By DarkRiver (darkriver@cyberdude.com)
Author's Note: The characters herein belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, not me and appear without the author's permission, of course, since he's all dead and stuff. This is set in the same continuity as "Sunset Ride" and "Wicked Games," though a few years later. Feedback is welcome!
This chapter is where Tolkien canon really starts to bend.
Rating: PG
Chapter 6
14, 4A
It was very late when Faramir of Ithilien made it to his home. King Elessar had expressed a willingness to accompany him, but Faramir had politely declined. The King needed to be home with his wife, as did he. It had been far too long since he had held Eowyn, and that longing only added to his weariness.
He climbed the stone steps of the main stairway with heavy steps. He had not really had any energy since the battle, and faking it was becoming too difficult even for a man of his pride to manage. There would be no point in trying to hide it from his wife -- she always knew.
Eowyn was not waiting for him because he had not sent advance riders ahead. For some reason, he was infinitely weary of pompous fanfare. The idea of enduring a grand welcoming feast was simply too much to conceive.
This was better by far, in his estimation.
He stole silently through the corridors of his home, perfectly able to navigate in the dark after so many years here. He arrived at his chambers and slipped inside. The boots came off, quickly followed by his trousers. Wearily, he crawled into bed beside his wife, laying an arm over her.
"You...smell..." she breathed softly.
Smiling to himself, he kissed the back of her neck. "Sorry, my lady. I did not know you were awake..."
Eowyn snuggled back against him. "I'm not. I'm asleep...dreaming of your return."
"How strange, then, for I seem to be having the same dream I've been having since I left -- holding you in my arms."
Eowyn rolled to face him, eyes bleary from sleep. "The bed's been cold without you," she complained mildly.
"Well, it's quite warm now."
She kissed him but noticed how he winced. Her face filled with grave concern. "And what new wound are you bravely enduring? Let me see."
Faramir wriggled out of his tunic and lay back while she inspected the linen binding his ribs. "The broken ribs hurt more than the cut over them, honestly."
"And who stitched this for you? Someone with skill or my brother?"
Faramir gave her a guilty look. "The surgeons were busy..."
Eowyn sighed heavily. "You'll have a scar for the ages, then." She laid a long, sweet kiss on his lips. "And how is our son?"
Faramir had written to her of their child's exploits. "He seems happy, actually. Your brother certainly has his hands full now, though. Aragorn gave Eldarion into his keeping."
Her eyes glowed with merriment at the thought. "That will keep him occupied." She settled down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I was very worried, you know."
Faramir stroked her hair, verging on sleep. "So was I, for a bit...but 's over now. I'm home."
Eowyn ran her hand gently down his chest, tracing the myriad of scars there. "Good. The children missed you."
Faramir smiled but did not respond, sleep dragging him into blackness. He was comfortable, safe and back where he belonged. For the first time since spring, he was able to truly rest.
Ostensibly, the three heirs were out for a good day's ride, taking advantage of the favorable weather while it lasted. With provisions packed and accompanied by the faithful Fellfang, the three headed north to the place where Elfwine believed the Elk tribe dwelled.
Knowing they were as good as dead if they were caught added to the excitement, of course. They were not so trusting, however, that they went unarmed. Sneaking the weapons out of the armory had been a feat of incredible teamwork and duplicity.
Their path took them into the rolling hills of the north, where wild cattle roamed and the wind raced freely through the grasses. Well away from Edoras, the landscape took on a desolate air -- the lands of the Dunlendings were not as hospitable as those of the rest of the Mark.
They knew they were closing on their goal, for they passed totem markers that were decorated with feathers and bits of hide and were crowned with an elk skull. Keenly aware that they were far from safety, they pressed on with smiles on their faces.
It was not long before they sensed they were observed. Eldarion noticed them first, the rustling movements in the grass that bespoke of eyes watching them. Uncertain what they should do, they chose to not react at all and let the Dunlendings make the first move.
Time crawled by, and the uncomfortable feeling of being stalked grew worse. Now and again they almost caught glimpses of men -- or thought they did -- but when they turned to look, they saw only shadows and swaying grasses.
