Chapter 3

The statement that there were no casualties was not entirely true. While no man had died, Dialgar had two broken ribs, Saethwr had a tremendous gash from ear to chest, and Èomer had a spectacular bruise between his shoulders. Also, Èomer's horse had been killed in the fracas, leaving him with no means of travel. It was decided that he would double up on Tarren's horse with Dialgar, while Tarren rode Dialgar's horse. The big man nearly looked comical on the smaller horse, which barely stood up to his weight.

At nearly midnight they made it through the thicket, at which point they ceased their minimal speed and burst into a full gallop, determined to put a few miles between themselves and the surviving enemy before they stopped.

It was merely two hours from dawn when they finally stopped. Èomer wearily climbed down from the big horse, reached back up and helped the weary Dialgar down to the ground. He flung himself to the ground and shut his eyes, only to be kicked awake once more.

He looked up to see Saethwr's disfigured form above him. "Come on, we have to get moving."

Èomer closed his eyes and dropped back on the ground, "Give me a good reason and I will."

Saethwr snorted with annoyance and yanked Èomer up by his long hair. He turned him to the north-east, "That's why."

There was an army of Easterlings. A long black column of Easterlings. On its flanks rode nearly a hundred horsemen. Coming up the rear were half a dozen trolls. A great many of the men were short and swarthy, like the ones the Patrol had just fought. But more than half were tall and fair, as the Easterling that Èomer had seen lying in Tarren's village. Èomer gained his feet slowly, in disbelief.

He shook his head, "Out of the frying pan, into the fire."

Saethwr smiled grimly, "That seems to be the luck we're having on this trip, eh?"

They mounted their horses once more, but this time they gave Tarren a larger horse. They pounded across the Eastfold as fast as their weary horses could carry them. Èomer leaned down into Dialgar's neck, shielding his face from the wind. A snow-storm blew up, making their flight even more miserable.

After a while the horses began to slack, and then, when Dialgar's horse collapsed under Rhyfelwr, they stopped. Èomer made his way over to Rhyfelwr. "Where the hell are we?" he shouted above the wind.

Rhyfelwr shrugged and clapped his hands together to ward off the cold.

"Those Easterlings were headed somewhere. Is there a town nearby?"

"I could tell you if I knew. My guess is that you're right, and if that's true, we can bolster their defenses. At least we can sit tight until help arrives."

Èomer frowned, "If help arrives. I still can't shake off this nasty feeling that Marwdyn had some malicious intent. And Ilanc is frightened and alone; he'll be an easy target."

"I told you not to worry about it. We're only a week out, and we meandered a bit, and at the rate he's going, he'll be back in about two or three days. We can expect reinforcements before weeks end, ten days at the maximum. Don't worry, everything will be fine."

Èomer didn't believe it for a second. Something about the look in Rhyfelwr's eyes told him that the older man didn't believe a word that he had said. And that big shadow he had seen. . . he had a feeling that even if help arrived, it would be too late and not enough. That shadow was obviously powerful, and the Easterlings with it were nothing to dismiss either. His thoughts drifted to the bodies of the brave Rohirrim lying in puddles of their own blood, their sightless eyes full of fear. He thought of the jolt that had hit him when he tried to touch that dead Easterling. No, the game was over. It wasn't a matter of if he would die out on these plains, but when he would fall with his eyes full of fear, his blood leaking to mingle with his other brave comrades.

Now he realized his fear within the walls of Edoras was justified. Rohan was doomed while it remained scattered as it was. He pushed the thought away. He wasn't going to let his excessive pessimism bring everyone else down with him. He nodded to Rhyfelwr and walked back over to Dialgar, who was still clutching his broken ribs.

They had to put Dialgar's horse down. The poor thing was weary from the weight of its huge passengers and the constant running, it was clear that it would die from exposure before it ever regained the strength to even get up. Dialgar insisted on doing it himself, and the others bowed before the demand.

