NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  They rode eastwards with the first rays of sunshine. The open plains gave way to bushes and tall trees, and the grass beneath them was thin. Soil shone through where the leaves grew thick and kept sunlight from reaching the ground. It was a peaceful place, and they rode slowly. Squirrels rushed up the bark and disappeared among the branches, and Hilberon watched them for a while. Within the walls of Minas Tirith trees were few, and he had always longed for the restricted time his father had had for him to lead him beyond the Rammas. He remembered vividly how excited he had been to see all the wonders of Gondor in two days. It had been a journey to remember though in the eyes of an adult it would not have been extraordinary. It had been for a boy of ten. And he had been grateful ever after that his father had taught him so much about the land and its people. Hilberon relaxed a little. The King had not reprimanded him for his thoughtlessness the day before, and he regarded himself lucky. Fáred had not been so generous. His look would have stalled a wild boar, and Hilberon had braced himself against the captain’s accusations, but none had been uttered. Now he felt at ease with the exception of the king’s behaviour at the moment.

  Aragorn hung over Brego's withers and studied the ground. He had done that from the moment on after he had mounted and was unaware of the sceptic looks the five soldiers exchanged. Hilberon worried that the king might be sick, and while Tarés and Halamin talked in a low voice, Fáred and Dumarin stayed behind. Being experienced in the work of war, they knew that they had to keep their eyes open and be vigilant at all times. Often they turned in the saddle and looked back the way they had covered.

  Fáred was the oldest of the five men, and he had seen many wars in the past twenty years. With broad shoulders and chest, a mighty reddish beard, and a deep voice he was an impressive soldier and well respected among his men. He had been chosen to be the captain of the Royal Guard, but though he held a certain power he never commanded his men in a loud or harsh voice though his rumbling was sometimes mistaken to be offensive. Only on the battlefield he yelled loud enough to even drown out the enemies drums. Under his command the walls of Minas Tirith had been defended long enough to give its people a chance to survive. He could not shake off the memory of the attack. Haradrim, Orcs, and Ghants had marched up to the Pelennor Fields, and Grond, the biggest ram ever built, had finally splintered the main gate. He remembered the terror the enemies had spread among the soldiers, and even Mithrandir had not been able to lend them enough strength to be without fear when the foes broke into the first ring of the city.

  Fáred shook his head, took a deep breath and, again, looked back over his shoulder. They were riding slowly on a path among trees, which were standing wider apart. The view was excellent and far. After the mist had risen the riders were able to see almost as far as the Anduin in the south, while east of them the Morannon loomed. Half a league away a hill spread out, covered with grass, flowers in their bloom, and high-growing dark green bushes. Something caught the sun and reflected it in a silver ray of light. Dumarin tapped Fáred's arm.

  “Look ahead!”

  Aragorn lifted his head, too, but the reflection was gone the same moment. He turned to Dumarin, who quickly told him what he had seen. The king dismounted and the others followed.

  “We may be watched,” Aragorn said still looking toward the hillside ahead of him. “We will find out tonight.” Without another word he trudged on, quickly now, and those who knew him as ‘Strider’ would have said he honoured this name he had once been given. But instead of walking directly east, he deviated north to move around whatever kind of man stayed there. Though he could no longer follow the tracks on the grass he hoped to remain unseen and get a chance to close in at nightfall. When he looked back over his shoulder he saw four stern faces and insecure one. Hilberon had not dared to speak or even look at the king since his suggestion to build up the tent the day before, and so Aragorn had given him time to get comfortable again. Hilberon had not spoken with any of the other men, but kept his guard as trustful and on alert as the others. Still he behaved as if he was walking on a knife's edge.

  Aragorn let his gaze wander east again. Only with elven eyes he and his men could have been spotted in the wilderness, and now that they had dismounted they were even smaller. But the winds came from the west, and any creature with a better sense of smell than men would catch their scent. He hurried even more and soon heard the grunting of the guards behind him. Used to sit on a saddle the soldiers rode in chain mail and cuirass, pauldrons, and greaves, a habit Aragorn never had taken up. The vambraces he had kept from Boromir were the only protection he wore. He was used to travel light, having done so for many years while trudging the lands in the north and far to the east. Now it was as much his advantage as it was to the disadvantage of his company. Only Hilberon followed without complaints, strong enough in his youth to take up whatever challenges the journey provided. Aragorn smiled at him briefly, but the young man dared not to return it. He even lowered his head and evaded the friendly gesture. The king sighed inwardly. Hilberon had not been a man recommended by Fáred. The old warrior preferred experienced men in his company and had proposed Tindalon who was known for his bravery. Fáred had hardly been able to conceal his disappointment when Aragorn had chosen Hilberon instead. But he could not keep quiet about it. While saddling up he had again spoken for Tindalon. ‘He is much wiser and knows far more than that young lad. He has only seen seventeen winters yet.’ But Aragorn had fastened the bridle and stated, ‘Last time I saw Tindalon he was not aware of anything else but his mug of beer.’ Then Fáred had said no more.

  The group slowed down again after half an hour, and Dumarin sighed with relief. He was the heaviest of them, and though they all were only wearing light armour without the hauberk and other protections it was a strain to do more than walking. But he kept his thoughts strictly to himself, and though he was sweating like he had not since the days of war he would never have dared to complain. He followed the king, and if the lord had run for another hour he would have run too, as long as his stout legs would have carried him. Dumarin knew his duties well. And these duties included the defence of the king against every kind of danger that might occur, may it be men or beast. But with three men and, alas, an apprentice it would not be an easy task if more was about to happen than a mere flicker of light on a hill.

  To access the hillside from the north it was unavoidable to pass the outer rim of the Nindalf. Midges by the thousands swarmed the warm and humid air, tormenting the wanderers on their way. The soil grew soft, and more often than not their boots stuck in the mud. Dumarin cursed silently. This was no place he longed to be in, and not for the first time he asked himself why the king had decided to ride out on his own when he had captains to do this. Which might not have spared himself from leaving the City, he thought. Life in Minas Tirith during the summer was a pleasure compared to this slimy mud hole. In the City music reigned, it was never too dry or too humid, and the streets were nice to walk on. In the old days of Denethor’s reign Dumarin never had to run far on his errands, and he thought it was quite a pity that the old man was deceased.

  Fáred stared northwards where big black birds were circling. Aragorn had seen them too, but suddenly gave his men a sign to come to a halt. He crouched and examined the ground. This time Hilberon stayed well behind him, just looking upon the tracks the king had found, but without understanding them.

  “Five men marched here, from east to west,” Aragorn muttered and turned his head. “They were in haste.” He rose and followed the footprints to the west while his horse fidgeted and stepped sideways to avoid sinking in the mud again. “They had light steps. Either they did not carry much weight or they were only little taller than children.” He took a deep breath and turned to his men. “How far away is the next farm?”

  “More than a day-ride south, my lord,” Halamin said. “No one settles here. It's no soil to grow wheat on.”

  Aragorn had already turned back to the footprints. They could have been three or four days old and would have filled with water and vanished if they had been deeper. The soles bore no mark, but they had all worn the same sort of boots and marched in single file. Again the king let his gaze wander westwards. The Nindalf extended to the horizon and partly consisted of swamp fields, an unpleasant terrain to walk upon and pestered by midges and other insects. But whoever had used this way knew that he could do so without being detected.

