There it sat, keeping its secrets. As it had for many years.

The wizard had searched crumbling scrolls, reading the faded histories of Numenor, yet he had learned little that he did not already know. Each palantir could gaze over great distances, through mountain and forest, and it could peer into its sister stones. Contrived to bear tidings to the rulers of Numenor, it knew its rightful master, the king or his chosen deputy, and was so contrived that only they could turn it to their wills. Of men now living in Gondor, none save Denethor and his sons could use the seeing stones by right. Barring this right of use, one would have to posses a mind of great power. The wizard thought with unease of the lord of Barad Dur. The sister stones were lost, but the chronicles did not say destroyed. Could one have fallen into his withered hands? If Sauron espied him while he used the palantir, the outcome could be deadly. Yet against this risk, he must weigh the gain. To see distant tidings of war could shift the balance in his favor.

The gleaming curve of the palantir showed nothing except his distorted reflection. Dark eyes stared back at him from a face as pale as carven ivory. “Still you keep your secrets,” he whispered to the stone.

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

Their party had set out from Aldburg three days past. They had been few in number and lightly encumbered, for haste was needed on this journey. They had taken the road to the west, stopping only to rest when the moon had set, for they traveled even in the darkness, leading the horses at a walk. They were already weary, when a troop of Uruk-hai had surprised them on the road. Swiftly surrounded, the Riders had tried to fight their way out. Eomund and one other man, his cousin Wulfgar, had escaped, but the enemy had pursued them. They were puzzled by this determined chase, for these creatures were wont to raid swiftly then return to their mountain lairs. It was as if the orcs traveled west on some errand, and the riders had merely chanced to be in their path. After several leagues, the two men had left the highway, hoping to lose their pursuers by striking north across the plain. Later, they would have to turn west to rejoin the road near Isengard.

His kinsman’s horse had been wounded and the poor beast grew weaker until she could no longer bear him. They both knew that the remaining mount would make poor progress if she had to carry two riders, and his cousin’s arm had been mangled in the fight. The choice had been clear if not easy. They rode not only as messengers but also in search of wise counsel, for they carried tidings that boded destruction for the Riddermark. Yet still it was a hard deed, to leave his kinsman, unhorsed and wounded. "I will follow on foot and meet up with you later," Wulfgar had told him with a wry smile. "Here, take the rest of the oats. May you ride to good fortune." As Eomund trotted away, his kinsman had sat by the horse, stroking her mane with his uninjured arm. Eomund did not look back again until he had ridden some leagues.

When the mare stumbled again, he had no choice but to slide down from the saddle and lead her at a walk. He dared not let her rest for long, for though the enemy followed on foot, these creatures were tireless and in time they would close the distance between them.

“Leofa Heruwine,” he murmured. At the sound of his voice, she lifted her weary head. The breath rattled in her chest, and foam dripped from her mouth. Even if by some wonder they reached their destination, her lungs were ruined and she had not long to live.

He emptied the last of their water into the hollow of the shield and held it under her nose. She gulped the water but turned her face away from the bag of oats. Eomund walked beside her, talking quietly and stroking along the withers. When her breathing was somewhat easier, he swung into the saddle and urged her into an unsteady trot. "Be strong for the sake of your kindred," he told her. The mare answered with a low whicker, so he deemed she understood.

Six leagues of grassland lay between them and the foot of the mountains. He imagined he could see the tall fortress, a darker smudge that rose where the plain met the cliffs. Only a few more hours before they reached its shelter.

The mare struggled onward, as the wind hissed through the long grass, the unchanging sound lulling him to sleep. He was dozing in the saddle when she staggered to a sudden halt. Without thinking, he kicked free of the stirrups and rolled from her back as she fell to her knees. A gleeful shout was blown over the grass; the enemy had seen her go down. The heavy saddlebags could be left behind, though he shoved some dried meat and apples in a sack. Eomund deemed it unlikely he would have need of a bedroll this night, but he took the shield and also the spear. Well it will serve for a walking stick, he told himself.

The mare gazed ahead with unseeing eyes, but she whickered when he called her name. She was not the first friend he had had to abandon on this journey, but unlike the others, she at least could be saved from torment at the hands of the enemy. It took but a moment to cut her throat; then he slung the shield over his shoulder and hurried into the grass.

