To the King!

Chapter Seventeen

Vague Unease

To destroy is still the strongest instinct in nature.
- Max Beerbohm

Gilmóod sat back in ornately carved chair situated at the head of the long table in the main hall of the manor house, a self satisfied smile on his handsome and finely chiseled face. To a stranger, the face was fair to behold, but to those who were acquainted with the black heart beating within his chest the face held no beauty…only death. The people who knew Gilmóod for what he was did their best to avoid looking into his eyes, for they matched his heart, and held only darkness.

There was good reason for Gilmóod’s pleasant attitude, for today he would take the first steps towards retribution for himself and for his family. For many centuries his kin had been proud to be part of Rohan, but no more. Now only a fire of hatred burned towards the Horse Lords and all they considered dear.

It had begun with Gilmóod’s father, Gimbol. Though their mother was a Dunlending, Gimbol and his brothers Garoth and Gálmód had been reared on the Westfold. They had, however, inherited the darker features of their mother’s people, a fact which set them apart and for which they hated her. They were cousins to the famed Marshal Grimbold, whose fair features and deeds of renown fairly shouted of all that was heroic and Rohirric. Garoth had ridden with Grimbold and risen to stature and favor as a Marshal himself. He was granted leadership over Snowbourne for his faithfulness in battle with Grimbold.

The other two brothers did not ever share in the accolades or achievements of their illustrious relation. In fact the familial connection was never mentioned and to this day Garoth referred to Grimbold as a dear friend.

Grimbold had cared for Garoth, but the ill favor of Garoth’s brothers had slowly poisoned the relationship as Garoth was fed lies by his kin.

It was not that Grimbold would have rejected the aid and support of his distant kin, but that Gálmód and Gimbol were of questionable repute, known to be slackers who cared more for chasing skirts and downing ale than for bearing arms in the defense of Rohan. It was not their dark features, as they liked to claim, but their laziness and even worse the steak of cruelty running through them, which set them apart. Unfortunately, their sons had followed in their father’s footsteps and were just as reprehensible.

One, however, had shown himself to take more after Garoth. Through hard work, the son of Gálmód had shown promise, rising so far as to serve in the king’s court at Edoras. His standing reflected well on the others, or so they thought. Gilmóod had followed his cousin Gríma to Edoras and become one of his enforcers.

It was there that Gilmóod had stopped considering himself as any part of Rohan. He had learned to hate all the Horse Lords, and Éomer in particular, for he was everything that Gilmóod would never be. He represented all the qualities in which Gilmóod was so lacking: strength, honor, courage, and above all good repute – all the virtues so admired by the Horse Lords.

Gilmóod threw his mug against the fireplace, listening to it clank and clatter across the floor as he thought about Éomer. There were other virtues to be had, he told himself, such as cunning and intelligence, both of which Gilmóod felt he possessed in great quantity. Ah yes, he thought. I shall show you my qualities Éomer, pretender king of Rohan.

It was also while at Edoras that Gilmóod had fallen in love with Éowyn. Like his cousin, his eyes were full of favor when they beheld the golden haired beauty, though he dared not allow Gríma to know as much. Gríma was always jealous of Gilmóod’s good looks and so the man had learned to hold his own council where women and Gríma were concerned.

But Éowyn would have nothing to do with either one of them, and worse yet Éomer had noticed the looks Gilmóod sent in Éowyn’s direction and had explained rather forcefully just exactly what he would do should Gilmóod ever dare to lay a finger on her.

Gilmóod had relished his time of power while he served Gríma, never more so than the day that he had helped to cast Éomer from Rohan. Gilmóod was the one who had driven his fist into the defenseless man’s stomach as he was being held. Oh, that memory brought a flush of pleasure to the man and his desire to inflict more punishment was fueled as he imagined driving his dagger into the soft belly of his nemesis. Then, sweet Éowyn, then he would show her what her denial of him would cost her, for he would make her his own, and then her life would be a daily punishment for all the sins of rejection ever placed on him.

No, Gilmóod corrected himself, first Éomer would watch him take his beloved sister, Éowyn, and then, perhaps, he would kill the king.

O-o-O-o-O

Scaro rode down the trail whistling a merry tune. The nonchalance was a show, of course, meant to put the lead scout at ease. But Dageth had not been Marshal Erkenbrand’s lead scout for ten years for nothing. All too aware that his Marshal and the Chief of Knights trailed him with all too few riders to watch their backs, he was all the more cautious.

Hearing the whistling man’s approach, Dageth pulled up on his horse and waited. Within moment he could see the rider who was casually riding down the sloping trail towards him. Dageth’s eyes scanned the hillside around him. He was upon a narrow path with sides of rock rising sharply on either side of him. It would be a perfect place for an ambush.

“Come forward, friend, and identify yourself,” called Scaro, pretending to have just spotted Dageth.

“Where are the sentinels of Snowbourne and why has no welcome been sent for the Marshal’s bearing the Royal Emblem?” challenged Dageth.

“Sentinels?” questioned Scaro. “We have no need of sentinels; we are at peace! Come, friend, and meet my master. We shall send forth a greeting for your Marshals if you like, but first come with me.”

Dageth, nodded his agreement and moved to follow the scarred man. A vague unease lay deep within the scout’s belly, but as yet he had nothing solid with which to give credence to the disquiet he felt. For now he would attend the scarred one.