  “We will follow these tracks eastwards,” he decided and took Brego's reins again, his eyes still fixed on the wet ground where he trudged on. He seemed undisturbed by moisture, heat, or midges while Fáred blew air over his forehead hearing Dumarin panting behind him. He felt sick marching through these lands. In the dampness the air was filled with strange stenches of rotting plants and foul water, animals crawled through the muddy soil, their feet splashing through the water. Though he had only heard of the Dead Marshes he thought he was already too close to it. It was told that dead people were in these waters, and he shivered at the mere thought. Here now he would have preferred to hurry, but the king took his time trying to read the signs and find their meaning. Grudgingly Fáred moved on behind him.

  They marched on well until after noon, did not stop to rest or eat, did not linger to watch the black birds which seemed to feast upon something lying among the plants. They only heard their croaking all of the time as if they were mocking them. It was straining their nerves. Hilberon felt uneasy in this strange land. He had never been far away from the City. His father was one of the smiths, a tall and hard man who was used to deliver quality work and demanded the same of everyone else. Hiregon was a good worker and his name was well known and recommended in the City since he had not only the skill to hammer horseshoes, but could also forge swords. Under his guidance, for his mother had died when he was but a small child, Hilberon had grown up learning all about swords, knives, axes, and horseshoes. He had been able to judge a horseshoe's size correctly when he was eight, and the soldiers knew him well and always tousled his hair when they brought in a horse to shoe. When he was only ten years he had learned how to throw a dagger into the middle of a target, and when he had turned fourteen he had been a better man to wield a sword than others of his age, not to mention his ability to distinguish between a good blade and a poor. But Hiregon had also taught him to be a decent young man, to tell the truth and never stand back when bravery was needed. He encouraged him to search for higher goals than being a smith. And perhaps because he had been too young to fight in the Ring War Hilberon decided to become a soldier and use the sword his father had given him for the right cause. But the road to become a soldier was covered with obstacles. Wherever he went and whatever he did he was judged to be too young and inexperienced. He took those judgements without contradiction for in his heart he knew he was better than the older soldiers thought. Still he had been surprised and speechless when he heard he had been called to be a soldier of the Royal Guard, the youngest ever to be chosen. The task seemed too great to master and again his father had taken him aside and told him to follow the rules he had learnt and use the skills he had acquired. With a slap of his mighty hand on his shoulder Hiregon had sent his young son to greater tasks than running around Minas Tirith for errands. Straightened up Hilberon had accepted the work given, but again felt his heart beating faster when he got to know that the king himself had chosen him and now ordered him to ride out with only four more men. Only the pride of his father, who almost had tears in his eyes upon hearing the news, had made him take the challenge.

  Now he was walking behind the king and hoped that he would fulfil the expectations both his father and the lord had laid upon his shoulders.

* * *

EDORAS

  Life seemed to grind to a crunching halt as they walked down the dusty path into the city, with people stopping in their tracks or pausing, no matter what they were doing, to glance at the rare sight of the royal couple. Their expressions were joyful and friendly, but still Lothíriel could not help tensing at being the centre of attention, and the pressure of her fingers digging into his arm alerted Éomer of his wife’s state of mind. The blacksmith and his helper, who had been in the middle of leading a heavy-boned horse into one of the stalls, now stood and looked their way in expectation. Nodding his appreciation to them, Éomer turned his head to brush his lips over Lothíriel’s cheekbone and then whispered into his queen’s ear.”

  “No need to be so tense, my lady. They are merely relieved to see you well, nothing more.” Steering his wife over to the smithy for something to distract her anxious mind with, he said aloud: “Bergfinn, my friend…! Whose horse is that you are leading there? It must be absolutely the heaviest beast I have ever seen! Can it even run?”

  The old blacksmith laughed and desperately clapped his hands against the sides of his leathern apron to clean them, while his young helper looked intimidated at the arrivals and anxiously concentrated on tying the horse’s halter to a beam.

  “It is Soldrás’ steed, my lord, and he would be very upset to hear that his strongest plough-horse has become the source of the king’s ridicule!”

  “Aye, it certainly looks strong enough to draw Meduseld from its foundations. Maybe I should apologise to it then, do you think?”

  Bergfinn smirked. The young king appeared to be in an exceptionally good mood today. That was well, because he knew Éomer’s other moods, too. If he was in one of those and one was the justified object of the king’s anger, that person was well counselled to hide in a very dark place and hope not to be found.

  “I would indeed deem it appropriate, sire.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Cempa, my lord.”

  “Cempa? Champion?” Éomer raised a brow at that as he mustered the broad, heavy animal, which ignored him completely. “A fitting name for one so strong, I deem.” His hand landed heavily on the horse’s brown hide, stirring up a mighty dust cloud. “My apologies, Cempa. I knew not of who I was talking.” His brow furrowed as he noticed his queen’s strangely contorted face. “Lothíriel?”

  Her violent sneeze interrupted him and caused the men to look the young woman in wonder before Éomer grinned.

  “Now, that was finally a sneeze worthy of a true Rohirrim, my queen! Not one of those suppressed little gagging sounds that always made me wonder whether you were getting enough air! We may make a true woman of Rohan of you yet!” Laughing at her indignant expression, he took her in his arm. “I am sorry, my lady. It was not my intent to do that... or to mock you.”

  “You think that is funny, my lord?” she retorted, freeing herself of his grasp and clapping her delicate hand on Cempa’s muscular hindquarters, stirring up a dust cloud herself which was aimed at her husband. Éomer, however, was not disturbed by it, and the amused sparkle in his eyes teased her silently. Apparently, he had succeeded for now to let her forget her thoughts of woe.

  “I believe you could stick an entire horse up his majesty’s nose and he still would not sneeze, my lady,” Bergfinn laughed, his weathered, tanned face looking like old leather. “Your husband truly is a real horse-lord.” A cautious look at Éomer. “I hope you will not take this as an insult, Sire, but there has been talk among the people that you must be part horse, in fact, for your way of handling and understanding them is quite unique even for our people.”

  Now it was Lothíriel’s turn to laugh, while Éomer looked as if he was unable to decide whether he should join in or feel insulted. After all, it had been a compliment… a very Rohirric one, and one which only the old smith he had known since his childhood could have dared to utter, but a compliment nonetheless. And it had managed to cheer up his queen, as well.

  “You have no idea how right you are, Bergfinn,” Lothíriel smiled, slowly warming to the playful banter, while she gently patted Éomer’s arm. “You should see him with this huge, black beast he’s been trying to tame for months now! If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn they were twins! They certainly share more than just a few character traits!”

  “Lothíriel!” Éomer’s eyes sparkled, but his anger was only acted. She saw that and understood. Even though they had been married for only slightly less than a year, she had quickly learned to read her husband’s moods, a task that – due to his very Rohirric nature, truthful bordering on bluntness – was not too hard to accomplish most of the times. Only rarely had she seen him trying to conceal his real thoughts, usually when he wanted to keep troubles away from the people that came to the court asking for things he could not give them, or reported sightings of things that troubled him.

