Day 66, Gondor, southeast of Deromonor

Trossénen talked with an old man. His beard was more white than grey, his clothes torn in some places, and when he limped to his cart he seemed not to have the strength to reach the bench. But he nodded in a humble way while the healer went on with his pleading, and, finally, Trossénen called to the boy to come and sit on the bench. The old man smelled of fire and smoke and eyed him with suspicion.

“Too young he is,” he growled. “What will he do then? There is nothing!”

“He will find his way. And you help him as much as you can. I healed your wife, Herebrand, and you owe me.”

“I know, Trossénen, I know. No need to remind me of debts.” Another deep growl that did not fit to the man’s haggard appearance. “I will give him food and water when we get there, but I cannot promise more than that.”

“Do what you can for him,” Trossénen pleaded, then turned his attention to Vlohiri. “It is still a long road, lad, and you might not find friends on the way. But this…” He handed him a rolled piece of parchment. “…will open you the door of every healer in every village you come to. Ask for them! Do not be shy! But only the healers, do you understand?” The boy nodded, and Trossénen handed him a second thing in a piece of cloth. “This is a gift you should use only when you are in danger.” Frowning Vlohiri weighed it, but when he was about to unpack it, the healer put a hand on his arm. “Not now, lad.” He gently touched his shoulder. “May there be others to help you. Do not linger.” He nodded to Herebrand, and the old man spurred the pony.

Vlohiri looked back. The time with Trossénen had been short but very educating and interesting. The healer had to only open his mouth, and the boy listened carefully to everything that the old man said was important, necessary to know. While Vlohiri had eaten, the healer had talked. It seemed that he wanted to teach the young boy in two hours what he should have learned in the past ten years.

He would have loved to stay longer. Just to sit with his back to the fire, eat, drink tea, and listen to the stories and all the knowledge the man had gathered in his small house. The birds, he remembered, were used to exchange messages over great distances. So he had told Lomac what he needed. So he could get back an answer.

Vlohiri thought about all the information. He felt blessed to have met Lomac and Trossénen, who both had shared so much with him in a short time. He dearly hoped that he could return to Trossénen and stay with him – even if he had to wash the clothes or rinse the dishes to earn a share of the man’s wisdom.

Herebrand told him with few words that he would not travel further than a farm still west of the River Morthond, and that from thereon Vlohiri would be alone. Though he had known it before the boy’s heart sank. Being alone meant that there was no grown-up watching over him. He would have to make his own decisions. And the only decision he had yet taken alone was to leave the castle. Again the list of consequences put an icy finger on his breast. How would he go on? He knew how to read the sun and find the right direction, but that would not be enough. How could he get food and water – and where would he find shelter for the night? All these questions had come to him before, but now they were getting closer. His survival lay in his own hands. Vlohiri swallowed dryly. He was ten years old, but it would have been nice if he could age quickly.

* * *

Day 66, Gondor, southeast of River Ringlo

Faramir had approached the two sons alone. Knowing his men would be too great a threat for the peasants, he had wanted to talk with them, tell them that he needed the horses badly. One of his men limped from a wound to his calf; the other had broken a rib when he had fallen off the horse. Orilan was right that they would need weeks to get to Deromonor on foot. The brothers had been reluctant to even sell the horses, but finally Faramir had promised them to bring them back on their way home.

The horses, big and gentle in their nature, had no saddles for they were only used for the farm work and drawing the cart. Because of their built they could easily carry two riders, so only one man had to walk alongside. Orilan, who was the youngest, volunteered to run beside the beasts, so Faramir mounted behind a wounded soldier. But there was no need for running. The horses had never been used for competition, and they would not walk any faster than they usually did on the field. They trudged over the grass, and Orilan, unable to hide his grin, walked beside them.

“How did you convince the brothers, my Lord? I would never had thought they would give them to us.”

Faramir smiled wearily.

“People are always searching for… honesty.” Orilan frowned at him. “They need something they can believe in. The moment I bade them farewell to leave on foot, they had made up their minds – and believed that we would not rob them.”

Orilan shook his head.

“I truly admire you, my Lord.”

“You do not need to. I only stay true to my words.”

* * *

Day 67, the castle

Medros was furious and insecure at the same time. Lanar and his two companions had not yet returned, and Sadur had asked about the King and his behaviour. Medros could convince the Lord that the prisoner worked as ordered, but he did not know for how long. That day the prisoner had shown that he would not give in to every order, and with a demanding look Bayonor had put his hand on the whip. The Lieutenant had calmed him down, but the young guard would go his own way if the prisoner did not obey a second time.

From the small room in the depth of the dungeon Medros had fetched an iron device with four holes and a lock to follow Sadur’s second order – ‘to make it uncomfortable’ for the prisoner at night. Sadur had announced that he would step down to the dungeon once in a while. Medros knew that it had nothing to do with the King’s well-being, but with that of all the other prisoners Sadur thought to be neglected. But Medros had done what the Lord had ordered; there would be no more complaints.

He reached the cell where the King had been brought a while ago.

“Has he eaten?” he asked Bayonor, who shortly nodded. “Very well.” He turned to face the prisoner and opened the door to enter. “As the Lord of the castle ordered, you shall be more motivated to do your share.”

Aragorn glanced at the device in Medros’ hands.

