It is said that the wraith of Helm Hammerhand shall walk among the foes of Rohan and kill men with terror. Though when the great Hammerhand perished – and mysteriously so, being found standing, though dead, in the Deep – there was great unrest and death among the inhabitants of Rohan. Soon after, however, the bane that is winter lifted, and the invaders from the East perished in the floods and withdrew, and before the year had ended they were driven out.
Fréaláf, sister son to Helm, has become king, and all that is left of Helm Hammerhand lays beneath the blanket of simbelmynë on the ninth mound, and the memory—may it never fade—of the king. That is what I, Féatred, son of Bréawine, hope to preserve in this tale, the memory of a great man, my friend, my king. This is my story.
The Year 2754 of the Third Age
The most accurate description of the snake that is Freca is that of a dark-haired, foul-mannered and excessively wide in the belt excuse for a man. Though rich in wealth, one can easily claim he was poor in love. He grew to be powerful, possessing much land on either side of the Adorn. One has not a few reasons to dislike this man, the worst (in my opinion) being his contempt for and habit of paying little (if any) heed to the king, whom justly distrusted him.
I have seen, on many occasions, Freca wandering the peaceful streets of Edoras, flaunting his ever-growing wealth (and belly, for that matter) where he could. It was not unknown to the people of Edoras that none, if any in Rohan, held any love for Freca – most knew him as the fat Dunlending, or by whatever other demeaning names they could contrive, though it appeared he cared not what the commoners thought.
Now Helm called Freca to his councils, though he came to these only when it most suited him. With him he always brought a large entourage of his soldiers, though one has to wonder where he could muster any whom would follow him.
One council I most remember was one in which Freca showed the brass—and rashness—to request the hand of Helm's daughter for his son, Wulf. To the vast amusement of most men, the king was reputed to have denied Freca, saying: "You have grown big since you were last here; but it is mostly fat, I guess."
Freca then fell into a deep rage, and their argument was said to proceed as thus:
"Old kings that refuse a proffered staff may fall on their knees."
To which Helm answered: "Come! Marriage of your son is a trifle. Let Helm and Freca deal with it later. Meanwhile the king and his council have matters of moment to consider."
From then, the council proceeded in a normal manner. When it was finally concluded, some say that the king stood, and laying a great hand on Freca's shoulder, said: "The king does not permit brawls in his house, but men are freer outside."
It was then, when the king forced Freca to walk before him into a field, I watched this amusing event for myself. Helm went to Freca's men, and said to them: "Be off! We need no hearers. We are going to speak of a private manner alone. Go and talk to my men!"
The king's men far outnumbered Freca's entourage, who had at least the sensibility to draw back, if reluctantly. One wonders whether they truly followed Freca freely, of their own will, or if they were forced slaves, threatened with the lives of their family and lands.
Though I too stayed back, I managed to hear the king's lecture to the man.
"Now, Dunlending, you have only Helm to deal with, alone and unarmed. But you have said too much already, and it is my turn to speak." At this point I could see Helm's face harden, his visage frightening to behold. From that day forth it has been whispered among the commoners of Helm's fury that day. That day Helm Hammerhand won more respect from me and from many others with his next words and deeds. "Freca, your folly has grown with you belly. You talk of a staff! If Helm dislikes a crooked staff that is thrust on him, he breaks it. So!" The king then dealt to Freca a mighty blow. The corpulent man fell back, clearly badly shaken. I knew then that he had been dealt a killing blow, of such force that gave much credit to the name Hammerhand.
Helm then decreed Freca's son and nearest kin to be the king's, and all of Rohan's, enemies. I can say that I was not the only one glad to be rid of those vermin, whom many had longed to shut out.
The king sent then many men riding into the west marshes, and Freca's kin fled. Helm's deeds that day had not only made new allies through his display of power, but a new, potentially strong enemy, from whom the sacking of Rohan would someday come: Wulf of Dunland.
Chapter IT.A. 2758
Looking at the great banners of Rohan flying in the bleak sky, I shivered and shifted my gauntlets for the hundredth time, warming my hands. Standing guard at the gate of Meduseld was not one of the most desirable jobs in the winter, consisting chiefly of admitting commoners, messengers, and other various peoples seeking council with the king. Of late there had been disturbing news of the marauding Dunlendings, every year growing bolder. Many Riders of the Mark were on the move, constantly moving from some sacked village to another, or chasing down a fleeing band of Dunlendings. I myself had ridden in several of those, though it now was my shift to guard Edoras. Though I was of higher rank than most Riders, I still had some duties such as this. When I wasn't commanding an éored of Riders, standing watch at the gate, or training horses, I stayed near the king, serving as a personal bodyguard.
