Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed the first two chapters. Now on with the story...

----------------

Eomer was familiar with the craggy hills that now surrounded him. As a youth, he'd been bought here by Theoden to learn the art of strategy. The hills were peppered with caves, making them an ideal place to practice the skills of defence. He glanced to his right, recognising a particularly large cave set back into a rocky recess. It had once been a substitute for Helm's Deep. He and three other youths had defended it against a far superior force comprised of Theodred and a dozen members of his eorod. Eomer had been the last one standing, although Theodred had somewhat bad- temperedly pointed out that by the rules of the game his younger cousin had probably been mortally wounded at least three times. Flushed with success, Eomer had declared that rules were designed to be broken - a comment that had earned him a long lecture from his uncle and a week cleaning the stalls of not only Theodred's horse but of his entire eorod too.

Now, all these years later, he still stood by his comment. Rules were designed to be broken. The rules of his current predicament dictated that he shouldn't do anything that might endanger his life. He was a king without a direct heir (something his advisers considered worthy of mention on an almost daily basis) and therefore was not a dispensable commodity. However, in this particular game he'd been given cards that should not, by rights, have been his. That surely changed the rules. Or at least bent them in his favour.

Now they were no longer in full view on the open plain, Selred called a rest halt, just as Eomer had suspected he would. He glanced round, familiarising himself with the territory. Up ahead the valley forked into three canyons. He knew the one to the left splintered several times more. He knew too that there was a network of caverns leading off one of the narrow fingers of space between the crags. If he could but make it there, he could easily evade recapture in the dark tunnels beneath the hills. He leaned forward and whispered a soft word to his mount. The animal's ears quivered and it blew a soft, impatient breath.

Eomer bided his time. His captors did not expect his horse to move without being struck and therefore the advantage of surprise would be all his. His heartbeat quickened as, one by one, they dismounted. Then, as the final rider swung down from the saddle and moved away from his horse, Eomer acted. He leaned forward and urged his horse into movement with both his legs and his scant knowledge of Elvish. Selred's head swung in his direction, mocking disbelief on his face. Eomer dug his heels into his mount's desensitised sides, and desperately began to chant the one word he believed might save him. For a moment, he thought it futile. Selred started towards him, clearly intending to pull him from the saddle. Then suddenly the horse came to life. With a whinny, it bunched its meagre muscles and set off at a gallop. His hands still bound behind him, Eomer almost lost his seat and for one sickening moment thought his escape was going to be over almost as soon as it had begun. But then a fortuitous bounce put him back in the saddle. He rolled his hips back, eased into the familiar motion and thanked his captors that they'd provided him with stirrups.

"Stop him!" Selred screamed.

Eomer didn't look back. He didn't dare. The dual tasks of keeping in the saddle and persuading his horse to veer left were challenge enough. Heart pounding he heard an arrow fly past his right ear and then saw it embed itself in the ground ahead of him. Then came the rapid rhythm of pursuers. A second arrow sailed past him. The flesh between his shoulder blades prickled in anticipation of metal piercing skin. Keep calm. Keep calm. A few more strides and he'd be into the narrow gorge where the twists and turns would offer protection from the bows firing from behind him. A third arrow hit the ground, making his horse start. He murmured more Elvish - hoped desperately that he wasn't asking the animal to stop for dinner - and was relieved when it responded by charging into the gorge. A few strides on they did an abrupt turn to the left. Another fifty strides, and horse and rider swung to the right.

Ahead was the entrance to the cavern. He was going to make it. The outraged cries of Selred and his men were muffled by the rock walls. With luck they would already be uncertain as to which way he'd turned. Just a few more strides and he'd be safe. He urged his mount on in his own tongue now. Allowed himself to relax back into the saddle as the horse dropped from gallop to canter.

His mind was already on the next part of his escape – the need to dismount, free himself of his bonds, find somewhere safe to hide the horse –

Suddenly a shadowy object rose from the ground a mere stride away from his horse's hooves. It was too intangible to be any creature Eomer could name – more wraith than flesh and blood. A noise reverberated off the rocky walls surrounding him - like the flapping of giant bird wings - but the creature neither took to the air, nor ran across the ground. It just seemed to hover. Dark. Menacing. Evil.

