Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: The description of the Emyn Muil is taken from the “Thain’s Book” website, with the necessary alterations to fit the story.

Time: about four years before the Ring War

Beta read by Borys, thanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Fourteen – Return to Rohan

Two days later Elfhelm had taken his leave from his newly gained kinfolk and was ready to head for home. His horses and his weapons had been returned to him, and with Imogen and her household joining them, their travelling party had become a stately one.

For not only had Imogen taken her two bondservants, young Alajar and his sister Unga, with her, who appeared more than happy to leave Nimwarkinh behind and to live with their distant kin in the Mark. Einarr and Eiríkr had their bondservants, too, as it could be expected from the sons of a chieftain, even if they had been born out of wedlock, and since they would not be allowed to return, they had to take all their belongings, weapons, horses, furs and clothes and a modest chest of treasure each – even two women whose faces were hidden behind a grey veil in public, for they were obviously slaves and their beauty the sole property of their masters.

“I wonder what your father will say when the brothers of your bride arrive with slaves,” commented Aragorn, watching he banned warriors getting ready for the journey of no return.

Once again, he was wearing his rough woodman’s garb, like Elfhelm himself. They had agreed to travel across the Brown Lands together, for there was safety in numbers, as far as the Emyn Muil, at which point their way would past, with the Ranger turning to the North to hunt down the elusive creature he had been looking for at the time of their first encounter, while Elfhelm and his entourage would continue on across the East Wall of the Mark, heading home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ragnar Jarl did not come to see them off. He had officially taken his leave from the Emissary of the Mark in the Mead Hall the previous evening (and secretly from his beloved daughter, in the privacy of her chambers, where no-one could see his tears). He sent Ingolf in his stead, and the young lord did so in as courteous a manner as he could ever show. Which was not much, to tell the truth, but coming from him everyone was pleasantly surprised.

The other sons of Ragnar came, too – save for Sygtrygg and Thorolf who were on patrol and Óláfr who was lying in his chambers with a broken ankle – but mostly to wish Einarr and Eiríkr good luck among their new kinfolk-by-marriage. They brought parting gifts, too: furs and weapons and woven blankets and small trinkets and the likes to express their regret over the brothers’ departure.

The pointed looks they gave Ingolf in the process made it unmistakably clear that everyone knew why the two had to go into exile and that they were on their side. Ingolf endured the half-veiled hostility with tightly controlled rage.

The norna did not show up either, of course. For the sisterhood Imogen was dead, and she could not ask differently, regardless of her personal feelings. Her tirewoman, Sigga, came though, and hefted an iron-bound leather chest onto the wain with Imogen’s belongings.

“Books,” she whispered when no-one else could hear. “The Guardians copy the old tomes of lore from time to time. These are old copies but can still be read; they will last your lifetime, so that you may not forget where you have come from.”

Imogen thanked her. She nodded, and then she reached under her tunic and took out a small medallion made of solid, forged gold that she had been wearing on a leather cord around her neck. It had the image of a mountain ram on it – one of those with the long, curved, bow-like horns – standing on a mountain peak, surrounded by a circle of intertwined oak twigs and leaves.

“This is the ancient heirloom of your mother’s family that has been reached down from mother to daughter since the days when Rhovanion still had a King,” she said. “The lady Branwen entrusted it to me on her deathbed, as we all thought that you would never marry. Keep it safe; and should you ever have a daughter, give it her. For this is the symbol of the Kings of Rhovanion of old, brought here by Princess Freya herself a long time ago.”

“But I am not of Freya’s blood, am I?” asked Imogen in surprise.

The tirewoman shook her head. “Nay; for she had no children – how could she have? She was a shieldmaiden proper. But one of her kinswomen followed her into exile, and it is she of whose blood you are. This symbol was given to her by Freya as a token of their friendship and love and has been guarded by the women of your family ever since. Now that you would wield Freya’s own sword, ‘tis only proper that you take her coat-of-arms as well. May all our blessings go with you, daughter of the sword!”

“Have you looked into my future?” asked Imogen, for Sigga was known for her visions and her ability to read the portents.

But the older woman shook her head again decisively.

