Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father

Chapter 11: Found

Firien Forest

“Béma’s beard…!” Anlaf’s outcry was cut short when his stallion reared. Hammerhand’s neck crashed against his face, and his vision exploded into a great white fireball as he slipped from the saddle… and caught his foot in the stirrup. ‘Damnation…’

The grey accelerated, jumping away from the threat and dragging his rider along through the undergrowth. Frantically, the warrior twisted and moved his ankle while bushes lashed at his face and ripped his helmet from his head.

“Hoh, Hammerhand! Hoh!”

But a terrible growl from behind sent his horse into an even faster gallop and Anlaf desperately groped for his sword to cut himself loose as a massive dark shape appeared before him. With bone-shattering force, the rider was thrown against it, and the world slipped from his grasp…

***

“Captain! Captain Elfhelm! I found something!”

Bard was a bear of a man; a fearless, formidable warrior who would charge right into the thick of battle without second thoughts, and yet Elfhelm could not recall when he had last seen his fellow rider in such an anxious state. As the éored approached the opening upon the cliff from where the warrior was calling, the cold hand of fear seized Elfhelm’s heart. Surely the expression of grim acceptance on Bard’s face could only mean one thing: he had found the boy, and he was no longer alive. He barely dared to ask as he stopped Éon and craned his neck to look at what Bard’s bulk was hiding.

“You found Éomer?”

“Éomer? No.” Bard shook his head, but the relief that washed over Elfhelm was short-lived when the man pointed toward the cliff. “But we found three dead orcs… and Éomer’s tracks leading to the cliff’s edge…” He inhaled. “They end there.” Bard fell silent, and his grim look found Tolgor, then briefly wandered over the other riders before travelling back to the river. Alas, it was clear to every member of the éored what his discovery meant. They knew from own experience that the Mering could turn into a wild beast in the rain. If the boy had fallen into the river with his armour on, perhaps even wounded by the orcs who had cornered him…

Exchanging a dark glance with his healer, Elfhelm slowly dismounted to see for himself, although he had no reason to believe that his comrade had overlooked anything vital. Alas, the tracks were all too clear and left no question about what had happened here last night. He inhaled deeply and forced himself to ask: “Do you think they shot him? Did he fall in, or did he jump, taking his chance with the river as the orcs would not grant him any? In that case, he could still be alive.” He saw his own doubt reflected in the younger rider’s eyes.

“I suppose it is possible. But even so…” Bard shrugged. “’The river is still swollen from last night’s rain. If Éomer fell or jumped in at the height of the flooding…” Again he shook his head, unwilling to continue. But of course, his brothers-in-arms understood only too well, and silent swearing could be heard among their rows.

With a heavy heart, Elfhelm turned his back on the tracks and stared at the dead orc to his feet.

“It was not Éomer who killed them. His bow is still at the camp… and there are horse tracks.” He looked up, brow creased. “Arnhelm? Could it have been Arnhelm and Anlaf?” A different image began to emerge in his mind, although Elfhelm was not sure that he liked it any more than the notion that Éomer had been killed by the orcs.

“You think Arnhelm and Anlaf left together looking for the boy?” Tolgor asked cautiously from his elevated position. His stomach was a block of ice. He knew what Elfhelm was contemplating, but could not bring himself to voice it aloud, so monstrous was the thought. Béma, how could it be that their world had been turned upside down in a matter of only a few hours? Until the past night, none of the riders would have deemed it possible that one of their own could turn against them. But had it really happened? Somehow, Tolgor still refused to accept the thought.

With a tired gesture, Elfhelm removed his helmet and ran a hand through his matted hair.

“I no longer know what to think, Tolgor. I must confess that I’m at my wit’s end. All I know is that Arnhelm provoked Éomer to run away in the middle of the night, and that it looks as if he found this place before us and possibly killed these orcs. Did he kill Éomer, too, to be certain that his plot succeeded? To ensure that the son of Éomund would never return? Or did he shoot the orcs only after they killed Éomer, and is now running from us? Together with Anlaf, I presume, because no one has seen him either since last night and if there is one man left who might be loyal to him after what he did, it has to be his former pupil.”

