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Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father  by Katzilla

Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father


Chapter 4: The Blood of Kings


ENTWASH DELTA

When the sun rose over the horizon on the next morning, Éomer found to his surprise that sleep had found him despite the heavy issues he had discussed with his Captain in the dead of night. Much had been going through his head after their conversation, but somehow, Elfhelm’s revelations had also helped to put his mind at ease although he still felt sorry for Arnhelm. When a warrior as experienced as the powerful Captain of Aldburg admitted that not even the greatest hero was beyond mistake, it had to be the truth, and Arnhelm had to know it, too. Éomer assumed that it would still take time to make his peace with the fact that his father’s mistake had cost the lives of many men, but it had comforted him to hear that an always considerate and cautious man like Elfhelm thought of the accusations against the former Marshal of Eastfold unfounded. Inwardly he swore to himself to only listen to his Captain in these matters from this day on.

As he sat up and plucked the grass from his hair, Éomer’s gaze involuntarily searched for the scout at the place where Arnhelm had build his lair on the previous night, but the older warrior was nowhere to be seen. As he looked further, a warm stream of hot air was suddenly blown against his neck and painted a quick smile onto his face as he turned around.

“Good morning, Stormwing…” Éomer blew his breath into the mare’s nostrils and laughed when her lips groped gently for his face. “”No, lass, I’m not your morning meal! There’s plenty of juicy grass all around you; why won’t you try that instead of your master? It will taste much better, too, I’m sure.” He shoved the grey head back and rose to his feet when the sound of a massive yawn claimed his attention. Grinning, he turned around. “I hope you won’t mind when I say that you look as if one of our herds stampeded over you, Éothain? Also, you snored like an overfed warg last night. I had to move away from you to find some rest at all.”

Éothain, rubbing his head with a miserable grimace, paused to glower at his friend.

“There will come a day when you will feel like this, Éomer, and I will make sure to be there and mock you. Thank you for reminding me why we are best friends!”

“You two!” a voice called out at them, and when they turned around, they saw Tolgor standing close by with an expectant expression upon his weather-lined face. “When you are done horsing around, see that you get something in your stomach and ready your horses! You’re riding with the Captain today!”

“With the Captain!” All misery suddenly forgotten, Éothain jumped to his feet. “Whereto, Tolgor? Or are we not supposed know?”

“It is a surprise, but you will surely miss it if you don’t hurry up!” the older warrior barked in feigned gruffness, but then he winked at them before he turned away.

With wondrous expressions, Éothain and Éomer stared at each other for a moment longer, until at last, Éomer gave himself a push. This promised to become a wonderful day, and he would not miss it for the world.

“Come, Éothain’s let’s jump into the river! I don’t know any more about Elfhelm’s plans than you, but something tells me we will like them.”

----

A little while later, the two recruits stood by their saddled horses and watched their Commander and Tolgor approach with their horses on the reins.

“Good morning, you two! Tell me, young lords, do you feel ready to do your rounds?”

“Do our ‘rounds’, my Lord?” Éothain asked politely, yet utterly clueless what Elfhelm’s words might imply. With an amused glance at Tolgor, Elfhelm gestured for them to climb into the saddle.

“It is what we came here for; one of our chief duties. We ride across the Eastfold and ask the people in the settlements whether they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, or what else they may have to report… and if they have a problem, we will see that we solve it for them.” Again he winked at Tolgor, utterly confusing his two apprentices with his strange secrecy. “Ah, but why am I telling you this? I suppose it’s best to simply show you. You can leave your belongings here, because we will stay here for another night.” Shifting in his saddle, Elfhelm surveyed for a moment the activities in the camp and found to his satisfaction that the other groups were likewise ready to leave. “We’ll be riding northeast. Lead the way, son of Eomund!”

----

For a while, the four Rohírrim rode silently side by side, and nothing disturbed the peaceful atmosphere of the river-delta on this perfect summer day. The air was ripe with the scent of flowers, grass and water, and the constant noise of the cicadas accompanied them, occasionally broken by the cries of birds as they passed high above the riders’ heads. A slight breeze enveloped them and sent ripples through the high grass. Although it was still early, it carried the promise of another hot day. As Éomer tilted back his head to look at the clouds, Elfhelm followed his gaze.