“Nay; I dared not to do so. Some portents are slippery like snakes; and some prophecies have the terrible tendency to come true, just because we believe in them. Do not build your new life on signs and portents, child. Build it on your own strength and on the goodwill of the man you chose to marry. He seems like a good sort to me, even without throwing the bones; he will keep his oath. See that you keep yours, and then you will have a good life, both of you.”

Imogen solemnly promised that she would do so, and with hat the tirewoman of the norna left. Now there were only the witan who wanted to take their leave. And while the head druid spoke a lengthy blessing over both bride and groom and gifted ancient charms upon them to ensure that they would have numerous and healthy children, Master Dallben talked to Einarr and Eiríkr in sorrow. For not only had he once been their tutor and their first weapons master; their late mother was also kin to him. They were his only family left and it understandably hit him hard to lose them, too.

“You should have held back with your bold tongue, the two of you,” he said to Einarr accusingly. “Then your father would not send you into exile.”

Einarr shrugged. “I would have left on my own, sooner or later. I would never have served Ingolf. ‘Tis better so; Eiríkr and I may make a new life for ourselves; and should father no longer need you, you will always be welcome to join us, you know that.”

Master Dallben raised a bushy eyebrow. I thank you, lad, but when will your father not need me? Save for Amanar, he is surrounded by hot-headed, bloodthirsty fools, his own sons included,” he added with a grin, loudly enough for Ybba to hear.

Ragnar’s eldest gave him a mock scowl. “Be careful what you are saying, old man!”

“Or what?” countered the old Northman, laughing. “You will glare me to death? I think I will take that risk without much fear for my hide.”

Thy all laughed and kept bantering for a while yet. Then Sigga came again with a drinking horn made of bronze and set with small gemstones. It was as long as her forearm and full of mead.

“’Tis an old custom of the Mark to offer those who are setting off for a long journey the stirrup-cup,” she said. “Nimwarkinh may not be the Mark, but my mistress wants to honour Lord Elfhelm according to the customs of his own people.”

She offered the horn to Elfhelm first.

“Fertu, Elfhelm, hál!” she said in the tongue of the Mark, to everyone’s surprise. “Drink deeply and be merry, for your way leads homeward from now on.”

Elfhelm accepted the horn, thanked her and drank. Then he passed it on to Imogen; as a shieldmaiden, even as a former one, she had the right to drink with the warriors. She, too, drank from it and passed on to Lord Aðalbrandr, who passed it on to Einarr and finally to Eiríkr, who grinned when emptying it.

“You Men of the Mark have good traditions,” he said to Elfhelm. “I am already feeling much better about being banned from here.”

The others laughed and now that everyone had spoken his or her farewells, the small caravan set off for its distant goal: the borders of the Mark.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Elfhelm found that travelling along the northern border of the Brown Lands was far less unpleasant when one had company. They set a good, steady pace and made frequent rests, for the terrain was hard on any traveller, but they were in a good mood and food and water were aplenty, so they made decent headway, following a more or less straight path towards the West.

The heavily loaded wains, pulled by the thick-legged, sturdy workhorses of Rhûn, slowed them down considerably, however, which made the Ranger increasingly impatient, for he was needed in other places and was anxious to get there as soon as possible.

“Listen to me, friend Strider,” said Elfhelm on the fourth day of their journey. “You need not to tread with us slowly ‘til the Emyn Muil. We are three armed warriors and a shieldmaiden here, and I already have ridden this path once. If you are in a hurry, we are only slowing you down. Leave us and go your way on your own speed. No-one will blame you for that.”

The Ranger hesitated, although it was clear that he wanted nought more than ride on with the best speed his horse was capable of.

“Go on,” encouraged him Imogen, too. “We are used to such evil paths, and Elfhelm knows the way. Between the four of us, we are more than capable of protecting our goods and our lives from any possible footpads.”

“And worry not,” added Einarr, grinning. “We shan’t murder the bridegroom of our sister as soon as you have turned your back.”

“In fact, we rather like him,” added Eiríkr with an identical grin. “Even if he is a bit too serious and stiff-necked at times.”

