No, I did not invent the Lord of the Rings. Tolkien did that. I only inserted my own characters into his trilogy.
II
Refugees
Déor laid another log on the fire and turned back to his father. The old man lay on a pile of skins, breathing lightly, his eyes closed. Another fit of coughing wrenched his body almost double. Déor could hear the wheezing in his chest as he leaned closer.
"Father?" he laid his hand on the man's chest. It was still broad, but painfully thin.
The man opened his eyes.
"You wanted to tell me something?" Déor asked.
"Yes," the man wheezed, "before...I die."
"You need not die," Déor said, "you are younger than king Theoden, and stronger." His brow furrowed with concern.
His father shook his head. "No," he lifted his hand against his son's protests. "I am dying. Let me tell you before I go."
Déor bowed his head.
"You know that you do not come from here," his father winced, "you come from...Dol Amroth."
"But you are from Rohan, from the Westfold," Déor countered. "You have told me this, how you came to Dol Amroth and met my mother and settled there. You were loyal to Prince Imrahil, the ruler of Dol Amroth."
His father nodded. "But you do not know why we came back to Rohan."
Déor smiled. "I was ten years old, I remember some. You fled with two little girls, and took me along. You never said who the girls were. But you came to Helm's Deep and there they disappeared. I have always suspected that you gave them to an old friend, who took them home to raise them as his own."
"Yes," the man sighed, "I did." His eyes closed, then he stirred and made an effort to rouse himself, "You must take them home," he said, his eyes bored into Déor's and his hand gripped his son's hand like a claw. "It is time they rejoined their father." Coughing wracked his body and blood appeared at the corners of his mouth. "When you find them, do not wait a day, but return to Dol Amroth with them immediately," he struggled for breath, "or the land may be under the shadow and they never see their father." He collapsed on the bed, wracked with coughing.
"Father, father," Déor leaned closer, his heart bleeding over his father's suffering. "Father, where might I find these girls?" He grasped his father's hand.
The old man's eyes rolled toward him, "The pouch," he gasped, then another fit of coughing took him. He struggled for one more breath, then lay motionless.
"No!" Déor cried, jumping up. He crouched over his father and grasped his hand, then felt his neck. Already the face was ashy white. "Father!" he gasped. Déor sprang to his feet and strode out of the room. He brushed past Sigebryht in the hall and staggered to the open air. The parapet on the tower pressed against him. The cold air breathed against his face and the stars sparkled icily.
Far below he could make out the dike spanning the valley, providing the first line of defense. Tiny fires flickered on the dike, showing the men who stood on sentry duty. They didn't have enough men to guard the dike, it was over a mile long. He should have been on the dike, but his captain had allowed him to stay with his father.
They had all known that he was going to die, Déor reflected. Only he had refused to believe it. Yet he stayed up with his father that night for some purpose.
He slumped over the parapet, tears squeezing out of his eyes. His mother had died when he was a small child. His father had often talked about her, praising her beauty and love. Anglen worked to keep the memory alive and now Déor could picture her for himself. She was tall and fair, like the other women of Dol Amroth and her laugh was brighter than sunshine. Now he pictured his father, as he had known him when younger. Strong, broad and stern as steel when pushed, yet always tender toward his wife. He saw them together, she running to meet him, laughing as he caught her in his arms. Déor's heart eased at the thought.
His eyes flickered open and he looked down. The Deeping Wall, solid as a cliff and wide enough for four men to walk abreast marched out from the tower across the valley. From his place in the upper tier of the Hornburg, he could see it clearly. Far below a long causeway led down from the huge tower gate.
Déor turned and walked back to the stair. His feet found the steps woodenly and carried him down. Sigebryht was already in the room, spreading a blanket over his father.
Déor stood in the doorway and watched Sigebryht. He had met him as a boy at when they first came to Helm's Deep. After a fierce fight, the two had become friends and had managed to stick together. Now Sigebryht turned and saw him.
"We can bury him in the morning," he said. He laid his hand on Déor's shoulder.
Déor nodded. He looked again at the cloth that covered his father. The firelight played upon the folds, creating shadows that rose and fell. He frowned. Something was struggling in his memory, something important. He saw his father again as he had sat before, grasping his hand. The firelight cast the same shadow on his face as he begged his son to...
