Wings of the Storm Chapter 13: Not All Who Wander are Lost, a lord of the rings fanfic

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XIII- Not All Who Wander are Lost

(This installment contains two incidents of note. The first is a vision that seems to foreshadow events that actually happened but which contains some subtle differences from the official version in the Red Book of Westmarch. Whether these differences are original or were introduced by my father or his source, following an alternative version of the actual events, is unknown. The second is a depiction of the economic structure of a human town in the Second Age, for which I can find no source that collaborates or repudiates it, leaving me to wonder, yet again, if this tale offers true historical insight into a largely undocumented era or is merely a clever and entertaining invention.)

Curiously, Caldrion did not find it odd to hear a cock crowing at the setting sun. Nor did he start when he heard the horns blowing in answer, great horns echoing in the snow-capped mountains. When the King spoke, Caldrion did not even consciously note that this man was older and wiser. "Oaths ye have taken; oaths now fulfill, to Lord and land and league of friendship!"

A cheer rose behind Caldrion, and he whirled to see countless horsemen arrayed in battle formation, their swords drawn and their faces determined. The pride emanating from the King was so powerful that Caldrion felt it, and soared, and could not help but smile as the thought reached him: My people.

And with singing they advanced, the thunder of their hooves washing over the plains like a sheet of rain. Before them rode the King, outpacing the wind and bearing a countenance as fell as a storm. Behind, his green banner flapped, the white horse depicted thereon dancing as though winged. Caldrion was caught up in the charge and soon felt nothing but the triumph of the riders as they delivered rightful vengeance.

When the whirlwind deposited him, he was greeted by a scene that filled him with tears and shivers, fear and awe. The white horse was no longer flying but instead lay dead atop the King. A monster, unnatural, neither avian nor reptilian, a stinking grey mass of evil, was perched before the horse. Upon it sat a shape of black armor and robes, a crown atop what would have been its head, save that only two dangerous points of red light occupied the gap. Another voice, more familiar to Caldrion, spoke in his head: the black ghost, whose brother you know and whose master you have met.

Between the black king and the white stood a woman, her golden hair and white robes flowing gently in the wind, a vision of some angelic being. Out of the unnaturally black and red sky, a single shaft of light illuminated her, and with a gasp he realized that she looked like a slightly older version of Othcyr. She addressed the villain in a voice clear and deadly, speaking the words of one who goes seeking death, having no hope. "Begone; leave the dead in peace."

From beneath the malevolent orbs, a voice answered, toneless but as deadly as the woman's: "Begone; leave the dead as prey, or you will wish yourself one of them."

The clear pitch of drawn steel rang in answer, and she held her sword high before her in defiance. "Do what you will. I shall hinder it."

Caldrion's vision swam and the scene rotated. Othcyr stood before him, sword poised to strike with what remained of her strength. A sharp pain grew behind his knee, and the two red spots immediately before his eyes became many circling in the distance. Her sword closed the distance to his face, and his vision was filled with a shower of sparks.

"Shit, Dad, you had us all scared," Othcyr said, withdrawing her hand, which would have slapped him again had he not come out of his daydream, and instead pulling him into a hug. Looking over her shoulder, he saw many people, most from Hillguard but some who, like her, had ridden up from Aratur, some of them holding torches against the starless night. Turning around as he pulled away from her, he saw Graldor, Betlin, and Aeschen dismounting, all looking weary but at least alive.

At that point he realized that he was no longer mounted and that the back of his knee was indeed bruising. Othcyr saw him glance at it and apologized. "I was not as gentle as I should have been pulling you off, but I was more concerned about confirming that you were still among the living.

"So what happened? We saw the various orc artifacts and body parts washing up when the river rose suddenly, and it made all of us worry about you. Where are Sirgo and the other guard?"

Through his still extreme weariness and disorientation, he managed an incohesive but understandable response. "Orcs. A large band of them. Sirgo called the flood, washed them away, melted. Rickens was killed as we fought the rear guard. They came from the… Where is your mother? I need to speak with her now."

Othcyr grabbed him before he could remount his horse. "Not tonight, Dad. You need to rest. We'll find you a bed here."

She took his arm and led him back to Hillguard. The crowd parted around them, the villagers eyeing him warily as they kept their distance. He was not bothered by it, having been subjected to similar glances in the days after the battle in which Neblis had been killed, until he realized that the suspicious eyes were following his daughter and not him. Had he been fully conscious, he would have berated them for staring at his daughter like she was some monster to fear, but as it was he could hardly keep his eyes open.

