To the King

Chapter Fifteen

New Beginnings

“Rick Blaine: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Casablanca

Hálith took his time walking to the magnificent stables of Edoras, for Anor was kissing the earth with a breath of warmth unusual for the late autumn, and it was as though all the people of Edoras had ventured outside to enjoy its last embrace before the chill winds once more asserted themselves. Excitement showed in his eyes, belying his easy gait, for today he would begin working and training with Hammok the new farrier.

Had this been Gondor, Hálith would never have been able to learn this trade, for the trade guilds of Minis Tirith required money to buy one’s way into the coveted unions, and therefore the skill positions went to the sons of those who could afford to grease a few palms. In a land that lived and died by their horses, the skill was learned by many, though few ever would acquire the honor of working in the king’s own stables, and that is what had Hálith so excited.

His goal, of course, was to ride in an éored, perhaps rising one day to serve in the king’s guard, as his father had. Hálith’s face clouded as he thought of Háma. He had died honorably, protecting the king and the people fleeing to Helm’s Deep, and Hálith missed him terribly…missed the quiet evenings in their little house when Háma would tell him stories as they sat before the fire.

The boy had not been unhappy in the months that he served as a wain driver and lived in the barracks, but he had been lonely. Once Gondor called for aid and the éoreds had mustered, the defense of the city had fallen on the few men and boys who remained in the city…the wain drivers, the farriers, the old, the young. The great gates to the city had been barred, and Hálith took his turn spending long hours on watch duty, wondering how they would ever defend the city should the enemy turn his sights against them. He would return to the barracks at night, exhausted and ready for sleep.

The one saving grace of those days had been Hildegard and coming back to the barracks to enjoy the hot meals she had provided for the defenders. Like a supreme commander, she had marshaled the women who normally served in the Meduseld, the ones whose fathers, husbands, and brothers now rode to war, and she kept them busy. They cooked for the barracks and for those in the city who could not care for themselves. They scoured the Meduseld from top to bottom, and generally did any and every job Hildegard could think of to keep their thoughts from the stark reality that most of the men would not be coming back.

Hammok walked to the door of the stables to empty a bucket of water into the gutter and spied the slender built boy walking down the hill towards him. Éomer King had approached him about taking the boy under his wing to teach him the fine art of the horse shoe, and it was something Hammok was glad to do. After all, Bergfinn had done the same for him, and those days in the cozy smithy down the hill had been some of the happiest of his life.

Shorter in stature than was usual for the Horse Lords, Hammok more than made up for it in strength and musculature. He had massive arms and shoulders from wielding hammers and working the forge, and his legs, build like tree trunks, seemed determined to keep pace. If not for his trim waist, he might have been considered boxlike in build. By far his most striking feature, however, was his white gold hair, which he wore close cropped, unlike what was normal for the Rohirrim, for he tired of fighting the sparks which flew with regularity as he worked. Framed as they were by the short hair, his cobalt hued eyes were penetrating.

Hammok emptied the bucket and sat it down. “Welcome Hálith. Are you ready to begin your training?”

“Yes, my lord,” smiled Hálith.

“We’ll have none of that,” admonished Hammok gently. “No man is lord of a Rohirrim but our Marshals and our King, and even they earn the right. It is our way, lad. Call me Hammok. Before we’ve finished your training you may call me by a lot of other names as well,” he finished with a chuckle.

O-o-O-o-O

Given its name, one might have thought the Snowbourne fortress of Marshal Garoth would have been located on one of the broad plains bordering the Snowbourne River, or perhaps in the wooded land into which it ran before meeting and joining with the Entwash, but it did not. The original fortress had been built in the foothills of the White Mountains…built with a commanding view of the valley below, for Snowbourne, as it had come to be known, was built to be a northern line of defense for Aldburg in the days before the capitol city had been moved to Edoras. It was not as great in height as Dunharrow, nor so steep, yet still its narrow access could be defended against vast odds.

When still part of Gondor, this area had been the site of several ore mines, but being as the Horse Lords did not mine, they had fallen into disuse. The men of Rohan had seen the defensive value of Snowbourne as its strength and established a Marshal and éored there during the reign of Eorl. It had been considered a first line of defense ever since.

Erkenbrand gauged the ascending path with a practiced eye. As an experienced Marshal, he first noticed that there was no early sentry placed. He held up his hand to halt the small company.

Gamling, who had been daydreaming in his saddle, immediately roused himself. “What is it? Why have we stopped?

“Something is not right.”

Immediately the six members of the accompanying éored took up positions around their Marshal and the Chief of Knights.

Gamling scanned the hills, still somewhat confused. “I don’t see anything.”

Erkenbrand nodded slightly as he too scanned the hills. “That is the point. No Marshal would allow access to his fold without a challenge, even in time of peace.”

“But we bear the standard of the Royal House! Surely we would not be challenged?”