They left Dialgar alone with his horse for a few moments. Dialgar, tears streaming down his cheeks, patted the horse's neck a few times, and then plunged his sword into its neck. It died instantly and suffered almost no pain. Dialgar withdrew the sword and wiped it on the grass. He took five hairs from the horse's mane and stowed them in his pocket. He then leaned against the still-warm body and wept.

Èomer wept as well. True, his horse had died also, but it died in combat, killed by an Easterling. Dialgar had to kill his own horse, and he had to kill it because of something he had done. Èomer felt terribly guilty. He moved over to Dialgar and patted the man on the back.

Dialgar spun around. His eyes were full of tears as he looked up into Èomer's solemn face. He buried his face in Èomer's chest and cried. Èomer rubbed the other man's back soothingly.

Saethwr, being the practical one, turned to Rhyfelwr. "What do we do now?" He asked, "We're missing two horses and no warriors. Some of us might have to walk."

Rhyfelwr shook his head, "I will leave no man behind to walk. That would be the same as killing him."

Èomer looked up, his face set. He broke loose from Dialgar, stood and turned to Rhyfelwr. "I will walk, and Dialgar will walk with me."

Rhyfelwr shook his head, "Kinsman, you least of all will I abandon to these frozen wastes. Théoden King would kill me, should you die and I could have prevented it."

"Nonetheless, I will be walking and Dialgar will walk with me."

Rhyfelwr opened his mouth for further argument, but Tarren put a hand in front of his mouth. The big man looked directly into Rhyfelwr's eyes, "Èomer is old enough to know what is best. Take his advice, Rhyfelwr, or I foresee ill things." The look on Tarren's face seemed guarantee enough for that. Rhyfelwr shrugged, "All right then," he said to no one, and turned to Èomer, "Are you sure that you want to go through with this?"

Èomer nodded, "We'll find you in a couple of days. Don't worry."

Rhyfelwr nodded, "It's your funeral I suppose," he turned to the others, "Alright! We're moving out!"

All but Èomer and Dialgar mounted their horses and rode off to the south-east. As they rapidly disappeared from sight, Dialgar turned to Èomer, "How did you know I was going to volunteer?"

Èomer flashed a rare smile at Dialgar, "This may be my first patrol, but I'm no fool. I've seen Rohirrim do the most foolish things after they've been forced to kill their own horse. It is the cruelest thing that will ever happen to you," he looked at the other's tear-stained face, "I can help though. If you know your horse has been given a decent burial, it makes it a little easier. Let's get started."

They labored for nearly three hours with their sword blades to dig a grave for Dialgar's horse. They lowered the horse in and as Dialgar shifted mounds of dirt in, Èomer carved these words onto a piece of bark:

Beneath these stones lies a swift steed

'Twas not strong enough for the task at hand,

But ever it would strive for its masters affections,

Yet he was forced to strike it down,

For its pain was too much for him to bear,

For Firemane

Èomer spread grass and such leaves as could be found over the grave so it would not be despoiled by marauding Easterlings. The pair hoisted their packs and marched in the direction their comrades had gone. They walked with speed, nearly four leagues by nightfall. They decided to rest a while under the cover of some scrubby bush.

Dialgar fell asleep instantly, but Èomer lay awake, listening to the familiar sounds of a Rohan winter's eve. But there was a sound in the quiet background, a sound that was altogether new to Èomer. A chant of some sort. He strained his ears, trying to catch fragments of the chant.

It grew progressively louder. He nudged Dialgar, who he knew had sharper ears. The younger man blinked wearily, looking around.

"Hrm?"

Èomer held a finger to his lips, "Shh, listen."

The young man listened intensely to the night. His eyes grew wide as he turned to Èomer.

"We should go."

"Why?"

But Èomer got his answer when the chant became clear in his hearing.

"OH-EE-TAH! HEE-RON! OH-EE-TAH! SAU-RON!"

"Ah," he managed weakly. He grabbed his gear and half-stood in the dark. Beside him, he felt Dialgar do the same.

"Stay here," he whispered, "I'm going to have a look."

Dialgar opened his mouth to protest, but backed down at the look Èomer gave him. Èomer thrust his blanket and food into Dialgar's hands and crept off through the brush.

