Anon: Thank you for your feedback. i hope you will also enjoy this chapter-

A very big THANK YOU goes to LadyBluejay for helping me with the "slings and arrows" of the English language.

Clouds Over Isen

Chapter 14

Solution of a Puzzle

"But Sitilimo has horse." Airik's voice caused the two guards to stop and look at Éomer.

The spokesman shrugged. "You would call him a pony, I suppose. Everybody in the village knows him, so if you don't believe me, ask the children."

Éothain glared at the Dunlending. "Gamling!" Signaling the old Rider to follow him, he stomped over to kitchen fire, where a group of women and children were busy, peeling bark off thin sticks.

Éomer hid a smirk. Given the Dunlending's calmness there was little chance his friend would learn anything contrary. But how would a Hillman come by a horse? He had heard about them eating horseflesh, but nobody had ever told anything about a Hillman riding. He turned to Sitilimo.

"Where did you leave your horse?"

The Dunlending looked at Torhtsige. "You know the lay of the land, don't you?"

The Westfolder nodded and Sitilimo pointed to the stream. "About half a mile upriver from here there's a small lake. On its northern bank there's a beaver lodge, and right behind it the valley opens and there's a copse of birches and alders. That's where I left him. I hobbled him, fearing he would follow me otherwise and give me away as he had already noticed that we were nearing home." He paused and shot Airik a self-conscious look, but her expression remained deadpan and he continued. "You can send someone to fetch him. He's very friendly and tame." A faint smile crept into his face. "Send a child, and he'll come eagerly for he knows and loves them."

Éomer nodded at Torhtsige, and the Westfolder ordered two men to fetch the horse, telling them to take some children, if any were willing to accompany them, and the two strolled off towards the fire, just as Éothain was coming back with a face like a thundercloud.

Towering over the Dunlending, he asked for the horse's name. Sitilimo smiled. "Irékolak, that's Summer in your language."

With a grunt, Éothain slumped down on one of the logs. "The bloke seems to have told the truth. All of the midgets know the animal and immediately started to yak about it. Gamling didn't stand a chance of translating all they wanted to tell me."

And from the hubbub that rose at that moment at the fire it was obvious that all children wanted to go to fetch the horse. In the end the women chose two of the older ones who trotted off grinning triumphantly, the two Riders in tow.

Torhtsige turned to Éomer. "Well, that means we'll have to wait for quite a while to get his claim confirmed. What about looking in at the wounded in the meantime? I don't know what the women tried to tell me about some poison and I would very much like to find out."

Sitilimo made to rise, but Éomer waved him down. "Not you. There are some more questions I would like you to answer."

Airik rose, passing her head and one arm through the strap of the shepherd's satchel.

"Airik go." With a grin she jerked her head in Gamling's direction. "And old man come too, listen what Airik say and tell Horseking later."

She went without another glance at anybody and Éomer did not fail to notice the spokesman's disappointment. If he only knew for sure why the man was so desperate to talk to her, or rather, if he could only trust his own assumptions! But first things first. His face not giving away anything, he addressed the Dunlending.

"How did you come by a horse? Or a pony as you said."

Éothain laughed mirthlessly. "What do you think, Éomer King? Some raid on some hapless traveller or outlying farmstead to be sure. It just beats me that the poor beast did not end up in the pot."

The Dunlending shook his head. "It's not one of your horses, and you'll see for yourselves when they bring him in. I found him on the other side of the grey river, in the ruins of the big town the men of Stoningland call Tharbad."

"You have been at Tharbad?" There seemed to be endless surprises in store with that Hillman!

Sitilimo nodded. "Eight years ago I was chosen as the spokesman of the tribe. Becoming a spokesman means that you have to make the rounds of all the tribes, so everybody comes to know you and your position. I wandered for several months and I saw the grey river for the first time. It had been a dry summer and the river had a very low water level, and so I could clearly make out the fording upriver of the broken bridge. Intrigued by the still impressive buildings, I crossed, and when roaming the ruins I found the horse lying in the shade of a huge doorway. He sported a large wound on his rump…

"Hindquarters", Éothain grumbled.

