“These are glad tidings! Long will our people sing of Boromir of Gondor and Saruman the Wise.”

“For as long as the mearas roam the Riddermark. But now you must eat of this venison stew. The meat will give you strength.”

“How long have I lain ill?”

“Ten days, my lord.”

“Then we must away at once. I fear the herds will be lost ere we return to the Eastfold.” Flinging aside the coverlets, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet. The floor swayed, and black spots floated before his eyes. He quickly sat down and bowed his head to his knees.

“Gently, my lord. You are but newly risen from the bed of fever.” Grima filled a cup from the jug on the table and offered it to the marshal. He must have sensed Eomund’s lingering hesitation, for he added, “You were troubled long by dark dreams and it may be some time before they are wholly dispelled, yet you need have no fear—this is naught but clean water drawn from the well. Here, I will even taste it for you. Would I do that if there were poison?” After taking a long draft, Grima held out the cup again.

Ashamed that he had repaid Grima’s kindness with mistrust, Eomund took the cup in unsteady hands and drank, and the indeed he tasted naught but the unmatched sweetness of fresh water on parched lips. When the light-headedness had passed, Grima brought hot water so he could wash away the stink of fever. The dark-haired rider served as an esquire, for Eomund’s hands shook when he tried to unfasten his tunic and he could not pull off his boots unaided. Eyes courteously downcast, Grima helped him bathe and dress in clean garments. Then leaning heavily on the other man’s arm, Eomund went to see how his cousin fared. He had wished to speak to Lord Saruman at once, but Grima had told him that the wizard was still closeted in a high chamber, working without rest to compound the healing powder. Great store would be needed to save the herds from the plague.

Wulfgar looked up with a smile as they entered the chamber. “Eomund! I feared I would not see you again!” He sat in a high-backed chair, with bolsters and velvet coverlets tucked about him, his feet resting on a low footstool. A sling of white linen held his wounded arm. A faint tang of vinegar hung in the air, mingled with the reek of healing herbs.

“Nor I you,” Eomund replied, as he leaned down to embrace his cousin. He almost overbalanced and had to grab the chair back to keep from falling.

“My lord, you should sit,” Grima said with a frown. “Here, take this seat.” Once Eomund was settled among the bolsters, Grima left to fetch him some ale, for this drink was well-known to strengthen sick or wounded men.

Wulfgar grinned. “I feel as if I were home in Aldburg, being nagged and cosseted by my mother. But do not think me ungrateful. If not for his care and the wisdom of Lord Saruman, no doubt we both would have perished.”

“Indeed, we are in Grima’s debt,” Eomund replied. “I will see that Theoden King hears of his good service.” The young rider had risked his own life to tend them during the strange fever, and their lord could not fail to reward such devotion. Perhaps a place would be found for him in the king’s household at Edoras.

Wulfgar had little news to tell. Like Eomund, he had been kept closely confined and had not seen Lord Boromir or his men. He dimly remembered Grima tending him during his illness, and afterwards, the dark-haired rider had kept him company as he slowly recovered. “We play chess when Grima’s duties allow,” he said with a gesture toward a small table. It was cluttered with a chessboard, two tankards of ale, and a half-eaten apple pie. Like many Riders, Wulfgar had carried a small chess set in his saddlebags, but it had been lost with his other belongings when the orcs had taken him captive. Grima must have begged the loan of a board from their host. The battlefield was marked in squares of obsidian and ivory, and the castles rose in pointed spires, in tiny likeness of Orthanc.

Eomund took one of the obsidian pawns and turned it over in his hand. Its leering face reminded him of an orc.

“The next move is Grima’s, though I fear my defeat will be swift,” his cousin told him with a laugh and a shrug. “He will soon destroy my housecarls, leaving my king unprotected. He plays with great cunning.” On the chessboard, the ivory king stood alone, his few remaining retainers scattered across the board.

Eomund carefully set the black pawn back in its appointed square. Why did he feel such unease? The sunlit chamber, the velvet pillows, the bitter smell of herbs, all seemed somehow treacherous, and he wished to find the stables and be swiftly gone from this place, taking his kinsman with him. Yet there was no sign of danger. Your wits are still clouded by fever, he told himself.

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

With great regret, Grima told Boromir that his audience must wait until the morrow, for the wizard was compounding the rarest minerals and herbs and could not be disturbed in this work. Boromir was less than pleased by these tidings, for any delay meant further harm to Rohan and also he longed to depart from Isengard. He disliked the need for secrecy in the matter of the palantir, and though Saruman was an old and trusted ally, the thought of his mind laid bare to another filled him with unease.

Instead of taking counsel with the wizard, he went to see how Eomund and his cousin fared, for Grima had told him that the danger of contagion was past. Linhir insisted on going along, and Boromir did not object for he had long since learned the folly of arguing with the old healer.

The marshal sat by the open window, frowning in thought as he stared at the chessboard before him. A great bed, carved from dark wood and draped with somber weavings, stood in the corner. A bare foot hung over the side, and Wulfgar’s fair hair poked out from under a heap of duvets.

As they entered the chamber, Eomund rose to his feet to greet them. In the corner, the bed clothes began to stir.

“I was glad to hear of your swift recovery,” Boromir said to the marshal. “No doubt--”

“You treated them with delunelle?” The old healer glanced at Grima, eyebrows raised. “I can smell the scent of its leaves.”

Grima shook his head. “I know not the learned names for the herbs, master.”

“The plant is named hennebelle in the language of the Mark, hen’s bane in the Common Speech. Is that what you gave them?”