“Your demand was fulfilled. There is no need to do this.”

“Lay down on the bench,” Medros ordered and stepped closer. “Do it right now.” He could hear Bayonor behind him; heard him breathe nervously. Aragorn did not move, but stared at the Lieutenant. Again Medros felt the superiority, and his anger flared. “Lay down,” he commanded again and opened the device on one side. A part of him knew instantly he had gone too far. But there was no time to react.

The King’s back of the hand hit Medros’ chin with all strength he could muster with the limited scope. It hurt. Badly. Medros stumbled back against the wall, dazed for a second. The shackle clanged on the floor. Aragorn grabbed the cuirass with both hands and rammed his head against Medros’ forehead, all in a fluent motion. Bayonor slung his arm around the prisoner’s neck and pulled back, strangling him. Medros groaned. The young guard caught Aragorn’s elbow in the stomach, but did not lose his grip. The Lieutenant, his vision still blurring, punched the prisoner hard in the face. Bayonor wrestled him down to the ground. Aragorn tried to get hold of his captors arm, but the chain was too short.

“Hold him!” Medros shouted and fetched the dropped device. “Bend him over!” Sweat poured down Medros’ face when he struggled to squeeze both hands and feet of the prisoner into the rigid iron. Aragorn fought hard to escape it, but finally had no air left in his lungs.

Medros pressed the iron bar down and closed the eye with a padlock. Panting he got up, held out his hand to help Bayonor.

“He will never give in,” the young guard hissed when he passed by. Medros silently agreed. A line of blood ran from the prisoner’s nose, dripped on the stone. When Aragorn looked up, it was a challenge the Lieutenant had to accept. For four days by now the King had worked to save the boy from being sentenced, but now Medros was sure he wanted to know if the threat still existed. Again they were walking a thin line. The King himself had nothing to lose. If the boy had escaped the Lieutenant had nothing to threaten him with.

A noise in the corridor made Medros break the eye contact. He cursed silently when he saw Sadur’s broad figure fill the cell’s door-frame.

“My Lord.” He bowed.

The Lord squinted into the darkness to find the King sitting on the ground.

“An ingenious measure, Lieutenant,” he said lowly. “Did he resist?” Medros nodded. Answering would mean to find words that did not insult the Lord’s and Lady’s decision – a thing he simply could not do at the moment. A new headache arose and he wished nothing more than to leave. “Very well.” He squatted in front of the prisoner. “You show a certain lack of co-operation, captive,” he sneered, and Medros exhaled loudly. “Do you really want to see your little friend with you in the mine again?”

“Is that all you can do, Sadur? Threaten me with children? Is that how you would reign the kingdom? By threat and blackmail? The people would never accept that!”

Sadur smiled a small, self-confident smile.

“They will. And I can promise you that my regency will be just.”

“You will never be the ruler of Gondor!”

“Word goes that Lady Arwen is still searching for you. I hope she does not go too far.”

Aragorn would have thrown himself forward if it were not for the iron holding him.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you, I swear!”

“Your threat does not bear any power, prisoner,” Sadur replied coolly and rose. “As you have seen, all your attempts to escape this castle have been in vain.” He looked at Medros for a moment, then returned his attention to the King. “You attacked one of my men. It seems a proper punishment…” Medros held his breath. If Sadur announced the boy to be sent to the mine he would not know what to say. “…to have you bound to this iron for some nights.” With a nod to Medros he turned and left the dungeon. Medros hurried to lock the door and followed the Lord upstairs.

“Is it true that the King’s men are still searching for the prisoner?” he asked when he caught up.

Sadur glanced at him like he was a servant too unimportant to talk to.

“No. King Éomer was satisfied with his visit, I suppose. I do not expect others to arrive.” A servant ran up to him, bowed and waited until Sadur asked him to speak while at the same time he dismissed the Lieutenant.

“My Lord, the Lady wishes to see you immediately.”

“Very well.” Sadur strode through the corridors to his mother’s study. Upon his entering a young soldier straightened up and greeted him respectfully.

“Deliver your message,” the Lady said with a stress in her voice.

The soldier raised his chin and handed the Lord a rolled piece of parchment. Sadur read Noratis words: ‘Eight days ago the Prince of Ithilien was attacked at the western slope of the White Mountains near the River Ringlo. He survived the attack, but lost the horses. He walked with his men southwest. Lord Tebenor was killed.’ The man swallowed. “That is the message. Lord Beregor and Lord Noratis expect your answer, my Lady, my Lord.”

Mother and son exchanged glances and ordered the soldier to wait outside.

With the closing of the door the Lady’s face contorted with anger.

“Beregor is as stupid as he is large! Faramir is coming westwards! Something must have happened in Minas Tirith. There is no other explanation. He would not have left into the same direction without a clue.”

“There cannot be any clue, mother, that leads him here,” he said calmly, thoughtful. “His coming might be for any reason, but not for the knowledge of the King’s whereabouts. He might turn south now and cover that part of Gondor while Éomer took the western route.”

Lady Saborian eyed him.

“I will not believe in any kind of coincidence, son.” She sat down, took a piece of parchment out of the drawer and began writing in precise letters. “We will reinforce the castle with the help of our friends. And if Faramir walks in we will be prepared.”

