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Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father  by Katzilla

Chapter 5: Thunderstorm


EASTFOLD PLAINS

“But I am not a king,” Éomer objected, his confusion no less. “I am barely a Rider yet.”

Elfhelm smiled.

“It makes no difference to the méaras. You are of royal blood, Éomer, and you are second in line to the throne of the Mark. You are still young, and no one knows what the future holds for you, but it is not altogether unlikely that you will be King of Rohan one day.”

Éomer blanched, and from the depth of his soul, sudden anger rose in him as he looked his captain defiantly in the eye.

“I will never be king! It is not something I would even want! Uncle will rule for many more years, and after him, Théodred will take his place! I will be roaming the plains, protecting our people, the way my father did!”

Elfhelm nodded, not wanting to object when the young man before him had only just begun to come to terms with the loss of his parents. That Éomer could lose the rest of his family just as easily, was of course always a possibility in their eternal war, but one the older warrior would refrain from voicing at this moment. The lad was smart; he knew the ugly truth himself, no matter how desperately he tried to deny it. No one was safe in these hard times; Éomer’s heated reply bespoke that fact all too clearly.

“I hope for us all that your wish will be granted, Éomer,” Elfhelm said simply, and then turned to Bréolaf who still stared at the son of Eomund in open wonder. “Bréolaf, may I leave our two recruits with you for a while while Tolgor and I go looking for orc tracks in the vicinity? Even if I don’t believe it, they may be still around.”

“Why can we not accompany you?” Éomer and Éothain protested simultaneously, but the Captain of Aldburg shook his head. “You will learn about the art of tracking, but not today. As we don’t know whether those orcs are still around, it would be better if Tolgor and I went alone… and you do not want to tell me, gentlemen, that you would want to miss an opportunity to wander among the méaras? It is something very few are granted, take my word.” And, with a glance at Breólaf, he added: “Show them what there is to see and tell them all about the history of this herd. I am certain that – once you’ve started – they will be so fascinated that they will have forgotten all about those orc tracks before we’ve even passed out of sight.”

--

It turned out that Elfhelm had been correct. Although his recruits followed his path with their eyes in disappointment until the two experienced riders disappeared behind a gentle rise, the rest of their visit to the méara herd left the young men from Edoras awed by the wonders of the Mark. Following Bréolaf in his tracks as he led them among the horses, Éomer and Éothain listened with growing fascination to the history of this great treasure. They learned about ancient bloodlines, famous sires and mares from the time when the Mark had still been young, and the fierce intelligence and endurance of the descendants of Nahar, steed of Béma.

Once they saw Thunderbolt in the distance among his brethren, looking their way with pricked ears before he turned around to chase away one of the yearlings who had boldly approached him to test his newly discovered strength. And when the old herdsman had led them to the sheltered place where the mares nursed their newly born offspring, the two young men had been helpless to suppress the broad, happy grins upon their faces as they stood amidst curious foals who fought for the right to be first to suckle on their visitors’ fingers.

It had been an enchanted afternoon, and among the horses, Éomer had lost quickly all sense of time. When Tolgor and Elfhelm returned, the sun had disappeared behind a curtain of high clouds and the young men had revelled in the hospitality of the herdsfolk as they sat by the fire with bowls of steaming stew upon their laps, utterly content. As Bréolaf’s wife had insisted that none of the warriors left without a good meal in his stomach, they had all eaten together, and only when the shadows had lengthened and announced that afternoon would soon turn to evening had Elfhelm insisted to ride back to their camp.

--

“How could Thunderbolt know about my ancestors?” For while, the four Rohírrim had ridden silently side by side, each of them occupied with another aspect of the past day’s events, but at last Éomer found that he had still had questions that even by the herdspeople had not been able to answer. “I mean, of course I heard it before that méaras are the king’s steeds only, but how do they know who is one? They do not smell it, do they?”

For a moment, Elfhelm regarded the eager young man with astonishment, before he exchanged a quick glance with Tolgor.

“That is a good question, Éomer… and I’m afraid that I cannot answer it. Méaras are creatures we believe were sent to us by the gods. How do they know what they know? Possibly because they are – in their own way – gods, too. Perhaps, Béma talks to them and tells them what they need to know. We cannot say. We can only accept that they will recognise us for who we are, and that must be enough. For my part, I’m quite satisfied to leave that mystery untouched… just like the one about the Ghost Horse.”

