A big thank you goes to everybody reading and reviewing. Anon: I hope this chapter has enough of Airik, though she certainly is not a wise and motherly leader. ;-)
I'd also like to thank Lialathuveril for her support and Lady Bluejay for taking the trouble of beta-reading.
Clouds over Isen
Chapter 12
The Spokesman
"Well, and that was when I saw the last of the disk." Stretching his legs in the shade of the reed-covered awning in front of the cottage, Alfric finished the tale of his ride to plead for mercy on Airik's behalf. Osláfa refilled his cup.
"And the king really gave it to Airik?"
The old Rider shrugged. "He did, though I'm not sure at all if he let her keep it. You see, when they went forth to the village I saw the satchel tied to his saddle horn. And why should that be if the disk was not in it?"
Frithuhelm grimaced and immediately winced at the pain it caused to his bruised face. "He'll probably use it as a carrot to dangle in front of her, if it really means as much to her as you think."
Having raised his cup halfway to his mouth, Alfric stopped. "I told you, she simply lost it when she saw it."
Thoughtfully, Frithuhelm reached for the cup his wife had put in front of him. "It's a pity he hoofed you out then. But I think there are things the high and mighty don't want any commoners to know about."
Alfric scratched his chin. "I'm not sure, lad. It rather seemed as if he wanted us to clear out to spare her the embarrassment. She's a mighty proud one, as you well know."
Giving but a grunt, Frithuhelm shifted his weight to be able to breathe more comfortably and winced as the cut on his hip started to smart. He clenched his teeth. He should have stayed abed and not insisted in sitting outside while Alfric told the news. With a worried expression, his wife rose. How did the woman always notice when there was something bothering him?
"Do you want to lie down? Or shall I get you another cushion?"
He wearily raised his hand.
"Sit down, dear. It's just a slight twinge."
From the pond the joyful voices of the children could be heard, drawing his glance over to where all three of them, naked as the day they had been born, were busy giving Alfric's mount a well-deserved wash down. The horse stood up to his belly in the shallows, little Eadger perched high on the broad back, pouring water from a wooden bowl his sister immediately refilled for him, while Gudram was using the curry comb on the gelding's mud-caked hind quarters. Following the direction of his gaze, Osláfa sighed.
"Do you really think it's safe, Frithuhelm?"
Smiling, Frithuhelm reached for her hand. "Láfa, they have been doing this to Stapa over and over again and you never worried." He winked at her. "I thought you were from the Eastemnet."
Shaking her head, she pulled away her hand. "Brun is not Stapa, you oaf. He's not used to the children's antics and..."
Alfric laughed. "Peace, Láfa. I swear he'll not harm them. He's a good fellow, and anyway he's much too tired to cause any ruckus. And as for Stapa: Erkenbrand promised to send him over the moment he's back at the burg. So given the weather holds, we'll be able to get all the peat under roof in no time. I'll make a drag first thing tomorrow morning and off we go." He pointed to the top of the small hillock he had crested on his way. "There are some straight young birches not far from here right on the path, they'll do splendidly. And the boy can bring the goats over there while I'm at it and let them graze in the brushwood. Will do them good and not be so boring for the lad as his usual day." The old Rider grinned. "And it will also keep him from whining that I'm taking the girl along.
"You don't have to put up with the children, Alfric, it ..."
The old Rider shook his head. "Never you worry, lass. I love some company and I need someone to help me barking some withies to tie the poles for the drag. Many hands make light work, even if they are small."
There was a high pitched shriek from the pond, followed by a loud splash as little Eadger toppled over and fell head first into the pond. With a stifled cry Osláfa jumped up, but Alfric caught her arm.
"No need to worry, Láfa. Stanfleda has already got him."
In fact the girl had matter-of-factly grabbed her little brother, who was now sputtering and squirming in her arms, eager to get back on the horse that had stood in all the hubbub as if carved of stone.
Even if it pained, Frithuhelm risked a grin. "Told you so. Brun enjoys a little attention."
Shaking her head, Osláfa sat down again. "He certainly deserves some attention, but Eadger cannot swim yet."
Alfric shrugged. "With the girl being close, he doesn't need to, Láfa. But perhaps I had better tell them to finish grooming before Brun falls asleep in the pond." He sniffed the air that wafted over from the outdoor hearth. "Smells good. What is it you're cooking?"
Osláfa sighed. "Onion stew. And I hope everybody is hungry enough to down it as I had no salt to season it. But we can have some ripe cheese with it, that should add some taste."
Now it was Alfric's turn to jump up. "Oh bugger, I almost forgot. I told Gamling to tell Airik that you need salt if he has a chance to talk to her alone on the way to the village, but I stored up a bit myself before I left the Fords."
