A/N: Well, against my better judgment I've joined National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) which will effectively bleed all spare time away during the month of November. Hopefully I'll be able to crank out another chapter before then ... but don't get your hopes up! Don't let them down too hard either; I will finish this story, darn it!

At last Legolas managed to convince his grieving folk he had truly returned to them – “I was not really dead you know,” he repeated over and over; “do not blame Brytta for his misinformation for he could not have known – O do stop weeping Himbaláth; I promise I am going nowhere!” – and when Gimli had assisted him upon the great black destrier he dusted himself off, ran long fingers through his gold flossy hair, flashed an impudent grin at Éomer and said: “Well! Now what?”

“Now,” said Éomer, smiling at the Elf who sat in a milling crowd of excited subjects, “we take care this quandary once and for all, so we may go back to my Hall to properly celebrate your return from the dead.”

“Good!” said Legolas with satisfaction. “Being dead is so tedious. And besides which I have acquired a horrible yearning for roast lamb and red wine.”

“And mushrooms,” said Bandobras from the back of the little pony Tyarmayél had brought him. He bore the standard of Dol Galenehtar – “I packed it, just in case, you know,” he’d said proudly when Éomer raised his eyebrows at it – “Can’t be lamb without mushrooms nohow, you know, Master.”

Gimli muttered something under his breath then, and Bandobras asked sharply, “What was that now?” “Nothing, nothing,” grumbled the Dwarf, and taking Legolas’ hand scrambled up onto the destrier’s back.

“Beyond lamb and mushrooms however,” said Legolas to Éomer as they came together to lead the van, “I also have a taste for revenge – not a lot of revenge, but just a little bit of it – a dram, the merest soupçon. You may if you like visit vengeance upon Bréawine, for he has done you great harm; but I ask a boon of you my friend that you let me at least speak to Théalof ere you remove his head from his shoulders.”

“Revenge seems strange coming from you my friend,” said Cirien in surprise; his young esquire Tarondor was helping the aged knight upon his horse, eager as had been his father to be nearest the friends of the Green Knight. “You are ever gentle and forbearing and I thought not vengeful violence had its place in you.”

“Not vengeance in violence,” said Legolas, injured. “Vengeance with words. He did not slay me but wound me; so I shall wound him a little but with my tongue and not a weapon. Though I want my sword back,” he added looking sadly down at his hip, where lay the broad short sword of Rohan. “My Lord Father will never forgive me if I say unto him I lost his sire’s sword.”

“Ah! And that brings back to my mind a scheme I had devised when meeting with Errakh-Hem upon the Onodló,” said Cirien, clapping his hands. “Tarondor! Do you please go unto Malbeth of Celos and tell him that the Yellow Knight requires of him those artifacts which he did request two nights ago.”

“Yes, my lord!” said Tarondor and ran off through the line of knights arrayed behind them. Cirien said to Legolas:

“O my friend I know that you are the Green Knight; I know that not long ago you did require your subjects to remember you are the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and ride beneath a banner of green; does not your own name give unto us the essence of leaves and grass and other living things? But remember you well Bréawine is a credulous man and much given to the apprehension of the uncanny and mystic; also in his estimation you are a being dead and disposed of and therefore of no further concern to him.”

Legolas turned and watched Tarondor run panting up to them; in his arms was a great swath of black fabric worked over with silver designs. He smiled. “And do you propose to array me as a wraith O my dear friend Cirien?” he asked.

“Well you are of the Dwimmerlaik,” said Éothain. “ ‘Twould be simple to convince one so chary of the mystical that you have returned from the dead, and black robes should buttress that delusion.”

“Very well!” said Legolas taking the clothes. He shrugged into the black surcoat, and affixed the black cloak beneath his chin. Gimli fussed about with the hood of the cloak, which hung in his face. “This is quite inconvenient,” grumbled Gimli pushing it aside; “when you ride it shall be all round my nose and mouth!”

Legolas turned round and smiled sweetly at him. “Perchance you should rather ride with Bandobras then?” he asked. Gimli scowled.

