Chapter 2
The next morning dawned cold and bright. The Mark Patrol quickly prepared for a long ride, and a fight at the end, after a short breakfast. Nobody saw them off. Nobody wanted to get attached to the new sacrificial lamb, as the Patrol was seen as. They rode again in silence, in single file, out of the village and over the Entwash where the ice was frozen. Èomer frowned, if they failed, not even the rivers would be left to defend their people.
Èomer then broke a primary rule of the Patrol, he rode out of his position near the rear of the line and rode up to speak with Rhyfelwr, who was, as always, riding point. Rhyfelwr turned and looked at him sternly, "What is it," he barked after a moment.
Èomer pointed vaguely in the direction of Edoras, "We should send someone back to let them know of our predicament, send Ilanc, I don't think he'll be much use in a fight."
Rhyfelwr nodded, "But I would like to get rid of Marwdyn. As you said, he's not to be trusted. I am going to order the both of them to go back and let the King or perhaps Thèodred know of our situation. But not yet. I'd like to see what the problem is before we get them all worked up. Now get back in line, tell the others you thought you saw something, just light playing off the snow, nothing more."
Èomer nodded and rode back to his place in the line. Ilanc leaned forward, "What did he say Èomer?"
Èomer looked from side to side, then leaned in closer to the other man, "Ilanc, I want you to be ready to ride at any time of the day or night."
"Where to?"
"Edoras."
"Why?"
"It doesn't matter why. All that matters is that when I give you a signal, you ride back to Edoras and let them know that we're in trouble. Tell them to send Thèodred and an éored to the east. Can you do that?"
"I would feel better if I knew. . ."
"Can you do it?"
Ilanc swallowed heavily, "Yes, I can."
Èomer clapped the younger man on the back, "Good! Be ready for a signal at any time. Tell no one!" And with that, he leaned away and turned his head back to the road ahead.
Two more days of this sort passed. The woods and rivers of the foothills of the White Mountains faded into vast, empty, snow-covered plains. Both nights Èomer could not sleep, for fear the camp would be overrun be fell beasts while he dozed. That nameless fear he had felt the second night returned to haunt him, even in the daylight hours. Even the empty plains, where one could see a hare bounding over the dead grass from a league off, gave off a threatening aura.
Èomer took to staring into space, thinking of what could possibly have wiped out a confederation of hardy Eastlanders. He spoke these thoughts aloud only once, and then only to Rhyfelwr, who laughed and said, "Village gossip and superstition Èomer, pay it no mind. Those villagers will do anything during the winter, given how unexciting their lives are. Ignore it. Besides, probably none of it was true. It didn't sound very chilling to me," but he didn't seem entirely sure of himself. Èomer knew that he himself was unwilling to let go of the long kept thought that Rohan was unassailable, but he felt in his heart that something had happened.
The night of the fifth day, Èomer had sentry again. They had no fire, their horses were specially trained to make no noise, and yet he had an overwhelming feeling that something was walking towards them. Something dark and terrible. Something that wasn't alone.
He leaned over and shook Ilanc into wakefulness, covering the younger man's mouth with his hand and putting a finger to his lips. He pointed over to behind a small rise where he felt the presence. He made a gesture for Ilanc to wait, then walked over to the nearest horse and forced it to lie down. Ilanc did the same, and soon, the whole camp was indistinguishable from the plain it was on. Èomer made the same gesture and stealthily made his way to the rise, drawing his sword as he did so. The cold steel of the blade glinted softly in the moonlight.
He dropped to his hands and knees, sword still in his right hand, and he peeked over the crest of the rise.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
And he had gotten all worked up over it. He collapsed and turned over to lie on his back, filled with relief, smiling sleepily as the adrenaline of the moment wore off. He waved the all clear to Ilanc. The other smiled in pure relief and moved off to let the horses get back up.
Then Èomer felt it again.
And this time it was clear that Ilanc had felt it too, for the other man had fallen to the ground, grasping his heart. And this time it was much, much stronger, so strong that the two young men could do nothing but lay on the ground, paralyzed with fear.
Using all of his considerable willpower, Èomer force himself to move his head to the East, from where the fear was greatest. He wished he hadn't.
Less than a league away, a small town was burning. The yellow and red flames washed over the plains, shining like a beacon in the dark of night. Images flashed before his young eyes, images of terrible things that should never be done to another being.
He saw a man, stomach slashed open, being fed his own pancreas by shadowy figures, crying in pain and terror and shock as one shadow reached into him and yanked, hand coming free covered in blood, holding a liver. The man sank against the wall of a flaming thatched cottage, dying slowly in a pool of red blood.
He saw two young women dragged out of cottage while the shadows threw flaming brands into the roof, laughing as they sputtered and then took hold. The shadows that threw the women down on the ground laughed at them and tore at their victims' clothes. Then, in turn, a line of men raped them. The last man, the largest, raped them so that Èomer could hear the screams for real, albeit faintly. When he had finished having them, he drew cruel looking scimitar from his belt and shoved it into the first. She screamed, and the other looked over and cried in terror. The large shadow continued to stab the first woman until the body was unrecognizable and then moved on to the second. It made large hacking strikes at the woman, hacking until pools of blood stained even the ground beneath the snow red. It laughed and kicked at the carcass, stabbed it with its scimitar. Its fellows did the same, laughing and pointing and stabbing and hacking. Èomer felt his bile rising into his throat. Somewhere over to his left, he could hear Ilanc vomiting loudly. He put all his will to looking away from the horrible visions, but found that he could not.
The visions continued. He saw more shadows standing around another man, joking and taunting him. The man cried and begged for mercy, but none was forthcoming. One shadow ran over to a burning shed, entered, and came back with a crude saw, black from the heat of the blaze. Èomer closed his eyes, but the sight burned through his eyes directly into his brain. The shadow slowly sawed into the left ankle of the prisoner, resulting in a cry of pain from the man. It worked its way up, cutting off two to three inches at a time on first the left and then the right leg. The snow melted under the rush of blood. Cruelly, the shadow sawed off each finger, one at a time, holding them up to its victim's face. It then repeated the same process on the arms, sawing off an inch at a time. Èomer couldn't hold his gorge any longer, he felt it rise up through his throat and pass out onto his jerkin. The shadow howled with laughter at the dying man's pleads for a swift death. It made a small cut along the back of the neck, then moved down to cut a large gash in the man's chest. The cries were feebler now. It repeated that process over and over again. Èomer found himself vomiting uncontrollably, and he could hear Ilanc doing the same. After what seemed like a life-age of the earth, the shadow finally decapitated its victim, who had already died minutes earlier of blood loss and shock, and threw back its head and howled with triumph and bloodlust.
Èomer saw an older woman telling her two children to run, pushing them away from her as a group of the shadows approached. He saw her turn to the nameless things and raise her fists in defiance, it gave her offspring maybe twenty seconds while the things were busy hacking her to pieces. Her sacrifice was in vane, as Èomer saw a huge shadow bound up to the two children, grab them, and place one under each arm as its fellows shouted their encouragement. The spit the children through the loose skin on their backs, and to the accompaniment of their screams, roasted them alive.
Èomer had no more in his stomach to rid himself of, but his gag reflex was still commanding him to vomit, so up came his stomach acid, burning his throat as he disgorged it from his esophagus.
