Chapter 4. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 4
The next day, they rode deeper into Eastfold. Ever to the right, the White Mountains loomed, and ahead, the dark peak of Halifirien rose like a sentinel at the border of two realms. Beyond that height lay not the Riddermark, but Anórien of Gondor.
By the time they reached this point, Théodred had drawn a grim conclusion: the state of Eastfold was worse than he had foreseen. The great East-West Road, which cut across the breadth of Rohan, was a vital artery of travel and trade—one the servants of the Dark Lord might be expected to avoid. Yet time and again, they came upon signs of Orc-raids not far from the road: rotting horse carcasses, and bones left to bleach unburied beneath the open sky. Later, the scouts returned with darker tidings still—large Orcs, calling themselves Uruks, had been sighted in the mountains.
“These Orcs travel by day,” said a seasoned Rider. “We believe they have followed us since we first set out upon the Road—watching, tracking our every move.”
Éomer frowned. “The land here is too open for an ambush. And we ride three hundred strong. If they seek trouble, perhaps they have wearied of life.”
Théodred, however, was not so quick to dismiss the threat. Their own strength was not inconsiderable, and had they been trailed by mere rabble, the foe would surely have scattered at the first glimpse of Riders. Small wonder, then, that Éomer—whose encounters near Edoras had thus far involved only such lesser foes—should think so. But Théodred had once faced the Uruks at the Fords of Isen, and he knew them for what they were: a breed apart. Grimbold of Westfold had reported their presence often in that region—fierce, disciplined, and far stronger than their kin. They did not strike without purpose.
Twilight drew near. Behind them, the sun sank low—a great red orb swallowed by the endless sea of grass. Not a breath of wind stirred. The green-and-white banner of the Mark hung limp upon its staff, and a slow, nameless weight settled on the heart.
“Give the order to make camp. Double the watch,” said Théodred. Éomer relayed the command at once, and the Riders moved with quiet efficiency, leaving the road and making their encampment upon a chosen rise. By the time dusk had flooded the hollows and folds of the hills, the camp was set: tents raised, fires kindled and burning steadily. Théodred took a few swift bites of the meat stew Éomer had brought, then gestured for him to sit. Of late, the Prince had grown used to unburdening his thoughts to his squire—most often when the path ahead was shadowed with doubt.
“The matter is plain,” said Théodred, his voice grave. “Eastfold cannot be left so long neglected, or it will become a haven for Orcs. Yet the trouble is this: I carry too many burdens already. Isengard grows ever more menacing, and the mind of Saruman is veiled. Erkenbrand of Westfold is of an age where successors must be considered, yet Grimbold does not command the stature to take his place. Elfhelm is tied to the defense of Edoras. Soon, I must take Westfold into my own charge—and when that day comes, I shall have to dwell more often in Helm's Deep, and no longer abide in Meduseld as I do now.”
“I am your squire,” Éomer replied without hesitation. “Where you go, I shall go also. You shall lead, and I will follow—that is the way of things.”
Even burdened by cares, Théodred could not help but smile. “So it shall be. And I will not leave you behind—at least, not yet. But you must understand: you will not remain a squire forever, nor can you follow always.” He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Every fledgling must one day leave the nest. And you—well, you are the right man for Eastfold. Your father once ruled it, and you were raised among its fields and folk. You know its ways better than any.”
Éomer said nothing. Théodred had touched the very heart of his thoughts. As he neared manhood, he had indeed pondered the path ahead. With his lineage, it was only a matter of time before he would be called to defend—or govern—a part of the realm. And of all its lands, it was Eastfold he most longed to serve. Yet each time he dwelt on it in earnest, his heart would falter. To leave Edoras would be to part from the King, whom he had come to love as a father; from Éowyn, still young and not yet grown; and from Théodred himself.
“Enough of this gloomy talk,” said Théodred, brushing the air as though to scatter midges. “Only see to it that you do not shirk your duties. Speaking of which—I hear Elfhelm’s sister has been paying you rather frequent visits. I have known her since she was a child—and fortunate it is, that she looks nothing like her brother. I must say—”
“There is nothing between her and me!” Éomer’s face flushed crimson, and all thought of duty vanished in an instant. “And in any case—is that truly a matter for the Prince to concern himself with?”
“It is precisely the sort of matter an elder brother must concern himself with,” Théodred replied, with a face of perfect solemnity. “I squandered my own chances—I will not see you repeat my folly.”
Éomer looked genuinely despairing. His cousin had thirteen more years of practice in shameless teasing, and there was no hope of besting him. But before he could muster a retort, a sharp horn-blast split the air outside, followed by a swell of voices—and amid them, the coarse, rasping cries of Orcs.
At that, Éomer sprang to his feet, sword in hand in the blink of an eye. Théodred had drawn his blade in the same breath and was already striding toward the door when a figure appeared at the entrance. Instinctively, Éomer stepped before him, shielding his cousin. But the newcomer was no foe—only a guard, come to report.
“A small band of Orcs crept near the horse-lines,” he said. “Two steeds were wounded. We slew several of the creatures, and the rest fled back into the mountains.”
“Do not pursue,” said Théodred at once—only to hear, in the same breath, Éomer speaking the very same words.
Their eyes met. Éomer, struck by the impropriety of speaking out of turn, dropped to one knee and murmured, “It is the same ruse. I remember well how my father fell. They always came in small bands, under cover of night—wounded a horse, and fled. And then, one day…”
Théodred was silent for a moment, then turned to the guard. “You heard him?”
“Aye, lord.”
“Then you know what is to be done.”
When the guard had gone, Théodred did not at once bid Éomer rise. The sounds outside faded into stillness. Candlelight flickered across the table, casting long shadows upon the walls of the tent.
“I have pondered this for some time,” Théodred said at last. “It was your likeness that gave me pause—you bear your father’s face so closely, and I feared you might have his temper as well. But now… I see no cause for doubt.”
A flash of cold light—and Éomer felt the weight of steel settle upon his shoulder. It was Théodred’s sword.
“By the authority of the King, and in his name, I, Théodred son of Théoden, Second Marshal of the Riddermark, do proclaim: Rise, Éomer son of Éomund, Knight of Rohan, and Rider of the King’s Guard!”
Éomer rose slowly, a little stiff from kneeling—his face alight with wonder and astonishment. Théodred laughed, returned his sword to its sheath, and drew him into a firm embrace.
“Well, what are you gaping at? You are but sixteen, and already a knight of the Guard! That sets you one step closer to Marshal, does it not?”
But to his surprise, Éomer looked uneasy, even troubled.
“What is it now?” Théodred asked. “Lost for words?”
“I…” Éomer began, then faltered.
“You are ever the first to scold others for hedging,” said Théodred, amused. “And now you fall into it yourself?”
As he had expected, Éomer rose to the bait—but the words that burst from him were not at all what Théodred anticipated:
“I just realized—I’m taller than you now!”