“Perchance you’d rather – “ he began hotly, but Bandobras cleared his throat with a loud, “Hem, hem!” and glaring at Gimli said: “Manners, Lord of Aglarond!” So Gimli fell silent, though he shot Cirien a reproachful look.

They arrayed their troops in three divisions. Behind Éomer and Legolas rode the Men of the Mark and the forty Elves out of Edoras, still beaming happily and chattering amongst themselves; to their right skirting the low downs rode Galás and Rúmil with the Elves of Dol Galenehtar and of Lothlórien (“We will teach them a little Westron as we go,” Galás had winked ere they departed); to their left hidden in the cleft of the land went Faramir and Errakh-Hem with the Knights of Gondor and the Dunlendings. The way was rocky there so the horses could not go so fast, allowing the Wildmen to keep pace; also did Errakh-Hem’s men know well the lie of the land and were able to keep their knightly neighbors from going astray. “Better also it is for Errakh-Hem and Aldamir to fight side-by-side,” said Legolas practically; “’tis not time molds friendship but congress in adversity.” Behind the Men of the Mark were Tyarmayél, Andunië, and the war-dogs. Andunië had expressed herself delighted – or as pleased as she would let herself convey – that Tyarmayél had seen fit to bring the beasts. The bull terriers walked with their handlers straining against the strong leather straps that held them, wearing studded leather jerkins across their broad chests, snuffling and making anxious noises in the backs of their throats. To Éomer’s surprise Brytta walked with Andunië. The displaced knight had brought Taruku back to Meivel, growling an apology; Meivel however had regarded the man with a scowl and muttered: “Keep him. He likes you better,” and stalked off. So Brytta walked with Taruku trailing his heels, the dogs clustered about his knees; he looked betimes at Andunië and Tyarmayél walking comfortably together speaking of falcons and ricks and hay and kennels; he often smiled, but spoke not. But looming in Éomer’s mind was the tableau he had observed when the troops first split: Himbaláth had approached Andunië, his eyes sunken and burning, face both expectant and anxious; she had fixed him with cool and disinterested gaze and turned wordlessly from him though to join Tyarmayél. Himbaláth had reached a supplicating hand to her retreating back, though he let it drop when he saw her proud and merciless carriage, and the lieutenant had walked away, golden head sunk between his shoulders. Éomer also saw Legolas watching this mummer’s play; the Green Knight had narrowed his eyes then, and set his jaw; Éomer suddenly felt sorrier for Andunië than Himbaláth, for it seemed apparent the maiden’s lord had other things in mind for his lieutenant than this cold rejection, and the King of the Riddermark knew full well that once the Green Knight put his foot down, something got unequivocally squashed.

Fastred and Tamin rode with Fastred’s Lord Father. The Heir of Meduseld had been much harrowed up in mind concerning this; he wanted very much to ride with his uncle and Legolas, but Tamin had been consigned to ride with his own father and Galás; at last filial affection outweighed other desires – Rúmil’s concession his son could ride with the “other boys” helped in this – and so Fastred, Tamin, Halgond and Baldor rode together, Tamin upon a lively bay mare that seemed pleased to forego bit and bridle and bear such a delightful burden, Fastred upon his piebald Karakse, Halgond on Speckle and his brother Baldor upon his new destrier Javelin, and the younger boys in Errakh-Hem’s rag-tag army walked beside them. Halgond betimes gazed with envy upon his senior, clad in their father’s old tourney armor and sitting proudly upon the thick-limbed stallion; he was anxious to achieve high station though he was but the cadet of a minor house. “I wish I had armor too,” Fastred overheard him mutter; Fastred wished as well for armor but for a differing reason – they rode into full battle, and all he had to protect him was an escutcheon borrowed off Romastáldë, and one of his Lord Father’s old leather jerkins. “I have never felt so unprepared,” he confided to his father, fingering the jerkin. “Though I have fought twice in naught but my old tunic, to ride full-tilt into battle against Bréawine in but leather seems so imprudent.”

