To The King

Chapter Nineteen

Hamm

“Individual commitment to a group effort – that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work.” Vince Lombardi

Chaos ensued. Erkenbrand fought like a wild man. He was furious at himself for falling into a trap, and the anger lent him strength. A powerful man to begin with, the Marshal was nearly unbeatable when fueled by adrenalin. For twenty years he had ridden the Westfold as Marshal and he called upon all the experience he had gained now. He bashed two heads together and turned towards the third man diving at him. To his left he could see that Gamling was down. Whether the man was dead or not, Erkenbrand was unable to ascertain.

As he circled his foe, eyes darted around the room assessing the number of attackers and any possible means of escape. Only three of the original seven were still standing and the odds did not favor them, but Erkenbrand would make these brigands pay dearly so long as there was breath in his body. The man he was facing off against charged and the Marshal grabbed his shoulders while driving his knee into the man’s unprotected groin. He shoved the howling man back against the laden table sending it crashing to the floor, and immediately spun to face the next foe.

Beside him, young Fegorel positioned himself so that the two men were back to back, doubling their defensive capability. The numbers were just too large to overcome however, and the pair was experienced enough to recognize that fact.

Gilmóod growled as the food, flasks, and dishes scattered across the floor. He was enjoying the fight, but hated to see his food destroyed. Gilmóod rather enjoyed his comforts and was not one to deny himself anything now that he’d had a taste of power.

“Barech,” he bellowed over the din of the fight, “more ale!” By all the gods, he was enjoying this! He strutted over to where Gamling lay unconscious on the floor, dodging the fighting men as he went. Gilmóod took his boot and tilted Gamling’s head over so that he could see the man clearly. With a sneer he kicked the downed man in the stomach a couple of times before sauntering over to the side of the room. No need getting his hands dirty when his men could easily take care of this lot.

Erkenbrand and Fegorel witnessed the attack on the unconscious Gamling and growled in frustration. Besieged as they were, neither man could protect the downed man.

Barech rushed into the kitchen. His wife met him inside the door.

“What is it?” cried Margeth as she rushed towards her husband. A look of fear crossed her face as another crash resounded from the main room.

“It is the delegation from Edoras. That filth is taking them prisoner…just like all the others.” Despair filled his ancient eyes as he gazed at his wife.

“No, husband, you must not give up hope. It is all we have left.”

“The king must believe that we turned our backs on Théoden when the call came to gather at Helm’s Deep. What will he now think when his Marshals fail to return? All is lost,” Barech said softly.

His tiny wife raised her chin, forcing a confidence into her voice that she did not believe. “Éomer King will not desert us.”

The pleading that she did not even realize was in her voice reached his heart and Barech gathered his wife into his arms, taking a precious moment to comfort her as more shouts and crashes could be heard. The woman’s shoulders shook slightly. “No, the king will not desert us. It is all right, my love. We will find a way. Help will come.”

He gently bestowed a kiss to her forehead and then rushed to gather more ale for Gilmóod. The dark one did not like to be kept waiting and punishment could easily be doled out for anyone raising his ire.

By the time Barech returned with the ale, the fight was finished.

“How dare you!” hissed Erkenbrand from where he was being held between two huge men. Panting heavily, the thugs were literally supporting the Marshal’s weight between them, so battered was he. Blood flowed from all three of them. Erkenbrand had a deep cut over his eye and swelling of the area was already beginning to obstruct his vision. “The king will have your head for this outrage!”

“The king?” questioned Gilmóod blandly. “The same king who did nothing when I took over this little outpost? Oh, I forget,” he snarled. “He wasn’t king then was he? No, that pathetic, doddering old man was king, and he did nothing either.”

“You traitor!” roared Erkenbrand. “You and your kind are not fit to wipe Théoden’s boots, or Éomer’s! They are sons of Eorl! What are you, scum?”

Gilmóod was furious at the question. Mentally he cursed his father for ever taking a bride from Dunland. Obviously there was no way that his bloodline could compete with the line of Eorl. He forced himself to laugh. He would not give Erkenbrand the pleasure of knowing that he had pricked Gilmóod’s pride. “Take his ring. Cut off his finger if you have to. I want his seal on this message for Edoras.”

Erkenbrand struggled with all his might, and in the end, Scaro took the hilt of his dagger and knocked the Marshal senseless so that he could more easily remove the ring. Each Marshal of the Mark wore a ring specially crafted for him, and Erkenbrand’s would be easily recognizable to any in the king’s household.

O-o-O-o-O

Edoras

Hammock was intent upon his work, but he spared a glance over to where Hálith was rotating the horseshoes in the fires of the forge. The pair was working in a small building behind the stables where Hammock had set up a forge for himself.

