Ch. 35 - Action Begun

“Sir!” The hissed voice caught his attention; the soldier pulled next to Durahil’s horse and pointed. “Up there, sir.” The last rays of the sun silhouetted three figures moving across the foothills.

Listöwel moved forward. Though she kept her voice low, Durahil could hear the excitement in her voice. “Mayhap it is Indis, Éomund and Théodred. But where could Gorlim be?”

“I think not. They crouch. One, maybe two, carry heavy burdens.” Durahil motioned to his men to dismount. “Take the horses, my Lady, and stay here.” He dismounted himself and led the quarter-company up towards their quarry.

Listöwel made as if to protest, then, decided better. She nodded, took the reins and stood by the side of the road.

Slowly, swords drawn, hunched over and silent as could be, the little band moved forward. Thankfully, their target still had not noticed them. “I believe it is Orcs,” Durahil whispered, loud enough that the seventeen men with him could hear. “We will split up. You,” and he pointed to his second, Dervorin, “Take the northern ridge. There – do you see it?” When the warrior nodded and moved away, Durahil motioned and eight men broke away and followed . He grunted. ‘Well-trained men. And Dervorin, though from the Vale, has already proved himself well.’

They hugged the ground as much as possible. Durahil kept an eye on Dervorin but knew the men were well-led. He would have to speak to…. He pushed the thought away. It mattered not who led Gondor as long as it was someone with enough military experience to keep the land from the Enemy. He saw the lead man of their prey turn and look back. His men immediately stilled their forward progress. They waited. He swore silently. The target began moving faster and Durahil realized they had been seen. He started forward with a loud yell, hoping that Dervorin’s men had not been spotted.

They were close now, as their quarry were slower. At last, Durahil could see that two had bodies slung over their shoulders. He screamed even louder and exhorted his men to speed. At that very moment, Dervorin’s men surprised the Orcs, for Durahil was finally able to see that it was indeed Orcs they chased. The one unburdened turned viciously towards Dervorin and slashed out, missing badly. The beast fell from the force of his miss. Dervorin’s sword quickly cleaved the head from the body.

By this time, Durahil and his own men were upon the beasts. They had dropped their burdens a moment before and turned towards the hills. They were quickly hewn down. Durahil stepped back and took a deep breath. He sent scouts ahead looking north and west, making sure their were no other of the foul creatures present. “My Lord!” The shout pulled him from his thoughts. Dervorin motioned and Durahil made for his second.

He found the man kneeling over one of the bundles that had been tossed so lightly aside. “It is a boy, my Lord.” A sharp hiss. “I believe it is the prince of Rohan!”

Durahil bent down, looked at the white face before him, and cried aloud. “Dead! To be used for food for their journey.”

~*~

“Do you smell that?” Aragorn asked and then, looking upon Elladan, knew the Elf had smelt the same thing. He put his arm on his brother’s, then pulled back as the Elf lunged forward.

“There is a cave,” the Elf hissed. “I will enter first.”

Aragorn shook his head. He had seen, too many times, this look upon his brothers’ faces as they hunted Orcs. He knew better than to question or even to respond. He would not be heard. His only recourse was to obey. He drew his own sword and moved forward, silently following Elladan. It took them less than a quarter hour to reach the cave.

Its mouth stretched open before them. Aragorn cursed. It was only big enough for one to enter at a time. Perfect for a quick slaughter of both of them. He grit his teeth as Elladan entered. He bent his head and entered behind. The entranceway was longer than he had imagined; a dead Orc lay in the way. Elladan easily shoved it aside. ‘Well,’ Aragorn thought, ‘We are still both alive and that is something.’ He continued to follow down the long corridor. Elladan easily outstripped him, running forward with no thought of danger, only anger and hatred roiling through him. Aragorn heard a shout and ran forward, as best he could, crouched over as he was.

As he entered the main cavern, he stopped in alarm. Elladan’s sword was raised in fury, his mind clouded by blood lust. A man lay below it, huddled over a boy. Aragorn screamed, “Elladan! Stop!” But too late; the blade swung down. Aragorn tried to fling himself forward, to put himself between the blade and the man, but he was not fast enough. The blade fell.

Aragorn pulled up short. The blade had missed. Purposefully. His brother’s mind had cleared at the last moment and he had pulled the blade to the left as it fell, cleanly missing the huddled man. Aragorn stepped forward and held his brother in his arms, feeling the spent warrior sway slightly. “It is well. They are safe,” he whispered.

He let go and turned to the huddled figures on the floor. There was no movement. He sighed bitterly. It would have made no difference, he thought sadly, if the blade had connected. Both were dead.

~*~

Ragnhild watched as the stranger picked Targon up and walked towards the inn. “Take him to my room, please,” she said and led the way. The crowd parted, their surliness washed away by the horror of the injury to the lad. One of them opened the inn door. She stepped inside. The innkeeper’s wife stepped forward. A cry of distress, then she took the man’s arm and said, “Come. This is a better room. More light. Bring him in here,” and led the way into a large room off the main parlour. The man followed, then lay the boy on the bed. Ragnhild quickly moved next to the unconscious boy. The woman brought a wet cloth and handed it to her. Ragnhild looked up in gratitude. She laid the cloth over the boy’s forehead, then checked his eyes again.

“My Lady?” the boy whispered, his hand instinctively reaching for his head.

“Sh, Targon. You had a little meeting with a horse and the horse still lives.”

The boy smiled. “I am glad. I wasn’t watching.”

“I noticed. Here, take a sip of this.” Her gratitude to the innkeeper’s wife was now reaching epic proportions as the woman handed her a hot cup of tea. She smelled the willow bark and smiled. “Exactly what I would have used,” she said quietly as she took the tea and pressed the cup to Targon’s lips. “Drink. It will help the pain.”

The boy took a small sip and grimaced. “Tastes terrible.”

Ragnhild laughed. “Have you never had willow bark tea before?”

“Nay. In the kitchens, pain usually comes from burns or cuts. We just slather on some aloe. No time for pain.” He winced as he tried to move.

She held him down. “Rest for a few more moments. The lady of the house has been gracious. I think she will allow you a little time to recover.” She heard the innkeeper’s wife harrumph. ‘I really must learn her name.’

“So you’re a healer?”

“I am, good woman. My name is Ragnhild, though I am sure your husband has told you that. Might I learn your name so that I may thank you properly?”

“Erendis,” the woman said, a hint of challenge in her voice.

“I am most grateful, Erendis, for your kindness.” She turned to Targon. “Can you walk, lad? Would you like to come back to our room?”

The lad slid off the bed and wobbled a little as he stood. “I am ready for a nap, if that is all right.”

“I am sorry. You cannot sleep for at least another few hours. Due to the injury, it would be best if you stayed awake.”

The boy nodded, then held his hand to his head, a soft moan escaping his lips.

“You better take him to your room, quick,” Erendis said. “Else he’ll fall. But I think he’ll be all right now. His colour returns.”

Ragnhild agreed, thanked the woman again, and took Targon’s arm. As they walked out the door, she asked Erendis, “Would you please give this man, I’m sorry, sir,” she turned to the stranger who had helped her and asked him to stay in the common room; that she would return shortly. “I need to thank you properly.”