The Dunlending blinked and then nodded, smiling faintly. "Hindquarters, if you say so. There was no saddle or blanket on him, just a simple halter to which a torn rope was attached. He seemed weak but did not shy away when I came closer and even let me touch him."

"Must have been really weak not to fly from a Dunlending." Éothain seemed intent on staying as grumpy as possible, but Sitilimo did not rise to the bait.

"I had a closer look at the wound. There were three deep gashes, swarming with maggots, but strange enough the wound did not stink as one would expect and there was no pus at all."

Remembering an incident in his youth, Éomer nodded. "Yeah, I have seen the like. Seems that some maggots live on that nasty stuff and thus keep wounds clean." He turned to Éothain. "Do you remember the colt on our first tour with Ceadda, sorting the yearlings?"

The captain grunted something unintelligible, visibly unwilling to admit that anything the Dunlending said made sense, and Sitilimo continued.

"I took him water."

"How did you do that? Been wandering around with a bucket?"

Éomer was torn between laughing at his captain's crabbiness and just clouting him along the head. Opposite him Torhtsige was visibly fighting the urge to grin.

The Dunlending raised his eyebrows but did not show any other sign that he felt annoyed by Éothain's rude remarks. "No, but with my hood. Our women know to make rainproof gear and there is nothing like such a hood if you want to keep the rain from flowing down your neck."

Éothain gave a grunt, and as calm as ever, Sitilimo spoke on.

"Well, I went several times to the river, and he drank without hesitation, and after that I collected grass and leaves and some of the herbs that I knew were good for sick sheep." Looking pointedly at Éothain, who was grumbling under his breath but refraining from making any further remarks, he added: "You see, I had never dealt with a horse before."

The confession earned him a derisive snort from the captain, but though the Dunlending paused for a moment, obviously waiting for further comments, Éothain kept his mouth shut and after a while Sitilimo went on with his tale.

"I expected his owners to follow him if they had survived whatever had attacked the horse but I did not dare to venture forth too far from the ruins, armed with nothing but a knife as I did not know how far the horse had run and from what. I realised though that the wounds were at least several days old and must have been caused by the claws of some great beast."

"But how could you be on a lengthy journey as you said unarmed like that? That's idiotic."

Looking Éothain in the eye, the Dunlending shrugged. "It's our tradition. A spokesman does not carry a weapon nor will he tell any lie. So people do not have to fear him when he comes to their villages. Nobody will attack him and they will give him food and shelter and let him leave again unharmed, even if the council of their clan does not agree with what the spokesman has to say."

Slowly and carefully, Éomer took a deep breath. Who would have thought that those savages had such a refined system of rules and traditions! And no doubt the position of a spokesman was one of importance. For a split second he wondered what rank in the Riddermark it would correspond with, but his attention was deflected as Sitilimo continued.

"The horse could stand the next morning, but getting back his strength took time. As the wounds seemed to be clean and did not fester, I merely watched them and they healed well though slowly. And then, two sennights later, clouds rolled in, heralding a change of weather. I feared that I would not be able to cross the river after a heavy rainfall and so I went down to the ford and the horse followed me, as he had always done when I had led him to drink. Well, and then I simply took the rope and led him across, and he seemed content."

"Did you ride him?" Torhtsige's voice was absolutely neutral.

The Dunlending shook his head. "No. I was too worried about his still healing wounds. And anyway I was not sure how to proceed, having not sat a horse before. When he was completely healed I made him carry things though.

"And how did you learn to ride?"

Though the Westfolder's voice and face hinted at nothing like Éothain's resentment, Éomer felt certain that the man was as keen as a hound to pick on any inconsistency Sitilimo might utter. Hiding a grin, he leaned back, carefully watching the interrogation play out.