“Turn them a bit more often, Hálith. You want to keep the temperature even.” He smiled as the boy jumped to grab the pinchers and turn the horseshoes. They burned red hot, and brilliant sparks leapt up each time he turned one of them over. The boy felt clumsy in the heavy leather gloves, but they were necessary to protect his arms from the embers.

“Why do you not simply use the horse shoes made in Bergfinn’s shop?”

Hammock smiled as he hammered away at the superheated metal. “I did at first,” he acknowledged. Setting the rounding hammer aside, he hefted the curved metal and gauged its evenness with a practiced eye. Stepping over to the barrel, he plunged the heated horse shoe into the cold water sending a spray of steam into the air between him and the boy before continuing his thought.

“I found that I preferred to custom make the shoes for the mounts of the Royal family. Their horses are all of pure Mearas stock and therefore require more exact shoes than the regular horses or the half-breeds. For one thing, their hooves are larger than the others, do you see?”

Hálith nodded his head as he concentrated on turning the heated metal evenly. “Hamm, why do you put the completed shoe into the water when it is still so hot? Does it not stress the metal? Wouldn’t it be safer to let the horse shoes cool on racks?”

Hammock smiled at Hálith, his tanned face showing the effects of many laugh lines around his cobalt eyes, and playfully used his knuckles to make a knocking motion on the boy’s head. “You are using your mind now Hálith. I like that. You ask a good question – one that generations of new farriers and blacksmiths before us asked.”

Hálith unconsciously puffed up his chest at the praise of his mentor. He had resisted learning the trade at first because his dream was still to be a warrior, a member of the king’s own éored, but now he found himself becoming more and more interested in the skills he was being taught by the quiet man with the white-gold hair and the startling eyes.

“The concept of rapidly cooling the metal first came to us from the deserts of Harad,” continued Hammock.

“Harad?” snorted Hálith, before turning to show his disdain by spitting on the ground.

Hammock was greatly amused at the show of bravado from the boy. “They are fine warriors, Hálith. You would do well not to underestimate them.”

“What would you know about warriors?” asked Hálith before he realized what he was saying. He quickly ducked his head and reddened at the implied insult to his mentor. The boy bit his lip and dared to glance up to meet the eyes of Hammock expecting to see censure. What he saw there was humor, and that confused him.

“I’m sorry, Hamm. I shouldn’t have said that,” stammered Hálith.

“I have not always been a farrier, Hálith. But you are young, and the young often judge by what they first see. We were speaking of Harad, I believe.”

Hálith nodded, shame still coloring his smooth cheeks.

“It was the blacksmiths of Harad that first developed the technique of quick cooling the metal to give it strength, though they perfected it for their swords and not their horseshoes.” Hamm frowned and shook his head slightly. “They would thrust the heated swords into the bodies of their slaves or prisoners to cool and strengthen them.”

Hálith gasped at that information. “That’s…sickening.”

“Yes,” agreed Hamm, “thankfully we have found less barbaric ways to cool our metal. Remember, Hálith, just because a man is cruel or barbarous does not mean that he cannot think or be innovative. Never underestimate your enemy,” he cautioned again.

Hálith stared at Hamm in wonder. The farrier nodded to the forge and Halith jumped to turn the horseshoes.

“How come you to know so much about Harad?” asked Hálith as he worked.

When Hamm did not answer, the boy risked a quick glance over his shoulder and found the man staring at the wall. “Hamm, are you unwell?”

The farrier had a far away look on his face. “What?” Hamm shook his head to dispel the memories and smiled once again at his young charge. Well, what did he expect? He had, after all, broached the subject himself. “I spent three years in Harad, Hálith.”

“Oh,” replied the boy, somewhat disappointed at the brevity of the response. He had hoped to hear a great tale of valor and battle.

Hamm sat back on an overturned barrel and fixed his eyes on Hálith. “I supposed you deserve to hear it all,” he said almost to himself. He sat quietly for a few moments before beginning. “My father was a merchant from Gondor. He met and married my mother when he was rather young and because she could not bear to leave the Mark, settled in Rohan. We traveled quite frequently so that he could peddle his wares.”

His visage darkened as he continued the story. “One day we were attacked by warriors from Harad.” He shook his head violently, “No, they were not warriors – not in the sense that we know warriors to be – for they were naught but butchers.”

Hálith’s eyes were wide and his young mouth hung open as he looked at Hamm. Never in his wildest imaginings did he expect to hear what he was hearing. He had to force himself to methodically turn the heating horseshoes with the large pinchers he held.

“My father and the other men traveling with us were burned alive,” Hammock said softly, oblivious to the horrified look on Halith's face. “My mother…” he caught himself before he could repeat the vile fate suffered by his sweet mother. His charge was, after all, still young and innocent. “My mother died too,” he said simply. “I was taken as a slave.”

