A/N: Thank you once again for the reviews. A few quick replies.
A.E. Hall – thanks for catching the typos. Edmund is my son's best friend, not Eomer's father as you noted ;-)
Eokat: I wondered where you'd gone. Sorry you had problems reviewing chapter 7. Glad you're still enjoying the story.
Athelas63: 'Fraid you're going to have to fret over Eomer a bit longer. Hang on in there.
Lady scribe: I love reading your guesses at what's coming next. Of course, I can't tell you whether you're right or not, but keep reading.
Haldir's Heart and Soul: I'm sure Eomer agrees that someone should definitely slap Galwyn. No doubt he would be the first to volunteer.
Everyone else: Many, many thanks for your enthusiastic reviews. Buckle up and sit back for the next chapter.
Chapter 9 – A walk in the woods
"What do you mean, she's gone?" Galwyn threw a handful of herbs into the stew she was making, then turned slowly to face Selred. It pleased her that he flinched at her annoyance. He was a strong man, and he liked the fact that his muscles earned him respect. It was a trait she had quickly turned to her advantage, drawing him into her sphere of influence through flattery and then ensnaring him with promises of rich rewards. It hadn't taken long to convince him he deserved much more than a life toiling the soil nor to blind him to the fact that, under her guidance, people now feared him rather than respected him. He believed her when she told him he was special. Believed her when she said he deserved to have whatever his heart desired. Believed her when she said she wanted only what was good for him even though it was obvious to anyone else that she was using him.
Uneasy beneath her gaze, Selred shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I overheard the mother of that sick brat asking where she was. It seems no one has seen her since late last night."
"She could be simply seeking new herbs."
"Or she could be seeking to bring aid to the king."
Galwyn glared at him. "Do not speak out loud of that which does no longer exists in the minds of men."
"Sorry." Selred ducked his head.
Galwyn turned back to the pot over the fire and stirred the thick, dark stew thoughtfully. "You have men watching the road?"
"She has not passed them."
"And the neighbouring villages?"
"I would know if she had journeyed thus."
"It would seem, then, that our young healer is being most foolish." She lifted the stew pot from the fire and set it to one side of the hearth. The news was not entirely surprising. Erika was young, and no doubt felt a sympathy for the handsome prisoner despite being warned that his heart was as evil as his face was fair. However, such a turn of events was more troublesome than disaster. In fact, it was almost amusing. She glanced back at Selred. "Shall we find out?"
His eyes glittered with anticipation, and Galwyn smiled. The dark arts entranced him, offering him that which his muscles alone could not achieve – real power that would not wane with the passing years. Such a gift was not to be his though. She would share much with him as long as he served her, but not this. For she knew that if ever he learnt to call upon it himself, he would no longer need her to fulfil his desires, whereas she would always need his physical strength to achieve that which magic could not.
She beckoned him closer and then turned back to the fire. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the key to the cell, and she felt the familiar rush of satisfaction at the thought of the man she had imprisoned in the dark depths of the earth. Soon he would pay the full price for the insults he had heaped upon her half-brother. It had been Eomer who first referred to him as Wormtongue, a name that had clung like a leach until few remembered that he was actually Grima, Son of Galmod. Well, soon it would be worms that feasted on the body of Eomer, Son of Eomund and few would remember or care that Rohan briefly had a king between the reigns of Theoden and Ceorl the Restorer.
Deeper in her pocket was a pouch, which she now drew out. Loosening the cord at its neck, she took a pinch of powder from it, and then began to recite the words that would combine the dust and flame into a potent spell. Beside her, Selred tensed as he strained to make sense of the strange tongue that she spoke. She had no fear of him doing so. It had taken Grima many patient weeks to teach her what little she knew of the dark arts. Selred would not learn it through mere observation.
She was nearly ready now. Picking up the metal poker, she stirred the flames until they leapt high, then she blew the dust into them. Instantly the flames turned green. Suddenly she felt she was flying – higher and higher above the village like an eagle. She turned to the north, then to the south, reaching out with her senses. Ahead of her lay the road to the villages. She turned west and saw the mountains. She turned east and let herself fly towards the caves. Into the darkness she plunged. He was still there – and in this ethereal form she could sense his fatigue, his hunger, the dark despair that clung to his skin like a fungus. She resisted the urge to laugh. He was not her prey – not today. She rose higher again, out of the darkness, back into the light, higher and higher above the caves and the craggy cliffs.
