16: The Scouts Return

Heruthain and his men returned two hours later, their expressions grim. Heruthain held a youth in his arms, obviously the missing Hardbeorht, looking waxen. Hilderic, Aragorn and Grimbold were at the entrance before the ramp to meet him.

"Is he dead?" Hilderic asked quietly.

Heruthain shook his head. "But he is sorely wounded."

Aragorn gestured for Heruthain to give the lad over to his waiting arms and the older man complied. "Grimbold, help me," he ordered as he attempted to ease the unconscious man to the ground so he could take a look. Grimbold did as he was told. Wídfara ran up at that moment with a thin wooden box in his hands and held it out to Aragorn.

"Here, lord," he said breathlessly. "I’ve brought you your medicaments."

Aragorn smiled up at the young Rider. "My thanks, Wídfara. Hold you the box for a moment."

Wídfara nodded and stood to one side while Aragorn swiftly but competently took stock of Hardbeorht’s injuries. The head wound was the worst and explained the lad’s continued unconsciousness. There was an arrow stub lodged in his back, just below the ribcage, miraculously missing the major organs. "He must have fallen from his horse," he half muttered to himself, "that would explain the head wound."

Heruthain, who had since dismounted to crouch beside his nephew’s son, nodded. "No sign of the horse, and we wouldn’t have found him in the tall grass had not Grimhelm seen a glint of metal shining in the sun."

Aragorn nodded. "We need to get the arrow out. Help me to the infirmary and I will do what I can. He’s lost much blood and the head wound is worrying. He may not live."

Heruthain grimaced at that and the faces of those around them darkened into something near to grief, but there was silence as a litter was brought and Hardbeorht carefully placed on it. Aragorn took his medical box from Wídfara with a nod of thanks and followed the litter. Hilderic stayed Heruthain with a hand.

"Thorongil will do what he can to save the lad. I need you to tell me all you saw while out there. How close to Helm’s Deep was he when he was felled?"

Whatever Heruthain answered, Aragorn did not hear as he continued into the keep. Once at the infirmary he ordered Hardbeorht stripped and boiling water brought. Wídfara and Grimbold were with him and acted as his assistants. The arrow was lodged closer to the heart than Aragorn liked, but he did not think dangerously so.

"Heruthain was wise not to try to remove the arrow," he said, "else the lad would have bled to death before they reached the Deeping-Coomb. As it is, he may still bleed to death. Is the water ready?"

It was, and for several tense moments all watched as Aragorn carefully cut around the barb. "Normally, I would just push the arrowhead through, but this close to the heart..." He grimaced and continued working until he was able to remove the arrow. As soon as it was out blood gushed but he had been prepared for it and began packing the open wound with Grimbold’s help. Eventually the blood flow slowed and the packing was carefully removed, one layer at a time until Aragorn could examine the wound more closely.

"At least the arrowhead wasn’t poisoned," he said with some relief. Then he took some athelas from his store of medicinals, breathed on the leaves and crushed them before throwing them into a waiting bowl of cooling water. The air became redolent with the smell of horse and spring rain and all there felt immensely refreshed. Even Hardbeorht, still unconscious, seemed to breathe easier and his color returned. Then Aragorn began laving the arrow wound as well as the head wound with the athelas-water, cleaning the areas around them before reaching for his sewing kit. In the meantime, on his orders, a poultice was made from comfrey root and he had Wídfara prepare some willow-bark tea.

"We need to get some of it in him," Aragorn explained as he began the tedious task of stitching the wounds. "It will help stave off infection. He’s already feverish."

When the wounds had been closed, the poultice was smeared on them and they were bound up. By this time, to Aragorn’s relief, Hardbeorht was beginning to stir though he did not regain full consciousness. Still, it was enough to allow him to take a few sips of the tea before slipping into a more natural sleep. Grimbold and Wídfara made him as comfortable as possible while Aragorn washed the blood from his hands and began the cleaning up.

"He is not out of the woods yet, but he is young and strong and healthy, so he has a chance of recovering," he reported to Hilderic and Heruthain some minutes later when he went in search of the Marshal and his second. The two men sighed with some relief and Heruthain gave the Dúnadan a warrior’s clasp in gratitude.