“Well, Éomer, you have been riding with us for more than a month now; let’s hear what you have learned so far.” He saw the young man tense and smiled. “What will the weather be like later today, what do you think?”

Eager to prove his newly acquired knowledge to his commander, Éomer regarded the sky for a moment longer, Tolgor’s voice in his head as the warrior had lectured him on their forays about the different forms of cloud and their effect on the weather.

“The clouds are high, so it won’t rain soon. But they are also very thin and moving fast, which hints at strong winds above, so the condition is likely to chance over the course of the day.”

“Anything else about those winds?”

“The winds… uhm…” Éomer narrowed his eyes in concentration as he followed the path of the clouds. “They’re travelling north, which means that the wind is coming from the sea. In the summer, it means that it brings air laden with moisture. One can already feel it. If the mountains don’t keep back the clouds, there could be rain later today, possibly even a thunderstorm.” He cut a quick glance back to Elfhelm and saw Tolgor nod in agreement behind him.

“Very well, young man. I see you have been listening. Now, what should be kept in mind in the case of a thunderstorm? Éothain?”

“One should avoid mountains and hilltops, also level plains where a rider would be the highest point. One should also avoid solitary trees, as lightning likes to strike there, too. Narrow mountain paths are likewise dangerous, as heavy rain can cause rockslides, and wet, bare rock might turn slippery. It is also not advisable to ford rivers when they are swollen from the rain. Best would be to seek shelter in a settlement or cave, if such is available, or in a forest or a niche in the foothills of the mountains. One has also to be alert for increased orc activity, as they will sometimes move during the day if the sky is overcast enough. They like to attack when it’s raining, too, because the sound of the rain will provide them with additional cover.” His heart pumping in his chest with excitement, Éothain looked at his commander… and felt relief when he saw the pleased smile on Elfhelm’s face and the approving nod the warrior exchanged with Tolgor.

“Sounds like sound advice to me. Tolgor, wouldn’t you agree?”

His comrade cocked an eyebrow in approval and regarded his apprentices with undisguised satisfaction.

“Very good, you two. It is nice to find someone actually listening to my words for a change.” He winked, and then hurried to clarify: “Of course I was not implying that you were among those never paying attention, Captain!”

“Good you made that clear, old friend, or you would have forced me to think of a punishment,” Elfhelm growled in mock-anger. “And it is much too warm today for any serious thought. I actually hope there will be a thunderstorm today, because the last month has been far too dry. Except for the river’s immediate surroundings, the grass has been burned by the sun all over the Eastfold. Soon there will be nothing left to eat for the horses.”

“The horses!” Abruptly Éothain’s expression lit up in excitement. “Isn’t this the part of the Mark where one of our largest herds is kept?” He looked at Éomer, and saw his excitement mirrored on his friend’s face.

“Yes, the méaras! Aren’t they here?”

Elfhelm nodded.

“They are indeed, and it is why I chose you two to accompany us. The herd we are going to visit is one of the very noblest in the entire Mark; the amount of méara-blood in it is perhaps only exceeded by the great Shadowfax’s herd. It is one of our greatest treasures, and that is why we must ensure under all circumstances that they are well.”

“Do orcs eat horse meat? Do they hunt them?” Éomer creased his brow.

“I’m sure they would if they were allowed to, but it seems that their master has different plans for our horses, because for the last two years, they have been stealing more and more of them, and always the black ones.” Furrows appeared on Elfhelm’s brow now, too, as the warrior stared at the land beyond the river. “I do not want to imagine to what evil use they are being put, but I fear that one day, we will find out.”

Éomer narrowed his eyes.

“But I thought that our horses would never tolerate orcs on their back?”

“And as far as I know, that is still the truth, at least under ordinary circumstances.” Elfhelm slanted a dark look at Tolgor. “But we do not know what the Dark Lord does to them, or which means he has to bend their mind to his will. We can only see that we protect them as best we can.” He craned his neck, and suddenly, his expression brightened considerably. “See, there they are!”

