on the black stone, eyes blank and unseeing. He felt a heat begin to emanate from the stone, traveling up his fingers, warming his arms, filling all his body with warmth. He was no longer aware of his surroundings, though dimly, he felt another presence near him...and power. All was dark, except for the slightest red glow. It was almost like a dream, when one feels disoriented and drifting on an unknown tide, not quite sure of where one is, or what he was doing before. And just like a dream that changes suddenly with no warning, he was thrust into a new setting!

Where before had only been darkness and heat, now rolling plains extended for leagues; the green grass waving in a soft breeze like the waves on the sea in the Bay of Belfalas that he had seen in his visits to Dol Amroth. Rohan! There could be no doubt where the stone had taken him, yet Boromir had never traveled to this place. He held no memory of the rolling plains, only broken by a silver stream near a single tree. There were piles of rocks in the distance...and then a dark tree line that could be Fangorn forest. He had seen it briefly on the horizon on his journey to Isengard, though this vista was new and unknown.

Almost he could hear the wind, smell the fresh grass, and yet, it was not tangible. He was not really there, only seeing it as if actually was.

Then, a disembodied voice began to speak in dulcet tones. "What do you see?"

In this place, with his mind so engaged by what he saw, the voice was soothing, compelling. And so, he answered, "A grassy plain...a tree beside a stream, rocks...and a distant wood..."

:-:-:-:-:-:

Led to his guest quarters by a servant, Eomund entered, shut the door and paced, irritated, but unable to remember why. It was for the best, was it not, letting Lord Boromir find a way to cure the herds? Yet...an uneasiness had settled upon him since the wizard mentioned those seeing stones. But with no explanation for it, there was little he could do...except pace.

An hour passed, or he supposed. It was hard to tell how much time passed in this place. It was eerie, the lack of windows. He was a man of the Mark, unused to being enclosed in such spaces with polished stone walls but no wind, sun or smell of horse to soothe him. He was overreacting, he knew. Had he not just last night joked about the 'charm' of this place? It was not so much the surroundings, as the lack of information that had him on edge. He needed answers, needed them now to save his people.

He halted in his pacing and turned towards the door. He could seek out his cousin, see how he fared. It would help him pass the time. Eomund strode quickly across the room, but his steps paused again. What if the wizard and Lord Boromir found a cure? Would it not be best to stay where he was?

Eomund shook his head slightly. The uneasiness was back. And it seemed he now acted in indecision, contrary to his nature. Unable to point to the cause, he slumped into a chair and leaned his head into his hands. He would have to wait.

It seemed another hour passed, though he knew it could not be. Surely, it did not take this long to look into that stone and find the answers! He stood once more and resumed his pacing, wishing instead to be in the stable, grooming one of the horses. At least then, he would have someone to speak with about his concerns. At least then, he would know how much time had gone by. At least then, he would be doing something!

He marched to the door with purpose, reached, pulled...and nothing. The door was locked.

And try as he might, it remained locked. When he checked his gear, his weapons were gone. His shouts yielded no replies. Throwing his full weight against the door did not make the solid wood budge an inch or even creak its hinges. The stool, applied to the frame, had broken, bruised his hand, and now lay in a wasted heap of fire-wood in the corner. The window was high above the ground and small, he doubted he could press his muscular body through its narrow square into the freedom of dropping to death on the grounds of Isengard far below.

Finally he sank down on his bed, his thoughts going back to what had transpired between Boromir, himself and the wizard. Over and over he called back their conversation to his mind. He should have realized that something was wrong. But even now, when it was quite obvious to him that he was a prisoner, when he knew that he must have missed essential signs of danger, of treason, of evil, he couldn't come up with more than a memory of the cold smile of the wizard and his haughtily helpful tone of voice.

He hadn't noticed anything amiss, and neither had Boromir.

Boromir. Was he locked up in another cell? Was he with the wizard? What would the wizard make him look at? Would he look?

The day passed, with no one coming for him. The night came and went. He spent the next day pacing, helpless, nervous circles. When the sun was sinking, he drank the last water from the jug and forced himself to eat the stale bread that was left from the previous day's breakfast. The chamberpot was beginning to stink.