“The ‘Ghost Horse’, Sir?” Éothain inquired, and Éomer, too, furrowed his brow. This time it was Tolgor who answered.

“’Sleipnir’, the Ghost Horse, aye. He is said to be a wanderer between the worlds of the dead and the living. Whenever a warrior dies, his soul will be brought to the halls of his ancestors on the back of the pale stallion.”

Éomer’s eyes widened.

“Did anyone ever see him?”

“I am not certain.” Tolgor’s gaze was thoughtful. “’Sleipnir’s existence is widely believed to be a myth, but in the past, I’ve treated wounded men who claimed to have seen him when they were on the brink of death. And I am not the only healer who heard these tales.” He exhaled forcefully and shook his head, as if to clear it from the cobwebs of a distant dream. “But perhaps we should not speak about death on such a fine day.”

“It was a fine day,” Elfhelm corrected him with a glance at the black mountain of cloud above the peaks of the Ered Nimrais. “It seems to me that today, we will witness a rather violent end of the drought. I would not be surprised if the éored is already on the way to the shelter.” Even as he spoke, the darkness before them was illuminated by the fiery tongues of an orange lightning. The wind blew steadily into their faces, and it was hot as if it came from a furnace. Elfhelm narrowed his eyes.

“This could get dangerous if it doesn’t rain soon,” Tolgor voiced his thoughts aloud. He turned to their two listening recruits. “The weather has been far too dry this summer. Lightning could easily cause to the plains to burn in a fire we won’t be able to extinguish. Many settlements would be endangered, and of course the herds, as well. It has been a while since this last happened, but we’ve had it before.”

“In any case, we should see that we reach the camp, soon.” Elfhelm urged his stallion into a gallop. “I do not like the sight of this at all.”

--

While the weather on the way to the méara herd had been pleasant, the conditions on the way back worsened with every league as the four riders chased toward the confluence. Before their very eyes, the tower of black clouds grew until it swallowed all daylight, and what little was left turned into a sickly pale yellow. The air tasted and smelled strange, and the wind picked up further until it became a storm that blew dust into their eyes until they could barely hold them open. Lightning upon lightning streaked across the black sky now and the at first distant rumble of thunder was now so loud that each growl sounded like the voice of a mighty dragon about to swallow the world. And then the rain came.

With the force of a waterfall that had been blocked and suddenly burst its way free, the torrent fell from the sky in frightening amounts, and the storm hurled the drops into their faces like tiny daggers. Whereas Elfhelm had at first looked forward to the rain, he cursed it now, as the ground to their feet turned into a roaring river from one moment to the next, the dry earth unable to swallow the masses of water.

As the mounds where they had pitched r camp finally came into view, the four riders could make out the indistinct shapes of only two of their comrades, waiting for them although they were already drenched to the bone.

“The others already made for Firien Wood,” Gunthard shouted over the roaring thunder as they approached. “Arnhelm told us to wait here for you. They took your belongings with them.”

Elfhelm nodded, and with a glance at the angry sky, motioned his men along.

“Then let’s not lose another minute. Lead the way, Gunthard!”

They raced through the storm, hunched over their horses’ backs in a vain attempt to find at least a little cover from the elements, and the rain fell so hard now that their surroundings disappeared behind the watery curtain. Ducked behind Stormwing’s neck, Éomer concentrated on murmuring in a calming tone to the skittish mare, hoping to calm himself, too, in the process. They were in the storm’s eye now, lightning upon lightning chasing across the sky and the thunder growling like a hungry wolf, and the shelter of the forest at least another hour away during which they would be elevated targets in the middle of a flat, wet plain. He had barely ended the disquieting thought when, with a loud hiss, the twilight turned blindingly bright and a white streak embedded itself into a pile of rocks to their right. Stormwing broke to the left with a shrill shriek, bumping into Éothain’s gelding so hard that the bay almost lost his footing. For a moment, Éothain beheld his friend’s frightened expression in the pale light, then darkness enveloped them again.

The ride seemed to take forever, but at last, long after Éomer had lost all sense of time and direction, they reached the first trees of the forest and sat up in relief while the storm above them raged on. One hand patting his mare’s wet neck in silent thanks, Éomer met his commander’s questioning gaze as Elfhelm shifted in the saddle.