Walking over to where he had put his saddle upside down to let it dry, he picked up the bundle he had had strapped behind his saddle. Grinning, he unwrapped it and put a small canvas sack on the table. "Here you are, lass. Salt, as much as I dared to take."
With trembling fingers, Osláfa opened the sack and then shook her head in disbelief. "That must have cost you a fortune, Alfric. We ..."
The old Rider shook his head. "Not a mouldy penny."
"You're kidding."
Alfric grinned. "Not at all. You see, when I told the cook that I was to have my rations and be off, the lazy sod could not be bothered to move his arse and told me to supply myself, which I did."
Osláfa could not stop shaking her head. "I bet you left the garrison without salt."
The old Rider merely shrugged. "Not really. But when I was looking for a clean cloth to transport my booty in I found this, hidden away behind a stack of towels." Triumphantly he placed a goodly piece of streaky bacon on the table. "Pilfering the pilferer, that's the way I like it. And the bastard cannot complain about it without giving away that he pinched it first."
The meal proved a veritable feast and with the effect of the mug of meadowsweet he had had with it setting slowly in, for the first time after the events at Acwuld's Frithuhelm felt a kind of ease washing over him. Perhaps Osláfa was right; perhaps they were really able to make it. But for now he knew he had to lie down to be able to heal as fast as possible. He made to rise, and immediately Alfric was at his side.
"I had better tuck our big boy in. Come on Frithuhelm, I'll give you a hand."
Standing up was more difficult than Frithuhelm had expected. A sudden fit of dizziness accosted him and he was grateful for the old Rider's shoulder to lean on.
Alfric grunted. "Easy, handsome. Just breathe. We're not in a hurry. You tell me when you feel ready to march. And no false heroism, you hear? I may be able to support you big clod, but I won't be able to pick you up once you fall over."
As soon as he lay on the bed Frithuhelm felt much better. The dull pain in his head had almost stopped, the shoulder was giving him no problems and only the graze at the hip was throbbing a bit. If only those dratted flies would stop buzzing around! He breathed deep and willed himself to calm down and doze. From outside Osláfa's and Alfric's voices drifted in, talking about different tasks they wanted to set about the next days. He yawned. It was good for her to have company, especially as that company was someone like Alfric: tough and yet friendly and always someone to ease people's worries. And sometimes Osláfa worried too much. As if to affirm his thoughts, he heard his wife's next remark.
"We surely are happy to have your help, Alfric, but now I must make a bed for you and..."
The old Rider laughed. "No need to fuss, Láfa. I'll sleep right here under the awning tonight, a better place than many I've had a kip in my life, I'd say. And tomorrow afternoon when we'll go for the peat we'll certainly pass some heather to get what I need for a cosy bed. Blankets I have, I'll just need some rope to tie things up properly."
"There should be a length on the peg..."
Still grinning, Frithuhelm fell asleep.
ooooo
Having resumed his seat on Torhtsige's cot, Éomer scrutinized the Dunlending who sat on the ground across from him, flanked by the two men who had captured him. The man's bewilderment was obvious, as were his desperate efforts to get Airik's attention, but she seemed to simply look through him, her eyes flat as stones. Keeping his own expression and voice equally blank, Éomer started the interrogation.
"So you claim it was the Eorlingas who attacked the village?"
At being addressed, the Dunlending blinked and then slowly shook his head. "Seeing how the women treat you and hearing what they say..." He stopped and shrugged. "I was told you raided the village, burnt it down and killed all the inhabitants." Again his gaze sought Airik's, but in vain. He heaved a breath, but when he spoke again, his voice was sober and composed. "I was worried. And therefore I came, to check if it was true." He stopped again, raising his hands in a helpless motion. "I reached the surrounding hills at noon, and had you not caught me I would have believed their tale, seeing the burnt down houses and the place swarming with Horsemen."
As doubtlessly had been their plan! It took Éomer some willpower not to let his anger show on his face. "Who told you and when?"
"This morning, as I was coming from the north-western side of the Misty Mountains, we happened upon five young men."
"We?"
The Dunlending moistened his lips. "I was with a group of other spokesmen."
What was a group of tribal spokesmen doing on the north-western side of the Misty Mountains? Not letting his misgivings show, Éomer nodded curtly.
"Go on."
"They were heading north. Two of them were wounded, though not seriously. They claimed they had been down to the Isen, to see if the river had recovered when they had seen Horsemen cross the river and attack the village."