His outstretched hand pointed to where the marshland gave way to the firm, green meadows of the Eastfold, and Éomer’s eyes widened in awe as he beheld the seemingly endless mass of moving shapes upon them. He shook his head, barely believing what he saw.

“There must be thousands of horses down there!”

Elfhelm’s smile widened as he urged his stallion into a fast trot.

“Aye. Last time they were counted, their number was close to three thousand. Like I said, this is one of our main herds. And Thunderbolt, their leader, is perhaps only surpassed by Shadowfax in nobility. He is, in fact one of his sons and like his sire, a feast for the eyes. Wait until you see him.”

In single file, the four riders approached the horses, and many noble heads were lifted and ears pricked at them as they neared.

“Look at them,” Tolgor beamed. “Aren’t they a sight to behold?”

Just as he spoke, the nearest group broke away from them in a panicked gallop, and a shrill shriek warned the rest of the herd who regarded the visitors with unmistakable wariness.

“They are very skittish,” Éomer wondered, and Elfhelm nodded thoughtfully, his good mood gone.

“Indeed. I hope it is not a bad sign. Ah, there is Bréolaf!” He directed his stallion the little camp that was now visible behind a soft rise, consisting of no more than four tents. The herders had already spotted them, as they stood together and waved in welcome, and at their feet, the guard dogs danced around and barked furiously at the strangers. Still, as they approached, Éomer could not shake the impression that these people looked just as tense as their horses, and once again his eyes strayed to the horses behind them for a possible answer.

“Captain Elfhelm!” The man Elfhelm had already pointed out came forth to meet them, and from up close, the worry in his deeply lined face could not be overlooked despite his joy to see the riders. “Béma must have sent you! Or did you meet Wigláf? But he rode west, not east.”

Elfhelm furrowed his brow as he brought Éon to a halt aside the old herdsman.

“Your son? We did not see him. Why, what happened that you sent him for help?”

“There was an attack on our herd five nights ago. Orcs.” Bréolaf shook his head. “They took eight black horses; mares and stallions, before we discovered them. But that is not even the worst tidings…” He inhaled. “They wounded Thunderbolt when he tried to protect his herd. I’m not certain that he will survive.” His gaze briefly came to rest on Éomer and Éothain before he shifted his attention back to Elfhelm.

The two young riders exchanged a worried look.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath….!” Elfhelm muttered, and at once sought for the stallion on the plains, but could not detect him. “How badly is he wounded?”

“He took an arrow to the chest. It did not look to me as if it went in too deeply, it probably only sticks in the muscle, but he won’t let us come near to remove it… and you know what orcs do with their arrows.”

“Aye.” Elfhelm ground his teeth, and, upon his recruits’ unspoken question, elaborated. “They smear them with dirt, so that even small wounds they inflict will kill.” He inhaled, and his gaze found Tolgor. “We must attempt to remove it. We cannot let one of our best breeding stallions die. Not without a fight.”

“And a fight this will be, Captain,” Bréolaf warned. “Thunderbolt may be weakened, but he can still defend himself… as will other members of his herd. We already tried.”

“Well, but now there are the four of us who can help you. And Tolgor can treat the wound. Come, Bréolaf, saddle your horses. Let’s lose no valuable time. Every moment that this orc arrows sits in Thunderbolt’s flesh is one too many.”

----

It took them a while to spot the stallion among his nervously moving kindred, but when at last, the eight riders had the méara cornered, the sight of the noble creature grieved Éomer greatly. Darker than his sire Shadowfax, Thunderbolt’s hide had the colour of a tarnished silver coin; brightening on his rump and darkening toward head and legs. His thick mane and tail though were of pure white, and Éomer could imagine the glorious sight when it frothed around the stallion’s muscular neck in a full run.

And yet it seemed painfully clear that the horse before them was unable to run. After Bréolaf’s report, the men had expected a long and difficult chase, but in fact all they had needed to do was discourage the stallion’s brethren when they had first formed a protective circle around their leader, but with the help of the herders’ hounds e, the other horses had been chased away. Now it was only Thunderbolt himself who was left to deal with, and yet herders and warriors alike knew that the hardest part of their work still lay before them.