The wind rose, but still the storm held off, the dark clouds skirting the mountains. From the top of the last ridge, he had espied the white stones of the road. He hurried onward, stopping neither to eat nor rest, but when the wind shifted, he could hear the sound of pursuit, harsh cries of command and the clank of heavy armor. The dark band was less than a furlong behind him. They had captured two of the horses and laden them with weapons and other gear to hasten their march. Though he had almost reached the road and the ring of Isengard lay scarcely two leagues ahead, Eomund knew he could not outrun the enemy so he cast about him for means of defence. The grassland was unbroken by rocks or streams, but a short distance ahead, an oak tree crowned a high ridge. The endless winds had stunted its branches, and its trunk had been riven by lightening. There on the ridge he would make his stand, with the ancient tree to guard his back.

Eomund watched closely as the enemy drew near. One of the horses—by the blaze on her face, she was Aelfric’s little mare--shied and aimed a kick at her handler. As she turned, he realized what burden was slung across her saddle. A man lay facedown, his head dangling limply against the horse’s flank. They had pulled off his helm, and his fair hair fell almost to the horse’s knees. Alive, Eomund thought, and his heart froze within him. One of the orcs stayed behind with the horses, while the rest, twenty or more, clambered up the ridge. A few of the enemy were clad in mail, but most wore armor of leather. None carried bows or quivers, he saw with some relief. The fight would be short, but he hoped to make it bloody.

The slope below the tree was steep, and the dry dirt slid under the orcs’ heavy boots. Two of them reached the summit ahead of the others. He swung the spear shaft down on the first orc’s helm, stunning him so he rolled down the slope, then Eomund drove the iron point into the second enemy’s throat. Four others took their place. He threw the spear, skewering the closest orc, then the three who remained rushed forward. One was felled with a sword thrust under the ribs, but as Eomund raised his shield against an attack from the left, he felt the bite of iron in his right shoulder. Behind him on the ridge, he heard the rattle of stones underfoot. The enemy had circled around to reach him from both sides.

At a blur of movement to his right, he turned to meet the attack. With a flash of steel, a tall figure darted forward, bringing a sword down on the nearest orc and neatly severing his neck. Eomund nearly dropped his sword as the creature’s head went flying. The remaining orc gaped in surprise until the stranger beheaded him on the back stroke. 

“Stay here!” the man shouted in the Common Speech. A troop of soldiers, clad in black and heavily armored, had scaled the far side of the ridge and now they ran down the slope, driving the orcs before them. The tall soldier raised a great shout of “Gondor!” and the others took up the cry. Two Riders bearing green and white shields fought alongside them. The orcs were cut down as they turned and fled. The footing was too steep for horses so the men had attacked on foot, but even so the fight lasted but a few moments.

Eomund yanked a spear from an orc and, leaning on the shaft, he stumbled down the slope as fast as he could, looking for Aelfric’s mare. He feared she had taken flight, but she stood calmly grazing where he last had seen her. Wulfgar lay on the ground nearby. His eyes were closed, and his pale face was streaked with blood and dirt. A grey-haired man knelt beside him, prodding at the injured arm and searching for signs of other hurt. As he worked, he spoke rapidly in Sindarin to a tall officer who leaned down to listen. When the old healer saw Eomund, he said in the Common Speech, “There is no cause for worry. That arm will take some weeks to mend, but his other wounds are slight and he should awaken within the hour.”

The officer smiled grimly at Eomund. Though tall and broad-shouldered, he looked no more than twenty years of age. “You, my friend, are the second luckiest man in Rohan.” The old healer gave a short laugh.

Eomund placed a hand on his breast and bowed, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “I and my kinsman are in your debt. I am Eomund son of Eohric, and my kinsman is Wulfgar son of Wulfhere.”

The tall man bowed his dark head in return. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor. We journey to Isengard, and as chance would have it, we saw their attack from the road.” His grey eyes narrowed. “You are Eomund of Eastfold? First Marshal of Rohan?”

Eomund bowed again. “Theoden King has honored me with that office, my lord.”

“You are far from Aldburg and the eastern watches, Marshal. But I see you are weary and hurt. There will be time to speak later, after you and your kinsman have rested.”

“Nay, lord, we must not tarry here. Our errand to Isengard is most urgent.” Then he told Lord Boromir of the strange sickness that had first appeared in East Emnet and was swiftly spreading westward. The stricken horses would begin to cough, and then black ulcers appeared on their skin. The healers had tried sundry herbs and treatments but to no avail. The illness killed the weakest members of the herd, the foals and heavy mares. Many thought it was borne on the winds from the Dark Land, but Eomund did not know.

“When did this begin?” Lord Boromir asked. “I heard naught of a plague when I stopped at Edoras.”

“Two weeks ago, lord, though at first we did not realize that the deaths in the herds were from the same illness.” Eomund closed his eyes as he remembered seeing a mare nudge anxiously at her lifeless foal. “If we cannot find a cure, this will be the ruin of our people,” he said in a low voice.