  “But, my Lord, is it not the truth?” she asked, innocently batting her eyes. “After all, Battleaxe is the strongest and most intimidating one of his kind… “ She turned her head and whispered into his ear for only him to hear: “...and also the best-looking one, there can be no doubt about it. All things which remind me very much of you, my dear husband.”

  “Very elegant, my lady,” Bergfinn laughed, turning to the king, who sternly eyed his playful wife from under his eyebrows. “And how truly wonderful it is to see you in such a joyful state. There had been quite a few concerns regarding your well-being over the last few weeks, but apparently, you are feeling quite a lot better today.”

  “Yes indeed,” Lothíriel replied, feeling slightly embarrassed over having caused these hearty, open people concern for no good reason. “Thank you very much, good man. And how should it be different on such a fine day?”

  “Indeed.” Éomer felt likewise enchanted to see his wife in such a cheerful state, even if he was unable to tell how much of it was real. After all, she had been crying in his arms only a short while ago. But at least she was making a good effort. He was grateful for that. He did not want for the people to talk about Lothíriel behind his back, and of course her strange behaviour had stirred up all kinds of questions. If even he had been unable to understand her melancholy and need for seclusion, how were his people supposed to? Stealing her arm back, he steered her back towards the path. “It looks to me as if we are keeping our only blacksmith from performing a very important errand for the people of Rohan, my queen. Let us be on our way and no longer disturb this man’s peace.”

  “Has she seen it yet, my lord?” The old man blinked conspiratorially, causing Lothíriel to wrinkle her brow and peer at the man at her side.

  “I am in the process of showing it to her. Don’t spoil the surprise, or I might just have to...” Éomer pretended having to think about a very harsh punishment for such a despicable crime. “I don’t know... throw you in the dungeon until Midsummer has passed to keep you from running around ruining yet more people’s surprises?” He blinked. “I’d say that horse is getting impatient having to wait for your service, blacksmith. Better see to it before it decides to leave and draw the entire smithy down the hill! I would be loath having to walk all the way to the bottom each time I need your service!”

  Bergfinn bowed and laughed.

  “Aye, my lord! We cannot let that happen, can we?” He turned towards the shy young lad helping him. “What are you standing there, swallowed up on your tongue, Folgard? The king and the queen will not eat you if you greet them!”

  The youth flushed to a deep crimson and lowered his head, muttering something neither Lothíriel nor Éomer understood, and looked impossibly relieved when Bergfinn sent him into the smithy to fetch their instruments, shaking his head to himself.

  “You must excuse that lad, my lord. He usually dwells in one of the more rural settlements in the Eastfold and has only been here for a few days to learn the craft. The surroundings still intimidate him. He did not mean to be rude.”

  “I know how he feels,” Lothíriel sighed, tugging at Éomer’s arm. “My husband can be a very imposing presence. Even I am still awed by him on occasion.” She met his eyes and saw that he had understood her loving ridicule. “Now, please, my lord, can we go and look at the surprise you have for me? I do not feel comfortable with the thought of everyone knowing about it except me.”

  “I suppose we should go and heal this condition, then?” Éomer teased further, immensely enjoying his wife’s playful mood.

  “Aye, my king. I would like that very much.”

  Éomer gave a curt nod to the blacksmith before he steered Lothíriel further down the path for good.

  “You must excuse me now, Bergfinn. Urgent matters of the state call me to duty.”

  “Don’t they always, my lord?” the smith smirked, turning to mind his business again, too. “I wish you a wonderful day... and you too, my queen. It was wonderful to see you again.”

* * *

  His little ploy had worked even better than he could have hoped for, Éomer mused as they walked down the slope arm in arm, with people greeting and smiling at them wherever they went. With each step that they took, he felt Lothíriel relax, until the unexplainable tension had entirely left her and she smiled back graciously at the folk, accepting their good wishes and apparently enjoying herself very much. They had almost reached the bottom of the hill now, where most of the huts and little businesses were and the path led towards the broad marketplace, which was crowded with people. Children shouted and charged through the narrow alleys playing and duelling with their wooden swords. A group of them nearly ran into the royal couple in their pursuit of the supposed evildoers, with one of the lads stumbling and landing on his stomach in the dirt.

  “Oh my,” Lothíriel laughed and bowed down to lend the boy a hand in getting up. “Your horse has thrown you! Quick, see that you catch him again!”

  “Thank you, my lady,” the lad beamed as he wiped a dusty hand over his sweaty brow, dirtying it up even more in the process. From the other side of the path, his friends stood and observed, grinning, as he charged with a battlecry after them. Lothíriel’s eyes followed them until they disappeared behind the next corner. With the Valars’ help, her own child would run around playing such wild games with the others in a few years. She smiled at the thought and felt Éomer’s pleased gaze on herself. Joyfully, she squeezed his arm to let him know that she had noticed his attention... and to tell him that his idea of taking her along to show themselves to the people had been a good one.

  “Éomer?” she breathed, wanting to tell him how glad she felt in this moment, when they reached the vast marketplace, and in the middle of a ring of stones stood something that made the queen’s eyes widen in awe. “Oh, Éomer... It is absolutely beautiful!” Lothíriel let go of his arm to approach the great pile of twigs and branches, still green and elastic because they had been cut only three days ago. They had been bent into two shapes with the help of white and golden bands: a rearing horse and a swan with spread wings and a proudly arched neck, easily three to four times man-sized. Eager to examine the work of art from all sides, Lothíriel slowly walked around it in a circle, occasionally sticking out her hand to touch the wonderfully worked curves, while Éomer stood back and smiled to himself, satisfied over seeing his young wife so animated. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed how the people around them had stopped to wait for the queen’s judgement for their work.

  “Does this mean you like it then, my queen?”

  Her dark eyes sparkled, and even from a distance, Éomer could see how touched Lothíriel was by this simple gesture.

  “It is wonderful!” Her gaze wandered upward to the horse’s head. “What shall we do with it once the celebration is over? Build it up on the backside of the Hall, or leave it here?”

  “We will burn it,” he said instead, throwing her off. “There will be nothing left of it to build up anywhere.” The stunned look she gave him was almost amusing, but he knew better than to let it show. There was nothing he could have done anyway. Even kings were well advised to keep the traditions of their people unchanged.

  “But that would be a crime!”

  He shrugged, very aware of the bemused looks of the onlookers behind them.

  “It’s a tradition. For good luck.”

  “Another tradition?” Her eyes still on the figures, Lothíriel slowly walked back to him. “I realise that I was not aware what a superstitious kind the people of this land really are.” She shook her head in objection. “This is far too beautiful to be burnt.” Her gaze went into the on-looking crowd and fixed on an older woman who regarded her with a gentle, knowing smile on her weathered, wrinkled face. “Is there anyone here of the artists who built this?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Aye, my queen. Most of the people here had a hand in this.”

  “And you would really want to see this beautiful piece of work burn?”

  The smile broadened.

  “Aye... it will make a lovely bonfire. And a very special one, too, to celebrate the first year of our rulers’ union.” Lothíriel seemed at a loss for words as she turned around again to look at the statue of twigs, as the woman continued: “We could make you another one, Highness, if you like it so much. One that we will not burn.”

  The queen turned back.

  “Would you, good woman? I would be much obliged to you. What do you say, my lord? Where should we keep it?”