"Thank you, my lord," he said fervently. "My sister-son will be relieved to know that his only child yet lives."

"Time will tell," Aragorn cautioned, but he himself was optimistic that the boy would recover. He did not, however, voice his concern about the head wound. There was no guarantee that some damage to the brain had not occurred but he would not dampen Heruthain’s optimism at this point. Time enough for that when Hardbeorht wakened and his physical and mental states could be better assessed. In the meantime...

"Where was he found?"

Heruthain went to the wall map and pointed to a spot not far from Helm’s Deep. "About here. He was within an hour of reaching us."

"He rode all that way, only to be felled so close to his destination?" Aragorn asked disbelievingly. "Was he still carrying the message tube?"

Heruthain shook his head. "No, or rather, his horse probably did, but whether it simply ran off or was taken, I do not know. I only know that the lad was left for dead."

The bleakness of the man’s tone touched Aragorn and he laid a comforting hand on Heruthain’s shoulder. "That you found him when you did is a blessing not to be dismissed. Hardbeorht has a good chance for a complete recovery. Those who sought his life will be disappointed that they did not succeed."

Heruthain gave the Dúnadan a grateful nod.

"I have already apprised Heruthain of my uncle’s message," Hilderic said then. "I fear we are on our own."

"That Hardbeorht was attacked this close to Helm’s Deep rather than earlier is troubling," Aragorn said as he eyed the map. "Why did they wait so long before waylaying him? Had he been attacked soon after leaving Edoras, he would surely have died before anyone could find him."

Hilderic gazed thoughtfully at the map, then turned to Heruthain. "Find the horse."

Heruthain nodded, gave the Marshal a salute and left. Aragorn nodded. "Find the horse, and we may find some answers."

"Answers we sorely need," Hilderic agreed.

****

Over the next two days, Aragorn stayed close to Hardbeorht, tending to him with Wídfara’s help. The man regained consciousness briefly, long enough for Aragorn to know that there appeared to be minimal brain damage, for Hardbeorht knew who he was, recognized Heruthain and remembered his mission for Thengel, but had no memory of the actual attack.

"Not an uncommon thing with head injuries," Aragorn assured Hilderic and Heruthain after Hardbeorht had fallen asleep again. "Often the events surrounding the injury are lost to memory. That he is cognizant of his surroundings and recognizes others is heartening. I have every confidence that he will make a full recovery."

Both men breathed sighs of relief. There had been no sign of the horse as yet, but Hilderic had sent trackers who were well acquainted with every nook and cranny between Helm’s Deep and the Snowbourn and was confident some trace of the horse or the attackers would be found. In the meantime, it was a waiting game.

"Gilhael should return soon," Aragorn said at one point. "He’s been gone long enough to either find what needs to be found or to get into trouble. I just wish I were there to haul him out of it if that is the case."

Heruthain gave the younger man a grim smile. "The price of sending men out on missions, my lord," he said as he, Aragorn, Grimbold and Hilderic sat in the Marshal’s study sipping ale and going over the logistics of a winter campaign. "I am a man of action myself and little like sitting around like some grandam waiting for her grandchildren to visit."

Aragorn chuckled. "You should take up knitting to while away the hours, then," he suggested teasingly. "I understand it’s very relaxing."

Heruthain grunted and took a swallow of his ale but he was smiling behind his mug and did not take offense.

"I do need a new pair of socks, now that I think about it," Grimbold said to Heruthain with a straight face. "Perhaps you could knit me a pair."

"Ga ásúgan æg," Heruthain said amiably.

The other men laughed uproariously at that. Then the four of them spent the next half hour teasingly suggesting possible hobbies for each other, each suggestion more outrageous than the next.

A knock on the door sobered them and when Hilderic bade the person to enter they saw Wídfara there, looking somewhat grim. "Lord, the scouting party to the Westmark is returning. One... one of the horses is riderless."

