ADVENTURES OF AN ÉORED: SINS OF THE FATHER

Chapter 8: Alone

MERING STREAM

For a while, only the river’s mighty voice could be heard as the orcs stepped up to the cliff and stared down into the frothing maelstrom.

“What a shame!” Trôllnûg snorted and shook his head. “That one would have been an easy meal. I did not even see a sword on this one. We should have riddled him with arrows, the way I suggested. Now what will we eat? I’m still hungry.”

“It could not be expected that this one would choose a coward’s death,” Târshak spat disdainfully, his eyes still on the violent flood beneath them although he knew he was hoping in vain. “The strawheads usually prefer fight over flight. Bad luck, if you ask me.” He looked up at his brethren. “So what will we do now, look for his corpse downstream? Or try to make it as far east as the night will permit? I’m not comfortable with those horse-lovers roaming the forest like a swarm of angered bees. They might just accidentally stumble over us.”

“Perhaps we can slaughter one of the horses,” his leader mused, already turning back toward the forest. “By the end of the night, once we’ve reached the caves. Not here. Too dangerous. Come, Brothers, the others are waiting for us.” He reached for a protruding root in the bank they had slid down when something punched against his chest. Surprised, Grûshnig stared at the arrow shaft which had nailed the armour to his body while the strong taste of blood filled his mouth, and he grasped it, uncomprehending, as his dimming gaze shifted to the top of the ravine. Briefly he beheld the dark figure that had hidden in the shadows, a black rider on a black horse. ‘Got careless,’ he thought, his last conscious thought before his knees buckled and he plunged into darkness.

Stunned by the shock, his brethren were an easy target for the rider who had found them, and two more fell where they stood before the others fled head over heels into the thicket, routed. For a moment, the forest fell silent again as its inhabitants listened breathlessly into the darkness, not sure whether the danger had indeed passed.

“Stay here, Anlaf, and keep your eyes open. I do not believe that they will return, but it won’t hurt to be cautious.”

Shifting his weight backwards in the saddle, Arnhelm gave Ravenwing his head as the stallion slid down the slope. With satisfaction he looked at the corpses of the three orcs, before his expression hardened again at the sight of a small, silvery thing on the ground. With a deep sigh, he dismounted and crouched down to pick up the beautifully crafted horn.

“Damnation…” he muttered to himself, and the cold hand of fear seized his heart. There was no question whose horn he was holding in his hands. And it was only all too clear what had happened here. A feeling of certain doom threatened to overwhelm Arnhelm where he stood, and his hand with his finding hung loosely by his side as he stared at the tracks that led to the edge of the cliff. ‘In Eorl’s name, lad, why did you jump into the river when I was already so close?’

“Is it Éomer’s?” Anlaf asked anxiously from his elevated position on top of the slope.

“Aye.” Following the footprints until they ended, Arnhelm ground his teeth as he looked at the churning river, and in his mind, he could already hear Théoden-King’s enraged voice.

‘You chased my nephew away from the security of the éored, in the middle of the night? Knowing fully well, or expecting, even, that orcs were in the vicinity to kill him? It is as if you killed him by your own hands – a boy of sixteen summers who never did you any harm! A boy second in line to the throne of the Mark; a boy who might have been my successor one day. If this is not treason, Lord Arnhelm, tell me what else I should call it! And tell me, what would your verdict be if you were in my place?’

Arnhelm swallowed. He had not wanted to get the lad killed; he had only wanted him out of their éored… and if he was honest, it had been more because of the anguish the boy’s uncanny likeness to his father had caused him than for any of his character traits; after all he had barely known Éomer. But had he not been right, too? Had the lad not proven his dangerous temper by running away and thus endangering all who would seek him in the darkness?

‘He is only sixteen years old. He has no experience. Of course he is still prone to fall prey to foolish decisions, after all, didn’t he join us to learn about the trade of war?’

