Dear Anon, thanks for your comment; I hope the Dunledning culture stays interesting, though there will be no further elements of a detective story. ;-)
Many thanks go to Lialathuveril for her support and to Lady Bluejay for beta-reading.
Clouds Over Isen
Chapter 11
The Spokesman
They crossed the Isen at midday, the waters of the river gurgling around the stepping- stones as the horses splashed through the shallow ford. On the eyot Théodred's mound loomed, the spears around it already rusty. Éomer suppressed a sigh. But two winters had passed since his cousin had fallen, defending the Fords, and how many things had changed! He lowered his head and his spear in a greeting as they rode by, and then the narrower arm of the river lay in front of them. Here too, stepping-stones enabled foot travellers to cross at least almost dry-footed, but the track for the horses was deeper than on the other side of the eyot, reaching up to their bellies in the main channel near the opposite bank.
His gaze went to where Airik sat behind Gamling on a huge dapple-grey. What was going through her mind? Was she thinking of the last time she had crossed the fords, a rope tied around her neck, marking her as the king's hostage? And with what lay before them, were her thoughts any less gloomy than they had been then?
As if she had sensed his musings, she looked up, glaring, when she found his gaze on her. Why did that woman have to put on that everlasting glare! And yet he knew now that she was capable of deep feelings. What emotions did she hide behind the forbidding mask of that glare? What if it was but a means of defense? What would he do if he were in her situation? He suppressed a snort, realising that he would outglare anybody who came his way. She probably thought he was keeping her under surveillance because he doubted her. What could he do to make her understand he trusted her in what they were trying to achieve, show her that he valued her counsel?
Quickly he loosened the strings of the shepherd's satchel that carried the disk. He saw her eyes widen, and just at the moment when Gamling's mount heaved out of the river and Firefoot splashed through the deepest part of the ford, he dipped the bag into the Isen. She slightly shook her head, her facial expression reminding him of Meduseld's housekeeper, when she had caught him as a child at an especially stupid prank, but the corners of her mouth curved upwards ever so slightly. He nodded at her and grinned, refastening the bag to the saddle-horn. No matter if she really believed his message, at least she had understood his intent. There was a future ahead: Sky and river should come together again. What his men made of their king, dipping a woollen bag into the Isen, he decided it was better not to ponder about.
The area in front of them was sparsely wooded and consisted mostly of boggy patches, but what a difference the lush green of the scattered birches made to the colourless scenery they had ridden through last winter, when everything had been bare and even the clusters of pines on the small sandy hillocks had seemed black under the frozen sky. He breathed deeply, savouring the rich smell of the bog-myrtle, evoked by the current heat. He loved the fragrance of camphor, though he would have gladly exchanged the temperature for the frost that had lingered then. He wrinkled his nose. Wearing hauberk and helmet was uncomfortable at its best, but made a true torture in summer by the necessary padding of gambeson and coif. He felt the first drops of sweat trickling through his left eyebrow and causing a burning sensation in his eye.
The Isen could always be seen in the distance on their left, but the river did not provide any coolness as there was next to no breeze. And the still air meant that myriads of tiny, blood-sucking midges were about, knowing that a feast was to be had. Cursing under his breath, Éomer passed the back of his gloved hand over his jaw. The dratted pests were simply everywhere, sticking to the sweaty skin, crawling into any opening that armour or garment provided, not stopping at mouths and nostrils.
"Feels like being dumped into a pond full of flying leeches."
He turned towards Éothain's grumbling voice. His friend's red-golden beard was caked with the tiny insect, making it look as if he had blown into a bowl full of poppy-seeds. Éomer grimaced. They probably all looked the same and were lucky as the beards kept at least some of the buggers off. But it would be fun to lead a bunch of those clean-shaven Gondorean spivs through these bogs.
"Have you ever seen the like in the Eastemnet?" Éothain asked, waving at an especially thick cloud of the tiny monsters.
"No, but I know we have them there as well. It's just that it's always windy on the plains. That keeps them off. Makes them take cover I think as they would simply be blown away."
"Slyboots Erkenbrand knew to remain at the Fords."
