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Chapter Two

“Our scouts have reported that the orcs are positioned at the Fords of Isen,” Théodred announced the next morning as the Rohirrim prepared to ride. “They have grown immensely since our last attack, and among them are many who are able to travel in daylight.”

There was a murmur of disgust and surprise among the men, and Éomer spoke up. “Think you that we are enough against so many orcs?”

“No,” said Théodred, to the shock of all. “We are but little over a score of men. The numbers of orcs given to us by the scouts was more than one hundred.” He paused for a moment, taking in the crestfallen expressions of the Riders. “But I have sent a messenger to Edoras,” he continued, with the faint hint of a smile. “I have requested that at least two more éoreds to come aid us here.”

“If Gríma Wormtongue even delivers the message to the King,” Éomer muttered disgustedly.

Théodred ignored him and continued. “Meanwhile, we shall approach the Fords and wait for the reinforcement there. If the orcs attack us, I do not think it will be with great force. Move out!”

The Riders swung up in their saddles and rode across the Plains at a canter, alert for any orcs waiting in ambush. That afternoon, they were within site of the Fords, and there Théodred called a halt in a place that was sheltered by a few trees and shrubs.

“We will wait here for the reinforcement,” he announced. “I have sent our fastest messenger; they should be here by the morrow.”

The Rohirrim made camp and a small group went out on foot to scout ahead. Among them were Éomer and Thenan. They led the group, which crept soundlessly through the tall golden grass of the Plains toward the Fords. They could hear them flowing loudly, and the ground became wet and muddy.

“Let us scout further along this side of the bank,” said Éomer quietly, and still staying low, the group followed him through the grass. They could hear an eagle call high up above them, but then another sound came to their ears. A loud, grunting, growling sound, as though of many voices speaking in a harsh, guttural tongue.

“Orcs,” Thenan hissed. Éomer raised his head slightly above the grass, and he saw a group of about two-dozen of the loathsome creatures camped on the opposite bank, feasting on some sort of unknown animal. Most of them were the wiry, bow-legged orcs that plagued Rohan and Gondor unceasingly, but a few of them were tall, taller than a Man or Elf, and strongly built.

Éomer ducked down and turned to his companions. “There are little more than a score of them,” he whispered. “But some are tall and strongly built – they must be a type of Mordor Uruk.”

“Let us attack them,” a Rider called Éothain suggested eagerly. “We are well-hidden and carry bows; we could defeat them!”

“No, Éothain,” Éomer disagreed. “We have not Théodred’s permission – and with Uruks among them, who could say what the end would be? No. Let us report back to Théodred. You may ask his permission to attack them if you wish. Come!”

He turned and they followed him again, keeping low in the grass. When they reached the camp, the men there were sitting down, eating their supper of salted meats and cold biscuits. Éomer approached Théodred, who was standing alone at the edge of the clearing, staring at the Ford but not seeing it with his eyes.

“Théodred,” said Éomer softly, putting a hand on his kinsman’s shoulder. Théodred started and turned; and then smiled, seeing him, and said, “You have returned. I could not see you from here, and I was beginning to be concerned for you.”

“We are fine, Théodred,” Éomer said with a smile. “But we did find an orc-camp, across the Fords. There seem to be some type of Uruks there among them.”

Théodred frowned and shook his head. “I feared as much. It is well that you did not try to fight them!”

“Éothain wished to, but I would not permit him to do so without your consent.”

“That was wise,” said Théodred, draping an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “Until the reinforcements arrive, we can do nothing but watch and wait – although we may occasionally skirmish with orcs that get too close.”

They were silent for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the men behind them, and letting the light breeze cool their faces. But after a while, Éomer spoke. “Will you not now speak of your dream to me, Théodred?” he asked.

Théodred sighed, and then turned to his cousin with a gentle smile. “Yes, Éomer,” he said. “Yes, I will speak of it now, for it is heavy upon my heart.”

“Perhaps it will help you relieve your burden by sharing it aloud,” Éomer suggested as they sat down apart from the other men.

“Perhaps,” Théodred said quietly, and then fell silent for a while. Éomer began to think that he was not going to speak of his dream at all, but then suddenly, his cousin said, “It is an evil dream, as I told you, and I know not how to tell you of it, for I do not wish to fill your heart with dread.”

“Tell me,” Éomer urged, taking Théodred’s gloved hand and pressing it encouragingly. His cousin smiled wanly, and then began.

“I was riding with an éored,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low so that the other men could not hear. “And we were out hunting orcs, as we are now. We met a large force, and Uruks were among them, tall and menacing. No matter how many we slew, there were always more to replace them…they seemed to be endless.

“At last, I called a retreat, and we escaped from them. A great golden eagle alighted on the ground before me when we stopped. ‘You must send for Hope,’ the eagle said. ‘Hope! Send for Hope!’ It spread its wings and flew over us in circles, crying, ‘Hope! Hope!’ But then it landed again on the ground and when it looked up at me, tears shone in its eyes. ‘But alas,’ it said. ‘Hope will not come. Not yet. And doom is near.’ And then it flew up again, and disappeared from sight.”

Théodred fell silent. “Was that all?” asked Éomer quietly.

“No,” answered Théodred with a heavy sigh. “There was darkness for a moment, and then it seemed that I saw something gold, glimmering like the sun. As I neared, I saw that it was a Ring.” He saw Éomer’s look of surprise, and smiled slightly. “Yes,” he said with a nod. “It was a ring, hanging on a fine silver chain. Then the vision cleared, and I saw that the chain was hanging around a…a child’s neck.”

“A child?” Éomer asked incredulously.

“Aye, a…child,” answered Théodred slowly, as though trying to make sense of his own words. “At least, I believe that it was a child.”