"There!"
A small figure on a narrow path that led across the grasslands.
The flames suddenly flickered, then died. Galwyn staggered backwards, exhausted by the effort. Using the flames for a searching was always draining. She reached out, found the edge of table beneath her hand. Selred's arm was suddenly around her waist, supporting her, and then helping her to sit.
"Stew," she said weakly. "And ale."
He obeyed instantly, ladling the rich, fragrant food into a bowl, passing her a spoon, and drawing a tankard of frothy, dark ale from a barrel in the corner. For a few moments she did not speak, instead concentrating on shovelling meat into her mouth, restoring the energy that had drained from her. When finally the bowl and tankard were both empty, she looked up.
"She walks towards the woods."
Selred nodded. "And from there to Edoras?"
"She will not reach Edoras," Galwyn said. "You will find her. And you will kill her. Now go. I must rest."
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Over recent weeks there had been many riders carrying messages between Rohan and Gondor. Aragorn was sure, however, that none had entered his presence with such obvious reluctance as the young man who now kneeled before him. He glanced at Arwen, who was sitting beside him, and saw from the concern on her face that she too sensed the rider did not bear glad tidings.
"What news from the Riddermark?" he asked, as soon as the rider had made his formal greeting. To his surprise the rider did not reply, but instead drew a parchment from inside his tunic.
"I was bid to give you this," the rider said, bowing his head.
Aragorn stared at the written missive for a long moment. Eomer was not one for wasting time with pen and ink. For him to do so, meant the message was one that required precision of words, and that did not bode well. The relationship between Gondor and Rohan was based on mutual respect and honesty; it did not require careful diplomacy and guarded sentiments. Slowly he got to his feet and took the parchment from the rider.
He turned his back as he unrolled it, intending to retake his seat. However, as his eyes took in the neatly scribed words he froze.
"Aragorn?" Arwen spoke his name in a concerned tone. "What is it?"
He could not bring himself to believe what he had read. No. This could not be. Slowly he scanned the parchment again, his gaze lingering on the signature. Eowyn, Queen of Rohan.
Arwen was on her feet now. She touched his arm, stirring him from the nightmare into which he had just fallen. Her grey-blue eyes searched his face. "What ill news does the letter bear?"
"Eomer." The name came out as a whisper. He swallowed, forced his voice to obey him. "Eomer is dead."
Shock stole the colour from Arwen's cheeks. "No, that cannot be."
He held the parchment out to her. "Read for yourself. I cannot bring myself to speak the words." His legs seemed as though they were made of lead as he turned to the rider. Now he understood that the rider's reluctance to enter his presence was caused by sorrow. He could see it clearly – a dark shadow in the man's eyes and a tension in his shoulders that said he longed to be alone to mourn his king. He glanced once more at the parchment Arwen now held. As King of Gondor he was required to send a response. As Eomer's friend, though... He swallowed hard. Dead? How could he be dead? After all they had been through together, fighting forces that outnumbered them by thousands, standing up against Sauron - how could Eomer have lost his life in such a trivial way?
He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity so there was no room in his chest for the burning ache of grief. "Rider of Rohan," he said. "We will set out for Edoras tomorrow, there to pay our respects at the funeral of Eomer-King. I bid you leave as soon as you can. Ride ahead of us and tell your new queen when to look for us." He gestured to one of his stewards. "Show this man to the kitchen. See that he is fed and provide him with provisions for his return journey." As the two men bowed and then hurried away, Aragorn glanced round at the shocked faces of his advisers and other court personnel. There was still a lot of business to be attended to, but he had no stomach for it. "This audience is over," he said curtly.
"Your majesty..." An elderly man stepped forward. "There are many pressing needs that require your attention. And while this news from Rohan is indeed tragic..."
Aragorn glared at him. "Our pressing needs can wait. Today, and for the next seven days as our tradition demands, we will mourn the passing of a great warrior, one to whom many of us owe our lives." He turned away and added softly. "A great warrior and a true friend."
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When Erika awoke she was dismayed to find that the sun was already risen and halfway to its zenith. She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her limbs complained at the exercise of the previous day and the night spent sleeping on the ground. Eomer had been right. It had taken her a full day to reach the woods. In fact it had grown dark before she set foot amongst the trees. Exhausted she had made a bed in a hollow at the base of the nearest large tree, but it had not been her intention to sleep past dawn. She cursed herself. The King was relying on her, and here she was, wasting precious hours of daylight in sleep.