Here a scornful snort from Airik interrupted him, almost shattering his composure. He swallowed and it took him a while before he was able to continue. "They claimed they had approached to help the women, but they had been spotted and been forced to fly after two of their group had been killed."
Though visibly still in the grip of utter dismay, the young man seemed to be eager to cooperate. Too eager perhaps in an attempt to save his own skin? And yet Éomer could not sense any hint of falsehood or slyness in the Dunlending's behaviour, just confusion, sorrow and a desperate wish to communicate something to Airik. Remembering the information she had given him, Éomer posed the next question.
"And were all those young men of the same tribe?"
For a split second the captive hesitated. "From one that settles south of the big road, further west."
Éomer frowned. "And you came from the north? That would not be their way home."
The man shook his head. "It wouldn't, but they said they were on their way to report to the wise man in the mountains and seek his counsel. My companions decided to accompany them north and bring them before the council of warriors who still lingered there."
"A council of warriors?"
The Dunlending nodded.
Éomer felt almost disappointed at having caught the captive lying. He gave him a black look. "But does not the council consist of the oldest women?"
The Dunlending did not show any surprise at Éomer's knowledge, but simply nodded again. "It does. But for negotiations between the different tribes the wise women send their spokesmen and when there is the need for action there is a council of warriors."
Quizzically Éomer looked at Airik and she lowered her head affirmatively, her expression grim.
Negotiations between the different tribes and the need for action… So something was cooking in Dunland, and Éomer was sure he did not like it one bit. For a split second he felt the urge to just grab the Dunlending by the throat and shake the truth out of him. Breathing slowly through his nose, he forced himself to stay calm. "So you were sent by the wise women of your tribe to such a meeting? A meeting of the spokesmen of the different tribes? A meeting with the council of warriors?"
The Dunlending hesitated, and then suddenly Airik spoke up in what sounded like a barked order. "Alim, akalv!"
The man blinked, opened his mouth, and shut it again. Éomer turned, to see where Gamling was to translate, but knowing the captive to speak the language of the Mark, the old Rider had retreated to the campfire and was busy scrubbing some kind of tubers. Curse the man, just when he was needed to… Éomer's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden gush of words from the captive.
Leaning forwards, his hands on his knees, he was addressing Airik in the strange Dunlendic language, repeating one of the many polysyllabic expressions again and again: "Es olakarab" or something the like.
"Shut it!"
Éothain's angry voice interrupted the breathless barrage, but instead of staying quiet, the Dunlending raised a hand to his chest, his eyes fixed on Airik, repeating what seemed to be a plead.
"Airik, es olakarab." He hesitated and then added in a low voice: "Ithna."
Éomer stared at the so addressed. Was it just him, or were the eyes of that strong-willed woman really glittering with unshed tears? He cleared his throat, fixing his eyes on the captive.
"You are not making your situation easier by chattering away in that unintelligible lingo, you know."
The man grimaced. "I know. But as I'm sure that you will kill me anyway, there are more important things for me than just to satisfy your curiosity. I don't know what you did to make the women take your side..."
For the first time Torthsige spoke, his low, calm voice not failing to impress. "What about saving them from the orcs who call themselves Hillmen and delight in killing their own people? And it's not only that, for the King of the Mark has been supporting the women and children of this village since last winter, feeding and protecting them."
The Hillman gaped. "You fed… But why?"
"The king is asking the questions here, not you!" Éothain would have added more, but Éomer silently waved him down. The Dunlending seemed willing to talk, and it certainly was worth to give him some information to make him even more cooperative. Especially as he would get that information anyway from the women.
"It was in the hardest time of winter, when six of the village youngsters crossed the Isen into the Mark to raid the granary a little upriver from here. They did not know it was guarded, and the guards did not know that the raiders were mere boys, for it was dark and they only found out when they had killed the attackers. I went to the village myself, and found women and children almost starved. I took Airik - who I believed to be the leader - hostage, promising to feed and protect her clan, and Eorl's House has ever kept their word."
The young man's jaw dropped. "Hostage? You took her with you? You..."
"O sogam sam epi atamesp." Airik's voice was brittle, but the old fire was back in her eyes. She turned to Éomer. "Tell Sitilimo about lies. Tell Sitilimo about oath. Tell Sitilimo about child your wife carries and Sitilimo will understand."
Éomer shook his head. "What did you tell him?"