And still no one came. Another night he spent waking, guarding the door with a club fashioned from the stool he had broken. But no one tried to enter the room.

Another day went by. He was growing thirsty and hungry, and so tired that the room blurred before his eyes. Spending three days and nights awake, waiting for a chance to escape finally wore him down and he fell asleep.

When he woke, the chamberpot was empty and clean, food was laid out on the table. But the door was still closed. And no one answered to his screams.

His thoughts turned back to how he had arrived here. What had he missed? How could he have missed that something was wrong? But he had. He had. And now he, and Boromir were going to pay for it.

It was late at night, when it came to him, lying in the silence of the guest quarters that had become his prison cell, a revelation as gentle as the velvet duvet that covered his bed.

Like Boromir, he was a man of action, and not for the subtleties of political scheming and murderous plans.

A bitter laugh wrenched from his lips.

A trap. It had a trap, right from the beginning, and they had run right into it. There was no other explanation. A trap, designed to capture one who could look into that damn stone. What did Boromir see? he wondered. What did the wizard want him to see? And why was he - Éomund - still alive, now that the trap was sprung? Why?

The days went by, and there was no answer.

He tried to remain awake long enough to capture his guards when they cleaned out the chamber pot and brought new food, but with uncanny precision they waited always long enough for him to break down and fall asleep. And he was aware that every time he broke down, simply, ignominously falling asleep because he could not remain awake any longer without rest, without food and water, grew shorter and shorter. He also suspected that the food was drugged, because he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. His thoughts were wandering and when he attempted some simple exercises to limber tight muscles, he found his reactions sluggish and slow.

Still he attempted to stay awake, to guard the door, biding his time, and hoping, hoping for a chance to escape.

Saruman paced his tower room, his thoughts agitated. He was irritated with the Man of Gondor, but even more so with himself. He had truly not expected the son of Denethor to be so difficult to control, in spite of the evidence of his strength. Yes, his will was strong and his resistance to the power of suggestion great, but still... It had been long since Saruman had been countered at every turn, and this by a mere mortal!

The plan to have Boromir use the palantír had been a good one -- had not the heir of Gondor come to him just when he needed him most to test the use of the seeing stone? One with the inherited right to use the stone could learn of its uses more safely then he; Saruman had only to look on, watching, without putting himself in danger too soon, before he was ready. Perhaps the stone, once again tuned to use by one who wielded it by right, could be then more easily turned to his own need, without him having to risk himself. The power of his own mind was great, and once he knew he could do so without risk, Saruman knew his strength would be enough to see much and use it for his own advancement -- and to search for that Thing he desired above all else...

But first, he had to know more about the stone. Would it look where he needed it to look? Could it be used to a purpose, or would it only show random images that were of no use to him? Boromir's gazing would help him with that. He was the one with the blood right, and had the best chance of success in turning the palantír to his will. And his will was very strong!

In his heart of hearts, Saruman had hoped that Boromir, under the spell of his voice, could be controlled to look for him, and perhaps even see something that would give him a clue where to search for the One Ring. Boromir, of all Men, might feel that same drawing to a tool that would give him power over others, for was he not young and strong, and a leader of men? Surely he would desire more, much more, as he grew older! That pride in himself and his future might guide his eyes to see that which Saruman most desired to see. And if he did see something to Saruman's advantage, there would be time afterwards to deal with Boromir's memory of that knowledge...

Boromir's strength of mind and will had been all that Saruman could have hoped for. But that was exactly the problem. Saruman had overreached himself when he had played on Boromir's relationship to Éomund and the alliance with Rohan to convince him to look in the stone. Use it to your advantage, and Rohan’s, he had said persuasively to Boromir. Seek the solution to this devastating plague. Find the cure, and you will have the undying gratitude of the kings of Rohan for all time. They will honor and revere Lord Boromir above all others...