"The pouch," he murmured.
Sigebryht looked at him strangely.
"Did you see my father's pouch?" Déor asked.
Sigebryht shook his head, "What pouch?" he asked.
"I must find it," Déor closed his eyes, "he commanded me to find it."
Sigebryht frowned.
Déor stepped toward the blanket, then shuddered.
"I'll search," Sigebryht offered. Déor nodded and turned away. Swiftly, Sigebryht felt in the bedding and between the covers. "Nothing," he said.
Déor leaned against the wall.
"But remember, his things are back in the caves with the other extra supplies. They only brought him inside when he became sick," Sigebryht said.
Déor stepped to the door, but Sigebryht laid his hand on his arm. "No, not now. You need sleep. We'll go in the morning."
Déor shook his head, "It was urgent," he said.
"Come to the hall," Sigebryht urged.
Déor sighed, "I must go the instant the sun rises."
"I'll go with you," Sigebryht agreed.
Sigebryht and Déor walked to the hall and Sigebryht lay down among the rest of the slumbering men. The men covered less than half the floor, a small number indeed compared to the fortress' history.
Déor allowed his legs to buckle and he slid to the floor. He drew his cloak about him and closed his eyes. He felt sure he would not sleep that night.
Something brushed his shoulder and he leaped to his feet. His hand grasped his sword as he peered through sleep laden eyes to see who had startled him.
Sigebryht grinned at him, "It's only me," he said, "what did you think I was, a Dunlander?"
Déor groaned. He had just remembered...his father.
"Come, we've already dug a pit for him. I told the others to let you sleep. We must prepare him now," Sigebryht said.
Déor followed Sigebryht through the hall and into the courtyards till they stepped through a door at the rearmost part of the wall. From there the sides of the valley closed in and rose above them. They followed the narrow valley as it wound further into the mountains. Above them crows cawed and circled the cliffs. Eventually the end of the valley reared straight to the sky. At the base of that cliff was the entrance to the caves.
The men's horses were picketed in the narrows, tied in rows and fed from the huge stores of forage gathered from the surrounding fields. Déor let his eyes rove over the horses even as he quickened his pace toward the caves. A guard at the entrance accompanied them with a torch as they wound their way to the storeroom. They turned a corner of glittering stone, yet Déor scarcely noticed the beauty.
The trio passed through several large caverns with sleeping rolls piled to the side. A few people sat in the caves, but most of them roamed the open space behind the Deeping Wall. They passed several more rooms filled with food supplies, then turned off the main passage and entered a small cavern. Graceful columns sprang from the ground to the ceiling and the torchlight turned them to dazzling colors. But Déor strode past the columns to a niche on one side of the cavern. There he pulled out his father's armor, carefully wrapped in cloth to keep off the damp. He waved the torchbearer closer and pushed the flame near the opening. There was nothing else. He rose and gathered up the bundle.
"It could be wrapped with the armor," Sigebryht said.
"It may be," Déor assented, then the two followed the torchbearer back to the light.
Outside the caves, Déor set the bundle on a stone. Within the cloth he found a coat of chain mail, padded with leather. A steel helm lay with the coat and leather gauntlets. A sword lay wrapped separately. Déor unwrapped it for a moment and looked at the sheath, decorated with gold. A silver swan graced the pommel and fiery blue stones set in gold flowed over the hilt. His drew the sword and gloried in the feel of steel within his hand. Then he looked once more at the bundle. A leather pouch lay beneath the rest.
Carefully, he opened it. The leather groaned as he pried the sides apart. On top lay a small scroll tied with a ribbon and sealed with his father's signet ring.
"To my son Déor," Déor read on the outside of the scroll. He broke the seal and gazed at the familiar scrawl.
My son,
I am getting old and sick, though you wish to deny it. I fear that at the time of my departure I will not have time to tell you all I wish. Therefore, I write this letter and place it with other documents of importance.
My sword, you must keep. It is a trusty weapon and rich in lore. You have heard the tale often, how Prince Imrahil gave it to me as a symbol of his trust and satisfaction with my skill after the battle with the Haradrim many years ago.