They stopped at a row of spears planted in the ground. Their hafts were heavily engraved with symbols, none of which meant anything to the boys. The inherent warning in the display, though, gave them pause. The token that Elfwine bore guaranteed their safety, but if they crossed this barrier they might not be given the chance to show them before they were cut down.
They were bold, but they weren't stupid. The ones watching them might very well have bows trained upon them at that very moment, waiting for them to cross too far.
They exchanged uncertain looks. "Now what?" Elboron asked.
"We don't dare go further," Elfwine responded instantly. "Remember what our fathers said, Boro. We have to be responsible."
"But going back makes this all such a waste," the Ithilien Prince returned unhappily.
"Let's rest here for a while," Eldarion suggested, glancing with his keen eyes at the surrounding grasses and scrub. "See what the Dunlendings want to do."
Elfwine frowned but nodded. "That seems sensible."
They dismounted and saw to the horses -- though they did not remove the saddles or even loosen the girth straps, as they might need to make a hasty departure. With that done, they gave some water to Fellfang and stretched out on the grasses. Hard biscuits and water made a bland but sufficient lunch.
It was not very long after when Eldarion sat up, listening intently. His well-honed senses quickly tracked the sound of approaching footsteps and his eyes narrowed on a point beyond the row of spears. "Men approach," was all he said.
The boys did not make any sudden moves, but they did get to their feet and stand shoulder-to-shoulder to face their visitors.
They soon appeared, coming over a hill at an unhurried pace. Educh was in the center, looking far more imposing here where his word was law. He walked with a great staff of ash, adorned with an elk skull and many feathers and strips of cloth. Beside him were several strong men with hard expressions and armed with curved knives and crude swords.
There was also a girl, about the same age as the boys, walking just before Educh. Her long hair was a hopeless mass of auburn tangles and her face and hands were quite dirty, but the look in her eyes was one of precocious intelligence.
They stopped before the barrier of spears and the girl stepped forward. "Strangers to the elk-lands, by what oath-bond or spirit-quest do you come?" she said formally.
Elboron nudged his cousin, who was staring as if struck dumb. "Um...er... We..." He looked to his friends for support who nodded to him -- rather urgently. "We're friends of the Elk village, by this token I bear," he said, fishing out the necklace Educh had given him.
"Token-bearer, present your friendship-symbol so we may see it is a true-spoken gift," she called out -- rather smugly, they felt.
Elfwine swallowed hard. Certain this was all a formality, but nervous all the same, he walked the ten paces to the girl.
She had pretty eyes, he thought -- for a girl.
The lass held out her hand and he placed the necklace in her palm. She turned and walked back to Educh, who gave the ornament only a cursory glance.
"This is a true-spoken gift, given in good-friendship to the Prince of the Mark," he said.
The girl took the necklace back to Elfwine and returned it. "You are welcome, then, as true-friends into the shelter of our gathering-place."
It finally occurred the Elfwine that her strange way of speaking, and her heavy accent, that she was unused to speaking the language. "Thank you," he said awkwardly.
She smiled at him and flounced back over to Educh. The Elk Chieftain grinned for the first time, and even his escort seemed to relax. "It's nice to see you again, Prince. I'm a little surprised, however." He looked beyond the boy to his friends. "Introductions first, though."
Elfwine called his friends over and gave their names, though not their titles. Educh did not seem to notice any duplicity. "You are all welcome here. This is my daughter, Magda," he said, putting an arm around the girl. "Now, what brings you here?"
Elfwine looked over at his cousin, needing to pass the burden of responsibility over. Elboron gave him an understanding look and smiled at Educh. "We want to hear the story of Freca and King Helm."
Educh looked nothing short of surprised. "Do you not have this tale in your books and your songs?"
Elboron's smile gleamed even brighter. "We do, yes, but we wish to hear it from the lips and hearts of the Dunlendings."
Educh gave them all thoughtful looks. "And you do not fear having your minds corrupted by Dunlending lies?"
"No more than we fear the lies of our own people," Eldarion said with a smirk.
Educh laughed a bit. "Then you shall come with us, to our village, and take your ease with us. Later shall my tale-speakers give to you this story."
