That night Déor again dreamed about his father. Those last words, "The pouch…the pouch," seemed so urgent. His father looked at him so reproachfully for not fulfilling the task. He woke sweating, but at least he had not cried out. His sweat cooled, and he slept again till morning.
At dawn he slipped to the rear of the fortress. The guard at the gate let him out, and he walked up the narrows. Guards greeted him as he passed. Soon he caught the smell of cattle and came upon several herds lying down or milling about. Boys stood watch over them.
Further on Déor reached the horses. Many of the horses lifted their heads to examine him, but he ignored them. At the far end of the picket line he stopped next to a cream white stallion. The horse nickered and stretched his head toward Déor.
"Hello, Felaróf," Déor said, brushing the horse's nose. The horse tossed his head. "I know, I ought to ride you more than just to the dike and back. We should be out on the plains now," Déor said. "We should be searching for that village."
The horse scraped the ground with his hoof.
Déor smiled. "No, you would not know why. It was my father's wish." He ducked under the picket rope and slid his hands along his horse. Felaróf twisted his head, still hoping for some treat.
"Déor!" a child's voice cried. He turned to see a boy running along the line of horses. "I thought it was you," the boy said halting suddenly and ducking his head. He scuffed the ground with his foot, looking at Déor from the corner of his eye.
"Where you on the cart yesterday?" Déor asked, thinking he recognized the cloak.
The boy nodded. He lifted his head and tossed his hair out of his eyes. "Your sword looks strange," he said, his hands clasped behind his back.
Déor laughed. "Why do you say that?"
"I don't know, it just does."
"Do you make it a habit of commenting on the looks of swords?"
The boy ducked his head again. "My sister said she didn't think I was brave enough to tell you." He glanced back toward the caves.
"The sword looks strange because it comes from Dol Amroth," Déor explained.
The boy cocked his head. "Dol Amroth?"
Déor nodded. "A place south of Gondor," he said.
"Is this your horse?" the boy asked, motioning toward the stallion.
"Yes, his name is Felaróf."
"Oh, after the horse Eorl the young tamed."
"You know that story well."
"Of course!" the boy exclaimed. "Leod, Eorl's father, tried to tame the colt, but it carried him off and he fell and struck his head against a rock. So Eorl chased the horse, to demand weregild for his father's death. Eorl found him, and the horse submitted. He named him Felaróf and ever after only the kings of Rohan have been able to ride his descendants," the boy rattled off. "Every boy knows that."
Déor smiled.
The boy whirled, "My mother is calling," he cried, darting off like a spooked colt.
Déor laid his arm over Felaróf's neck and watched him go. The stallion tossed his head again. "Calm down my lad, my warrior," Deor laughed. "We must ride the plains soon," he said, "as Eorl the young once did."
"Déor!" This time it was Sigebryht. He jogged down the picket line, scanning the horses for sight of his friend.
"Yes?" Déor asked.
Sigebryht twisted toward him. "There you are! Do you know you have missed breakfast?"
"What?" Déor jumped into the path.
Sigebryht started laughing. "No, no," he gasped, "you have only almost missed breakfast."
Déor glared at him. The two raced back to the tower and collapsed on their benches, panting.
"Any news of this Folcwine?" one of the men asked. Déor shook his head. There was a low murmur around the table.
"Keep asking," a man grunted. "You'll find him eventually."
The watch weighed more heavily on Déor that day. Gamling was busy at noon and could not sword fight with Déor. Sigebryht tried to practice with him, but Déor seemed uninterested. Sigebryht suggested riding Felaróf between the dike and the fortress, but that would mean bringing the stallion through the tower and out the front gate. The guards would not relish the idea unless he went on an errand for the commander.
Déor walked back to his stallion and brushed his coat till it sparkled brighter than the glittering caves in torchlight. Then he caught up the saddle and bridle and oiled them to the same glistening state.
"Are you getting ready for a ride?" Sigebryht asked, walking up to him with a big grin on his face.
"No," Déor said.
"Well you should be."
"Why?"
"Gamling just told me to come get you. I think he needs a messenger."
"But the messenger came just a few days ago," Déor said.
Sigebryht shrugged. "He may need another one."
"Sigebryht, did you have anything to do with this?" Déor asked. "I don't want to get a favor someone else could have had."
"Me, ask for favors?" Sigebryht sounded shocked.
"For a friend, yes," Déor said.
"Well, so would you," Sigebryht grinned. "But this time I didn't ask. Gamling called me and told me to find you."
Déor smiled. "Of course," he said.
"I'm telling the truth," Sigebryht insisted.
"I know, I am only teasing you," Déor said.
Déor found Gamling near the back entrance to the tower, talking to one of the guards.
"Déor," Gamling turned, "I have a job for you." Just a Sigebryht had guessed, Gamling wanted him to ride to Erkenbrand and return with news. "Ride there today and return tomorrow."
Déor saluted and hurried back to his stallion. Already his heart soared at the thought of racing over the plain.
Felaróf fairly pranced as Déor saddled him. Déor had not really exercised him for several days. He would be a handful, and Déor rejoiced. He held the lead rope right next to the stallion's bridle as he led him past the other horses. A horse snorted, and Felaróf skittered toward it. Déor clung to the bridle and dragged the beast around. "No," he said sternly.