Then his heart froze and he could do no more than clutch it in desperation as he saw the most terrifying thing to happen yet. A giant shadow, more than twice the size of anything Èomer had seen yet, loomed above him, pointing down to where he writhed in pain and terror. Then Èomer understood how he was seeing all this, that, that thing was feeding it to him, or if not him specifically, than everyone in the area, as a message, a message that had the clearest point that could be imagined.
You're Next.
A desire to be as far away from that place as possible, as soon as possible, entered him, hot and demanding. He longed to run away, he longed to even move. The terror that was invoked in his heart was more pure than fresh fallen snow. He struggled, he battled, and he pushed with all his will and might. . .
And suddenly, the feeling was gone.
Èomer slumped back against the cold ground. He lay there in a pool of his own vomit, gasping for breath, staring up at the cloudless night sky. 'What just happened?' he wondered as he searched for the strength to sit up. He eventually found it, and rose up from the stinking mess he had left, the acids from his stomach slowly dissolving the dead grass in which he had been laying. He stumbled weakly over to Ilanc, who was weeping softly near one of the horses. He extended an arm, which was weakly accepted. He used most of his remaining strength to haul the younger man to his feet. Ilanc nodded his thanks, "What in the name of the King was that?"
Èomer merely shrugged.
"What does it mean?"
Èomer looked over at the columns of flame burning in the distance. "It means," he said at last, "That there's going to be hell to pay tomorrow as soon as the others wake up."
"Should I go ride to Edoras, then?"
Èomer shook his head, then stopped, it really hurt. It was as though the terrible sights that were now burned permanently into his brain had also swelled his brain. "No, I wouldn't send you out alone, especially with that. . . that. . . thing out there."
Ilanc's voice lowered, "You. . . saw it too?"
Èomer would have hissed had he had the energy, "Speak no more of it, Ilanc. I'm going to send you at the break of day. Before the others wake, go to Edoras, but have Thèodred bring every man in the whole Mark!"
Ilanc managed a salute, placing the index and middle fingers of his right hand parallel to his right temple, with what little might remained to him, "As ordered sir," and with that he collapsed into a heap on the ground. Èomer stood above them all like a statue for nearly an hour, then fell over backwards, asleep.
That morning, Rhyfelwr awoke to the smell of ash and recent flame. He sat up and sniffed the air, dusting a light falling of snow off of his blanket and out of his hair. There was something else on the air, vomit certainly, but something else, lingering just out of reach of memory. An odor of rotten cheese, no, flesh, rotting flesh. That smell was death. He sat up ramrod straight and grabbed his spear from its place at the right side of his bedding. He tripped over the unconscious form of Èomer as he ran toward the rise where Èomer had crouched the night before, transfixed with fear.
Èomer woke instantly as the hard-toed boot of Rhyfelwr crashed into him just below the ribs. He sat up, adrenaline pumping, mind racing, his instincts telling him that he was under attack. He looked up, saw Rhyfelwr and grabbed his leg.
"Rhyfelwr, you have to listen, we have to send Ilanc back!"
Rhyfelwr shook Èomer's hands off his leg. He leaned down and lifted Èomer up off the ground, "What happened,"
Èomer shook his head vigorously, it still hurt, but not as much, "No Rhyfelwr you don't understand! We're in grave danger here! We have to get out!"
Rhyfelwr grabbed the other's shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes, "What happened?"
"Ilanc, the feeling, cold, angry. . . fire, visions. . . true, people dying, heard their screams. . . true! And dark thing. . . petrifying, so dangerous, we have to get out!"
Rhyfelwr took a small hip flask from his pocket and gave a few sips to Èomer, "Calm down. What happened, tell me everything, not just little fragments."
Èomer took a few deep breaths and attempted to recollect his blurred memories of the previous night. Every attempt was an agony, the mere thought of the mutilated bodies lying in pools of blood made him want to vomit the few sips of Rohirrim whiskey that Rhyfelwr had just given him. He took a last breath, "Last night, while I was on sentry duty, this strange. . . feeling came over me. So I woke Ilanc and he helped me hid the camp. Then I looked over that rise over there," he pointed at the vomit stained grass of the small hill, "I saw a village a league away burning. That. . . feeling took over again, and I suddenly saw what was happening, what was happening over a league away. I saw, terrible things, and so did Ilanc." He lapsed into silence and for a long while he would say no more.
Rhyfelwr waited patiently for a few minutes, then walked over towards the rise. Behind him Èomer spoke softly, "Then we saw him."
Rhyfelwr whirled around, "Who? Who did you see?"
Èomer shook his head, "I don't know, he was a shadow, black and huge. We saw a last sight of him, as though it was a warning to all those in the area. Then it all disappeared, and for a long time, we couldn't move. When I got up, I went over to help Ilanc, we talked for a while, and then we fell asleep."
Rhyfelwr wore a face of deep concern, "We'd better go check that out, you and I. Leave the others."
Èomer shook his head once more, "No, wake Arwrwas and Tarren and Saethwr. Leave one of them to watch over camp and we will ride horses to investigate."
Rhyfelwr agreed that this was reasonable and went to wake the three. Saethwr remained in camp, and the other two mounted their horses while Èomer retrieved his sword from the dead grass of the rise. They rode in silence, not bothering to go in silence or single file. They galloped at full tilt across the plain.
It was more than a league to the village that Èomer had seen the previous night, but they rode quickly, and they were there before the sun was fully up. They reached the ruined stockade and leaped from their horses. They walked through the burned out gates, their boots leaving heavy tracks in the new snow.
Rhyfelwr turned to the others, a very weak smile on his face, "I guess it's a good thing I decided not to get all the way here last night. . ." he faded off into silence at the look on Tarren's face, a look of mixed pain and anger.
"This was my home," Tarren said softly, his voice filled with bitterness and hatred, "Those bastards are going to die." It was a statement, not a vow or a promise. A simple fact.
Èomer nodded, "But not before the eight of us die, it looks like."
The others stared at him as he walked through the ruined streets, strewn with hacked and mangled corpses lying under their thin blanket of snow. He walked past houses that were little more than burned out frames, some with corpses inside. Leaning against one he saw the man that was force-fed his own organs, now a blackened corpse with a gaping hole in the lower torso. There were homes and businesses that were more or less intact, but the moment he stepped inside a large inn, he saw nothing more than the nude mutilated bodies of what were once the town's young women. He suppressed his instinct to vomit and backed slowly out the door.
He looked back to see Tarren squatting over a body that still possessed many of its identifying marks his hand over its chest. As Èomer approached, the big man looked up. He gestured toward the body, "This man was my father's servant, a good man who had never done anything worse to anyone than spank naughty children when he was ordered to." Èomer noticed that tears were streaming down his companion's face, he squatted down next to him and patted the other on the back. Tarren shook his massive head and turned to Èomer, "Those bastards tore his heart out," he removed his hand from over the chest, revealing a gaping wound and an emptiness where something was supposed to be. Tarren looked back at the mangled carcass of the man who had taught him so much, "What kind of. . . creature does that to another living being," he turned to Èomer and snarled, "Tell me what kind of sick bastard would do that to a defenseless old man! Tell me Èomer!" His massive bulk collapsed against Èomer's shoulder.
