Last Man Standing
Chapter 1
On a cold winter morning in Edoras, a crowd of people gathered near the east gate to see off the first Mark Patrol of the New Year. Already, the members of the patrol had gathered, spears glinting brightly in the mid- winter sun, clouds of steam rising from the mouths of their horses. Èomer, son of Éomund, nephew of Théoden King, sat slightly apart from the others. This was to be his first Mark Patrol, and, as any young man would be, he was eager and raring to go.
Also like every other young man, he was scared, scared beyond reason, but he would not show it.
Terrible things had happened to Mark Patrols in bygone years, and as the stories of the survivors (if any) were told and retold by the fire, they were burned deep into the subconscious of every young boy. Èomer had grown up on these tales of dismemberment, torture, and devastating pain and loss, and it was understandable for him to be nervous plunging into the very stuff of his nightmares. Of course, no member of any Mark Patrol had been killed in a hundred years.
A little voice in the back of his mind piped, 'We're about due.'
He shook the thought away and concentrated on his Patrol-mates. There was his cousin on his father's side, Rhyfelwr; he was the image of a man's man, tall, intelligent, powerful, fluid. He was the largest member of the Patrol other than Tarren, who was a huge rock of man, known to take blows from orc spears and pikes and shake them off like insect stings. Next to him was Saethwr, one of the best archers in the Riddermark, re- checking his equipment one last time before they left.
Èomer did this also, peering into his saddle bag at the equipment he had packed. He had a change of clothes, an extra cloak, several rolls of soft gauze, provisions for two weeks in the form of whey bread, a dagger, a coil of rope, a blanket, two spare pairs of woolen socks, a sewing kit, a bit of gold, should he need to barter goods, and a small bottle of ale, for use as a disinfectant. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he turned back to his fellow Patrol members, and smiled. After all, he wasn't the youngest one here. He turned to look at Ilanc, a very young man, no more than eighteen years. His parents were killed when an avalanche engulfed their home on the west side of the White Mountains, leaving him to his relatives in Edoras, when he was only five years old.
He had volunteered for this and, like Èomer, was exceedingly nervous. Unlike Èomer, he was making no secret of it, going over the tales in his head again and again, until he seemed near hyperventilation. Èomer pitied him, as he was obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing, although it was far too late to back out.
At a light tap on his shoulder, Èomer whirled around, hand on the hilt of his sword. A smiling Thèodred stood behind him, empty hands out, and Èomer relaxed. His cousin threw his arm around his shoulder.
"Don't be so nervous Èomer," Thèodred said, "You're in good hands, the best. Rhyfelwr has done this many times, and so has Saethwr. And just being around Arwrwas is enough to make you throw yourself against overwhelming odds. You'll be fine. And besides," he added, as an afterthought, "Nobody has died on one of these things for a hundred years."
"Well, then I guess we're due."
The words in Èomer's head were spoken by another. Marwdyn, a short, pale man, with black hair unusual for the Rohirric people, had voiced them. He was a grim man, full of fear and hate. Not surprising, his brother was Grima, whom all named the Wormtounge, an up and rising councilor in the Court at Meduseld. Èomer did not like Marwdyn, or his brother for that matter, as he had caught the older man gazing appraisingly at his younger sister, Èowyn.
Ever the overprotective brother, Èomer had immediately labeled the man a threat to the innocence of his sister and forbade her to go anywhere near him. For the moment, Grima had the sense to stay away from Èowyn, knowing all too well what would await him should he lay hand upon her. Other men knew as well, but they were covered in long grass on the edges of the barrow fields, and all of it was hushed by Théoden. The fact that Marwdyn looked so much like his brother automatically put Èomer on guard, and readily opposed to whatever opinion the other presented.
Thèodred must have felt Èomer tense, for he tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder. He too had no taste for Grima or his older brother. "What do you mean Dunlending?" he spat, using traditional insults to show his extreme dislike of the man. They had no effect, however, for Marwdyn was Dunlending and he knew it.
"What I mean," he said softly in a soothing tone, "is that statistically, every year that passes without any deaths," he paused for dramatic effect, "the odds become even more stacked against us. It has to happen sooner or later."
'And,' said the little voice in Èomer's head, 'the orcs have been more active this year than ever before.' He did not voice this aloud; he would not give the grim man the pleasure of knowing that he was afraid. So instead, in a steady, quiet, and very dangerous voice, he said, "Odds remain the same, Dunlending, unless something tips the balance one way or the other."
