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Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father  by Katzilla

Chapter 14: The Heart of Darkness


THE MERING'S SHORES

“Captain? Captain Elfhelm?” a voice spoke into Elfhelm’s dreams, and at first, the warrior believed it to be part of the vaguely unsettling images that had haunted his rest. Until the voice spoke again. “Captain Elfhelm, the water’s sinking. Tolgor sent me to let you know that it might be possible to cross the river now.”

Drowsily, Elfhelm blinked at the young face that hovered above him and sat up, fighting to shake off the leaden exhaustion that had claimed him despite his concern for his still missing apprentice and scout.

“Éothain?” He took a deep breath and craned back his neck to look at the sky. There was still no star to be seen, the layer of cloud blocking most light from above, but at least the rain had stopped. Good. It was about time. He was sick and tired of being forced into inactivity when members of his éored needed his help. With an inward groan, Elfhelm picked himself up, surprised by the creaking of his bones. Was he getting old? In contrast to how he felt, the young man before him certainly seemed energetic enough to jump into the water and climb up Halifirien all by himself.

“The water has dropped at least two feet over the last three hours, “ Éothain reported excitedly as he followed his captain to the river’s edge. “Bard said that it might still be risky, but that it could probably be done.”

“Very well, young man. Then, finally, it’s time to act.” Elfhelm nodded, looking forward to get moving even if the river crossing would demand their full concentration. Among the men before him, he spied the healer and about ten other riders standing ready with their horses on the reins, waiting for him.

“Captain?” Tolgor nodded his head. “We are ready to go. We already saddled Eon for you, too.”

Bard the Bear emerged from the group and handed Elfhelm the reins of his horse. Clapping the bay’s muscular neck, Elfhelm turned to the eagerly waiting boy by his side.

“I know you want to come along, Éothain, but I’m afraid I’ll have to tell you to stay here with the others. The Mering’s no river to be trifled with, and only riders with experienced and confident horses can risk this undertaking. Be assured that we will do our best to bring back your friend.” He saw the disappointment in his apprentice’s eyes and clapped his shoulder.  “You did much already, Éothain. Éomer could not wish for a more loyal friend.” And with these words, he turned around and swung into the saddle. “Findárras, you will wait here for our signal. I hope we will have found the son of Eomund and possibly, our scout, until noon.”

“Aye, Captain. May the gods protect you and the others on that path.”

“This is Halifirien, not Mordor, Findárras. By the look of things, the Mering should pose the greatest threat along that way. Hiya!”  He turned the stallion around and pushed him toward the water. Without words, his warriors followed him.

 


 THE MOUNTAIN PATH

 Éomer opened his eyes to darkness. He could not tell what had woken him from his nightmare in which an invisible threat had lurked, waiting to make its move, and for a moment, disorientation washed over him. Was he still dreaming? Breathlessly, the young warrior listened into the night, and while he reached out with his senses, the rough pebbles underneath his hands and the hard rock against his back confirmed to him that what he was looking at was, in fact, reality. So what exactly was it that caused his stomach to clench into a painful knot in the middle of his body?

Only gradually it dawned on him: it was too quiet. It seemed like nothing was moving, no songs of nocturnal birds could be heard in the vicinity, no fluttering of wings, no calls of predators small or big, not even the wind’s voice in the gorge of their elevated position. And the rain... had stopped. Slowly turning on his back, Éomer looked up. The nightly sky was still overcast, but every now and then, little gaps opened between the clouds and allowed the moon to shed its pale light onto the sleeping earth... except that it felt not as if it was sleeping. It was listening, rather, with baited breath, for something to happen. He sat up.

“Captain?”

“Shhh,” came a silencing sound from Arnhelm’s position. “Not so loud. They can hear you.”

“They?” Without warning, Éomer’s heart jumped into his throat, and his gaze darted frantically from rock to rock. But he did lower his voice. “The goblins? Are they already here?” No sooner had he ended that question when he saw the answer for himself. Two pale lights shone dimly in the twilight where he was looking, no more than thirty strides away. Two more right behind the first pair... and more behind those. Many more. All looking in their direction, unblinking. And now from further down the path, Ravenwing’s explosive snort reached his ears. So, the stallion had detected the danger, too. Éomer exhaled as anxiety flooded his veins, and he jumped to his feet, hand on the hilt of the sword the scout had given him.

“Not so fast, son of Eomund. They are undecided yet whether to attack us or not,” Arnhelm whispered, and Éomer quickly stepped over to the fallen warrior, seeing that the older man already had his bow by his side and an arrow in his hand. Just as he followed the warrior’s gaze, the dark shapes before them began to spread out in a half-circle around them. “For now, it seems as if there are no more than ten. Or at least, I can only see ten of them. I would be surprised if they waged battle at such low numbers.”

