Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father

Chapter 12: "Aftermath"

The Mountain Path

Shocked into paralysis, Éomer stared at the deadly avalanche of stone.

‘So this is where I die.’

Movement at the corner of his eye told him that Arnhelm was making a desperate dash for his bolting horse, but the scout stood no chance, for only a heartbeat later, the rock slide was upon them, and the world turned into thunderous, grinding hell. The ground beneath his feet bucked like a wild horse and Éomer fell backwards, sliding down the hill on the river of mud and screaming in terror as he braced himself for the impact of the rock that would crush him.

But there was no impact. Instead, movement beneath him slowly ground to a halt, and the thunder of falling rocks ebbed until there was only the sound of the rain and trickling water again, and the occasional crunching noise of massive rocks settling into their new position. After the inferno before, it felt to the young warrior like the heaviest silence he had ever experienced.

For a moment longer, Éomer continued to lie on his back with his eyes closed, not believing in the treacherous calm. With baited breath, he waited for the pain to assault him, for surely he could not have survived this disaster without broken or crushed bones. Afraid to move, he counted his heartbeats. So fast, oh so very fast his heart beat in his chest, as if it were trying to escape the deadly peril on its own. Only very gradually it began to slow down, until at last, Éomer dared to draw his first, shallow breath. There was still no pain. He opened his eyes... to a grey sky.

Wetness on his face. Cautiously, he lifted one arm... or tried to lift it. There was still the sling around him, hindering his movements. But it was slack, its end loose, and slipping it over his head no further problem. Again, there was no pain. Still sceptical, Éomer wiped a hand over his face, expecting the moisture to be blood, but it was only water. For the longest time, the son of Eomund stared at his hand, barely daring to hope that he had indeed survived the rock slide entirely unscathed. Could it really be? Had the gods truly spared him despite everything he had done wrong for the past two days? Had he been granted a second chance?

Gathering his courage, the young rider sat up slowly. Dizzy from the lack of air, as he had still unconsciously held his breath for fear of the lightning bolt of pain from a crushed limb or backbone, he slowly took in his surroundings, and his eyes widened. The narrow gorge through which he had walked had all but disappeared, the path buried underneath rocks up to the size of small huts and deep mud. The mountain’s flank from where the mudflow had sprung had likewise vastly changed; a deep chasm now marred its surface like a flesh wound, and as Éomer stared numbly at the raw soil, he suddenly understood what miracle had saved his life: directly in his path, no further than perhaps fifty paces above his current position, a mighty bluff had diverted the deadly avalanche and shielded him from the stones. It appeared that, by sheer luck, shock had frozen him in the only safe spot on the entire mountain. Which brought another thought...

“Captain? Captain Arnhelm?”

His heart again in his throat, Éomer jumped to his feet, and his gaze darted frantically over the field of destruction for signs of the scout.

‘Gods, what if he is dead?’ he thought, and his skin turned to gooseflesh. ‘What if I’m responsible now for the death of one of the Mark’s most esteemed warriors?’

“Captain Arnhelm?”

A thin, distant whinny reached his ears, and as Éomer strained to discover its source among the debris, he beheld the shape of the scout’s black stallion further up the path. For moment, relief washed over him, until he noticed the horse’s strange posture. Ravenwing stood with hanging head, his left foreleg lifted and barely touching the ground. ‘No, no...’

With a lump in his throat, Éomer staggered forward on shaky legs which barely carried him, and on his way over to the injured horse, his anxious gaze again darted over his surroundings for signs of the stallion’s master.

“Captain?”

The pile of rubble beneath his feet suddenly gave way and Éomer slipped and landed in knee-deep mud. Swearing, the young rider reached for the nearest rock to pull himself out, but quickly found that the wet soil had the consistency of molasses and refused to simply let him go.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath, what else can possibly happen next? Did I not already say that I was sorry?” he uttered between ground teeth, and pulled himself out of the hole with what felt like the last power left in his muscles. Spasms of exhaustion shook his body as he sank to his knees, and for a moment, leant his head against the rock with closed eyes. ‘So tired...’

Then he heard the groan, and sat up straight on his heels. It had sounded close.

“Captain Arnhelm? Where are you? Can you hear me?” A low moan answered him and lent him new energy as he pulled himself to his knees. ‘At least he’s alive. – For now, yes. It seems that way. But for how long?’ a dark voice in the back of mind asked gloomily. ‘Do you seriously believe that there was another miracle, and that the Captain only hit his head? By the sound of this, is it not more likely that he is seriously injured?’

Yes, it was, Éomer admitted as he cautiously climbed over the obstacles in his way. But what was he supposed to do? It was not as if he could simply walk away... although Arnhelm probably expected him to do just that.

Straightening between the rocks, the young warrior suddenly hesitated. He had not wanted to be found by the scout. And most certainly had he not asked to be forced to go with Arnhelm, tied and slung to the saddle like a killed deer. So had the rock slide not, in fact, solved all his problems? He was free to leave and be on his way to Halifirien, and no one would ever know just what had happened here... if the scout died.