Although the stallion still held his beautifully formed head high in open challenge, the grey of his fur had darkened with sweat from the previous chase, and his shoulders and neck were lathered with foam; even Èomer’s unexperienced eye could not miss how hard the horse was heaving. Mane and tail stuck to Thunderbolt’s wet hide in dirty strings, and the way the horse was quivering indicated that he could barely remain on his hooves. Obviously, the infection in his body had weakened him greatly. Éomer’s stomach clenched into a painful knot as he lowered his gaze to the stallion’s chest. The black arrow-shaft protruded from the muscle like a wicked thorn, swinging left and right with each of his moves. While the son of Eomund agreed with the herder that it had not penetrated into the horse’s his body far enough to hurt organs, he also saw the hideous lump that had formed around it. He swallowed, overwhelmed with pity.

Beside him, the warriors uttered heartfelt curses.

“I swear, if we ever catch the orc who did this, I will cut him into very thin stripes… from the feet upwards, so he will feel it until the very end!” Elfhelm growled, at the same time knowing that he would never find the culprit. He unslung his rope and looked at his comrades. “Let’s begin. The quicker we are done, the sooner the poor creature can rest.”

They spread in a half-circle, readying their ropes. Thunderbolt snorted as he perceived the change in their demeanour, and stomped his hooves against the ground in a powerful threat. With a deep breath, Bréolaf urged his horse a few steps ahead and held up his hand to stop the others. “Wait!” He shifted his attention to the stallion.

“Excuse us, mighty Thunderbolt! We mean you no harm and would not touch you under other circumstances, but the arrow must be removed from your body. Please, allow us to do so.”

Behind him, Éomer creased his brow and slanted Éothain a confused glance.

“Thunderbolt is a pure-blooded méara,” Elfhelm explained lowly, his eyes glued to the scene before him. “It is said that they understand the language of man. In any case it cannot be wrong to try it.” A shrill shriek cut him off as the stallion jumped toward Bréalaf in a feigned attack. The moment the horse turned away from him, Elfhelm cast his rope, and the sling slipped over the grey’s head. On the other side, two of the herders mimicked his tactic, and Tolgor followed.

“Hold on!” Elfhelm shouted and quickly slung his rope around the pommel of his saddle. Furiously, Thunderbolt fought against the slings around his neck, but the four men at their end had spread out and drawn their ropes tight, leaving the stallion with no space to move. “Very well! Éomer, give me your rope. Éothain, give your’s to Tolgor!”

Intimidated by the fierce struggle the méara put up despite his weakened condition, Éomer handed his rope to Elfhelm.

“If he understands our words, why is he struggling so hard?”

“Méaras are wild and proud creatures. They don’t usually suffer getting touched, not even when they are healthy. The only ones allowed to ride them will be the King of the Mark and his descendants, and even then, they will first have to prove their worthiness to their steed. Yet I believe that Thunderbolt would let us treat him under different conditions, but he seems to be running a high fever. He is not himself now.” He gave his recruit a measuring glance. “Your father always said that you had a special way with horses. That they respond well to you. Is that true?”

“Well…”

“Yes or no, son. We have no time for long answers. We will try to keep the stallion under control, but it would help if someone calmed him while Tolgor removes the arrow. Can you do that?”

Elfhelm’s words robbed Éomer of his breath.

“I will try,” he said, his mind reeling, and looked with wide eyes at Éothain. Elfhelm chose him to approach such a splendid creature?

“Good.” Elfhelm weighed the sling in his hand. “Éothain, hold yourself ready. I will see that I get this around one of his front legs so that he cannot kick us, and then give it to you. Hold it tight.”

“Aye, Captain.” Éothain swallowed, painfully aware of the responsibility of his position.

Before them, the stallion undertook another desperate attempt to flee, and as his hooves left the ground, the sling fell over his left leg. Quickly pulling it tight, Elfhelm gestured Éothain closer.

“Here. Tie it around the pommel. Keep it under tension.”

With a nervous nod, Éothain did as bidden while his Captain slid from his saddle and clapped his stallion’s shoulder, and the experienced war-horse understood and stepped backwards until the rope fastened to his saddle sang with tension. To his right, Tolgor followed his example, and Éomer watched in awe as Wildfire mimicked Éon’s movements.