* * *

Day 68, Gondor, near the River Morthond

The horses needed a rest as much as the riders. At one of the many creeks flowing from the River Morthond a little village had grown, and the inhabitants eyed the riders carefully when they dismounted and led the animals to the riverbank. Éomer gave the rein to his friend and told him that he would talk to the villagers.

He came up with nothing. The captors had either chosen another path or the people were unwilling to help. But when he was about to return to the camp his men pitched, he saw a brown horse with a strangely familiar bridle and saddle. Quickly, without thinking, he crossed the creek to meet the man holding the horse.

“Wait!” he yelled when the young man turned and pulled the horse away. “Wait!” Éomer caught up.

“It is mine! Go away! You won’t get it!” He tried to run, but the horse did not follow. Éomer grabbed the rein and stopped them both.

“I will not take anything from you, lad. Just tell me where you got it.”

“I will not tell you!”

“You will.” He put a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This horse belongs to a friend of mine, and I demand to know who you got it from.”

“Let me go!” He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “You hurt me!”

“Answer me.”

“A man came into the village – he traded it for food and clothing.”

“Were there others with him?” A nod. “Do you know them?”

“No. They came, they left the horses…”

“Horses? There are more of them?”

The young man looked as if he had made a big mistake.

“Just two. And my father gave them clothing for it! They are ours now!”

“We will see to that. Where is the other horse? Lead me to your father.”

Unwillingly the young man led the way. Reaching the house Éomer introduced himself and asked where the men had come from.

“East. They came in a hurry, and they left in a hurry,” the old man said smiling. “Strange people! We gave them what they wanted. It looked to me they would steal if they could not buy.”

“They might.” Éomer frowned. “When did they come through?”

“Two day ago. They were riding like hell.”

“I understand that.” Again he looked at the horse, which belonged to Faramir, he was sure of that. Exhaling he turned to the old man. “The horses belong to the Prince of Ithilien.” The man gaped at him. “I am sorry to take them away, but they are not rightfully yours.”

“They paid with them,” he insisted.

“We will give you what we can spare,” the King said. “But – hopefully – the Prince will be alive to claim them back.”

With the horses he returned to his men.

“Prince Faramir was attacked somewhere east of this place. We will cross the River Morthond tomorrow and see if we can find a trace.”

* * *

Day 69, Gondor, eastbound

Vlohiri despised the idea of walking alone, but no one rode to the east, and he would not wait until that changed. He felt the urgency to reach Minas Tirith as soon as possible like a weight on his shoulders, for every time he put himself to sleep he saw Aragorn’s face when he announced that he must attempt to escape again. And with a shiver the boy forced himself to think that the King would be all right when he returned with help.

Herebrand had told him that he would be on the old path for more than five weeks – if he walked fast. He needed a horse, but no villager would lend one to him, and he had nothing to trade. So he left the old man after he had reached the farm. He had given him enough food and water to last for three to four days, and the boy used it sparingly. He knew that there would be enough water to drink from the little creeks he had to cross, but he was insecure to find something to eat.

He remembered Lomac saying he should avoid being seen. The guards from the castle might find out that he left and would follow him. Lomac had been strict about it, so Vlohiri turned many times on his way to make sure he could eventually evade riders from the castle. But he had not seen a single soul for the time of day and trudged on, his head bowed. It was good that he walked for a cold wind tried to cool him out, and he did not want to think about the night to come. Where should he sleep when there was no farm? He was too inexperienced to camp, and the last nights had been uncomfortable. He walked faster. He had to stay warm as long as possible.

The weight of Trossénen’s gift felt good at his right side. When he had been alone the first time he had carefully unwrapped it. Now he possessed a knife – a wonderfully crafted blade with a dark wooden hilt with embedded signs that meant nothing to him, but it looked as if it had been made with care. He had put it back in its sheath and carried it on his belt, but hidden under the cloak Herebrand’s wife had given him. The old woman had been very friendly to him, something that had not happened often before in Vlohiri’s life. Now it felt that he carried some of her warmth with him.

* * *

Day 70, east of River Morthond

There would be only daylight for another hour and after the fast and strenuous ride they longed for a rest. But Éomer had word from a peasant that five men were seen somewhere south of the meeting point, and he would not wait another day. He spurred his horse again, leaned forward on the saddle and felt the soft scratching of the mane in his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his men riding beside him. For a moment he was set back to the day on the Pelennor Fields where they had fought the armies from Mordor besieging Minas Tirith. It had been a glorious and yet mournful day. He had lost King Théoden to his fate, he lad lost many of his men, and his beloved sister had been ill for a long time. They had won in the end, and that was something worth remembering. The moment the armies of the enemy had fled and were destroyed was saved in his memory forever.

“My Lord! Look!”

Éomer raised his head. From afar two horses were slowly approaching, one man walking beside them. The King nodded and held the reins loose so his stallion almost jumped forward. Within minutes they reached the little group, and he smiled broadly when he recognised the Prince of Ithilien.

“Faramir, my friend!” They dismounted quickly and embraced. “It is so good to see you!”

“It is even better to see you. We are really in need of help.”

“ It is granted. The news I heard in Minas Tirith said you were missing!”

“I was. It was a long way back, and the men who did it are still out there.”

“That’s why you ride disguised?” Éomer laughed with his chin nodding to the two cold-blooded animals. “Or do you like being slow?”