“Should I do something to discourage them?” Éomer bent to pick up a rock. With a bemused expression, Arnhelm’s head turned around to him, and a sour smile played on the scout’s lips.

“Like what? Throw stones at them? Stones will not discourage a band of hungry goblins. They are cowards, but if they’re hungry enough, stones will not stop them.”

“So we just wait?”

Urgent chittering reached their ears as the creatures moved around the slope, no purpose yet to their actions. Exploring their options. A few began to climb down toward the stallion on the blocked path, and Ravenwing gave an explosive snort that halted them. “What if more come?”

“Alas, I fear this is very possible. This is a rather small group of goblins; I assume they split up to find out where to make prey most easily. If the other groups find something better, they might just leave us alone. If not...” He left the sentence incomplete, but Éomer understood nonetheless. Trying to move his hurting body, Arnhelm suddenly let out a hiss.

“How is your leg, sir?” Éomer inquired, worried.

“It is not my leg that’s giving me trouble. As uncomfortable as it is, I think it is only caught under the rock, not crushed.” The older warrior’s expression contorted into a grimace of pain as he propped himself up with his elbows. “It’s this strange position.”

“Cramps, then,” Èomer stated, feeling helpless. There was nothing he could do to improve the scout’s situation that he had not already done. A moment later, Arnhelm rested his back once more against his saddle and inhaled, and again his gaze turned to the scurrying shapes on the slope.

“I suppose this will be a long night."


THE MOUNTAIN PATH - FURTHER BELOW

The ten riders and their mounts were drenched, but none of the men complained. They were concentrated, focussed on the rocky, uneven ground and at the same time, listening into the darkness for signs of danger. It was not the usual way of the éoreds to roam such complicated territory by night, but the ten volunteers to this mission were glad to finally move ahead. A highly battle-experienced, cunning group of warriors prepared for anything, they snaked up the mountain at literally neck-breaking speed.

Elfhelm’s muscles sang with tension as he stared into the night beyond his horse’s ears. He had given the stallion his head, fully trusting in Éon’s superior senses on this difficult way, even though he knew that they were moving far too fast for the terrain. From behind, a muttered curse reached his ear as one of the horses slipped on the wet rock, but they pressed on regardlessly. The river-fording had cost them more time than Elfhelm had calculated even under unfavourable circumstances. It had been a dangerous and arduous undertaking, but at last, all ten of them had made it to the other side, eager to proceed.

“Bard, sound your horn again. Let them know we’re coming,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Perhaps it will give us an idea how far ahead they are.”

“They sounded very far away this past evening,” Tolgor made himself be heard. “I expect that it will take us at least another four hours to reach them... provided the terrain does not get worse.” The powerful horn blow interrupted him, and he waited before he added: “All this wetness troubles me. The ground looks very unstable.”

“Aye, but it cannot be helped.” From somewhere in the distance, the answer to their signal reached their ears, and the warriors swore and shook their heads, for the signal indicated that their brothers-in-arms were in trouble.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath!” Bard’s deep voice rumbled. “I hope they did not run into orcs!”

“Orcs on Halifirien? Do you think they’ve grown so bold?” A cold shiver raced down Tolgor’s spine at the thought.

“They’re growing bolder with each passing day,” the mighty warrior spat with disdain. “It is about time they get taught a lesson they won’t forget so soon! Something in me hopes they’re still there when we arrive. I wouldn’t mind cleaving a few ugly heads from their shoulders tonight to make this worth our while!”

“It would be enough for me to find our two missing riders alive at the end of this path,” Elfhelm ended his heated outbreak. “Nothing else counts!”


THE MOUNTAIN PATH

“They are coming! That was definitely closer than last time!” Éomer lowered the horn and turned around to his fallen comrade, but Arnhelm’s expression did not mirror his sudden enthusiasm.

“Aye, I agree that they might have crossed the river in the meantime, but it was still not very close. And since the path is still wet and slippery, I assume that at least for the next three hours, we are still on our own... and here come more goblins.” He swallowed as he watched the arrival of the new threat, as they crawled over the rocks toward the slope. “I suppose there are not so many worthy targets available tonight, after all. We have their full attention.”