The scout’s face flushed as he realised at last what he had done: he had shamed himself; he had shamed his father’s name, and he held no illusions that not even Elfhelm, his friend and brother-in-arms of many years, would defend him against King Theoden’s just fury if the boy was indeed dead. If he were lucky, Arnhelm thought darkly, he would only be banished from the Mark, but the hard voice in the back of his mind insisted that the King would not hesitate to order his execution. War-hero or not, this had been coldly calculated murder, even if he had not killed Éomer himself. With unseeing eyes, the old warrior followed the Mering’s path until the floods disappeared behind the next bend. ‘Perhaps…’

“So, what will we do now? If he’s not here… he must have fallen into the river,” Anlaf interrupted his dark thoughts, and his brother’s tone betrayed quite clearly that he knew about the likely consequences. Arnhelm wondered what his comrade really thought about the incident. That Anlaf was here searching for Éomer together with him in all secrecy was a good sign, but one Arnhelm had more or less expected. The warrior from a little village in the Folde had once been his apprentice, a young man he had groomed and formed into the rider the Mark needed. Next to Elfhelm, Anlaf was the one member of their éored of whose loyalty he had always been convinced… but perhaps, loyalty was no longer what he deserved?

Creases appeared on Arnhelm’s forehead as he stared into the distance. The Mering was not usually a savage river; it was only due to the torrential evening rain that the body of water below him was behaving like a mean-spirited beast. Its river-bed was mostly rock-free and shallow, so perhaps there was still hope.

“We will continue the search. Perhaps we will find him downstream on the river bank somewhere, alive. Surely Eomund must have taught his boy to swim.”

‘Certainly. The lad was still wearing his chain mail when I last saw him. With all that weight upon him, there is no way he would have survived a fall even into a quiet lake.’

Shaking his head to himself and feeling his comrade’s sceptical gaze upon himself, Arnhelm slowly made his way back to his patiently waiting stallion. Disdainfully he looked at the dead orcs to his feet, and barely paused long enough to rip his arrows from their already stiffening bodies, grimacing at the stench as he wiped the iron tips clean on the grass. The shouts of his fellow riders sounded closer by now, and for a moment, Arnhelm hesitated as he stood beside his horse, one hand on the pommel of his saddle to pull himself up. And yet inwardly, his decision had already been made.

“I’m not certain if it would not be better to rejoin the others,” Anlaf began hesitantly, but swallowed the rest when his Captain’s dark glance found him

“The two of us alone will have a better chance at finding the boy,” Arnhelm said and forced Ravenwing up the slope. “Éomer ran away from us; no doubt he will hide when he hears the whole éored thundering after him. No. If you feel uncomfortable about riding with me, Anlaf, feel free to ride back and join the éored, but I will follow the river.”

He did not mention that facing his comrades now would inevitably mean having them look at him as a murderer, and Arnhelm was not certain that he was ready for his comrades’ open disdain. No, he would continue to search for Éomer for as long as there was still hope, even if it seemed all too likely that he would return to the éored with the corpse of the drowned son of Eomund in his saddle. If this was indeed to be his destiny, he would face whatever the consequences were, Arnhelm thought grimly as he urged his stallion on into the darkness, and a moment later, he heard Anlaf turn his horse around and follow him…

****

THE RIVER’S EDGE

Éomer had been prepared to die. He had stepped of the cliff knowing fully well that whatever awaited him below was only the less horrible of his two choices, but at its end would be the same result. And the icy water had stopped his heart for a moment; on its way from the highest peaks of the White Mountains, the Mering’s waters only warmed after it joined with the mighty Entwash, and the shock of submersion had punched Éomer violently in the chest.

Then the river had carried him away and whirled him around until he knew now longer which way was up or down, playing with him like a cat with a mouse, like a storm with a leaf. It had swept him against rocks and the riverbank, cruelly pausing until his numbing fingers tried to clench around protrusions and roots, only to tear him away again and suck the strength out of him with its cold embrace. His chain mail had drawn him relentlessly under, permitting him only at the shallow spots to break the water’s surface and breathe, but even so each breath he had drawn had consisted of more water than air, and his body had gone into convulsions.

‘I’m dying.’

The thought had been incredibly clear. There had been no panic, and no further need to continue the struggle as Éomer had surrendered to the Mering’s power. This death was still infinitely better than to be hacked to pieces by the orcs. While dying could never be pleasant, at least it was death by the hands of a friend, Éomer thought as the darkness began to close in around him and the river’s mighty voice faded away in the distance. And once he woke from this state, where would he be? Would it be a land of endless meadows and endless summer; a land that knew neither war nor strife and where his parents would gladly welcome him back under their roof? What a sweet, sweet dream that was…

And then even this thought was torn from his conscious, and only darkness remained…

***

FIRIEN FOREST

Elfhelm would never have admitted it to anyone, but the cold and the tension and the constant fear for his ward began to wear on him. Although he could not see the moon through the dense foliage, his sense of time insisted that they must have been searching for more than two hours in the darkness of the forest, and yet the conditions had rendered it impossible even for their most experienced trackers to find a single hint of Éomer’s whereabouts. He knew it was hopeless, but giving up was not an option. They were looking for the King’s nephew; if the boy came to harm because they postponed the search until the sun was up, he would never forgive himself… and he would never forgive Arnhelm.