Éomer shrugged. "I think he'll probably grab the chance to a hack over to that orchard to see with his own eyes how his beloved bastard son fares."
But his friend only shook his head. "No."
Éomer frowned. "No - what?"
"The gentle giant is not the marshal's bastard."
"What?" In his surprise Éomer drew in the reins, causing Firefoot to snort in complaint and eliciting a smirk from Éothain.
"He can't be. Frithuhelm's mother left the Westfold almost five years before he was born and they say he's the spitting image of his father."
"They?" Éomer glared at his friend. "Who did you get your intelligence from? Your tender-hearted cook?"
Éothain laughed. "The very same. But the thing seems to be a bit complicated and most of it was just weird hints I still need to find out more about, so we had better be somewhere more private before we discuss the details."
Éomer snorted. "So it's more gossip than reliable information anyway."
His friend grinned. "A bit of everything, I'd say. But it needs some ale to be told."
"I see. And how much ale did the cook give you when she whispered her tale into your willing ear?" He did not bother to hide his sarcasm, but as usual, Éothain was not impressed in the slightest.
"I'm sure she'll give you even more and anything else you should desire on top when she comes to hear about the judgement you swore to pass on Wulfrun. She hates the woman with a vengeance."
"Does she? And why?" Even as he asked, Éomer thought how stupid a question that was. The little he had seen and heard of the crone had been enough for himself to dislike the woman with all his heart. But if Éothain had noticed, he did not let it show. He only shrugged.
"I don't know exactly. You see, we were having a nice unsuspicious chat about poor Frithuhelm, who was such a good boy and deserved all luck the gods were willing to dole out when one of the scullery maids burst in, complaining about Wulfrun having called her names in the yard and my tender-hearted cook - as you call her - jumped up, swearing that one day she would certainly kill that cowbag and with the greatest pleasure. Well, I beat a hasty retreat, leaving her to whatever she thought right to do on behalf of the maid." He winked at Éomer. "There is nothing more forceful and dangerous than an angry woman, as you will probably learn for yourself quite soon, at the latest when your son will be born."
Éomer rolled his eyes. What a dolt Éothain could be! He gave his friend a dirty look. "I wonder how unsuspicious your chat about Frithuhelm was, but I see there is a tale to hear when we return to the Fords. I just hope you'll have the tactfulness not to blurt it out in Erkenbrand's presence."
He knew he was doing Éothain an injustice as he did not doubt the correctness of Éothain's information one moment and nor his discretion. The man would not pass anything on if he had not double-checked before. But it rankled to have been caught, barking up the wrong tree. He grimaced. Seeing Erkenbrand behave the way he had when Wulfrun had told him the lies about Frithuhelm's death, he would have wagered his balls that the old badger was Frithuhelm's father. He scratched his midge-bitten chin. Well, who knew? They might be in for more surprises today.
Anyway, Éothain just nodded good-naturedly. "Aye, we'll leave it till then. But would you care to enlighten me in the meantime why the heck you dipped your haversack in the river when we forded?"
"So what if I did?"
Éothain showed his characteristic grimace of long suffering. "Oh come off it! And with that Dunlending she-wolf nodding her consent? You have come to an agreement with her, haven't you?
Éomer glared at his friend. "She did not nod, you plonker. Quite the contrary."
The only thing this sidestep got him from his friend was a nonchalant shrug. "You have a point there. But compared with her usual glare, the one that really curdles the milk in the cow's udder, a simple shake of the head from her means more than a loud-sung praise by anybody else. And mind you, she even showed the hint of the shade of a smile."
Éomer suppressed a groan. "Do you know that my wife called you a track-dog?"
Éothain threw his head back, guffawing. "I'll take that as a compliment, coming from her. But really, do you expect the captain of your guard to be blind?"
Éomer did not bother to answer, but his friend did not seem to have expected one anyway, for with a face like the cat that had got the cream he continued, nodding towards the shepherd-satchel.
"Why, that is the very bag the old codger came over with from Frithuhelm's." His grin deepened. "To tell you the truth, I really thought it held some forage, especially as Alfric talked about the cheese they make at Appletun in a way that made everyone around him drown on their own saliva."