“I will not believe that Arnhelm killed the boy,” Tolgor objected. “True, he lost his head last night, but to actually go and chase after him with the intention to kill? If at all, I’d rather believe in the second version.”

“It doesn’t matter. He is not here now to answer that question, and we cannot be sure that Éomer is indeed dead. We must not give up yet.” Squaring his shoulders, Elfhelm felt a new surge of determination as he eyed the opposite shore. “Let’s find a place to span our ropes across the river. I will not leave here without having taken at least one look at the other shore.”

***

THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

It had to be close to midday, Éomer assumed as he squinted at the slightly brighter spot where the sun hid behind a high veil of clouds. Determined to put as many leagues as possible between himself and Arnhelm before the scout crossed the river, he had followed the ascending path at a sharp pace, his muscles at first fuelled by fresh, hot fury… but now matter how hard he fought it, fatigue had begun to catch up with him. The strenuous last days, the horrors of the past night, his fall... everything that had happened had taken his toll on him, and it did not help that the last time his stomach had seen food now lay approximately eighteen hours in the past. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and the weight of his armour seemed to increase with each step that he took. While he had had at first only fleetingly contemplated it, Éomer was now at a point where it seemed no longer like madness to shed it.

‘Certainly. Walking through the wilderness with neither weapons nor armour, whatever are you thinking, Éomer? Whatever foe finds you in this state will probably never have made easier prey.’

He fought to ignore the voice of reason in his head, not even listening to it long enough to determine whom it belonged to this time. Strangely though, it had somehow sound like Éothain’s. Èothain? For a moment, the thought of his best friend stopped Éomer in his tracks. Looking back over his shoulder the way he had come, he slowly turned around. In his anxiety to escape from Arnhelm’s malice, he had completely forgotten about Éothain. What would his friend do if he did not return? What would Éothain think of him? Would he think him a coward for running away? And what was he doing right now, searching for him with the rest of the éored and in danger of running into another orc trap? Had he unwittingly endangered his best friend?

With a sigh that sounded as if the world had been loaded upon his juvenile shoulders, Éomer sat down on a rock, and his gaze travelled up the steep rock walls surrounding him. It seemed that no matter what he did, it was wrong. Running away from a confrontation, especially when one was the wronged one, was not what heroes did. Heroes faced their opponents and either made them see their error or forced them to see things their way. Heroes never backed down… so what was he doing here? He swallowed.

‘But I am not even a warrior yet,’ Éomer thought with increasing despair, his eyes on the part of the mountain path he had just walked. ‘How am I supposed to make that old fool see my way when not even Elfhelm himself could do it?’

‘But you are running away, Son,’ his father’s voice made himself be heard, and Éomer no longer had the strength to object. ‘I never dreamt that I would raise a son who would flee from a confrontation instead of claiming what is his birthright.’

Hot tears began to well up in Éomer’s eyes, and he shut them, ashamed of himself. Béma, what a mess he had gotten himself into. With the ball of his palm, he wiped his eye, desperately wishing for someone to talk to other than those stern voices inside his head. What advice would Théodred give him now? What would Éowyn say?

Éomer hung his head, knowing the answer. His sister looked up to him; he was her hero. There was no question that she would not understand the path he had chosen.

‘But Éomer,’ she would say in her usual blunt way, her brow creased in confusion, and as always, her opinion would sound much too adult for a girl her age. ‘You will not find Eorl the Young on Halifirien. He will not wait there for you. What advise do you hope to gather from a dead king, other than what you already know? You must stand up to Arnhelm, and even if you cannot make him see your way, claim back the respect of the éored. Arnhelm is only a bitter old man who is too stubborn and hurt to see, but if you continue to run from him, you will lose the others. Fight for your right and they will be with you, but no one sympathises with a coward.”