A rider appeared on the distant road, catching my attention. He was riding hard, his labouring horse looking hard-pressed and weary. In minutes he was through the gates of Edoras, still charging his way towards Meduseld. As I went forward to meet him, he halted his horse and half-fell off in the same movement. The horse was badly lathered, and would need several days to recuperate, I noted. The man was disheveled, his hair wildly sticking out from his head. It was a Rider of the Mark, but in poor state. I feared the worst had happened to the rest of his éored.
I walked up to him, and supported him with my arm. He was breathless, but trying to speak. I gently sat him down on the steps leading up to Meduseld, thinking he could not walk much further. On closer examination I noticed a crude arrow protruding from his side.
"Dunlendings?" I inquired.
He nodded. He managed one word before passing out. "Wulf."
Wulf. That he or his men could have injured a full éored so was amazing in itself, but that he had made himself noticed was more. I wondered whether he had meant for this man to live, bearing ill news on his name. Could the son of Freca have mustered an army of Dunlendings? Crudely armed and unlearned they may be, but in numbers they could be frightful fighters, taking their so-called revenge on the "Strawheads", though I thought that this time his goal was the king himself. Wulf, like his father, claimed lineage from King Fréawine. And, needless to say, no Rohirrim believed this lie, for both father and son had the dark hair of the Dunlendings, and looked outwardly to have no Rohirric blood.
As delicately as I could, I lifted the Rider up and bore him into Meduseld. I was greeted immediately by Faldor, another of the guards, who had seen this Rider arrive. Together we brought the Rider to the sick bay. I sent an errand-boy running for a nurse, and went myself to find the king. He would wish to hear of this immediately. I found the king finishing a meal in the dinner hall. He looked up as I entered the room, and I took a knee before him. When he acknowledged me, I looked up, and proceeded to tell him of the Rider.
"My king, a Rider rode in just minutes ago, alone and bearing an arrow wound." Helm nodded – this was to be expected in times such as these. I told him of the son of Freca, and how he seemed to have rallied the best Dunlendish troops under him.
He sighed. "Four years have elapsed since I killed his father, and now Wulf comes back to plague me yet again with his Dunlendish brashness. It was to be expected, though. The Dunlendings are well known to hold and nurture a grudge." He wiped his mouth with a cloth, then stood. "Take me to this Rider. I wish to hear whatever news he might bear." Helm was a big man – when standing, he seemed to tower over others, though he was not much taller. He was heavily muscled; a bear of a man if ever there was one.
I led the king to the room now occupied by the Rider, cautioning him that the Rider may not be in condition to answer many questions at the moment. Helm only nodded, motioning me to continue. When we stood over the injured man, the surgeon looked up from cleaning out the wound. Already he looked much better than before. The surgeon smiled, assuring us that he would live, though obviously would need some time to rest.
The Rider was indeed conscious, and with some help sat. The king addressed him, saying: "It seems, Bryyne son of Bálmund, that you have met up with some ill fortune. Pray tell, what befell you and your éored?"
Bryyne cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was only slightly forced. "We were riding through the Eastfold when we were waylaid by what seemed a small host of Dunlendings. We fought with them, thinking it to be only a minor skirmish, though when we turned to counter the assault, another, larger force crept up behind us. They caught us completely unaware, especially with our men thinking of returning to camp and hot food." He faltered, unsure as to continue in this fashion, but resumed after receiving a nod form Helm. "We knew not that the Dunlendings had considered anything so...clever. Never before have they tried anything like it, only before using the simplest of tactics. They killed my men quickly, before they had gathered their bearings. Leading them was Wulf son of Freca. It seemed also that they bore better weapons – not old, rusting weapons as they typically use, but some fashioned like ours."
"Wulf's doing, not doubt. He spent much time, while he still lived here, studying our weapons and such."
"Yes, my thoughts exactly. It seems he has better educated them, also." Bryyne paused for a breath. "I am lucky to have a swift mount, for if it hadn't been for Bréfola, I would be dead now with the others. He took off when I was hit, and I passed out for a ways."
The king cut in, commenting: "Perhaps Wulf planned that – perhaps he wanted someone to live and spread tales of him. His father was like that, ever seeking to spread what he thought was fame." He sighed. "Alas, Wulf seems to have inherited many of his father's traits. I had hoped that doing away with Freca would have freed us of their haughtiness."