"Cheese?"
Éothain nodded. "Obviously Frithuhelm's wife has the knack for making it." He shrugged. "Well, and seeing the bag at your saddle-horn I really thought they had sent you some of that delicacy to mellow your mood."
Why could that sod of a friend never take anything seriously? Torn between laughter and annoyance, Éomer turned towards him: "You truly think I could be bribed with a cheese?"
His friend grinned. "Why not? I could, if it was a really tasty one."
Fighting the urge to grin too, Éomer raised his brows in mock indignation. "So I'll have to consider that I'm only safe with my guard as long as I keep them far from any cheese. A fine captain you make."
His friend smirked, knowingly. "Well, certainly one who is not that easily distracted. You see, being a lover of good cheese and knowing you and your appetite only too well, I would never believe you would dip a cheese in the river, bag and all."
Béma, Loth had been so right to call him a hound! He scowled at his friend. "So?"
For a while they rode in silence until Éothain looked up with a shrug. "Fine, keep it to yourself. But guarding you is my task, as you know, and you should not make things more difficult than necessary for me. Just tell me how close my shot went."
Stifling a sigh, Éomer gave in. "Bull's eye, you nag. But it should not be talked about yet. Just have a eye on the bag, and be ready to keep anybody off it." A grin crept onto his face. "Just imagine it contains one of those famed Appletun cheeses. That certainly will be enough to sharpen your alertness."
ooooo
The land rose slowly now and soon at least a thinning of the hostile clouds of midges around them could be noticed. Éomer heaved a relieved breath. The last slope would bring them closer to the river and he remembered that they should be able to see the village from its flat ridge once they had climbed it. Just then a group of three men popped up on said ridge, seemingly out of nowhere, hailing them with raised spears. Spears with blackened tips, as Éomer noticed with satisfaction. No reflected sun ray would give them away like the Dunlendings at Acwuld's. At his side, Éothain chuckled.
"Sigward's men. Our scouts informed me to expect them. Those bastards surely know their job. I really did not see them before they greeted us."
They were near enough now to see that also the faces of the three scouts sported traces of soot smeared across their foreheads and cheeks. One of them stepped forward. "Westu, Éomer Cyning, hal. Torhtsige Sigwardson bids you welcome and awaits you down in the village, or rather in what is left of it."
"How many patrol points has Torhtsige put up?"
The man shrugged. "I don't know exactly, Sire. He ordered men to be put on every spot that has a good view of the outward land the morning right after the raid, and so far nobody has shown up out of Dunland."
They plodded on, and as Éomer had expected, after a few yards the large valley that held the village opened below them. Cursing under his breath, Éomer reined in his mount. Instead of the wide circle of small wooden houses around the open space that sloped down to the river there was almost nothing but charred beams. Every single house close to the surrounding forest had been burned down, leaving only a few buildings in the vicinity of the riverbank unharmed. This did not look as if somebody had searched for something, and for something he would not have liked to be damaged to boot. This looked as if there had been no aim save utter destruction of the village and its inhabitants. His gaze sought Airik, but the Dunlending did not heed him, staring down on the sad debris that once had been her home.
Close to where the streamlet plunged into the Isen downriver of the village several tents had been set up, horses were tethered close to the forest edge and a few Riders in Sigward's colours could be seen, pottering around. It needed a closer look to spot the few women here and there. Éomer gritted his teeth. Sigward had said that only Airik's grandmother and a girl had been killed, but how many of them had come away unscathed from a blaze like this?
Slowly they rode down into the valley, nobody saying a word. Eorlingas and Dunlendings alike assembled in the glade between the burned houses and the river, looking at them expectantly. Quite a number of them sported bandages, and as Éomer approached he beheld traces of the fire on them: blackened spots on their clothing, singed hair, cut off in some cases, giving their owners a strange look, and blisters and burned skin on more than a few faces and hands.
They dismounted, and even before Torhtsige could greet his king, a middle-aged woman rushed forwards, throwing her arms around Airik, and burying her head on the younger woman's shoulder, wailed out her sorrow.