Elfhelm have him a sour look but in the end he, too, had to laugh. The brothers turned out more cheerful a company than one would have expected. If only they had not insisted on taking their slaves with them! That was a problem that needed to be addressed, eventually. Preferable before they would reach the borders of the Mark. But not now, not within the earshot of a stranger. Even if said stranger was a friend and an ally.

After a considerable amount of hesitation the Ranger decided to take on their offer and left them in the next morning. As much as Elfhelm regretted to lose such a skilled and experienced travelling companion, he was glad for the chance to be alone with his newly acquired kinfolk.

“There is something we need to discuss ere we would continue our journey,” he said to Einarr who, as the older of the two, usually spoke for them both. “It concerns the slave women whom you have brought with you.”

The brothers exchanged amused looks as if they had expected this question to come up sooner rather than later.

“What about them?” asked Einarr.

“Slavery is not allowed in the Mark,” Elfhelm told him. “You shan’t be able to force them to remain in your service if they want to leave.”

“’Tis a good thing, then, that we do not want to leave,” said the cheerful voice of a woman, and one of the slaves jumped off Einarr’s wain. She did not wear her veil anymore; her bright red hair glittered in the morning light like fire.

Elfhelm recognised her at once. It was Birgid, one of Ingolf’s women; the one Ingolf had taken from Einarr by force.

“I see,” he said. “You have turned your father’s ban into your advantage and used it to get back the woman you desired from your brother.”

“So it is,” replied Einarr coldly. “Do you have any objections?”

Elfhelm shook his head. “Nay; as long as she has followed you by her own choice ‘tis no concern of mine. Besides, Ingolf deserved it. What about the other woman, though?”

“I assure you, Lord Elfhelm, that I am here by my own choice, too,” another voice said, and the gold-tressed Hemma, another one of Ingolf’s women, leapt from Eiríkr’s wain – right into Eiríkr’s arms.

“She was brought to Ingolf’s bedchamber the same way I was,” explainer Birgid. “As long as we lived in Nimwarkinh, we could not do a thing about it. But when Ragnar Jarl told Einarr and Eiríkr that they have to leave their home for good, we used to chance to flee with them.”

“I certainly cannot blame you for taking your fate into your own hands,” said Imogen, admiring the courage of these women who had been held as little more than beast of burden in her brother’s chambers. “I fear, though, that you leaving without his knowledge and consent will undermine Ingolf’s position even more. The jarls would hardly accept a chieftain who could not even keep his own women in line.”

“And why should that be my concern?” asked Birgid with a cold glint in her hazel eyes. “No-one did as much as raise their vices when his men came and dragged me away from Einarr’s chambers to make me one of his playthings. I owe him nothing; and neither does Hemma.”

“I never said that you do,” replied Imogen. “But Nimwarkinh needs a strong chieftain, and none of my other brothers have enough support. If the lesser jarls reject Ingolf, my father’s realm could fall apart after his death.”

“Again, why should that be my concern?” returned Birgid coldly. “I am not his daughter; nor that of any man of importance. Why should I sacrifice myself for his rule like you did? Or why should Hemma? This was our only chance to make ourselves a life worth living, and we are not letting it slip through our fingers.”

The gold-tressed Hemma nodded in agreement, and Birgid turned to Elfhelm.

“If you believe that our coming with you may endanger the newly forged peace between Nimwarkinh and the Mark, then say so, lord, and we shall go on beyond your land into the West where we may find a place to live,” she said. “Somewhere where no-one asks who we are and why we have come to live among them. But we are not going back.”

“Far be it from me to force you to turn back or to live somewhere in the wilderness,” answered Elfhelm. “We do not turn anyone away who seeks refuge among us. Not Clan Éowain and the people of the Eastfold in any case. But you are right in one thing: Ingolf might oppose the peace between us when he learns where you have gone.”

“He does not need to learn it,” said Eiríkr with a shrug. “He might suspect that they have come with us, but we can always deny, and how is he to know?”