“So they will attack.” It was a statement, not a question. Éomer felt the blood drain from his face as he nervously renewed his grip on the hilt of his borrowed sword. It felt strange in his fingers, unfamiliar, and again, a flutter of panic stirred in his stomach. ‘Stay calm!’ he admonished himself as he slowly turned on his heels to observe how the newcomers began to fan out around them. So this would be his first test. If he truly wanted to become a warrior, he better passed it. ‘They’re only goblins, not orcs. They are half my size and cowardly scavengers. If I cannot defeat them, what am I doing in Elfhelm’s éored?’

Self-admonishment helped... a little.

“I suppose they will,” Arnhelm sighed. “Remember what I said, Èomer: they will try to separate us. If they succeed, we will both die. You must stay close to me under all circumstances!”

“Aye, Captain. I will not forget it.”

A sudden beam of moonlight broke through the clouds and bathed the mountain slope in a pale, cold light that chilled Éomer to the core. Around them, the goblins shrieked and dived for cover, angrily muttering in their ugly speech at the bright thing in the sky that hurt their sensitive eyes. But they did not run far.

“Draw your sword, Éomer,” Arnhelm hissed, suddenly excited, and Éomer turned around. “Draw it slowly, and try to hide your fear. Show them what will greet them if they move too close! They fear our steel.”

Hide his fear? How was he supposed to do that when his heart was practically jumping out of his throat? Èomer lowered his gaze and renewed his grip around the sword. For a moment, he closed his eyes and took a deliberate, deep breath. ‘I am of Eorl’s blood. I am the son of Marshal Eomund of Aldburg... and I will live to become one of the greatest warriors the Mark has ever seen! I will avenge my father, and I will protect the people of my ward. I will not become the prey of a cowardly group of scavengers, and neither will my brother-in-arms!’

Something happened. From somewhere, new energy seemed to flow into his body, and involuntarily, his posture straightened. Lifting his chin as he opened his eyes, Éomer felt how the last shadow of fear melted away in his conscious, and battle-readiness overcame him. Slowly he unsheathed the first third of the blade, turning to the side a little so that the moonlight reflected on the deadly weapon. Dismayed, urgent hisses from the shadows beneath the rocks told him that his message was being received as he freed the sword from its scabbard, held it in front of his face in the ancient, ritual greeting between adversaries.

For a moment, nothing happened. The goblins ceased their hectic movement and fell silent, all heads turning. As Éomer followed their gaze, he beheld a bizarre silhouette that, just as he met its luminous eyes, emerged from the crowd of crooked creatures and granted the young warrior his first clear look of its race. Calmly it stood in the moonlight, seemingly unperturbed by its brightness, and stared at the two Rohirrim in blunt challenge. It wore something the warriors could not see clearly, some kind of armour made of animal skins and bones, with a collar of massive pointed teeth around the neck that lent its humpbacked shape a decidedly threatening aura.

‘There are only two of you,’ its haughty gaze said, and by its side, the creature’s clawed fingers moved impatiently as if they could barely wait to grab their prey and rip the life out of it. ‘And one of you is wounded and trapped. We are many. We do not fear your sword, for it is the only one!’ It hissed, and instantly, the sound was picked up by its brethren, leaving no doubt to the two warriors that they were indeed completely surrounded.

Following his instincts, Éomer slashed the air with the blade in his hands, a fluid circular motion that demonstrated to the watching creatures that whoever moved within reach of that sword, would die.

“Well, come on then!” he shouted, eyes bent on the solitary shape before him. “You think you are strong enough to defeat two armed warriors of the Mark? We will gladly teach you better, scum!”

The chieftain hissed at him again and advanced another step, a move that was immediately followed by its brethren; their deadly ring tightening. Its clawed hand reached down to its hip to unhook an ugly, edged blade as it jumped forward, and Éomer lifted his own sword in anticipation of the enemy – when, with a pained gargle, the goblin unexpectedly dropped its weapon. Its hands went up to its unprotected throat, or rather, the shaft of the white-feathered arrow that suddenly protruded from there. As it slowly turned on its heels, Éomer could see that almost the entire length of the arrow had gone through the goblin, and only the feathers had prevented it from passing through entirely. A dismayed gasp was issued by their enemies as their chieftain first coughed up a mouthful of thick, black blood, and then fell to his knees, the light in his luminous eyes fading.

With a quick side-glance, Éomer met Arnhelm’s eyes, the expression there grim and determined as the scout fitted another arrow to the string of his bow.

“That should buy us some more time,” the older warrior said matter-of-factly, his tone indicating how much he loathed to be trapped beneath the rock to provide some lowly scavenging creatures with their one chance in life to kill a member of the Mark’s armed forces. “But I would thank Béma for leading our brothers up here well before dawn, or they might come too late.”

 





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