The three led their horses, following Educh and his warriors past the barrier of spears and along a winding path. They crossed into a loose gathering of trees, their branches nearly completely stripped of leaves. They did not travel for long when the village came into sight. It was a collection of wooden huts, roofed in straw, that appeared very old. Scores of Dunlendings moved about, working at their daily chores. Everyone paused to look, though, when Educh arrived with his three guests.
There was both suspicion and intrigue in their gazes.
Educh paused and faced his daughter. "Keep our young friends occupied while I make preparations, will you?"
"Yes, father," she agreed readily.
The Chieftain smiled at them then and walked off. Magda smiled warmly at them. "Do you want to a game play?"
"Like what?" Elfwine asked, not sure why he felt so odd when she smiled.
"Kaparo," she replied. "I think you have no word for it in your language. Is fun."
The boys looked interested. "How do you play?" Elboron asked.
"Two teams, four people on each," she started to explain. She led them towards a small gathering of children about their age. "Each team has three...how would you say...person who must tag?"
"Tagger," Elfwine supplied helpfully.
Magda smiled. "Tagger, thank you and one run...ner?" Elfwine nodded. "The runner be is to get the stakes, the taggers stop them must."
"Seems reasonably straight forward," Elboron put in.
They stopped before the children, who were coiling rope. They looked up at the strangers curiously. "These are Bahna, Kala, Rees and Daeor." She said something to her friends in their language, and they heard their names among the foreign sounds.
"Hallo," they said in halting Westron.
Magda looked apologetic. "They don't say in your language very well."
Bemused, Elfwine asked, "How do you say 'hello' in your language?"
"Umtu," she told him.
Elfwine held out his hand to one of the children -- a burly boy several inches taller than he. "Umtu," he said carefully. He pointed to himself and said, "Elfwine."
The boy grinned hugely. "Umtu, Elfwine, ata Bahna sae nu."
Elfwine beamed, immensely pleased. He turned to the girl beside Bahna. "Umtu...a..ta...Elfwine see no."
She giggled. "Umtu, Elfwine. Ata Kala sae nu."
Enchanted, he moved on and tried once more. A boy, slender as a reed, took his hand and said, "Umtu, Elfwine, ata Daeor sae nu. Dapo ata dae Rees sae nu," he said, pointing to the last boy in line.
The Prince of the Mark rolled that around in his head. "Umtu, Rees," he said thoughtfully. "Dapo ata dae Elboron sae nu," he said, motioning his cousin over. "Dapo ata dae Eldarion sae nu," he said with more confidence as the Heir came forward.
Magda looked plainly impressed at Elfwine, who blushed. "You learn to say well."
"Speak," he corrected softly. "'You learn to speak well.'"
She blushed and nodded at him. "My father taught me to say -- to speak your words."
"You speak them very well," he said quietly.
"Shall we play?" Elboron said impatiently.
"I think your cousin would rather listen to Magda speak all day," Eldarion teased.
Cheeks flaming, Elfwine glowered at the Heir. "I would not."
Elboron grinned. "Well, we could leave them alone."
"Boro!" Elfwine snapped.
His friends grinned at each other.
The group made their way to just outside the gathering of huts that made up the village, awkward because of their lack of understanding with each other. But through pantomime and gesture and a lot of Magda's help, they began to build the bridges of friendship.
The field was vaguely oval shaped, demarcated by an erratic line of stones. Bahna picked up a stack of stakes stained green and Magda took up another set of a red hue. They walked to opposite ends of the field and planted them in the ground.
"You three will team together with me," she informed the boys. "Eldarion, your seeming form has agility looking. You will be the runner. The line behind you stay is here." She indicated a length of old rope that sectioned off ten feet of the field. "When line you cross, challenge begins and taggers may you grabbed by be. If they you tag, you must out of game be until other runner stake retrieves or other runner tagged is."
Eldarion nodded, smiling. "Seems easy enough."
She shifted her gaze to the cousins. "We be the taggers are. We must stop runner of Bahna."