‘And how will you live with yourself if you do that?’ that voice asked him again from the back of his mind, and this time, Éomer identified it as his father’s voice. ‘Walking away from a wounded Rohir, knowing fully well that he stands no chance of survival without your help... is that the kind of revenge you’re after? Is this what the son of a marshal of the Armed Forces would do?’

‘He certainly had no problems with chasing me away into the night,’ Éomer defended himself, but his justification sounded hollow even to his own ears. ‘He wanted me to get killed.’

‘You don’t know that, Éomer. Perhaps, Arnhelm simply lost his head last night, and now he is trying to save the situation. Trying hard. Or why else would he have gone through all these pains to find you here, if not to correct a mistake which he recognised as such? If he wanted you dead, he could have killed you twice by now.’

That was true. Uncertain about how to proceed, Éomer stood for a moment longer, rooted to the spot, until another low moan woke him from his contemplation. The scout had to be here somewhere, even if he couldn’t see him yet.

‘What if he lies beneath these rocks, half-crushed, and what you hear are his dying sounds?’ Béma, wouldn’t that be horrible? Éomer swallowed, and the mental image which accompanied this thought chased a cold chill down his spine. ‘Even if Arnhelm is a horse’s ass, no rider of the Mark deserves such a fate!’

“Captain? Where are you?”

“H-here...” It was a pained whisper that answered him, and with his wildly beating heart in his throat, Éomer climbed around a pile of loose rocks the size of a horse... and found his captain. His breath caught in his chest, the young man stared into pain-filled grey eyes and knew at once that things were bad, for he could only see the scout’s upper half. Arnhelm’s legs were buried underneath tons of stone.

Unable to speak or think, Éomer stared at his fallen adversary, and the older man stared back.

For the longest time, the two very different riders just regarded each other as realisation seeped into their minds that at least one of them would die. Then, slowly, a faint, wry smile formed on Arnhelm’s lips.

“Well, son of Eomund...” He caught his breath and looked his apprentice straight in the eye. Blood freely flowed down his face from a cut on his cheekbone. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To get even with me?” A wave of pain wrecked his body, and for a moment, robbed him of the ability to speak. When it returned, the wry smile upon his lips broadened. “Are you satisfied with yourself now?”

Involuntarily, Éomer straightened and lifted his chin. So even now, they were still not done with this sad business, it seemed.

“I did not cause the rock slide, Captain, if that is what you are insinuating. And to answer your question: no, it doesn’t satisfy me to see you in pain, although in order to ask me that, I assume you feel that you deserve some of it. My father taught me better than that.”

“I suppose you are right,” Arnhelm hissed, and squeezed his eyes shut in a doomed attempt to push back the agony. “After all, Eomund never left the fate of his enemies to chance. He killed them outright. Wounding them was not good enough for him.”

For a moment, Éomer just stared back and fought the heated flare of his temper, hands balled into fists and a dangerous glint dancing in his dark eyes. ‘I should just turn around and leave him here!’ a strong, inner voice demanded, and he realised it as the one he had listened to for the better part of the past night and day. But something had happened on his path to Halifirien, hadn’t it? Had there not been a moment of clarity, and the decision to grow up and take responsibility for his actions? And was this not the right time to start?

Shifting his gaze to the rock that held Arnhelm captive, Éomer realised at once that it was far too heavy for him. There was no way of freeing the scout without the help of their éored, so it was clear what he needed to do, first. ‘But I might give him a little well-deserved scare, nevertheless!’

Without a word, Éomer turned away and began to climb down to where he heard the scout’s horse call for its master.

“Aye, run, son of Eomund! See that you get as far away from here as possible, because Béma is my witness when I swear that I will spend the rest of my days hunting you down should I come out of this alive! I must have been mad to come here and rescue you!”

It was hard to listen to Arnhelm scathing words and not correct him, his blood boiling in his veins, but Éomer remained silent. Only now that he approached the black stallion did he softly whisper: “Sssh, mighty Ravenwing. There is no need to be afraid of me, for I am not an enemy. Please, if you will, let me have a look at your wounds. I will do what I can to help you.” Behind him, the stallion’s owner still uttered senseless threats, but Éomer no longer listened. His attention was entirely focussed on the animal in front of him, which regarded him warily. If Ravenwing kicked and wounded him, it would most certainly be the end of all three of them.

“May I approach you now?” He straightened, arms loosely hanging by his side in an unthreatening posture. The black eyed him with nervously flickering ears, and he would have danced to the side if his left foreleg had not been rather useless. However, it seemed to Éomer that the bone was still intact, for while his lameness was obvious, Ravenwing did not avoid ground contact with his injured leg entirely. Cautiously, he advanced another step. And another one. Almost within reach now. Large dark eyes scrutinized him, but the stallion remained where he was. A sign of Ravenwing’s trust? Slowly, Éomer lifted his hand. “I promise I will not harm you, my friend.”