Arwrwas came up with a black helmet in his left hand. There was a large spike protruding from the center of the forehead, and smaller spikes on the neck-guard, on either side of the large spike were two Death's Heads with the Eye of Sauron in their lidless sockets. "Other men would do that." He said as he threw the helmet to the ground in front of Èomer, who picked it up and examined it. It was plated steel, very finely crafted, coated with tough leather on the inside, and a flexible neck-guard. Whoever those shadows were, they certainly weren't orcs.
"Where did you get this?" he asked after a moment of examining the helmet.
Arwrwas gestured over his shoulder, "Near the east gate, apparently they made their defense there. Rhyfelwr wants you to come have a look."
Èomer pushed down on his knees to lever himself up and walked off with Arwrwas. Èomer turned back to Tarren. "Are you coming?"
Tarren nodded absently, waving away Èomer, "I know where the east gate is. I'll meet you there after I take care of some business."
Arwrwas nodded and walked off, grabbing Èomer by the arm and dragging him along. Èomer ran to get his horse, grabbing the reigns and leading it after Arwrwas. They walked in silence, speech was not necessary. The east gate wasn't far away, the pair arrived in a matter of minutes.
Rhyfelwr stood on the ramparts of what was left of the stockade, looking down at the tangled mess of bodies before him. Arwrwas skirted the grisly soup, but Èomer walked straight through, letting go of his horse at the edge. There were bodies of many Rohirrim there, dressed in the traditional green and russet, and there were even a handful of Royal Guard, their gold-embroidered cloaks stained with their own blood. But scattered about them were black cloaked men, tall like the Gondorians, but less noble, less civilized. They bore spears and scimitars, and their shields were broad, etched with the same design as their helmets. Èomer squatted near one. The face was fair, but it had a fierce hatred to it that made it ugly, the hair was long and dark, but dank and unkempt, muscles bulged from beneath the black armor and tunic, but they had only the power to destroy. "Is this all of them?" he asked after a moment. "No," said Rhyfelwr, "There are more on the other side of the stockade. It seems that the archers on duty slew several before they themselves were lost. More were killed when more archers and spearmen arrived. Reinforcements for our side seemed to come only in small waves, so we were quickly overwhelmed." He looked significantly at Èomer, "We didn't have a chance." "No, I didn't think we would," he looked up at Rhyfelwr, "We have always been a scattered people, perhaps it is now time to unite to face this threat."
"Perhaps," said Rhyfelwr, "We need to learn more. Arwrwas!"
The big man looked up from examining one of the curved scimitars, "Sir?"
"Find where these Easterlings left the village. Track it until you're sure it's the right path, and then return to us." He looked around, "Where is Tarren?"
"I'm here."
Arwrwas and Èomer turned to see Tarren, his shovel-like hands stained with dirt and blood. Sweat glistened on his smooth forehead.
Rhyfelwr looked the other man up and down, "Where have you been?"
The big man gestured over his shoulder, "I gave a friend of mine a decent burial," he looked over at Èomer, "I wasn't about to leave him to the crows and scavengers."
Rhyfelwr nodded lightly and gave Arwrwas a small wave. The brave man was off like a shot, bounding over the burned logs and bodies as he tracked the main trail of the Eastmen. Rhyfelwr jumped from the ramparts, taking a small piece of glass from his satchel as he did so. He stood straight and made some minor adjustments to his stance. He then turned to the west, the White Mountains looming in the distance, and flashed the sunlight of the glass three times. It was answered moments later by three more flashes. This was the pre-arranged signal from Rhyfelwr to Saethwr that all was well and that he should head everyone out.
Èomer turned back to look at the body, disbelieving that it could once have been one of those shadows in his visions last night. It looked so fair, so noble lying among the shorter and stockier Rohirrim. He reached down to touch the cold cheek, then suddenly recoiled as a slew of dead things, rotten, flashed across his field of vision. He walked away from the corpse and did not go again into the thicket of dead bodies.
Arwrwas returned minutes afterwards, saying that the trail disappeared less than forty yards beyond the stockade. By this, all were baffled, and they pondered it until Saethwr arrived with the three other Patrollers. Saethwr, an experienced warrior, seemed un-moved by the carnage, as did Marwdyn. Ilanc had already seen it all last night, and while it was in action, so this seemed quite tame to him, but Dialgar walked through the wreckage wide-eyed, not believing what his eyes told him was real. He had seen death wreaked by wicked men before, but the Dunlendings seemed armatures compared to the black-swathed Easterlings lying here and there.
When the whole command was together, Rhyfelwr mounted his horse and rode to the east with Arwrwas. Dialgar and Ilanc followed closely after, then Saethwr and Marwdyn, Tarren and Èomer bringing up the rear. Tarren, Èomer noticed, had a face set in stone; he was going to kill every one of the bastards. 'And I'm going to help him do it,' decided Èomer as he thought of the children burned alive or the man carved slowly to pieces while he yet lived. Those thoughts made his blood boil. He was working himself up into a rage when they suddenly stopped. He strained his neck to look forward and saw Arwrwas and Rhyfelwr had dismounted. He yanked his reins to the right and rode up to see what they were doing. Rhyfelwr was kneeling on the ground while Arwrwas said, ". . . And that's where the tracks disappear."
Rhyfelwr stood up, "I see, but how?"
"It's simple enough to wipe out your tracks; you just have to be clever enough to figure out the initial method."
Rhyfelwr took off his helm and scratched his head, "Which leaves the more important question of how we find them."
"Follow the burning village road I suppose."
Everyone turned to stare at Èomer, as though he had a third arm suddenly sprouting from his chest. They followed his arm to a cloud of smoke on the horizon. It billowed up from a little hill enclosed valley.
"Oh, Valar NO!" Shouted Rhyfelwr as he jammed his helm back onto his head. He swiftly jumped on to his horse and waved his spear at the roiling inky black smoke, "Forth Eorlingas! We may yet have time!"
Èomer drew his sword, for he had lost his spear some time before. He waved it in the air and shouted, "To our kinsfolk!"
They rode out at full gallop across the plain.
Èomer reached the burning village first and he shouted fierce oaths as he leaped through the gates that were slowly burning into cinders. He skidded to a stop, the streets were deserted save for corpses and a few scavenger crows, who scattered at the clopping approach of his horse. The others arrived soon after. Èomer turned to them,
"Come!" He said, "We must move on! We may catch them yet!"
"And do. . . what? Little prince we are greatly outnumbered." The voice came from Marwdyn, brining up the rear of the party.
Rhyfelwr looked at the small man with a frown on his stern features, "We will do what we can. Èomer is right, let us move on!"
"They've left a clearer trail this time!" Cried Arwrwas from the gates, "Come quickly!"
They rode swiftly, four men flanking either side of the tracks. Arwrwas led on the left side, Rhyfelwr on the right. They rode on without a stop for nearly for hours on end; the trail never changed. Soon darkness closed in around them, and they slowed their pace. Dialgar and Ilanc, being the youngest of the Patrol, began to get nervous, twitching at the slightest sounds, half-throwing their spears. Rhyfelwr gave them a stern glance, but, truth be told, he was nearly as nervous as they were.