“Have messengers been sent to the healers of Minas Tirith? Mayhap they have heard of this plague.”

“Riders set out from Aldburg on the day that we left. Though if this is the work of the Enemy, we will need the counsel of Saruman the Wise.”

“I will do all I can to speed you on your way. Our road lies together, for I journey to Isengard on behalf of the Steward. For it has been too many years since Gondor sent an envoy to these parts.” Lord Boromir tapped the hilt of his sword as he stared at the dead orcs. “Though indeed it is strange that these orcs pursued you for so great a distance. They followed you nigh to the outwalls of Isengard. Bold for their kind, for they risked discovery by a passing patrol.”

Lord Boromir questioned him at length about Isengard and its warden, though Eomund was from the east and knew little of these matters. Then the lord asked him to wait with his kinsman while the soldiers readied the horses.

“How does he fare?” Eomund asked the healer. Wulfgar lay wrapped in blankets, and the injured arm had been splinted and swathed in linen.

At the sound of his voice, the wounded man opened his eyes and squinted unsteadily. “Eomund?”

“Rest easy. We are safe among friends.”

“He needs to drink some water,” the healer said, handing Eomund a waterskin. “And then I will look at that cut on your shoulder.”

“Curse those wretched orcs, my head hurts.” Wulfgar put a hand to his brow as the healer helped him sit. “What happened? The last I knew, I was slung across the saddle like a sack of oats. Who are these folk?” He spoke in the language of the Mark.

“Boromir of Gondor and his escort,” Eomund told him. “He travels with a troop of horse and two Riders for guides. Needless to say, their victory was swift.” Eomund held up the waterskin. “Drink.”

“I am truly sorry to have missed the slaughter.” His kinsman spoke between gulps of water. “I had heard Lord Boromir was in Edoras, but why does he journey to this forsaken place?”

“The lord seems most eager to see the defenses of Isengard.”

“Perhaps he grows bored with feasting. They say he cares for naught but glory and feats of arms”

Eomund and Wulgar sat talking as they watched the men feeding and watering their steeds. Neither of them spoke of the Riders and horses who had been lost.

At the sight of the sacks of grain, the horses whickered and tossed their heads. A black-haired man in the garb of a Rider held the bridle of a restless grey, stroking the creature’s neck as he tried to quiet him.

“Who is the guide with the dark hair?” Wulfgar asked. “He has the look of a Dunlending.”

Eomund had heard of this man, Grima Galmodson. The black hair was not common among their people, and it was whispered that his father was a fur trader from Dunland. Eomund never allowed this talk to go unchallenged, for Grima had ever been loyal and had shown some bravery in skirmishes with the enemy.

Grima met his gaze then quickly looked down. No doubt the young Rider guessed that they spoke of him.

“No man should be blamed for the terms of his own begetting. His name is Grima son of Galmod. He rides with Elfhelm’s eored, and I have never heard aught but good of him. Though that orc might say otherwise.” Eomund nodded toward a corpse that had a spear shaft sticking from its back.

“Point well-taken,” his cousin replied. “I will count this Grima my life-long friend.”

The soldiers began to mount up, and a handsome bay gelding was brought for Eomund to ride. He was so weary that he feared he would doze and fall from the saddle. Unfit to ride, Wulfgar was handed up to one of the officers.

They set out with Eomund riding beside the lord Boromir, followed by the standard bearer and then the officers leading the rest of the troop. Night was falling when they reached the outwalls of Isengard. The garrison had seen them from afar, for torches were lit about the gate. The walls rose many feet above the plain, and behind them the ancient stonework of the tower gleamed blackly in the twilight. A guard of honor was drawn up beside the massive steel doors.

The horsemen from Gondor formed orderly ranks then waited for someone to greet them. Stars began to appear in the sky.

“This wizard lacks in courtesy, Marshal,” the lord said after a while.

“It is said their ways are not the ways of men, my lord,” Eomund replied, though in truth he agreed.

When the guard of honor still showed no sign of moving, Lord Boromir muttered under his breath in Sindarin then wheeled his horse about and snatched the banner from the standard bearer. Holding the banner aloft, he trotted toward the gate. None of his own men followed him, though perhaps they were wise for no doubt they could guess the mood of their lord. Eomund urged his horse forward. To his surprise, for he had given no order, Grima son of Galmod trotted swiftly behind him.

Just as Lord Boromir reached the place where the honor guard stood in rigid silence, the air was rent by a great screeching and grinding of metal as the high doors swung open. A brilliant light, brighter than any torchlight, streamed out of the opening. In a swirl of white robes, a tall figure stepped out of the glare.

“Greetings, Boromir, heir of Denethor, son of the House of Hurin.”