“We might not see direct battle,” Lord Faramir said to them as they set out. “Bréawine will surely engage the center line, for he will keep to high ground and not come down this ravine; we are only here to mop up stragglers. And anyway the standard of Rohan is the one for which the traitor has greatest ire – Éomer your royal uncle stands in his way of lordship and he would remove him if he could.”

The three companies proceeded that morn north-west, for the scouts had reported a great army amassed upon the high plateau before them. There was no hope of coming in stealth for the carrion-fowl circled high overhead, eager to dine; betimes Tyarmayél and Andunië looked up at them disapprovingly. Legolas rode upon his great black horse beside Éomer; he had begged a mail shirt off Araval’s esquire and an iron cap from Éothain and looked rather bedraggled with his rag-bound legs sticking out stiffly from the horse’s great girth; however he sat up proudly, eyes flashing with pleasure and eagerness, now and again lifting his face to sample the wind. The black surcoat and cloak served to leech the color from his pale skin and hair, and he looked very eerie. His steed paced Éomer’s own destrier though it was two hands the higher, and the great black head tossed as the huge feathered hooves scraped the earth. Éomer said: “That is a bigger beast than Piukka Legolas, and I perceive he is fiercer beside. What shall you name him?”

“Well Tyarmayél has been calling him Morier, Dark One,” said Legolas patting the horse’s thick glossy neck. “But he reminds me so of my first tourney destrier Hatchet that I think he needs a fiercer name.”

“Hammer,” said Gimli from where he sat clinging to his friend’s waist, and brushing the black cloth from his face impatiently. “Hear how his hooves beat at the ground! He is like a blacksmith hammering at steel.”

Legolas laughed. “Hammer, then!” he said, and the horse’s ears twitched to hear him. “And Aldamir’s people shall be glad, for they may yet sing to me their lays of The Green Knight upon his Midnight Destrier. I had visions of riding into Amon Din upon a dun steed; whatever should the minstrels have done then!”

They lost the morning sun as they descended into a shallow valley, and when the van began to ascend the steep slope Éomer halted and sent out Romastáldë and Belegtilion to determine where Bréawine was, for he did not want to engage his enemy uphill. Soon those two good scouts came rushing down the rise, eyes bright and swords drawn.

“We are near upon them!” they said. “Bréawine’s army is spread over the plain before us, and his standard sits upon a low tor in the middle. We can see him and his guard about him there, and beside him sits that snake Théalof!”

“Two for one!” laughed Legolas clapping his hands. “O they shall rue the day they mocked me in irons. Beware Théalof for now I know where you are!”

“How are they arranged?” asked Meivel from where he rode with Himbaláth, still sunk in gloom.

“Archers out front, the poor devils,” grinned Belegtilion. “I suppose they are none too sanguine about shooting over their companions’ heads; or rather their companions might not be, and no blame to them. Shall we pick them off for you, O King of the Mark? For most of the Riders are armed with but crossbows, and our range is greater, as is our aim.”

“Nay!” said Legolas, glancing at Himbaláth. “I would not waste good archers in that fashion – mine, not his, I mean; a loosed bolt from a crossbow is still a dangerous thing.” He looked thoughtfully at Meivel, his eye lingering on the bruise Hirilcúllas had given him; Meivel shot a look at that woman and his cheeks went pink. Then the Green Knight turned his eye upon his lieutenant, pale and downhearted, and he said briskly: “Himbaláth! Take you the standard from Bandobras, for he and Gimli shall stay with the footmen when we charge. And you are like enough unto poor Lirlindil to fool Bréawine’s men, and look pretty ghastly beside.” Gimli opened his mouth to speak, then seeing the steel in his friend’s eye tipped Bandobras a wink, and slid off Hammer’s back. Bandobras gave the standard to Himbaláth, who with a rather hangdog look at his lord took it, though he did not seem very pleased to so do. Legolas turned to Éomer with a smile that looked more mischievous than kind and said, “O Éomer, I think it is time to see if bull terriers are as good war-dogs as mastiffs! Let us instead bring forward Andunië and Tyarmayél and properly determine what their good beasts can do.”