  Éomer raised an eyebrow at the unexpected turn of events and opened his mouth for a reply, but before he could utter a sound, horns rang out from the front gate and a voice cried out:

  “It’s the Lord Erkenbrand! Open the gate!”

  Erkenbrand? Erkenbrand? Unexpected as a thunderclap out of a clear blue sky, the cold hand of fear seized Éomer’s stomach. This had to be a mistake! The guards must have had mistaken the older warrior for someone else! What business would the Lord of Westfold have at Edoras at this time of year, except… bringing bad tidings?! No! No, it could not be true! His kingdom was still on its knees in the aftermath of war, they could not afford yet another conflict!

  “Éomer?” The pressure of Lothíriel’s hand on his arm told him that his wife was feeling the same anxiety. Suddenly, the air seemed too thick for breathing as the sound of a group of riders approaching the marketplace from the gate reached them. “What could he be doing here?”

  “I cannot say,” he mumbled without looking at her, his throat almost too tight for his words as he slowly, like in a bad dream, stepped into the centre of the place. He had been through this kind of experience so often since his youth that he already knew what was to follow. Life in the Mark had been like this since he could remember. You were enjoying life for a limited amount of time; weeks, sometimes even months with nothing bad happening, allowing yourself to be lulled into a false feeling of security and to lower your guard, only to have reality hit you over the head with all brutality. There would never be a time when life in Rohan would be entirely safe. Never.

  As the royal couple and their kinsmen still looked on, the riders came into view. Their sight was an even worse sign of trouble than what Éomer had anticipated and caused his skin to crawl: A group of five riders, led by Erkenbrand, burst from the narrow ally into the marketplace in a swift trot that looked forced nonetheless. Their horses were lathered in foam and Héfalas, the marshal’s grey stallion, confirmed in his red-veined eyes and sweat-darkened hide that they had been ridden to the point of exhaustion as they stumbled into view behind him. Their deep breaths and the shingling and creaking of their riding gear filled the leaden silence with an unnamed dread. All of a sudden, a black cloud seemed to hang over the marketplace. Something very bad had happened. Telling Lothíriel to stay back for he knew for Héfalas to be a difficult animal only his master could entirely trust, Éomer stepped forth to seize the grey’s bridle.

  “Marshal Erkenbrand?” Sweet Eru, the man looked ready to collapse right along with his steed! “What brings you to Edoras? What has happened?” The faces of Erkenbrand’s men – sweat-beaded, hollow-eyed, grim - chased a shudder down his spine. The tension became unbearable as Éomer prepared for the worst. Erkenbrand’s weathered, lined face turned to him as the oldest marshal of the Mark brought his snorting horse to a stand.

  “My apologies for bursting into your preparations like this, Éomer-king, but I bring bad tidings. Four days ago, a great host of Dunlendings crossed the River Isen and raided the two nearest settlements, stealing their provisions and stock. We lost eighteen men. We managed to throw them back, but only with great difficulties. The Westfold is burning, Éomer-king. War is upon us again!”

* * *

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  When the sun set they had reached the hill again and the land rose steadily before them. It was drier now, but the tracks were still clear. Near a group of bushes and larger stones that would protect them from being seen Aragorn came to a halt.

  “Here it turns south. We shall wait till nightfall to get any further.” He took saddle and bridle off his horse and let it graze. Wearily the others followed and hobbled their steeds before pitching a camp. “No fire,” he ordered when he saw Fáred already searching for stones to put around the campfire site. “We do not know who might roam this hill.”

  Dumarin and Fáred exchanged glances, then Dumarin spoke.

  “Sire, whoever walks here cannot be a threat to us. We are six men who can defend ourselves well.”

  “And who tells you, Dumarin son of Doran, that there are no more than six men against us? Caution reigns over pride,” he closed sternly and turned to Halamin. “I will take you and Hilberon with me tonight. Take off your armour and sword. We shall be as quiet as possible.”

  “We will creep up on them, my lord? Without weapons?” Halamin frowned. It was never heard of that men of the Royal Guard did not openly confront an enemy. For him it was a disgusting thought. But when the king only answered with another stern look he shed out of his cuirass and chain mail and put it on the ground. Hilberon did the same and felt relieved. Looking down on the heap of armour he thought about not putting it on again. The weight felt too heavy. It seemed more like a burden than a protection. And he saw no reason to protect himself in this wilderness. He straightened his jerkin, fastened his belt with the dagger attached to it, and was ready to leave.

  “We do not want them to be aware of our coming.” The king took off his sleeping roll and all of his weapons but the Elvish hunting knife. Halamin nodded and tried to show an imperturbable face. “And yet we do not even know who we expect – if they have not already left.” He gently stroked Brego's mane and forehead and talked to him in Sindarin. Halamin, who still watched him, wondered if the horse truly understood his master's words for he neighed lowly at the end and grazed on when Aragorn turned away from him. In the last glimmer of daylight the king looked at his men. “Whoever passed by we do not know of their intentions, they may be good or bad. Fáred, Tarés, and Dumarin, you stay behind and watch over the camp and horses.” He saw the older soldier's reluctance and added, “Keep quiet and only defend yourself if there is danger upon you.”

  Fáred bowed curtly. Dumarin was exhausted enough to lay down where he stood and would not contradict. Let alone Tarés was uncomfortable enough to speak up.

  “My lord, you should not walk yonder without a proper guard. If it is as you assume there might be more danger ahead of you. And we are of no use if you leave us behind.”

  “Hilberon and Halamin are a strong enough help if any is needed.” But his look told him that he was used to take care of himself alone and Tarés inhaled and bowed deeply.

  “Of course it will happen as you wish, my lord.” He sat down with Dumarin at the campsite, his back supported by a sun-warmed rock, and reached for his water-skin. He was disappointed to be left behind, and he feared for his ruler, but he would not dare to utter a word against the king's decision. Still he could not shake the feeling that he was needed and damned to be helpless when it came to a fight. After the king's abduction not even two years ago all soldiers of the Royal Guard had been told by captain Fáred that they had the responsibility for the king's well-being. But how should Tarés and the others fulfil this task if they were left behind?

  Aragorn looked at the three soldiers for a moment. They were used to serve the late steward of Gondor, and Denethor's demands had been different from their tasks now. Dumarin would always serve without question, but lacked the stamina needed. Fáred was experienced in the defence of the city, and his bravery was unquestioned. Tarés preferred to fulfil his work by staying as close as possible to the king's back, a soldier ready to keep away any harm from the ruler. The king could not wish for a more loyal company to serve him, and still he remembered yearningly the companionship of Gimli and Legolas, their strength and will, their skill and wisdom. The time of war had been hard, but friendship had lightened the burden. He wished they had not left the White City.

  With a short nod to Hilberon and Halamin Aragorn turned and left the campsite.

  The king led the small group slowly southwards for half an hour. The wind had diminished, the sun sunk with a last golden shine beyond the Nindalf, and they walked hunched over to avoid being seen though the light lessened in the minutes they walked over the grass. When the scent of fire reached them, Aragorn ordered the two men to lie down. The thicket they had entered provided cover, but also bore the danger of sounds for neither Hilberon nor Halamin were used to crawl noiselessly. Aragorn lay flat on the ground, his eyes fixed upon the small fire shining through the bushes in the distance.