"What are you suggesting little rider? That I am in service of the enemy?" Marwdyn managed to pull off a mock hurt face and tone, but it was to no avail; Èomer saw the flash of fear in his eyes. Here was a man in league with the enemy. Èomer made a mental note to watch him, resisting his primal urge to kill the short pale man where he stood. There was always time for that later, on the patrol, where it could be made to look like an accident. He gritted his teeth, "It wouldn't surprise me Dunlending."
Marwdyn shrugged off the insult and smiled. "Think what you like, Little Rider," he said as he walked his horse to stand near his brother for a last whispered council.
"I could kill him," Èomer growled, "I could snap his Dunlendish neck. . ." he twisted the reins in his hand. Thèodred nodded, "And I would hold him down while you did it. . ." "I could make it look like an accident," Èomer cut him off, "Maybe I could even get them both. You know, when they were out riding together or some such thing. Did you see his eyes when I accused him of being in the enemy's service?"
Thèodred nodded again, "I saw his eyes. There is no questioning it. He and his brother are spies. I'll tell my father if I can get him alone for a moment about the two of them." He moved in closer, conspiratorially, "And in the meantime, you keep both of your eyes on Marwdyn, and see if you can get Rhyfelwr or Tarren to do the same. And whatever you do, do not let him wander off on his own, who knows what he could be doing."
Èomer nodded and shook his cousins hand off his shoulder, "I wouldn't dream of it Thèodred." He smiled fiercely, "He won't even relieve himself without my knowing."
Thèodred smiled and clapped Èomer on the back, "That's the spirit, though it is a little over-zealous," he smiled weakly, as if the thought of Èomer spying on Marwdyn relieving himself was enough to turn his stomach, "But, let me give you one last going away gift." From out of one of his inside cloak pockets he took two small bottles. One was made of glass, and was glowing with an unnatural white light, and the other was leather bound, and swished as though it contained liquid. "The leather one contains miruvor, a powerful drink that reenergizes even the weariest. Use it sparingly, and only at great need. You'll probably have no use for it, seeing as the entire trip should only last two weeks, but I think it's good for you to have something like that on hand. The glass one contains the light of Eärendil's star. Heavens forbid that you should need it, but once again, it's probably a good idea to have it." He handed the bottles to Èomer gingerly, "Careful! These are very high gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood."
At this, Èomer very nearly did drop both bottles, and only his quick reflexes saved both from falling and smashing on the ground. This statement had shocked him to the bone, he knew Thèodred often claimed that he visited the Golden Wood at times, but Èomer had never believed him. He stared at the bottles, gazing at the irrefutable proof that his cousin had indeed visited the forest of Lothlorien. He gazed up at Thèodred, "She. . . she gave them to you? The White Lady of the Golden Wood?"
Thèodred nodded, "Yes, and I think that you will have more need for them than I." Èomer smiled, "Is that a prediction?" Thèodred shook his head, "No, just a hunch." He looked up and then turned back to Èomer, "It looks like Father is ready to give you lot 'the mission'. I'll see you in a few weeks then." The two embraced and Thèodred walked in the direction of his father. Èomer moved to stand next to Rhyfelwr, his elder cousin acknowledging his presence with a nod.
Théoden, King of Rohan, slowly climbed the steps to the wide lintel atop the gate, burdened by a heavy fur cloak and aided by the Captain of his Guard, Háma. When at last he stood above the crowds, all bowed before him. Théoden waved his hand in a wide half-circle, encompassing all of the Patrol members. "You," he said, "Have been entrusted with the task of reviewing the defense of the Noble Kingdom of Rohan." Overwhelming cheers of false enthusiasm greeted Théoden's opening words. He silenced the noise with a wave of his hand, "You have already been given your task, go forth and complete it!"
Èomer frowned, 'That was different. I expected it to go on longer than that.' He glanced over at Wormtounge and Marwdyn, still sitting in quiet conference. He couldn't shake the feeling that maybe they had something to do with. . . well everything that went sour in Rohan these days.
Soon, the Mark Patrol mounted up and rode single file out of the city, waving their spears in salute to the King. They rode down the slope, over the plains, past a barrow field, and they were gone from sight. Théoden turned away and muttered softly, "Háma, I cannot shake the feeling that I have just sent those men to their deaths." He shuffled down the steps, leaving Háma standing above the gates alone. A shadow fell over the eastern horizon where he had last seen the Mark Patrol. About him blew a fell wind, and he turned to follow Théoden, saying, "You might be right my lord, you might be right."
An east wind buffeted the Mark Patrol almost from the start. Èomer drew the hood of his cloak tighter around his face, hunching down against his horse's neck. Somewhere behind him he could here Marwdyn muttering something about east winds and their evils. Èomer was sorely tempted to say something along the lines of 'Yes, we carry one with us!' but once again he buttoned his lip and hunched closer to his horse.