That the scout was not here now with them, dedicating his considerable skill to solving the situation he had provoked, was intolerable, and Elfhelm knew that even if the night would come to a good end, the incident would bring massive changes to their éored. What became of the old scout in the wake of this night would remain to be seen, but at this very moment, the Captain of Aldburg could not envision himself riding with the man even for another day. And if Éomer really was dead…

Through the trees the voice of the Mering’s fast-flowing waters guided them on when Tolgor suddenly tightens his reins and brought his stallion to a halt, lifting a hand.

“Everyone, quiet!”

Breathlessly, the riders listened into the night, anxious to find out what their comrade had heard. At first, there was nothing except for the voices of the forest, and as it remained quiet, the men regarded each other with growing uncertainty. Another false alarm? But suddenly they, too, heard it: a thin, distant neigh that rose just barely over the noise of the water. With a deep breath, Elfhelm straightened in his saddle.

“A horse? Stormwing?”

“I certainly hope it is her.” Exchanging a brief glance of renewed hope with Eothain to his left, Tolgor shifted in the saddle and stared at the darkness beyond his horse’s pricked ears. Quietly, not wanting for the young man to hear him, he added: “And I hope that Éomer’s still on her back.”

Another neigh, already sounding closer, reached their ears and was answered by the other horses, and not long after that, the unmistakable sound of hoof beats could be heard and a disturbance in the undergrowth, the noise of something massive moving at speed through the bushes. Eothain could no longer bear the tension when he beheld the briefest flicker of a pale shadow moving toward them.

“Éomer? Éomer! Béma be blessed, we were so worried! You must never again…” He interrupted himself as the horse emerged from the thicket. Suddenly, there was no more doubt in his mind that his friend was dead. “No…”

It was Stormwing, but there was no one on her back and the saddle hung beneath her rump. Many bloodied scratches in her hide told of her panicked flight through the forest, and at the sight of her, the Riders fell silent.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Elfhelm muttered at last, trying to convince himself but failing to believe in his own words. Fighting the sudden weight upon his chest, he urged his horse forth and took the mare’s dangling reins. “What happened to you, lass?” he whispered, with one hand caressing the mare’s quivering nostrils. “Where is your rider?” His expert gaze glided over the scratches. “I do not see any injuries on her that could have been caused by orcs, neither arrow nor knife wounds. I think she bolted, and Éomer fell off.”

“Fell off?” Eothain found that he could barely speak through the growing lump in his throat. “He’s a great rider. Everyone in Edoras respects him for his skill on horseback, even the grown warriors! For Éomer to fall from a saddle…” ‘- it takes an arrow to his back,” he meant to say, but could not bring himself to actually utter the words. And yet in the flickering light of the torches, he saw that the others understood him well enough.

“We must not yet give up hope,” the Captain of Aldburg determined. “Let’s trace back Stormwing’s tracks; if it is indeed so that the son of Eomund fell and hurt himself, they will lead us to him. Let’s move… but keep your eyes open, the orcs’ time is not yet over.”

***

THE RIVER’S EDGE

The urgent rush of water greeted Éomer as his conscious slowly began to rise from the dark maelstrom. For a time span he could not determine, the sound was his only perception although he could not even name its source. It was all around him, filled out his entire being and soothed him with its steadiness. It was like a dream, not connected to any conscious thought or accompanying sensation; it felt as if he floated through that noise, weightless, unsubstantial, and for a while, Éomer was satisfied with being a part of it.

Only gradually did it seep into his mind that there was more. There was the solidness underneath his hands of which he became by and by aware, the pressure of hard, smooth pebbles against his hands and face and the almost inaudible scrunching sound they made beneath his weight. His weight… aye. He no longer felt as he was part of the air, either. Something drew him down, pressed him against the ground.

‘Am I there?’

