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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

 CHAPTER 5: COUNTERING


White Mountains

Twilight had fallen when he woke. And despite the thick cloak he had tightly wrapped around himself, Éomer felt at once that the temperatures had again dropped. A lazy trail of vapour rose from his mouth with each of his breaths, and as he lifted a hand to wipe his eyes which were still heavy with sleep, his fingers brushed over a thick crust of ice that had formed in his beard. Disorientation washed over him while he waited for his eyes to accommodate to the darkness, his muscles involuntarily tensing as he straightened, grimacing when his stiff body creaked and groaned in reaction to the movement. Finally, he dimly remembered where he was, and with a soundless groan, settled back against the wall of the cave. This was not the dungeon. They had not found him yet.

Turning his likewise creaking neck to look outside, Èomer found to his relief that the snowstorm had stopped while he had been asleep. To the east, a great stripe of inken blackness began to paint the sky that was only weakly lit by the myriads of tiny bright pin-pricks, which sparkled like precious jewels on a bed of velvet. Due north, the greatest of them, marking the eye in Felarof’s outline on the nightly firmament, cast its cold light onto the frozen Mark, and later, the waxing moon would add its silvery light to the sparkle and reflect from the unspoiled blanket of white that covered the ground. It would be a bright night, a beautiful night, but Éomer felt not in the mood to appreciate its wonders. Snow was enjoyable only for as long as one had a home to return to once the fun of frolicking around in the white wetness was over and one’s limbs were numb from the hours in the cold. In his current situation, it was both a blessing and a curse: for as long as he remained where he was, the snow would be his friend, for it covered the tracks he had made on the way and muffled all noise, both his own… and those of potential foes. And as soon as he left this hideout, it would betray his whereabouts to anyone looking for him.

Slowly rolling his shoulders to warm up his aching muscles for the task at hand, Éomer mused whether they were already searching for him. Would they try to follow him from Edoras, or come at him from a direction they thought he wouldn’t expect? Did they have an inkling where he was headed? And who would his hunters be; orcs? Dunlendings? Or Felrod and his companions? It would be too good to be true. Éomer felt confident that he had what it took to take Gríma’s henchman down without looking twice. The mud-blooded filth was strong, but the light in his head shone not too brightly.

His gaze once more travelling over the twilit plains and finding nothing alarming, Éomer finally forced himself to his feet. It was not late yet, and some time remained before moonrise. The night would be too bright for a man in his situation, and the low temperatures would likewise work against him as they inevitably meant visible clouds of breath. At least, that would be a disadvantage he shared with his hunters... if he came across them. He did not expect Gríma to know of his secret hiding place in the fringes of the White Mountains, but if he did, the small grove of trees and the reed-covered edges of the Snowbourne would make for an interesting, deadly game of hide and seek.

It was time to move out. With a last sweep of his surroundings, Éomer carefully descended the narrow path to where he had left his trusted steed. Firefoot was nowhere to be seen when he reached the sheltered vale, but following the tracks in the snow, Éomer quickly discovered him underneath a crevice further back, and the big grey at once made his way over in response to his master’s low whistle, a low whicker leaving his throat in greeting. A thin, humourless smile wandered over Éomer’s face as he watched the stallion approach: there was another good side to the snow – it hid his horse well, dissolving the dappled dark and light grey form as it moved through the night. It was about time that something worked to his advantage.

Snorting and expelling a white cloud of warm air in Éomer’s face, Firefoot came to a halt in front of his master, thankful for company after the long hours of solitude. The feeling was mutual. Rubbing the stallion’s cheeks with his gloved hands, Éomer’s smile deepened. It was good to be no longer alone.

“Good lad. Good lad. What would I do without you?” He pressed his face into the thick winter-fur, briefly rejoicing in the sensation of warmth on his half-frozen skin before he gave himself the mental nudge to proceed. “Say, oh grey one, do you feel ready for an adventure?” A low guttural noise answered him and the way his horse clamped his teeth shut around the folds of his cloak to chew on them told Éomer that for once, Firefoot would probably have preferred the shelter of a warm, comfortable stable, a manger filled with oats and a good rub-down instead of his offering. He raised a brow in apology and patted the muscular neck. “I am sorry we are out here, Firefoot, but it seems that it cannot be helped for now. Let us pick up my weapons first, and then I will pay my debt and find you a warm, cosy cave for the night, what do you say?” With a last friendly clap, Éomer seized a handful of the stallion’s thick mane and swung himself onto the broad back. “Let us be on our way. The sooner we are finished with this business, the sooner we will be warm again.”