Before she could answer, the captive barged in. "She said: The sorcerer told us lies. O sogam sam epi atamesp. "
Éomer heaved a breath. "That he certainly did. Cruel lies, for his monsters did what he blamed on the Eorlingas. I gave Airik into Lady Egefride's care. She's Erkenbrand of Westfold's mother and she speaks your language. But she did not understand what Airik meant when she demanded to see the Dunlendic women and accused us of having murdered them when she was told that there were no Dunlendic women except herself in the Hornburg. It was then that we learned from Airik that Saruman had told your people that we had abducted and enslaved your women, killed your children and fed them to our dogs. I told her that none of that was true and she made me take an oath on it, 'like a man' as she called it. I did, forfeiting my virility should I have told a lie. That was in winter. In spring I got married and now my wife is carrying my child."
Hiding his face in his hands, the young man shook his head. "That cannot be. It..." He stopped, looking up. His face was grey as if a deep exhaustion had come over him. "How can everything we once believed turn out to be but blatant lies and worthless fabrications? It feels like a nightmare, and I'm afraid of waking up only to find that reality is even worse."
"Then help us to find out the truth, Sitilimo."
The Dunlending heaved a sigh. "That is what I was doing on behalf of our councils up there in the Misty Mountains. And I had thought that what I had found out was bad enough, but to think it would come to anything like this." His hands made a motion that encircled the burnt houses.
Éomer shrugged. "You heard from the women what happened, you see the results of the raid."
With another sigh, the Dunlending nodded. "That I do. But still, it is unbelievable…"
Torhtsige laughed mirthlessly. "If you still don't believe it, have a look at the bastards we caught at it."
"Yes!" Airik's eyes blazed. "Airik go, see swine. Sitilimo talk, Airik listen. Find out truth. Horseking keep promise." She motioned to the shepherd's satchel Éomer carried over his shoulder, and he nodded.
"I certainly will."
He turned to the captive. "Talk to the prisoners. And if need be, talk to the women and children to convince yourself that there are no machinations at work from our side. You see, this village was not the only place that was attacked, for raiders crossed the Isen further north and wounded a good man, a farmer, living on the banks of the river. Airik and I have been trying to find out who is behind those attacks and why and we have an agreement should I be able to find it out with her help."
Airik rose impatiently and Éomer followed suit, but Éothain held him back. "Will you really let him talk to the prisoners? They will be able to hatch any scheme they want to with you not understanding a word of their gibberish."
Éomer patted his friend's shoulder. "I will and they won't. Call Gamling."
Torhtsige had not exaggerated in his description of the stench, for even several yards before they reached the shed, the arrested Dunlendings were kept in, it assaulted their nostrils. And when they stood right in front of the low doorway of the windowless building the reek was simply unbearable. Being nasty in itself, the rank, fishy smell of the old nets and baskets was the less evil in the miasma, as it mixed with the reek of faeces and the nauseating stink typical of festering wounds. How could the women who stood stoically at all four corners of the shed bear it? He peeked into the dim shed but could not make out much. Four men were lying on the ground, bound and gagged as he noticed on the one closest to the doorway.
Éomer grimaced. "I'd say you'd better bring them out one by one. That way we can deal with them piecemeal without them hearing what the others have said. And without us adding our stomach contents to this jolly potpourri."
Torhtsige laughed. "I told you it stinks. And my men are more than glad that the women keep watch so they don't have to stay too close."
They walked back to the awning. And then Éomer had an idea. He moved to the back, motioning Gamling to his side. "We'll sit back here. Let Airik and that Sitilimo do the talking. But I want you to translate. Translate as precisely and fast as you can. Mind you, not just give me the gist of what they say. Savvy, old man?"
Gamling nodded.
"And something more: Keep your voice low. As low as possible. If necessary whisper in my ear. I don't want the captive to know what you tell me or that you understand at all what they say."
Gamling gave him an odd look. "Which captive? The one you have already talked to or the one that they'll fetch from the shed?"
Éomer bared his teeth in a grin. "Both. And our Dunlending wildcat, too. Now come and make yourself comfortable and let's just melt into the background."
Giving his king a short nod, Éothain - who had stood by - went to talk to Torhtsige and within no time the two of them had the logs arranged in a way that Éomer would be able to see the Dunlendings' faces during the interrogation, and then Sigward's son sat down on the cot with Éothain standing at his side, while two Riders went back to the shed to fetch the first prisoner.
It did not take them long to return, dragging a young man between them. His hands were tied at his back, and given the besmirched state of his garments, nobody had bothered to untie them those last two days. But he was able to walk, so obviously his legs had not been bound. He was wearing a jerkin, similar to Sitilimo's, but there was no tattoo on his right arm and Éomer wondered if there were other signs that would enable the two Dunlendings to tell which tribe he belonged to.
For a moment the man stood, glaring at Sitilimo and Airik, until one of the Riders brought him to his knees by a kick in his knee pit.