Èomer stole up to the edge of the vegetation, and looked out over the wide plains of the Eastfold. The same column of Easterlings the patrol had encountered earlier was marching out in the open. Each man carried a torch, and the firelight shining off their dark armor made them look like beetles. Èomer stood for a few moments in awe of his enemy. A noise in the brush startled him in to movement.

He dropped to the ground, spear held in one hand out in front of him. Trying not to breath, he watched as an Easterling horsemen rode up on his right. The man looked about carefully, scouting the flanks. As he rode past where Èomer hid, Èomer sprang up and jammed his spear into the man's leg.

The Easterling fell off his horse and cried out, but he was stifled with a boot to the face. He retaliated, almost instinctively, and by sheer luck hit Èomer in the kneecap with a metal-shod foot. Èomer fell to one knee and cried out. The Easterling, though a bit stunned, came up with a round-house punch that caught Èomer in the sternum.

Èomer collapsed onto his back. The Easterling drew Èomer's spear out of his leg and stabbed at Èomer with it. At the last moment, Èomer rolled onto his newly-injured knee and scissored his good leg up into the Easterling's crotch.

The man fell over backwards, moaning in pain. Èomer dragged himself up to his knees and drew his dagger. He leapt at the prone figure of the Easterling. At the last moment, the Easterling smashed the shaft of the spear into Èomer's arm. Èomer dropped the dagger and shrunk back, clutching his arm.

The Easterling drew his scimitar, the faint clash of metal barely audible over the tramp of booted feet. The Easterling charged at Èomer, who brought up his shield to deflect the blow.

Èomer's shield was made of wood, with metal inlaid on the edges, and in the very center of the circle, and along the edges of the painted horse. The Easterling's scimitar managed to miss all of these, and due to the force of the blow, it became stuck in the wood.

For a few moments, the two men engaged in a desperate tug-of-war. Èomer hooked his right foot behind the man's left leg and pulled towards himself. The Easterling fell over backwards, and his scimitar came out of the shield. Èomer wasted no time and leapt at the man, punching him in the kidneys and groin, and battering him with the shield. The once-fair face was now swollen, bruised and bloody. In a last desperate move, the man kicked Èomer in the groin.

It nearly worked. Èomer rolled over off the Easterling, who sat up as quickly as he could and groped about for a weapon. He found Èomer's spear and turned back to Èomer. He grinned madly, feeling victory was finally in his grasp.

The Easterling looked rather shocked as the cold steel of Èomer's sword pierced his torso on the left side of his chest on a slightly upward angle. Blood frothed past his lips. He looked at Èomer with a look of hatred mixed with surprise. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell over with a gurgle.

Èomer sat there for a moment, catching his breath. He leaned over and pried his spear out of the dead Easterling's fingers. Leaning heavily on his spear, he hobbled about the clearing, picking up his dagger and his shield. He put the dagger back into its sheath and strapped the shield to his back. Looking around, he saw that his enemy's horse had wandered off, and was grazing a furlong away on a hilltop just outside of the torch-light's range.

Taking care to stay hidden, he stealthily moved towards the horse. He came up on its left side, slowly stroking its coat as he did so, and whispering softly to it in what his people called 'the Horse Tongue'.

Slowly and gingerly, he mounted the animal. His left knee pained him greatly. He cast his arms around the horse's neck, and steered it with his feet. Carefully, he picked his way back to where Dialgar was waiting.

When Dialgar heard the sound of hooves, he raised his spear, ready to throw it at the next thing that came out of the brush. Èomer called softly,

"It's all clear! It's only me, Èomer."

Dialgar lowered his spear, but only slightly, "Èomer? Where have you suddenly acquired a horse?" He gasped as Èomer rode out into the clearing, "And a fine one at that! That'll be one of our own then, if I'm not mistaken. No Easterling could breed a creature like that!"

It was indeed a fine animal, a chestnut stallion, tall and strong, and hardy as well. The armor that an Easterling wore weighed nearly forty pounds, and the men themselves were no light-weights. Èomer had not noticed it before.