Hálith gulped and swallowed noisily, as though trying to calm his stomach. “A slave?” he breathed to himself, hardly able to comprehend what that must have been like. “How did you get back?”

Hamm smiled again as he thought back. “It was a stroke of good fortune actually. My master had taken me north with him…to tend to his comforts at night. He was intent upon raiding in Southern Gondor, but he ran into the new, young Captain General of Gondor himself…Lord Boromir. It must have been one of his first excursions, so young was he. Aye, he was a sight to behold, I can tell you that,” mused the farrier.

Hammock ran his hands through his short hair and stretched the muscles in his neck. “I must be boring you with my ancient history.”

“No,” exclaimed Hálith. “I mean, please tell me. How did you ever get home?”

“Prince Théodred,” said Hamm. “He and the Captain General were fast friends. After Lord Boromir destroyed the Harad raiders and rescued me, he took me back to Gondor. He even paid the farrier’s guild the money so that I might begin training there,” he said in wonder. He turned to look at Hálith. “Can you imagine…for me, a simple slave from Harad.” He shook his head as though he could still not comprehend the kindness shown him.

“He must have been a great man,”declared Hálith.

“Aye, he was,” nodded Hammock, “and kind. He had a way about him that put you at ease. He never acted like he was the son of the Steward or expected different treatment. He also had a wicked humor that one did.” Hamm laughed softly to himself, as though remembering some funny incident from those days. "I can still hear his laughter in my head."

“Lord Boromir was Faramir’s brother, wasn’t he?” asked Hálith. “I can believe he was a good man from knowing Faramir,” he added shyly.

“Yes,” sighed Hamm. “They were brothers. I never met the Lord Faramir until he came here though. I lived there for only a few months before the Prince came to visit the Captain General. Once Prince Théodred learned of my presence, he offered to bring me back to Rohan. Even though we traveled so much during my youth, I missed the Mark something fierce. It’s not in my blood to live in the stone city.”

The pair was quiet for while as Hálith tended the horseshoes, passing them over to Hammock to hammer and shape once they were heated properly. While they worked, Hálith mulled over all that he had learned about Hamm.

“Hamm,” he asked haltingly, not wanting to insult his friend, but really needing to know. “Did you ever want to be more…more than a farrier?”

Hamm smiled at the boy, easily reading the earnest emotions written on his face. He placed his palms on either side of Hálith’s face. “Do not fear, young one, you have not offended me. You want to know if I ever wanted to be a warrior…to distinguish myself in battle and come home covered in glory?”

Hálith nodded shyly. “And…did you ever want to go back to Harad…to fight the ones who killed your parents?”

Hammock sat back on the barrel, his massive arms folded across his chest. “Yes, I did. At one time I wanted to go back and kill them all…to fight until the pain went away or until I could not hear my Mama’s screams in my head any more.” His voice trailed off for a moment as a deeply saddened look crossed his face. “But then I met a very wise man….a couple of them actually.”

“Lord Boromir and Prince Théodred?” asked Hálith.

“No,” said Hammock thoughtfully, “though they were certainly wise men. I am speaking of Bergfinn and Felor.”

“The smithy and the cripple?” laughed Hálith disbelievingly.

“Yes,” nodded Hamm, before fixing his charge with a stern look. “You are judging by the outside again, young one.”

Hálith had the good grace to duck his head under the gentle rebuke. “What did they teach you?”

“They taught me that each of us has value and worth…that the warriors could not protect us properly if they did not have the weapons that Bergfinn makes…or if the shoes for their mounts were not properly fitted. Someone must feed the army, lad, and transport the supplies for their encampment. You've driven the wains, Hálith, you know how difficult it can be, yet Felor learned to do it with ought but one leg. We all have an important role to play, and the warriors would be the first to admit it.”

“I never thought of it that way,” admitted Hálith.

“The éoreds receive the accolades of the people, and they richly deserve those accolades for the sacrifices they make for us all, but those of us who support the éoreds receive a richer reward…the appreciation of the warriors themselves. I would rather have the praises of the warriors than of the people.”

Steams rose again as Hamm dipped the last of the horse shoes into the cooler. “We are finished for today, Hálith. I’m sure you’re hungry. Go on back to the Meduseld, I will clean up.”

“No, thank you,” said Hálith. He smiled shyly. “I would like to help you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. In fact, I would like it very much. And when we’re finished we can walk down to Bergfinn’s smithy. I bet you didn’t’ know that his wife makes the best apple tarts in all the Mark, and I’ve been smelling them all afternoon,” he added conspiratorially. “You do like apple tarts, don’t you?”

A huge smile lit Hálith’s face. “I sure do!”

“Then come on. No one tells better stories than Bergfinn.”

TBC