As the last rays of light began to fade from the sky, they reached a dense thicket of thick grass and scattered trees and shrubbery. Even Arwrwas was reluctant to enter the thicket. He looked over his shoulder, the smoking ruin of the two villages had disappeared from his range of vision. He shook his head, "No men could run this far in a day, perhaps I missed a path in the dark." Rhyfelwr leapt down from the saddle to examine the marks of the trail. He swallowed, hard. "No, they went through there all right."
"Do you think we can go around?" The question came from young Ilanc, obviously petrified at the thought of having to enter the foreboding thicket.
Rhyfelwr shook his head reluctantly, "No, we may lose their trail in the dark, we have no choice but to go through." He mounted his horse and un-strapped his shield from behind the saddle. He turned to look as the others did the same. He nodded to each one in turn, "Be swift, we may be ambushed. Stay together and stay with the trail." He turned, took a deep breath, spurred his horse, and plunged in.
The trail became faint and split up almost before they entered the thicket. Twenty yards in, it failed completely. So the question was no longer, 'Will we be ambushed?' but 'When?'. Èomer drew his shield close to his heart. This was by no means his first combat, but these tall, pale Easterlings chilled him to the bone. Just the thought of their cruel scimitars slicing his flesh made him want to turn tail and run. But he stayed.
It was the jumpiness of Dialgar and Ilanc that saved them. They were nearly two-hundred yards in, the darkness truly closing in, when Dialgar thought he saw a bush rustle. He jumped, yelled, and cast his spear. By pure chance, it hit an Easterling lying in the bushes square in the forehead, killing him instantly, and causing his body to tumble out into the path with a loud thump.
Suddenly the thicket was alive with screams and war cries as scores of Easterlings charged in to surround the beleaguered Rohirrim. Èomer leaped over the heads of two, decapitating one as he did so. He raised his sword on high and waved it about while screaming at the top of his lungs, "GO ILANC! GO!"
Ilanc needed no urging, seeing as that was obviously the signal. He wheeled his horse about, kicked it hard with his heels and sprinting off into the night. Several arrows flew after, but none hit home. Edoras would hear the tale, whether the patrol survived or not. Èomer lashed out with his boot, catching a man in the face and knocking him on his back, Arwrwas quickly came up and dispatched the man with a quick thrust of his spear. Èomer nodded his thanks and rode over to the thick of things, a score of Easterlings surrounding Tarren, Saethwr and Rhyfelwr. He rode in recklessly, leaning out so that his opposite leg rested on the saddle. He slashed as one, stabbed another, and grunted as his chest collided with another. He fell from his horse and lay on the ground for a moment. He sprung up in time to parry a blow from the black clad Easterling. He slashed in, only to have it blocked by an extremely difficult and awkward hanging parry. Èomer smiled grimly. 'Fancies himself a swords master, eh?' he thought to himself, 'Even the best have a little more to learn.' He backed away slightly, giving himself some space to maneuver in. Cold eyes watched him from the slit in the spiked helmet. He made as if to move to the left, twitched right, then leapt at the man's left flank. Another spectacular parry met him, he hadn't thrown off his opponent. 'He's a lot better than I gave him credit for.' Èomer thought dully. No matter. Èomer was willing to fight dirty if he had too.
He came in low, strengthening his hands against the downward slash he knew would come. It came, and he moved in closer, forcing his blade and the blade of his enemy up. He brought his knee into the other's crotch before the Easterling had time to react. The man fell away, stunned, and Èomer dispatched him with a quick thrust. 'Need a few more lessons.' He thought grimly as he moved forward.
He got another cheap kill by stabbing one spearman in the back as he moved in. Two Easterlings with crossbows noticed him then, and he had to quickly lift his shield as two heavy bolts flew in. He leaped forward and slashed one's throat before they could reload, and he bashed the other in the head with his shield, causing him to drop the crossbow. The second Easterling held his head tightly where Èomer's shield had connected, and Èomer finished him with another hit from the shield.
Then a heavy hit crashed into the space between his shoulder blades. Èomer rolled with the hit, coming up on his feet several feet away. He whirled around to find an Easterling holding a broken spear. The other moved in swiftly, smashing his spear shaft against Èomer's upraised shield. The blow made Èomer's entire arm go numb. The Easterling moved in again, and Èomer, instead of blocking with his shield, chopped the shaft in half. He brought his shield up in a swinging uppercut, cracking the man's neck. The Easterling went limp. Èomer stood up, looking for another opponent.
There were none. Nearly two-dozen Easterlings lay dead on the ground, and the rest could be heard fleeing into the thicket. Èomer was in shock, a small group of less than eight had defeated scores of these Easterlings where two villages with nearly a hundred warriors total could not. Then it hit him.
This was another warning.
Turn back. Do not meddle in my affairs.
He snorted. Very impressive warning, allow twenty-three soldiers to get slaughtered to the loss of no Rohirrim. He could have laughed aloud with relief. But then he remembered Tarren's village the previous night. This was no laughing matter. Whoever that giant shadow was, it could have easily squashed them like insects, but it didn't. Why?
"Someone obviously doesn't think too highly of us," Rhyfelwr said dryly. He dropped down from his horse and flipped one of the corpses over with his boot. It had a browned face, it was as short and stocky as the average Rohirrim. He looked up at his companions, "They didn't even bother to send the big men after us."
Èomer shook his head gravely, "No Rhyfelwr, this is a warning. Look at what these Easterlings did to those two villages. They could have easily quashed us, but they didn't"
"Why?"
Èomer shook his head and walked over to where his horse was grazing, "I wish I knew Rhyfelwr, I wish I knew."
Arwrwas wiped his long sword clean on one of the Easterling's black cloaks, "It doesn't matter. These people are dangerous," he looked over at Èomer, "You were right to send Ilanc back. We're going to need all the help we can get."
Dialgar, standing outside the circle of talk, noticed that there were only five, plus him. He looked all around and saw no sign of any other Patrolmen. With a sudden flash of realization, he shouted, "Marwdyn! He's not here!"
Rhyfelwr stood up straight, "What?"
"DAMN IT!" screamed Èomer, "That traitorous bastard!"
Rhyfelwr walked over and grabbed Èomer by the shoulders, "Ilanc can take care of himself. We need you here, now Èomer. You have to have faith."
Èomer nodded, "I just hope I didn't condemn Ilanc to death."
Arwrwas shrugged, "Perhaps Marwdyn became separated, and nothing more. He may not even be traitor after all. Maybe he was killed."
Rhyfelwr nodded vigorously, "Yes, Èomer. Don't trouble yourself with it just yet. Come," he gestured towards the opposite edge of the thicket, "We have to get out of here before true night falls."
The others reluctantly followed after in the gathering dark.
More than a league away, a body lay in the grass. A horse grazed at some grass nearby, paying no mind to the death of its owner. Ilanc's sightless eyes stared up into the night sky, a knife protruding from his back and his throat cut. Someone had heard of his errand, but it was by no fault of Ilanc's. No, Ilanc's murderer had leaned in close, listening to every word Èomer said on that day before. Marwdyn the Dunlending pulled his throwing knife from the back of the young man, wiped it on the dead grass, mounted his horse and rode to Edoras, concocting a wild tale in his head as he did.