"Get up here Dialgar. No, not in back, I'll move. I can't steer him; I'm too tired." Èomer said as he wiggled back until he was just barely on the edge of the saddle.

Dialgar nodded, "Perhaps you might want to move back a little more. The ride won't do much good for your man-hood, eh?"

Èomer nodded vigorously, "The Easterling didn't do much good for it either. They are hardy warriors, their horsemen."

"I do not doubt that," said Dialgar, "If they can take two towns in as many nights without losing more than fifty men, they must be good." The younger man hesitated, "But, they are men of flesh and blood, aren't they? They aren't ghosts?"

Èomer snorted, "That ridiculous! If they were ghosts, then I would be dead now, wouldn't I?"

"I didn't mean ghosts so much as I meant demons, or servants of the old evil. You know, the one that came before even Gondor."

Èomer shuddered at the prospect, "I doubt it." But wasn't sure, even to himself. Dialgar swung his leg up and mounted the horse. Èomer leaned forward onto his back,

"Dialgar, take care not to ride within sight of the Easterling column. Their horsemen have spread out on either side, looking for stray Rohirrim, such as us."

Dialgar nodded and set off at a light gallop. Within twenty minutes, they had passed the head of the Easterling column. Directly at the head, surrounded by trolls and huge men, there was a curtained palanquin. Inside, Èomer knew, was that huge shadow that he had seen two nights before. A cold chill rushed across him and he clutched at his heart.

The figure appeared again in his mind. This time it spoke to him, in a low, menacing voice that brought to Èomer's mind the image of winter on burial mounds:

'Thou art fool. I have given thee fair warning, and yet you persist. What must I do to make thou flee? Tell me now!'

Èomer shook his head weakly. It drew itself up, with something like indigence,

'You dare defy me? Dotard! Swine of the horse kingdom! You shall pay for your insolence!'

"Dialgar," Èomer croaked, "Wheel right, wheel hard right. Don't stop, for any reason."

'Put as many leagues as you want between you and I. It will only delay the inevitable.'

Èomer pressed his head close against Dialgar's back and shut his eyes tight. The younger man reined the horse hard to the right, away from the column. They could hear shouting, and approaching hoof-steps. The voice came again, smugly.

'Little Prince, you cannot escape me. Even now, your doom fast approaches.'

Dialgar kicked the horse, and it sprung away. Shafts thudded into the ground nearby, more noise of pursuit came from behind. Dialgar leaned close to the horse's ear, and whispered into it. It galloped faster.

Èomer hunched his shoulders up as far as he could, to block his ears from the voice. But it continued, mocking him in his head. He groped under his jerkin, for . . . what? What did he have on him that could possibly do him any good? The voice continued.

A shaft caught Dialgar in the foot, and the man cried out in anguish. There was no way to pull it out in the present situation, so he painfully let it be. Just behind the pair, hoofs beat heavily on the barren plains, and the war-cries of the Easterlings could be clearly heard. Another volley swept over them. Èomer's fingers closed over something beneath his jerkin, and its cool smooth surface soothed the raw skin of his hand. The phial!

He pulled it from beneath his jerkin and held it aloft. Nothing happened, save an arrow nicking his wrist, just below the thumb. He gasped and nearly dropped the phial. The noises of the hooves were closer now. Dialgar moaned with pain and despair as he pointed ahead of the horse. On the crest of a hill less a league or so away, there was a line of horsemen, riding slowly across their path. The pair were finished.

Èomer closed his eyes and tried to picture Edoras in his mind, his cousin Theoden, his sister Eowyn, and his uncle. The glass in under his hand warmed slightly, and behind him, the cries changed instantly from victorious to fearful. Èomer opened his eyes and found that the phial in his hand was glowing with bright, white light.

The line of horses ahead of them abruptly changed course and hastened towards the duo. Èomer risked a glance back, and found that the Easterling cavalry had momentarily slackened their pursuit. Several of them were shielding their eyes against the sudden light that had chased the darkness away for many hundreds of yards around Èomer.