“I always like that you have a joke on me.”

Éomer slapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, I thought you might want to have yours back.” He whistled, and one of the riders brought Faramir’s horses. “We might be faster. If there is need to be.”

“Thank you, my friend. Where did you find them?”

“In a village nearby.”

“And the men who assaulted us? Have you seen any sign of them?”

“No, I’m sorry.” He ordered his men to pitch a camp, and they sat down at the fire to talk. “We crossed the southern lands to no avail. Ten days ago near the coast of Anfalas a man told us that he had seen Aragorn west of the ford of the River Morthond. That’s why we are back here. We will start anew.”

Faramir gladly accepted warm water and dried meat the Rohirrim offered.

“Two of my men are wounded, one died in the attack. One of the assassins was a noble man I saw in Minas Tirith during the coronation.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. I cannot tell you his name, but he was there.”

Éomer frowned deeply and looked down to his cup.

“It means that whoever wants to see you dead has support from at least one noble man.” Faramir nodded slightly. “Where were you heading?”

“Deromonor. My father’s adviser told me that Lady Saborian was a friend of my father. And that her son could be… my brother.”

“Your brother?” Éomer set down the cup and looked up surprised. “But… if that child? Young man?”

“He might be my age.”

“If he is Denethor’s son, why does the Lady live on the western rim of Gondor?”

“I do not know, but I will ask her as soon as we arrive.”

“Deromonor’s no friendly place. I was there three weeks ago. The reception was… strange. The Lady did not seem to be fond of my visit. Well,” he added with a thin-lipped smile, “I accused her of capturing the King – in a way. But I did not find him.” He took a branch and threw it into the fire. “I looked everywhere. It would be a place to hide someone – even if he is the King of Gondor. But I came up with nothing. They had captured a poacher weeks ago, but he had obviously been set free before we arrived. And none of the servants could tell me anything.”

“Did you see her son? Sadur?”

“Yes. A reserved person. Polite but taciturn.” He breathed deeply. “But he looked like your father in a certain way. I never met Denethor as a young man, but… it might be that the Steward is his father.” They locked eyes, and then Faramir told him about his meeting with Nereghor and closed:

“There are no more legal successors in my line. There would be no Steward from my house anymore.”

“And with the King gone…” Éomer emptied his cup. “Let us hope we find more answers when we arrive.” He rose. “Take a good rest, my friend. We ride with the first light of the day.”

* * *

Day 71, Gondor, eastbound

Vlohiri hid in the little barn, unable to move, breathing heavily, clutching his sack to his stomach, and listening to the sounds from the outside. He had evaded three riders, but if they searched every house he would be found.

Slowly, swallowing his despair, he rose from the hay and peered through a hole in the wood. He could hear voices, but saw no one. They had turned to the main house, and his hope was lifted when the voices faded away. He threw the sack over his shoulders and almost on all fours crept out of the barn. It had been warm there, and the cold wind felt hard in his face. The sun set, and he would – hopefully – find another place to hide somewhere in the wilderness. It was a pity he had to leave the farm behind without asking for permission to sleep there or get food. He was hungry, and his stomach rumbled when he thought about bread and cheese and apples maybe. He had not much food left, and he did not know how many farms lay ahead. But with the riders in his neck he would not get far and would find no safe shelter.

He turned, but only the horses could be seen. It would be daring to steal one of them, but – how should he ride it? No one had ever taught him, and it was far too risky to go back. He hurried to a group of bushes, hid and looked back again. Still no sign. Quickly he went on, running from one hideout to the next. Always with a look back over his shoulder. He felt his heart in his throat. The men must come from the castle, he thought, and hurried on. If he survived the night undiscovered they might pass him by and ride on.

Suddenly he heard someone yell. When he turned he saw Lanar pointing toward him. Vlohiri ran in panic. More yelling, then the tramping of hoofs. Vlohiri knew he could not outrun them. Tears streamed down his face. He had got so far! He ran on though he heard the hoofs and shouts drawing nearer. In the distance a group of riders approached. Fast. Could it be that Medros had sent all guards from the castle just to catch him? But then – he felt like dreaming – he saw a helmet with horses’ tail to it, and a green banner, shining in the setting sun. Desperately, he evaded the first grab to the side, stumbled, falling on his knees. He got back to his feet only to hear Lanar’s voice beside him.

“Stop running, you bastard! It is over!” He turned his horse to bend down again to grab him and pull him up in front of him. Vlohiri struggled in his grip, screamed with fear, even bit Lanar’s hand. Looking forward he saw the group again, closer now. The guard let go for a moment, but too short to slip away. Lanar hold his arm across the boy’s chest, but on the top of voice Vlohiri screamed:

“Éomer!”

The riders got closer, the man with the banner riding beside a tall fair-haired man with a silver shining helmet. Vlohiri screamed even louder, a glimpse of hope in his mind that they would help him. They were close enough now to see their faces.

“Éomer!”

“Shut up!” Lanar ordered and directed his horse westwards, evading the upcoming group. But to his surprise they matched the movement. Lanar spurred his horse to gallop, the strange riders followed, and Lanar recognised the banner – the riders of the Rohirrim! He cursed viciously. Of all that could  happen he had to cross with these horse people! Should they not be back in Rohan? “Hurry!” he ordered his men.