And that was what Boromir had done. That and little else! Oh, he had seen many visions, of places he had never been and sights he had never seen in person -- but they had all been of Rohan, whether to the East or to the South, or to the northern plains that extended past Fangorn to the Wold. The solution to the plague was Boromir's most pressing need, for it would help his friend and ally, and strengthen the ties between them, thereby bringing glory and honor to himself. He had little thought for other things at this time, or perhaps Saruman could have made better use of his seeing ability. But no matter how many times he had urged Boromir to look again, gaze in this direction or that, tell what was to be seen when the stone is directed thus -- it was all for naught, as far as Saruman was concerned.

Well, perhaps not entirely for naught. Saruman had at least been assured that he could use the stone with care and not be caught. He had feared to use it himself, in case one of the other stones might have fallen into the hands of Sauron in Mordor. He did not think he would win a battle of minds with the Dark Lord -- at least not at this point in time! Once he had found the Ruling Ring, perhaps things would be otherwise...

But his own trial of the palantír would have to wait. There was much to be done, to repair the current situation and regain the advantage he had held. Saruman had unexpectedly been countered in his secret strategies by Boromir's ability with the palantír -- another reason why he was irritated with the Gondorian! In his surveying of the lands of Rohan in the stone of seeing, Boromir had actually hit upon the cause of the plague. Still under the influence of Saruman's guiding voice, he had reported seeing bands of Uruk-hai roaming the eastern lands near the Emyn Muil in pursuit of the horses that roamed there. Boromir had even been innately skilled enough in the use of the stone to be able to isolate the vision and draw in on it for a closer look! And what he had seen had revealed to him that the Uruk-hai were doing something to the horses that made them ill.

Those Uruk-hai answered to Sauron as their lord and master.

It was well that the palantír could not reveal the truth that the horses were being poisoned under Saruman's own orders, as a first step in establishing dominance over Rohan. He would have to make certain that Boromir remained ignorant of that truth, in spite of what he had seen.

And then there was the Marshal of Rohan to deal with. Éomund might be difficult to coddle and convince, after so many days of imprisonment. Surely he must suspect something by now! If so, it was of no consequence. His mind was weak enough that Saruman would be able to sway him and make him forget. Boromir, on the other hand, would be the one to prove difficult.

A gentle tapping at the door to his chamber drew him out of his thoughts.

"Enter!"

The door opened and the man Gríma entered. He bowed before Saruman with reverence.

"You called for me, my lord?"

***

Boromir stretched, and turned his head carefully this way and that. Yes, there was still pain at the base of his skull, but it was dulled now, and his mind was clearer than it had been for days. Looking in that stone must have taken more strength out of him than he had at first realized. He had been at it for hours, and mightily weary he had been afterwards! But Saruman had given him a draught of something, to help him recover from the effects of the strain. Since then, he had done little but sleep.

But he had now had enough of sleeping, and he was ready to get back to the business at hand. Éomund would surely be wondering what had happened to him – though Boromir seemed to recall someone telling him in response to his queries that Éomund had fallen ill and was unable to visit him. He hoped the Marshal was well once more, for now that he himself was feeling better, there were things to be done, if this plague was to be stopped and the horses of Rohan saved. Boromir felt certain he had seen something that would aid in the production of a cure, though he could not quite remember what it was. He would have to speak to Saruman about it; he had been present, of course, and had made note of everything Boromir had seen and shared as he reported the visions that came to him in the stone.

What an extraordinary experience it had been! he recalled. Even now, he felt drawn to look in the palantír again, to see what else could be learned to Gondor's advantage – and to his. Would that he had such a tool in his own keeping! The knowledge it would give him for Gondor's defense would be invaluable.

Boromir sighed, and smiled ruefully to himself. There was little chance of Saruman allowing him to look again in the stone on a whim, and there were no such artifacts to be found anywhere else. Not that he knew of, at least. If any were to be had in Gondor, his father would have found them by now, and he would have shared that knowledge with his son and heir.

There was a knock at the door and a rattle of the latch, and the grey-haired healer entered the chamber.

“Ah, Linhir!” Boromir smiled in greeting. “You have come to check on my well-being, no doubt. And scold me for not being more careful!”