"They went for the Great Mother first."
Éomer had not noticed that Gamling had stepped up at his side, but now he nodded for the old man to continue his translation.
"They set the house on fire and Ichamordna tried to drag out the Great Mother, but they shot her."
The woman now wept in Airik's arms, and the old man sighed. "From what she says it seems that always someone stayed with the crone. And if I understood correctly, it should have been this woman, but as her younger child was sick, her elder daughter went in her stead. Poor thing. Do you remember the little girl who distributed the left-over oats to the other kids? What a shame to have her die like that."
Éomer blinked. A girl of perhaps twelve, commanding the almost starved children of the village to line up, the smallest one first, dealing out small handfuls of dry oats, oats stuffed greedily into hungry mouths... Ichamordhna… A girl younger than his daughter, killed as she tried to help an old woman… No...Because she tried to help an old women to escape from her burning house.
He breathed deeply as the cold flame of wrath rose within him. Whoever had done this would pay for it!
Somewhere close, Torhtsige cleared his throat. Eomer turned to face him. He knew Sigward's son well, a man in his late forties, a level-headed fellow and an acknowledged warrior. Being of the more brawny build typical of the Westfold, he stood at least half a head shorter than most men of the Eastfold, but his broad shoulders and huge hands did not leave any doubt as to his strength. His open face did not hide his concern, though it looked a bit strange, with one side of the man's thick beard having been singed off almost to the ruddy skin. Acknowledging him, Éomer clasped his shoulder.
"Westu, Torhtsige, hal. Your father gave me a report on what had happened, but I had not expected things to be so grave. Have you lost any men?"
Torhtsige shook his head. "No, Sire, fortunately not. But we have a number of wounded, and two of them caught quite a packet." He motioned with his head towards a tent near the stream. "Those Dunlendings are quite skilled in treating wounds, but they don't speak our language. If I understood them correctly, there was some kind of poison on the arrowheads."
"You don't have anybody who speaks the language?"
Torhtsige shook his head. "None of the younger men do, save for a handful of catchwords. There lived some old people in Landbúnes who did, but with the river being poisoned they left for Baeccotlif and Céapham." He shrugged. "My father is quite fluent, and my mother knows some of their gibberish, but myself I've never bothered to learn it."
Éomer motioned to Gamling. "Give the women some more time to talk amongst themselves, and then ask Airik to gather those who she thinks willing and able to report in detail what happened. And ask her if anything can be done for the poisoned men."
He turned again to Torhtsige. "And first of all I would like to hear everything that happened."
The Westfolder nodded. "Let's sit somewhere in the shade. I'm afraid I can't offer you any ale, but probably that would not taste well anyway with what I have to tell."
They went a few yards towards the river, where some logs had been arranged around what seemed to be a kind of camp kitchen. Éomer gave the logs a scrutinising look, but Torhtsige pointed to an awning a little further down. "That's my headquarters at the moment." He grinned. "Not more than a canvas roof and a cot, but it provides some shade and lies right in the draft from the river. "
Éomer sat down on the cot, taking the mug of cool water Torhtsige offered him and waited until the other man had sat down on the log that obviously had to serve as stool or table, depending on what was necessary. Torhtsige poured himself a mug of water and then started his report.
"Well, there had been some trouble with a quite large pack of wolves, harassing the flocks of sheep on the hills below Trihyrne. I had sent out men to spot their lair, and when they had found out, I took twenty men of my father's household to hunt them down once and for all and dig out their den to also get the young ones they probably had. We were quite successful in the beginning, but then the rain set in, slowing us down and thus spoiling things a bit. So in the end we were coming down the slope perhaps two hours before sunrise."
He pointed to the opposite bank where a little to the north a broad path led up into the hills. "And that was when we saw fire flaring up on the other bank. And while we still were wondering what was going on, if for example it was some kind of bonfire the women had kindled, there was the horn call. And then more fires were lit, and we dashed down the hill and crossed the river. It's not very deep at the moment a little upriver, what with the snowmelt being over, and there also in a sandbar reaching far into the main channel where a stream flows into it. As we had been hunting none of us wore mail which also helped, and I deem it did not take us more than half an hour to reach the village. We thought they had been attacked by a gang of orcs, some bastards who escaped the wrath of the Ents, and I was truly gobsmacked when taking on the raiders we found out they were Hillmen. Well, and then the women entered the fray."