  “Wait,” he whispered and was gone in seconds, his belly pressed against the soft soil. Darkness fell upon the land as he moved forward, halted when one of the two figures at the fire stirred, then moved on slowly. He waited patiently to get around the camp and then closer, breathing the musty scent of soil, leaves, and bark. Another half hour had passed when he reached the end of the thicket to watch. The shades in the dark did not speak, just sat and stared into the flames. They wore dark red tunics and trousers, leather cuirasses with red and gold patterns which shone in the fire's gleam, and their black hair was bound to the back of their heads but for one strand that hung alongside the temple of their tanned faces. On the forehead of the one whose face Aragorn could see a faint symbol drawn in red and black. Around the neck a chain hung with large black and grey feathers, parts of brown fur, and a little, round piece of metal on it. On their backs they carried quivers with a dozen black-feathered arrows, and their belts contained short knives. The bows lay on the ground beside them. Aragorn wondered why none of them slept. Were they expecting someone else?

  When one of them spoke it was low and in a tongue Aragorn did not understand. The second answered, and the voice was raspy like something had happened to his throat. Still they did not move. From what he saw Aragorn found a resemblance to the Easterlings he had seen at the Black Gate the day all had come to an end. But it could not be. The armour was a little different, the helmets were missing. Still… The Easterlings were defeated and driven back to the Sea of Rhûn. And why should they have returned? The first figure stirred and added another twig to the dying fire, whispering words and making a gesture to the adjacent thicket with his free hand.

  Another minute crept by in silence.

  All of a sudden a loud and eerie cry was heard from the northern side of the thicket. The figures were on their feet at the same moment, exchanging curt words, grabbing their bows and running into the direction the cry had come from. Aragorn stood and hurried after them, jumping over the fire to avoid his companions to be attacked. Pushing away lower branches he leapt over a root he could barely see, and hastened on. Another cry followed, closer now. Menacing. Voices rose - one belonged to Halamin. Aragorn stumbled and fell, but it was his luck. An arrow whistled by, missing him by inches. He pushed himself forward, gained speed again through thorny bushes whose long branches tried to hold him back. Halamin yelped in pain. In the dim light of a quarter moon Aragorn reached Halamin and Hilberon. They both looked frightened and were out of breath, but unharmed.

  “What happened? Where are they?” Before Halamin found words a third cry alarmed them. It was one of pain. “Fáred!” the king exclaimed and ran on. The two soldiers followed swift, ignoring the uneven ground that made them stumble and fall every few steps. Fear that they might be too late made them run even faster, but when they reached the place Fáred stood on top of a rock like a ghost of revenge, arrow and bow ready bent in his hands.

  “One of these beasts hit Dumarin!” he shouted upon seeing them. “But I will get one of them!”

  “No! Hold your fire!” Aragorn shouted, but the arrow had already left the string. With the precision only long experience can grant it found its aim quickly. The shadow in the distance fell on its knees, and then, after a moment, lay motionless on the ground. The king had come too late. He snatched the bow out of Fáred's hand. “I ordered you not to!”

  “I did what I had to do!” Fáred spat on the ground. “They stole a horse! And the others got away on it, I’d suppose! Stinking bastards!”

  “You fool!” Aragorn threw the bow down. “Can you not listen?”

  Fáred pressed his lips tight to avoid any word of dissension to slip from them, but his angry stare turned to Dumarin who sat on the ground and held his right arm grimacing with pain. Blood oozed through the fabric and the soldier looked miserable. Aragorn cursed under his breath, but spun around to find the person lying face down on the ground twenty feet away. He knelt beside him. An arrow stuck out of his neck and a single line of blood had trickled down to the ground. Fáred had hit to kill. No breath was left. Hilberon knelt on the other side while Halamin came after them, panting, with his sword ready.

  “They might come back,” he muttered. “Try to avenge him.”

  Aragorn shook his head slightly.

  “They are gone.”

  Halamin looked down at the slender figure in the woollen dark tunic and leather cuirass over it, rough trousers and dark, long-worn boots. A simple bow lay beside him, dropped from his hand, the quiver, engraved with black symbols, hung loosely over his shoulder.

  “Good gracious, it’s just a boy!”

  The king turned the body around and was stunned. For a moment the three men gaped at the soft features surrounded by black hair.

  “No, it is a woman.” Aragorn's shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Sighing deeply he murmured a prayer in the Elvish tongue he had learnt so long ago. He knew Halamin and Hilberon watched him in astonishment, but he did not move. He felt a loss he could not explain. At Helm’s Deep King Théoden had ordered many young lads to fight, and Aragorn had felt the urgent need to protect them all; to not let them lose their lives in this very fight for their freedom. But not all had survived. He had not been able to save them all. And though the time of war should have taught him not to feel sorrow about a person he had not even known, the young woman’s face, so smooth and fair, not marked by old age or despair, revealed a vulnerability that touched his core.

  Fáred reached them, and upon seeing the body searched for an excuse.

  “A woman? But, my lord, I did not mean to… I did not know…”

  “The harm has been done and cannot be taken back,” the king said in a low voice heavy with frustration and grief. Gently Aragorn pushed a strand of hair out of her face. As he had seen on the other stranger her forehead was decorated with dark red symbols, and around her neck she wore a thin leather cord with pieces of fur, two long, curved claws, and a broad silver ring with a dark red gem in its middle. In her hair stuck a broad wooden comb with engraved signs, coloured in black. A work of art, now lost of its use. “There was no need for this.” Exhaling he turned to the waiting captain and his anger flared. “Are you not skilled enough, Fáred, to stop without killing? This was such a needless act! Will you now tell me what she knew? Where she came from, or why she tarried here? Are you able to explain what we desire to know?”

  Fáred evaded the king's fierce stare. He felt disgraced being yelled at, and swallowed hard on the humiliation. His answer was hardly audible.

  “No, sire.”

  Aragorn rose, an impressing figure, even more in his undisguised anger. Fáred immediately stepped aside. He seemed small and beaten.

  “The war is over, Fáred son of Folentis, and you should better know it.” The king turned and when he passed he added, “Bury her. Do not let her lie here for whatever beast.”

* * *

   EDORAS

   To call the atmosphere in the great throne room of Meduseld strained would have been an understatement. The heated, humid air of the late summer afternoon seemed thick enough to cut through and had a metallic taste that told of the approaching thunderstorm, but it would not just be rain and lightning that would assault Edoras tonight. The assembled council consisting of the king and his wife, Gamling, chief of the Royal Guard, Féofor, captain of Éomer’s personal éored, and Erkenbrand and his second-in-command, Galdur, had been summoned in all haste. The men had at first been irritated by the queen’s attendance, but then proceeded as usual when they had seen Éomer’s warning gaze. The queen wished to know what was going on in her land, and her questions would be answered.

   Only the sound of Éomer’ steps could be heard echoing through the twilight of the hall as he restlessly paced the corridor, too anxious to sit while he listened to Erkenbrand’s report. As usual, the marshal’s recapitulation of the events left no doubts; his words evoked clear and frightful images.”

   “They had waited for the new moon to cross the Isen under the protection of darkness, and they moved swiftly and stealthily, quite in contrast to their usual way of attack. A great host of Dunlendings, all moving in order and with a purpose. They also appeared to be well aware of the guards’ positions, so that is another hint that this raid has not been a spontaneous, ill-planned undertaking of the likes they usually engage in. They took them out before the alarm could be raised and then assaulted the sleeping people in their huts.”