The next morning dawned cold and bright. The Mark Patrol quickly prepared for a long ride, and a fight at the end, after a short breakfast. Nobody saw them off. Nobody wanted to get attached to the new sacrificial lamb, as the Patrol was seen as. They rode again in silence, in single file, out of the village and over the Entwash where the ice was frozen. Èomer frowned, if they failed, not even the rivers would be left to defend their people.
Èomer then broke a primary rule of the Patrol, he rode out of his position near the rear of the line and rode up to speak with Rhyfelwr, who was, as always, riding point. Rhyfelwr turned and looked at him sternly, "What is it," he barked after a moment.
Èomer pointed vaguely in the direction of Edoras, "We should send someone back to let them know of our predicament, send Ilanc, I don't think he'll be much use in a fight."
Rhyfelwr nodded, "But I would like to get rid of Marwdyn. As you said, he's not to be trusted. I am going to order the both of them to go back and let the King or perhaps Thèodred know of our situation. But not yet. I'd like to see what the problem is before we get them all worked up. Now get back in line, tell the others you thought you saw something, just light playing off the snow, nothing more."
Èomer nodded and rode back to his place in the line. Ilanc leaned forward, "What did he say Èomer?"
Èomer looked from side to side, then leaned in closer to the other man, "Ilanc, I want you to be ready to ride at any time of the day or night."
"Where to?"
"Edoras."
"Why?"
"It doesn't matter why. All that matters is that when I give you a signal, you ride back to Edoras and let them know that we're in trouble. Tell them to send Thèodred and an éored to the east. Can you do that?"
"I would feel better if I knew. . ."
"Can you do it?"
Ilanc swallowed heavily, "Yes, I can."
Èomer clapped the younger man on the back, "Good! Be ready for a signal at any time. Tell no one!" And with that, he leaned away and turned his head back to the road ahead.
Two more days of this sort passed. The woods and rivers of the foothills of the White Mountains faded into vast, empty, snow-covered plains. Both nights Èomer could not sleep, for fear the camp would be overrun be fell beasts while he dozed. That nameless fear he had felt the second night returned to haunt him, even in the daylight hours. Even the empty plains, where one could see a hare bounding over the dead grass from a league off, gave off a threatening aura.
Èomer took to staring into space, thinking of what could possibly have wiped out a confederation of hardy Eastlanders. He spoke these thoughts aloud only once, and then only to Rhyfelwr, who laughed and said, "Village gossip and superstition Èomer, pay it no mind. Those villagers will do anything during the winter, given how unexciting their lives are. Ignore it. Besides, probably none of it was true. It didn't sound very chilling to me," but he didn't seem entirely sure of himself. Èomer knew that he himself was unwilling to let go of the long kept thought that Rohan was unassailable, but he felt in his heart that something had happened.
The night of the fifth day, Èomer had sentry again. They had no fire, their horses were specially trained to make no noise, and yet he had an overwhelming feeling that something was walking towards them. Something dark and terrible. Something that wasn't alone.
He leaned over and shook Ilanc into wakefulness, covering the younger man's mouth with his hand and putting a finger to his lips. He pointed over to behind a small rise where he felt the presence. He made a gesture for Ilanc to wait, then walked over to the nearest horse and forced it to lie down. Ilanc did the same, and soon, the whole camp was indistinguishable from the plain it was on. Èomer made the same gesture and stealthily made his way to the rise, drawing his sword as he did so. The cold steel of the blade glinted softly in the moonlight.
He dropped to his hands and knees, sword still in his right hand, and he peeked over the crest of the rise.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
And he had gotten all worked up over it. He collapsed and turned over to lie on his back, filled with relief, smiling sleepily as the adrenaline of the moment wore off. He waved the all clear to Ilanc. The other smiled in pure relief and moved off to let the horses get back up.
Then Èomer felt it again.
And this time it was clear that Ilanc had felt it too, for the other man had fallen to the ground, grasping his heart. And this time it was much, much stronger, so strong that the two young men could do nothing but lay on the ground, paralyzed with fear.
Using all of his considerable willpower, Èomer force himself to move his head to the East, from where the fear was greatest. He wished he hadn't.
Less than a league away, a small town was burning. The yellow and red flames washed over the plains, shining like a beacon in the dark of night. Images flashed before his young eyes, images of terrible things that should never be done to another being.
He saw a man, stomach slashed open, being fed his own pancreas by shadowy figures, crying in pain and terror and shock as one shadow reached into him and yanked, hand coming free covered in blood, holding a liver. The man sank against the wall of a flaming thatched cottage, dying slowly in a pool of red blood.
He saw two young women dragged out of cottage while the shadows threw flaming brands into the roof, laughing as they sputtered and then took hold. The shadows that threw the women down on the ground laughed at them and tore at their victims' clothes. Then, in turn, a line of men raped them. The last man, the largest, raped them so that Èomer could hear the screams for real, albeit faintly. When he had finished having them, he drew cruel looking scimitar from his belt and shoved it into the first. She screamed, and the other looked over and cried in terror. The large shadow continued to stab the first woman until the body was unrecognizable and then moved on to the second. It made large hacking strikes at the woman, hacking until pools of blood stained even the ground beneath the snow red. It laughed and kicked at the carcass, stabbed it with its scimitar. Its fellows did the same, laughing and pointing and stabbing and hacking. Èomer felt his bile rising into his throat. Somewhere over to his left, he could hear Ilanc vomiting loudly. He put all his will to looking away from the horrible visions, but found that he could not.
The visions continued. He saw more shadows standing around another man, joking and taunting him. The man cried and begged for mercy, but none was forthcoming. One shadow ran over to a burning shed, entered, and came back with a crude saw, black from the heat of the blaze. Èomer closed his eyes, but the sight burned through his eyes directly into his brain. The shadow slowly sawed into the left ankle of the prisoner, resulting in a cry of pain from the man. It worked its way up, cutting off two to three inches at a time on first the left and then the right leg. The snow melted under the rush of blood. Cruelly, the shadow sawed off each finger, one at a time, holding them up to its victim's face. It then repeated the same process on the arms, sawing off an inch at a time. Èomer couldn't hold his gorge any longer, he felt it rise up through his throat and pass out onto his jerkin. The shadow howled with laughter at the dying man's pleads for a swift death. It made a small cut along the back of the neck, then moved down to cut a large gash in the man's chest. The cries were feebler now. It repeated that process over and over again. Èomer found himself vomiting uncontrollably, and he could hear Ilanc doing the same. After what seemed like a life-age of the earth, the shadow finally decapitated its victim, who had already died minutes earlier of blood loss and shock, and threw back its head and howled with triumph and bloodlust.
Èomer saw an older woman telling her two children to run, pushing them away from her as a group of the shadows approached. He saw her turn to the nameless things and raise her fists in defiance, it gave her offspring maybe twenty seconds while the things were busy hacking her to pieces. Her sacrifice was in vane, as Èomer saw a huge shadow bound up to the two children, grab them, and place one under each arm as its fellows shouted their encouragement. The spit the children through the loose skin on their backs, and to the accompaniment of their screams, roasted them alive.
Èomer had no more in his stomach to rid himself of, but his gag reflex was still commanding him to vomit, so up came his stomach acid, burning his throat as he disgorged it from his esophagus.