“As you wish, my friend,” said Éomer in surprise, wondering what Legolas was up to, and reflecting Elves were no less puzzling with their lord than without. “Fenwine! Do you go to the back of the file and fetch forward the war-dogs and their mistresses.”

Soon the two women came forward with their terriers. There were twenty-five dogs in all, bandy-legged, stump-tailed and slavering, snuffling at the wind and whining anxiously. A sharp word though from Andunië silenced them, and the two women presented themselves before their lord and the King of Rohan. Standing off to the side was Brytta, holding Taruku. Legolas looked at him and cried with indignation:

“Brytta! What is this? Why skulk you at the rear of the file and ride not with me into battle? Do you not wish to show Bréawine that you are a Man of the Mark and not to be trifled with?”

Brytta looked at Andunië then; he coughed. “Well my friend,” he stammered, “I – I bethought me the ladies might have need of escort.”

Legolas looked from Brytta to Andunië, affecting puzzlement, then his brow cleared and he laughed. “O that!” he said waving his hand. “I had forgotten O Brytta; you have a tendresse for my huntsmistress.” Éomer saw Himbaláth start at that, and stare down with horror at Brytta, who blushed. Legolas continued airily, “Well I cannot see it for myself; but then I have known Andunië since birth and my estimation of her but a daughter; perchance that obscures whatever charms she might possess. I wish you well of it, and to be sure you shall find no rivalry in me; I have not the lover’s disposition, nor do I desire such an inconvenience.” And addressing the women he said dismissively: “Release the dogs at your whim, O handmaidens of Dol Galenehtar.” Then he turned away and began chatting with Éothain as though nothing had happened.

Éomer did not feel it was his business to watch the immolation of a maiden's heart but he could not tear his eyes away. Meivel sat still as stone, his mouth working with silent fury; Hirilcúllas turned to Himbaláth as though to speak but thought better of it, then looked triumphantly at Meivel; Himbaláth’s gaze darted from his lord to his beloved, torn between indignation and hope; and Andunië went very still and white, her stricken eyes fixed upon her lord’s dispassionate back. Then the cold indifferent mask fell over her; she set her jaw, straightened her shoulders, and spinning abruptly round she with Tyarmayél crawled up to the lip of the hill.

There was an awkward silence then; Éomer could see Gimli and Bandobras watching carefully from atop their pony, and none of the Elves were speaking save Legolas, who pretended unconcern yet shot a shrewd glance over at his huntsmistress as she ascended to the upper plain. Then Meivel turned to Himbaláth and said something Éomer did not understand for he spoke in Elvish; from the tone it sounded as though he said I told you so. Himbaláth still looked from Legolas to Andunië and back again, his gray eyes bewildered and a little angry; gripping the standard so hard his knuckles went white he urged Utuë over to where his lord stood. He did not speak, but Éomer noted with satisfaction he lifted his chin and straightened his back, and held the banner proudly.

The huntsmistress and stablemistress reached the top of the hill; their heads were dark against the morning sky; their shining hair lay across their shoulders, and the terriers waited at their heels. They conferred in an undertone; Andunië’s face was impassive as always but there was a fierce light in her green eyes; Tyarmayél looked sad though, and scratched at a nearby terrier’s head. Then they gestured to their dogs, who leapt to their feet, pointed ears aloft and tongues hanging out. Andunië said, “Ela sen!” and Tyarmayél cried, “ Kela, ndenginata!” And like a brindled wave the dogs rushed past their mistresses over the top of the hill onto the plain, silent save for the sound of their feet crushing the grass, or the occasional eager whimper.

They waited for signs the dogs had engaged the archers; the beasts had a half mile to run and they knew it would take some time. So for a few moments all they could hear was the wind sighing through the tall grasses, or the cawing of the crows overhead. Andunië and Tyarmayél came back down the slope; Tyarmayél looked resigned, but stamped upon Andunië’s pale face was a look of deepest dismay. She turned her face away from her lord and his lieutenant and stalked past to the back of the file, her coppery hair fanning out behind her. Legolas made pretend he did not even mark her, and Himbaláth himself did not dare look at her as she passed. Brytta glanced once at the two golden-haired Elves, and with a wry twist of his lips mounted Taruku and stood with the other men awaiting the charge. In the silence Legolas turned to Himbaláth and said in a voice that brooked no opposition:

“Try not to die Himbaláth; that would upset my plans somewhat; and besides I am quite fond of you. Anyway should aught happen to you Meivel will lose both lieutenant and brother.”