"How I learned to ride?" The Dunlendig shrugged. "It was a very slow process and took me quite a time. About a month after I had returned to the village I started to see if he would tolerate me riding him. First I simply lay across his back, ready to slip off should he show any signs of discomfort. Only after another sennight did I try to sit on him."

Torhtsige nodded understandingly. "But you had no saddle, had you?"

"Only a blanket." A slightly sheepish grin flitted over the Dunlending's features. "And I only learned to put that on his back after having my legs grazed in the beginning."

The Westfolder chuckled. "And what about a bit?"

"A bit?" Sitilomo's face clearly showed his lack of understanding.

"A snaffle, a bridle. A headgear with a metal construction that fits in the horse's mouth so you can direct him." Not able or rather not willing to control his impatience any longer, Éothain barged in on the discussion.

The Dunlending shook his head. "There was nothing like that on him when I found him; only the halter I told you of.

"And how do you direct him then?" Torhtsige's voice was calm, but it did not escape Éomer that the Westfolder's big hands clutched into fists.

Sitilimo shrugged. "By talking to him, by clicking my tongue. And also with my knees, for example if I want him to move forward. And then there is shifting my weight…. There are a lot of things he understands, things he probably had been trained to understand before he was attacked. I just had to find out how he reacted to what." The Dunlending smiled widely at the Westfolder. "I have to admit it took me almost two years until I was sure that there would not be any misunderstanding between us."

Torhtsige's huge hands opened slowly and Éomer looked over to Éothain, realising immediately that his friend had been observing the man as well. He grinned at him behind the Westfolder's broad back. If the Hillman had not lied to them about where to find his horse in the first place, they were in for a true performance. Now all they had to do was wait.

Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw Airik and Gamling emerge from the tent at the edge of the wood and walk over to the kitchen fire. For a short while she talked to the women assembled there and then returned to the tent while the old man resumed his seat at the fire. A woman put a small three-legged iron pot over the edge of the fire, while two others continued winding thinly cut slices of meat around the barked sticks which they then put on a kind of rack hanging on a tripod over the embers. Soon the smell of roasting meat wafted over. Éomer's stomach stared to grumble in anticipation, earning him a snort from his friend and captain.

And then the young woman Torhtsige had pointed out to them earlier rose and came over to them, carrying a small wooden plate. When she was close enough, Éomer saw that it held three thin slices of roe liver, crusty and well fried on the edges and still pinkish and moist-looking in the middle. Fried onions and some bulbs of garlic were added, and a tiny heap of coarsely-grained salt. A surely mouthwatering meal. Smiling, she held the treat just a hand's width before Torhtsige's face, and said something, raising her eyebrows quizzically. The Westfolder looked genuinely puzzled, while Sitilimo obviously fought to hide his grin. Seeing that she was getting nowhere, the woman turned to the spokesman, and he nodded and then addressed the Westfolder.

"She says she is thankful, for you saved her little sister-son. And she bids me tell you she is sorry that you singed your beard doing so. And she offer's you your share of the buck's life to give you health and vigour."

Before Torhtsige could say anything, Éothain raised his hand. "Just wait a moment, spokesman. All that's well and good, but why in Morgoth's name are the plonker's over there at the fire grinning like mad and eyeing the man as if they expect him to sprout a second head any moment or at least do something similarly entertaining?"

Sitilimo smiled. "You are an observant man. Let me explain: liver is regarded a special dish as it holds much blood and thus life and therefore it is normally given to growing children and the sick..."

"What?" Torhtsige looked truly miffed, but the Dunlending raised his hand. "Let me finish, Horseman. As I said, it holds life. So if a woman gives a piece of liver to a grown man, she signals that she wants him to be strong and prove his… ability."

Torhtsige stared at the plate. He gulped. "So if I accept the dish..."

