"…But he had always been there, a part of me, a part of my life, just like the mud and the rain, and I had thought that he always would be. Yet the mud and the rain and the dust would all pass. I knew and understood that. What had happened to T.J. in the night I did not understand, but I knew that it would not pass. And I cried for those things which had happened in the night and would not pass."
-- Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor
Nelrith worriedly looked over at the place where Delrith and Sinthe had ridden over. He did not like to think why they were taking so long - it had been four hours since the two had left in search of the scouts - nor what they had faced. Some two or more hours ago there had been two great flashes of light, flashes that seemed more like some kind of magical beast than a storm light. Nelrith, when he had been but a mere child, had heard of those who have died after being hit by a lightning. He shivered, not just from the cold, and turned away. He felt slightly ashamed, maybe because he had been trained up not to be afraid. He had faced skirmishes
The others were worried, as well. They now had two weights on their minds: the Orc troupe and the disappearance of the scouts and the two captains. Fyrell had even ridden out - just for a league - to see if they were coming, or perhaps they were wounded, but the rain and the wind drove him back to the camp.
By now the "camp" was only a mess of poles and long-extinguished fires. The horses rolled their eyes warily, and some of the Riders had to control and calm theirs down. It was not that the horses were afraid of a mere storm; the storm seemed to have a creepy effect on the Riders themselves. That was not all; the Riders were cold, drenched, and not at all feeling comfortable.
Now there only remained about 27 or so Riders, as the others had gone scouting. Nelrith just hoped that if a skirmish with the Orcs should take place, it would be at least under a hundred. 'Now that is silly,' he reproached himself. 'This is Rohan. The plains. An army of hundred or more, if they were close to us, could not just hide like shadows.' But Orcs were creatures of the night, were they not? 'Still, they must make some noise that warns us.' Nelrith had just been staring at the mountains in the far North and East, and it seemed that the peaks suddenly grew higher and closer.
Mathin, an older Rider, felt Nelrith's nervous presence. "With fate's luck on our side, we should be alright," Mathin tried to comfort the younger man, "Anyway, Darian is too sharp-tongued to die." Nelrith smiled in the dark. Darian was sharp-tongued, that was true, and everybody who had heard of him and knew him knew that, at least.
"Let's hope that fate's luck is on our side, then," Nelrith replied, and fell silent.
Darian felt weary, even for a Rider. The rain had soaked all but his bones — that is, if they weren't wet already — and he felt that he had been riding longer than he actually had… Or had the plains stretched out some more, he didn't know. The storm seemed to have a strange effect on the horses, as well; they seemed to be drowsy for all the freezing rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Darian had never seen Windmane like this and worried about him.
Taryne and Sinthe seemed, as well, to be in worse conditions. Darian and that stranger both knew that Taryne's wounds must be getting infected, although both hoped that the rain would wash the infections away for a while. The stranger had tried to wipe most of the dirt off Taryne's face without inflicting pain by touching the wounds, but Taryne writhed with agony. Darian had stopped him, and the stranger agreed. To Darian the stranger almost seemed afraid of Taryne, or rather his face. That angered him, and made him suspicious. It had only been ill fate and ill luck; what had happened to Taryne could have happened to anybody. However he decided to hold his tongue. Darian never attacked without knowing his (possible) enemies' strengths, weaknesses, and allies.
Everything seemed to be slowed down quite a bit. Darian looked around, still sheltering his eyes from the rain, and blinked in confusion. It seemed that nearly five hours had passed; however he was only two leagues away — just about — from the place he had found Sinthe.
The stranger Darian had encountered did not speak much. As darkness seemed to cover him up, Darian had to follow the sound of his footfalls. Or rather, his horse's footfalls and his combined, for both he and his stallion walked softly on the ground; even with the rain Darian noticed. He wondered how he did so; he must not be an ordinary Man to accomplish a task like that. Also, when he spoke, it was in the Common Speech — not the flowing tongue of the Rohirrim. Darian spoke both languages fluently; there was no need of misunderstanding. Although the stranger spoke Westeron as well as any other, the Rider Captain had a feeling that Westeron was not his native tongue. Or that he had been raised by others whose Westeron was not their native tongue.