Brushing herself down, she pulled a small piece of dried meat from her bag for breakfast. She would eat as she walked, hopefully that would distract her enough to not think about the oppressive nature of the trees or of Eomer's warning that it would not be so easy to find her way by the sun beneath the canopy of leaves. Forward. She had to go forward. But it was difficult to step away from the open plains and into the shadows. All her life she had lived beneath an open sky, and though Eomer had said her there was nothing to fear in the wood, her heart was already pounding at the prospect of walking into its depths.
For the king, she told herself sternly.
The air smelt very different between the trees. Earthy. Damp. Pungent. The ground was different beneath her feet too. The deep carpet of decaying leaves was soft and spongy. Despite her unease, she soon found herself caught up by the many unusual species of plants that were growing around her. On one tree a vast mushroom-like plant stretched out from a branch above her head. Elsewhere were patches of velvet-leafed ferns and small, feather-like plants with tiny blue flowers. The healer in her could not help but wonder if this new vegetation held medicinal properties that she did not know of. She promised herself, on her return, she would gather specimens and then seek out someone who knew the secrets of the woodland. Someone, perhaps, who would be willing to trade their knowledge for some of her hill-loving herbs.
To her surprise she glanced up and discovered the sun was now directly overhead. Midday. Having eaten a late breakfast, she pressed on. She was attuned to wood now - the soft singing of bird song and the gentle sibilance of the leaves almost relaxing. Suddenly, though, the sharp crack of breaking wood sounded up ahead. She froze, peering through the trees fearfully in case it was a wild boar. Eomer had told her it was extremely unlikely she would come across such an animal, and that even if she did, it would not harm her. They are only dangerous when wounded and cornered, he had said. Much as she trusted him to speak the truth, she had no desire to put his words to the test.
A second noise reached her now. The deep, huffing sound of an animal exhaling - a large animal. Slowly Erika stepped backwards. She would find an alternative route. It would not matter for there was no right path through the wood, just a myriad of alternative choices that wove through the trees. She took another step back, and heard the creature ahead of her moving away and to her right. Fine. She would go left. Taking care to tread lightly, she moved between the trees, listening intently for the animal. She froze again. It was no longer to her right. Instead, it seemed as though it was following her, circling round and behind and...
She spun round and let out a gasp of shock. Selred was looking down at her from the back of a horse.
"Well, well, look who I've found wandering the woods alone," he said, sliding from the saddle.
For a moment she couldn't think, but then she found her voice. "I am searching for new medicines. What brings you so far from the village?"
He smiled coldly. "Medicines, hey? I am searching for far more interesting prey." He suddenly darted forward and grabbed her wrist. "I'm searching for a young woman who has chosen to meddle in things that are no concern of hers."
"Let me go," she said, desperately trying to break free of his hold.
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" Selred said. His eyes raked her from head to toe. "Pretty too." He pulled her close, tangling the fingers of his other hand in her hair and yanking her head back so she had to look up at him. "Here's the deal. You give me what I want willingly, and I'll kill you quickly. Fight me and I'll take what I want anyway and make you beg me to end your pitiful life."
Terror and fury battled for supremacy. Then came the cold realisation that she was going to die no matter what she did. Summoning up all her courage, she spat in his face. "You're nothing but a bully who can't get a woman any other way."
His fingers untangled from her hair, and she saw him draw back his arm. There was nothing she could do to avoid the slap though. The ferocity of it knocked her to the ground and drove the breath from her lungs. Stunned she lay on her back and stared up at him. The hiss of metal sliding against leather cut through the air as he drew his sword from its sheath, and then he was towering over her, one foot planted either side of her hips and his face twisted into an ugly grimace of lust and cruelty.
"Bad choice," he said.
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As much as he hated to admit it, Eomer's first thought on seeing Galwyn again was one of relief. A whole day had passed without a visit, which at first he'd considered to be a good thing. But as the hours dragged by and his water jug remained empty, he had realised that there could be far worse things than barbed words. Hunger he could cope with. There seemed to be a point at which his belly simply gave up complaining about its need for food. Thirst, though, that was proving to be an all-together more unpleasant experience. Not only did his mouth feel like the bottom of Firefoot's oat bag, he felt dizzy when he stood, and a dull headache nagged persistently behind his eyes. And then there were the muscle cramps that tore into his limbs like wild animals gnawing on his bones. That had taken him by surprise. He was sure a few hours without water wasn't supposed to cause such a reaction. Perhaps Galwyn had left him longer than he'd imagined. It was so hard to tell.