Then his heart froze and he could do no more than clutch it in desperation as he saw the most terrifying thing to happen yet. A giant shadow, more than twice the size of anything Èomer had seen yet, loomed above him, pointing down to where he writhed in pain and terror. Then Èomer understood how he was seeing all this, that, that thing was feeding it to him, or if not him specifically, than everyone in the area, as a message, a message that had the clearest point that could be imagined.
You're Next.
A desire to be as far away from that place as possible, as soon as possible, entered him, hot and demanding. He longed to run away, he longed to even move. The terror that was invoked in his heart was more pure than fresh fallen snow. He struggled, he battled, and he pushed with all his will and might. . .
And suddenly, the feeling was gone.
Èomer slumped back against the cold ground. He lay there in a pool of his own vomit, gasping for breath, staring up at the cloudless night sky. 'What just happened?' he wondered as he searched for the strength to sit up. He eventually found it, and rose up from the stinking mess he had left, the acids from his stomach slowly dissolving the dead grass in which he had been laying. He stumbled weakly over to Ilanc, who was weeping softly near one of the horses. He extended an arm, which was weakly accepted. He used most of his remaining strength to haul the younger man to his feet. Ilanc nodded his thanks, "What in the name of the King was that?"
Èomer merely shrugged.
"What does it mean?"
Èomer looked over at the columns of flame burning in the distance. "It means," he said at last, "That there's going to be hell to pay tomorrow as soon as the others wake up."
"Should I go ride to Edoras, then?"
Èomer shook his head, then stopped, it really hurt. It was as though the terrible sights that were now burned permanently into his brain had also swelled his brain. "No, I wouldn't send you out alone, especially with that. . . that. . . thing out there."
Ilanc's voice lowered, "You. . . saw it too?"
Èomer would have hissed had he had the energy, "Speak no more of it, Ilanc. I'm going to send you at the break of day. Before the others wake, go to Edoras, but have Thèodred bring every man in the whole Mark!"
Ilanc managed a salute, placing the index and middle fingers of his right hand parallel to his right temple, with what little might remained to him, "As ordered sir," and with that he collapsed into a heap on the ground. Èomer stood above them all like a statue for nearly an hour, then fell over backwards, asleep.
That morning, Rhyfelwr awoke to the smell of ash and recent flame. He sat up and sniffed the air, dusting a light falling of snow off of his blanket and out of his hair. There was something else on the air, vomit certainly, but something else, lingering just out of reach of memory. An odor of rotten cheese, no, flesh, rotting flesh. That smell was death. He sat up ramrod straight and grabbed his spear from its place at the right side of his bedding. He tripped over the unconscious form of Èomer as he ran toward the rise where Èomer had crouched the night before, transfixed with fear.
Èomer woke instantly as the hard-toed boot of Rhyfelwr crashed into him just below the ribs. He sat up, adrenaline pumping, mind racing, his instincts telling him that he was under attack. He looked up, saw Rhyfelwr and grabbed his leg.
"Rhyfelwr, you have to listen, we have to send Ilanc back!"
Rhyfelwr shook Èomer's hands off his leg. He leaned down and lifted Èomer up off the ground, "What happened,"
Èomer shook his head vigorously, it still hurt, but not as much, "No Rhyfelwr you don't understand! We're in grave danger here! We have to get out!"
Rhyfelwr grabbed the other's shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes, "What happened?"
"Ilanc, the feeling, cold, angry. . . fire, visions. . . true, people dying, heard their screams. . . true! And dark thing. . . petrifying, so dangerous, we have to get out!"
Rhyfelwr took a small hip flask from his pocket and gave a few sips to Èomer, "Calm down. What happened, tell me everything, not just little fragments."
Èomer took a few deep breaths and attempted to recollect his blurred memories of the previous night. Every attempt was an agony, the mere thought of the mutilated bodies lying in pools of blood made him want to vomit the few sips of Rohirrim whiskey that Rhyfelwr had just given him. He took a last breath, "Last night, while I was on sentry duty, this strange. . . feeling came over me. So I woke Ilanc and he helped me hid the camp. Then I looked over that rise over there," he pointed at the vomit stained grass of the small hill, "I saw a village a league away burning. That. . . feeling took over again, and I suddenly saw what was happening, what was happening over a league away. I saw, terrible things, and so did Ilanc." He lapsed into silence and for a long while he would say no more.
Rhyfelwr waited patiently for a few minutes, then walked over towards the rise. Behind him Èomer spoke softly, "Then we saw him."
Rhyfelwr whirled around, "Who? Who did you see?"
Èomer shook his head, "I don't know, he was a shadow, black and huge. We saw a last sight of him, as though it was a warning to all those in the area. Then it all disappeared, and for a long time, we couldn't move. When I got up, I went over to help Ilanc, we talked for a while, and then we fell asleep."
Rhyfelwr wore a face of deep concern, "We'd better go check that out, you and I. Leave the others."
Èomer shook his head once more, "No, wake Arwrwas and Tarren and Saethwr. Leave one of them to watch over camp and we will ride horses to investigate."
Rhyfelwr agreed that this was reasonable and went to wake the three. Saethwr remained in camp, and the other two mounted their horses while Èomer retrieved his sword from the dead grass of the rise. They rode in silence, not bothering to go in silence or single file. They galloped at full tilt across the plain.
It was more than a league to the village that Èomer had seen the previous night, but they rode quickly, and they were there before the sun was fully up. They reached the ruined stockade and leaped from their horses. They walked through the burned out gates, their boots leaving heavy tracks in the new snow.
Rhyfelwr turned to the others, a very weak smile on his face, "I guess it's a good thing I decided not to get all the way here last night. . ." he faded off into silence at the look on Tarren's face, a look of mixed pain and anger.
"This was my home," Tarren said softly, his voice filled with bitterness and hatred, "Those bastards are going to die." It was a statement, not a vow or a promise. A simple fact.
Èomer nodded, "But not before the eight of us die, it looks like."
The others stared at him as he walked through the ruined streets, strewn with hacked and mangled corpses lying under their thin blanket of snow. He walked past houses that were little more than burned out frames, some with corpses inside. Leaning against one he saw the man that was force-fed his own organs, now a blackened corpse with a gaping hole in the lower torso. There were homes and businesses that were more or less intact, but the moment he stepped inside a large inn, he saw nothing more than the nude mutilated bodies of what were once the town's young women. He suppressed his instinct to vomit and backed slowly out the door.
He looked back to see Tarren squatting over a body that still possessed many of its identifying marks his hand over its chest. As Èomer approached, the big man looked up. He gestured toward the body, "This man was my father's servant, a good man who had never done anything worse to anyone than spank naughty children when he was ordered to." Èomer noticed that tears were streaming down his companion's face, he squatted down next to him and patted the other on the back. Tarren shook his massive head and turned to Èomer, "Those bastards tore his heart out," he removed his hand from over the chest, revealing a gaping wound and an emptiness where something was supposed to be. Tarren looked back at the mangled carcass of the man who had taught him so much, "What kind of. . . creature does that to another living being," he turned to Èomer and snarled, "Tell me what kind of sick bastard would do that to a defenseless old man! Tell me Èomer!" His massive bulk collapsed against Èomer's shoulder.