Stuttering slightly, the young Rider replied, “So the Lord Saruman ordered, and the dose was very small.”

“What is this plant?” Boromir asked sharply in Sindarin.

“I doubt that was wise or needful,” the healer said to Grima. “The smallest amount can be deadly if your charge is already weakened. A sick or wounded man may never awake from such a heavy sleep. There are other, less dangerous drafts that bring rest. Try mint or valerian or even a dose of tincture of poppies.”

Flushing darkly, Grima bowed. “I will remember, master. Their wounds still pained them so they could not rest. I meant no harm.”

“Indeed that is plain to see. You are young and still learning the art, though I deem that Lord Saruman might have taken more care to guide you.”

“And no doubt you will tell him so!” Boromir said with a grin. 

Linhir poked and peered at the two Riders and questioned them at great length. Then he asked Grima about his cure for the fever, for he said that much could be learned from the healers of other lands. What herbs did he use? What was their effect? The young rider seemed flustered by this unwonted notice.

When the old healer at last was content, Grima sent for their supper. They dragged the chairs and table to the bedside so Wulfgar need not bestir himself. There they held a merry feast, drinking ale and telling tales until long after midnight. At last, Linhir ordered a halt, for Eomund and his kinsman were still weak from their illness and needed to sleep.

Later, Boromir would look back on this night and curse himself for a fool. Hundreds of miles from Minas Tirith and surrounded by strangers, he should never have dropped his guard, should never have let a friend from his sight. He had just lain down to rest when a servant pounded on the door to his chamber. Hurry, lord! There has been a dreadful mischance. The old healer had lost his footing on the stairs and had fallen twenty feet onto stone.

“There is no help for it,” Linhir whispered to him, but it did not need a healer to see his broken neck and know there was no cure for such hurt. The man’s breathing soon grew labored, yet they dared not move him. “No fever,” Linhir choked out between breaths, and Boromir deemed that the blow to his head had confused him. He was dead by the time that Lord Saruman arrived.

“How did this come to pass? Did he say aught before he died?” the wizard asked gravely.

“No words I understood,” Boromir replied. Struck by grief, he could not bear to say more.

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

“That was ill-done to kill the healer. Now Boromir is wary, and you must be doubly careful.”

“He asked too many questions! What was I to do?”

“Fool! I could have allayed his concerns without the use of force. But no matter now. You must see that no harm befalls the marshal’s kinsman, at least until you reach Edoras. I can ill-afford to have another death laid at my door.”

“What of Eomund? Now he knows of the palantir.”

“Wait a few months, then arrange it. Like many of your people, he is reckless and eager for fame. Perhaps the bold marshal will ride too far in pursuit of an enemy and find an ambush in the Emyn Muil?”

“Hah! As good as done, my lord. And Boromir of Gondor?”

“That fruit is too high on the tree. Let it drop of its own accord when ready. I forsee that his pride will pull him down in ruin. For that, my hand is not needed. Here, make yourself useful. The cure must be measured into those bags.”

“What is it, lord?”

“Umbar yellow. A powder without taste or scent, it is a poison of slow effect, used to treat marsh fever and the Haradric pox. Several weak doses will restore the herds to health. Already I have sent word to the orc troops in the east. The raids will soon stop, and the sickness will spread no farther.”

“But the grasslands are now infested, lord. Will not the horses fall ill again?”

“This sickness flourishes in the burning lands of Harad, so the winter cold will scour the plains clean. The herds will be spared, and Rohan saved for a time.

“You will earn great praise from this venture, Grima. Do not fail me!”

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

“Is not Theoden still King in the Golden Hall? He has ever been a faithful friend to my people.”

“I cannot say what welcome you will find, my lord. Much has changed since last you rode to Edoras. He is king but only in name. For even as one plague was cured, another pestilence was loosed upon the Mark.” Eomer threw an armful of branches on the fire, then stood back as sparks shot into the darkness. “Soon after your party returned, my father and Wulfgar were slain. Their patrol was waylaid in the eastern hills. All well-tried men, yet they rode unheeding into a trap.”

“Treachery?”

The young marshal nodded his head. “Grima Galmodson led the survivors to safety then brought the tidings to Edoras. They say that he wept as he told our lord.” He spat into the fire. “And that was but the beginning of our ruin. Now Theoden King has lost his wits and is led like a child by Grima.”

“There have been strange tidings of late from the Mark, but this…” Boromir scowled and tapped the hilt of his sword. “You are not without friends, son of Eomund. When I return from my errand to the north, let us draw swords together and rid the Golden Hall of this vermin. Your people will swiftly rally to our banner.”

In the morning, he took leave of Eomer and set out on the Great West Road. The empty miles passed quickly for he traveled alone and lightly encumbered. The thatched roofs of Meduseld gleamed in the evening light, but heeding the marshal’s warning, he did not stop in Edoras. His thoughts grew to fill the silence, and as he crossed the grassy plains, a shadow of unease fell across his mind. Linhir’s death had always seemed a strange mischance, for despite his gray hair, the healer had been both strong and sure-footed. During the journey to Rohan, he had ridden apace with soldiers half his age. Then, scarcely two months after his unlikely death, Eomund and his kinsman had been ambushed in the wild. Fate had betrayed them, or so it had seemed. Yet now Boromir pondered how, of all his companions in Isengard, only he and Grima survived.

When the rockwall of Isengard rose above the plain, Boromir kept his horse turned to the west, skirting well to the south of the stronghold. He faced an uncertain road, for he knew not the path to Imladris, yet he would not seek the counsel of Saruman. Better to find his own way than to trust in the meddling of wizards.

The End