“I have,” retorted the healer. “You require such attention, my lord Boromir, not to mention scolding! You will insist upon putting yourself in danger with little thought for the consequences. I suppose it never entered your mind that your health might be in peril when you submitted to the whim of this wizard? No, I thought not! You are fortunate you fared as well as you did, though I like not this lethargy that has clung to you for days. It is most unusual! Do you still have pain in your head?”

Boromir waved Linhir’s fears away.

“It is nothing. The pain is little more than the ache that comes after a night of too much ale. It will pass. According to the knowledge Saruman has gleaned from his scrolls, the use of these stones is taxing to the uninitiated. I took little hurt, I deem, and it was a small price to pay for knowledge that will help our allies.”

“And are you a healer that you know the full price you are paying?”

“I had to do it, Linhir, for Rohan’s sake! Nothing else matters.”

Linhir frowned, and then relented.

“Yes,” he sighed. “I know! You were honor bound! Still, I wish you had let me attend you while you were expending your strength in this way.”

Boromir shrugged.

“There was no time to discuss the matter, Linhir. But enough of that! Tell me, how are my men? Are they restive, wondering what is keeping us here? Are they being cared for?”

“Fear not, they await you patiently, and have been well-treated during their stay here. The assumption is that you are in long council with the lord Saruman, and I have let them believe that. I did not think it wise for them to know the exact nature of your seclusion, or the reason for it. I will leave that explanation to you to give – or not.”

Boromir nodded slowly.

“I will not lie to them,” he replied firmly. “But neither will I speak of it without need. You have acted wisely. Artifacts of this nature are best not discussed openly – so Saruman says, and I agree. But what of Éomund? I trust he has not spoken openly of these matters… But wait! I seem to recall hearing he had been ill. Is that so, or did I dream it?”

“Nay, you did not dream it. He has been ill, and Wulfgar, as well. Their illness is some form of poisoning from the wounds they received at the hands of the orcs, I deem. I have not seen or examined them myself, however, though I have offered several times. The man Gríma is attending them. He seems to have some skill with healing herbs, and is trusted by the Men of Rohan.”

“Do not look so chagrined, Linhir!” Boromir laughed. “I know it is hard for you not to be the one to care for all who need you. They would trust you if they knew you better. I trust you, at least – with my very life!”

“I thank you for that, my lord,” Linhir replied warmly. “Nor will I fail in that trust – when I am allowed to do my work! Will you now let me examine you and see for myself how you fare, for I will not otherwise be content.”

“Very well,” sighed Boromir. “Do what healers do, and when you are satisfied as to my health, I will seek an audience with Saruman. I must know where we stand in the matters at hand!”

****

The first change in the routine of Éomund’s despair came unexpectedly. He had heard no key turn in the lock to warn him, but suddenly the door opened and in came a man bearing a laden tray of food and drink.

It was Gríma Gálmódson.

“My lord!” Gríma greeted him with a smile. “You are looking much better today. Your illness must have loosed its hold upon you at last!”

“My illness?” stammered Éomund. “I have not been ill! I have been made a prisoner! My weapons have been taken; I have been locked in this room for days on end, and fed nothing but bad water and drugged food!”

“Nay, my lord Éomund,” answered Gríma in a soothing tone. “You are not imprisoned. That was only a dream of your illness! See? Here are your weapons against the wall, where you placed them when you arrived in your chamber, before the fever took you.”

Gríma looked, and was astonished to see his weapons in place, as if they had never been moved or disturbed.

“How came they here?” he cried, feeling greatly confused. “I awoke… they were not here, and the door was locked…”

“Nay,” soothed Gríma. “It was a feverish dream. You have been ill, lord, and Wulfgar, as well. But he, too, is mending, and asking after you.”

“Ill? I can hardly believe it… But… if I have been ill, then why has no one come to see me? Why has no one attended me?”

“I have tended you, lord. Alas, you do not remember! No others were allowed to come, for we were not certain why you had fallen ill. We thought it likely the illness stemmed from poisoned wounds, but as we were not certain, we have kept you isolated from the other men, rather than risk contagion.”