Eyes rolling white, his horse reared up in fright, almost tipping him backwards from the saddle. Only his grim determination and the strength of his knees kept him on the animal's back. Then, as abruptly as it had reared, it crashed down, tucked its head to its chest and kicked out and up with its back legs. Already off balance, Eomer didn't stand a chance. He was thrown violently from the saddle. His hands still bound, he was unable to do anything to ease his fall as he flipped over the horse's head and then, with a sickening thud slammed into solid rock. His breath rushed from his lungs. Pain seared through his arms, and shot into his shoulders and back. His vision greyed as a thousand bells began a mocking cacophony of noise in his head. And just before the world went black he was sure he heard a woman's laugh.

-------------

Consciousness was an unwelcome state. His brain registered a dozen unpleasant signals – the burning ache in his shoulders and upper back. The grinding of bone against bone. The sharp pain behind his eyes. And the nausea-inducing sense motion. Unwillingly he opened his eyes and discovered that he was indeed moving. Moss-covered ground passed slowly beneath his head. His sense of smell kicked in now – horse and leather. Gradually the clues began to add together and he realised to his dismay that he was slung face down across the saddle of a horse. His hands dangled below his head, his wrists lashed tightly together. A quick test proved that his ankles were also bound. He'd failed. He was a prisoner still. And worse, now he was injured, although to what extent he was unable to tell.

"So, you have woken at last."

The legs of another horse came into view. Fingers tangled in his hair, and his head was yanked brutally upwards. His eyes watered with the pain, but he blinked the tears away as he looked into a familiar face and desperately sought a name. "Selred?"

The man gave a rough laugh. "The fall did not knock all sense from you then."

His head was released as sharply as it had been snatched up. Darkness called softly to him. And he welcomed its embrace.

-------------

He wasn't sure how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, though, he became aware that he was no longer moving, and that neither was he draped ignobly across the saddle of a horse. He was still lying face down, but the surface beneath him was now hard and flat. It was also extremely cold against his bare skin.

Bare skin? Horrified, he realised he was completely naked. For a moment he didn't dare move. Could hardly comprehend his situation. Had he been stripped and left to die in the wilderness somewhere?

No. That didn't make any sense. Selred had mentioned being paid for delivering him. He inhaled slowly and felt a lightweight fabric slide against the tender skin on his back. Relief washed over him as he caught at it with the fingers of his right hand. Not completely naked then. Someone had been compassionate enough to fling a thin woollen blanket over him. That still left the question of where he was, though.

Forcing his way past the various pain signals that were clamouring for attention, he warily raised his head from the ground and got the first glimpse of his surroundings. Although it was dark, he knew immediately he was in a cell. On three sides he was surrounded by solid rock. The fourth consisted of thick iron bars that stretched from floor to ceiling. The cell door was also made of vertical bars, set into which was a solid-looking lock. Beyond the bars, he could just about make out the shadowy shapes of a table with two benches. Further still he thought he could see the glimmer of firelight. Yes, it was indeed a fire; now he could smell the tang of burning wood. Apparently his cell was built into the back of some kind of living quarters - possibly inside a cave judging from the darkness.

He was about to push himself into a sitting position when he suddenly heard voices. The words were audible, but they were distant enough to be coming from people by the fire. Instinctively he dropped his head back to the ground and pretended to still be unconscious as he listened intently.

"You know what to do with these, right?" The first voice was female, but clearly belonged to someone used to giving orders and having them carried out.

A male voice replied. "Yes." Was it Selred? Eomer was too far away to be sure.

"And you have someone of the right height and build?"

"Yes."

"Make sure the body is not recognisable."

"I know what to do." The man sounded peevish. "Trust me."

There was the sound of booted footsteps and then a door opening and closing. After that came silence. 'Make sure the body is not recognisable.' Eomer didn't like the sound of that. What dark plot had he fallen into? He realised there was only one way to find. More importantly, there was only one way to discover if he was now alone. He placed his hands against the cold ground, planning to push himself up. A searing pain immediately shot up his left arm. With a groan he collapsed, clutching the arm across his chest and rolling on to his back. That immediately wrenched a second cry from him as his shoulders screamed in protest.