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

THE PLAINS

A very distinct feeling of anxiety had befallen Élric. At first, it had been but a vague notion of danger that had nestled in the pit of his gut even as he rummaged around in his workplace to find the items he would pack for Éomer. He had thought nothing of it, had even shoved it aside to concentrate on the task at hand. It was perfectly explainable why he felt uneasy; after all, he was preparing for an undertaking that would be regarded as an act of treason if he was caught, an undertaking that could easily cost him his head. For the briefest of moments, a voice in the back of his mind asked angrily why, of all the powerful people she knew, Éowyn had sought out him for her dangerous errand. He was no warrior. He knew how to wield a sword well enough from his sparrings with the White Lady and her brother, and because his profession as a metal-worker and weapons smith required such knowledge, but the truth was that he had never held a weapon of any kind against a living being with murderous intentions. How could she ask this of him?

The voice was abruptly silenced by the one he had been listening to all his life: the two siblings were his friends. They had grown up together, and the fact that he had been eight years older than Éomer had mattered little, because in certain regards, their minds had been alike. As the eldest of three brothers, Élric had displayed the same streak of fierce protectiveness toward his younger brothers as Éomer had toward his sister, and extending his protection to the king’s nephew and niece had not even been a conscious resolution but something that had simply happened. At first, Éomer had seemed irritated by it, but soon he had learned to take advantage of the situation by teaching his older and strongly-built friend the finer rules of swordplay he learned during his daily training lessons before passing Élric off to his uncle as a valiant protector he would rather wish to take along on his forays outside Edoras instead of a member of the Royal Guard.

And so it had happened that as a commoner, Élric had spent an unusual amount of time with the two royal siblings, learning of their secrets and hiding places as their friendship gradually deepened. It was friendship which had landed him in this pickle, and if the son of Bergfinn the blacksmith knew one thing, it was that friendships were proven in hard hours, not on days where the sun smiled down upon them. It had been a while since his sword lessons with Éomer, but Élric was nevertheless determined to be a good friend, a friend whose loyalty would not waver under any circumstance. And so here he was, riding out into the middle of a beginning snowstorm all by himself even though it could cost him his head in more ways than just one. What if he ran into orcs? What if something happened to his horse and he would be unable to return to Edoras before nightfall? And what if his departure had indeed been noticed by the wrong people?

For the umpteenth time since he had left the city, Élric’s gaze went back over his shoulder, and his heart missed a beat when this time, he discovered indeed four shadows to his far left, almost invisible behind the thick curtain of falling snow. The cold hand of fear tightening its grip on his stomach, his mind began to race. It could simply be a coincidence; after all, he was still on the road. Perhaps those riders had nothing to do with him. But what if? Should he try to outrace them? In these conditions of poor visibility, it might indeed be possible for him to disappear. But no, Élric dismissed the thought almost instantly. In addition to being a few years past his prime, the heavy-boned gelding he rode was not built for speed. And what use was there in shaking his pursuers if he had been identified and would be interrogated upon his return to Edoras? Fleeing would be an acknowledgement of guilt. No, the only way to handle this situation would be to keep to the plan he had made before his departure.

Quickly the shadows grew more solid which each of the horses’ leaps. Their riders were here for him, Élric noticed, because even though their steeds could have easily overtaken him at the slow pace he was going at, they remained level with him for a while before they were suddenly directed toward him, encircling him. Fighting against the panic rising in his chest as he recognised the heavily cloaked guards, Élric pulled on the reins and brought Gaér to an abrupt halt to not run into the rider who blocked his way.

“Excuse me, my lords, is aught wrong? Has a danger been reported on the road, or—“

“It is I who asks the questions here, blacksmith,” the rider before him growled impatiently, and Élric recognised him from the bushy black eyebrows as the man seen most often in the company of the king’s counsellor. “Whereto are you riding in this storm? I gather it must be rather important for you to leave the city under these conditions.”

They were all around him now, so close that Gaér fidgeted in discomfort at the other steeds’ proximity. Fighting with his mount as well as his own rising fear, Élric drew his eyebrows together in an attempt to appear righteously angry over the intrusion.

“I am indeed on my way to my brother’s family in the Folde. I finished a few tools for him today that he will have need of if these temperatures remain or drop even lower, as predicted. Like this axe here, for example.” He took it out of its pouch to show it to the guards. “His own was stolen, and he will need it for firewood.”

“And when was it that your brother told you?” the deep voice rebuked. “A few weeks ago? I cannot remember having seen anyone enter Edoras who did not dwell there since the beginning of winter. And only now that the weather turns ill you suddenly remember?”