They nodded, moving with her to the center of the field. She had them take up positions in a line, about ten paces apart. They faced off against Bahna, Rees and Daeor, who were grinning excitedly. The cousins took their lead from Magda, who did not move forward. Her gaze followed Kala at the other end of the field, waiting for her to start across the field.
The game started explosively, as everyone started moving at once. The cousins were suddenly locked with Rees and Daeor, vying against them and struggling to keep them from going after Eldarion. Gondor's Heir flew across the field on his fleet feet. The clumsy hands of the taggers could not touch him in the short time they had before his teammates intervened.
The game was enormously entertaining. There were occasional pauses to explain a few things -- like that a tagger could tag the opposing tagger -- but generally the game went along splendidly. Magda's team lost the first match, but they won the second two.
After which, they were all quite tired and ended up flopped in the grasses, talking (or trying) breathlessly.
As the sun reached its peak, word was sent that the story-tellers were ready. Excited and anxious, the three boys accompanied their new friends to the village's center. Most of the village was gathered there, and food and drink were being passed around a wide circle. Torches had been set up to delineate the stage.
The boys were ushered to the fore, like guests of honor. With their friends around them, they were given something to eat by smiling Dunlendings. Their attention was then drawn to the center of the circle by Educh. He spoke to his people briefly and then turned to the boys with a friendly smile.
"Now shall you see the story-telling as it is among the Dunlendings. My tale-speakers shall make the words, and my wife and I shall translate them for you."
Two people, one man and one woman, both aged, came out of the crowd and sat at the edges of the circle, facing each other. Educh came to sit beside the children, and his wife sat on the other side. Their expressions were friendly enough, but there was reverence there too.
A tall, massive man strode forward. His face was heavily painted with black and red. As he did so, the male tale-speaker's voice rang out, clearly and with resonance. Educh's voice followed, softly so only they could hear. "I am Helm, King of the Mark."
Another man, almost as large, replaced the first. "I am Freca, friend of the Dunlendings, master of much land and many men."
A younger, more willowy man came forth. "I am Wulf, son of Freca."
He was joined by a slender woman. The woman tale-speaker spoke for her, as did Educh's wife. "I am Theolen, daughter of Helm."
Wulf turned to Theolen and took her hands. "Theolen, friend of my childhood, long have I desired to speak to you of what is in my heart."
She looked bravely into his eyes. "Then speak, friend, for I think my heart would echo those words."
"My fondness for you has turned to love without my knowing it. I would have you as my wife, my companion and my wife."
The woman smiled happily. "I would have you as my guide and my guardian, Wulf, son of Freca. We but need the consent of our fathers."
"Then let us look to the happy time when we are together, for no doubt our fathers will approve of our union."
Theolen stepped back five paces and Wulf turned. Freca came forth and hugged his son. "You make me proud with this suit, my son. Our family will be much in greater glory for uniting with the house of Eorl. I shall speak to the King soon as I may."
Wulf stepped away, and King Helm came forward. He faced Freca with folded arms and his posture was arrogant and defiant. "What now, Freca, brings you drunkenly before me."
"Helm King, you have refused my every courteous plea for an audience. Perhaps you will listen to a less courteous plea, then, here before your men."
"I will not hear the plea of fat mongrel here or anywhere, Freca. Though your wealth is as vast as your stomach, you do not hold the power to command me."
Freca drew himself up. "I need to speak to you of a suit brought by my son. There must be a union between our houses."
"Must?" Helm postured. "Must? You, drunken fool, would tell me what I, Helm King must do?" Harsh laughter barked out. "Take your girth from my sight, mongrel, and speak no more to me of 'must.'"
Freca stepped forward. "I will not be denied."
"No? Then let us speak of this away from my court, as one father to another."
Freca bowed. The two walked about the circle and came to face each other once more. Helm's expression became dour. "Now, Freca, go from this place and do not return. You and your son are banished from the Mark for all time."
"You cannot do this."
"It is done."
"I will not be dismissed! I am Freca, my lands are vast and my allies are great in number."
"Do you dare threaten me? I am Helm Dragonbane, King of the Mark!"
"I demand the respect I am due!"
"I deny you!"
"Yield to this suit, or there shall be war."