“What do you mean?” Éomer pressed.

“Well, it was a small person – a boy, it seemed, but not so. His hair was curling and dark like a Gondorian, but his face was pale and his eyes were blue.” He paused for a moment. “They were strange, his eyes. They almost did not seem alive – they seemed plagued by pain and…I don’t know, guilt perhaps. But the strangest thing about this…boy, was that his face was that of a young man, perhaps twenty years of age.”

“But he was the size of a boy?” Éomer asked, puzzled.

“Yes.” Théodred, too was confused. Éomer’s eyes suddenly widened. “You do not think that it could have been a Halfling, do you?”

“I do not know,” Théodred answered evasively. “But do you remember the dreams that Boromir spoke of before he left in search of that place called Rivendell?”

“Only part,” Éomer replied.

“‘…Isildur’s bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand,’” quoted Théodred. “Even I, who am not learned in the lore of Gondor, remember that Isildur took the Enemy’s Ring in the Battle of the Last Alliance.”

“But I thought it was lost –”

“As did I. But consider: a Halfling, bearing a golden ring on a chain, and the eagle’s words that doom was near. I tell you, cousin, that I am beginning to think that those old tales we have heard as children were not merely ‘old wives’ tales’ after all.” He looked at Éomer, who was silent, trying to understand the puzzling words of his cousin.

“But I beg you, do not tell anyone else of this, lest it dishearten them,” Théodred said urgently. “It is not wise to speak of doom when waiting for a battle to begin.” He began to stand up, but Éomer suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“Do you believe that this is your doom?” Éomer asked, eyes wide and fearful. “That this is to be your last orc-hunt? You did not say so, but you seem to be alluding to it.”

Théodred smiled gently. “I do not know,” he said softly. “It may be so. But do not lose heart, Éomer. I could be wrong.” With that, he stood and walked away to join the rest of the men, leaving Éomer alone to ponder his disturbing words.

***

The next morning, Théodred sent scouts out to look for reinforcement from Edoras. They returned, reporting that they could see no one coming. Théodred’s face fell slightly, but he recovered himself before turning to the men, who watched anxiously.

“They are not coming yet,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “But I’ve no doubt that they will be here shortly.”

The men sat or stood around the clearing, dismayed at not only the scouts’ report, but also the lack of excitement. Men who are used to riding forth into battles and skirmishes become quickly bored when they ride out and are forced to wait and do nothing.

“Why are you so silent today, Éomer?” asked Thenan as he, Éorlan and Éomer whittled small pieces of wood. “Surely it cannot be only from the scouts’ news.”

Éomer sighed. “You are perceptive, Thenan,” he said with a wry smile. “The scouts’ report is not all that is troubling me. But I am not permitted to speak of it.”

Thenan and Éorlan exchanged a puzzled glance. “Does it concern Théodred?” asked Éorlan quietly.

“Yes. But how did you know?”

Éorlan smiled and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Your melancholy expression seems to worsen when you are around him, for one thing,” he said. “And for another, I saw you and Théodred talking together last night, and you have been depressed ever since.”

Éomer managed a small laugh. “You are perceptive, as well, Éorlan!”

“It is my job,” Éorlan replied with a grin. “You would get into trouble within five minutes if it weren’t for Thenan and I looking after you,” he teased.

“I beg your pardon?” Éomer exclaimed with feigned indignance. “I do not know what you speak of. I can take care of myself.”

“You delude yourself,” said Thenan playfully. “Do you not remember the time you broke your arm in that battle last summer, and Éorlan and I had to protect you because you were utterly unable to help yourself?”

“Or when your horse threw you two years ago when we had that little skirmish with orcs in the East Emnet?” put in Éorlan. “If Thenan and Éothain and I hadn’t formed a circle around you and protected you while you got back on, you would’ve been killed.”

“Or…” began Thenan, but Éomer put up his hands in defense. “All right, all right!” he laughed. “So you look after me – at times. I take your point. And I thank you for your friendship.”

Thenan clapped him on the back. “Think nothing of it,” he said lightly. “You would do the same for us.” Éorlan nodded and Éomer smiled, grateful for such friends as these, who would risk their own lives for him.

But Éorlan neatly changed the subject, and soon, Éomer was as merry as the others, forgetting, for a while, his troubles. They talked and joked until afternoon, and then the men began to grow bored again, and quieted.

Éomer softly began to sing to himself a song of old, telling of Eorl the Young’s riding from the north on his wing-footed steed, Felaróf, the father of horses.

“‘Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?

Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?

Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow;

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?’”

He stopped, realizing that his voice had risen during the song and the other men were listening. “That is one of my favorite songs,” said Léof quietly. “Though it is not very encouraging.”

Éomer smiled slightly. “No, it is not. I did not even realize I was singing it aloud…” His words were suddenly cut off by a loud cry from a returning scout.

“Orcs, my lord Théodred! Orcs are coming!”

Théodred jumped to his feet. “How many?” he asked quickly. “And how far are they?”

“Not far, my lord,” the scout replied breathlessly. “They are nearly to the Fords, and they seem intent on crossing it. There are…over five and thirty, as near as we could count – including some Uruks.”

Théodred cursed under his breath and turned to the men. “Make ready for battle, Riders of the Mark!” he cried. “The orcs should reach us within twenty minutes. Gather your weapons and don your armor, and then mount up! for we shall meet them when they cross the Fords!”

Quickly the men obeyed, putting on their helmets and grabbing their spears (as they had not removed their mail-shirts, nor their swords), before springing onto their horses’ backs. Éomer had not the time to think or to worry, for hardly had they mounted, when they heard the sounds of many heavy, marching feet, harsh loud voices, and splashing. The orcs had reached the Fords.

To be continued...