From somewhere behind him, he heard two wise voices speaking with accents that he had never before heard. "Why do they fight?" "Not all of the downfallen were led astray across the waters. They fight to again claim that history and join with those who are today redeemed." "A light from the shadows shall spring…"

Caldrion spent the next several days in bed, his waking hours blurring into his sleep, as his fever rose to an alarming height and then broke suddenly. Finally, on the fourth day after his return to Hillguard, he opened his eyes to find himself looking at his own bedroom. He did not remember being brought home, and everything that had happened since they had killed the last of the orcs was a hazy, indistinct mass.

Correctly surmising that some time had passed since then, he got up from the bed, put on clean garments, and walked out of the house, pleasantly surprised at how good he felt despite the long rest.

With no real plan in mind, he just began wandering along the beaten paths of Aratur, watching the daily life of the town ebb and flow around him. He first passed other residences like his own: rectangular, one-storey houses with a common room or two and bedrooms. In the middle of the afternoon, most were inhabited, if at all, only by women doing household tasks or, if they were really ambitious, trying to teach squirming children who wanted nothing more than to run out and play. He nodded to Memara, an original member of Aratur, widely recognized as the best cook in the town and the woman Graldor still turned to for the organization and oversight of his feasts, as he walked by her. He also acknowledged Fremus' greeting with a nod, though he did not slow his step for fear that he would be trapped into conversation with the loquacious old man, whose deteriorating health would probably kill him before the harvest but who, through either temperament or stupidity, remained blissfully unaware of his own impending end.

Dodging his way through a group of children playing tag, he entered the crafters' district, such as it was, where the smithy and leather workshop stood among the homes of men who served Aratur with more specialized skills than fighting or farming. Passing the abode of Rievlyn, who did most of the cobbling, Caldrion was reminded that Eodryn's boots had looked like they needed to be put back together. That was one of the things that he had taken a long time to adjust to after he had joined Graldor in his youth. Unlike in Vinyalonde, where his original foster-father Solmir had declared that the currency was quite primitive compared to that on Numenor itself, Aratur had no currency at all and very little bartering. The storehouses and armory were open and supplied everyone with food and weapons. Services were likewise simply provided to those who needed them; for Eodryn's boots, all Caldrion would need to do was give the boy some time off from weapons practice so he could go and wait while Rievlyn made them fit again. And for large projects, such as Catrilas' wedding dress (which had since served several other brides), the best sewers in town simply got together and made it. This economy over which Graldor nominally presided, though initially completely foreign to Caldrion, had proved surprisingly effective given the small size and isolation of his realm.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sight of a Hillguard maid shaking her head sadly as she walked out of the hut where Walame, the healer, lived. Turning into the house, Caldrion was alarmed to find Teorand still there and abed, surrounded by his closest friends Pustel, Sceafles, and Thwine, a trio of thuggish and, in Caldrion's opinion, dense farmers who still harbored a slight grudge against Frealine, Caldrion, and Melgras, who had determined that they could best serve Aratur in the fields of peace instead of war.

Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, Caldrion caught Walame's eye and she came over. "How's he progressing?" "Not well. At first I thought his lack of response was out of laziness or an attempt to garner sympathy, but after all this time I think it might be genuine, that he was so traumatized that he can no longer respond to exterior promptings. On top of that, I'm afraid that the little cut on his stomach has become infected. With a normal patient who had the will to live, it could probably be overcome, but with him… I just do not know. It might be better if he were surrounded by women who love him instead of these guys. All they keep doing is assuring him that, if he dies, they will avenge him. But the Hillguard girls, when they come, do little more than look at him with pity in their eyes, Catrilas was insulted by Thwine and hasn't returned since, and Eoscla does not want to take the time to stay with him."

Caldrion nodded absently. Even though the patient had not visibly reacted to his entrance, Caldrion could almost feel the resentment radiating from Teorand and decided that the best thing to do at the moment was withdraw.

Emerging back into the sunlight, he heard far more familiar whoops and shrieks going up the lane. Eodryn and a couple of his friends, armed with the wooden practice swords that everyone who was not a member of the Army had been using since the fight between Othcyr and Teorand, were chasing Hrethere and Eadgla. Caldrion opened his mouth to yell at the boys for playing wargames within the walls of the town but then decided just to follow, curious as to what was actually happening. While it was not unusual for the boys to engage in such sport, Eadgla, both because of her gender and her age, was not a participant in such activities, making Caldrion wonder if this was an attempt to scare or annoy the little sister rather than simply play for the sake of playing.