"What in the name of?" began Dialgar, but Èomer prodded the other man in the back to silence him.

"Don't slow down! There are still horsemen ahead!"

"But they aren't afraid of the light as the Easterlings are," replied the other.

"They may be of a hardier breed, don't slow down."

"I don't know how much longer the horse can carry on like this, Èomer."

Behind them, the Easterlings were inching forward nervously, pushed on by the nameless dread behind them, but unwilling to approach the elven-light. The former won out after a few moments, however, and they galloped on at full tilt towards the two men. They continued to fire arrows at the two Rohirrim, but now their shots went wider.

Ahead of Èomer and Dialgar, the blurred shapes of the riders came into clearer focus. They were heavily armed, each bearing a long spear, and Èomer began to wonder how they were going to break through the line. As they approached the edge of the circle of light, Èomer held the light higher, in hopes that they would soon take fright and break off. In a moment, they were through, and Èomer found, to his pleasant shock, that at the center of the line was Rhyfelwr.

His cousin was flanked by Saethwr and Arwrwas, and stretching out to either side of them were almost a hundred Eastfolders, armored in chain-mail and tough leather, bearing nine-foot ash spears. Èomer could have fainted with relief. He felt Dialgar let out a deep sigh as they passed through the ranks of the Eastfolders. Dialgar brought the horse to a walk, and then slowly, gracefully, fell off the horse. Taking care not to step on the Westfolder, Èomer moved up and wheeled the horse around to watch the battle. He was still holding the phial above his head.

The battle as Èomer saw it was a rout. The Rohirrim had stretched into a line one man thick on the flanks and two thick in the center behind Rhyfelwr. The flanks curved around the edges of the Easterling formation in a pincer movement, while Rhyfelwr led the rest in a wedge straight through the Easterling center. Fatally surprised by the sudden attack, the Easterlings were swept away. Èomer watched as Rhyfelwr took the largest Easterling through the throat with a thrust of his spear. Elsewhere, the Rohirrim were casting their spears at the horse-archers and finishing those close in with quick hacks from their swords. Èomer smiled with tired pride; the Easterlings, though adept horsemen, were no match for the Rohirrim.

Very quickly, the Easterlings found themselves outmatched, and, very shortly after that, found themselves outnumbered. Those at the rear of the formation turned and fled as swiftly as they could, but those on the flanks were beset from all sides by the Rohirrim on the flanks and by Rhyfelwr's wedge driving down the center. No mercy was shown by the horsemasters, and the grassy plains of Rohan were awash with blood and scattered with limbs. It was all over within a few minutes.

Rhyfelwr walked his horse back across the plain to Èomer. He smiled wearily at the younger man, who returned it as best he could.

"It's all over now, cousin," said Rhyfelwr, "You are safe."

Èomer shook his head wearily. "There is an army yet unfought behind those horsemen, and at its head rides a great sorcerer." He lowered his arm, and the phial went out, leaving the two men in darkness. "I do not think we can defeat him."

"Everything will look better by daylight, cousin." Rhyfelwr looked at him with grave concern etched into his features. "We must return to the town of Gaepfeld, if this army is as great as you say it is."

"It is," Èomer said slowly. He slumped against the neck of the horse and knew no more.

Marwdyn pressed his face against his horse's mane and spurred it on to greater speeds. Even with the wind howling in his ears, he could hear the voice of his master, a voice that brought to his mind the idea of winter on burial mounds, urging him forward, urging him to do his bidding.

He was a day out from Edoras. When he arrived, he was to stop, at all costs, Rohan's armies from gathering until his master's hold on the land was too firm to loosen. He was confident in his ability to do so, but one face preyed on his mind: Théodred, son of the king. Where others fell under the spell of his tongue, granted to him by his master, Théodred stood firm. Èomer and Théodred were close, too close. Théodred would attempt to mount a rescue unless given a direct order from Théoden not to do so. As the mountains rose ever higher before him, Marwdyn knew that his labors were about to begin.