Anyway, she was here now, and all he could think of was the prospect of cool, sweet water in his mouth. He didn't even bother putting on a show of token resistance as she picked up the rope. There seemed little point in dragging out the familiar routine and denying himself what he needed. To his surprise, though, the moment he was secured, she reached through the bars, pressing the palm of one hand against his forehead as though checking for fever. He jerked away from her touch.
"Do not pretend to be concerned for my well being," he snarled.
Without so much as a single insult by way of response, she went about her tasks, and he could not help but look longingly at the full water jug that was now set inside his cell. It was odd, though, that she was so quiet, and now, as he paid more attention he noted a weariness about her that he had not seen before. Hope stirred within him. Perhaps her plans were not going as expected. He was sure that Eowyn would prove a more difficult opponent that either Galwyn or Ceorl would have anticipated. Alert for an advantage now, he watched closely as she locked the cell and moved slowly back towards him. Yes, she was definitely looking tired. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes and her pale skin looked grey, even in the yellow light of the lantern.
This could be his chance.
He summoned up his scant reserve of energy as she fumbled with the knots of the rope that bound his hands together. Then, as the strands finally came loose, he struck, pushing himself right up against the bars and grabbing at her robe. His fingers curled around a wad of rough woollen cloth at her neck and he jerked his arm back, pulling her against the bars. She let out a startled yelp, but before she could find her balance, he let go of her robe and grabbed her throat. Fear flickered in her eyes, but then, almost immediately her expression changed to one of cruel triumph. Eomer sucked in a breath as he felt the sharp prick of a knife blade against his ribs.
"Release me or I'll gut you where you stand," she hissed, barely able to force the words past his grip.
For one crazy moment he considered the odds. Could he choke her before she inflicted a fatal injury? The knife blade pressed harder against his ribs. He risked glancing down, saw the length of the blade, and knew instantly that with a single thrust it could penetrate between his bones and then up into his heart. With a curse, he shoved her backwards, stepping out of her reach and safely away from the blade as he did so. Stupid. He'd been really stupid not to remember she carried a knife.
Galwyn stumbled against the table, grabbing at it for support, her free hand going to her throat as she gasped for breath. Eomer moved to the back of the cell, and pulled up his shirt to see what damage she'd inflicted. To his relief he found the blade had barely broken his skin. The injury to his pride was an entirely different matter, though.
"So you are dangerous still," Galwyn said, her voice hoarse. She coughed harshly. "Thank you for the reminder. I will not make the same mistake again."
He turned to face her, frustration making him cruel. 'Would that I had crushed your windpipe."
She straightened up and smoothed her dishevelled robes. The knife disappeared into the folds of material. Her expression turned calculating. "She's dead you know."
"What?" His thoughts immediately turned to Eowyn, and for a moment he thought he might fall as a sick dizziness washed over him.
"Did you think I wouldn't be able to track her?" She rubbed at her throat. "Cost me dear it did, for the Flames of Farsight are not easily turned to searching, but I found her."
Erika! She was talking about Erika. He staggered backwards and was grateful for the cold rock behind his back, the solidity of it keeping him upright. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, forcing the lie past the ache of despair that threatened to overwhelm him.
"I think you do," Galwyn countered. "I think you sent her to Edoras, which means that her blood is on yours hands."
"No." The word tore from him in an anguished whisper - a denial not of his guilt, but of Erika's death.
"Selred went after her," Galwyn continued maliciously. "He's a truly evil man. Even I fear to think of the things he might do to a pretty young woman before killing her."
"No. No." Eomer slid down the rock wall, not caring that the rough surface scraped at the tender skin on his back. He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in his hands, no longer concerned that Galwyn could see his distress. She was right. He was responsible. He'd sent Erika to her death - and worse.
Galwyn laughed softly. "And so the stallion is finally broken."
Eomer didn't look up. He heard the sound of stale bread hitting the floor of his cell - not one helping, but two. He didn't care about the double rations. Did not even stop to question the reason for it. Soft footsteps told him Galwyn was leaving. All he could think about was the fact that an innocent young woman had been raped and killed because of his desire to live and be free. What right had he to life at the expense of another?
Exhausted, mentally and physically, he wept.