They rode on in stolid silence for hours on end, faces blown raw from the wind. Èomer blew on his numb hands to keep them from freezing to his reins, as they seemed threaten to do. After what seemed like an age, Rhyfelwr finally called a halt for the night. Èomer jumped from the saddle, tended to his horse, led him to a patch of ground where the grass was still edible, and left the horse to graze. He took cover under a patch of scrub, leafless in early January, and wrapped his blanket around himself, leaned against the saddle he had removed earlier, and slept.
The next morning, Èomer was shaken into wakefulness by the last member of their party, Dialgar, a tall man, grim, but not at all like Marwdyn. He sought revenge for the murder of his family by Dunlendings several years earlier, up by the River Isen. He had told Èomer the story of how he had found no less than a score of Dunlendings feasting in his family's homestead, the mutilated bodies of his father and younger brother nailed to the wall on either side of the door. He had charged in, recklessly, and slew every Dunlending in a fit of righteous rage. And every time he spoke of it, without fail, he broke down into sobs at the thought of finding the raped and murdered bodies of his sister and mother up in the loft, lying on the bloodstained straw, sightless eyes staring at the thatched roof. Èomer looked on the man with pity, knowing what it was like to lose a loved one to the enemy. But now Dialgar wore a broad smile on his face as he tweaked Èomer's ear, "Wake young Prince! We have wasted all the time we shall here! There are still many miles before we reach tonight's destination!"
Èomer grumbled softly at being moved woken from sleep, re-saddled his horse and mounted up, saying to Dialgar as he did so, "And what destination would that be, another patch of barren ground like this." He gave Dialgar a mock frown, the other smiled, and they rode off, single file.
That day passed much like the first, a short break at noon, then rest for the night called long after dark. Once again, Èomer merely wrapped himself in his blanket, and slept. He was woken a few hours later by Saethwr, telling him that it was his turn for watch.
Èomer sat for the next few hours in the darkness, staring out beyond the circle of saddles. He felt a nameless dread claw on him for a second, he could have sworn he saw eyes in the blackness, but the feeling passed as swiftly as it had come. He looked into the night and he felt his own mortality. Finally his watch ended and he softly woke Arwrwas, re-wrapping his blanket about him and slowly drifting into sleep.
That morning he was woken once more by Dialgar, telling him that he needed to get a move on, they weren't spending any more time there. Èomer saddled his horse, mounted and they rode off single file along a faint path. Ilanc, from his place three horses up from Èomer called out, "Hey Rhyfelwr! What is our destination tonight?" This earned him a resounding smack from Tarren, sitting directly behind him. "Idiot!" Tarren hissed "Keep your mouth shut! If we're going to survive, we're surviving by being stealthy!"
"It's alright," said Rhyfelwr from his place at the front of the column, "If the lad can't speak here, than where can he speak? We're less than three days away from Edoras, Tarren. The enemy's arm must be long indeed if he can reach out and grab us here. However," he turned awkwardly in his saddle to look at Ilanc, "Tarren is right. Once we are more than a day away from Edoras, we speak only softly, unless we are in a settlement. Is this clear Ilanc?"
The young man gulped, "As crystal sir."
"Good. I foresee no further problems then," he saw the look of concern on Ilanc's face and softened, "This is only a precaution. I don't think we'll have any problems with orcs or Dunlendings this time. Remember, our mission is only to asses the defensive status of the Mark, nothing more. We are not to engage in combat unless absolutely necessary. We have a mission to complete, and we can't afford to lose many, if any." At his last words he glanced decisively at Marwdyn, then continued, "Our destination tonight is a small village on the bank of the Entwash, we are to review their defensive capability and importance to the Kingdom, rest there for the night, and move on tomorrow morning. Only for a few nights will we ever be sleeping out in the open, so don't bother getting used to it. I hope that answers your question Ilanc, and a few more besides."
Ilanc nodded, "Yes sir," he said softly, "I understand now." Èomer shook his head and huddled down against the soft neck of his horse, waiting out the wind.
Around mid-afternoon, it began to snow heavily. The Mark Patrol grumbled at the change for the worse in weather, and stolidly rode on. They slogged through several heavy snowdrifts later in the evening, coming out onto a wide, flat plain as opposed to the rocky and hilly terrain they had just come through. On the edge of their vision, they saw a small group of lights. Rhyfelwr smiled and pointed ahead, "Well, here we are. Only a few hours work ahead, and then some sleep."
They rode into the sole street of the village, met by a throng of people shouting thanks and praise for their bravery. Èomer, Ilanc, and Dialgar, being the three youngest, blushed and nodded their regards, but the other five remained stolidly silent, having become accustomed to this sort of treatment.