   “How many men are we talking of?” Éomer inquired, his lips a grim line and his jaw set as he stared unfocussed into the sickly greenish light just outside the hall. The air was standing, there wasn’t so much as a breeze outside that could move the grass.

   Lifting his damp hair from his sweat-drenched neck to cool his skin, Éomer took up his pacing, his expression that of deep thought. This appeared to be the first serious threat to his people since his becoming their ruler, and he was not certain whether he was ready to face it. In his days as marshal, there had been times when he had been looking forward to picking a fight, but ever since his captivity by Grima Wormtongue, Éomer had felt a strange reluctance towards the thought of battle and bloodshed. To his immense surprise, he had actually found himself enjoying the rare calm times Rohan had experienced since the end of the war. Was it just that he had grown unaccustomed to the intensity of conflict? Was it battle-weariness? The knowledge that the shoulder injury he had sustained during his ordeal had left him weaker, not the unstoppable warrior he had once been? Or a natural development caused by maturing, of his participation in so many battles in his still young life?

   “I did not see the full attacking force myself, sire, because there was only a smaller group of them left when my éored arrived, but Captain Galdur spoke of at least two hundred, my lord.” The older man paused to grant his king a moment to truly grasp the meaning of his words, and saw their devastating effect as Éomer turned around to face him, slightly paler than before. Now he knew that this was no isolated occurrence which could be neglected. That this organised attack had to be the beginning of something greater, something infinitely more dangerous. “And they struck without warning. Everything about this attack was different than what we have been used to from battling Dunlendings for decades. Usually, they are nothing but a bunch of primitive, club-wielding wild-men, easily overtaken by a force that’s considerably smaller but better structured and armed. But this group… they were organised! They followed a strategy, and they were armed with swords, bows and lances – and knew how to use them!” He reached for his tankard and emptied it.

   Inhaling deeply, Éomer came to a halt in front of the greying warrior who was sitting on one of the benches and studying his expression intently. Not that there was much to study, Éomer mused, nor anything to misunderstand. It had to be obvious how he thought about these catastrophic tidings, because each of Erkenbrand’s revelations so far had felt like a punch to his gut. Somewhere in the back of his mind, even if he knew how unlikely it had been, he had hoped never having to hear anything about a quarrel with their western neighbours again.

   “If what you say is true…”

   “It is true, my lord! I saw it with my own eyes! This was an organised and well-trained army we were dealing with! We lost eighteen men in the attacked villages, and over twenty soldiers of my éored were wounded in the fight. We experienced great difficulties at throwing them back over the river, and even so, I assume they only went to store their loot and then come back for more later. I left the remainders of my éored to patrol the river fords and ordered for reinforcements, but we cannot afford to just react. We musttake immediate action!”

   The eyes of all present lay now on their king, waiting for his verdict. The silence deepened.

   “I do not like it,” Éomer finally muttered, slightly angered at the marshal’s interruption, and turned on his heels to take up his pacing. Nothing was adding up, and the implications of Erkenbrand’s report were too horrible to think about. “If some wild folk like the Dunlendings suddenly know about strategy and possess weapons other than stones and wooden spears … then there must be some other enemy behind them! Someone who taught them! Someone who has access to weaponry, an enemy we know not yet. I will not believe that they learned the art of war all by themselves in such a short period!”

   Erkenbrand remained silent. The same thought had crossed his mind, too, but he had wanted for his king to evoke those frightening images in his head by himself. They would be more powerful this way, and they would inevitably lead Éomer to the one decision the seasoned warrior wanted to hear from his ruler. There was no other way to react to such a heinous attack, and while the king’s expression was still mostly dominated by consternation and confusion, Erkenbrand was relieved to catch the familiar undercurrent of white-hot fury underneath. Ah, yes – this was the Éomer he knew, the hot-tempered, fierce warrior who refused to take insults from anyone! The true son of the late Marshal Éomund of Aldburg. He needed that man now! Rohan needed him! This was not the time for reflection and considerations; this was the time for justified wrath. Hesitation could easily mean Rohan’s end, especially if some yet unknown enemy was involved.

   “Marshal, are you certain that they were, in fact, Dunlendings?” Féofor, the captain of the Edoras-based éored spoke into his thoughts, the man’s expression deeply dubious. What was that inexperienced apprentice thinking? That he could not tell a Dunlending from an orc? Or a horse from a goat? Erkenbrand ground his teeth, but bit back the harsh words coming to his mind. Féofor, for all he knew, had been born in the Eastmark and never left it. So who was the one who could not tell one thing from another here? “Could they not have been...” the lanky, malnourished looking man shrugged, “… I don’t know, another people we have not met so far? The whole land of Enedwaith and their inhabitants is virtually unknown, could they not have come from there? This would explain their unexpected mastery of strategy and weaponry, too!”

   “Enedwaith is not unknown,” Éomer opposed, his tone more frustrated than anything else. His eyes were fixed on the banner of his house that hung behind the throne without really seeing it. The greatest king Rohan looked down on him now, waiting for his successor to find the right decision for his people. He pivoted on his heels. “We sent scouts there many times before. It is a barren land without forests or fertile soil, impossible to live of. They never found people there. The land is bereft of life.”

   “Captain Féofor, I have fought against these primitives my entire life. Trust me when I say that we are dealing with Dunlendings here!” Erkenbrand pressed, finally giving up on not letting his annoyance with the man show. Eru alone knew why Éomer trusted such an ignorant man with the protection of Edoras. Certainly Féofor had to have his qualities, but experience it was not. There was enough tension in the hall already, but he was not about to let himself be questioned by that untaught youth in front of everyone? He had not been there. He had not seen what they had seen. Of course they were all trying to find a logical explanation for what could not rationally be explained. But what if there was none?

   After all, there had been no trouble from their neighbours since Éomer’s predecessor had pardoned them in the wake of the Helm’s Deep battle. They had even been allowed to travel through the Mark to ask for help during the grim winter with none of the éoreds harassing them! The Rohirrim had believed their eternal conflict had ended. So what in Eru’s name had provoked the Dunlendings to once again wage open war against them? Greed? Need? The times were hard for both their lands, and probably even harder for the people in the hills, but hard enough to forsake the mercy King Théoden had bestowed upon them and try to satisfy their need by means of violence again? Had they decided now that they would no longer plead for the crumbs from Rohan’s table when they could take everything by force?

   “And it could not have been a, however great, rampant group?” Gamling let himself be heard, unwittingly smoothing his thin red beard with two fingers. “One or two tribes who are not in agreement with the others, outsiders to their own people even?”

Erkenbrand had always respected the older, wiry warrior. Quite against the usual Rohirrim temperament, of which their current king was an excellent example, Gamling had only rarely acted on the spur of the moment. He was a thinker, a pensive bright mind, and that Éomer had named him as his counsellor after the war had been quite justified in Erkenbrand’s opinion. He would have to be convinced to take the action Erkenbrand would be asking for, not just persuaded. But then again, the decision to go to war would not be his call to make, and the Lord of the Westmark hoped that he could count on his king in this matter of life or death. All he would have to do to drive Éomer to this decision was feed him a few more horrible details.