By the time he got close to the children, Hrethere had made his first mistake; up to that point his knowledge of the town and the quick turns on which he had led his sister had kept the greater speed of the older boys at bay, but now they were cornered in an alley. As the three older boys turned and advanced, triumphant grins on their faces, Hrethere stepped in front of his sister, pretended to nock an arrow on the imaginary bow he was holding in his hand, and fired three rapid shots, each of the older boys dropping to the ground as they were 'hit.'

Looking up, the victorious archer saw his father standing at the mouth of the alley and ran to greet him, Eadgla following as fast as her legs could carry her. Caldrion answered his son's quick hug with one arm while scooping up his daughter in the other. Eodryn, having gotten to his feet, gave his father a smile but, being in the presence of his friends, made no other move to express his pleasure at Caldrion's recovery.

Caldrion addressed all three boys as sternly as he could manage amidst the happiness of again holding his daughter in his arms. "Now what do you think you are doing, chasing innocent little girls around Aratur?"

Resuming a fairly cool demeanor towards his father, Eodryn replied, "It was Hrethere's idea."

"It was, Dad. If orcs should come into Aratur, I need to be sure that I know the paths well enough to lead everyone to safety."

Disturbed that even his children were making such contingency plans, Caldrion tried to ask lightly, "And why do you think that should be your job?"

Hrethere shrugged. "It's just something I think I ought to know, like the archery. Just in case we should need it."

Trying not to think about it any further, Caldrion just ruffled Hrethere's hair, knowing that the boy would soon grow to resent such intimate contact as Eodryn had. Hrethere grinned at him and said "I'm glad you're back among the living."

Leading his children back home along the meandering route he had taken earlier, Caldrion again observed the women working, the children playing, the soldiers returning from the duties of the day, and he found his answer. This was what they were fighting for. This was what Sirgo had died for: these happy, simple lives, without fear or pain, this freedom. "And I, too, will die to defend it," Caldrion thought.

"Repeat for the council what you told me this morning."

Caldrion sighed but could not disobey the King, in spite of the doubts about his theory that had arisen since that time. This was still the best explanation for the orcs that he could think of, and he needed to relate it to the council if he hoped to ascend to the position of trust and respect Sirgo had held.

To make the situation worse, though, Graldor, having not seen him die, refused to give Sirgo up for dead, meaning that no ceremony in his honor had been held, no memorial had been constructed, and no one had been appointed to assist Frealine in the day-to-day operation of Hillguard or provide executive oversight to the construction of Fort Neblis. But neither had Graldor hidden his pleasure that the contradictory old advisor was no longer around, thereby leaving him as the primary decision maker.

With his own illness added to his daughter's still suspicious attack on her cousin, Caldrion would lose all standing with the King and the council if he did not do something now to regain it. Since Sirgo had given him information that, in his delirium, he believed he had discerned the meaning of, he had thought it best to share with Graldor the day after he had awakened, leading to this meeting of the council.

"Before he told us to flee, Sirgo was muttering about the orcs and said that he was wrong and they came from the north. I suspect this means that he anticipated that the Dark Lord would send an expedition against us from the east, where hordes of orcs are said to still be intact. If the orcs indeed came from the north, they most likely lived in a settlement larger but otherwise similar to those we destroyed some time ago."

Smosur nodded. "So now, with the orcs dead, it might actually be advisable to mount an expedition north, if we had a better idea of where we could find the place they left from."

"But Caldrion's wife has some knowledge of the northern plains, I believe," Gripler added.

Before Caldrion could protest that Catrilas had, on more than one occasion, told this council that she only suspected the existence of a northern orc settlement and had no concrete information, Graldor ordered Betlin to fetch her.

Caldrion wondered once again what he was missing. If the orcs had indeed come from the north, then they had bypassed the area controlled by Aratur without being noticed, no small feat for such a large band. And, come to that, why such a large band? Those many orcs could probably have destroyed at least one, maybe both of the completed towns if they approached quickly enough to prevent the Army from assembling and engaging them on the plains, where the now entirely mounted force would have a significant advantage. Yet Sirgo had said that they came for "us," presumably Graldor. Why would such numbers go after one man, especially since their almost complete lack of tactical planning had allowed that one man to escape? And how had the orcs found Graldor in the mountains? How did they even know that Graldor would not be in Aratur when they arrived in the vicinity? Caldrion shuddered at the possibilities. A spy in Aratur could have told them that Graldor was on another mountain tour, but who had directed them to the specific stream or even told them to go south in the first place? The only conclusion he could draw was that the Dark Lord was not only something approaching omniscient but could also give orders to his servants from afar.