Rhyfelwr stopped his horse and waited until Èomer was level with him, "Èomer," he said softly, "Take Ilanc and Dialgar to the outskirts of town, see what kind of patrol or guard they keep on their horses, then report back to me."
He was about to ride off when Èomer grabbed his arm, "Listen, Rhyfelwr, this morning, just before we left, Thèodred and I, we saw Marwdyn, and when I accused him of being in the service of the enemy. . ." he paused, "We both saw the flash of fear in his eyes, he's with the enemy." Rhyfelwr shook his head, "Èomer, I know it's very easy not like the man and be suspicious of him, but he's been on other Mark Patrols with me before, and I trust him well enough," at the pleading look in Èomer's eyes, he said, "But I will keep an eye on him, don't worry. Now go and look at those defenses." He rode off towards the town hall.
Èomer gathered Dialgar and Ilanc and together the three rode their weary horses to the edge of town. There, they found a herd of almost three hundred horses, unguarded. "So where are the guards?" asked Ilanc softly. Èomer shook his head in disgust, "I don't know. How could they leave such beautiful creatures alone and defenseless?"
"Look out past the horses," said Dialgar, pointing to the north, "There is the Snowburne River, to the east it the Entwash, and to the west there is a guarded fence, these creatures are not without guard." It was true; there was a guarded fence, so the three rode over to check the garrison. There were two men, poorly armed and highly nervous. At the state of the town's defense, Èomer was appalled. He left the others to patrol the area and he rode back to town alone.
When he reached the town hall, the other members of the Patrol were nowhere to be seen, save Marwdyn and Rhyfelwr. Both were in feasting and conversing with the town elders, enjoying themselves and filling their bellies. He came directly to Rhyfelwr, and made his report only to him, as ordered. Rhyfelwr seemed just as appalled as Èomer, and he turned to the town elders. "Are there no able men in this village to guard your horses? Have they all gone astray?" His voice was so accusatory that no elder could contain their shame. One, Breago, an old man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes stood and said, "I offer no excuses for our lack of vigilance, but this is not our fault."
Èomer shook his head. Of course it was their fault, whose could it be? He took a seat in an elaborately carved wooden chair at the back of the hall and spoke his mind, "How can it not be your fault? You have three hundred horses under the guard of merely two rivers and two untrained men; you should be ashamed of yourselves. And where are your young men," he added as an afterthought, "I haven't seen a single one since our arrival."
Breago sighed, "They are all gone. A rider came in last month, said he was from a group of villages that had banded together to resist orc raiders coming down from Emyn Muil. He asked for any aid we could spare, and being fellow Eastfolders, we could not refuse him anything we had, we sent away nearly sixty of ours, all armed and horsed. That was before Yule, and we have had no word yet, save a precious few bits and pieces of information that have trickled back to us." He sighed again and sat down at the head of the table, head in his hands. Rhyfelwr and Èomer exchanged a look of alarm. If there were enough orc raiders to threaten whole confederations of villages, there were certainly enough of them to utterly annihilate their little inspection patrol. Rhyfelwr said shakily, "Did he say anything more, about anything?"
Breago shook his head, "No, and what little news that has trickled back to us is all bad." He sighed. "Several reports say that there is no one left." He looked down on his plate and said no more.
Once again, Rhyfelwr and Èomer glanced at each other, the former making a subtle hand-gesture. Èomer nodded in reply, and slowly got up from his seat and without turning around, left the hall. He was joined moments later by Rhyfelwr. The older man looked white and pasty, and his knees shook as he walked, and not from the cold. Èomer raised an eyebrow.
"What do you think?" Èomer asked after a long moment.
Rhyfelwr shook his head, "I don't know about you Èomer, but I've been to those Eastfold villages to the west of Emyn Muil. I don't think there are any hardy folk in the Kingdom, save maybe the Westfolders in the old Púkel land east of the Mountains. If there are orcs enough to defeat them, then we have a problem on our hands. A problem unlike anything since the days of King Folca."
"Perhaps these are might Uruks out of. . . Mordor."
Rhyfelwr backhanded Èomer across the face viscously, "Idiot!" he hissed, "Do not speak of that cursed land." He turned away, stroking the loose stubble on his chin, "You may be right. We cannot rule out Uruks just yet." He turned to Èomer, "You do realize that it is our duty to investigate this, don't you?"
Èomer merely nodded, words seemed to light for the gravity of the situation.
"Good," said the other, "Alert the others. We're leaving in the morning for the Eastfold."
"Sir," Èomer said, turned and walked off to complete this task, leaving Rhyfelwr alone with his thoughts.