   “Two-hundred men? Armed and trained as they were?” The marshal shifted his attention to the chief of the Royal Guard. “Alas, no, Lord Gamling. I deem that impossible. We all know the usual size of Dunlending tribes, and we know the way they usually fight. This attack was alarmingly different… as alarming as something else they did...” He turned back to Éomer who was following the discussion from the middle of the corridor and now stared at him with a mixture of growing anger and discomfort, waiting for yet more bad tidings to be unveiled on this gloomy summer afternoon. From outside, a low growl penetrated into the hall, but no one seemed to notice.

   “What do you mean?” Éomer was loath to hear yet more ill news, his expression showed it clearly enough. “What did they do besides stealing, plundering and burning our villages … and killing our people? What else could they have done that was possibly worse?”

   Erkenbrand knew he was very close now to achieving what he had come for. The worst was yet to come, and already the king looked ready to jump into the next saddle and head off for the Westfold even in the middle of the approaching thunderstorm.

“I cannot tell whether it is worse, yet, actually,” he then confessed with a calculating glance at his second-in-command. Galdur’s expression spoke of confidence in his marshal. A very loyal man. “But it is rather peculiar.” He swallowed and then met Éomer’s inquisitive gaze. “Apparently, the Dunlendings did not kill the men in the villages. Not unless they absolutely had to. Instead, they took them with them.”

   The silence deepened to the point where it became unbearable. Somewhere to their left, a servant was moving through the hall to ignite the torches in the deepening twilight.

   “They did what?” There was profound confusion in Éomer’s eyes and the furrows on his brow deepened in disbelief. His hands dropped to his sides as he felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rise. Erkenbrand could not be serious!

   “The men disappeared, my lord. Of the eighteen men we lost, twelve could not be found. Captain Galdur here saw two of them being wrestled onto stolen horses by the attackers, and they were undoubtedly still alive, their hands and feet bound. And since many more have gone missing in the wake of the attack...” He took a deep breath. “My lord, I cannot tell you how much this observation worries me.“

   “Why should they take the men and …” Èomer interrupted himself as a terrible thought came to his mind. An image he just could not accept. Outside, a deafening twin thunderclap ended the expectant silence and rolled through the humid air like the growl of a hungry dragon. The suddenly pale faces of the other council-members told the young king that they had read his expression and were thinking the same. And his wife looked too sick all of a sudden to hear any more of what was going on in Éomer’s mind. He reached a decision.

   “Lothíriel?” He went the few steps over to her and lifted her hand from the armrest of her throne, giving it a slight comforting squeeze. Why did it feel so cold to his touch? Terribly worried eyes looked up to meet his gaze.

   “Aye, my lord?”

   “I want you to go and lie down. You do not look as if you are feeling well, and your hand feels frosty. Let me accompany you to our private chambers.”

   His tone was caring and low, but there was no way for Lothíriel to miss the determination on her husband’s face. He did not want for her to hear their discussion any further. And while she was certain that she did not want to know more details either, there was also the insistent voice in the back of her mind telling her that she should hear what was going on in her kingdom. What to do? She could hardly object to Éomer’s wish in front of his men. There had to be another way. She forced herself to give him a weak smile as she came to her feet, gratefully accepting his arm.

   “It is very considerate of you to notice, my lord. I was thinking I could make it through to the end of this council, but I fear the strenuous day has gotten the best of me. Indeed it would possibly be best for me to follow your advice and seek a little rest.” A curt, graceful nod at the present men. “My lords, if you will excuse me?”

   The other men nodded politely, but only Gamling returned her smile with a slight expression of worry on his face. She liked Éomer’s counsellor. Most of the times, when her husband was away on some errand, it was him she liked to seek out for company and conversation... first her maid, then him.

   “Be well, Queen Lothíriel. Should I send for the kitchen to make you some tea?”

   She raised her hand.

   “Thank you, dear Gamling, but no. I have what I need in my chambers. Let us not needlessly disturb our servants. Once in a while they need a little rest, too, like we all do.” Another meaningful glance, and then Lothíriel allowed Éomer to lead her away to the private chambers, the sound of their steps on the tiles echoing through the silent hall.

* * *

   “Please, Éomer... I am not ill or weak. I am merely a little tired. There is no need for you to accompany me all the way to our chambers when your presence is urgently required elsewhere, and no need to send for the healer or the kitchens, either. I need nothing but a little rest, as you said.” She let go of his arm as if to demonstrate to her husband that she was indeed quite capable of walking alone. The little assuring smile she had wanted to add died before it could break through, as she looked at Éomer’s serious face. Never had she seen him as distraught as this. In the one year since she had become Rohan’s queen, she had learned about their people’s eternal quarrel with their western neighbours, but this was the first time she saw what the immediate threat of war did to people, even to such a battle-experienced warrior as her husband. ‘War-mongers?’ She knew now that it was not true.

   “You look very pale, Lothíriel. Are you certain that there is nothing I can do for you?”

   “Aye, my ever-concerned husband. I am certain of that.” She rose on her toes and kissed him, not wanting to be the cause for yet more of his sorrow when the situation was already looking dreary. He took her hands and gently kissed her back, his gaze still contemplating her condition as she continued. “You need not worry for me. I am upset as you, but that is only because I, too, fear for our fellow kinsmen.” Another kiss. “I will go and lie down now, and you go back and decide how to best help our people. I have every confidence that you will find the right way.”

   Éomer’s gaze said that he appreciated her effort at comforting him before it strayed to the door to the side-wing, the entrance to their chambers. Behind them, he heard the mumbling of the waiting men. Lothíriel was right – he was needed there. He embraced her once more, and his fingers smoothed her silken dark curls as he deeply inhaled her flowery, comforting scent.

   “I am sorry this wonderful day had to end like this. I had very much enjoyed seeing you laughing again after all these weeks of melancholy, my beautiful swan. But now... I do not know where this will take us...” His expression betrayed his fear that the days of peace were over for good. He looked downright dispirited. Dismayed to see her husband like this, Lothíriel took his face in her hands and firmly shook her head.

   “Speak not like this, Éomer, please! You and your marshals will set it right. I am convinced that the good times for our land have not yet ended. You will find a way to make the threat go away, I know it.” She let him go, and he gave her the little nod she had become so accustomed to, before he turned on his heels to head back.

   Saddened to see her beloved in this gloomy mood, Lothíriel stood and watched until Éomer disappeared behind the column of pillars. She swallowed, experiencing a moment of uncertainty. Should she really do it? Éomer would be angry with her if he found out... and it would possibly undermine his authority if the other men found out, too. But she could not help it, she had to know, and if she was not allowed to listen one way, then she would have to think of another.

   “My queen, would you like for me to …”

   Lothíriel turned around, a finger on her lips and determination in the dark eyes as she eyed the maid who had addressed her. Motioning for the female servant to go about her business and not mind her, Lothíriel stealthily made her way back towards the middle of the hall to take cover behind a pillar... and listen.

* * *

NORTHERN ITHILIEN

  Hilberon shivered. Upon returning to the camp site he bandaged Dumarin’s knife wound while the soldier muttered curses ceaselessly when the pain hit him. After that the young soldier rinsed the blood from his hands with some water and still heard the echo of Aragorn's harsh words in his mind. He had never seen such wrath. The times Hilberon had been with the king before the ruler had been benign, polite, and calm. Seeing him so tense and angry made Hilberon shrink at the mere thought how he would be treated for any act of disobedience.