With widened nostrils, the black tasted his scent, eyes rolling in unmistakable threat. Éomer stood perfectly still, aware that it would take only a single move to spook the stallion while he felt his warm breath against his palm. At last, the silken fur of Ravenwing’s nose rubbed against his skin, and the young Rohir knew that he had won. As he caressed the stallion, a faint smile wandered over his face. It was a wonderful feeling to know that despite everything that had happened over the last two days, horses still seemed to trust him. It was like Thunderbolt all over again, a boost for his low spirits.

“Aye, Ravenwing, I know that you hurt, and that you would prefer to have your master tend you. “ Slowly, Éomer’s hand wandered from the black’s nose over the horse’s brow up to the now pricked ears, as he edged closer to the stallion’s rump. “I wish that he could do that, but as it seems, he is in an even worse way than you right now.” There it was, the thing he had sought, still attached to the saddle: Arnhelm’s horn. Quickly, Éomer unslung it, and with his free hand, clapped Ravenwing’s muscular shoulder. “I will see what is wrong with your leg in a moment, Black One, but first, I will need to call for help. Stay here, please.”

With a deep sigh, Éomer turned around, and then began to force his exhausted body up the steep, unstable slope.

“What are you doing?” Arnhelm’s voice reached him from behind the rock that held the warrior captive. “Éomer? Answer me!”

And yet instead of an answer, Éomer climbed up the sheer cliff until he was sure that it was impossible to proceed another step, and with a deep breath, sat the horn against his lips. The dark, imposing sound rang out into the void, carried further and echoed by the rock. Pebbles loosened by the powerful noise slid down the mountain’s shoulder, and for a moment, Éomer was afraid of causing another rockslide... but at least for now, the ground beneath his feet remained stable. Once again he sounded the horn until lack of oxygen made him dizzy, and then he stood and strained his ears for an answer... and there it was; a long, low sound, rising up to him from the plains and causing his heart to skip a beat.

‘They heard me! They’ll come! Everything will turn out all right now!’

He gave the signal that told the éored he had heard them and turned around, and for a moment, all weariness and exhaustion was forgotten as the son of Eomund clambered down the ravine. Help was on the way.

 

***

The River’s Edge

“What do you reckon, Éothain? Is it Éomer?” Staring at the other shore of the river, at the beginning wilderness of the White Mountains, Elfhelm barely dared to hope as he lowered his horn. “Would he call for help if he ran into trouble, even though he tried so hard to get away from us?”

The apprentice rider shook his head as he followed his Captain’s gaze, an iron band squeezing his lungs together at the thought of his friend in trouble. What trouble? Orcs?

“I do not know. After last night, I feel as if I barely know him at all. I would never have thought that Éomer would run from anything.” He exhaled, inwardly fighting to have his hope crushed by reality.

“Whoever it is, we can’t help him,” Bard the Bear added gloomily. “Not yet, at least. That signal sounded as if it came from halfway up Halifirien. Even without the rain, it would take at least another half a day to reach him.” He paused, not wanting to utter the next part, but it needed to be said, even if Elfhelm probably knew it himself. “But we cannot cross the river yet; the flood’s far too strong.” He looked back over his shoulder, and his mood darkened even further as he beheld the men who had gathered around Anlaf, whom they had found unconscious in the forest not far from here. “We must wait, or yet more will pay for Arnhelm’s folly.”

Putting his head back, Elfhelm cast a dark glance at the sky.

“By nightfall, these mountains will be brimming with goblins. And we do not know what happened to the rest of that orc group, either. I refuse to believe that there were only three of them. Orcs don’t travel the Mark in such low numbers.”

“I’m fairly certain that they didn’t cross the river though,” Bard replied, directing his attention back at his Captain. “Orcs can’t swim, and the Mering’s been tough game at least for the last twenty four hours.” His words failed to brighten his commander’s mood, and next to Elfhelm, Éothain, too, now looked even more dismayed.

“But if he’s in trouble now, what will happen to him once the goblins come?” He looked pleadingly at the older warriors. “We must ride to his aid, or there will be no one left to rescue tomorrow!”

“Believe me, young man, there is nothing I would rather do right now, even if we do not know whether the signal was indeed given by Éomer.” With a deep breath, Elfhelm forced himself to tear his eyes away from the mountains on the distant river shore and instead, meet the young rider’s gaze openly. “But Bard is right: the Mering’s no river to be trifled with. We will have to wait, or riders will die. We will stay here, and as soon as the flood drops, we will cross. It cannot be helped. For now, we must exercise patience. Chances are good that the beacon guards on Halifirien heard the signal as well and will come to his aid from their side.” He turned his horse around.

“Go and help raise the camp, Éothain. We will have to stay here for at least another couple of hours, and nightfall is not far off anymore. It would be good to have our fires going by then.” He looked at Bard. “If something needs my attention, you will find me at Tolgor’s side. By the look of things, Anlaf was the last one to see Arnhelm. Perhaps he will have valuable information for us once he regains consciousness.”

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