As that unpleasant possibility occurred to him, Betlin came back, leading a surprised and somewhat flustered Catrilas. Graldor gestured for her to sit and then, without preamble, asked her where the northern orc settlement was. Taking a breath to avoid being caught up in his hasty intensity, she answered. "As I have said before, my Lord, I do not know. I, or rather my family, only suspected that one might exist."

"And where did they suspect it existed?" Graldor asked, rising from his chair.

"On the south side of the river, west of where it turns south."

"And this information is based on?"

"Hunches more than anything. My father had guesses about where orcs might settle but he made a point of avoiding those locations rather than attempting to confirm his suspicions."

Graldor, despite having heard all of this before, was becoming visibly angry and was now pacing behind Catrilas. "If orcs were to settle along that stretch of river, where would they?"

Though apparently slightly frightened by the King's tone, Catrilas kept her voice calm. "I cannot say, though I cannot imagine they would settle in the bewitched forest that at one point grew on both sides of the river."

Frealine shook his head. "They would not live in the woods, but they would probably stay near them because of the available timber."

Graldor nodded. "Two days from now we go north to eradicate the town that was home to those sent to destroy us, and we will slaughter them all."

Caldrion started at that abrupt declaration, but Graldor swept out of the room before any could protest. Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Caldrion surveyed the faces seated around the table and saw that no one looked dismayed like he felt. Frealine, Halin, and the farmers all seemed to have calmly accepted the King's proclamation, and Smosur was making no effort to hide his pleasure. It mattered not that they were seeking an orc settlement whose existence they could not confirm and location they did not know. It mattered not that the chain of assumptions leading to this expedition was such that this unknown settlement quite possibly might not be the source of the orcs. It mattered not that Graldor was not even acknowledging Sirgo's death, nevermind declaring this a campaign to avenge him. It mattered not that the Kingdom was not directly threatened, that the women and children would sleep just as safely this night as they had the last. What mattered was that Aratur was going to war, and blood would be spilled.

The next day went by far too fast for Caldrion's liking, and before he was really aware of it he was dressing to ride north, the whole time wishing that he could just be preparing for another day of training the children in weapons they would hopefully never need to use.

Saying goodbye to the children was especially rough. Even Eadgla was too old for him to pretend that this was just another patrol; she was keenly aware that the preparations were more widespread and the farewells more heartfelt than those preceding a few days of routine riding around the plains. Frightened by the possibility that her father was not coming back, Eadgla held onto him as long as she could.

Hrethere tried to keep things light, insisting that Caldrion provide a detailed report of how the archers fought when, not if, he came back, but the boy's eyes betrayed his concern as well. Eodryn, at least, did not deny his father a hug and promised to practice hard with the sword while Caldrion was gone. Though it was left unspoken, however, Caldrion understood that his son was also saying that he was prepared to defend his family if Aratur were threatened or Caldrion did not return. Othcyr did not even attempt to speak, but clung to her father briefly before turning away with tears in her eyes.

Catrilas was the hardest. He had not gone off to war since marrying the woman he was still in love with, whose life he valued more than his own. For the first time since meeting her, he would wield his sword for the sake of attacking rather than in self-defense. And, despite her assurances that there was no guarantee that they would even find the orc settlement, Caldrion knew in his gut that there would be fighting. So they clutched each other as tightly as possible, each once again pouring all his or her love into the other. "Come back to me" was all she said. "I shall" was all he answered. With one last glance at his family, he turned around and walked outside, willing his face to assume the anticipatory expression that the men would expect of him.

On his way to the stables, he paused beside Walame's hut. She had probably gotten very little sleep overnight, instead preparing more doses of ointments and salves for the soldiers. She was still somewhat angry that she was being denied the chance to ride as the healer for the expedition simply because she was woman. Graldor had instead decided that all the soldiers, who were taught the basics of cleaning and binding a wound as part of their training, would be provisioned with healing balms and clean rags so they could address each other's injuries.