He grimaced admiringly. "They truly have some guts and I cannot but bow to their courage. But nevertheless I'm afraid some of the attackers escaped in the turmoil and the dark."
Éomer nodded. "I am sure you did what could be done, Torhtsige. But your father told me that you took some of them captive. Where are you keeping them?"
The Westfolder pointed to a small shed near the river. "Seems to have been used to store nets and fishing lines. The thing still stinks of fish from a distance. Some of the women are watching them, and I'm more than sure that none of the swine will get out of here alive." He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. "I would not like to be in their place. It was hard to keep the women from burning them alive."
Taking a big gulp of water, he continued. "Well, I had my scouts search the surroundings as soon as it was light enough and then sent a messenger to my father. And the rest you know, for he immediately took off himself to inform you."
He scratched his scorched beard. "Where is he anyway? Has he not come with you?"
Éomer shook his head. "Your father may still be a fast and dour Rider, Torhtsige, but one could see he was feeling his age when he arrived at the Hornburg after such a speedy journey. Lady Egefride convinced him to stay, telling him his horse needed the rest."
Chuckling, Sigward's son shook his head. "She truly is a clever one and knows how to handle a curmudgeon like my father. But I think he would have stayed anyway, for he was simply bursting with curiosity about your queen and wanted to get to know her. She came with you to the Hornburg, didn't she?"
"She did. And she was as eager to get to know him." Éomer grinned, thinking of Lothíriel's reasons for wanting to meet old Sigward.
Any further remarks were forestalled by Airik and Gamling stepping into the shade of the awning. Torhtsige immediately ordered some of his men to fetch two more logs, and seeing that there were no other cups, Éomer handed his mug to the Dunlending. Nodding her acknowledgement, she emptied it and then heaved a breath.
"Women tell same Sigward tell. Raiders come, Horseman saw them in forest. Horn woke women."
She pointed to the scarred beams near the forest. "Houses empty. All women sleep in houses near river. Women try run. Raiders burn house of Airik mother-mother. Shoot Ichamordhna, burn Ilagem Aretim. Women will burn raiders. But first Airik make them talk."
Éomer nodded. "Have you already had a look at the captives?"
The Dunlending shook her head. "No. But women tell Airik, no men from village. Other tribes, other clans. From north, other side of ..." Not knowing the word she waved angrily in the approximate reaction.
"Gap," Gamling suggested.
Airik nodded. "North of gap. Tribe not go north. Go west, go to big river." She held her cup out for Sigward to refill it. "All young men." For a moment it looked as if she wanted to spit, but then thought better of it. "No warriors."
Éomer met her gaze. North of the gap. That meant upriver, north of the Fords. Close to Acwuld's perhaps? But he did not know of any Dunlending village between the Fords and the wizard's valley. Perhaps further up in the mountains?
A sudden turmoil near the edge of the forest took his attention. Torhtsige jumped up. From between the charred remains of the houses a small group emerged: a young woman and two of Torhtsige's men, frogmarching a third one, who, given his garment and colour, could be easily identified as a Dunlending.
The girl shouted something, causing the captured man to raise his head. A half-stifled cry made Éomer look at Airik. Her face ashen, she stared at the man and for a moment Éomer feared she might faint. Then she drew a ragged breath, and squaring her shoulders, she rose, her face a stony mask.
The girl's shouts had caught everybody's attention, and a number of women now approached the group, exclaiming angrily. And then something small was thrown. A stone, Éomer realised as the impact split the captive's lip, causing blood to gush down his bearded chin. As if a sluice of wrath had been opened the women now advanced on the captive. More stones flew, some – ill-aimed – hitting one of Torhtsige's men.
"Etsitamats!"