Éomer swallowed. So at last, the truth he had been running from all morning had finally caught up with him. A weary smile passed quickly over his dirty face as he lifted his chin. His little sister… Many times had they heard people say how alike they were, and yet when things counted, they were really quite different. Whereas he tended to blow off steam and lose his head – ‘I need to work on that if I ever want to reach anything; I must!’ – Éowyn tended to swallow her anger and cunningly developed a strategy to ensure she got her will in the end.

His smile broadened. Aye, Éowyn would one day make a fine strategist, provided Uncle allowed her into the council. How proud she would be to be the first female advisor ever in the Court of Rohan, especially since her wish to become a warrior like her brother would and could never be granted. Horrified, Éomer thought of lithely-built Éowyn struggling with the hardships he had come to know in his first month in the éored. Hardships necessary to build up muscles and strength, so that one hopefully not so far day, his sword strikes would penetrate orc armours like butter. Éothain and he had that perspective; with steady training, their lanky frames would gradually fill out as they grew into men, but it was not something Éowyn could hope for. No, no matter how much talent she possessed, his sister would never be allowed to wield a sword in battle against creatures easily twice her weight.

Blinking, Éomer’s mind returned to the present. So what now? Wait here for Arnhelm to find him? It would mean admitting failure to his opponent. It would be humiliating. But if he kept on walking towards Halifirien and the scout caught up with him, it would be the same. Perhaps the only dignified solution, Éomer figured as he craned back his neck to stare at the overcast sky, was to make his way back to the river on his own account, thus demonstrating that he was man enough to realise and correct his mistakes. A fine spray of moisture wettened his face.

More rain. Éomer creased his brow with displeasure. If this continued, the Mering would swell again and render a soon return to the éored impossible. It could easily result in another night on this side of the river, without weapons and without protection. What if those orcs were still around? A violent shiver raced down his back at this thought.

In a futile attempt to quench his thirst, Éomer opened his mouth and craned back his neck, but the raindrops were too fine yet, teasing him with a promise they would not keep. He realised that he did not know whether there was any water at all to be had on the path to the mountain. But he had travelled for hours, wasn’t he closer to Halifirien than to the river by now? The beacon guards would be there. They would have water, and provide protection. Perhaps it was the safer of the two choices.

With a groan, Éomer came to his feet, feeling thoroughly depleted of all energy even after the brief rest. ‘It is not so far anymore. I can do this.’ Gathering what was left of his will, he took his first step, his gaze on his feet, willing them to carry him up the path. ‘I can do this.’

***

“Morgoth’s stinking breath!” Arnhelm threw a dark glance at the sky as he adjusted his seat in the saddle. His already thoroughly rotten day promised to get even worse, if he read the dark front of clouds that moved toward him from the other side of the mountains correctly. Well, it was not as if he could get any wetter…

With a grimace, the scout tugged at the garments which still stuck to his skin although at least two hours had passed since he had finally crossed the bloody river. The current had still been strong and the crossing risky, but after having observed the Mering for several hours after Éomer had left, Arnhelm had found that the water level did not fall any lower. In fact it had started to rise again, and one glance at the dark sky above the Ered Nimrais had been enough for him to understand that the Mering’s floods were being fed by new rain further south.

Now that rain was upon him and further darkened his already grim mood. The mountains were a bad place to be at in the rain. It turned even minor streams into serious obstacles, paths became treacherous and slippery, and every now and then, a mud- or a rockslide would claim the lives of those who wrongly assumed that – in a world where conflicts were solved with sword, spear and bow - nature’s forces could be trifled with.

Increasing the pressure of his thighs, Arnhelm forced his steed into a steady trot up the rough path, his eyes on the steep slopes for signs of the boy. The sooner he found Éomer, the better. And if the boy still refused to come with him, he would force him to.

***

Another corner, the same sight: the path, barely more than a fissure between the steep scree slopes, winding upwards with no apparent end in sight and glistening with treacherous wetness. Twice Éomer had already slipped and painfully landed on his knees, and as he lost his footing for the third time, he remained on his shins and sat back. Desperation rose in his throat as it began to dawn on him that in all likelihood, he would not reach his destination before nightfall, and the mountains were a considerably more dangerous place then the Mering’s shores, from all he had heard. Aye, he should have turned back when he’d had the chance, but now it was too late.