Sitilimo nodded. "You accept to share her bed."

Doubling over laughing, Éothain almost fell off his log. "No wonder your men are mightily excited, Torhtsige. I'm sure Gamling has explained everything at great length. Well, enjoy your meal, man, for everybody will envy you doubly."

Torhtsige looked quizzically at the woman and then at the plate. "And do I interfere with any of your traditions if I accept? I mean, do I promise anything to her if I agree?"

Now the Dunlending laughed openly. "Nothing more than that you will do your very best tonight."

A slow smile spread over the Westfolder's face, and with a nod to the woman, he took one of the slices and bit off a mouthful. Smiling, she put the plate on his knee, and turning on her heel, she went back to the fire, the sway of her hips just a tiny bit more pronounced than before. Sigward's men welcomed her with wolf whistles and a barrage of suggestive remarks to which she paid no heed, turning back to cooking the meal. Encouraged by the general atmosphere, one of the younger men grabbed her rump when she bent over to turn the meat. Without even looking behind her, she kicked out, hitting the culprit right in the stomach and sending him sprawling. Éomer chuckled. A feisty one, Torhtsige had said, and that she truly was.

"Ceorl!" Torhtsige's voice bellowed over the village green and the man raised his head, trying a sheepish grin. Lazily the Westfolder raised the slice of liver. "Hands off, lad, or I'll have your balls for afters."

The man nodded, adding to the mirth of the others, and Torhtsige turned his attention back to his meal. Having downed the first slice, he reached for the next one with a happy sigh. "If the rest is as good as her cooking, I'll say it's a pity we did not sooner find an agreement with the Hillmen."

They sat for a while in silence, drinking water from the wooden mugs while the Westfolder finished his meal. Finally Torhtsige put down the empty plate and rose. "I'll go and see what Airik found out. With the help of Gamling it should not be too great a problem, especially as I'm not foremost interested in Dunlendic swearwords."

He went over to the fire, and soon he was in a lively conversation with the women.

Éothain chuckled. "We'll probably find him singeing off the other half of his beard tomorrow morning to get the treat repeated."

Reaching out, Éomer rapped his knuckles on the back of his friend's head. "It's time that you started to use your brains, dolt, before you open that big mouth of yours."

One of the women at the fire rose, and carrying two small bowls, she went over to the tent. As if on clue, Airik showed up in the entrance, taking one of the bowls, before both women disappeared inside. Sitilimo heaved a sigh.

"It feels odd to behold how well you care for Airik's clan and yet to notice that herself you almost starved." He turned to Éomer. "Why?"

Before Éomer could answer, Éothain forestalled him. "That's none of our doing. Erkenbrand's mother tried everything to convince her to eat and I assure you she was offered the best the Hornburg could provide, but she never ate more than absolutely necessary."

The Dunlending did not look convinced. "Perhaps your food did not agree with her?"

Éomer shrugged. "Egefride knows that white foods do not agree with most of the Hillmen and she certainly took care that nothing containing milk or cheese was given to Airik. No, Sitilimo, it was her free choice to stint herself like that."

Thoughtfully, the Dunlending turned the mug in his hands. "Perhaps she was afraid of being poisoned?"

"Nah!" Éothain shook his head vehemently. "I don't think so, for then she would not have let us feed the child." He grinned. "Quite a bundle of joy the mite has become these last months."

"Child?" Sitilimo looked flabbergasted. "What child?"

It looked as if Éothain needed all his willpower not to roll his eyes. "Her daughter. Umirok."

The Dunlending's face froze and then his hand went to his belt, clutching to a white-knuckled fist when it met the empty sheath. His chest heaved with a laboured breath. He glared at Éothain.

"She has a child, you say? And did you say Usirok?"

"Whoa, Hillman!" It was now Éothain's turn to glare. "Listen before you start to spit venom. Umirok, I said, not Usirok."

"You damned..."