Darian straightened Sinthe and watched him carefully. Good… His chest was still rising up and down, and his scars seemed somewhat better. He glanced over at the Ranger, who did not meet his look, and wondered if strangers right out of the blue were to be trusted, after all.
Thengel rubbed his temples and sighed… He felt so useless here, even if he was the Lord of the Mark. He had to deal with political problems, when he was most concerned about the blood in the air. There was a battle to come; Thengel could feel it. The wind had an uncomfortable, restless aura to it, and the rain and the lightning seemed to be a symbol of trouble.
He roamed the hallways restlessly. Something was not right. Rohan barely had thunderstorms like this; when it did, some misfortune or other was brewing. He remembered Darian, Sinthe and his best Riders and hoped that they would last the night.
Rohan had encountered more trouble than usual. Wild Men were becoming more restless, Orcs and Wargs traveled freely over the plains, and there were stories of villages being burnt and villagers being lynched, although none of the Riders never actually saw the process.
"My Lord!" one of the guards shouted. Thengel rushed over to see what the trouble was about.
The night was very dark, without a moon, but by the burning torches Thengel could see a form. A form crawling on the ground… Thengel approached the figure and knelt by him. The others — guards and some of the other councilors — circled him loosely.
It was Luthin… Thengel remembered him specially. He had been reckless and eager, proud and loyal: the normal Rohirrim Rider. He was badly injured; the crowd saw even with the dim light of the torches. "Get the healers," Thengel shouted over his shoulder. His hazel eyes glittered with urgency. "He is wounded, fatally if left alone."
Thengel redirected his attention back to Luthin. His eyes seemed to be closed, but his lips were forming words. Thengel leaned closer and listened. It was hard, as Luthin's voice was scratchy and hoarse if he had shouted for hours, but he understood.
"…Rohan… danger, milord… The stranger… the stranger, he attacked…. And orcs everywhere." He shivered and coughed. "…Nobody but … Sinthe… Taryne… survived…. I don't know if they are gone…. I have to go back."
Thengel bit his lip. He was not old, but that moment he felt older than ever. He sometimes wished that he never had left Gondor, but his father had been a greedy man. When he had died Thengel had been called back to Rohan, with his children. His wife, Morwen, had died before he had been called back.
The healer — Handas — bent over and looked over Luthin for some minutes. After that he sighed, and said: "The worst I feared is, milord… He cannot be healed. The wounds are fatal." Indeed as he spoke Luthin's already limited breathing seemed to become shallower and shallower.
Thengel thought quickly. "Luthin… Who is the stranger?"
But Luthin was already dead, and the knowledge of the stranger's name was gone.
After a break — for the horses were tiring — Darian watched the stranger look over both the Riders' wounds. He came up again with a grim face, rummaged his pack, sighed, and rubbed his temple as if he had a headache.
"What is the matter?" Darian asked.
"He — " Darian could see that the stranger meant Taryne — "is dead."
"What?"
"I should have noticed. But…" He shook his head, as if embarrassed — "I got distracted by the storm."
Darian felt sorrow rushing over him. However first things had to be first. Even if Taryne had lived he would have to resign from the position of Rider, for he would be handicapped for all his life. Not even the best healer could change that. "What about Si — the other one?"
The stranger paused for some while, and spoke softly. "He is dying, as well. There is nothing I can do to save him. He has almost reached the Halls of Mandos."
"It can't be," Darian said back. It couldn't be... Sinthe was like family, family Darian had lost when he had been young. He knelt beside Sinthe and tried to look for a sign of life. There was none, now.
"So he has already passed?" There seemed to be no emotion in the other's voice.
"And so you remain emotionless," Darian replied bitterly. "Yes, he has died, and he was like a brother to me."
"I have seen many Men die over my life," the stranger said, staring at Darian. It made him uncomfortable, but he returned the gaze. Hard. "Each one is a loss. But neverless we can't lose time for those who have already passed."
Darian sighed. He was right. Again. The storm seemed to have stolen away all his knowledge. "We ride back to Edoras," Darian said. "You must come with me. We have to make sure you are no spy. But I.. I thank you. I did not think Sinthe and Taryne would have survived... But you have my thanks."
The other nodded. "I must go to Edoras, then. I understand your concern for security... Dark times are coming."