My signet ring is also yours. I have placed it in the pouch.
Read all that the pouch contains. It will tell you much. There you will learn what you must do.
Your father,
Anglen
Déor allowed the scroll to roll up and closed his eyes. Then he replaced the scroll and bundled everything into the blanket.
Sigebryht watched in silence. The two retraced their steps and entered his father's room. Sigebryht brought a basin of water and together they washed his father, then clothed him in his armor.
Déor lay the sword in his father's hand, then knelt and took it back. "You wished for me to keep your sword," he said. Through shear strength of will he held his voice even. "Indeed, I am sorry you were not able to give it to me in life. Now I receive it from you, even in death." He rose and fastened the sword to his waist.
He and Sigebryht fashioned a stretcher with two spears and the blanket. Sigebryht took the front position as they carried their burden out the gate and down the causeway. A group of men waited at the foot of the causeway to accompany them. Sigebryht led the way down the valley, and up the slope on the north side. Tucked behind several rocks was a shallow pit, scraped down to the bedrock. Déor and Sigebryht lay the stretcher beside the pit.
For a time there was silence, then Déor bent and took his father's shoulders. Sigebryht took his feet and together they lowered him into the pit. Déor looked once more into his father's face and marveled at the firm brow. Then he and the men covered the body with dirt.
Men trampled the dirt firm, then climbed up the mountain and slid down to bury the place with rocks. Soon it looked like a miniature landslide had covered the area. The wolves would not find this body.
Déor felt the pouch on his back under his cloak and wondered when he would have time to read the contents. Now he must return to duty. He and Sigebryht strode out to the dike to relieve the men who had taken their shifts.
Anglen may have died, but the defense of the Hornburg must continue.
Déor looked across the plain sternly. His tears had come during the night. They would not come again. Now he glared across the plain, daring any Dunlander to come within sight. No one could expect quarter from him this day.
His watch passed slowly, like many other watches. He strained his eyes, hoping to be the first to see any messenger.
A bird rose screaming from the north. Déor focused on the area, looking for movement. In a few moments he saw several figures creeping along the road.
"Strangers!" he shouted. The figures were too slow to be mounted, they could not be messengers.
Each man bent his gaze toward the road, watching as the figures came closer. Soon they could see a caravan of loaded carts coming toward them. People walked beside the wagons, carrying large bundles. The less fortunate tugged barrows along by hand. In front and at the rear, a few men patrolled as scouts. Boys on foot drove a herd of cows behind the carts.
"Another group of peasants," Déor murmured. Most of the men who went to join Erkenbrand sent their families to Helm's Deep. Now as news about the attack on the Isen spread, more people decided to come to the fortress. Rumor whispered that the first attack was merely a feint to discover their strength. If that was so they might have a siege at Helm's Deep. Every family brought as much as they could, each remembering the years when Wulf, a fierce Dunlander overran their country.
The caravan creaked and lowed it's way toward them and wound through the breach in the dike. Here the stream flowed out along the road that came down from the Hornburg.
The people raised their faces with joy as they came within the dike. They began talking excitedly together and called out to the men who guarded the dike.
"Have you heard if Hama son of Hamlaf has come?" an old woman cried, looking at Déor.
He shook his head. Several others plied him with questions, but he could answer no one. He wished they wouldn't ask. How was he supposed to know the names of all the refugees back at the caves? At least three-fourths of the Westfold had come. Besides, he wasn't assigned to guard the caves.
In their excitement, the boys had begun herding the cows closer to the end of the caravan. A horse at the end of the line flung lifted it's head high as the cows pressed it against the carts ahead. Déor noticed it immediately. The cows were crowding it closer to the edge of the stream bank. The horse appeared young and fit. Even after a day of hauling the cart he looked ready to bolt.
The man driving the cart jumped down and caught the horse's head, trying to ward off the cattle with his other hand. An excited cow suddenly crashed against the cart. In an instant the cart was shoved off the road and falling toward the stream. The horse panicked, trying to charge ahead.
A woman screamed. Suddenly Déor saw the children sitting in the cart.
