To the King

Chapter 29

For That is What a King Does

"The great leaders are like the best conductors - they reach beyond the notes to reach the magic in the players." Blaine Lee

Dedicated to EJ and SusanW

Harrowdale

"Halt," the wiry sentry cried, stepping into the path to block entry.

Hálith pulled up on his horse. Well, in actuality it was Lord Faramir's horse, the fastest one of the lot. He was really far more animal than the boy could manage, and Hálith was exhausted from the arduous journey. Panting, he pulled back on the reins and barely managed to hold on as his mount reared up, his legs kicking out in protest at the action.

Recognizing Hálith from his visit there a several days ago, when Faramir stopped the trio by to make themselves known to Marshal Fingol, the sentry tried to calm the horse. "Whoa lad," he called, jumping out of the way of the hooves and taking hold of the reins before the boy could be thrown. "What fool put you on such a mount?"

As soon as the forward sentry had settled the horse, Hálith jumped from the saddle, panting and relieved to be on the ground. The boy felt like crying with relief. How many days had he been trying to get here...two, three? He'd lost count. It had taken him hours to backtrack around the patrols posted in the passes of Snowbourne and every moment he lost he feared would be the moment that cost Faramir or Hamm their lives and allowed the King to ride into a trap. Hálith was terrified the entire time that he would lose his way or not be able to backtrack to where they had left the horses, but he had done it. They harrowing ride to the Marshal's holding – stopping only when exhaustion forced him to sleep a couple of hours - had been a nightmare of fighting the fiery mount and trying to recognize the landmarks that Lord Faramir and Hamm had shown him. A hundred times he berated himself for not being more attentive. It had all been an exciting game to him at the time, and now his king's life might hang in the balance as a result of his inattention.

Hálith felt the tears burning his eyes, but he no longer cared whether he looked like a warrior. He'd been given a sword at Helm's Deep and told to take to the wall. The King of Gondor himself, though he did not know who he was at the time, had told him there was always hope. But Hálith had not felt brave when the Uruks breeched the walls...he had dropped his sword and fallen to his knees, finally pushed over the edge of reason by all the blood, gore, and death around him. If Gamling had not pulled him to his feet and sent him into the cave with the message for Éowyn to lead the women and children out through the mountains, he would not have survived. Hálith had swallowed his shame and guilt for months.

"I bear an urgent message for your Marshal," he panted. "Please," he gasped, trying desperately to catch the breath robbed from him by fear and exertion. "I...the king...we must..."

"Hold on, boy," the sentry tried to calm the obviously exhausted lad. "Take a deep breath and start over...slowly."

Hálith forced the fears and recriminations from his mind and followed the sentry's advice. He took a deep, shuddering breath and blew it out slowly through his mouth, billowing his cheeks in the process. His momentary panic attack past, Hálith started over. "I bear an important message from Lord Faramir, the Steward of Gondor, for the Marshal. Pu...please, take me to him." The message imparted to the sentry, relief washed over the boy.

The sentry schooled his features so as not to show his amused admiration at the change in Hálith. He was a fine lad and had conquered his terror like a warrior. It was a myth that warriors felt no fear, though likely none would admit it except to each other. True bravery was in conquering your fear and standing your ground...in doing what had to be done, regardless the cost. "Then come." With a sharp whistle, the sentry alerted the other guards that he would be out of position. "You take my horse, lad; he is less a handful than this one."

O-o-O-o-O

Felor made his way slowly through the hills. It had been one of the rare days when the man left Edoras well before sunrise to set traps for the rabbits that would supplement his meager meals. In his youth, growing up at Snowbourne, he'd spent long hours hunting the hills for the fat coneys that he brought home for his mother to transform into succulent stews. She had a way with coney that would make them fair melt in your mouth, she did! So strong was the remembrance and so caught up was he in it that he snagged his crutch on a briar and crashed down beside the last trap to be checked. 'Aye, ye old fool,' he admonished himself, 'best keep yer'mind on what yer' doing.' Pulling himself up awkwardly to a sitting position, Felor checked the trap. Success! This one, along with the other he'd caught would make a welcome change for supper. He might just take them both to Bergfinn's to share, for it was well known that Bergfinn's missus had quite a way with coneys! Not as good as his mother's, Béma rest her soul, but good.