Chapter 1
On a cold winter morning in Edoras, a crowd of people gathered near the east gate to see off the first Mark Patrol of the New Year. Already, the members of the patrol had gathered, spears glinting brightly in the mid- winter sun, clouds of steam rising from the mouths of their horses. Èomer, son of Éomund, nephew of Théoden King, sat slightly apart from the others. This was to be his first Mark Patrol, and, as any young man would be, he was eager and raring to go.
Also like every other young man, he was scared, scared beyond reason, but he would not show it.
Terrible things had happened to Mark Patrols in bygone years, and as the stories of the survivors (if any) were told and retold by the fire, they were burned deep into the subconscious of every young boy. Èomer had grown up on these tales of dismemberment, torture, and devastating pain and loss, and it was understandable for him to be nervous plunging into the very stuff of his nightmares. Of course, no member of any Mark Patrol had been killed in a hundred years.
A little voice in the back of his mind piped, 'We're about due.'
He shook the thought away and concentrated on his Patrol-mates. There was his cousin on his father's side, Rhyfelwr; he was the image of a man's man, tall, intelligent, powerful, fluid. He was the largest member of the Patrol other than Tarren, who was a huge rock of man, known to take blows from orc spears and pikes and shake them off like insect stings. Next to him was Saethwr, one of the best archers in the Riddermark, re- checking his equipment one last time before they left.
Èomer did this also, peering into his saddle bag at the equipment he had packed. He had a change of clothes, an extra cloak, several rolls of soft gauze, provisions for two weeks in the form of whey bread, a dagger, a coil of rope, a blanket, two spare pairs of woolen socks, a sewing kit, a bit of gold, should he need to barter goods, and a small bottle of ale, for use as a disinfectant. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he turned back to his fellow Patrol members, and smiled. After all, he wasn't the youngest one here. He turned to look at Ilanc, a very young man, no more than eighteen years. His parents were killed when an avalanche engulfed their home on the west side of the White Mountains, leaving him to his relatives in Edoras, when he was only five years old.
He had volunteered for this and, like Èomer, was exceedingly nervous. Unlike Èomer, he was making no secret of it, going over the tales in his head again and again, until he seemed near hyperventilation. Èomer pitied him, as he was obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing, although it was far too late to back out.
At a light tap on his shoulder, Èomer whirled around, hand on the hilt of his sword. A smiling Thèodred stood behind him, empty hands out, and Èomer relaxed. His cousin threw his arm around his shoulder.
"Don't be so nervous Èomer," Thèodred said, "You're in good hands, the best. Rhyfelwr has done this many times, and so has Saethwr. And just being around Arwrwas is enough to make you throw yourself against overwhelming odds. You'll be fine. And besides," he added, as an afterthought, "Nobody has died on one of these things for a hundred years."
"Well, then I guess we're due."
The words in Èomer's head were spoken by another. Marwdyn, a short, pale man, with black hair unusual for the Rohirric people, had voiced them. He was a grim man, full of fear and hate. Not surprising, his brother was Grima, whom all named the Wormtounge, an up and rising councilor in the Court at Meduseld. Èomer did not like Marwdyn, or his brother for that matter, as he had caught the older man gazing appraisingly at his younger sister, Èowyn.
Ever the overprotective brother, Èomer had immediately labeled the man a threat to the innocence of his sister and forbade her to go anywhere near him. For the moment, Grima had the sense to stay away from Èowyn, knowing all too well what would await him should he lay hand upon her. Other men knew as well, but they were covered in long grass on the edges of the barrow fields, and all of it was hushed by Théoden. The fact that Marwdyn looked so much like his brother automatically put Èomer on guard, and readily opposed to whatever opinion the other presented.
Thèodred must have felt Èomer tense, for he tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder. He too had no taste for Grima or his older brother. "What do you mean Dunlending?" he spat, using traditional insults to show his extreme dislike of the man. They had no effect, however, for Marwdyn was Dunlending and he knew it.
"What I mean," he said softly in a soothing tone, "is that statistically, every year that passes without any deaths," he paused for dramatic effect, "the odds become even more stacked against us. It has to happen sooner or later."
'And,' said the little voice in Èomer's head, 'the orcs have been more active this year than ever before.' He did not voice this aloud; he would not give the grim man the pleasure of knowing that he was afraid. So instead, in a steady, quiet, and very dangerous voice, he said, "Odds remain the same, Dunlending, unless something tips the balance one way or the other."