Leaping forwards, the Dunlending tried to get at Éothain, but Éomer grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit back on the log. "Stop it, the two of you."

Éothain folded his arms in front of his chest. "Wonderful. That dolt talks drivel, and I'm told to stop it."

The Riders at the fire looked over alerted, but Éomer waved them down. Still towering over Sitilimo, he shook his head. "I don't know what made you fly off the handle like that, for I heard nothing in my captain's speech that carried any insult. I expect you to explain your conduct."

The Dunlending stared sullenly at the ground. "Your captain said that Airik had a child..."

Éomer nodded. "And that's true. When I came here in winter and saw her for the first time the girl was almost starved, but with the help of Frithuhelm's patience and his goat's milk she was cockered up."

The Dunlending raised his head, frowning with disbelief. "She had a child in winter?"

Éomer nodded, and the Dunlending looked over at the still smouldering Éothain.

"But why did he then call the child Umirok?"

"Why do you think? Because that's what Airik told us was her name."

Éothain's voice dripped with sarcasm, and Éomer felt his hand itching to knock him over the head again. Why did his otherwise so clever friend not realise the obvious? Resuming his seat on the cot, Éomer shook his head. "Stop being a sorehead, Éothain! I'm sure there is a misunderstanding." He turned to Sitilimo, nodding encouragingly. "Well?"

The young man heaved a breath. "Umirok...It...it's not a name."

"Not a name?" Éothain frowned. "But that's what Airik calls her and what everybody therefore calls her."

Slowly the Dunlending shook his head. "It's a Dunlendic expression. Um irok." He swallowed. "It means: my daughter."

"Béma's horse! So you thought the mite was..." Éothain's face turned scarlet with embarrassment.

Sitilimo nodded. "You said Airik had a child and it was your daughter. That's why I asked you."

Éothain groaned. "Eorthwela would have nailed my balls over the barn door! Let me guess. If um means my, us means your?"

Again the Dunlending nodded, his face pale now. Grabbing his knees with both hands as if to keep himself from jumping up, he glanced over to the tent into which Airik had disappeared. And then all of a sudden he turned to Éomer.

"How old was the child when you first saw her?"

Éomer shrugged. "The women said she was not older than three months. It was in the dead of winter, that makes her about a year now."

For a moment the Dunlending stared into nothingness and then he heaved a sigh. "So she was probably born in the month of the raven, seven months after we left the clan of the sturgeon to their fate." His voice was brittle and his eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. "She must have known she was with child by then, but she never told me."

Éomer cleared his voice. "She is a strong-willed woman and she must have known that it would have made a parting more difficult for you."

"More difficult?" Siltilimo shook his head. "It would have made it impossible, no matter that my sisters were depending on my support. I would not have been able to leave for it would have torn me apart. I would have lost my honour, but I would have stayed."

He swallowed, dashing away a treacherous tear that was dripping down his nose. Éothain gave his friend and king a sheepish look and shrugged, but was prevented from saying anything by one of Sigward's men appearing at his side, carrying a big bowl of something that looked a bit like tiny roasted chestnuts and a smaller one holding some kind of sauce.

"Parsnip chervils, Gamling says it is. Quite tasty to say the least."

He put the bowls on one of the logs. "Garlic sauce," he said, pointing at the small bowl with a grin. "Let me fetch you some meat and then you can start on something odd but really tasty."

Soon they had a plate in front of them, loaded with a pile of the sticks they had seen the women preparing before. The meat around their upper halves had been roasted crisp, making the whole thing look like a stack of minute torches, ready to be lit. Gingerly Éomer took one of them and dipped it into the small bowl. The sauce was dark and thin with bits of finely chopped herbs in it, quite different from the thick, creamy garlic sauce he had been served that day on Tol Cabas, when he had feasted on lobsters with Lothíriel and her brothers, but when he tasted it, his eyebrows rose approvingly. That was quite a treat and went wonderfully with the crispy venison! He took some of the tubers. Being scarcely larger than peas, they had a nutty taste and he soon reached for a second helping.