Felor sat for a moment reckoning how far he had come from his wagon. In the old days he would have ridden his great warhorse out to hunt, but those days had been ended by an orc's sword. Now he drove his old wagon out to the foothills and then hobbled his way to where he kept his traps. It was slow, sometimes painfully when the weather was about to change, but Felor was warrior enough to still long for the feel of the wind in his face and the solitude of the hills from time to time. None of them would admit it, but he knew, of course, that the regular hunters left this area of the hills for his traps. He did not begrudge them this small bit of charity, for that was just the way that warriors looked out for each other.

Taking the time to feast his eyes on the view, Felor allowed his mind to travel down a road he seldom took these days, to the glory days of Rohan. Since the disastrous losses on the Pelennor, far too few men were left to properly cover all of the areas that needed covering. Gone were the once proud and numerous éoreds thundering across the Riddermark. Now there were barely enough men to secure Edoras and the Mearas breeding stations. Oh, few or not, her warriors were still proud, but it would take time for Rohan to recover. In his heart Felor had no doubt but that recover she would. The blood of her warriors had not been shed in vain.

As he gathered his catch, a thin tendril of smoke caught his eye. It was barely visible, but to the old warrior, it clamored alarm in his mind like a peeling bell, for no éoreds were supposed to be in this area. Carefully, so as not to flush out any fowl that might betray his position, the man left his crutch and crawled to the top of the rise. It was slow going and awkward, even painful at times on his stump, but he kept at it, his mind and wits as sharp as ever. As Felor neared the ridge line he chose a spot that was well grown up with weeds to mask his movements and the appearance of his head over the top.

The old warrior's heart near stopped at what lay out before him. It was an entire brigade of hill men, obviously prepared for attack. But attack where? His blood ran cold as he realized it could only be Edoras. Was it possible? Was there some other explanation? How did this many hill men come to be mounted, and how did they get this close to the capitol city without being spotted? Well, the last answer he knew well enough. All eyes had been drawn away from this direction to the slaughtered Mearas' of the Eastemnet. Felor realized that there was far more in play here than any of them had imagined, and by an enemy that was not only clever but ruthless.

As swiftly as he could, Felor made his way back down the hillside, the traps and conies forgotten. Felor knew that he had to get to his wagon and back to Edoras to raise the warning, and thanked Béma that the Hill men were too badly led or organized to post proper sentries or they might have fallen upon a completely unprepared Edoras. He fell several times in his haste, but determinedly kept up the brutal pace. Felor's heart was pounding with the exertion when he finally reached his wagon. As quickly as he could he un-tethered his horse, crawled up onto the wagon seat, and set off for Edoras.

It was a rough and bumpy ride at the speed he was going and his dear old horse matched every demand for more effort that he asked of her. Ah, she still had the heart of a champion, his old girl. As he crested the last hill, Felor was relieved to see Edoras rising from the valley floor as peaceful as ever.

O-o-O-o-O

Now that he was at the head of an éored again, Éomer felt as free as a colt kicking up his legs with the energy of the young. Were it not for the warning that kept niggling at the back of his neck, he would laugh for the pure joy of it.

Riding beside Éomer, it was all Liam could do not to laugh at his liege. He had known Éomer for most of his life and he knew better than anyone what the man was feeling. As if that weren't enough, he smiled to himself, he'd have to be blind not to see it, for Éomer had a fierce grin plastered all over his face.

They had ridden hard, passing the northern passes of valley in late afternoon, and now approached the upward passage to the high holding of Harrowdale. Reluctantly Éomer halted his riders beside Snowbourne River. Man and horse alike needed rest, and no matter how dire the need, a blown mount could not do battle. Dismounting, Éomer released Firefoot to drink his fill and feed on the nearby grasses. There was no fear that any of the mounts would bolt, for they were all battle tested warhorses of Rohan, the best in the world.

While the men rested or worked preparing a meal, Éomer found himself pacing. Try as he might, he could not force himself to take his rest. A warrior for many years, Éomer could not shake the feeling that he was missing some important piece of information. Too much was happening that seemed unrelated, yet had enough of a common thread to warrant his attention.

"Sit down, Éomer," chuckled Liam, "you are making me dizzy with your constant motion back and forth."

Éomer favored his friend with a look that spoke volumes, but sat down beside the Marshal, his hand automatically moving to massage his scarred leg as his mind continued its progression.

