Hunter of Thunder
Chapter 1 – The Dream
Amiron looked back at the burning village and then told his horse to head for the forest. A small dark figure sat in front of him. It was a small boy, only three years of age. He was brave, he did not cry nor did he quake. But he did not watch. He sat still, comforted by the Elf's presence. A woman's voice was heard from the village as the horse and two riders dissapeared from sight.
"Rolinaë!"
"Rolinaë!"
Rolinaë and the other men of the Rohirrim village had fallen back, they where over run with orcs and Dunlendings. The large rider held a sword in one had and a bow in the other. But he was not fighting anymore. Not once he heard his name called.
He lept over dead enemies and killed anything that got in his way. The other Rohirrim called to him not to go, but they could not stop him. Then, he saw it. One of the Dunlendings had his wife, Eislen. Rolinaë cried out as the wild man killed her.
Rage surged in Rolinaë's blood and he became almost mad, killing all the creatures that he could find. But there were still more. And finally, Rolinaë broke down beside the still form of his wife and wept.
That is how the orcs found him. Rolinaë had all but given up then. They took him captive, but he escaped; something unknown to most people. Because he was holding onto something; that small boy that rode off with Amiron, the Elf. That was his son, Éorinaë.
8 years later…
Darkness…thunder…fear, anger.
A voice called through the mist, "My son."
"Father?"
"This is the end, my son. They will take me now. I love you."
"Father? Father, no, where are you!? I will find you!"
"Good bye Éorinaë."
Éorinaë jolted awake, "FATHER!"
"Éor? What's wrong?" Rusheíl looked up sleeply.
"I must find my father," Éorinaë said, jumping out of bed. He quickly got dressed and ran outside. Rusheíl followed, still in his bed cloths.
"Éor!" he shouted, "Éor, you can't. So many have gone out after Rolinaë and none have found him. I'm sorry."
Éorinaë looked at his friend. Determination burned bright in his blue eyes.
"But Rolinaë was not their father," he said as he entered the stables. Crysto looked up at the boys as they came in and knickered at his master. The horse unterstood; he always knew.
"Éor, you're only a stable boy, what can you do that the Knights can't!?" Rusheíl wasn't giving up on his friend, no matter how stubborn he was.
Éorinaë put the saddle on his horse and picked up his sword, "I can find my father." He voice was firm, there was no argument.
The young rider had not laid out any provisions before he jumped up on his silver mount. "Éor, please," Rusheíl shook his head.
"I'll be back soon," Éorinaë paused, "and with my father!" He urged the horse forward and his last words echoed in Rusheíl's mind as he rode off, "I promise you!"
Rusheíl started to run after him, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him, "Let him go, my son." Rusheíl hung his head as Ranthor guided him inside. Ranthor was a Knight himself, and neither he or Éorinaë had give up hope that Rolinaë lived.
It froze. Something cold, something missing. What? The wild man moved closer…and closer…and stopped. It froze again. Danger rang. There was a flash of steel in the woods ahead, the whip of dark hair, and the dark blur of movement. He continued another step forward and then stopped. He could see his foe standing before him. A powerfully built man with dark tangled hair and a wild man's homemade blade in one hand. His beard was long and his face and cloths where dark with dirt and sweat. The wild man cocked his head to one side, then nodded to the other. The other came closer. It was not who he was looking for, or so it seemed.
The two wild men walked for a moment, then without warning, one of them dropped dead; the blade in the other's hand covered in blood. He had slit the other man's throat. He laughed and ran back into the woods.