Stepping inside, Caldrion saw Teorand lying unconscious in what was probably a feverish sleep. Kneeling by the bed, he gripped his nephew's hand and told him to get better and come back to the family that did indeed love him. As he got up, a tired-looking Walame came in, shaking her head. "Getting food into him is a struggle now. Unless something dramatically changes, he probably has only a few more days. And once he goes, I don't envy Othcyr. She's going to have to be really careful, especially around those farmer friends of his. You might want to tell her to carry a knife around for awhile."

Caldrion started. Much as he disliked going into danger with a family left behind, at least he had the illusion that they were safe and would be there when he returned. If those thugs might go after his daughter to avenge their friend, then he could no longer hold onto that illusion. But neither could he go back and warn his daughter, knowing that, as difficult as it was to part with his family believing they would be safe, it would be impossible to again say goodbye if he feared for their lives.

Walame must have read the concern on his face, because she kindly told him that she would caution Othcyr. Thanking the healer and with one last glance at his nephew, Caldrion left the building and continued on his way.

As he led his horse to the gate, he saw Aelia, Rickens' wife, standing with his son in her arms. Caldrion had to hold back a sob. He had not been particularly close to her, but the sadness radiating from her black-draped form filled him and only fueled his fear that his beloved Catrilas would soon stand so arrayed. And then he felt gratitude that he had been given even a few more days with his family. Walking past her, barely able to meet her eyes, he said "I'm sorry." She barely moved her head in acknowledgement.

Caldrion once again found himself wishing that the King had consulted with his friend as he once had, instead of so busying himself with preparations that Caldrion did not have the chance for a private word. He wanted to ask Graldor if eradicating this distant threat would be worth making far more women like Aelia, left alone with her grief and young child.

Outside the gate, the King was mounted and waiting for all the men to assemble so he could lead them north. Eoscla was talking to him, but he did not seem to care about whatever she was saying, staring as he was at the distant mountains, and she was looking petulant and slightly distraught. Finally she concluded that he was not going to listen to her and, turning away with a huff, walked back to Sceofsen. Roughly a contemporary of Teorand, he was the youngest of the designated crafters, a good friend of Eoscla's, and, if Caldrion's memory served, a younger brother of Rickens and also Aeschen's best friend despite being a couple years older than the soldier. The two exchanged a few quiet words, with Eoscla looking slightly afraid and Sceofsen seeming to reassure her, before he embraced her in what seemed to be (though it might have been wishful thinking on Caldrion's part) a platonic embrace.

Wondering what that was about, Caldrion began to lead his horse in their direction but the beginning of Graldor's speech stopped him. "My men! Today we set out on a noble quest: to eradicate the dwellings of those that tried to destroy us. Today we go forth to spill the guts of those who oppose our supremacy of these plains." Caldrion, unable to cheer with the others at these vaguely disturbing statements, instead noticed that the King's mouth seemed to be flowing with saliva, slurring his speech slightly. "They killed a good soldier," he said with a gesture toward Aelia, standing in back of the women and other civilians gathered to see the Army leave, "and they've stolen our prophet, and we wants their blood! You are the Riders of Aratur! No living beings will hinder us; neither man, nor orc, nor elf, nor," he added with a glance at Caldrion, who noticed that none of the King's regular girlfriends were here to watch him leave, "woman can keep us from achieving our goal. We ride to war!"

"To war!" The men answered.

"To war!"

"To war!" Graldor turned and began riding. With one last roar, the Army, Caldrion included, began to follow.

"To war!"

Author's Notes: The usual disclaimers apply. My apologies for taking so long to update; school just doesn't get any easier, does it? Regarding the chapter itself, Caldrion's visions are deliberately disjointed and non-chronological with respect to the book. The economic views presented in this chapter are not my own. I am certainly not a communist, but, while trying to write a glimpse into the daily life of Aratur, I realized how little a currency-based or even barter economy would make sense given that most of the people were either soldiers or farmers in a small, isolated environment. Hence my guess that Aratur, and probably many settlements of men not part of a larger realm, would operate almost as communes with respect to labor compensation.

Dragon-of-the-north: Your compliments have, once again, left me speechless. I'm glad you like the jeweler explanation; in reality, that was me realizing that there was a plothole (namely Sirgo having not applied his wisdom to the question of Graldor's ring) and needing to quickly fill it.

Lady LeBeau: Wow. Can I quote you on the dust jacket? :-) For what it's worth, my trick with the names is to combine elements from Old English names until I find something I like the sound of.