"Sick Horsemen eat, be strong soon."

Surprised, Éomer looked up. Focussed on the meal, he had not noticed Airik's approach. The Dunlending sat down on a log and reached for some chervils.

"No poison. Dirt. And much blood… " Searching for the fitting word, she fell back into the frown Éomer knew only too well.

"Bloodloss," the calm voice of Sitilimo could be heard. Airik turned towards him, hesitated for a split second and then started to speak with incredible speed. After a while, Sitilimo nodded and then turned to Éomer.

"The women think that the wounded will recover. The wounds are deep and the men have lost a lot of blood, but the bleeding also helped clean the wounds. There is the possibility that the weapons of the traitors had been besmirched with dirt, which can kill a man even if the wound heals, but only time can show that. All the women can do at the moment is keep the wounds clean and help the men to get their strength back. They gave them a broth with pulped liver, and it would be good if your men could get some fowl. Fish would even be better, but I don't know where to get it from as the river is still dead."

"What about the pond you mentioned? The one with the beaver lodge?"

Sitilimo shook his head. "There's no fish in there, but we might catch frogs there." He turned to Airik, asking her something, but she only shrugged.

"Frogs?" Torhtsige frowned.

"You can eat the legs. They are tender and taste a bit like chicken. And they would make a good dish for a convalescent." Sitilimo did not seem to be put off by the Westfolder's frown. "Airik does not know though, if there are any at the moment. We'll have to ask the older children for it is them who usually go and catch them."

Before Torhtsige could give his opinion about his men being fed frogs, excited shouts from the banks of the stream announced the arrival of the horse. Led by one of the men, a stout, well-muscled little dun gelding stepped out of the fringes of the forest, the two children sitting proudly on his back, and immediately they were surrounded by a gaggle of children, patting and stroking the animal.

Éomer suppressed a grin. Sitilimo had been right to call his horse a pony, for the gelding's proportions clearly hinted at one, and though he was larger than any pony Éomer knew, he no way reached the height of a horse. Mane and tail were long and sported the dark dorsal stripe typical of a dun, but what tempted Éomer to laugh were the many coloured ribbons woven into both and also wound around the gelding's fetlocks. A similar colourful small blanket was strapped to his broad back. And as if to purposefully contradict the fancy outfit, the animal sported the most impressive ram's head Éomer had ever seen.

Clicking his tongue, Sitilimo took a few steps forward, and the gelding started to trot towards him, answering with a low nicker. And then the massive head nudged the Dunlending's chest ever so softly, and when Sitilimo patted the horse's neck, said horse closed his eyes in delight and shoved his head over the man's shoulder as if in an attempt to get even closer. There was no denying the deep affection between the two.

Éothain cleared his throat. "Well, if you have finished caressing that what-ever-it-is, I would like to see a proof of your riding skills."

The Dunlending's eyes sought Éomer's. "May I?"

Éomer nodded. "Stay in the clearing though."

Taking the reins from Torhtsige's man, Sitilimo ordered the children to get off and then led the horse to one of the logs they had used as stools. Stepping on one, he mounted, patting the gelding again, and then he said something in a low voice and the horse walked forward. There was an almost invisible shift in the Hillman's posture, and the gelding sped up, the laughing children running after him. Éomer held his breath with surprise.

"Well, bugger me!" Éothain stared at horse and rider, who circled the clearing, the Dunlending's feet dangling free at the gelding's sides. "A gaited horse! And probably the dolt does not even know what a treasure he found!"

Having finished an entire circle, Sitilimo stooped and pulled one of the children onto the horse before him, shouting something to the others. More and more Eorlings looked up and then grinned at the small dun who seemed to be proud as he circled the greensward a second time, his head held high and his forelegs drumming the ground in an elegant staccato.