Helm brought forth a hammer and raised it high. "I will not stand to be threatened!"
The hammer came down (slowly, barely tapping "Freca") and Freca fell to the earth. Helm looked down at the body and his rage left him. "Now much sorrow will come upon my house, for pride has guided my hand. Bring to me his son that I may try to mend what I have broken."
Helm departed from the circle, and Wulf came forward. He knelt beside his father with grief on his face.
"Beloved father...foully murdered by a coward's hand. I shall be revenged upon he who has done this. His house shall burn and his sons shall bleed. I hear his warriors approaching, come to kill me as surely as the coward killed my father. They shall not catch me so unawares."
And Wulf slipped away. The circle was empty. Now only the man storyteller's voice was heard.
"Time did pass. Wulf retreated to the hills to nurse his grief and his anger. He spoke to many leaders of men, enemies of King Helm, and he fanned the fires of their hate. Four years after the death of his father, he brought a great war to the Mark. Men on ships from the far south came and the foul folk poured in from the east. Wulf himself led his father's soldiers and many Dunlendings against the men of the Mark.
"Death and destruction swept over the Mark like a rushing river. Nowhere was safe. The fires of Wulf Frecason's hatred consumed everything they touched.
"While Helm King battled on the field, Wulf made his way to Edoras. The city fell quickly to his army, its gates sundered and its defenders overwhelmed by the implacable forces of Wulf. There, on the very steps of Meduseld, Haleth, elder son of Helm, did fall to Wulf's blade..."
Theolen and Wulf came into the cicle again, meeting in the center. "Long have I desired to see you again, beloved Theolen."
Her bearing was cold now, aloof. "As did I to see you, but now you come before me not as a suitor but as a conqueror, with my brother's blood staining your sword. I do not welcome you."
"Your father murdered mine, your brother refused to yield to me. My course was not chosen by me, but I will see it through."
"And what does that mean? Shall all my family perish to appease your rage? Will you cut me down to end my father's line?"
Wulf's posture changed then as well. "I would not. I would rather fall upon my blade than raise it against you. I would have you as my wife, just as we once spoke of."
"You will have me as your trophy, your symbol of a conquered house, but my love for you is as dead and cold as my poor brother."
Wulf turned away, a great rage on his face. He stormed out of the circle. Theolen watched him go and then departed as well. Helm came forward, kneeling in the center, his head bowed.
"I was warned that this would come to pass. The hammer that was a gift to my line has turned into a curse, for with it I slew a defenseless man. War, famine and now a terrible winter has fallen on the Mark. My elder son died defending our keep, my younger son has been swallowed by the bitter snows. My only daughter is now a prisoner. And my people freeze and starve. It may be that my life alone will purchase peace. If that is so, then let me go willingly. Let Helm King go to his death on his feet."
He stood and gazed proudly up at the sky. A long silence took hold, everyone's attention held by the powerful figure. Then the tale-speaker'e voice sounded again.
"King Helm went out into the frigid storm, alone and unarmed. He wandered, no one knows how long, challenging the cold and any Dunlending brave enough to face him. His life did indeed end that terrible winter, and he was found still standing, frozen to his bones.
"Thus ends the tale of Helm King, Dragonbane."
There was much murmuring then among the Dunlendings. The boys stared around in awe, their faces slowly lighting up with excitement. "That was amazing!" said Eldarion.
"But I'm confused about a couple of things," Elfwine said, perplexed. "Helm did not wield a hammer. He was called Hammerhand because of his strength..."
Educh gazed thoughtfully at him. "The hammer of Helm is quite real. Many of our tales speak of its might -- like unto the power of the very gods. It is said no wall could withstand it; nor any armor or shield."
Elfwine gaped, looking over at Elboron. His cousin's expression was knowing. They both were thinking of Helm's howe and the disturbed earth and the mysterious tracks. Things were beginning to make an awful sort of sense.
"Why do none of our tales speak of it?" Elfwine asked, almost to himself.
Educh shook his head. "To that I cannot speak. After Helm died, we never heard tell of the hammer again."
Elfwine's gaze became thoughtful. Beside him, Elboron started. "Win! We need to get back!"