"What are you suggesting little rider? That I am in service of the enemy?" Marwdyn managed to pull off a mock hurt face and tone, but it was to no avail; Èomer saw the flash of fear in his eyes. Here was a man in league with the enemy. Èomer made a mental note to watch him, resisting his primal urge to kill the short pale man where he stood. There was always time for that later, on the patrol, where it could be made to look like an accident. He gritted his teeth, "It wouldn't surprise me Dunlending."
Marwdyn shrugged off the insult and smiled. "Think what you like, Little Rider," he said as he walked his horse to stand near his brother for a last whispered council.
"I could kill him," Èomer growled, "I could snap his Dunlendish neck. . ." he twisted the reins in his hand. Thèodred nodded, "And I would hold him down while you did it. . ." "I could make it look like an accident," Èomer cut him off, "Maybe I could even get them both. You know, when they were out riding together or some such thing. Did you see his eyes when I accused him of being in the enemy's service?"
Thèodred nodded again, "I saw his eyes. There is no questioning it. He and his brother are spies. I'll tell my father if I can get him alone for a moment about the two of them." He moved in closer, conspiratorially, "And in the meantime, you keep both of your eyes on Marwdyn, and see if you can get Rhyfelwr or Tarren to do the same. And whatever you do, do not let him wander off on his own, who knows what he could be doing."
Èomer nodded and shook his cousins hand off his shoulder, "I wouldn't dream of it Thèodred." He smiled fiercely, "He won't even relieve himself without my knowing."
Thèodred smiled and clapped Èomer on the back, "That's the spirit, though it is a little over-zealous," he smiled weakly, as if the thought of Èomer spying on Marwdyn relieving himself was enough to turn his stomach, "But, let me give you one last going away gift." From out of one of his inside cloak pockets he took two small bottles. One was made of glass, and was glowing with an unnatural white light, and the other was leather bound, and swished as though it contained liquid. "The leather one contains miruvor, a powerful drink that reenergizes even the weariest. Use it sparingly, and only at great need. You'll probably have no use for it, seeing as the entire trip should only last two weeks, but I think it's good for you to have something like that on hand. The glass one contains the light of Eärendil's star. Heavens forbid that you should need it, but once again, it's probably a good idea to have it." He handed the bottles to Èomer gingerly, "Careful! These are very high gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood."
At this, Èomer very nearly did drop both bottles, and only his quick reflexes saved both from falling and smashing on the ground. This statement had shocked him to the bone, he knew Thèodred often claimed that he visited the Golden Wood at times, but Èomer had never believed him. He stared at the bottles, gazing at the irrefutable proof that his cousin had indeed visited the forest of Lothlorien. He gazed up at Thèodred, "She. . . she gave them to you? The White Lady of the Golden Wood?"
Thèodred nodded, "Yes, and I think that you will have more need for them than I." Èomer smiled, "Is that a prediction?" Thèodred shook his head, "No, just a hunch." He looked up and then turned back to Èomer, "It looks like Father is ready to give you lot 'the mission'. I'll see you in a few weeks then." The two embraced and Thèodred walked in the direction of his father. Èomer moved to stand next to Rhyfelwr, his elder cousin acknowledging his presence with a nod.
Théoden, King of Rohan, slowly climbed the steps to the wide lintel atop the gate, burdened by a heavy fur cloak and aided by the Captain of his Guard, Háma. When at last he stood above the crowds, all bowed before him. Théoden waved his hand in a wide half-circle, encompassing all of the Patrol members. "You," he said, "Have been entrusted with the task of reviewing the defense of the Noble Kingdom of Rohan." Overwhelming cheers of false enthusiasm greeted Théoden's opening words. He silenced the noise with a wave of his hand, "You have already been given your task, go forth and complete it!"
Èomer frowned, 'That was different. I expected it to go on longer than that.' He glanced over at Wormtounge and Marwdyn, still sitting in quiet conference. He couldn't shake the feeling that maybe they had something to do with. . . well everything that went sour in Rohan these days.
Soon, the Mark Patrol mounted up and rode single file out of the city, waving their spears in salute to the King. They rode down the slope, over the plains, past a barrow field, and they were gone from sight. Théoden turned away and muttered softly, "Háma, I cannot shake the feeling that I have just sent those men to their deaths." He shuffled down the steps, leaving Háma standing above the gates alone. A shadow fell over the eastern horizon where he had last seen the Mark Patrol. About him blew a fell wind, and he turned to follow Théoden, saying, "You might be right my lord, you might be right."
An east wind buffeted the Mark Patrol almost from the start. Èomer drew the hood of his cloak tighter around his face, hunching down against his horse's neck. Somewhere behind him he could here Marwdyn muttering something about east winds and their evils. Èomer was sorely tempted to say something along the lines of 'Yes, we carry one with us!' but once again he buttoned his lip and hunched closer to his horse.