Aragorn was the first one out the door, running pell-mell through the redoubt to the front gate, reaching it just as the party in question was making its way up the ramp. The others were right behind him. The Dúnadan went white when he realized he could not see Gilhael.

"What happened?" he cried out. "Háma, where is my cousin?"

Háma gave Aragorn a sorrowful look. "He ordered us to return, lord."

"Is he alive then?"

The Rohir scout nodded. "When last we saw him. He was running towards the Isen."

Aragorn was about to ask for more details when Hilderic intervened. "Háma, come with us. The rest of you, see to your horses and go you to your rest. Are there any injured?"

There were none, so Hilderic dismissed them. Aragorn, Heruthain and Grimbold followed Hilderic and Háma back into the redoubt and to Hilderic’s office. Wídfara followed as a matter of course. As they were making their way through the fortress, Háma suddenly reeled, putting a hand to his head. Aragorn caught him just in time.

"Wídfara," he ordered the young man, "go you and bring me my box of medicinals and have someone bring boiling water."

Wídfara nodded and ran off to do Aragorn’s bidding even as Háma was protesting. "I am not injured, lord, only weary."

"Then I have just the thing to revive you, my friend. Come, the Marshal’s office is not far and then you can rest."

The room proved overly small for them all, so Hilderic bade that the door be kept open to emit more air. Within minutes Wídfara came and Aragorn took the box, selecting a couple of leaves and a tincture, mixing them together into the pot of boiling water that also had been brought. At once the room was infused with a fresh scent that left them all feeling better. Aragorn let the leaves steep for a few minutes and allowed the water to cool somewhat before pouring some into a goblet and handing it to Háma who took the proffered drink gratefully.

"Now, tell us what happened," Hilderic ordered the scout.

Háma complied, after taking a couple of sips of the tea. "We went into the Westmark, but not back to the place where the éored was attacked. Tungolfród led us instead towards the Fords...."

"Why the Fords?" Háma asked Gilhael as they rode together.

"The Fords are the only place where any can cross the Isen safely. That band of orcs and Dunlendings were heading in this direction. I want to see if they made it to the Fords themselves."

"And if they didn’t?" Éobeorht asked, riding on the other side of the Dúnadan. Guthwulf was taking his turn riding point.

Gilhael gave them a feral grin. "Then it means that they either crossed the Isen elsewhere or..."

"Or they’re still in the Westmark, hiding," Háma finished the thought for him. Gilhael nodded.

"But where could they possibly hide that we could not find them?" Éobeorht asked with a troubled look on his face.

"Somewhere in plain sight, I suspect," Gilhael replied with a sigh.

The two Rohirrim gave him questioning looks. Gilhael smiled grimly. "If you want to hide a tree, where would you hide it?"

For a moment the two men said nothing, both deep in thought. Then they both gasped almost as one, stealing glances to the north where the dark smudge that was Fangorn Forest could be dimly discerned. Gilhael merely nodded as they continued riding.

When they reached the Isen they found that it was running swiftly with the autumn rains, although not so much as it would in the Spring with snow melt. Still, while the Fords were yet passable, care needed to be taken in the crossing. The scouts were not planning to cross.

Gilhael and the other men dismounted and began spreading out in search of signs of recent crossings of the Fords. They were hoping the recent rains would not have washed away all traces, but would have allowed signs of Men and orcs passing through to still be visible even after all this time. It was a dim hope, but all they had. They spent two days ranging north and south of the Fords with no luck.

"They did not cross here," Gilhael concluded as they sat around the fire on the evening of the second day. "Which means they either crossed the Isen somewhere further south or they are hiding in the Westmark."

"Where could they hide?" Éobeorht asked, not for the first time. It troubled the Rohir scout that the marauders might even now be hiding in one of the villages, holding the inhabitants hostage. What they might be doing with those villagers....

"That’s what we are here to discover," Gilhael said decisively. The others all nodded in agreement.

The next morning they set off to the south. Nearly three leagues from the Fords they came to the ruins of a village. Gilhael’s trained eyes could see that whatever depredations occurred here had happened some time ago.