“Very well. Bréalaf, Éomer, come…” Cautiously, the four men approached the captured méara. Through the curtain of his long mane, Thunderbolt watched them warily, but his head hung low now, as if he had spent all of his great power, and his hide was dark with sweat. “Tolgor? Standing or lying?”

“Let us try it standing. He appears weak enough to me, and I would not want to risk that he injures himself in the fall.” The warrior did not look up as he washed his hands and knife with the brandy Bréolaf had given him.

“Peace, mighty Thunderbolt,” the herdsman whispered, and the grey ears flickered toward him before they flattened again against the horse’s head. “We are not the enemy. We only want to help you.” By now, they were close enough to hear the stallion’s laboured breathing and see the pumping of his flanks. He was at the end of his strength. The herdsman unfolded his rope and looked at Elfhelm. “Can you distract him for me, Captain?”

In answer, Elfhelm waved his arms and stepped to the side, drawing the méara’s gaze as Bréalaf made his move – and slipped the sling around the other front leg, then threw the rope over the stallion’s back where Elfhelm caught it and pulled until Thunderbolt had to lift it under loud protest. He cast the end underneath the horse’s rump where the herdsman caught it and held it tight until one of his comrade’s relieved him. Then he unfolded the halter he had brought, finally daring to approach the stallion now that he could no longer kick. Despite the grey’s weak attempts to evade him, he quickly drew it over the horse’s head and held on tight, quickly joined by Elfhelm.

“Now, Tolgor. Éomer, come and talk to him!”

With a keen eye on the méara’s moves, Tolgor unsheathed his razor-sharp skinning knife and approached the stallion from the side. While Éomer hesitantly followed him, the warrior extended a hand and laid it on the horse’s shoulder, at once feeling the quivering. He shook his head.

“He trembles, but I cannot tell whether fear or fever causes it.” Cautiously, his fingers approached the wound, and the stallion became rigid underneath his touch. “Éomer? If there is any magic you can do with a horse, now is the time to let it work.” He felt the powerful muscles twitch beneath his palm as the stallion tried to kick out against the strain of his ties. “Shhh, Grey One… allow us to help you.”

Intimidated by the méara’s massive frame and the many scars in his hide that told of Thunderbolt’s violent rise to leadership, Éomer came to a halt just beyond the horse’s reach, his heart pounding in his chest. In his own way, the stallion was as much a warrior as they were – more so, perhaps, if the scars were any indication. A red-veined eye rolled at him, and Éomer’s stomach clenched. He had never before handled a wild horse and was not certain at all that Bréalaf and Elfhelm could hold the stallion if Thunderbolt suddenly decided to bite him.

‘They understand our words, Éomer,’ Elfhelm’s voice reverberated in his head. “These are no ordinary horses.’

But then he saw something in the wild eye measuring him, some kind of recognition, and it amazed him. Suddenly, Elfhelm and the others did not longer exist. It was just him… and the méara.

“Forgive us, great Thunderbolt,” Éomer began, and noticed how the grey ears turned in his direction. “We apologise for using our ropes against you, but you leave us with no choice if you continue to fight. That arrow in your chest must be removed, or it will kill you.”

Tolgor’s fingers reached the wound, first circling the arrow and then cautiously gliding over the hideous lump. If there was still fight left in the stallion, it would come now. He hesitated.

Éomer inhaled, aware that the stallion’s attention was still focussed on him.

“The procedure will be painful…,” he continued, and while he had first thought it strange to address the stallion in the same way Bréolaf had done, it now felt completely natural. There was no question in his mind anymore that this creature understood him, and that it knew something about him which made it listen to what he had to say although he was still an apprentice. Éomer could not begin to guess what that something was, but now was not the time to solve that riddle. “We apologise for that, as well, but it cannot be avoided. Let us save your life, please, for it means much to the people of the Mark.” Following a sudden impulse, he reached out.