“Help!” Vlohiri screamed and struggled again uselessly in Lanar’s grip. The hammering of the hoofs drew nearer, shouts could be heard. “Help! Éomer!”

The guards could not outrun them.

“Hold your horses, or we will make you!” the first rider shouted loud enough to drown out the noise of the beasts.

Lanar grinded his teeth.

“Don’t listen to them! Make haste!”

The next moment a rider caught up with him, trying to tear away the rein.

“Hold it!” he ordered, and Lanar saw with terror that it was Éomer. He drew his sword, willing to cut the man’s arm.

“Let go! This is not your business!”

Éomer drew his own sword.

“I just made it my business. Look back! We outnumber you! Let the boy go!”

“No!” He held the blade to Vlohiri’s throat, who abruptly stopped shouting. “I’ll kill him!”

From behind Faramir had reached the guard’s horse. With the hilt of his sword he hit Lanar’s head. The sword fell off Lanar’s hand. Unconsciously he doubled up, burying the boy under him. Éomer quickly pulled him over to his horse while Lanar fell off, his horse running on. His two men were beaten, too, and the Rohirrim gathered quickly, protecting the boy, who was shaking so badly he would have fallen if it were not for Éomer’s firm grip. Faramir rode at Éomer’s side and, when they halted, carefully lifted the boy’s chin. For a moment he found no words to his surprise.

“ I have seen your face before. I know you, my boy. You are the one from the dungeon,” he said softly.

Vlohiri drew up his nose and looked at him full of fear.

“No! It cannot be! I never saw you! How can you know that?”

“It was a dream I had,” Faramir explained, but to Vlohiri it sounded like a strange language.

He twisted his head so he could see the rider’s face.

“You are Éomer? Éomer of Rohan?” Vlohiri’s voice was begging. It had to be him!

“Yes, I am.” Frowning with surprise Éomer took off his helmet and hooked it to his saddle. “Where do you know my name from?”

“I saw you in the castle.”

“Deromonor? You are from the castle?” The boy nodded, still unable to stop crying. He could still feel the blade at his throat. The awful second when he thought he would die. “And who might you be, my friend?”

“I am Vlohiri.” He took a frightful look around, still drawing up his nose. But neither Lanar not his men were to be seen. He wiped his face. “Aragorn sends me to get to you.”

“Aragorn? You met Aragorn? Where? When?”

“In the castle. He’s in the castle. Please, you have to help him!”

“We will.” Éomer was breathless suddenly. Out of everything that had happened this was the news he had counted on least. “But right now we need a place to stay for the night. Let’s head back to the farm.” He ordered his men to follow, and quickly they rode the way back. While the Rohirrim pitched a camp outside the farm’s main land Éomer, Faramir and his men rode up to the house.

Vlohiri felt his stomach somewhere in his throat when they arrived, and he was no longer hungry. Éomer dismounted and helped him down. His knees were weak, and he stumbled.

“Ho! Wait, young friend! Let me help you.”

“I’m all right. I can walk.”

Éomer raised his hands, not touching the boy.

“If you come from the castle you already covered some ground, I suppose.”

“I come from the castle,” Vlohiri stated obstinately. “I can prove it!”

“I did not doubt you. It is just amazing that you got this far.”

Faramir’s pleading to stay in the barn for the night was granted when the elderly couple realised they had a boy with them, and they even gave him a meal. Vlohiri took it, but had to wait some minutes until he could eat. Faramir and Éomer restrained themselves from further questions until the boy was satisfied and walked with them to the barn. There he took off the belt.

“Here… he put his name on it, he said. I could not read it, but he said, you have to dye it.” He shrugged. Faramir took the belt and held it to the light outside the barn. Carefully he applied some soot to the lines. “You can help him, right?”

“Where is he? I was there, and I did not find him.” Éomer pinned the boy with his stare, and Vlohiri bit his lips.

“You would never have found him. They hid him that day you arrived. Somewhere deep down. He said it was the worst place. He is in the dungeon.”

“In the dungeon!” Faramir echoed, coming back. His face was full of sorrow. “I cannot believe this.” He handed back the belt. “These are Elvish runes. It is his name. The boy speaks the truth.”

“I told you so!” Vlohiri forcefully stated. “You have to free him! He said he would attempt it alone again.”

“He already made an attempt?” Faramir was excited. Every piece of the puzzle fell on its place.

“Yes, some weeks ago. He got as far as the woods… then the hounds found him.” Vlohiri found it hard not to cry. “They bit him – badly.”

“Lady Saborian lied to me,” Éomer snarled, clenching his hands. “She lied right into my face.” He had to get up to lose some energy. “She will pay for this.”

Faramir saw the strange look on the boys’ face.

“We will see to it when we get there.” He turned to the boy. “When did you leave the castle?”

“Days ago. I cannot tell how many. But I hurried, really!”

“I know. You are a brave boy.”

“They almost killed him,” Vlohiri whispered, unable to deal with the praise. He was tired and excited, exhausted and frightened at the same time. “And he said he would…” He broke off, realizing he had said that before.

“Lay down and rest, Vlohiri,” Faramir said. “We will ride tomorrow morning.”

When the boy fell sleep, Faramir joined his friend outside. Éomer could not restrain his anger.

