Chapter Five:  The Gap is Closing

Halrohir liked the company around the blazing fire that night.  It was cheerful as well as loud, a marked difference for his journey thus far down the Greenway and across the wastes.  Skins of ale passed round the fire, as well as bread on sticks toasted over the fire.  Clearly, the Rohirrim were comfortable with a camp this far out from their own borders and made no heed to noise.

But to Halrohir’s mind, the best thing about the night’s gathering was the sharing of news of the road ahead, and it was both bad and good.  He sat in council with Bragwine and Dorwin, and one other of the riders, Windlaf, who it seemed kept record and careful notes on what passed on their patrols.

Bragwine and his small riding, it was told, were part of the March-wards of Westfold, whose lord was still the hale warrior Erkenbrand of Helm’s Deep.  In the years since the War of the Ring and the rise of King Eomer, the Rohirrim had set about reordering their realm that had seen such devastation at the hands of the traitor Saruman.  And in these few years they had accomplished much; harvests resewn and gathered, towns and hamlets rebuilt, families reunited and begun, but importantly, the lands around had acknowledged Rohan’s strength and power and their borders were secure once more. 

But it had not all been successful.  Brigands and the lawless still needed to be routed out, and that took time and blood.  The lands of Rohan stretched from Anduin to Isen, but the lands just across the border could not be allowed to harbor freely those who meant them harm.  This was the reason for the rides of the March-wards, who rode out one days’ ride from the marked borders of the land, sought out whoever meant ill, sped on or escorted the friendly traveler, and kept a watchful peace over the lands.  Bragwine and his company were such a riding, one of three small patrols who set out from a garrison near the Fords of Isen.  One day’s ride out, two or more to scour the land, then one day to return. 

“Ours may seem a pointless task”, Bragwine said, “but it is needful.  Those across the lands who see the patrols mark their passing and know that Rohan is vigilant as well as victorious.  None since the White Wizard held sway have crossed our borders unchallenged.”

“It is much the same in the North”, Halrohir said.  “The Rangers are no longer in the shadows, but work active and abroad, and simple townsfolk praise us for our work.  So much has changed since the return of the King, I can scarcely believe it myself.”

“We are told you are a King’s Messenger, with credentials to present”, Windlaf said.  “As such, we are charged with speeding you on your way, to whatever destination you are bound.  Your first task will be to present yourself at the garrison at the Fords of Isen.  From there, you may proceed with leave through the lands of the Mark.” 

“But be warned”, Bragwine said.  “Our rides have encountered troubles in recent weeks.  The Dunlendings, the old allies of the Wizard, have shaken off their fear of us, and are growing slowly bolder, testing our strength and resolve on our frontier.  This ride found traces of their passing on the trail before you; you may have encountered them instead of us, so this meeting has fortune smiling upon you.  Now, with the dawn we shall rise, mount up and move out.  It is not a hard ride, for we are but fourteen leagues from this spot to the crossings of Isen, then close by to the garrison.  From there, only your own errand can say.  Now for me, I shall retire from this merry band, and there shall be a watch set around this camp tonight.”

“I would join this watch with you, friend Bragwine”, Dorwin said, “for sleep evades me, as it does for all my folk.”  Bragwine nodded and showed Dorwin where the watch was organizing.  That left Halrohir at the fireside with Windlaf, who was watching the Ranger closely.

“What troubles you, Ranger, that you listen more than speak?” he asked.

“I have need of news of the road ahead, and my ears don’t work if my tongue wags.”

A chuckle.  “Well said.  As was told by Bragwine, we found evidence of the Dunlending  presence, not themselves.  I am frankly surprised that we are being so heedless with this camp tonight. It should be a silent and dark camp, with more or a guard mounted.”

“You speak as a scout or a warrior should, friend; but do I understand you are a recorder, instead?”

“Not just a recorder, no.  I observe, I scout, I question, I make account and record for others, and when the painful necessity arises, I fight well.”

Laughter from both, then Halrohir asks, “Then what have you recorded on your journeys, especially any journeys east across your lands – all the way to the Entwash, perhaps?”

“Even as far as that?  My business keeps me in the Westfold, so it is a rare time I travel that far east.  But I have spoken to those whose journeys go there.  What, may I ask, is your interest in the Entwash?”

“The purpose of my errand is merely to reach the river and discover its source, beyond that I cannot say”, Halrohir replied evasively.  Windlaf was about to reply when cries and harsh sounds rang out in the night, towards the place where the horses were tethered – all the voices drowned out by one voice, a loud, thunderous neigh…

Halrohir sprang to his feet and sprinted to the sound, his sword flashing into his hand as he ran.  The nightmare scene before him was lit by flickering torches and brush set on fire.  Two horses lay dead in the grass, butchered.  One of the Rohirrim was down, clutching his stomach and a protruding spear.  Others were fighting back to back, swords and spears weaving in the light.   And at the edge of the light, Dorwin stood with his bow working, rapid shots flying in every direction, each shaft scoring a deadly hit.

But it was the animals that Halrohir ran to.  The riders’ horses screamed at the blood and fire -  warhorses of the Rohirrim though they were, something terrified them.  And there, looming up before him was the familiar bulk of his faithful Morindal, hooves beating and striking at a massive figure in the firelight, flailing and snarling with snapping jaws.  He could scarcely believe it:  here was a Warg, a creature he had not seen in five years, not since the epic flight of the Dunedain.  But now here was proof the creatures of the dark years had not all been routed out.  With no further thought for himself, he charged the Warg with his sword swung back, bellowing out a cry.

The Warg heard Halrohir’s shout and turned to face him.  Blood already dripped from its jaws as the snarling maw gaped wide to engulf him, but the beast grunted loudly and flew high to the side, crashing to the ground; Morindal had turned his hind legs to the Warg and delivered a savage kick with both hooves, sending it reeled and stunned.  Halrohir changed the direction of his rush, and plunged his sword into the monster’s eye socket, finishing it.

A shout from Dorwin brought Halrohir to his friend’s side.  He was standing near the fires, the light blazing bright now.  Bragwine was with him, speaking quickly with another rider.  It seemed two men were injured, though none was slain, but two of the horses were.  Forosul had been staked near Morindal, and the great black shielded him from harm.  But Bragwine’s concern was doubled, because his men had found nearby the targets of Dorwin’s arrows, lying dead in the grass.

“Dunlendings”, Bragwine spat.  “It is as we suspected, they are indeed becoming bolder.  So much so, that now they are bringing the White Wizard’s former pets into the play.  Let us see to the camp and the riders, and keep a more watchful guard, though it may not be enough.”

“Halrohir!  Come here, quickly!” came Dorwin’s voice from the horse tethers.  Halrohir crossed the camp to find Dorwin near both their horses and in the dim light, his face was a picture of shock.

“Look here, my Forosul was unhurt”, he said, “but look at our giant friend!”  And in the light of the bonfire, Halrohir saw numerous cuts and scrapes from the Warg’s claws and fangs, but that was not what he pointed at.

Morindal’s ribs were showing, and his muzzle was graying, like an ageing nag.

“His time is drawing nigh, my friend”, Dorwin said with a note of dread.  “It seems that each use of his mighty strength speeds him down the road to ruin, like drawing from a well that cannot be refilled.  All the long leagues from Breeland to here sapped him slowly, and we failed to notice.  But now, in fighting off this beast, he took too much of a draught from his well.

“He knows that there is something amiss, that his strength is less, but he is otherwise in no discomfort or pain; save of course these bravely-gotten hurts of his.  I cannot even venture a guess as to how much longer we have, I know that is your question; but as of now, the gap in the door of good luck is slamming shut.”