Aragost stood at the rail bordering the small flagstone courtyard.  The sky was beginning to pale in the east. His breath hung in the still cold air of early spring. 

It had been ten years since his last visit to the Eotheod.  Leod had then been the Lord of the land.  Now his son Eorl was master of not only the realm, but Felarof as well, the great white steed that had thrown and killed his father.

Eorl had extended his hospitality, providing private lodging at a guest house built next to the great hall.  Eorl had his own much larger manse on the other side of the hall.  Last night was for greetings.  The morning was for conversation.

The doors of the hall opened.  Aragost could see he was not alone at this early hour.  Eorl was striding his way, followed by a single servant with a full tray.

He was tall, broad shouldered.  A mane of long blond hair framed a strong face and piercing blue eyes.  Clothed in doeskin pants and tunic, he was dressed for a light ride in the country as was his want in the mornings. 

Aragost matched him in height and breadth.  His face at 79 years was that of weathered nobility under a sweep of dark brown hair with the first streaks of gray. For the Dunedain, 79 was a man in his prime, not one doddering in old age.  He walked towards Eorl as they met at a table set out on the courtyard in front of the main hall.  The servant left a tray of bread, cheese, blueberry jam and hard boiled eggs.  Hot cider steamed in mugs.  Eorl gestured that they should sit.

 “I trust you slept well?”  Eorl inquired, taking a bite out of an egg.

 “The hospitality of the Eotheod has no match.”  Aragost replied spreading some jam on a slab of bread.

 Pleasantries dispensed, Eorl pressed on with the business of the day which was the state of affairs in the lands to his south, now that evil had once again taken residence at Dol Guldur.

 “What of Orcs?  How is it you are here?”

 “Not an easy thing.  They have multiplied and infested the Misty Mountain passes to the south.  The Elven Lady Celebrian was beset by a band of orcs in the Redhorn Pass.  She was at their mercy until her sons Elladan and Elrohir arrived and laid waste to the orcs.”

 “I trust she is well.”

 “Recovered in body but not in spirit.  She has made way west to the Undying Lands.  For myself it meant I had to be even more cautious.”

 “They have been more bold from Mount Gundabad.  That has only decreased their numbers as our armed patrols have extended their range.  Great pyramids of severed orc heads are lit to burn for days.  It brings temporary peace.”

 Eorl’s eyes glittered and a wolfish smile suggested he was a frequent participant on patrols.

 “It is to the south where our concerns may lie.”  Aragost resumed

 Eorl gestured that he should continue.

 A great body of Easterners, called the Balchoth, has overrun forests near Dol Guldur.  They harry what folk remained in the Vales of the Anduin.  That will not satisfy them.  I fear they intend to move west into Gondor’s northern province, Calenardhon.”

 “We have marked them since the days I was born, Aragost.  Refugees from Rhovanian have brought tales of their brutality.  We take nothing for granted.  There are none we can expect to aid us this far north.  Our armorers have been busy these past years.”

 That had been apparent to Aragost as he’d entered the realm of the Eotheod.  It had grown since his grandfather Araglas’s time, now pressing across the Langwell to the lands to the south.  He had observed local eoreds mustering and practicing combat maneuvers.  To a man they were mail clad, with deadly spears and straight swords.  Some were bowmen, capable of sticking a target at 100 yards at full gallop.

 It was a formidable army should Eorl muster all the eoreds.  But for the moment it was a force for defense of their homeland. 

 “None would be so foolish as to test the resolve of your people.”

 “Let them come.” Eorl laughed.  “Death awaits any foe at the end of spear points or the edges of seven thousand swords.”

 Aragost smiled.  The young lord of the horse people relished the idea of combat as a young leader might if he had yet to be tested by war.  Skirmishes with outnumbered orcs was not war. 

Aragost changed the subject.

“You are running short of open pasture.  Many farms fill the land north of the Langwell.  You have even crossed that river for some leagues with settlement.”

Eorl nodded in assent. “We have prospered and have surplus to trade with the Northmen across the Anduin.  Yet we relish the open plain.  The lands to the south are wooded.  A hard labor to create riding space by cutting trees and burning stumps.”

 Aragost replied.  "There are open lands west of the Misty Mountains and south of the East West Road. Much of what lies between ruined Tharbad and the hobbit lands of the Shire have scarcely a man to count.  None make claim to it.”

 Eorl shook his head slowly.

 “It is no small thing to move. Our ancestors did so or I would not be here this moment talking of movement yet again.  But they fled from mortal danger from the East. There was no choice. No such danger is imminent. Can I risk the people in a crossing over orc infested high mountain passes to a land none of us has seen?”

 Before Aragost could answer, a young member of Eorl’s personal guard crossed the courtyard at a brisk pace, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Eorl’s blue eyes widened slightly as he digested the message. 

 “Tell them I’ll be there in a moment.”

 Aragost raised his eyebrows in question.

 “A messenger…from Gondor, riding for a fortnight. I must go.  Come with me.”

They abruptly got up from the table. The personal guard was gesturing for them to come his way, down a path of stone steps to a large house with a thatched roof. Their medical house.

He hurried them inside to a bed in the corner where a man in light chain mail lay battered and bloodied, hollow with hunger. But his eyes were bright with the intensity of the message he was bound to deliver. Eorl knelt at his side. The messenger opened his mouth and began to speak.