"Quite a surprise, that little ram's nose." His ruddy face in a wide grin, Torhtsige shared his men's amusement.

Éothain snorted. "He's lucky he didn't end in the pot."

Slowly, Torhtsige shook his head. "He never was in any such danger. Just look how the two of them fit together."

Grumbling, Éothain persisted: "They eat horseflesh, and you know it."

The Westfolder shrugged. "All of us have eaten horseflesh."

For a moment it looked as if Éothain would go for the other man's throat, but then he just shrugged. "Yes, at the secret ritual, but that is a sacred union, not just stuffing yourself on any meat."

Torhtsige raised an eyebrow. "What if they have a different ritual? A different animal they revere..."

"If they have, it certainly is a warg."

Torhtsige laughed. "In that case they won't eat it. Béma, those beasts truly stink. I wonder if even the orcs could stomach them. Though at least the wargs have no qualms about eating orcs."

Éothain snorted. "Yeah, but did you know that those Gondoreans spread the rumour that Éomer King eats orcs for breakfast?

"What?"

Grinning, the captain shrugged. "It was just a joke amongst the men at first, but in the end there were enough dorks in Mundburg who really believed it."

Slowly, Éomer shook his head as the two Riders reached for another help of roasted chervils, bickering amicably while a Dunlending rode in circles around a clearing, rode a gaited horse, a horse that carried him willingly, him and the excited children who were now queuing up near the fire, waiting for their turn for a ride. Children with singed hair, with blisters, with bandages on a greensward surrounded by the scarred remains of their homes.

What times did he live in? Times that from the depth of myth had brought the old tales alive, had confronted him with elves and ents, with hobbits, the heir of Isildur… What if what he saw was the beginning of a new tale, a new time? He swallowed.

A horse of the north, befriending a Hillman… Eorlings caring for the children of their foes, risking their lives for them… What other signs was he waiting for? New life rising from the ruins of the old one… Jara's circle… The new sun being reborn at midwinter… You have to bring them peace…

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The smell of grass… a taste of green, of summer… wind, a soft breeze in the boughs of the trees, the murmur of the river, the sound of hooves and the laughter of children…

"Éomer… Éomer Cyning…?" Éothain's voice seemed far away.

He opened his eyes, blinking, as he found Éothain and Torhtsige staring at him. And then his gaze fell on Airik, meeting her keen brown eyes. Holding them. What would you do, walking in her shoes? Almost imperceptibly, he lowered his head.

"Things are changing. I will call for negotiations with the Great Council of the Hillmen concerning our future dealings."

Annotations.

Ceorl: It is an Anglo Saxon name, but also a kind of rank, meaning a "freeman"; in "The two Towers" Théoden King addresses the rider they come upon on their way to the Fords as "Ceorl", most probably referring to the rider's rank. I have Torhtsige do the same in this chapter.

gaited horse: Gaited horses are horse breeds that have the ability to perform one of the smooth-to-ride, intermediate speed, four-beat horse gaits, collectively referred to as ambling gaits. They were very sought-after in the Middle-Ages, as they ensured comfort, especially when travelling long distances.

Éomer, eating orcs for breakfast is a joke in Lady Bluejay's story "I can only manage One" (Orc for breakfast, that is! ;D ).

Jara: The rune of harvest, a symbol of the changing seasons, the circle of the year and of life and death

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: his 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 and Winfrid's grandfather

Torhtsige: Sigward's son and heir; a quiet man who notices more than people expect him to notice

Frithuhelm: a young farmer (widowed), the gentle giant of the Mark who can get quite ungentle if need be

Gamling: literally "old man" (one of Tolkien's wordplays); in the books he is the man at Helm's Deep who understands the language of the Hillmen

Airik: Dunlending, taken hostage by Éomer in the last winter, clever, ruthless and famous for her bad temper
Umirok: her baby-daughter

Sitilomo: Airik's husband and father of her child