Suddenly, Elfwine became aware of the rapidly-setting sun. They would not be back before dark, and his parents would be very angry. He leaped to his feet, his friends doing the same. "Sir, thank you for this, but we must return."
Educh rose and nodded, smiling in an understanding way. "No Prince has ever been interested in hearing our tales. This was a good day."
Elfwine bowed slightly. "It was. And I would like to return when I can, to see my friends again." He cast a glance over at Magda, who smiled briefly.
"You are welcome in the village of the Elk, Elfwine Eomerson," the chieftain remarked.
Very quickly, the boys were led to their horses and then led to the outer edge of the village's domain. They were given necklaces of beads and polished bone and bid a very warm farewell. With some reluctance, they took their leave.
They pushed the horses as hard as they dared, but it was still some time before they at last saw the homefires of Edoras blinking in the dark. Knowing what they were in for, they pressed on anyway, discussing what and how much they would tell the King of the Mark. The main difficulty was, of course, that Elfwine couldn't lie -- especially to his father.
They rode into the city and stabled their horses. Then, feeling both exultant and anxious, they walked into the golden hall. It did not take long before the shouts could be heard, announcing the boys' return. They cringed and did their best to skulk in the direction of their room.
Such was not to be. Granild, one of the ranking house guards, intercepted them. His expression was cold and distant, not at all the laughing face they knew. "Prince Eldarion, Prince Elboron, the King of the Mark requests you repair to your room immediately. You, Prince of the Mark, are to come with me."
They exchanged despairing glances, their shoulders collectively slumping. "We should stay together," Elboron objected tentatively.
Granild shook his head. "My orders are clear, your highness."
Elfwine felt great trepidation at the idea of facing his father alone, and it showed on his face. His friends gave him supportive looks, which was all they could do. He nodded glumly and turned back to Granild.
"Very well then, lead on."
Elboron and Eldarion watched him go, following Granild with a proud stride that would be worthy of any Knight. They watched until he was out of sight and then they quietly went to the room they shared with him to wait, worry in their hearts.
Elfwine, who was not feeling nearly so brave as he put forth, followed Granild in nervous silence. The guard did not speak to him, nor give him any sign of hope. Lost in his own miserable apprehension, Elfwine stayed silent as well.
He was brought to his father's audience chamber -- not at all a good sign. King Eomer was pacing frantically, dressed in wool and furs to ward off the chill. His gaze fixed on his son for a moment when the pair entered and then he dismissed Granild.
"Where have you been?" Eomer's voice was taut with fear and anger.
"We...lost track of time, sir," Elfwine said evasively.
The King's eyes hardened at the obvious prevarication. "You were not supposed to go far. And yet none of my Riders could spot you."
Elfwine could not bear to hold that gaze, so he stared instead at his feet.
"Look at me, son." Elfwine cringed. "Look at me." He could not disobey, no matter how much he desired to, so he looked up reluctantly. "Where were you?"
And he could not lie, of course. "We visited the Elk village of the Dunlendings."
Eomer's face drained of color. "What could possibly have possessed you to go there?'
The Prince squirmed under that stare. "We wanted to hear a tale of theirs."
Eomer clutched his head as if in pain. "Have you lost all sense? You were granted liberty with the understanding that you would take care with your safety. And the first thing you do is run off to the savages!"
"I wasn't in any danger, sir." Elfwine's words were low and measured. He found himself wrestling with a feeling he had never dealt with before in his father's presence: anger.
"You don't think so? Do you know what those animals do to people of the Mark?"
"I had a friendship token which guaranteed my safety."
Eomer shook with outrage. "I can't believe...as smart as you are...trusting those savages!"
"They're not savages, father," Elfwine disagreed firmly.
"No? Maybe you can offer another explanation then for the atrocities they've committed?"
"And what have we done to them?" Elfwine snapped back.
Startled by this display of defiance, Eomer glared at his son. "How dare you..."
"How dare I? You call them animals without even knowing them. I spent time with them today, I made friends. They're not so different from us. And certainly there is proof in that I have returned unharmed."
"Save that your reason has been damaged."
"At least I'm not blind!"