“We?”

“The lord Saruman and myself. I have some skill with herbs, and he taught me more of what I must know in order to draw you back to health.”

Éomund hesitated, still confused, but he could see no reason why it should not be as Gríma had said. It was hard to believe, yet why would Gríma lie to him? Perhaps he truly had been very ill.

“I… I am grateful, Gríma,” he said at last. “I did not know of this skill of yours. But I am indeed grateful. It must be as you say, then, though my memories of these last days hardly seem like a dream. It was so real…”

“I know, lord. It is often like that when one is gravely ill; dreams are more real than reality! Sit you now and rest, I have brought more solid fare to strengthen you. You must regain your strength, so that you can attend the lord Saruman. He awaits you with news.”

Éomund looked up, startled, and his confusion drained away as sudden hope filled his heart.

“Boromir was successful, then? He has discovered what ails our horses?”

“Yes,” replied Gríma with a smile. “A cure is found.”

“These are glad tidings! Long will our people sing of Boromir of Gondor and Saruman the Wise.”

“For as long as the mearas roam the Riddermark. But now you must eat of this venison stew. The meat will give you strength.”

“How long have I lain ill?”

“Ten days, my lord.”

“Then we must away at once. I fear the herds will be lost ere we return to the Eastfold.” Flinging aside the coverlets, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet. The floor swayed, and black spots floated before his eyes. He quickly sat down and bowed his head to his knees.

“Gently, my lord. You are but newly risen from the bed of fever.” Grima filled a cup from the jug on the table and offered it to the marshal. He must have sensed Eomund’s lingering hesitation, for he added, “You were troubled long by dark dreams and it may be some time before they are wholly dispelled, yet you need have no fear—this is naught but clean water drawn from the well. Here, I will even taste it for you. Would I do that if there were poison?” After taking a long draft, Grima held out the cup again.

Ashamed that he had repaid Grima’s kindness with mistrust, Eomund took the cup in unsteady hands and drank, and the indeed he tasted naught but the unmatched sweetness of fresh water on parched lips. When the light-headedness had passed, Grima brought hot water so he could wash away the stink of fever. The dark-haired rider served as an esquire, for Eomund’s hands shook when he tried to unfasten his tunic and he could not pull off his boots unaided. Eyes courteously downcast, Grima helped him bathe and dress in clean garments. Then leaning heavily on the other man’s arm, Eomund went to see how his cousin fared. He had wished to speak to Lord Saruman at once, but Grima had told him that the wizard was still closeted in a high chamber, working without rest to compound the healing powder. Great store would be needed to save the herds from the plague.

Wulfgar looked up with a smile as they entered the chamber. “Eomund! I feared I would not see you again!” He sat in a high-backed chair, with bolsters and velvet coverlets tucked about him, his feet resting on a low footstool. A sling of white linen held his wounded arm. A faint tang of vinegar hung in the air, mingled with the reek of healing herbs.

“Nor I you,” Eomund replied, as he leaned down to embrace his cousin. He almost overbalanced and had to grab the chair back to keep from falling.

“My lord, you should sit,” Grima said with a frown. “Here, take this seat.” Once Eomund was settled among the bolsters, Grima left to fetch him some ale, for this drink was well-known to strengthen sick or wounded men.

Wulfgar grinned. “I feel as if I were home in Aldburg, being nagged and cosseted by my mother. But do not think me ungrateful. If not for his care and the wisdom of Lord Saruman, no doubt we both would have perished.”

“Indeed, we are in Grima’s debt,” Eomund replied. “I will see that Theoden King hears of his good service.” The young rider had risked his own life to tend them during the strange fever, and their lord could not fail to reward such devotion. Perhaps a place would be found for him in the king’s household at Edoras.