"Yes, milord. It seems so."
Helm got up then, bading Bryyne farewell for the now and his thanks. The king looked almost weary, as if some burden lay upon his back. I followed the king out.
"My king, what troubles you?"
He turned, his strong face showing a hint of a smile. "Come with me to the hall, and I will speak with you of it. Some matter lays heavily on me."
So I followed him, wondering what matter lay so heavily on my lord as to have him seek council with me. It was true that there were times when I spoke with Helm, whilst I stood guard, but never had he requested an audience.
Turning to a soldier passing down the hall, he said, "Gelhaf, see to it that Féatred's station outside is covered. He shall finish his shift in here, with me." Gelhaf nodded unquestioningly, turning immediately to the door.
As we entered the hall, the king sat on his seat, huge and ornately carved. I took a chair and sat beside him, and noted that he looked yet taller when he sat in his throne, it being so great. He ordered a servant to close the doors, and ushered all others out. When they were finally alone, he relaxed, and looked almost…normal. He looked at me then not as a king to his servant, but as a man looks at a good friend. I had never seen him like this before, and imagined how comforting it must be for him to ignore for a time that he was indeed a ruler.
"Now, Féatred Bréawine's son, we will talk. Pray, do not think of me now as your king – forget formalities as you would with a friend."
"Yes, my lor-" I grimaced. "Sorry. I will try." I looked at him seriously, and attempted a smile.
"You see, as king I seldom get an opportunity to express myself freely. Now I feel the need to confront someone with my burdens – so if you don't mind an ornery man's drivel, I will continue."
I, of course, nodded. A smile touched my lips as I thought of what his reaction would be had I objected.
"Presently, as you must know, Rohan is under great strain. My control, my grip on the Dunlendings is slipping, and every year more villages of Rohan are raided. They have become bolder, creating their own weapons now, in place of the old, rusted ones they made do with. They seek vengeance on us, for some awry reason, and our Riders now are too few, and I--" he slowed, then sighed. "And I am running out of ideas. I fear for the people of Rohan."
He looked straight at me, and said: "What would you do, Féatred? Imagine what you would do in my place."
I was at a loss for words. He was the greatest man in war strategy that I knew, and he was asking me what my plan of action would be. "Well, I-I believe I would send men after Wulf, and if I could, kill him. Perhaps that would take the heart out of others. If all else failed, though, I would evacuate the villages and take a stand in the Hornburg, where we could better defend ourselves."
"And the villages, even Edoras, left to the pillaging hands of the Dunlendings," he commented dryly.
"Yes, milord, but if the worst occurred, the villages would be eventually picked off, and the people of Rohan as a whole would become weaker, whereas if we all took a stand in the Hornburg, and went from there, success would be far more likely. Of course, we could leave a small detachment in Edoras, but though it would protect our city, it would weaken our strength in the Hornburg."
"Yes, homes can be rebuilt. Lives cannot."
He paused, and seemed in thought. After a moment I too was lost in thought. Helm broke the silence suddenly, causing me to start.
The king took up conversation from there. "War is at hand." His strong voice seemed to echo through the halls, creating an eerie feeling that was quite fitting to the tone of voice. "The Dunlendings have moved, and are now more than a trifle; but what worries me most is Gondor."
"Gondor, my lord?"
"Gondor. Aid we may require of them, before long, though I doubt they could give it. Three fleets of Corsairs have attacked Gondor, and it seems to me only a matter of time ere they turn to Rohan. The numerous Dunlendings and the Corsairs would certainly be more than Rohan can handle alone. Then it would be vital to move to the Hornburg."
I had not even thought of this. If both the Dunlendings and Corsairs of Umbar assailed us, we would soon be overwhelmed. "I had not even thought of that, my lord. You have foresight and skill of war strategy."
"No more foresight than is required of me, but I do foresee a hard year for both Rohan and Gondor." He sighed and looked to the wall, where hung the Rohirric banners and murals of famous battles. Helm again seemed lost in thought, and he said: "Can there be no peace without suffering?"
"No," I whispered. "No, there cannot. It is a sad fate, is it not?"
The king looked at me sadly then, more forlorn than I had ever seen him before. "Indeed. Though perhaps this fate can be held at bay." With that, he rose and strode from the room, his visage now the determined face of a great king, both wise and powerful.