"I take it from your mewling you're awake," a voice snapped in his direction.

The sound of the woman approaching was enough to make Eomer forget his injuries. He rocked forward, tucked his legs into his chest, and pulled the meagre blanket tightly around his shoulders with his right arm, cradling his left as best he could. Only then did he realise he had his back to the bars. Quickly he scooted round, and found himself looking at a tall, slender woman holding a lantern. He frowned as he looked at her face. It was hard to be certain in the yellow glow, but there was something eerily familiar about her features. Pale skin. Light coloured eyes. Long dark hair.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

"We have not met," she replied, eyeing him coldly. "Although I know you well enough."

Eomer shivered. Told himself firmly it was because he was cold and in pain, not because of her tone. "What do you want with me?"

She raised her narrow eyebrows in surprise. "I thought my son would've told you the answer to that."

"Your son?" Eomer wished his head wasn't throbbing quite so severely. It was hard to think.

"Yes. I was proud of the speed with which he wormed his way into your household - into your trust." She smiled icily. "But then that's a family trait."

"Ceorl." Eomer spat the name in disgust. "He told me he had no family. Or at least, none that he could remember."

"And you believed him. As I knew you would. His story touched you, did it not? Reminded you of your own youth? Young, orphaned, homeless."

Her mockery stung. "Why are you doing this? I've shown nothing but kindness to your son."

"Kindness!" She snorted the word. "You horse lords are all the same. You ride around the country in your shiny armour bestowing your favours as you see fit and expecting us to be grateful for the crumbs from your table."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Eomer said. The conversation was threatening to sap what little strength he had. His body ached and throbbed, and he could no longer remember when he'd last eaten or drunk. Even though the ground beneath him was cold and hard, it seemed infinitely preferable to being vertical. "Just tell me your name and want you want from me."

"My name," she said softly. "You would like that, wouldn't you Eomer, Son of Eomund. You know as well as I the power of names. Or perhaps I should say of nicknames." There was accusation in her words, but Eomer didn't know why. "Very well," she said. "I will give you my name. And in so doing you will know what I want from you."

"Enough riddles, woman," Eomer snapped. "Speak if you will or leave me be."

"I am Galwyn, daughter of Galmod."

"Galmod?" The name was not a welcome discovery. Eomer hesitated a moment before asking, "The same Galmod that served my uncle as rider?"

"Indeed."

"You're lying. He had no daughter. Only a son. Grima."

"As I said before, the horse lords of Rohan like to ride about the country bestowing their favours as they see fit - particularly upon pretty young women."

Eomer stared up at her, now recognising why she looked so familiar. Yet he could still barely believe what she was saying. "Grima had a half-sister?"

"You can see with your own eyes the answer to that question."

A sense of sick dread uncurled in his stomach and he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The sharp angles of her face were beginning to blur. He sucked in a deep breath, as he tried to keep a grip on consciousness. Grima Wormtongue had a half-sister? And a nephew who, even now, was no doubt spreading lies through the halls of Meduseld? "I take it treachery is as much a family trait as dark hair and pale eyes," he managed to say.

She laughed softly. "You call it treachery. I call it ambition."

He felt himself sway as dizziness washed over him. She eyed him as though he was a cockerel she was selecting for the dinner table. "You look unwell, my lord King. I will have someone tend to your injuries." She turned away. "Co-operate with them and I will bring food and drink for you also."

He had no intention of doing otherwise. He could be stubborn and hot- headed, but he wasn't stupid, and he knew he needed a healer for his arm at least. "Thank you," he murmured as the battle to remain upright finally defeated him. He toppled sideways, letting his right shoulder bear the brunt of the fall.

She turned back, her expression cold as she looked down at him. "Do not mistake my hospitality for compassion. I merely intend to ensure that you die at a time of my choosing." And with that, she strode away, leaving him cold and alone in the dark.