Eomer slapped him hard enough to stagger him. "Don't disrespect me. I will not tolerate it."
Elfwine's eyes were full of tears when he looked back. "Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"You and your friends will be confined to Edoras until Spring."
"Spring?"
"Yes, and be grateful it is not through the summer!" Eomer shook his head, fuming. "Tomorrow I shall have Amrothos bury you so deep in studies you won't have time for this nonsense."
"Yes, sir."
"You may go."
Elfwine nodded and started to slink out.
"Son?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Have you eaten?"
"Not in some while, sir."
"I'll have the servants bring you all something in your room."
Elfwine nodded glumly. "Thank you, father."
A hammer...it was preposterous, Elfwine thought to himself as he looked out at the rain. He knew every story there was about the heroic King and none of them mentioned a hammer. Stories changed, of course, over time, but not to this extent. Somewhere, someone would have spoken or written of such a thing.
And why did the Dunlendings call him Helm Dragonbane? The very name spoke of a grand tale, but he had never heard of a dragon coming to the Mark.
"Win?"
The Prince broke out of his contemplations and looked guiltily at Amrothos. Their mentor gave him an exasperated look. "I realize your lessons seem like a punishment, but it would be better for you to not treat them as such."
"Sorry, Uncle."
Elboron and Eldarion gave him sympathetic looks. They were in the library and had been all day. Amrothos was merciless when it came to the task of tutoring them. Over the last week, they had covered some of the most involved (and dullest) political and historical occurrences of the second age. Even the studious Elfwine had been pushed to his limits.
Amrothos was sympathetic. "What has you so distracted?"
Elfwine glanced at his friends, who nodded slightly. "How much do you know about King Helm?"
His uncle pondered it for a moment. "A fair amount."
"Did he ever wield a hammer?" Elboron blurted.
Amrothos started to laugh, but when he saw their earnest faces, he checked himself. "Where did you hear such a thing?"
"From the Dunlendings," Eldarion said, as if it should be perfectly obvious.
"Oh, I see." Amrothos was clearly amused. "What else did they say?"
Annoyed at the patronizing tone, Elfwine summed up the story for his uncle. Amrothos listened, fascinated, and then resolutely shook his head. "It's a fine tale, lads, but if it were true, surely it is something we all would have heard."
"Unless the story got changed so Helm didn't look so much like a murderer," Elfwine argued quietly. It was an awful thought that had been plaguing him.
"One doesn't just write history to suit, Win."
"The winners do," Eldarion put in.
Amrothos rolled his eyes. "It's just too much to be believed. I'd just forget it, if I were you."
The boys were not at all convinced. That night, as they took a late supper in their room, they mulled over what they knew and what they suspected.
"My uncle is right about one thing. It's too odd to believe that no record of this hammer still exists," Elfwine muttered over a chunk of gravy-soaked bread.
"But, that only means that some record might exist," Eldarion mused.
"But where?" Elfwine countered in exasperation. "Meduseld has the biggest -- well, only library in all of the Mark."
"Unless it's not written down at all," Elboron added. "You've told me a dozen times how Rohan is still steeped in the tradition of oral tales. Maybe there's a storyteller out there who knows the real story."
"If that were true, it doesn't help us much," Elfwine told them glumly. "There are dozens of bards in the Mark. Tracking them down and asking them would take years."
"We'd have to narrow it down, then," Eldarion said as if it were just that easy. "Well, if we're right and King Frecalaf--"
"Frealaf," Elfwine corrected absently.
"Whatever."
"Freca was Wulf's father."
"And it's my fault all the names in your history sound the same?"
Elboron giggled. Elfwine sulked. "Go on, then," said the Prince of the Mark, glowering at his cousin.
"Fine, well, if King Frealaf had a favorite bard, someone he trusted, maybe he'd let hit him know the true story and maybe that bard could pass the story on, only in secret."
"That's a terrible lot of 'ifs,' Dar," Elfwine said dubiously.
Elboron nodded. "And we'd never be able to trace who he told the story to, even if you were right."
"Father to son?" Eldarion replied.
Elfwine sighed. "That's quite thin."