They passed down the valley and approached the tower. Guards already held the gate open for them, and they walked through. Felaróf's hooves rang on the stones as they wound their way around the outer courtyard. Before the main gate Déor mounted and waited as the men lowered the bars and pushed the gates open.
He allowed Felaróf to walk through the gate slowly. The stallion swung his head around as he stepped onto the causeway, but Déor pulled him straight. Felaróf hunched his back and crow-hopped a few steps before stretching out into a canter. Déor urged the stallion forward, stretching low over his neck. Together they streaked down the road. The dike rose up like a mountain, then passed in a blur. The guards hailed him, and he lifted his hand in answer. Several bowshots from the dike, he hauled on the reins. Felaróf obeyed, but he shook his head and snorted, eyeing the horizon. Déor lifted his hand to the guards, then he brought it down with a shout.
Felaróf sprang forward, flying over the land with his great strides. Déor's golden hair streamed behind him in the wind of their travel. A chance observer would have thought Eorl the young had come again.
Déor poured himself into his horse, feeling every movement, feeling the freedom, the activity. He smiled.
As their shadow lengthened into darkness, Déor neared the Fords. A horn sounded and a man's voice shouted at him to stop. Deor pulled up near the outpost, his white horse gleaming in the twilight. The guard asked his business then let him pass.
Déor rode slowly into camp. On every side men were fully armed. About half were lying down in their armor, while the others stood ready. He heard a horse snort and glanced over to where a group of horses stood picketed. A young man stood near one, soothing it. The horse snorted again and tossed his head as the man grasped the its foot.
Déor rode on to the standard raised in the middle of the camp. There he found Erkenbrand talking with several of his captains. Erkenbrand was a tall man with a large black horn hanging from his belt. His red shield glowed strangely in the firelight.
The men looked up as Déor dismounted.
"What news?" Erkenbrand asked, rising.
"The peasants continue to come to Helm's Deep," Déor said. "They bring many provisions, and all their animals."
Erkenbrand nodded. "Good," he said. "We stand in readiness. Every day we expect an attack." He paused, straining his eyes toward the west, across the Isen. Déor could hear the flowing water beyond the sounds of the camp. "Rest here tonight and return tomorrow," Erkenbrand said. "It is not wise for men to leave the circle after dark."
Déor ducked his head for answer. He turned and led Felaróf back the way he had come. He still held the reins near the stallion's head. Felaróf had run all day, yet Déor had learned long ago never to expect him to behave even when he was tired.
He stopped where he had seen the man treating his horse. He could still hear the man talking, though his eyes were blinded from the torches near Erkenbrand. Déor stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust.
The young man was kneeling near the horse, cradling a hoof in his lap as he massaged the leg.
"Den?' a man asked, coming toward him. "How is she?"
"Her leg still pains her. But the swelling has gone down."
"You shouldn't have jumped her over that bush," the man sighed.
"Helm," Den replied, his teeth clamped together, "you jumped your own horse over that bush."
Helm sat back on his heels, thinking. Then he reached forward to feel the mare's leg. "It does feel better," he said.
Den nodded.
Déor watched them quietly. Suddenly Felaróf threw up his head and whirled. Déor clenched his hand on the end of the reins. The whirl jerked him around, but he kept his balance. "Felaróf!" he exclaimed, grabbing the stallion's head and pulling him straight.
The men looked up. "You're the messenger who came from Helm's Deep," Helm said.
"Yes," Déor anwered. "Could you show me where to picket my horse?"
"Certainly," Helm said, rising. "Have the people from our village come to Helm's Deep yet?" he asked.
"Where is your village?" Déor asked.
"To the north, about twenty leagues," Helm replied.
"Do you know of a man named Folcwine, son of Elfwine?" Déor asked.
"Yes," Helm looked at him strangely.
"Is someone asking for me?" a voice sounded from the other side of Felaróf.
Déor swung around, surprised his stallion had given no sign of the stranger. "You are Folcwine, son of Elfwine?" he asked.
"Yes," the man nodded.
"Your two daughters," Déor lowered his voice, "Prince Imrahil's daughters, where are they?"
Folcwine looked surprised, "I have four daughters," he said.
Déor stared at him. "I am Déor, son of Anglen. My mother was a lady from Dol Amroth," he said.
Folcwine looked unconvinced. "I don't know about the doings of Dol Amroth," he said.
"I'm sorry," Déor said, "perhaps I ask the wrong person."
"Maybe you wish to know about my horse herd?" Folcwine asked. "I have one of the largest in the land of Rohan. But I see you have a fine horse already," he motioned toward Felaróf.
"No," Déor smiled, "I need no horses."
Folcwine nodded. He was silent, as if waiting. "I can see you are weary," he said finally. "Come picket your horse near mine. You can sleep near our fire."
Déor followed him silently. "Could there be more than one Folcwine?" he wondered. The man's actions confused him. He picketed Felaróf where Folcwine showed him, checking the stake several times. Then he lay down near the fire and slept.the fire.