Presently the pair reached the Snowbourne Fortress. All seemed to be normal so far as Dageth could see. There was a marked lack of activity around the Manor House, but that might just mean that the inhabitants were all attending their midday meal. Like Scaro, he dismounted, though rather than hand over the reins of his horse to a waiting stable hand, he led his mount over to the side of the front steps. The horse was well trained enough to remain where his master put him and Dageth preferred to be able to leave quickly if the need arose. Something still did not seem altogether normal about this entire situation.

Scaro led the scout up the steep steps and across the terrace to theentry way. He opened the large oak door and stepped back to allow the man to enter before him. He kept the lopsided smile plastered on his face. It actually was more of a sneer because of the scarring, but it was the best he could do. Scaro was not a man who normally would smile much anyway.

Gareth stepped into the great hall of the manor house and paused as Scaro walked past him. A huge fire place dominated one wall and the hall was empty save for an old man standing against the far wall and a younger man seated at the large table towards the back of the room. The old man was probably a server, Gareth surmised, and the younger man was definitely not Marshal Garoth. He watched as the scarred man stepped up to the table and spoke softly to the one seated at its head.

Gilmóod stood from his seat and motioned the scout forward. “Welcome to Snowbourne. Scaro tells me that you are an advance scout for a party bearing the Royal Standard.”

“I am,” Dageth replied. “I am Dageth, scout to Marshal Erkenbrand. He, Chief of Knights Gamling, and a small troop are following. Shall they be welcomed?”

“Chief of Knights Gamling?” asked Gilmóod, feigning ignorance, for his spy in Edoras kept him well informed. “I thought Déorwine was Chief of Knights?”

Dageth stiffened slightly. It had not escaped his notice that his “host” had failed to identify himself. “I regret to inform my lord that Déorwine was lost in the war.”

“Lost in the war, you say?” murmured Gilmóod, who thought it made a nice touch. “How very sad… As you see, we are somewhat out of touch here. Come, sit, I will send a welcome for Erkenbrand and…and….”

“Gamling,” supplied Gareth. “And thank you, my lord, but no. I prefer to ride back to my Marshal and lead him in myself.”

“Very well, very well,” effused Gilmóod. “I shall have food and drink prepared for their arrival.”

He clapped his hands loudly. “Barech, see to it!”

From his post against the wall Barech bowed slightly. “Yes, my lord.” His eyes met those of the young scout and he tried with all his might to convey the seriousness of the situation through that look. He dared not do more.

O-o-O-o-O

Marshals Ceorl and Liam rode at a leisurely pace. For several days they had been canvassing the Eastemnet while they checked on the status of the mares and foals. One of the main breeding stations for the Mark was located in the Eastement and it was to this location that they now journeyed.

The pair traveled with just a dozen of Ceorl’s éored as they rode across the rolling plain at an easy pace. It was just past noonday and the group was eagerly anticipating a hot midday repast in the home of the station’s Master Breeder, whose wife was known far and wide as an excellent cook as well as quite possibly the most comely woman in the Estemnet.

It was Liam, the younger Marshal that first spotted the smoke. “Look there, Ceorl. That’s a lot of smoke for camp fires.”

Ceorl frowned as he followed Liam’s lead. Sure enough, thick black smoke was beginning to billow over a rise in the distance, and Liam was correct, it was far too much for just a camp fire. Unfortunately, he felt that he knew exactly what it was, but he’d thought he’d seen the last of these fires with the end of the war. Ceorl nudged his mount into a gallop. “To me!”

The éored immediately shifted into an attack wedge with their Marshal in the lead. Liam was tucked in just behind and to the side of Ceorl.

Finally topping the last ridge, their worst fears were realized as the scene of devastation was displayed before them.

Ceorl held up his arm, motioning for the troop to slow from its headlong gallop, for it was painfully obvious that they were too late to help any living soul.

The huge stable beside the home of the Master Breeder was now fully engulfed in the flames, and the house was smoldering. Here and there around the yards and paddocks bodies could be seen. Most had been horribly butchered. It was obvious even from this distance.

“Orcs,” said the young rider to Liam’s right, “but how is that possible?”

“Would you look at that,” breathed Liam, unable to fully grasp what he was seeing as they rode closer.

The view had been blocked by the smoke pouring from the barn, but as the éored neared, an unbelievable sight met their eyes. Stacked into a vast mound were the slaughtered horses of the station. All of the studs, mares and foals for half the Eastemnet lay slaughtered and discarded in one horrific pile of blood and prime horse flesh.

“I…I don’t believe it,” stammered Ceorl. It took several deep gulps of breath of calm his stomach and preserve his dignity before his éored. Once he’d composed himself, he nodded to Agar, his lead tracker, who peeled off and began scouting for signs of the retreating marauders.

Ceorl turned back to the remainder of the éored. “Let’s see to the bodies, lads. We’ll burn the horses and bury the people.”

“Burn them?” breathed Liam, not believing what he heard. “Burn the Mearas herd?” The very thought seemed a sacrilege.

“Burn them,” said Ceorl, his voice soft but deadly. “It would take too long to bury them, and I want to find the ones who did this. I will find them. But first we must send a message to the King.”

TBC