Wulfgar had little news to tell. Like Eomund, he had been kept closely confined and had not seen Lord Boromir or his men. He dimly remembered Grima tending him during his illness, and afterwards, the dark-haired rider had kept him company as he slowly recovered. “We play chess when Grima’s duties allow,” he said with a gesture toward a small table. It was cluttered with a chessboard, two tankards of ale, and a half-eaten apple pie. Like many Riders, Wulfgar had carried a small chess set in his saddlebags, but it had been lost with his other belongings when the orcs had taken him captive. Grima must have begged the loan of a board from their host. The battlefield was marked in squares of obsidian and ivory, and the castles rose in pointed spires, in tiny likeness of Orthanc.

Eomund took one of the obsidian pawns and turned it over in his hand. Its leering face reminded him of an orc.

“The next move is Grima’s, though I fear my defeat will be swift,” his cousin told him with a laugh and a shrug. “He will soon destroy my housecarls, leaving my king unprotected. He plays with great cunning.” On the chessboard, the ivory king stood alone, his few remaining retainers scattered across the board.

Eomund carefully set the black pawn back in its appointed square. Why did he feel such unease? The sunlit chamber, the velvet pillows, the bitter smell of herbs, all seemed somehow treacherous, and he wished to find the stables and be swiftly gone from this place, taking his kinsman with him. Yet there was no sign of danger. Your wits are still clouded by fever, he told himself.

************************************

With great regret, Grima told Boromir that his audience must wait until the morrow, for the wizard was compounding the rarest minerals and herbs and could not be disturbed in this work. Boromir was less than pleased by these tidings, for any delay meant further harm to Rohan and also he longed to depart from Isengard. He disliked the need for secrecy in the matter of the palantir, and though Saruman was an old and trusted ally, the thought of his mind laid bare to another filled him with unease.

Instead of taking counsel with the wizard, he went to see how Eomund and his cousin fared, for Grima had told him that the danger of contagion was past. Linhir insisted on going along, and Boromir did not object for he had long since learned the folly of arguing with the old healer.

The marshal sat by the open window, frowning in thought as he stared at the chessboard before him. A great bed, carved from dark wood and draped with somber weavings, stood in the corner. A bare foot hung over the side, and Wulfgar’s fair hair poked out from under a heap of duvets.

As they entered the chamber, Eomund rose to his feet to greet them. In the corner, the bed clothes began to stir.

“I was glad to hear of your swift recovery,” Boromir said to the marshal. “No doubt--”

“You treated them with delunelle?” The old healer glanced at Grima, eyebrows raised. “I can smell the scent of its leaves.”

Grima shook his head. “I know not the learned names for the herbs, master.”

“The plant is named hennebelle in the language of the Mark, hen’s bane in the Common Speech. Is that what you gave them?”

Stuttering slightly, the young Rider replied, “So the Lord Saruman ordered, and the dose was very small.”

“What is this plant?” Boromir asked sharply in Sindarin.

“I doubt that was wise or needful,” the healer said to Grima. “The smallest amount can be deadly if your charge is already weakened. A sick or wounded man may never awake from such a heavy sleep. There are other, less dangerous drafts that bring rest. Try mint or valerian or even a dose of tincture of poppies.”

Flushing darkly, Grima bowed. “I will remember, master. Their wounds still pained them so they could not rest. I meant no harm.”

“Indeed that is plain to see. You are young and still learning the art, though I deem that Lord Saruman might have taken more care to guide you.”

“And no doubt you will tell him so!” Boromir said with a grin. 

Linhir poked and peered at the two Riders and questioned them at great length. Then he asked Grima about his cure for the fever, for he said that much could be learned from the healers of other lands. What herbs did he use? What was their effect? The young rider seemed flustered by this unwonted notice.

When the old healer at last was content, Grima sent for their supper. They dragged the chairs and table to the bedside so Wulfgar need not bestir himself. There they held a merry feast, drinking ale and telling tales until long after midnight. At last, Linhir ordered a halt, for Eomund and his kinsman were still weak from their illness and needed to sleep.

Later, Boromir would look back on this night and curse himself for a fool. Hundreds of miles from Minas Tirith and surrounded by strangers, he should never have dropped his guard, should never have let a friend from his sight. He had just lain down to rest when a servant pounded on the door to his chamber. Hurry, lord! There has been a dreadful mischance. The old healer had lost his footing on the stairs and had fallen twenty feet onto stone.