“That Lieutenant of her – Medros – he led me through the castle,” he growled, pacing restlessly. “I asked him to see the dungeons, and there was no sign of the King.”

“It is not your…”

“It is my fault, Faramir, and it will not be lifted until we find the King alive. Lady Arwen trusted me to find him – and I failed her.” He clenched his hands. “He could be at home already if I had been more careful… I should have…”

“My friend,” Faramir cut in, calming him with his hand on his forearm. “This castle is old. I bet you could not even count the secret ways and rooms it has. And who would reveal these secrets to a stranger?”

Éomer had stopped, but the regret in his face would not vanish.

“They committed treason. And they will pay for it. Even if I have to storm that castle.”

Faramir let go.

“How many guards did you count?”

“Forty. Maybe more.”

“And how many men did you bring?”

“Twenty.” Faramir just looked at him to let him draw his own conclusions. Éomer made a disparaging movement. “They are weak. If we got to the Lady first they will surrender quickly.”

“If there is an open fight we cannot win it, Éomer. And if she already sent guards to capture the boy she knows about the threat.”

“The southern tower is almost destroyed. There might be a way through.”

“We will see.”

“But I will not wait another week to get back in there.”

“I assure you, I want to talk to the Lady as much as you do.”

“It is not talking I’m thinking about.”

* * *

Day 74, the castle

There was nothing left of a kingly appearance. Though he had allowed that the prisoners could wash themselves the dirt from the mine stayed on them, and the former King – now mourned for by his people – was no exception. And the nights of forced immobility did their share.

Sadur, with his hands folded on his back, slowly and silently left the dungeon’s corridor to head back into the light. He had visited the mine the day before to find the workers and prisoners treated the way he had ordered. They got food and water, and most of the prisoners were allowed to walk without shackles as long as they were only working. The King was handcuffed all the time, and Sadur agreed with the Lieutenant that any ease would provoke another outbreak. So the foot-chains and gag remained in place, and only the hateful stares toldSadur the King’s thoughts. It was obvious that Aragorn had not yet given up. Sadur already assumed he would never, but as long as he worked and did not try in any way to stir unrest between the workers it did not bother him.

His mother had welcomed soldiers from Noratis to reinforce the castle’s defence in case of an attack. They knew from messengers that the Prince was still heading westwards though he was slow. Chances were few that Faramir would dare to come here with hostile intentions. Sadur still wondered what triggered the Prince’s visit. But he would have to be patient. With the current speed on foot Faramir would need many days to get here.

* * *

Day 74, west of the castle

The hideout in the woods was the first long rest they allowed themselves. Éomer had pushed his men and horses with more speed than before, eager to get back to Deromonor – eager to find the King and face the villains. His anger was fuelled with every bit of information the boy revealed, and he still dwelled on these accounts when he forced himself to sit at a trunk. Vlohiri evaded his fierce stare, and Éomer reminded himself that he had to calm down. He found it hard to rest, but men and horses needed time to recover. One man had been sent back to Minas Tirith to report the discovery of the King, but Éomer knew that this did not mean they would return to the White City quickly.

Orilan had brought the news that the castle’s gates were open, but he had seen soldiers on patrol – some of them with cuirasses different from those of the castle.

“She called for reinforcements,” Éomer growled deep in his throat. The chances to attack the castle and win were almost non-existing. But he would dare it. His men had fought in the war against Sauron, and they would not linger to ride at his side through the gate.

Faramir joined him, handed him a cup of water. For a moment they both looked at the boy, who had fallen asleep almost immediately after they had dismounted. The last days had been hard on him; he felt sick on the horse, but they had not slowed down. Éomer had heard him groan while he clasped firmly to the saddle. He pitied him, and now, when they were resting he thought about Aragorn’s despair. He had sent a boy to call for aid – a choice he would never have made if there had been another. But Vlohiri had told him that the King had almost died from fever and wounds, and again Éomer’s anger flared. Only the sight of the boy’s fear had kept him from outraging his fury.

“It is almost night,” Faramir began. “They close the gate now. What is your plan?”

Éomer slightly turned his head.

“We attack first in the morning. Even if they are on patrol – I will not wait any longer.”

“We are twenty-three against maybe sixty or seventy. We will lose…”

“I do not want to hear it, Faramir!” Éomer shouted and jumped up. “I was here before! Do you not understand? I could have saved him! Weeks ago! But I failed! I failed the King!”

The boy stirred, and Faramir found no words to soothe his friend’s self-accusation.

“Every castle has a weakness,” he said calmly. “We are no help for Aragorn if we get captured or killed ourselves.”

Vlohiri sat up and wiped his weary eyes.

“Through the dungeon,” he mumbled almost inaudible.

Both Éomer and Faramir turned their attention to him.

“What did you say?”

“There is a tunnel at the eastern tower.”

Éomer squatted in front of the boy.

“Tell me more about it.”

* * *

Day 75, the castle, dawn

From the northern part of the forest they slowly drew nearer. The horses they left behind with the two wounded men from Ithilien. Now, on foot, they tried to avoid any attention. Vlohiri led the group, though his heart seemed short of bursting out of his ribcage. Faramir had offered him to stay behind, but he could not. Vlohiri’s voice of reason called him stupid to march right into the dungeon again, but he had not wanted to hear that voice. He had begun it. He would bring it to an end. And with the Rohirrim behind him it suddenly did not look like a hazard game at all. With their helmets, swords and armour the men appeared invincible – at least to a ten year old. And he did not allow himself to think about the next hour further than that they were finally entering the castle to save the King of Gondor from cruel punishment.