“Éomer, no…!” Elfhelm hissed in dismay. Before his inner eye, he already saw the young man’s fingers severed by the enraged stallion… but Thunderbolt held still. Like a statue the noble creature stood, and not a muscle moved as Éomer’s hand – his right hand, even! - touched the silken nose and came to rest upon the stallion’s lips. Elfhelm held his breath, aware that all that stood between Éomer and the end to all his dreams of becoming a warrior was one false move. “Éomer, what are you doing?”

“Take my sword-hand as pledge of our sincerity, great Thunderbolt,” the son of Eomund said without sparing his Captain so much as a glance. He seemed to be in a world of his own, barely aware of their presence. “We will not betray you. Trust in us, I beg you… as I trust in you.”

Horrified and fascinated at the same time, Elfhelm watched on, aware that the others were waiting, too, mesmerised. Still the boy’s hand was pressed against the stallion’s mouth, neither one moving. Suddenly, Éomer smiled.

“He allows it. Release your hold.”

With deep furrows on his brow, Elfhelm exchanged a quick glance with Tolgor, who looked uncomfortable at the prospect of standing in the direct line of a kick if they freed the stallion’s leg. Against his fears, he nodded… and slowly let go of the méara’s halter.

“Bréolaf?”

The herdsman followed his example, and together, the two men slowly stepped back. And still Thunderbolt did not move.

Who is that boy?” Bréolaf murmured under his breath, but Elfhelm only shook his head.

“Later. Éothain, and the others, too: release your hold. Give your ropes slack.”

“You can begin now, Tolgor,” Éomer said, and with his free hand, removed the halter from the stallion’s head; taking his sword hand merely long enough from the méara’s mouth to complete this task.

With a deep breath, the older man went to work. With one fast incision, he opened the lump upon the stallion’s chest, and a thick yellow liquid seeped out of it at once. The skin around the wound twitched briefly, but otherwise, the stallion moved not a single muscle. Cautiously, the warrior grasped the arrow’s shaft… and hesitated.

“I will have to clean the wound with the brandy now before I can remove the arrow. It will burn.”

“He will allow it.”

His lips a tight white line in his face, Tolgor drenched the cloth in his hand. He inhaled… and then pressed it into the cut. This time, the muscles around the arrow worked, and a deep grunt rose from the stallion’s chest in response to the pain – and still all four hooves remained on the ground as if they were rooted in stone. He did not pause to think about it.

“I will have to make one more cut, and then hopefully, the arrow will come out.” This time, Tolgor did not wait for Éomer’s approval; with a quick motion, he led his skinning blade through the flesh. Even before the wound could start to bleed, he loosened the hideous arrow with one twist of his wrist and dropped it to the ground. “It’s out. I will have to use the brandy once more, and then sew the cut shut.” He was given no answer, and – upon a quick glance back, continued. Not once did the stallion move until he severed the last thread and stepped back. “I’m done.”

Éomer did not look at him. A dreamy smile played around the corners of his mouth as he reached out to remove the slings around the stallion’s neck, at last taking his sword-hand away from the reach of Thunderbolt’s teeth.

“We will release you now, Grey One,” he said “- and thank you for your trust. Hopefully, your wound will heal quickly now.” Under the wondrous expressions of riders and herdsman alike, he stepped back, the ropes in his hand. For another moment, the méara stallion continued to regard him with great calmness… until at last, Thunderbolt snorted and turned away, almost casually, to rejoin his herd.

For the longest time, none of the men knew what to say; they only knew that they had witnessed a miracle. Then Éomer turned around, and the expression on his young face bespoke his own bewilderment as the trance ended.

“How did you do this, lad?” Bréolaf whispered and shook his head in denial of what he had just seen.

“I do not know.” Almost excusingly, Éomer looked at him, clearly feeling uncomfortable to be the focus of the grown men around him.

“I think I do.” All heads turned to Elfhelm, who suddenly wore a faint smile of dawning recognition upon his face. “But I have never seen it before. Of course, this has to be the answer to the riddle!”

“What is the answer?” Éomer knitted his eyebrows in confusion.

“It is common knowledge that méaras only answer to our kings and their descendants… so the answer is flowing through your veins, Éomer: it is the blood of Eorl. Thunderbolt accepted you because you are a descendant of our greatest king.”





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