“Nay,” said Elfhelm. “There is something you must understand if you wish to live among us. The Men of the Mark do not lie, and we expect the strangers living within our borders to do the same. Those few who do lie would soon find themselves cast our; even exiled if needs must be. We have little in the way of written contracts – mostly landbooks and royal gifts and records of marriage – everything else is agreed on by spoken oaths. The word of a Man of the Mark is sacrosanct. Breaking it would mean to cast himself out of family, Clan and the whole people. We take such things very seriously. Therefore I would rather risk a fall-out with Nimwarkinh than lie to your brother, should his messengers come and ask me if I know of the whereabouts of his women.”

“But you will not send us back, will you?” asked Hemma quietly, her blue eyes full of tears.

Elfhelm shook his head. “You will be free to do as you please, like everyone in the Mark, as long as you respect our laws. Even if I wanted, I would not have the right to send you back. We value our freedom as much as we value courage, honesty and truthfulness, and would never deny such freedom to others.”

He paused for a moment and grinned faintly.

“Of course, it would help things considerably if you would be properly wedded,” he then added. “In that case the cynn-frith would protect you from all outside attacks.”

The two blond sons of Ragnar the Smith exchanged meaningful looks with each other and with their women – and then grinned wickedly.

“That,” said Einarr, “can be arranged.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And so they continued their journey along the upper borders of the Brown Lands without the Ranger, and the way was still every bit as tristless as Elfhelm remembered: a desolate wilderness between the southern eaves of Mirkwood and the hills of Emyn Muil. Nothing had grown there since the Last Alliance, when Sauron had sent fire and poisonous smoke out of Barad-dûr to deny forage to the advancing armies of Elves and Men. ‘Twas hard to imagine that here once had been homes and orchards and fertile gardens… or so the ancient tales told.

Still, the knowledge that every new league would bring them closer to the end of their journey gave them the strength to struggle on, ‘til they finally spotted from afar the knotted range of hills spreading out from both shores of Nan Hithoel, a long, oval lake formed by the Great River. Not that it would have been a comforting sight in itself, as the landscape was bleak and the terrain difficult and treacherous, but at lest they knew that they had not gone awry in the Brown Lands.

On the west side of Anduin the rugged hills formed two long ridges that ran North to South. The western sides of those ridges were steep, while the eastern sides sloped more gently but were intercut with ravines and gullies. There was a deep, winding vale between the two ridges with a stream running through it. The ridge nearest the Great River was the taller of the two. The other one descended about twenty fathoms to a wide shelf which ended in a sheer cliff that was the western edge of the Emyn Muil.

“Behold the East Wall of the Mark,” said Elfhelm proudly.

Even the Rhunim, used to the impressive Mountains of Nimwarkinh, looked at the sheer rock formation with respect.

“Is it Man-made or the work of Dwarves?” asked Eiríkr. Elfhelm shook his head.

“Nay; unless the Powers themselves were at work when this part of Middle-earth was shaped. ‘Tis called so for it is the eastern border of the Mark, is all.”

“Still, it must be an excellent line of defence for your warriors,” said Einarr.

“Not good enough in these last years, I fear,” Elfhelm sighed. “Orc raiding parties have descended from the Emyn Muil time and again, to steal horses for their Dark Lord. Why, it has been little more than a decade that Lord Éomund of the Eastfold, then Chief Marshal of the Mark and guardian of the eastern marches, was slain by one of such group of raiders when he pursued them into the Emyn Muil and was ambushed.”

“Not the safest of paths leading to your home, then,” commented Imogen.

“There are no safe paths in these dark times, my lady,” he replied. “We shall not go into the Dreary Hills, though; on the east side of the Great River may fall away ‘til they become flat and featureless, but they are like a labyrinth of twisted rock through which no straight passage leads. Even the lower northern end of the south-eastern face of the Emyn Muil is about eighteen fathoms high. We shall go around them in the North, for further south the lands slope down into the swamps of the Wetwang and the Dead Marshes, and that is not a place any of us would wish to visit.”

The others shuddered involuntarily. The Wetwang – or Nindalf as the Men of Gondor called it – was another treacherous terrain that had swallowed many a Khimmer raiding party, either on their way to plunder or returning from a raid. And no-one in their right minds would go even close to the Dead Marshes. Not only could the faces of long-dead warriors still be seen in the wide pools in the middle of the marshes; 'twas also said that the houseless spirits of dead Elves were still haunting in the mists around the Mere of Dead Faces in the form of cold, flickering lights, looking for a body they could take over.