They reached the entrance. Éomer and Faramir slowly opened the seldom-used door on its middle hinge while two men waited in the shadow if an attack came from the inside. But there was nothing more than dust, darkness, and spiders. Vlohiri shivered with the mere thought to go through that tunnel again, but, courageously, he stepped in first and held a torch to be lit. Others followed and the boy lost a part of his fear to the act of leading the way. It felt great – somehow – to help the saviours and he imagined the moment when the door would open to freedom.

Right now he just bent to avoid hitting his head, and the tall men from Rohan almost had to crawl the way, but they were swift and determined. Within minutes they had reached the deserted part of the corridor. From far away voices could be heard, and for a long second Vlohiri feared the guards were drawing near, already aware of their coming. But when the door opened to the tunnel they were alone. The boy wanted to run, but Éomer held him back.

“Wait. There might be soldiers down here. We…”

“No soldiers,” the boy interrupted with a determination the King of Rohan had not expected. “They only get down here to bring food or fetch the prisoners.” He shook off Éomer’s arm and ran through the corridor. Éomer had no choice but to follow quickly.

Vlohiri’s spirit lifted when he entered the deserted tunnel, but his hope to find the King here was gone immediately. The door was ajar, the cell empty except for a rigid iron on the floor. The boy leant against the door-frame and almost whimpered.

“He’s not here,” he said turning to Éomer. “The guards already brought him to work.”

“Then we go there. Do you know the shortest way to the mine?”

“I do.” Vlohiri pointed to the next tunnel. “This way.”

Éomer put a firm hand on his small shoulder.

“My friend, stay with us, it is safer for you.”

And for the longest part of the way Vlohiri stayed at Éomer’s side, but when they reached the entrance the boy quickly turned right, escaping Éomer’s grip. The next moment two guards shouted for their comrades seeing the intruders trudging into the mine. They drew swords, and, fighting, Éomer lost eye contact with the boy. The Lady’s guards were well trained, but not as determined and truly not as much enraged as Éomer. In a quick passing fight he hit the first opponent’s neck and punched another one unconscious. He hurried to follow the boy, but there were many tunnels to choose.

“Vlohiri!” he shouted and heard within the hacking a thin voice answering. Then the pickaxes and shovels fell silent. Éomer and Faramir and some of the riders followed while the rest stayed behind for safety. “Vlohiri!” Again he had to wait and listen. A man attacked him with his shovel from the left, grunting and hissing. Éomer blocked and knocked the man out. Others followed, taking their axes up again to put the intruders to flight. Éomer did not want to kill them, just fought his way to the voice calling out for him.

Vlohiri was breathless when he finally saw Aragorn. As in the days the boy had to work in the mine himself the King was shackled and gagged, and a chain bound him to the cart he was standing at to fill with stones.

“Aragorn!” he shouted and threw himself forward, stumbled, got back on his feet and reached the man in seconds. The King dropped the shovel and returned the short embrace. Vlohiri pulled out his knife. “Éomer and your other friend, Faramir, are here!” he reported gladly while the King bowed to let the cord be cut. He spat out the gag. “They are following me!”

“Watch out!” Aragorn shouted, but too late. Bayonor grabbed the boy in the back of his neck and tore him away from the King. The boy lost the knife.

“You stinking bastard! I knew you’d come back!”

Vlohiri screamed in terror. Then he hit the floor and fell silent. Éomer stormed through the tunnel. Without stopping he attacked Bayonor viciously, with all force. He let his anger flare, and Bayonor was unable to stand his ground.

Faramir reached the tunnel.

“Over here!” Aragorn shouted, and the Prince ran to his side. “The chains!” More guards poured from the tunnels. Workers followed with their axes. The Rohirrim got entangled in fights. Faramir hacked away another worker’s tool. Only then he cut the chain that connected Aragorn to the cart. Quickly the King pulled the handcuff’s chain on the edge of the cart. Faramir protected Éomer’s back from an axe hit, then, in a fluent motion let the sword hammer down on the chain. It came apart. “I need a sword!”

Faramir took the one from Bayonor who lay slaughtered on the ground and threw it to Aragorn.

“That chain’s too thick for cutting!” he shouted over the noise of the swords in the small tunnel. “Who got the keys?”

“Medros! On a chain around his neck!”

Éomer turned. Vlohiri sat up, holding a hand to his head.

“Medros is not here!” the King of Rohan screamed through the tumult. “I will find him!” Pushing his way through he exited the tunnel while the fights went on.

“Get over here!” Aragorn shouted when the boy cried out. A man fell to the ground nearby, and almost hit him with a shovel. “Now!”

Vlohiri’s face was contorted with fear. A man tumbled over him when he tried to reach the other side. A sword clanked loudly on the floor, and he screamed though the blade missed him. He crouched at the wall trying to blend in.

“Are you all right?” the King asked, protecting himself against a guard that had knocked out a Rohan rider. The boy could only nod, his eyes fixed upon the fights going on. His courage was gone. He was panting and wished nothing more than to leave this awful place. “Stay where you are!” Another blow to the guard’s face, and the man toppled over.