By now the commotion had attracted the attention of every man on the dike. They saw the disaster and seemed ready to rush to help, yet the distance paralyzed them. There was no one who could reach the cart in time. Already the horse was dragging the man forward as it skittered along the bank.
Then they saw a figure charging down the dike. The man leaped through the stream, bouncing off a few boulders, then thrashing his way through the water and clawing up the opposite bank. He flung himself on the horse's head, helping the man force it down, making the horse stop. The cart tipped perilously toward the stream.
"Don't move," Déor ordered the children.
A woman came running down the bank, her eyes wild. She checked herself next to the cart and stretched out her hands.
"Wait," Déor cried.
He left the horse and leaped back into the stream. Stretching up, he pushed against the cart.
Already the cowherds were running forward. One took the horse's head while the man pulled ropes out of the cart. A few jumped into the stream to help Déor, yet most of their boyish arms could not reach the cart. Déor felt his arms growing weary.
"Get on the other side and balance the cart," he called, several boys scrambled to obey, gingerly touching the edge of the cart and shifting their weight onto the sides.
That helped, but Déor felt his arms growing numb from holding them above his head. The icy water swirling around his legs didn't help.
He heard someone splashing through the water. Then a pair of arms reached up next to his.
"Let your arms rest." It was Sigebryht.
Déor lowered his arms. "Thank you."
Soon the men and boys had attached ropes to the cart and began to pull. The old man led the horse forward, encouraging it to pull slow and steady. The boys leaned on the ropes, keeping the load from turning into the stream. Finally they worked the cart back onto the road.
Déor and Sigebryht watched to make sure they reached the road in safety, then they turned to scrambled back down the bank.
"Oh, wait," the woman cried, rushing after them.
The man also turned. He left the horse and hurried toward them.
"Thank you so much," the woman said. Tears filled her eyes as she glanced toward her children.
"I am glad no worse happened," Déor said.
"How can I ever thank you enough?" the man said, finally reaching them.
Déor noticed that his hair was gray and he walked with a limp. "You are strong, father," he said, admiration in his voice. "That horse was no weakling."
"One who has lived as long as I have has need to be strong," the old man answered. Then he grinned, "That horse has caused me many problems. He was meant to ride, not to draw a cart, yet I had to use him."
Déor smiled, "He will be a great war horse."
"Yes, if he does not kill himself first, or my husband," the woman said.
Déor shifted. The wind chilled his soaked legs while he stood still. "We must go back to our posts," he said.
"Of course," the man said, clasping his hand. "Thank you much."
Déor and Sigebryht had already splashed through the stream when they heard the woman shouting after them.
"What are your names?" she called, running to the edge of the stream. She looked strangely wild with her hair flying everywhere and one hand clutching at her shawl.
"I am Déor, son of Anglen," Déor called back. Sigebryht also answered.
"Thank you, Déor son of Anglen and Sigebryht son of Sigemund," she cried. Then she turned and flew back to her husband.
Déor and Sigebryht ran up the breach and along the top of the dike, making the blood course through their legs. Déor stopped at his post and Sigebryht loped past him.
Déor continued pacing to keep his blood flowing. Some of his tenseness had burned itself in the struggle and he stood tall once more. For a time he forgot the pouch on his back and the nagging desire to read the contents.
When the watch changed Déor went into the keep and wolfed down the hot stew. Then he stretched himself on the floor with the other men to sleep. In the crackle of reeds, he didn't notice the crackling parchment. He merely shifted the pouch to one side, thinking it was his cloak. He was too tired to think.
That day Elfhild's village was filled with commotion. Women fed their clamoring families while they tied bundles and filled baskets. Elfhild wanted to take the children down to the river to be out of the way, but they were warned to stay near the village. She Frea and Wyn took them a few yards away from the activity and tried to start games, but the children kept rushing back to see what was happening and the girls had trouble herding them away each time.
Men polished and sharpened their weapons, others strung their bows and examined their arrows. Elfhild sent Goldwyn back to bring out her bow and arrows. She let the children try to draw it then kept them busy finding straight reeds to shoot. Reeds fresh from the river would have been better, but trying to find unbroken reeds from the houses occupied the children longer.