“Now, that was quite spectacular, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” The warrior paused for a moment longer to orient himself in the twilight and wipe the water from his face, before he directed his steed onto a path to his left. Wet and miserable, his recruits followed him.

“I hope that my saddle bags survived this,” Éothain muttered to no one in particular. “If all my belongings are as wet as I am…”

“If you waxed them as you were showed, they should be all right,” Tolgor answered, and already a faint smile formed on his features at the first glimpse of a fire before them. “Otherwise you will just have to sit by the fire until you’re dry again… See, there are the others!” He urged his horse into a quick trot, and a moment later, reached the camp their brothers had erected underneath a large overhanging rock. The four returning riders were greeted with relief and gleeful remarks over their wet state, and although he was likewise drenched to the bone, Éomer felt instantly better when he slipped from the saddle and led his mare to where the other horses had sought shelter beneath the dense foliage of the forest. As he fought with the buckles of the tack, he suddenly noticed movement from the corner of his eye and looked up.

It was Arnhelm, apparently returning from a brief foray into the forest to ensure that their surroundings were as deserted as they looked. The scout came to a halt a few paces away, and his keen eyes pierced Éomer with the same intensity as on their first meeting, leaving the young man him to feel naked underneath the warrior’s cold glare. For a moment, Arnhelm continued to stare at him, before the warrior shifted his attention to someone behind Éomer.

“You told him what my problem with his father was, Elfhelm, didn’t you? I saw you talking with our recruit last night… as if you didn’t wish me to see you.”

“I found it necessary to let Èomer know the reason for your hostility, yes,” the Captain replied evenly, stepping up behind his pupil. ”Would you rather have preferred to leave him in the dark about your motive, no matter how misguided it is?”

“’Misguided’, you say” Arnhelm narrowed his eyes. Above them, thunder rolled and reverberated from the mountains, but f the men did not seem to notice. “I lost my son to his father’s bloodthirst. But of course, you would not understand the way I feel, Elfhelm. When we return to Aldburg, you will go home to your wife and children. Your family is awaiting you. You know nothing about the sharp pain of losing a loved one! How it tears a hole in your soul you will never be able to fill. “

“I lost many of my comrades and friends in our fight, Arnhelm!” Elfhelm’s voice hardened. “Friends I considered family, and yes, before you ask, I considered Eomund of Aldburg one of them. But I don’t walk around and accuse innocent boys of sins they have not committed! Just as I don’t accuse Eomund himself. You know how I think about that incident.”

“Aye!” Arnhelm snorted, disgusted. “You were the Marshal’s best friend; of course you would not want his memory soiled. And I also happen to know about the promise you gave him, the promise to make his son a warrior and keep him from harm.” His cold gaze returned to Éomer, who stood before him with balled fists, biting his tongue in order to restrain his anger. “But I can already see that the son has the same temper as the father! Look at him, Elfhelm! There is nothing your innocent recruit would rather do right now than wring my neck. He can barely hold back! Look at him!”

Deliberately, Elfhelm laid a hand of Éomer’s shoulder.

“And I can’t say that I blame him, Arnhelm,” he rebuked. “I feel rather tempted myself, to be honest. You certainly give him enough reason to hate you.”

“I am sorry that your son died, my lord,” Éomer brought out, his voice strangely strangled, as if he could barely hold back from shouting. “I regret that very much, as I’m sure my father would regret it were he still alive. As it is, he paid with his own life for his mistake. What else is it that you want?”

“I want you out of this éored,” was Arnhelm’s blunt reply. “Before anyone else falls prey to your father’s temper. You’ve got it in you, I see it in your eyes! It’s in your blood, this curse! I can see right through you!” He stepped closer, his gaze steel pinning the young man before him. “You want to become a warrior to avenge your father, and in your obsession to get even with the orc-scum, you will not care how many of your comrades die for your revenge! You must not be allowed to become a warrior!”

“Arnhelm! You’re forgetting yourself!” Elfhelm shouted and took an angry step forward to shield his quivering recruit from the older man’s wrath. “Leave the boy alone!”

Shaking off his hand with an angry step forward, Éomer answered the challenge, rage finally breaking the dam of his restraint.