Himbaláth stared hard at his lord, his breath catching in his throat; when he spoke his voice was thready and thin. “And why, my lord, should I die not when I have no hope?”

“Who told you that there was no hope?” asked Legolas gently. “My dear Little One, there is always hope; we are not like our poor mortal friends here who have but three score and ten years with which to find joy. If there is one thing I have learned from mine own disastrous affair it is that falling in love is fleeting, but loving someone – friend, brother, heart’s desire – takes more practice than feeling.” Himbaláth spoke not but looked thoughtful, and then Legolas said meditatively: “She is very stupid about such things; it is so like her to try to hit a moving mark five hundred yards away, when before her is a target simply begging to be pierced.” Himbaláth turned burning eyes upon his lord biting his lip, and Legolas took him firmly by the arm. “Patience, Little One,” he said kindly. Then there was from over the lip of the rise the sound of many horses frightened, and dogs barking and snarling, and men shouting and screaming; Éomer and Legolas nodded then, and Éomer turned to his men and to the Elves round him.

“Men of the Riddermark, Elves of Dol Galenehtar!” he shouted. “Today you go forth against mine own people, men who have sworn loyalty to me yet betrayed me for another. I beg of you to fight and fight well but with mercy commingled with strength; O Men of the Mark, should any brother of yours beg clemency you shall give it him, and consign him horseless and weaponless to our Elvish friends. But for those snakes Bréawine and Théalof I reserve their necks for myself and for my dear friend the Green Knight, for it is against your sovereign they have revolted and against him they have inflicted such slur and abuse. Ride now, ride for death and ruin, for glory and honor! Forth the Dwimmerlaik of Ithilien! Forth Eorlingas!”

“For the king and his heir!” laughed Legolas drawing his sword, and with noisy tumult they charged up over the lip of the hill.

Laid out upon the plain before them they beheld Bréawine’s army. The front line was in disarray; the terriers had hurried through the grass and taken the archers unaware, wreaking havoc upon them; the horses reared and threw their riders, and many rushed about panicking, trampling the fallen men. Dogs had fallen too; some limped about stuck with arrows and howling in pain, or lay lifeless upon the crushed and trodden grass, but many were still at work, pulling men from their steeds’ backs with their great jaws, and tearing at their hands and throats, snarling and slavering and foaming.

Behind the archers came the first wave of the assault upon them, bristling with lances and shining spears; behind them Éomer and Legolas could descry Bréawine upon a gray horse beneath his standard, and beside him Théalof; Legolas could even perceive the glint of the gold torc from there. “Certes I shall present that trinket unto Errakh-Hem ere night falls!” he thought grimly, and calling to Himbaláth and Meivel he and Éomer and Éothain broke through the faltering line of archers and engaged the horsemen.

Bréawine and Théalof stood upon the low tor with their marshals and reserves, watching the green standard of the Kings of the Mark press forward. “They are fewer than we!” scoffed Théalof gesturing to Éomer’s army. “Look! They are but two thousands; we shall have them by evening.”

“They have destroyed mine archers!” fumed Bréawine through gritted teeth. “Dogs! Where did Éomer get dogs? I have heard naught of his raising and training war-dogs! Where did they come from?”

“O no doubt the back stables,” said Théalof dismissively. “A foreign fad perchance.”

“But an effective one,” said Bréawine. “Look what disarray they have caused! The crossbows were supposed to break their line, and now it is our line that is breached!”

“Patience, O my friend!” said Théalof soothingly. “ ‘Tis of little import; Éomer cannot but fail for he is outnumbered, and we are firmly entrenched uphill.” Bréawine did not reply, but stared into the mêlée.