While Wyn, Frea and several other girls supervised the search, Elfhild examined her bow. It was short, not much more than four feet long, but perfect for firing off horseback. The bow was smooth with use and long rubbing. Age had turned the wood golden, yet the limbs remained straight. The string was twisted from ligament, the strongest tendons from an animal. It was much weaker than her father's war-bow, but she was confident it would pierce leather and flesh. She may not be able to fight an armored enemy, but if a band of Dunlenders attacked, the bow would give her confidence. Elfhild plucked the string lovingly, then she un-strung the bow and slipped it back into its leather case.
Next she looked over her arrows. The shafts were long and fletched with crow feathers. Several weeks ago she had convinced her father to help her make this set of arrows. They were heavier than her hunting arrows, and the points were barbed. Now she was glad she had made the change.
Goldwyn came running up to her. "Look!" she crowed, holding out a bundle of herbs. "Smell good!" she cried.
One of the girls who had been watching the children came around the corner. "You shouldn't have those!" she cried, pouncing on Goldwyn. "Those are for Halaf. Bad girl!" she snatched the herbs out of Goldwyn's hand and smacked her.
Elfhild was on her feet before she knew it. "Don't you dare hit my sister, Wiglaf!" she cried, pushing between her and Goldwyn.
"Don't let her steal herbs from my mother!" the girl shot back angrily. "She deserves to be smacked."
"You have no right to smack her!" Elfhild said, folding Goldwyn into her arms. The little girl was sniffling and red marks stood out on her palm. Elfhild turned away from Wiglaf, "Where did you get the herbs?" she asked.
"Mother gave them to me," Goldwyn sobbed, "she said she didn't need them."
Doubt flickered across Wiglaf's face, then she frowned. "She's just saying that to keep out of trouble." She flung her golden hair back proudly, scowling at Elfhild.
"Let's go find out," Elfhild answered, tight lipped. They worked their way through the bustle towards their house. Elfhild stroked Goldwyn's hair, but inside she glowered at Wiglaf.
Wiglaf was older than she and had always tried to boss her around, which was why Elfhild usually avoided her. True, Wiglaf was good at cooking and riding and usually she was good with children. She doted on her older brother, Halaf. Now he was wounded, Elfhild remembered. Perhaps that explained her quick temper. But she shouldn't have slapped Goldwyn, Elfhild fumed.
Wiglaf asked Elfhild's mother if she had given Goldwyn the herbs. She said yes, looking surprised. Elfhild nodded at her, giving her a look that said, 'I'll tell you later.'
Then they went to Wiglaf's house. Her mother ran back and forth between Halaf and her bundles, trying to still his groaning. Wiglaf asked her if she had seen Goldwyn. She shook her head. Wiglaf wouldn't look at Elfhild.
Elfhild chewed on her lip for a second. "Wiglaf, I'll watch the children if you want to stay and help you mother." She hoped Wiglaf would accept. It looked like her mother could use the help, and maybe she just needed time alone to cool off.
"Yes, I am needed here," Wiglaf said coldly. She refused to turn around.
Elfhild sighed and walked back into the sunlight. She found the other children with Wyn and Frea.
"I was looking all over for you!" Wyn cried, swooping down on Goldwyn, "where did you go?"
Elfhild explained and Wyn instantly smothered Goldwyn in kisses. "It's all right now, you didn't do anything wrong," she said, "just don't leave again, I can't keep track of everyone at once if you keep running off like that."
Goldwyn, forgetting her tears, wiggled to get down, then ran to join the other children racing around on imaginary horses.
By evening all was ready. Wyn and Frea examined their bows and declared them unnecessary weight. They thought the food supplies they had helped their mother pack were much more important. Elfhild hoped they were right. That night they crawled into bed wearily. Each of them wore their extra clothing, just a dress and shawl apiece. Their cloaks lay over them for the night. The rest of the blankets were already packed.
Elfhild tried to sleep, but she was too excited. She could feel Wyn and Frea tossing and knew that they too were concerned about the next day.
Several huts away, Halaf moaned in his fever.
The horses milled uneasily. All things waited.