"This was the first village to be attacked," Háma explained to Gilhael. "Its inhabitants were killed or taken. We found no survivors."

Gilhael pulled his horse to a halt and the others did the same with theirs. "My lord?" Háma asked uncertainly.

For a moment Gilhael said nothing, merely sat his horse, thinking. Finally, he spoke. "Háma, has anyone been back to the village since it was burned out?"

"No, lord," Háma replied, "not as far as we know." He gave the other two men a glance but they both shook their heads.

Gilhael nodded to himself. "That’s where they’re hiding."

Éobeorht gave the Dúnadan a skeptical look. "How can you be sure?"

Gilhael shrugged. "Only one way to find out, isn’t there?" He dismounted and the others followed. "The orcs will have holed up, possibly within the remains of the feasting hall."

"And the Dunlendings?" Háma asked.

"Scattered about, possibly. They will not need to hide from the sun, so they might have sentries."

"Dunlendings?" Guthwulf asked disbelievingly and the other Rohirrim snickered. Gilhael smiled thinly.

"Well, in any case," he said once the laughter had died somewhat, "we need to check the village out, just to be sure. Let us retreat somewhat to a less exposed spot and wait for tomorrow’s dawn. That will be the best time to scout as the orcs will be intent on reaching shelter and the Dunlendings will be fighting sleep."

So they made their way back towards the Isen and set up a fireless camp, keeping watch to the east where lay the village. They were undisturbed during the day. As night encroached upon the land, Gilhael made a decision.

"We’re not waiting until the dawn," he announced to the others. "I’m going to scout the village tonight."

The others were ready to accompany him, but he refused them. "My darker features will blend in better with the Dunlendings. Stay you here and if I’m not back by an hour before dawn return to Helm’s Deep and let the Marshal and my cousin know what has happened."

All three Rohirrim protested Gilhael’s plan but in the end the Dúnadan prevailed....

"Tungolfród decided to wait until the middle watch before going into the village," Háma told Hilderic and the others as he came to the end of his tale. "We agreed to wait until an hour before dawn and if he had not returned by then we would ride to Helm’s Deep with what we knew. Tungolfród warned us not to come after him."

Aragorn nodded reluctantly. "He would not wish to put any other lives but his own in danger."

"You said that you last saw him running toward the Isen," Hilderic said.

Háma nodded. "The hour of his return came and went and still we waited, but no sign did we see of Tungolfród. Finally, just as dawn was nigh, I gave the order to break camp." He sighed, as if admitting defeat.

"Following orders is never easy," Aragorn said sympathetically and Háma nodded.

"We were making our way north around the village where the land folds somewhat, providing us with some measure of cover from hostile eyes, when suddenly a great shout came from the village and we saw Tungolfród running towards the Isen, but further south from our camp. Right behind him were Dunlendings giving chase."

The Rohirrim all paled at that and they saw the Dúnadan grip the arms of his chair so tightly that he actually snapped the wood.

"I’m going after him," Aragorn said in a voice that brooked no dissent.

"Nay, Estel, you will not go, but we will."

Aragorn gasped in shock as did the Rohirrim, Grimbold even going as far as to reach for his sword. Standing in the open doorway was Thandir, looking grimmer than Aragorn had ever seen him. Behind him were Gilgirion and Celegrýn, looking equally dour.

"Thandir," Aragorn whispered, "Man sí cerilir?"

"Change of plans, Estel," the Elf said in Westron as he entered the room. He ignored everyone but Háma, staring at the Man intently, his eyes shining with the memory of the Two Trees, though none of the Rohirrim knew this. Even Aragorn knew little enough. Háma quailed and rose, backing away from the Elf, who never took his eyes off him.

"Now child," Thandir said with cold implacability, "you will tell me every detail of what happened."

Then Háma son of Bryttawald did a thing he never thought he would ever do — he fainted.

****

All words and phrases are Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon) unless otherwise noted.

Ga ásúgan æg: "Go suck an egg".

Man sí cerilir?: (Sindarin) "What do ye here?". Aragorn employs the courteous second person plural form since he is actually addressing all three Elves.