They rode on in stolid silence for hours on end, faces blown raw from the wind. Èomer blew on his numb hands to keep them from freezing to his reins, as they seemed threaten to do. After what seemed like an age, Rhyfelwr finally called a halt for the night. Èomer jumped from the saddle, tended to his horse, led him to a patch of ground where the grass was still edible, and left the horse to graze. He took cover under a patch of scrub, leafless in early January, and wrapped his blanket around himself, leaned against the saddle he had removed earlier, and slept.
The next morning, Èomer was shaken into wakefulness by the last member of their party, Dialgar, a tall man, grim, but not at all like Marwdyn. He sought revenge for the murder of his family by Dunlendings several years earlier, up by the River Isen. He had told Èomer the story of how he had found no less than a score of Dunlendings feasting in his family's homestead, the mutilated bodies of his father and younger brother nailed to the wall on either side of the door. He had charged in, recklessly, and slew every Dunlending in a fit of righteous rage. And every time he spoke of it, without fail, he broke down into sobs at the thought of finding the raped and murdered bodies of his sister and mother up in the loft, lying on the bloodstained straw, sightless eyes staring at the thatched roof. Èomer looked on the man with pity, knowing what it was like to lose a loved one to the enemy. But now Dialgar wore a broad smile on his face as he tweaked Èomer's ear, "Wake young Prince! We have wasted all the time we shall here! There are still many miles before we reach tonight's destination!"
Èomer grumbled softly at being moved woken from sleep, re-saddled his horse and mounted up, saying to Dialgar as he did so, "And what destination would that be, another patch of barren ground like this." He gave Dialgar a mock frown, the other smiled, and they rode off, single file.
That day passed much like the first, a short break at noon, then rest for the night called long after dark. Once again, Èomer merely wrapped himself in his blanket, and slept. He was woken a few hours later by Saethwr, telling him that it was his turn for watch.
Èomer sat for the next few hours in the darkness, staring out beyond the circle of saddles. He felt a nameless dread claw on him for a second, he could have sworn he saw eyes in the blackness, but the feeling passed as swiftly as it had come. He looked into the night and he felt his own mortality. Finally his watch ended and he softly woke Arwrwas, re-wrapping his blanket about him and slowly drifting into sleep.
That morning he was woken once more by Dialgar, telling him that he needed to get a move on, they weren't spending any more time there. Èomer saddled his horse, mounted and they rode off single file along a faint path. Ilanc, from his place three horses up from Èomer called out, "Hey Rhyfelwr! What is our destination tonight?" This earned him a resounding smack from Tarren, sitting directly behind him. "Idiot!" Tarren hissed "Keep your mouth shut! If we're going to survive, we're surviving by being stealthy!"
"It's alright," said Rhyfelwr from his place at the front of the column, "If the lad can't speak here, than where can he speak? We're less than three days away from Edoras, Tarren. The enemy's arm must be long indeed if he can reach out and grab us here. However," he turned awkwardly in his saddle to look at Ilanc, "Tarren is right. Once we are more than a day away from Edoras, we speak only softly, unless we are in a settlement. Is this clear Ilanc?"
The young man gulped, "As crystal sir."
"Good. I foresee no further problems then," he saw the look of concern on Ilanc's face and softened, "This is only a precaution. I don't think we'll have any problems with orcs or Dunlendings this time. Remember, our mission is only to asses the defensive status of the Mark, nothing more. We are not to engage in combat unless absolutely necessary. We have a mission to complete, and we can't afford to lose many, if any." At his last words he glanced decisively at Marwdyn, then continued, "Our destination tonight is a small village on the bank of the Entwash, we are to review their defensive capability and importance to the Kingdom, rest there for the night, and move on tomorrow morning. Only for a few nights will we ever be sleeping out in the open, so don't bother getting used to it. I hope that answers your question Ilanc, and a few more besides."
Ilanc nodded, "Yes sir," he said softly, "I understand now." Èomer shook his head and huddled down against the soft neck of his horse, waiting out the wind.
Around mid-afternoon, it began to snow heavily. The Mark Patrol grumbled at the change for the worse in weather, and stolidly rode on. They slogged through several heavy snowdrifts later in the evening, coming out onto a wide, flat plain as opposed to the rocky and hilly terrain they had just come through. On the edge of their vision, they saw a small group of lights. Rhyfelwr smiled and pointed ahead, "Well, here we are. Only a few hours work ahead, and then some sleep."
They rode into the sole street of the village, met by a throng of people shouting thanks and praise for their bravery. Èomer, Ilanc, and Dialgar, being the three youngest, blushed and nodded their regards, but the other five remained stolidly silent, having become accustomed to this sort of treatment.