"It's a place to start," Eldarion argued mildly.
Elboron glanced at his cousin thoughtfully. "That is true. It will be more interesting than studying which King signed which treaty in which year."
Elfwine contemplated it, smiling a little. "I agree, there. I never really did any reading on Frealaf. I don't know what's in the library about him..."
The boys shared smiles of anticipation, wondering what this would yield. They retired early, aware that their weapons training would begin the following day. They did not yet know who would be in charge of their training, only that Eomer had brought in someone especially for them.
Orthale looked out at the rain and the darkness, thinking of the failed campaign, the failed search for the Hammer of Helm, and he cursed fate for treating him so unkindly. All his efforts had come to naught, and he was out of ideas for how to bring about his ultimate goals.
"My lord?" It was one of his orc servants, Gurug.
"What?"
"The Horse Lord, Aldurn, is here with news."
Aldurn had been utterly useless thus far, as informants go. It was curious for him to arrive in weather such as this, without summons. The oddness of it warranted a meeting, at least.
"Very well, bring him to me."
Orthale turned from the window and watched as the tall Rider was led into what served as his audience chamber. Aldurn was in his thirties, strong and confident. He was, though, an awful gambler with a need for a steady supply of coin. In other words, precisely the sort of person Orthale could use.
He was drenched from the rain and shaking slightly. "My Lord," he said and bowed deeply.
"Aldurn, you arrive in the late watches of the night, sodden and road-begrimed. Do tell us why."
"My Lord, you bade me bring you any word or mention of Helm's Hammer. Today I overheard the Heir and his friends asking their tutor about the Hammer. I listened at their door later and heard them speaking again of it. They mean to look for it."
Orthale considered that. "So, they can search without suspicion, and we can observe and wait to seize on any information they come up with. Very good."
Aldurn nodded. "Yes, my Lord."
Orthale smiled slowly. "Watch them, then. And closely. I want to know if they learn anything at all."
"Yes, my Lord."
Orthale dismissed him and started pacing. This was an interesting development. The boys' curiosity would drive them on to chip away at the mystery. And they had access to places in Meduseld and sources of information he did not.
All was not, in fact, lost. For the first time that day, Orthale Grimason smiled.
Edoras was cloaked in a thick fog. It seemed to dampen sound, leaving Elfwine in a world of silence. He looked around for his friends, but he could scarcely see two paces ahead. Worse, he had a sense of foreboding, like danger was close.
"Boro? Dar?"
He padded down the road leading out of the city, feeling cold and fretful. There were no replies to his hopeful calls, and soon the world was swallowed by the impenetrable murk. The feeling of dread grew stronger, slowing his steps.
But then he spied the silhouette of a figure standing upon a hillock, and he felt new resolve. Squaring his shoulders, he approached. "Hello?"
The figure did not turn. "You seek that which should be forgotten."
Confused, Elfwine continued to stride up the hillock. "I don't understand."
"Sunder should remain lost to the world of men. It brings only ruin."
"Sunder What is that? Who are you?"
The figure, a massive, towering shape, slowly turned, and a face Elfwine had seen in a dozen tapestries and statues suddenly stared back at him. "You know who I am, Eomerson, and I speak of this..."
He held up a war hammer, which looked like it might be beautiful -- mithril engraved with dwarvish runes -- were it not coated in gore that dripped in a pool at the king's feet.
Elfwine gasped. "It's real!"
Helm's ghostly face darkened. "It not only destroys the man who dares to lay a hand upon it, but his whole house as well. Do not fall victim to it."
"But someone is looking for it. We need to find it to keep it safe! Where is it?"
The world tilted suddenly, spinning and breaking apart as Elfwine was forced from his slumber by being tossed out of his bed. He shouted a protest, a sound echoed by his two friends. Blinking sleep from their eyes, they tried to see who had so rudely awoken them -- a task made more difficult by the fact that dawn had not yet pierce the veil of night.
"Morning lads," a deep, baritone voice greeted them. "Time's a'wasting."
The mountainous figure looming in the darkness flashed them a huge, feral grin.
Elfwine's eyes widened in astonishment. "Erkenbrand!"