Just as Éomer was moving forwards to intervene, Airik's voice rose over the din, clear and commanding. Her head held high, she strode up to the group. Had he ever had any doubts who was the true leader of this forsaken village they would have been cleared that very moment. Reluctantly the women dropped whatever they had picked up to throw and made room for her.
"It ethape?"
Again the demanding tone. Admiring, Éomer pursed his lips. What a display of willpower so short after the first shock at the sight of the prisoner!
The girl reported, the glee in her voice more than obvious. Éomer could not see Airik's expression, as her back was turned towards him, but the man's reaction was more than interesting, for the feeling that showed on his face was clearly utter disbelief.
"Gamling!"
In a low voice Éomer called the Rider to his side. The old man immediately knew what was requested. "She's telling how the men spied the bastard, who was lurking near the ridge and how she helped them to catch him, luring him into a convenient spot for him to be captured. She's mightily proud of herself."
When the girl finished her tale, the captive shook his head and uttered some sentences that earned him a barrage of angry shouts from the women.
Gamling snorted. "The bloke claims he thought the village had been attacked by us. But they are telling him where he can stuff his untruthful accusations."
Thoughtfully, Éomer looked at the man's face. He had to be a very good actor to appear as baffled as he did. And there was something in the man's bearing that contradicted any thought of falsehood, though Éomer was not sure what exactly it was. The Dunlending was quite a young man, not older than thirty at the most, a slender figure, about a hand-width shorter than the men at his side, but his arms, left bare by the soft chamois jerkin he wore, sported distinct muscles. His brown hair was cut at chin-length and he had a close-cropped beard of the same colour. Right now he was staring at Airik as if she was a ghost, and then he closed his eyes, shaking his head.
"Airik," Éomer stepped up beside her, motioning with his head towards the captive. "Tell him we have captives to prove the truth."
The man's eyes flew open. His look left no doubt that he knew who was standing in front of him, but after a split second of shock he drew himself up, as far as that was possible in the iron grip of his capturers.
"There is no need for a translation. I speak the language of the Horsemen."
Éomer kept his expression closed. So probably this was the spokesman Airik had defended so firmly. That would certainly explain her reaction when first spotting him. But why had he turned up right now? Éomer looked the Dunlending straight into the eye. The man's gaze never wavered, and Éomer finally spoke.
"Good, so you will be able to answer my questions. And believe me, I have a lot of them."
Annotations:
Cyning: (Rohirric/Old English) king
Ichamordhna: (Dunlendic/Greek backwards) Andhromachi
etsitamats: (Dunlendic/Greek backwards) stamatiste – stop it (plural)
it ethape: (Dunlendic/Greek backwards) ti epathe – what happened
Who's Who? (Thanwen universe)
Éomer: King of the Riddermark, said to have a tendency to fly off the handle
Lothíriel: Queen of the Riddermark, for good reason called scipflota cwen (pirate princess) by her husband
Éothain: the king's friend and captain of the royal guard
Eorthwela: Éothain's wife
Erkenbrand: Marshal of the Westfold
Egefride: his mother, a clever old woman, knows Dunlendic
Leofwaru: his wife, a sweet-tempered lady, but not the brightest candle on the cake
Sigward, lord of Trihyrne: Erkenbrand's father in law
Torhtsige: Sigward's son
Frithuhelm: a young farmer (widowed), the gentle giant of the Mark who can get quite ungentle if need be
Osláfa: his second wife ( Acwuld's widow ) has three children and is some years older than Frithuhelm
Gudram (10), Stanfleda (6), Eadger (2): Osláfa's children
Wulfrun: (in "Winds" her name was Arild, but I changed that because otherwise there would have been too many names starting with an A .) Acwuld's mother; not the most lovable contemporary, to say the least
Acwuld: farmer, killed by Saruman's orcs, Frithuhelm's former friend and neighbour
Stapa: Frithuhelm's horse, partly cold-blooded and well-trained
Alfric: an old Westfold Rider, knows a few things about leechcraft; a friend of Frithuhelm
Brūn: Alfric's horse
Ulger: captain of a Westfold border patrol
Airik: Dunlending, taken hostage by Éomer in the last winter, clever, ruthless and famous for her bad temper
Umirok: her baby-daughter