Rhyfelwr stopped his horse and waited until Èomer was level with him, "Èomer," he said softly, "Take Ilanc and Dialgar to the outskirts of town, see what kind of patrol or guard they keep on their horses, then report back to me."
He was about to ride off when Èomer grabbed his arm, "Listen, Rhyfelwr, this morning, just before we left, Thèodred and I, we saw Marwdyn, and when I accused him of being in the service of the enemy. . ." he paused, "We both saw the flash of fear in his eyes, he's with the enemy." Rhyfelwr shook his head, "Èomer, I know it's very easy not like the man and be suspicious of him, but he's been on other Mark Patrols with me before, and I trust him well enough," at the pleading look in Èomer's eyes, he said, "But I will keep an eye on him, don't worry. Now go and look at those defenses." He rode off towards the town hall.
Èomer gathered Dialgar and Ilanc and together the three rode their weary horses to the edge of town. There, they found a herd of almost three hundred horses, unguarded. "So where are the guards?" asked Ilanc softly. Èomer shook his head in disgust, "I don't know. How could they leave such beautiful creatures alone and defenseless?"
"Look out past the horses," said Dialgar, pointing to the north, "There is the Snowburne River, to the east it the Entwash, and to the west there is a guarded fence, these creatures are not without guard." It was true; there was a guarded fence, so the three rode over to check the garrison. There were two men, poorly armed and highly nervous. At the state of the town's defense, Èomer was appalled. He left the others to patrol the area and he rode back to town alone.
When he reached the town hall, the other members of the Patrol were nowhere to be seen, save Marwdyn and Rhyfelwr. Both were in feasting and conversing with the town elders, enjoying themselves and filling their bellies. He came directly to Rhyfelwr, and made his report only to him, as ordered. Rhyfelwr seemed just as appalled as Èomer, and he turned to the town elders. "Are there no able men in this village to guard your horses? Have they all gone astray?" His voice was so accusatory that no elder could contain their shame. One, Breago, an old man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes stood and said, "I offer no excuses for our lack of vigilance, but this is not our fault."
Èomer shook his head. Of course it was their fault, whose could it be? He took a seat in an elaborately carved wooden chair at the back of the hall and spoke his mind, "How can it not be your fault? You have three hundred horses under the guard of merely two rivers and two untrained men; you should be ashamed of yourselves. And where are your young men," he added as an afterthought, "I haven't seen a single one since our arrival."
Breago sighed, "They are all gone. A rider came in last month, said he was from a group of villages that had banded together to resist orc raiders coming down from Emyn Muil. He asked for any aid we could spare, and being fellow Eastfolders, we could not refuse him anything we had, we sent away nearly sixty of ours, all armed and horsed. That was before Yule, and we have had no word yet, save a precious few bits and pieces of information that have trickled back to us." He sighed again and sat down at the head of the table, head in his hands. Rhyfelwr and Èomer exchanged a look of alarm. If there were enough orc raiders to threaten whole confederations of villages, there were certainly enough of them to utterly annihilate their little inspection patrol. Rhyfelwr said shakily, "Did he say anything more, about anything?"
Breago shook his head, "No, and what little news that has trickled back to us is all bad." He sighed. "Several reports say that there is no one left." He looked down on his plate and said no more.
Once again, Rhyfelwr and Èomer glanced at each other, the former making a subtle hand-gesture. Èomer nodded in reply, and slowly got up from his seat and without turning around, left the hall. He was joined moments later by Rhyfelwr. The older man looked white and pasty, and his knees shook as he walked, and not from the cold. Èomer raised an eyebrow.
"What do you think?" Èomer asked after a long moment.
Rhyfelwr shook his head, "I don't know about you Èomer, but I've been to those Eastfold villages to the west of Emyn Muil. I don't think there are any hardy folk in the Kingdom, save maybe the Westfolders in the old Púkel land east of the Mountains. If there are orcs enough to defeat them, then we have a problem on our hands. A problem unlike anything since the days of King Folca."
"Perhaps these are might Uruks out of. . . Mordor."
Rhyfelwr backhanded Èomer across the face viscously, "Idiot!" he hissed, "Do not speak of that cursed land." He turned away, stroking the loose stubble on his chin, "You may be right. We cannot rule out Uruks just yet." He turned to Èomer, "You do realize that it is our duty to investigate this, don't you?"
Èomer merely nodded, words seemed to light for the gravity of the situation.
"Good," said the other, "Alert the others. We're leaving in the morning for the Eastfold."
"Sir," Èomer said, turned and walked off to complete this task, leaving Rhyfelwr alone with his thoughts.