There was great tumult below which sounded far-off to them, safe upon their hill; but even so they could not miss the screams and cries of dismay when the right flank of Éomer’s army erupted in a stream of arrows, beneath which Bréawine’s men melted as ice in the sun. “Longbows!” exclaimed Bréawine in dismay. “Where did – “

Then did Éomer and the van pierce the front line, cleaving it in two like a knife through fat; over the noise of the fray Bréawine and Théalof could hear the terrified cries of their men. Looking closer Bréawine saw two green standards not one; and beside the king there appeared to be a man in flowing black. “Hámaf!” he said to his runner. “Go you to the back of the line and discern for me the cause of this alarm; who is the man in the black cloak?” And the runner went down the hill.

However Bréawine’s news did not come back as he had anticipated, for within moments the disarray at the lines had escalated, and his men were fleeing to the east away from the field and the lowlands, hoping to escape into the rumpled folds of hills; Bréawine shouted to his captain to pursue and bring back the cowards. But then a man covered in blood came panting up the hill; his face was pale as death and his eyes wide with terror. “Bréawine, Bréawine!” he groaned, his hand pressed to his side whence seeped his blood. “It is he – it is the Green Knight – he is the Lord of the Dead now – and the dead and the Dwimmerlaik ride with him!”

Bréawine went white. “What!” he exclaimed and his hands began to tremble. “What mean you? What is this nonsense you are spewing? Surely you are corrupted by pain – “

“Nay, O Bréawine!” said the man. “I saw him myself – the dead knight upon a black horse, all in black like a terrible wraith, and the blood of my brothers bright upon his sword. And King Éomer beside him, laughing and singing! Save us, O Bréawine! The Dead are upon us!”

The men round Bréawine and Théalof erupted then in panicked speech, crying aloud in dismay, and some went to horse and rode off without bidding their erstwhile lord farewell. Théalof cursed them, but Bréawine stood quivering with fear, his face bled of color, staring down into the battle whence he saw the Lord of the Dead wreaking havoc upon his men, who screamed and fled in terror. And he saw Éomer too by the dead knight’s side, turning from the men surrounding him to look up at his enemy upon the hill; and the King of the Mark shook his sword at the traitor.

Terrified Bréawine looked round him, at his men running hither and yon, and the bulk of his army fleeing to the east. “Théalof!” he cried. “We must retreat – we must go to the east as well and salvage what we may! For we cannot fight the dead!”

“Very well!” said Théalof grimly. “Well we have lost most our escort I fear save these good men beside us, but we might find us a few stout captains who are not so chary of ghosts to press eastward; we might gain the fords then and hold them against Éomer and this ostensible Lord of the Dead.”

But then there was a great shout, and the sound of a clear brassy trumpet; and to their dismay they saw pouring down the eastern hillocks many men on dark horses, shooting as they rode and trampling down the fleeing men. Their helms flashed and their swords gleamed, and on the wind they caught the sound of a voice crying:

“Dol Galenehtar! Lothlórien! The Dwimmerlaik for Éomer!”

“Elves, curse them!” cried Théalof shaking his fist. “The Elves of Dol Galenehtar! And Galás the Fool leading them!”

“Not so fool he then!” said Bréawine, staring east desperately. The Elves crushed underfoot those closest to the eastern hills, and drove back the remainder into the thick of the fray, where Éomer’s men and the terrible black-clad man awaited them. There they fell upon their swords, or threw themselves at Éomer’s feet begging mercy; for in their minds it were better to fall to a friend of the Dead than beneath the horrible hooves of the Elven destriers. Bréawine and Théalof watched in dismay their army coming to pieces around them, and then to their alarm saw approaching their hill not Éomer, but the dark knight upon the black horse; they could see the destrier’s eyes gleaming red and hear its awful hoofbeats, and upon its bare back rode the man in the black cloak, his face shadowed but pale and easily discerned; the eyes glittered, and the mouth was set in a firm line, and clutched in the thin white hands was a bloody sword. Beside him rode a terrible standard-bearer, gaunt and pale with eyes that burned like flame.

