Chapter 1: Good year and Bad News
It had been a good year in Rohan; given everything that's happened, it had been a damned good year.
Gone were the barren fields, the smoking ruins marring the countryside. Once more the air was clear in the high lands; the drought had flown with autumn, and when spring came around again there also came the children, leaping out from their mothers' homes to fill the air with laughter.
Much of this, thanks to the dead. Much, thanks to the living, thanks to the king.
The elders of the Council – what was left of them – had known him as the wild-haired youth, Third Marshall, the beetle-browed one fuming in the corner while Theoden had compromised with Isengard. They knew him from stories; for tales of what had transpired on the Pelennor fields had by now trickled among the folk of Rohan. The king himself never refuted them, though they spoke of a winged dragon descending, sputtering fire and ash, and of how Eowyn had cleaved its head in twain. They spoke of how Eomer, believing his sister dead, had risen like fire from the dry ground, gathering dead men to charge down terrible beasts of the eastern lands. They also spoke of how these beasts, these mountains of transmuted flesh and teeth and claws, had been overrun, razed by the molten wrath of Eomer, drowned in the deluge of his sorrow.
So if the Council was a little wary of him, it was perhaps not without reason.
But Eomer was too lively, too active to be confined to myths – indeed, the whole of Edoras came to bear witness as, on the third day of his rule, Eomer King called for the complete restoration of the Meduseld. Old tapestries were dragged out into the light and beat clear of decades' dust; the furniture scraped around from floor to attic, the hall mopped until it was spotless. And they watched their formidable king falling over himself in a fit of sneezes, trying to beat Eorl's tapestry by hand.
He climbed roofs and nailed shoes on the horses, carried beams and raised barns with the rest of them. But by now the Council had regained its bearings, and told him under no uncertain terms that legends made better kings than did carpenters, and they convinced him, after much roaring and flashing of his golden eyes and large, white teeth, that his job as to stay put and issue the orders, not carry them out.
Good king or no, certain appearances must be kept up.
They tolerated his dalliances and affairs, which were infrequent and kept well from the people's eye, for they knew he would do his duty and marry the princess of Dol Amroth.
And so he had done.
The wedding was held to great carousing on one of the coldest nights of the year, with Eomer resplendent, cleaned until he shone as brightly as the gold of his crown. But his bride, a dark-haired little thing, shivered and trembled all through the ceremony. They saw how she had winced, draining the mead from the marriage cup; heard her voice tremble, repeating her vows.
She was pretty enough, granted; but many hoped Eomer would get an heir out of her soon, for she did not look like the kind to last long here; too small, too frail, too frightened. It too was said that she had elven blood. And in Rohan the elves had been known as sorcerers longer than they were known as friends.
"The King! I must speak with the King!" cried the messenger, his eyes wild. Stained robes hung tatters around his feet, and he exuded so foul an odor that the doorwardens cursed in his wake.
Eomer admitted him immediately; and after a long swallow of mead Anwyn – they recognized him now, under the layers of grime – began his tale.
He had been sent with two others far into the east, beyond the Sea of Rhun where dwelt the wildmen, to seek the remnants of shadow. All was quiet, and peaceful; the orc tracks faded, untraceable, and a return was planned, with no news of trouble stirring.
Then they happened upon a plague-struck village of Wildmen.
Young and old, men and women – children – all felled to their beds, covered in red pustules that oozed and bled, moaning half-formed words to the family that cared for them in vain.
From the east, bands of wild-men flew from the hand of the plague that seemed to stretch out with the fingers of morning. They found ghost camps; still bodies lay half out of their tents in putrefaction, circled around the camp fires that had burned out long ago.
That was when the other two messengers felt the fever coming on. Anwyn left them that night, and ran Westward.
"Beowar and Granulf are dead," Anwyn turned fierce eyes to the equally intent gaze of his king, "we have no resistance against this. The wildmen who have not died are running with the rest of their kin – they have no horses, but they are running as fast as they can, and the first place they will come to is Northern Ithilien."
They were silent.
A dragon could be slain, even monsters struck down.
But a plague.
And too soon, too soon – they had only come to know peace, and a small taste, at that.
"How does it spread?" said Eomer.
The messenger shook his head, "we don't know, sir; by air, by water – we don't know."
Then the king was suddenly afoot again. Servants were called for to provide the messenger with food, a bath, and rest. Eomer was pacing as the man took his exit, to and fro; back around he came, turning his amber glare at them.
"Councilors?"
They broke out with suggestions.
"The wildmen must be stopped before they reach Gondor and Rohan. Send archers, kill them all."
"Surely there was no cause for violence. Those healthy enough to reach Ithilien are not sickly – they should be left to stay."
"The wildmen of the mountains had caused enough trouble for Rohan, and now you ask Gondor to invite them into Ithilien?"
"Not to mention," said Eomer, "that we don't know what began this plague in the first place."
They turned to him in surprise.
"You think, Milord, that this could be a device of the Enemy?"
His booted heels clicked on the stones as he prowled.
"No," he said, finally, "or they would have used it during the war. A plague would be a thousand times more effective than sendings of orcs and battle-towers. This is something new; new to the wild-men, or else they would not flee – and thus new to Middle-earth."
"Milord Eomer," Milaed, the historian of Rohan, blinked his rheumy eyes, "I have heard ancient lore of pale men who live past a thousand leagues from the blue sea of Rhun, who venture not in the light, so white their skin. But if they exist, and have come into the western lands…"
Eomer stopped before his throne.
"Pale men or not, we have no time to lose. The Prince of Ithilien must be notified immediately, as it will come to him first."
"Yes, sir."
Eomer turned back to them.
"And Elessar of Gondor, too, must know of this. I will ride to Minas Tirith."
Talan, the scribe, spoke up, "Milord, the Lord Elessar had sent word that he is in Dol Amroth, to contract with the Haradrim."
"Damn," Eomer stopped mid-step, "that is three days' further journey from the white city."
A silence, while their young king frowned.
"I wonder," he resumed pacing at a dizzying speed, "Is there not a path through the mountains? It would save precious time, and we have little of that as it is. Grimund, what do you know?"
"Milord," said the surveyor of Rohan, "take care – you are in great haste, but the only path through the mountains is the Path of the Dead, and Lord Elessar alone knew that route. There is no way across the crags of the Ered Nimrais. Your only choice is to ride around the mountains."
But before Eomer could curse again, someone spoke from behind him.
"I know of a way," said Lothiriel.