“I had no iron to work with,” Élric insisted. “Like you said, there were no traders in the last weeks from outside. So I finally decided to melt some old horse-shoes yesterday and reworked them. I felt I could not longer wait.”

“And decided to ride through the hardest storm we had all winter to bring that axe to your brother. Aw, such loving dedication breaks my heart! My brother would rather kill me than do such a thing for me!” The ice-encrusted eyebrows twitched meaningfully while the other men laughed, then suddenly, there was the flicker of bright metal, and Élric found himself in the snow, his feet still in the stirrups of his saddle which had slid from his horse’s back. With a single fast swipe of his sword, the guard had cut his saddle girth, leaving a bloody scrape on the side of the old gelding. With a panicked scream, Gaér bolted, and the blacksmith suddenly found himself in the midst of an ever-tightening circle of restlessly shifting horses. Virtually at the last second, he withdrew his hand before a heavy hoof landed on it and crushed his bones. Deadly afraid and at the same time with mounting anger, he craned back his neck to glare at the leader of the pack.

“What have I done, my lord? How can you—“

“Look what’s in his saddlebags, Dôrlak,” Felrod ignored him, and his companion to the left quickly slid from his saddle and drew his sword. “I got a funny feeling that we have found the first Rohír in the history of the Mark who tries to tell us fairy-tales.”

“You cannot do this!” Hastily, Élric freed his feet of the stirrups and robbed backwards, with a quick glance trying to determine where his axe had fallen, but his path was cut off by another guard. “You are in the King’s service, you swore to protect us, not to terrorise us, have you forgotten? What you are doing is against the law!”

“It is funny that you should talk about the law, blacksmith,” Felrod replied calmly while he accepted the heavy leather pouch Dôrlak held up for him. Once glance into it was enough to determine the contents. The guards voice dropped to a dangerous snarl. “After all, you seem to be in the very process of violating it yourself in the most serious manner. Or do you want to tell me in all honesty that these weapons are for your brother, too?” He unsheathed the short sword he had found in the pouch and pretended to examine it. “Not a particularly kingly instrument. I assume it is for your brother to cut bread with because his knife has been stolen as well?” He threw it into the snow and took out a thin, sharp-bladed knife instead. “This is a much better work, even worthy of belonging to a member of the Royal Guard. Thank you for that wonderful gift.” He kept it in his gloved fist as he dismounted, the threat in his bearing unmistakable.

“You cannot do this!” Élric repeated anxiously, finally succeeding in scrambling to his feet, but he fell again when the rider behind him shoved him down by riding into him, and then the son of Bergfinn screamed when the horse’s hoof stomped forcefully on his thigh, breaking the bone with an audible crack.

Running a finger over the glistening blade of the knife, Felrod came to a halt only a step away from their groaning victim and glowered down onto the injured man with grim promise in his eyes.

“You have still not told us whose weapons these are, but that is all right, for I can easily guess. What I cannot yet guess is where you will meet with Éomer, but that is all right, too, for you will tell me!” He squatted down in the snow, his piercing gaze never once leaving Élric’s face. “You will tell me, blacksmith, or I swear, even though it is cold now, I will make you sweat every ounce of pain your body is capable of before I kill you, and upon my return, I will see to it that your parents and that treacherous bitch the king’s niece sent to you will be arrested and thrown into the dungeon. I doubt they would last very long down there. It is dark, and cold, and moist. In winter, most prisoners perish quickly from the infection to their lungs they catch there.” He shook his head and grimaced. “They suffocate on their own matter. Some take days before it is finally over. It is a very ugly death I’ve been told.”

“My parents have nothing to do with it,” Élric breathed, horrified by the thought. “They do not know—“

“Do you honestly believe that I care, traitor?” The gleaming steel-blade held directly in front of his victim’s face, Felrod’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “Tell me where you were taking these weapons, and they shall live. Lie to me – and I’ll make it true. It is your choice!”

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

MEDUSELD

The world behind the windows had turned dark grey when the old healer’s expression finally lit up. In the warm light of the flickering candles and oil lamps, the woman’s wrinkled face looked ancient to the frightened handmaiden who shared her watch over the king’s niece, but for the first time since they had entered Éowyn’s chambers, Maelwyn was certain that it was relief she saw reflected in the pale blue eyes. For hours they had tended Éowyn, administering her bitter teas and potions and wrapping the White Lady’s calves and brow with cold, wet cloths to lower the fever that burned within her body until the first results showed.