  Dumarin grunted something that might have been a ‘thanks’ and turned to sleep.

  Sitting with his back to a rock and his sword at his side Hilberon looked back to Fáred, whose face was still contorted with anger. Even in the dim light of the waxen moon the old soldier seemed flushed. To avoid any eye contact Fáred turned abruptly and went on his guard. Tarés and Halamin were about to bury the young woman, talking lowly with each other. Hilberon had not had the heart to stay and help with that duty. The moment he had seen her harmonious and so young features he had felt a fist hitting his stomach. He had not been able to breathe. The woman might have been his age. For the blink of an eye he had seen himself on the ground, slain by some stranger whose face he had not ever set eyes upon. Now the woman was dead. With one single arrow her life had ended in the wilderness of Ithilien long before her time should have come. Who would mourn her? Hilberon shivered again when another dark thought came to his mind. Would her comrades come back to avenge her? Would they meet others of this people unleashed in their anger? And would the Royal Guard be able to stand against them?

  “What happened out there?”

  Hilberon was startled and looked up, wide-eyed. Aragorn stood in front of him; the young man had not heard him come. He swallowed his sudden fear while the king crouched and stared at him with his piercing grey eyes.

  “Halamin might…”

  “I asked you.”

  Hilberon nodded curtly, and with a deep breath recalled the incident.

  “We both lay there where you left us. We did not move, nor made a sound. We saw nothing. Then... then this… shadow was above us. And when he saw us…” He swallowed. The memory of the dark brown eyes surrounded by white in an aggressive face made his heart beat faster. The king's inquisitive stare did not make it any easier to continue. Hilberon's voice sounded hollow. “He gave that loud and strange scream. He hit Halamin who was next to him, but… not bad. Just pushed him when he started getting up. And then ran on.” Hilberon shook his head. “Like he could see at night. He was fast. And then the other two followed. In a way… they ran over us. We did not stop them. Could not. Perhaps we should have…” He looked up. Aragorn seemed deep in thoughts. “We could have prevented Dumarin from getting hit.”

  Aragorn did not answer, but stood and turned. Looking back the way they had come he said lowly,

  “No, we could not.”

  Hilberon was puzzled, but did not dare to speak. He looked at the king's back. The dark red shirt he wore under the sleeveless jerkin was old as well as the black woollen trousers and boots. Boots that his father would never had allowed his son to wear, so worn-out and darkened by mud that Hiregon would have assumed the owner to be poor. The young man could not find any explanation why the king preferred such clothing to his royal garb. Hilberon had seen him on the day of the coronation. Aragorn had been as kingly as a man could be, and that, Hilberon thought, should be the way at any time. Who would then notice that the king had arrived if it was not by his outer appearance?

  “This was meant to be.”

  “My lord?” Hilberon's face and mind were blank. He assumed he had not paid attention and chewed on his lower lip, uneasily awaiting a reprimand.

  Aragorn looked back over his shoulder.

  “It does not look like this happened accidentally.” Still Hilberon could not make anything out of this answer and frowned. “Tarés said there was one man at the horses when the first cry resounded. He cut the rope and led one of them away.” Aragorn's lips twitched. “Then that woman came. She would have taken another horse if Dumarin had not interfered.” Hilberon saw regret mingled with anger in the king's features. Aragorn exhaled before turning away. “They were only here to wait for us.”

* * *

  The loss of a horse was regrettable. Fáred divided the tent and supplies the sixth horse was carrying on the others so he could mount in the morning. The king hardly spoke to him and if he did his words made clear how angry he still was with the captain. Fáred's lips were pressed to a thin bloodless line, and no one dared to talk to him. They rode on in silence until noon. The weather changed, dark deep-hanging clouds were coming up from the south, their speed indicating that soon the wind would freshen up.

  Fáred watched the other men's backs for a while, still growling and ill tempered. He had not slept much during the past night but had wondered about the king's strange behaviour. That woman – he supposed she came from Rhûn – had tried to steal a horse, an act that condemned her to die on the spot, but the king had mourned her like a lost friend. For as long as Fáred had been able to wield a sword or bend a bow he had been told that thieves were nothing more than scum that should be erased from earth. They had no right to live on. Under Denethor's reign thieves had always been treated in that way, and there had been no complaints about it. The harsh reply by the king he served now injured Fáred's self-confidence and – more than that – his pride. He was looked upon as a wise and experienced captain, and Aragorn's disgracing words had lessened his status. However Fáred thought not only about his reputation, but about the meaning of Aragorn's demeanour. By all means, the king should not show pity in sight of an enemy! He should be forceful and determined, quick in his decisions and as hard as just in his actions. Fáred shook his head slightly. It might be that his own reputation had taken a scratch the night before, but the king's bearing might hurt his own position even more.

  Aragorn searched for the tracks of hoofs and men. Downhill they turned north-east, and on the plain stretching further to the eastern horizon which marked the border of Ithilien the grass had already set up again, and the tracks were lost. Aragorn halted his steed and dismounted, not willing to give up. He searched for another hint to the whereabouts of the remaining strangers. He knew that nothing left without a trace and that those of men or horses should be easily found. He strayed from the main route, his eyes fixed on the ground, taking his time, and finally came up with a small piece of silver, a chape lost from the scabbard. He held it in his open hand. Squinting he stood and let his gaze wander from north to south.

  “They rode hard, further to the east, trying to cover as much ground as possible.” He turned slowly and stood by his horse. “Halamin, did you hear about horse thieves lately?”

  “Nay, my lord. But if we ride south we could ask the villagers.”

  “We will.” Putting the chape into a pocket under his belt Aragorn mounted again. “But first let us see if it is true what the messengers told.” He spurred Brego into a gallop and led the small group further to the border. With the hours passing, the ground changed from soft green grass with trees and small creeks to dry turfs with low bushes to hillocks, which looked even rougher and were bare of any undergrowth. Huge stone formations forced them to slow down to ride around them and be more vigilant than before. The wind turned south and whirled up sand, but also brought with it an unpleasant smell that filled their lungs and made it hard to breathe. The gusts felt like smoke, biting their lungs, and dimming their view. In the moments the wind lessened in speed Aragorn could only make out rows of white and red tents of different shapes and sizes in the distance. They were hard to count, but there were no more than a hundred. Riding closer he saw in front of those tents some light brown animals with heavy fur, larger than calves, grazing on the dry soil. Herders were with them, keeping the cattle close together, but they were unaware of the Gondorian soldiers.

  Coughing, the king slid out of the saddle ordering the others to do the same. A look at the sky confirmed the weather change. The dark clouds that had not lost their loads over the White Mountains were drawing near. Already the smell of leaden wetness was in the air mingling with that of smoke arising over the Morannon and pouring down over the hillocks and plains.

  The king led his horse by the reins alongside the hillock to a group of large stones which stood out like watchmen frozen in their movement. From afar thunder rolled. Another gust blew sand over the hard ground, and squinting, he turned to his men.

  “We will get closer at night.”

  In that moment the rain started pouring down on them.

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