Erkenbrand fixed his former lieutenant with a fierce but fond look. “You have been too long in Edoras, my friend. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

Gamling opened his mouth to defend himself and then closed it quickly. He had been in Edoras for many years. Perhaps he had allowed his instincts to become dulled by the less rigorous service in the capitol city. He forced himself to think as he had been taught when riding the West Mark in Erkenbrand’s éored. “We bear the King’s standard…which is all the more reason that we should be greeted, if not challenged by an early warning sentinel.”

“Exactly,” concurred Erkenbrand. “We shall proceed with caution.”

Erkenbrand turned to his most experienced rider. “Dageth, scout ahead…and use extreme caution. We will not be far behind should you need our aid.”

Dageth nodded, “Yes, my lord.” He spurred his horse and shot ahead of the group.

Erkenbrand’s sorrel danced in anticipation. She was a war horse born and bred, and she could feel the tension within the group. A shiver of eagerness ran down her flanks as she set herself for battle.

The Marshal felt his mare’s excitement and soothed her with a touch of his hand. “Easy, Lancer, not yet,” he crooned.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer, dressed in his regular riding leathers, walked to the stables with quiet purpose. He had met with Marshal Ceorl again before offering his farewell to the man and his éored as they provided escort and protection on the way home to those who had journeyed to Edoras for the funeral and festivities. It made Edoras look almost empty after the crowds of the previous days.

As he entered the stable he noticed Hammok and Hálith working with one of the horses. One of the stable hands approached the King.

“Would you like your tack, sire?”

Deep in thought, Éomer just shook his head at the man and continued to Firefoot’s stall.

Dismissed, the man turned to resume his duties.

Realizing his rudeness, Éomer stopped to look back at the stable hand. The man was already out the door, so the king sighed and walked down the center aisle towards Firefoot. He opened the door and stepped into the stall to his beloved horse, stroking his side and speaking softly to him. Firefoot bobbed his head and scented Éomer’s pockets, looking for the treat he hoped would be there. Éomer chuckled lightly and pulled a carrot from his pocket to offer for his beauty.

While Firefoot chomped on the carrot, Éomer retrieved a brush from a shelf on the wall and began to brush down his horse in great, long strokes. Firefoot had already been brushed once earlier in the morning, but was not about to complain about being fussed over by his master. He actually leaned into the king as his strokes reached the horse’s favorite spot, causing Éomer to grunt and shift his weight to compensate.

For his part, Éomer reveled in the task almost as much as Firefoot and worked even harder as sweat broke across his forehead. He needed this, needed the routine of what he was used to doing. This was the life he was born for, not holding meetings and settling disputes.

Finished with the brushing, the king retrieved the pick with which to check the hooves. Firefoot obediently hefted his leg and leaned again into Éomer. The great stallion was beginning to anticipate the run he knew was coming.

“All right, boy,” grunted Éomer as he finished up and dropped the last leg. “Let us go.” He placed the pick back onto the shelf beside the brush and a few other supplies and backed out of the stall followed closely by Firefoot. The horse hesitated just out side the stall, but Éomer continued walking. “Come on, Firefoot,” he said, “no saddle today.”

Horse and rider walked to the front of the stables, where Éomer jumped easily onto the back his mount. Together they cantered down the hill and out the front gate.

The guards at the gate looked uncertainly at each other after the king rode out alone.

“Should we call out the royal guard?” asked Falgor, as he followed the king with his eyes.

“It’s not up to you to go telling the king that he can’t ride alone, you knucklehead. If he wanted a guard, he’d take one,” answered his friend and fellow sentinel. “Besides, how many years have we watched Éomer ride from this city?”

“But he weren’t even armed,” argued Falgor, “and he’s not just a kid any more. He’s our king.”

“Are you going to go hiking up that hill with your sore foot?” queried Geston. “And after you get there what are you going to say? The king is practically out of sight now. They’d never catch him. Besides, there’s no better rider in the Mark than the king. No enemy could catch him unaware. Just relax. We’re off duty in an hour and I’m wanting my meal.”

Éomer led his steed to the left of the main road and raced full out, giving a war whoop as he reveled in the freedom of the run. Éomer loved this …needed the release, and Firefoot was giving him a run to remember. The muscles of his legs worked in tandem with the great stallion as they galloped delightedly. Everything became a blur as the wind whipped against his eyes. On and on they ran, as though they might just run until the end of all time.

From the gates of Edoras, a new guard took up the watch as Falgor and Geston headed home for a much desired mug of ale. The king’s presumed whereabouts were duly reported to the new guards, who were left to wonder themselves whether they should stand to or inform the royal guard of the king’s solitary exit. Perhaps these days of peace would mean that the king could be allowed to ride alone…perhaps. At any rate, they reasoned, it was not theirs to decide, so they settled into the routine of watch duty and waited anxiously for their king to return.

TBC