The thought was accompanied by a sudden bout of chilling cold and the distinct feeling of wetness. Wet? He was drenched! From one heartbeat to the next, violent shivering assaulted Éomer, so strong it made his teeth clatter. Groaning, he dug his fingers into the gravel. Was this the afterlife? This cold, relentless misery? Where was the sun-flooded meadow they kept speaking of, the scent of flowers and spring? And where were his parents, were they not supposed to know that their son was about to join them?

Spooked by the sound of his own tormented groan, Éomer opened his eyes… and found himself enveloped in silver sparkling, with water lapping against his face. What was this? His lungs widened in a very conscious breath as the son of Eomund summoned his strength to lift his head. He was lying in a shallow pool, the water not even high enough to fully cover his hands, and the pale light came from the waxing moon above the mountain peaks.

Furrows of confusion appeared on Éomer’s brow as he slowly pushed himself up onto his knees.

‘So… I am not dead?’ Cautiously he turned his head – ‘It’s still throbbing; I ran against that tree…’ – and regarded his surroundings in silent wonder while it gradually seeped into his conscious that he had indeed survived.

‘Where am I?’ His gaze swept the mighty body of water between him and the opposite embankment. ‘Can orcs swim?’ There was no sign of his pursuers anywhere, no sound, no reflection of the moonlight in pale yellow eyes, and no gleeful laughter that disturbed the night followed by vivid descriptions of what they would do once they had overcome their prey.

‘Let’s just see how much pain you can tolerate before you will plead with us to end it.’

Involuntarily, Éomer’s heart beat faster at the unwelcome memory, and once again he let his eyes wander over the dark silhouette of the forest, tense as a drawn bow. ‘Perhaps they ran into the éored and were slaughtered. Surely Elfhelm and the others must have heard my signal and found them.’ Slowly, he allowed himself to relax, and he turned around to glance at the mountains south of him, although it seemed impossible to determine how far the river had carried him away from his comrades and the safety of their camp.

‘My comrades?’ Bitter laughter rose in his throat. ‘They never were, and never will be. They only pretended to accept me in their midst. I’m on my own now, and I will not crawl back to them on my knees. I can do without them.’ With another deep breath, Éomer at last struggled to his feet against the weight of his chain mail. His entire body pulsed and throbbed from the Mering’s cruel game, and yet even as he waded with heavy steps toward the riverbank, the young warrior felt with relief that against all odds, his nightly adventure had resulted in no serious injury. Perhaps, not everyone was against him.

Speaking a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had protected him, Éomer made his way over to where the first rocks marked the beginning of the mountainous terrain. It did not take him long to find shelter in a widened crack between them, and although there was nothing to make a fire with, the son of Eomund found that once he had shed his mail and huddled into the corner, the cold was no longer a problem. With his knees drawn up and his arms slung around his legs, the young warrior fell into an exhausted sleep…

***

FIRIEN FOREST

“It is no use.” Elfhelm had been aware of that fact even before they had begun to follow the mare’s tracks hours ago, but he had not been ready to give up. He was still not ready to give up, but after hours of fruitless searching around in the dark, the time had arrived at last to listen to the voice of reason inside his head, for what it repeated in an endless litany was undeniably correct: they could do nothing for Éomer before daylight was up. Most of their torches had burned down and would barely enable them to find their own way back to the camp. It was impossible to find tracks in these conditions, even the ones Stormwing had made, and with bad luck, their combined effort would even obliterate what tracks there might have been. No, as hard as realisation was, they needed to exercise patience now.

In a laudible but ultimately doomed attempt to not let his men hear the hopelessness and frustration that he felt himself, the Captain of Aldburg turned to face his tired and exhausted riders.

“We only have a few torches left, and for all we know, the orcs could still be around. Their advantage over us is too great once it is completely dark. We must head back.” He saw Éothain’s dispirited expression and loathed himself although experience told him that it was the correct decision. “Come first light, we will continue the search with the full éored, and we will turn every rock and every leaf in this godforsaken forest until we have found Éomer; that is a promise.” He laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as he looked him in the eye. “Do not despair, son. We will find him, and if it’s the last thing I will do in my life.”

Bravely, Éothain fought back the tears hopelessness and exhaustion threatened to loose. He did not want to cry before these warriors, no matter what horrible images he saw before his inner eye. So instead he nodded, the lump in his throat too great to speak. He was thankful when Elfhelm turned away.

“Tolgor, Bard, lead the way!”