And then Sitilimo spoke, clear, measured and with an authority that belied his young age. Éomer nudged the old man beside him.
"He's saying..."
"Word by word, Gamling, even if it doesn't make sense to you. I'll unravel it myself."
The old man cleared his throat. "You destroyed this village, you killed its inhabitants, you took the right to judge where you have no right as they were under the judgement of… " Gamiling halted. "Don't know that one, Sire. Might be one of their gods or..."
"Go on."
Grimacing, the prisoner tried to spit on the ground, but obviously his mouth was too dry for that. Glaring at Sitilimo, he finally croaked something and Gamling hurried to translate.
"It's the crone's fault that the river is dead. She deserved to die."
Sitilimo's face and voice remained calm. "That does not give you the right to go against the decision of the council."
The remark just got him a wild laugh from the prisoner. "The council! Who makes up that council? A gaggle of half-witted crones, a bunch of old men, weak enough to be ruled by women! It's about time that things changed and change they will."
A riot within the tribes of the Hillmen? Intrigued, Éomer watched the hateful glares the ranting prisoner gave Sitilimo, while Gamling had problems keeping up with the translation.
"You'll see what you get for siding with the forsaken, with the traitors who sold us to the wizard, and who now loiter with those … " Gamling shrugged. "I don't know the last one, Sire."
Éomer grimaced impatiently. "Forget it. Go on."
But the old Rider shrugged. "I'm sorry, but it's mostly swearwords and I don't know most of them."
Fortunately for Gamling, Sitilimo decided to cut the ranting short.
"The only traitor present is you, Atsok of the beaver clan. I am the speaker of the council. And I was born in this village, so I have twice the right to bring you to justice."
He knew the bastard! Éomer smiled grimly. That would make things easier. But first of all Stiltimo's announcement caused the prisoner to go berserk.
"Traitor! I should have known you would slink back to your bitch. Speaker of the council! You're nothing but a weakling! But your time has run out! The rule of women and serfs of women will end. Glorious warriors will step up and take what is theirs. What was theirs before your crooked rule weakened our tribes."
There was a dry laugh from Airik. "Glorious warriors? All I can see is a milksop who has shit himself."
"Your clan gave us away to the Strawheads! Your clan gave away our victory losing the disk of the sky!"
Gamling gulped. "Sire! The disk! I mean..."
"Shut it and translate!" Éomer felt like shaking the old Rider, especially as the prisoner's face now took an expression of haughty glee. He needed to know what came next.
"But it has returned! Our wise leader found it, as the god of the sky himself sent him a vision where to look for it. Our wise leader is blessed by the sky. And never again the sacred disk will be touched by the unworthy hands of any female. The sky alone will rule and our wise leader will herald the will of the god and his spearheads will assert it and our people will rise to glory having shaken off the bounds of female thraldom."
Here Airik laughed out loud, and Gamling used the break to draw a breath, shaking his head in disbelief. "Béma's horn. The bloke is absolutely off his tree. I can't make head or tail of his ramblings."
Éomer grunted. "Never mind. I can. And now see to it that I get to know what she answers."
The old man swallowed. "She just told him that they'll burn him alive and that he'll have the company of his wise leader at the stake."
At that moment Sitilimo raised his hand. "Your plans have failed, Atsok. The council of warriors has already arrested your leader and there is none left of his so called spearheads."
"That's a lie!" The prisoner's voice cracked, causing Airik to laugh even louder.
"No, it's not. But what your so called leader told you is a lie. He merely used you and you were stupid enough to be used."
The prisoner screamed something Gamling did not bother to translate, but Airik went on.
"Has he ever shown you the sacred disk? Have you ever seen it in his hands?"
The prisoner gulped, and now it was Airik's voice that was filled with glee. "He has never laid his dirty paws on the disk of the sky. I know where it is, and I will take it and give it to the kingfisher clan as my grandmother should have done, and the sacred circle will be closed."
The prisoner stared at her, his mouth gaping and then suddenly he fell forward, his prone body seized with convulsions.
Annotations:
Alim, akalv: (Dunlendic/Greek backwards)mila vlaka – talk, fool
Es olakarab: (Dunlendic/Greek backwards) se barakalo - I beg you
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 . as annafan pointed out to me) 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
Airik: Dunlending, taken hostage by Éomer in the last winter, clever, ruthless and famous for her bad temper
Umirok: her baby-daughter
Sitilimo: Dunlendic spokesman
Atsok: Has nothing to do with Azok from the "Hobbit", though I liked the similarity. ;-) But it's simply the vocative of the Greek name Kostas spelled backwards.