Arwrwas came up with a black helmet in his left hand. There was a large spike protruding from the center of the forehead, and smaller spikes on the neck-guard, on either side of the large spike were two Death's Heads with the Eye of Sauron in their lidless sockets. "Other men would do that." He said as he threw the helmet to the ground in front of Èomer, who picked it up and examined it. It was plated steel, very finely crafted, coated with tough leather on the inside, and a flexible neck-guard. Whoever those shadows were, they certainly weren't orcs.
"Where did you get this?" he asked after a moment of examining the helmet.
Arwrwas gestured over his shoulder, "Near the east gate, apparently they made their defense there. Rhyfelwr wants you to come have a look."
Èomer pushed down on his knees to lever himself up and walked off with Arwrwas. Èomer turned back to Tarren. "Are you coming?"
Tarren nodded absently, waving away Èomer, "I know where the east gate is. I'll meet you there after I take care of some business."
Arwrwas nodded and walked off, grabbing Èomer by the arm and dragging him along. Èomer ran to get his horse, grabbing the reigns and leading it after Arwrwas. They walked in silence, speech was not necessary. The east gate wasn't far away, the pair arrived in a matter of minutes.
Rhyfelwr stood on the ramparts of what was left of the stockade, looking down at the tangled mess of bodies before him. Arwrwas skirted the grisly soup, but Èomer walked straight through, letting go of his horse at the edge. There were bodies of many Rohirrim there, dressed in the traditional green and russet, and there were even a handful of Royal Guard, their gold-embroidered cloaks stained with their own blood. But scattered about them were black cloaked men, tall like the Gondorians, but less noble, less civilized. They bore spears and scimitars, and their shields were broad, etched with the same design as their helmets. Èomer squatted near one. The face was fair, but it had a fierce hatred to it that made it ugly, the hair was long and dark, but dank and unkempt, muscles bulged from beneath the black armor and tunic, but they had only the power to destroy. "Is this all of them?" he asked after a moment. "No," said Rhyfelwr, "There are more on the other side of the stockade. It seems that the archers on duty slew several before they themselves were lost. More were killed when more archers and spearmen arrived. Reinforcements for our side seemed to come only in small waves, so we were quickly overwhelmed." He looked significantly at Èomer, "We didn't have a chance." "No, I didn't think we would," he looked up at Rhyfelwr, "We have always been a scattered people, perhaps it is now time to unite to face this threat."
"Perhaps," said Rhyfelwr, "We need to learn more. Arwrwas!"
The big man looked up from examining one of the curved scimitars, "Sir?"
"Find where these Easterlings left the village. Track it until you're sure it's the right path, and then return to us." He looked around, "Where is Tarren?"
"I'm here."
Arwrwas and Èomer turned to see Tarren, his shovel-like hands stained with dirt and blood. Sweat glistened on his smooth forehead.
Rhyfelwr looked the other man up and down, "Where have you been?"
The big man gestured over his shoulder, "I gave a friend of mine a decent burial," he looked over at Èomer, "I wasn't about to leave him to the crows and scavengers."
Rhyfelwr nodded lightly and gave Arwrwas a small wave. The brave man was off like a shot, bounding over the burned logs and bodies as he tracked the main trail of the Eastmen. Rhyfelwr jumped from the ramparts, taking a small piece of glass from his satchel as he did so. He stood straight and made some minor adjustments to his stance. He then turned to the west, the White Mountains looming in the distance, and flashed the sunlight of the glass three times. It was answered moments later by three more flashes. This was the pre-arranged signal from Rhyfelwr to Saethwr that all was well and that he should head everyone out.
Èomer turned back to look at the body, disbelieving that it could once have been one of those shadows in his visions last night. It looked so fair, so noble lying among the shorter and stockier Rohirrim. He reached down to touch the cold cheek, then suddenly recoiled as a slew of dead things, rotten, flashed across his field of vision. He walked away from the corpse and did not go again into the thicket of dead bodies.
Arwrwas returned minutes afterwards, saying that the trail disappeared less than forty yards beyond the stockade. By this, all were baffled, and they pondered it until Saethwr arrived with the three other Patrollers. Saethwr, an experienced warrior, seemed un-moved by the carnage, as did Marwdyn. Ilanc had already seen it all last night, and while it was in action, so this seemed quite tame to him, but Dialgar walked through the wreckage wide-eyed, not believing what his eyes told him was real. He had seen death wreaked by wicked men before, but the Dunlendings seemed armatures compared to the black-swathed Easterlings lying here and there.
When the whole command was together, Rhyfelwr mounted his horse and rode to the east with Arwrwas. Dialgar and Ilanc followed closely after, then Saethwr and Marwdyn, Tarren and Èomer bringing up the rear. Tarren, Èomer noticed, had a face set in stone; he was going to kill every one of the bastards. 'And I'm going to help him do it,' decided Èomer as he thought of the children burned alive or the man carved slowly to pieces while he yet lived. Those thoughts made his blood boil. He was working himself up into a rage when they suddenly stopped. He strained his neck to look forward and saw Arwrwas and Rhyfelwr had dismounted. He yanked his reins to the right and rode up to see what they were doing. Rhyfelwr was kneeling on the ground while Arwrwas said, ". . . And that's where the tracks disappear."
Rhyfelwr stood up, "I see, but how?"
"It's simple enough to wipe out your tracks; you just have to be clever enough to figure out the initial method."
Rhyfelwr took off his helm and scratched his head, "Which leaves the more important question of how we find them."
"Follow the burning village road I suppose."
Everyone turned to stare at Èomer, as though he had a third arm suddenly sprouting from his chest. They followed his arm to a cloud of smoke on the horizon. It billowed up from a little hill enclosed valley.
"Oh, Valar NO!" Shouted Rhyfelwr as he jammed his helm back onto his head. He swiftly jumped on to his horse and waved his spear at the roiling inky black smoke, "Forth Eorlingas! We may yet have time!"
Èomer drew his sword, for he had lost his spear some time before. He waved it in the air and shouted, "To our kinsfolk!"
They rode out at full gallop across the plain.
Èomer reached the burning village first and he shouted fierce oaths as he leaped through the gates that were slowly burning into cinders. He skidded to a stop, the streets were deserted save for corpses and a few scavenger crows, who scattered at the clopping approach of his horse. The others arrived soon after. Èomer turned to them,
"Come!" He said, "We must move on! We may catch them yet!"
"And do. . . what? Little prince we are greatly outnumbered." The voice came from Marwdyn, brining up the rear of the party.
Rhyfelwr looked at the small man with a frown on his stern features, "We will do what we can. Èomer is right, let us move on!"
"They've left a clearer trail this time!" Cried Arwrwas from the gates, "Come quickly!"
They rode swiftly, four men flanking either side of the tracks. Arwrwas led on the left side, Rhyfelwr on the right. They rode on without a stop for nearly for hours on end; the trail never changed. Soon darkness closed in around them, and they slowed their pace. Dialgar and Ilanc, being the youngest of the Patrol, began to get nervous, twitching at the slightest sounds, half-throwing their spears. Rhyfelwr gave them a stern glance, but, truth be told, he was nearly as nervous as they were.