“Let us find a safe place to ford the river and get as far from that cursed place as possible,” said Einarr, speaking for them all.

“Fording the river should not be the problem,” replied Elfhelm. “The Anduin may be flowing swiftly past the Golden Wood, but after that it enters a region of low flatland. The Wold of the Mark, which we are trying to reach, is on the western side. At this point there are two great bends in the river, which we call the North Undeep and the South Undeep. There age many shallows and wide shoals in this region, and the river can be crossed easily.”

“What is the problem, then, if not finding a suitable ford?” asked Einarr.

“Getting there in the first place,” answered Elfhelm grimly. “With those heave wains and pack horses of yours we shall have to make a wider berth around the Dreary Hills than I did no my way to Rhûn; and that will take us closer to the southern eaves of Mirkwood than I fin it comfortable. That is a very evil place and foul creatures tend to wander off from the forest; Wargs being the least of all evils.”

The Rhunim gave him disbelieving looks. They all had their experiences with the large, bloodthirsty beasts possessing a malevolent intelligence, and were hard-pressed to imagine something – anything – that would be even worse.

“What could be worse than Wargs?” asked young Alajar quietly, and his sister Unga scooted closer to him as if seeking his protection. Both their parents had been attacked and killed by Wargs many years in the past, leaving him, still but a child himself, in the charge of his even younger sister.

“Spiders,” Elfhelm told him before one of the Khimmers could have punished him for speaking without being asked. “Black, man-eating spiders of the size of ponies that hunt in packs. Or so a group of travelling Dwarves told my father when they rested in our hall on their way to the autumn fair of Halabor in Gondor, some ten or more years ago. Ere that town would have been destroyed by Orcs.”

“Are you sure those Dwarves were not just spinning a tale?” asked Eiríkr, ignoring the remark about the Gondorian town having been destroyed by Orcs.

Unfortunately, such things happened – and more and more often in recent times.

“Dwarves do like to tell a good tale,” allowed Elfhelm. “But they would never lie about the true dangers that may await one on the Road. The Wanderers among them, those who travel with their wagons from fair to fair all year, even less so than the rest of them. If you live on the Road, knowing it for true is important. I have no doubt that they told the truth about those spiders, which is why I loath getting so close to Southern Mirkwood. Alas that it is the only way we can choose.”

“How long, do you think, shall we need to reach the point where the river can be forded?” asked Imogen.

Elfhelm counted in his head for a moment.

“I needed almost three days on my way here, and I was but lightly burdened and with much better horses,” he finally said. “With yours and the wains, it will take us as long as four, at the very least. Perhaps even longer.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“I see now that you have not exaggerated,” Einarr groaned, wiping his sweaty brow. “This is an evil path if I have ever seen one; and I have sauntered into the dark valleys of the Ash Mountains for a few times, hunting down Orc packs that had attacked our people.”

“Be grateful that we are not forced to cross the Brown Lands,” replied Elfhelm dryly. “My mother’s clan tried to fly from the South of Rhûn that way and they very nearly died to the last man, woman and child on that desperate journey. Less than a hundred of them survived. Even they were at death’s door when my father’s éored found them.”

“What was your father doing in such an evil place?” asked Eiríkr with interest.

“Hunting for wild kine,” explained Elfhelm. “Back then, there used to be huge herds of white kine wandering along the eastern banks of the Great River, between the Emyn Muil and Mirkwood, and our people liked the challenge. To kill a kine bull with only a hunting spear is the greatest trophy any hunter can hope for, and my father and his brothers were passionate hunters in their youth. A shame that the Orc bands have decimated the herds so much that nowadays we must protect them instead of hunting for them.”

“Finding a dying band of fugitive slaves must have been a slightly lesser trophy, I deem,” said Eiríkr smugly.