“Legolas!” hissed Théalof, and Bréawine gave a strangled whimper, and clutching Théalof’s arm said:

“O what shall we do! O what shall we do! Advise me O my friend for I am confounded! He is come from the dead and shall take us with him to writhe in eternal torments! Théalof – “

“Quiet, fool!” thundered Théalof, and turned to his men who stood trembling round him. “Round up as many men as you can; we will head north – “

“But Théalof!” cried Bréawine in a panic. “It is the Lord of the Dead – the dead are upon us – “

“Enough!” said Théalof, and drawing the sword at his hip he ran his friend through saying: “I have no more need of you; you shall do naught but impair me now!” Bréawine gurgled and clutched at him, and then slumped over. The men still standing round him exclaimed at this but Théalof said: “Let there be no more such puling fellows by me! A man so quick to fear the dead is no fit man to rule northern Rohan.”

“What shall we do then, Lord Théalof?” asked his marshal, looking fearfully down at the Elf-lord and his standard bearer who swift approached.

“We head north,” said Théalof. “Keep them off my back! Have you no darts? Shoot them, shoot them! Even if they are dead those horses are real enough.”

At this several men drew their bows and fired at Legolas and Himbaláth. An arrow glanced off Legolas’ tunic, beneath which was the chain mail; however one dart pierced Utuë’s chest, and he fell with a squeal, thrashing in the dust. Himbaláth rolled as he fell still holding tight to the standard, and when he gained his feet he raised it and cried in a terrible voice: “A thousand curses upon you, Men of the Mark! You have slain one of your own! Traitors thrice-known!” And Legolas upon his huge destrier bore down upon them with a shout; the great black horse bellowed, its enormous hooves thundering and scattering stones as he crashed up the hill, and Legolas brandishing his sword gave a great shout.

“Théalof!” he roared; “you black-hearted traitor; arrogant dandy; craven and skulking dog! Now you shall pay for your insolence and venality! Your head is mine!”

Théalof went deadly pale, and turning his steed he slapped its rump with the flat of his sword. “To me!” he cried to his men, and he and his company thundered down the west side of the hill.

The horses of the Riddermark were swifter than the steed of Dale, and when Legolas gained the crest of the tor he was too late to arrest them, and had little chance to catch them up. Himbaláth ran up then, holding a bloody dart in his hand, looking furious; together lieutenant and lord watched the small company vanish into the rocky earth to the west, kicking up a cloud of dust. Himbaláth let out his breath in a low hiss.

“Two horses shot out from under me!” he said in disgust, dashing the dart to the ground. “At this rate Tyarmayél will ban me from the stables.”

Legolas looked down at his lieutenant and smiled slightly; he was pleased to note the color had returned to Himbaláth’s face, and the fire to his voice. “Well, at least there are plenty extras to choose from,” he said soothingly; “the dogs dragged the archers off their mounts and left the horses to wander – you might pick one you find likely, and join me in the chase.”

“It will be too late by then,” Himbaláth protested; “they have got away – the villain got away, curse him!” He folded his arms across his chest and scowled at the retreating dust cloud. Legolas laughed.

“That is somewhat more like you!” he said, smiling at Himbaláth’s flushed cheeks; “at least it was poor Utuë and not my dear lieutenant who was slain – I should have been so angry with Théalof that I might have run this black destrier to death too.” He twisted upon Hammer’s back, looking down at the body by Himbaláth’s feet. “Ah! So there is the spurious lord of northern Rohan; no honor betwixt him and one he called ‘friend.’ I cannot say I am surprised.”

Himbaláth nudged Bréawine’s dead body with his toe. “Well we have one at least,” he said grimly. His lord laughed and cast back his hood; his hair shone like molten gold in the sunlight and his eyes sparkled.

“We shall soon have two,” he promised his lieutenant, ruffling Himbaláth’s fair mane. “Wait and see what Faramir and Errakh-Hem make of him. Now get you up behind me and we shall see about finding you another mount, and learn what passed after we had our mad charge up this hill. Fear not that Théalof will escape, for he runs into the Heir’s arms. I will have that damned torc off him yet!” So Himbaláth scrambled up behind his lord, and together they descended the hill, leaving Bréawine alone in the dust.