Maelwyn had assisted as best she could by fetching and sending the other servants for the items and herbs needed, but on the whole, she had been forced to stand back and watch with a terrible feeling of helplessness how Éowyn restlessly shifted on her sweat-soaked bed. The secret she carried within about her conversation with the healer’s son burnt on Maelwyn’s tongue, and yet she dared not utter a word in the presence of the old woman for fear that Éowyn, who kept unconsciously mumbling to herself in her fevered dreams, would accidentally spill it herself to the wrong ears. How much she longed to tell her lady that her plan had worked and help for her brother was underway; how much she longed to ease Éowyn’s troubled mind, but although they seemed to be alone in these chambers, Maelwyn remembered all-too-clearly the glance the counsellor had given her upon her return to the Golden Hall. As soon as his pale blue eyes had found her climbing up the stairs to the terrace, they had held her captive; piercing her like an arrow would pierce a deer. It had seemed to her that he had looked right into her head, not seeing her treacherous thoughts clearly but sensing their distinct scent nonetheless. Luckily, Yálanda had quickly pulled her along and out of the dark man’s reach, but even as the door had closed behind her, it seemed to the young handmaiden as if she could still feel the counsellor’s stare on her back.

Éowyn’s plight, however, had soon occupied her thoughts so thoroughly that the counsellor had been forgotten. Strewn on her bed, her always pale face so ghostly white that Maelwyn had actually feared for a moment that they had arrived too late, Éowyn had seemed near death, too weak to lift her head or even speak as Yálanda began her work on her. This was not the situation her mistress had prepared her for. Yes, she had said that the potion would give her a fever serious enough for the healer needing to be summoned, but not that it would bring her to the brink of death itself. Éomer would be horrified if he ever learned that his sister had almost killed herself in order bring him help.

Only now that she felt encouraged by the healer’s satisfied expression, Maelwyn dared to stand up from the chair in the corner she had occupied for some time now, silently observing, and asked:

“Is the fever dropping?” She was granted a tired nod.

“Aye. She feels cooler to the touch. It deems me that she has mastered the worst of it.” Gently, Yálanda smoothed a wet strand of Éowyn’s golden hair from her exhausted looking face, and her eyes registered with satisfaction the regular rising and falling of her patient’s chest as she slid deeper into the arms of healing sleep. “Sleep well, child. We are here, watching over you.” She turned to Maelwyn.

“I will remain in Meduseld for the night, Lady Maelwyn, but I cannot deny that I am feeling fatigued myself. I believe it would be best if we could split the night watch between the two of us, that is if you could stay, too.”

To the young handmaiden, it was not even a question.

“Of course, Mistress Healer. I would not want leave my lady in this state and go home; I could find no sleep myself that way. I already sent one of the lads home to tell my husband. He will understand.” She looked at the peacefully sleeping Éowyn. “It was horrible to see her suffer so much. Do you truly believe that the worst has passed?”

“Aye, child. It looks to me like the White Lady is sleeping the sleep of healing now. I would be surprised if she woke before tomorrow evening. The rest will do her more good than I could ever do with all my herbs and potions. Do not worry, Maelwyn, I am certain that you mistress will survive this. – But tell me, could I ask you to keep the first watch? I am no longer as energetic as you, young lady, and fear that I need a few hours of rest myself before I can continue, as much as I would like to remain at Éowyn’s side.”

Maelwyn smiled.

“Of course, Mistress Yálanda. Sleep well. I will remain here.”

“I will be in the guest chambers should you need me, and release you of your watch three hours after moonrise. But do not hesitate to wake me earlier if something arises.” With considerable effort, Yálanda made her way over to the door, bent like an old branch. Touching the handle, she looked back. “Shall I instruct the kitchen to send you something? I cannot remember having seen you eat the whole day.”

Maelwyn’s smile deepened as she sat down on the edge of Éowyn’s bed.

“That would be nice, my lady. Now that you mention it, I do indeed feel hungry.”

Yalandá nodded.

“I will tell them to send you some soup and bread. It is ill enough that the king’s niece has been struck down by the fever, we cannot afford to have the few people of intelligence and compassion left in this hall weakened, too. It is us who hold the kingdom together these days.” The door closed behind her to a silence that was only interrupted by the crackle of the fireplace.

Love and concern in her eyes, Maelwyn gently laid a hand on Éowyn’s brow to feel for herself. Aye, the lady definitely felt cooler to the touch.

“Fear not, my Lady,” she whispered confidentially. “Help for your brother is on the way.”





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