“There is no help for it,” Linhir whispered to him, but it did not need a healer to see his broken neck and know there was no cure for such hurt. The man’s breathing soon grew labored, yet they dared not move him. “No fever,” Linhir choked out between breaths, and Boromir deemed that the blow to his head had confused him. He was dead by the time that Lord Saruman arrived.

“How did this come to pass? Did he say aught before he died?” the wizard asked gravely.

“No words I understood,” Boromir replied. Struck by grief, he could not bear to say more.

************************************************

“That was ill-done to kill the healer. Now Boromir is wary, and you must be doubly careful.”

“He asked too many questions! What was I to do?”

“Fool! I could have allayed his concerns without the use of force. But no matter now. You must see that no harm befalls the marshal’s kinsman, at least until you reach Edoras. I can ill-afford to have another death laid at my door.”

“What of Eomund? Now he knows of the palantir.”

“Wait a few months, then arrange it. Like many of your people, he is reckless and eager for fame. Perhaps the bold marshal will ride too far in pursuit of an enemy and find an ambush in the Emyn Muil?”

“Hah! As good as done, my lord. And Boromir of Gondor?”

“That fruit is too high on the tree. Let it drop of its own accord when ready. I forsee that his pride will pull him down in ruin. For that, my hand is not needed. Here, make yourself useful. The cure must be measured into those bags.”

“What is it, lord?”

“Umbar yellow. A powder without taste or scent, it is a poison of slow effect, used to treat marsh fever and the Haradric pox. Several weak doses will restore the herds to health. Already I have sent word to the orc troops in the east. The raids will soon stop, and the sickness will spread no farther.”

“But the grasslands are now infested, lord. Will not the horses fall ill again?”

“This sickness flourishes in the burning lands of Harad, so the winter cold will scour the plains clean. The herds will be spared, and Rohan saved for a time.

“You will earn great praise from this venture, Grima. Do not fail me!”

***************************************************

“Is not Theoden still King in the Golden Hall? He has ever been a faithful friend to my people.”

“I cannot say what welcome you will find, my lord. Much has changed since last you rode to Edoras. He is king but only in name. For even as one plague was cured, another pestilence was loosed upon the Mark.” Eomer threw an armful of branches on the fire, then stood back as sparks shot into the darkness. “Soon after your party returned, my father and Wulfgar were slain. Their patrol was waylaid in the eastern hills. All well-tried men, yet they rode unheeding into a trap.”

“Treachery?”

The young marshal nodded his head. “Grima Galmodson led the survivors to safety then brought the tidings to Edoras. They say that he wept as he told our lord.” He spat into the fire. “And that was but the beginning of our ruin. Now Theoden King has lost his wits and is led like a child by Grima.”

“There have been strange tidings of late from the Mark, but this…” Boromir scowled and tapped the hilt of his sword. “You are not without friends, son of Eomund. When I return from my errand to the north, let us draw swords together and rid the Golden Hall of this vermin. Your people will swiftly rally to our banner.”

In the morning, he took leave of Eomer and set out on the Great West Road. The empty miles passed quickly for he traveled alone and lightly encumbered. The thatched roofs of Meduseld gleamed in the evening light, but heeding the marshal’s warning, he did not stop in Edoras. His thoughts grew to fill the silence, and as he crossed the grassy plains, a shadow of unease fell across his mind. Linhir’s death had always seemed a strange mischance, for despite his gray hair, the healer had been both strong and sure-footed. During the journey to Rohan, he had ridden apace with soldiers half his age. Then, scarcely two months after his unlikely death, Eomund and his kinsman had been ambushed in the wild. Fate had betrayed them, or so it had seemed. Yet now Boromir pondered how, of all his companions in Isengard, only he and Grima survived.

When the rockwall of Isengard rose above the plain, Boromir kept his horse turned to the west, skirting well to the south of the stronghold. He faced an uncertain road, for he knew not the path to Imladris, yet he would not seek the counsel of Saruman. Better to find his own way than to trust in the meddling of wizards.

The End