As the last rays of light began to fade from the sky, they reached a dense thicket of thick grass and scattered trees and shrubbery. Even Arwrwas was reluctant to enter the thicket. He looked over his shoulder, the smoking ruin of the two villages had disappeared from his range of vision. He shook his head, "No men could run this far in a day, perhaps I missed a path in the dark." Rhyfelwr leapt down from the saddle to examine the marks of the trail. He swallowed, hard. "No, they went through there all right."
"Do you think we can go around?" The question came from young Ilanc, obviously petrified at the thought of having to enter the foreboding thicket.
Rhyfelwr shook his head reluctantly, "No, we may lose their trail in the dark, we have no choice but to go through." He mounted his horse and un-strapped his shield from behind the saddle. He turned to look as the others did the same. He nodded to each one in turn, "Be swift, we may be ambushed. Stay together and stay with the trail." He turned, took a deep breath, spurred his horse, and plunged in.
The trail became faint and split up almost before they entered the thicket. Twenty yards in, it failed completely. So the question was no longer, 'Will we be ambushed?' but 'When?'. Èomer drew his shield close to his heart. This was by no means his first combat, but these tall, pale Easterlings chilled him to the bone. Just the thought of their cruel scimitars slicing his flesh made him want to turn tail and run. But he stayed.
It was the jumpiness of Dialgar and Ilanc that saved them. They were nearly two-hundred yards in, the darkness truly closing in, when Dialgar thought he saw a bush rustle. He jumped, yelled, and cast his spear. By pure chance, it hit an Easterling lying in the bushes square in the forehead, killing him instantly, and causing his body to tumble out into the path with a loud thump.
Suddenly the thicket was alive with screams and war cries as scores of Easterlings charged in to surround the beleaguered Rohirrim. Èomer leaped over the heads of two, decapitating one as he did so. He raised his sword on high and waved it about while screaming at the top of his lungs, "GO ILANC! GO!"
Ilanc needed no urging, seeing as that was obviously the signal. He wheeled his horse about, kicked it hard with his heels and sprinting off into the night. Several arrows flew after, but none hit home. Edoras would hear the tale, whether the patrol survived or not. Èomer lashed out with his boot, catching a man in the face and knocking him on his back, Arwrwas quickly came up and dispatched the man with a quick thrust of his spear. Èomer nodded his thanks and rode over to the thick of things, a score of Easterlings surrounding Tarren, Saethwr and Rhyfelwr. He rode in recklessly, leaning out so that his opposite leg rested on the saddle. He slashed as one, stabbed another, and grunted as his chest collided with another. He fell from his horse and lay on the ground for a moment. He sprung up in time to parry a blow from the black clad Easterling. He slashed in, only to have it blocked by an extremely difficult and awkward hanging parry. Èomer smiled grimly. 'Fancies himself a swords master, eh?' he thought to himself, 'Even the best have a little more to learn.' He backed away slightly, giving himself some space to maneuver in. Cold eyes watched him from the slit in the spiked helmet. He made as if to move to the left, twitched right, then leapt at the man's left flank. Another spectacular parry met him, he hadn't thrown off his opponent. 'He's a lot better than I gave him credit for.' Èomer thought dully. No matter. Èomer was willing to fight dirty if he had too.
He came in low, strengthening his hands against the downward slash he knew would come. It came, and he moved in closer, forcing his blade and the blade of his enemy up. He brought his knee into the other's crotch before the Easterling had time to react. The man fell away, stunned, and Èomer dispatched him with a quick thrust. 'Need a few more lessons.' He thought grimly as he moved forward.
He got another cheap kill by stabbing one spearman in the back as he moved in. Two Easterlings with crossbows noticed him then, and he had to quickly lift his shield as two heavy bolts flew in. He leaped forward and slashed one's throat before they could reload, and he bashed the other in the head with his shield, causing him to drop the crossbow. The second Easterling held his head tightly where Èomer's shield had connected, and Èomer finished him with another hit from the shield.
Then a heavy hit crashed into the space between his shoulder blades. Èomer rolled with the hit, coming up on his feet several feet away. He whirled around to find an Easterling holding a broken spear. The other moved in swiftly, smashing his spear shaft against Èomer's upraised shield. The blow made Èomer's entire arm go numb. The Easterling moved in again, and Èomer, instead of blocking with his shield, chopped the shaft in half. He brought his shield up in a swinging uppercut, cracking the man's neck. The Easterling went limp. Èomer stood up, looking for another opponent.
There were none. Nearly two-dozen Easterlings lay dead on the ground, and the rest could be heard fleeing into the thicket. Èomer was in shock, a small group of less than eight had defeated scores of these Easterlings where two villages with nearly a hundred warriors total could not. Then it hit him.
This was another warning.
Turn back. Do not meddle in my affairs.
He snorted. Very impressive warning, allow twenty-three soldiers to get slaughtered to the loss of no Rohirrim. He could have laughed aloud with relief. But then he remembered Tarren's village the previous night. This was no laughing matter. Whoever that giant shadow was, it could have easily squashed them like insects, but it didn't. Why?
"Someone obviously doesn't think too highly of us," Rhyfelwr said dryly. He dropped down from his horse and flipped one of the corpses over with his boot. It had a browned face, it was as short and stocky as the average Rohirrim. He looked up at his companions, "They didn't even bother to send the big men after us."
Èomer shook his head gravely, "No Rhyfelwr, this is a warning. Look at what these Easterlings did to those two villages. They could have easily quashed us, but they didn't"
"Why?"
Èomer shook his head and walked over to where his horse was grazing, "I wish I knew Rhyfelwr, I wish I knew."
Arwrwas wiped his long sword clean on one of the Easterling's black cloaks, "It doesn't matter. These people are dangerous," he looked over at Èomer, "You were right to send Ilanc back. We're going to need all the help we can get."
Dialgar, standing outside the circle of talk, noticed that there were only five, plus him. He looked all around and saw no sign of any other Patrolmen. With a sudden flash of realization, he shouted, "Marwdyn! He's not here!"
Rhyfelwr stood up straight, "What?"
"DAMN IT!" screamed Èomer, "That traitorous bastard!"
Rhyfelwr walked over and grabbed Èomer by the shoulders, "Ilanc can take care of himself. We need you here, now Èomer. You have to have faith."
Èomer nodded, "I just hope I didn't condemn Ilanc to death."
Arwrwas shrugged, "Perhaps Marwdyn became separated, and nothing more. He may not even be traitor after all. Maybe he was killed."
Rhyfelwr nodded vigorously, "Yes, Èomer. Don't trouble yourself with it just yet. Come," he gestured towards the opposite edge of the thicket, "We have to get out of here before true night falls."
The others reluctantly followed after in the gathering dark.
More than a league away, a body lay in the grass. A horse grazed at some grass nearby, paying no mind to the death of its owner. Ilanc's sightless eyes stared up into the night sky, a knife protruding from his back and his throat cut. Someone had heard of his errand, but it was by no fault of Ilanc's. No, Ilanc's murderer had leaned in close, listening to every word Èomer said on that day before. Marwdyn the Dunlending pulled his throwing knife from the back of the young man, wiped it on the dead grass, mounted his horse and rode to Edoras, concocting a wild tale in his head as he did.