“Aye, Lord Arnhelm, and I promise you that I will become a warrior, and I will have my revenge on the orcs, but not only for my father! It will be for your son, as well, and for every warrior who died in his duty for the Mark! You will not stop me! And if you insult my father one more time, I will have your blood for it!” Suddenly, his sword was in his hand, the razor-sharp tip resting with slight pressure against the scout’s chest in unmistakable threat. Part of Éomer stared horrified at his own gleaming blade, not wanting to believe what his eyes showed him. What was he doing? But then rage claimed him again, and all considerations vanished in the red-hot surge.

“Èomer!” Elfhelm barely dared to breathe. For a heartbeat, he considered disarming the boy, for Éomer could not see him where he stood. And yet all it would take for the young man to skewer his tormentor would be one quick move. If he misjudged the situation, it would end in blood. Behind his back, he could here the others approaching, alerted by their shouting. “This is not the way. Sheathe your sword immediately!”

A cruel smirk formed on Arnhelm’s lips as he met his Captain’s eyes.

“Look at your innocent young recruit now, Elfhelm! Was I not right? This is the boy you want give command over an éored in the future. One hundred and twenty riders, who will all have to pay the price for his hotheadedness! Are you sure you want to be responsible for their death? Do you want to be the one to tell their families when they don’t return?"

“Shut your mouth, Arnhelm; you did enough damage for today! Éomer, lower your sword! This will not solve anything.”

“I was eleven when my father died, and my mother died of grief shortly afterward!” Éomer shouted against the storm, and it was as if he had not even heard Elfhelm. The way his voice wavered, it was unmistakable that he was crying. “I suffered as much as you! I want to become a warrior to protect our people the best way I can, because I always heard their tales when they would come our house to ask Father for help! I wanted to become a warrior long before my father died! I thought you were a hero of the Mark; a man I could learn from and look up to, but you are worse than any orc could ever be! You know you are wrong to accuse me, but you do not care!”

“I am wrong, you say,” Arnhelm said evenly, as if the tip of Éomer’s sword were not pressed against his chest. “But then look at you. Take a good, hard look at what you’re doing right now, and tell me whether you deem it ‘normal’ to raise your sword against a fellow rider!”

“I will say it for the last time, Arnhelm: step back and leave the boy alone!” Elfhelm growled, and now there were also shouts from the other men telling their comrade to let off their trembling recruit. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You were cruel to Éomer from the moment you first set eyes on him, for no other reason than your quarrel with his father!” Eothain let himself be heard, enraged. “You are an esteemed warrior; you are supposed to be an example for others! It makes me want to spit to think that one day, I should become like you!”

For a moment, the scout turned his head, and what he saw gave him pause: the riders whom he had deemed to be on his side, were looking at him with barely contained contempt.

“Silent, Éothain. If you want a fight, Arnhelm, pick someone of your size!” Elfhelm raised a hand. “I was Eomund’s friend, and I still consider myself his friend even today. You might as well attack me, but certainly not a sixteen year old boy!”

Arnhelm narrowed his eyes, and when his attention returned to Éomer and the sword still pressed against his chest, he lifted a brow.

“Skewer me if you think you can, son of Eomund. But you might be in for a surprise!” And before anyone could react, the scout had drawn his own sword and knocked Guthwine from Éomer’s fingers, then briefly rested the tip of his blade against the young man’s throat. “This is how it feels. It is not pleasant, is it, to know that death might just be a heartbeat away. Be sure to remember it for the future.” And with an equally swift move, the deadly steel returned to its sheath.

For the longest time, the esteemed warrior and the unproven recruit continued to stare at each other, and although their faces were wet from the rain, Arnhelm saw the tears in Éomer’s eyes, and the muscles working as the young man fought for control.

“Your son is lucky to be dead, Lord Arnhelm,” the son of Eomund uttered at last with unmistakable effort, his chest rising and falling with his hard sobs. “This way, he is spared the sight of his father shaming himself by turning on a boy who was only a child when the event he is accusing him for took place. I doubt he would be proud of you.” He spat on the ground to Arnhelm’s feet. “And don’t fear, I’d rather be dead than serving in the same éored as you!” And before anyone could react, Éomer jumped onto his mare’s back and took off into the growing darkness of the forest.





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