‘It’s the punishment for running away,” he thought bitterly, no longer finding the energy in himself to get up when the weight of his armour all but glued him to the ground. ‘It is what I deserve.’ For the longest time, Éomer just sat there on the path, unmoving. Not knowing what to do. Until at last, without so much as a conscious decision from his mind, his hands crept up to the buckles of his armour, opening them. ‘Can’t carry the weight anymore…’

He slipped out of the carefully crafted cuirass, shedding it like a lizard crept out of its old skin. He barely looked at it as it fell to the ground and his fingers began to fumble with the ties of his mail shirt. Gods, he was so tired. And hungry. His entire body was a throbbing, aching mess, demanding of him to give it a rest, but even this was not the worst thing about his situation. Hot wetness welled up in Éomer’s eyes as he shrug out of his mail, his lips stubbornly pressed together in order to keep his composure against the overwhelming feeling of complete, utter loneliness.

‘I will not cry. I will not cry.’

It took him a moment longer to realise that the rush of the rain was no longer the only noise that reached his ears. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer turned his head to look back the way he had come. The path was empty for the short length which he could see before the rocks obstructed his view, but the noise was still there, and it seemed close already. There was something below the rain, a hollow echo, a steady four-beat rhythm… hoof beats!

With a gasp, Éomer sat up. It sounded like a single horse, not an entire éored. Was it Arnhelm then? Who else should it be? No rider in his right mind would travel this path alone in this weather… except for someone desperate enough to find him.

He struggled to his feet, unwilling to face the scout on his knees.

***

His eyes firmly on the ground even if there were no tracks to be seen on the rock, Arnhelm was almost startled at the sight of the lonely figure that rose from the path before him. So, here he was at last, Eomund’s stubborn brat… now what?

He sat back in the saddle, suddenly rigid with tension while he took in Éomer’s forlorn appearance in all detail. In addition to looking like a drowned dog, an ugly dark bruise on his brow and several scratches marred the young man’s face, but it was the expression in his eyes which gave away Éomer’s disposition more clearly than even words could have. And still while they measured each other, Arnhelm could already see the familiar stubbornness return to the dark eyes before him.

“So…” Éomer began at last, with a hint of defiance but even greater exhaustion in his voice. “You found me. What now? Will you kill me? Do what you wanted to do when you first laid eyes upon me?” He advanced a step, and Arnhelm noticed that he had a rock in his fist. “I may be unarmed, but I will not make it easy for you.”

The older man sighed.

“I am here to bring you back to the éored, Éomer, whatever else you may believe. You cannot remain out here in the mountains alone and unarmed. You know so yourself, and I am tired of discussions. If you don’t come with me willingly, I will have to force you. What do you think you’re doing?” What was it that he saw in the lad’s eyes? Relief… and hatred… at the same time? Was that even possible? Out of impulse, he extended a hand. “Come.”

For the longest moment, Éomer studied his face… and lifted his chin.

“I don’t trust you.”

Arnhelm ground his teeth, feeling his composure beginning to slip away from him. He grasped his rope, his fingers forming a sling without even looking.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could easily have shot you in the back when you turned it on me at the river. Besides, you don’t have a choice. It would take you at least another day to reach Halifirien if you continue on this path… but you would not make it through the night. Get your mail and climb in the saddle, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“No.” Éomer turned away.

“Éomer! “

When the young man did not even grace him with a reply, Arnhelm tossed the sling. It fell over Éomer’s shoulders and tightened before he could slip it off.

“Let me go!”

“You’re coming with me, son, like it or not.” Pushing Ravenwing backwards so that the rope remained tight, Arnhelm slid from his saddle and walked toward Éomer. If he had to knock the brat unconscious in order to bind him, so be it. It was high time this bloody, rotten day ended! He had almost reached the struggling young warrior when a loud grinding noise stopped him in his tracks. ‘This cannot be true!’

But it was true, and even as the two opponents turned their heads, the entire mountain flank seemed to suddenly jump toward them…