Elfhelm raised an eyebrow. “You think so? Well, my father thought differently. Even if my mother’s people would have been slaves, he would think saving their lives infinitely more satisfying than any hunt. But they were not slaves. They were one of the last few free clans that kept wandering from the eastern outcrops of the Ash Mountains westward for more than a century. My father was most impressed with that journey; he took them home with him, where they got fattened up a bit and then offered work to feed their families. The clan leader, who happened to be my uncle, he took into his own house as an honoured guest.”

“And married his sister, apparently,” commented Einarr with a grin.

Elfhelm shook his head. “Nay, that happened a year or so later. Of course, the Clan Elders were more than a little shocked – apparently, it was the greatest outcry in the history of Clan Éowain, ever. But every man and woman of the Mark has the right to follow their hearts by choosing their spouses. And by giving Father nine sons and two daughters, Mother certainly proved herself to be a true jewel of a wife. Even though she did lose the first two babes, for she was still too weak to carry them to term.”

“I cannot promise to do the same for you,” said Imogen quietly. “All my life I took a secret brew, prepared by Tanfana’s handmaidens, to prevent conception. I know not how long it will take to flush all of it from my body – and even after that, ‘tis not certain that I shall ever be able to bear children.”

“At least you will be seen as more acceptable in the eyes of the Elders, as the daughter of the chief warlord of Rhûn,” replied Elfhelm with a shrug. “And even if we shall never have children, which is by no means certain, my brothers and sister have already given the Clan enough children and will keep doing so in the future. My father ordered me to be wedded and bedded by Harvest tide – whom I wed is my choice by right, and no-one is entitled to say aught about it. You need not to worry. The Clan Elders may be mildly shocked by my choice, but they will accept you and respect you, both for your heritage and your prowess as a shieldmaiden. Give them time.”

“Will she be dwelling with you at the court or will she have to remain with the rest of the Clan in Stowburg?” asked Birgid. “And where are we supposed to stay?”

“’Tis your choice and yours alone,” Elfhelm glanced at Imogen. “I live with the troops in the barracks in Edoras, but if you choose to come with me, you can use the townhouse of the family as your own. Sooner or later, you will have to be presented in the Golden Hall in any case; you are entitled to a place at Théoden-king’s court. But if you prefer a quiet life in the Eastfold, that is fine with me, too.”

Imogen nodded her understanding but gave no definite answer just yet, which was understandable. She had to see both places first, ere she would be able to choose.

“As for you,” Elfhelm turned back to Birgid, “I shall ask you – all of you – that wherever my lady stays, you stay with her. You are her people; and you are her family, her support in a land not her own. She will need you, and you will need her. For only as her cynn will you be accepted in the Mark,” he added, with a warning look in the brothers’ direction.

Einarr and Eiríkr nodded grimly. They knew that – unlike Imogen – they had been sent into exile as a punishment for opposing Ingolf, and they could call themselves fortunate that they had merely been sent away. The best they could hope for was to be tolerated by the Men of the Mark… until they had proved their value in the eyes of Imogen’s new kinfolk.

“Well,” said Elfhelm after a lengthy pause, “that is something to discuss in more detail when we reach home. Until then we still have many leagues to go, though. So when the horses have rested, we better continue our journey.”

The others agreed with that, and so they went on, for many more leagues and many more days, around the Emyn Muir and across the Great River at the South Undeep, south from the vast grasslands of the Wold, stretched between the Undeeps and the Fangorn Forest. It was a windy upland region, sparsely populated by a few hardy folk, so that they did not meet a soul in all that time. Only from afar could they sometimes catch a glimpse of a regular patrol or of a horse-herd, migrating leisurely from one grazing place to another.

Thus they travelled along the valley that lay between the Wold and the in-facing escarpment of the South Downs, ‘til they reached the Entwash, which the Men of Gondor knew as the River Onodló and which was the western border of the East-Emnet. There they turned South and followed the river again. It was the longer of the two possible roads to follow – the other one would have been right along the East Wall of Rohan – but the one easier on the heavy wains and the pack horses and safer for the travellers themselves.

Besides, Elfhelm saw no particular reason to hurry. The longer way would lead them directly to Stowburg, too, and despite his confident words he preferred to face his father later rather than sooner.

~TBC~