Éomer ran upstairs, five of the riders following him. He grabbed the first man he saw by his collar.

“Where’s Lt. Medros? Answer quickly!”

The servant swallowed hard and went limp. Éomer shook him.

“Hall,” the man croaked. “Main hall.”

The King dropped him, hurried on. Shouts announced that their presence had been revealed. Éomer did not care. He took the challenge as it came, shoving aside men he had defeated as he went. More soldiers came from the northern wing, some heading to the dungeon. Éomer knew he had to be quick. The tunnels were a bad place to fight. He ran into the hall. Medros and three guards already awaited them, swords drawn.

“You better deliver yourself at once, Éomer of Rohan!” Medros shouted. “There is no escape from the castle! Your men are outnumbered!”

“Even if there is one rider from Rohan to ten of your men, we will win!”

Their swords met the first time, iron crashing on iron. They eyed each other with fierce determination. Both were experienced fighters, but with every strike Medros felt his strength fading. The King was not only younger, but outrageous – a force in itself that could not be bound, not defeated. Medros went down, bleeding from several wounds. Falling he drew his dagger, but Éomer noticed the movement, attacked at once. The dagger fell from Medros’ blood-slippery hand, and the King stabbed his shoulder, disabled him. With his foot he shoved the sword away and grabbed the Lieutenants collar, ripping out the chain while the man winced with pain.

“This was your last deed, Medros,” Éomer hissed and knocked him out.

Turning he faced two guards trying to block his way. The King almost smiled when the first attack came.

Faramir knew they would not last long when more entered the tunnel. The Rohirrim stood their ground as long as they could, but the tunnel was narrow, only little room for a defence. They had to fight their way out. He glanced back. Aragorn elbowed one attacker, hit the next with his sword, but he was almost immobilised with that chain between his feet. And Vlohiri crouched on the ground, his back pressed against the wall. Faramir wished they had left him behind in the woods, but it could not be denied he had been helpful.

“Move forward!” he shouted over the riot, throwing himself into the fights going on. “We must get out of here!”

Suddenly a startled shout roared up from behind the lines of the fighters. Faramir recognised Éomer’s helmet and knew their chances were suddenly better than expected. With renewed force Faramir and the Rohirrim pushed the guards back. They found themselves in a fight from two sides, and the battle they had thought won turned against them. Some were slain, some went down severely wounded.

Éomer threw himself in like a ram, pushing men aside to reach Aragorn. He could see him behind two workers when a blow to his shoulder let his arm go numb. He changed the sword to his left hand and moved on.

“Aragorn!” The King did not react, but the boy rose and watched, still pressing his back against the rough wall. Éomer dodged a shovel and hit the man in his stomach. He doubled over and fell on his knees. Éomer pushed him aside. “Vlohiri, take the keys!” He took the chain from his neck and threw it to the boy, who safely caught it. At the same moment a guard fell into Eomer’s back. The King of Rohan stumbled, hitting the ground grunting.

Aragorn saw his friend fall and a worker raise his axe. He leaped forwards, knowing painfully well how limited his range was, and caught the axe’s handle. Torn back the worker yelled in surprise. Aragorn pushed him aside and turned to the boy.

“Open them! Quickly!”

Vlohiri rushed to oblige. Éomer got up, backing the King until he was on his feet again. With a short nod they both threw themselves into the fight again.

The guards from the castle were beaten, the workers lost their tools, some simply dropped them and ran away. The prisoners yelled in glad surprise and left the tunnels as quick as they could. The men from Rohan followed, using the main tunnel to get to the castle. Aragorn looked back to find the boy only one step behind him, a feeble smile in his dirty face.

“Come, Vlohiri, stay at my side. It is not yet over!”

Sadur had heard the alarm. Calmly he ordered the guards to regroup and gather on the eastern side of the castle. The attack would only come from one side. Sadur thought that the attack was surprising, but in the end futile. They had more men to defend the castle than Faramir would guess. It was only a matter of time until the Prince of Ithilien was brought to him in chains. He looked forward to this encounter. He let a servant close his cuirass and put on his belt, sword and gloves before he left his room.

Faramir was glad to see Aragorn defending himself with the same routine and effectiveness he had shown before. They elbowed their way through the main connection from the mine, crossing swords with soldiers who tried to stop them. Even with so few of them the riders from the Riddermark decimated the enemy swiftly. They reached the lower hall. Archers were positioned along the stairway, and they had to retreat until the first row of arrows was shot. Faramir covered the boy with his body and felt an arrow break away from his cuirass. Moving on they used the soldiers from the castle as protection, but some Rohirrim were lost before they had fought themselves through.

“I search for the Lady!” Éomer shouted when the battle slowed down for a moment.

Aragorn shouted orders over the riot, and he was heard. The men used their daggers to throw at the men upstairs. The archers were useless moments later, the distance to short to shoot. They changed weapons, but were already under attack. Within the tumult the King and Faramir tried to protect Vlohiri, who still was with them, unable to find a safe place to hide. Faramir dodged a blow. The man’s sword clanged on the stone, and before he could raise it again, the Prince had punched him square in the face. He helped a Rohan fighter to get rid of his opponent, then ran upstairs.

Sadur already waited for him.