"What is bothering you so much?"

"Questions, Liam," he answered slowly, "all I have are questions." Shaking away the frustration, Éomer rolled his head in an attempt to relax the taut muscles of his neck. "Why was the Eastemnet station hit when the one on the Westfold is smaller and far more vulnerable?"

"Well, perhaps it is because the Eastemnet was larger that it was hit," ventured Liam.

"But why," Éomer countered. "You said yourself that all the horses had been slaughtered."

"All that we saw," the Marshal clarified, "though that was a good number...undoubtedly most of what was there." He closed his eyes thinking back to the scene he had tried so hard to forget. "Actually, there were a larger number of mares and foals than anything else...I think." Liam shook his head tiredly. "I am sorry; I cannot remember more."

"What ties the Eastemnet and Snowbourne together?' mused Éomer. "Perhaps if I could find the answer to that question some of the disparate threads I have been chasing would begin weave themselves into a rope that I can follow." He sighed and glanced at Liam. "For now I just want to get to Snowbourne and find out why my sister has not returned."

Liam snorted as he offered a slice of dried hard tack to Éomer. "And what will you do with her then?"

"Pack her off to Gondor with Faramir where I know she will be safe," he vowed. "At least then she will be disobeying Faramir's orders and not mine." Éomer could not keep the smile from his face as he thought about his feisty sister. "She will certainly set Gondor on its ear," he chuckled, before groaning.

"What is it now?" asked Liam.

"Gondor!" he said as though that would explain it all. "How am I supposed to tell Aragorn that I have lost his Steward by allowing him to wander the wilds of Rohan accompanied by only a boy and a farrier?"

Liam had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing outright at the look of consternation on Éomer's face. "I am sure I need not remind you that Faramir was a Ranger for many years."

"I am not disparaging Faramir's skills," defended Éomer. "He is a fine and capable man, but I am responsible for his safety while he is within our borders."

"Oh, so you can now control all that happens within our land?" Liam challenged. "Éomer, you are only one man; stop carrying the weight of us all upon your shoulders."

"I have to," Éomer said softly, "for that is what a king does."

O-o-O-o-O

Scaro sat in his room nursing his broken nose. No doubt the favorites of Gilmóod were even now making jokes at his expense. With a twisted nose and blackened eyes to accompany his scared face, he realized angrily that he must make quite a sight.

Scaro's soul was as twisted as the scar running the length of his face and he now contemplated his revenge.

For years he had worked for Gilmóod, biding his time and waiting for the moment to strike. He had tolerated taking orders and being abused long enough and soon the tide would turn in his favor. In odd moments here and there he had questioned his actions, but no longer. Any loyalty he felt, if indeed he was capable of feeling such an emotion, was negated when Gilmóod called him useless. Useless! There the man lay on his back, arms and legs flailing in the air like an overturned beetle, until his men could haul his worthless carcass up, and he called Scaro useless!

Well, Scaro would have the last laugh. Let Gilmóod think himself king here in this worthless outpost. He would never reap enough from those mines to make a go of it, certainly not with those pathetic skeletons he had worked nearly to death. While Gilmóod struggled to hold things together here, Scaro had set his own plans in motion. He and his Dunlending allies would rule Edoras. The man laughed to himself at the ease with which he had set his revenge in motion. Gilmóod thought that the wild men of the hills were helping him for the pittance he was paying them, but Scaro was the true puppet master. As Éomer rode here with his precious éoreds, the bulk of the Hill men were massed and ready to strike at the heart of the Mark...Edoras herself, now sitting peaceful and ripe for the picking.

It was masterful, really, Scaro mused. With the might of Rohan bled nearly dry upon the fields of the Pelennor, the remnant was stretched thin attempting to guard the remaining Mearas Breeding Stations from further attack. All that would be guarding Edoras would be the regular gate guards and a few old men. "Ripe for the picking," he repeated aloud.

And Edoras was not the only one who would soon fall. Scaro would not forget the debt he owed Erkenbrand for shattering his nose and humiliating him in front of his men. No, the Marshal would pay that debt in full, he would see to that. Perhaps he would drag the man's body behind his horse all the way to Edoras and there hang it from the gates for all to see what happens to those who dared to oppose him? Yes, he rather liked that idea.

TBC

A/N My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her character Bergfinn.