Chapter Twenty-two
October 30th - morning
Henneth Annûn
Sunrise at the Ranger headquarters bustled with activity, the yard echoing to the clatter of heavy hooves, the jangle of harness and the rumble of iron-shod wheels. However, at least one man counted the rumpus as worth the cost, for it meant he would have his headquarters back in order, and no longer overrun by demanding, unwanted guests.
Captain Tarannon watched in relief when Lord Valthaur's ornate coach rumbled out of the village. Accompanying it rode an even greater number of soldiers than when it arrived. In reality, the carriage now served as a mobile prison taking Valthaur and his clerk to Minas Tirith, where they would wait the slow turns of Justice's wheels. A sturdy, iron-bound wooden crate fastened to the back of the coach enclosed the half-mad orc that had been dragged, kicking and clawing, from Alfgard's icehouse. Few people witnessed the pre-dawn departure of Prince Faramir, Lord Goldur and their aides, though many had since ridden the same road towards their various homes. Thus the last of the curious crowds and nobles left Henneth Annûn.
In the ensuing silence, Tarannon took a deep breath, and could almost taste peace. For those outsiders who remained, the folk of The Burping Troll and their friends, matters of justice at least were complete. And this morning, Raberlon would be laid to rest in the honour he deserved. Tomorrow, the Ranger Captain should be able to walk these streets without fear of reports of kidnappings and ambushes, or giant orcs frightening pigs, or mysterious illnesses from Harad, or talking horses, or …
A huff of laughter shook Tarannon's body. He glanced around to ensure no one could witness his spontaneity, whereupon he jumped in the air and clicked the heels of his boots together. Then he walked sedately away.
xxx
A chill breeze blew and a bright sun shone upon a green field at the outskirts of Henneth Annûn. In its midst stood a great, stark mound of earth set round about with river stones and marked with a single spear thrust into the ground. One day the mound would be clad in green grass and the new blooms of evermind, but for now, the wounded earth glared as raw as the unspoken grief in living hearts.
Alfgard stood, gusts tangling his greying hair, and Linnet beside him with their younger children clustered around. The men and boys who had long worked with the honoured dead also gathered near, silent and stern upon tall grey horses. At Linnet's other hand, Sevilodorf paid grim tribute, only her tightly clenched hands bearing witness to her own grief for the man who gave his life to save hers. From time to time her fingers caressed the braided horsehair belt she wore: once a gift from Raberlon as a remembrance of her mare, Dream, lost in the orc attack those months before. The belt would now serve the additional purpose as a reminder of the man who had given the ultimate loyalty to the family.
Looking about the gathering, Alfgard's pale eyes also noted the more unlikely guests: Halbarad and Anardil with the stamp of Númenor on their sombre faces; Erin's round hobbit features crimped in sorrow; the elf, Celebsul, pale and sad; Lord Darien with his head bowed, while beside him Horus wore the white of mourning with a cotton hattah wrapped about his dark head. Perhaps strangest of all, but no less welcome, stood the huge form of Russbeorn and the runty figure of Nik the Uruk-hai, while behind them hunched Lugbac and Gubbitch.
Raberlon of Deeping Vale would not pass into the unknown without honour.
Drawing a slow breath, Alfgard spoke these staves in the Common Tongue.
"Great the heart and valiant the spirit
Shouting to the face of the savage foe
He does not fear; bold heart unceasing.
Spears break, shields splinter, heart's blood flows
Upon the broken ground.
Where now, where
Shall we find our brother?
The hall is cold, the fire gone out.
He is gone before, painted shields bear him
Home to the fathers
Who wait at the feast."
After repeating the verse in haunting Rohirric, Alfgard bent and picked up a handful of the newly turned earth and flung it upon the barrow. All the others followed suit, even Nik glancing uncertainly to Russ before emulating his big friend's gesture.
Then Alfgard's sixteen-year-old son urged his horse forward, the other men and boys of his father's employ following in loose order. Around the barrow and gathered witnesses, they slowly rode and began a deep-voiced, solemn song. Almost a chant it seemed, sonorous and strong even in its utter melancholy, the long notes rising in power and the low notes deeply trembling. As the riders circled and sang, their voices rose to fill the chill October sky and perhaps, just perhaps, a kindly wind carried the echoes across hill and field to the far away lands of the Riddermark, whispering that Raberlon, son of Ragathain, of Deeping Vale was gone.
The mourners lingered when the song had done and the slow beat of hooves fell quiet. Those who had known Raberlon mused in the silences of their hearts upon his humble but faithful life. Those who had not simply reflected that the spectre of war was not yet banished, and still haunted the shadowy places of the realm.
Anardil stood close beside Sev but did not interfere with her need to remain strong in the face of grief. Not until she surreptitiously reached for his hand did he speak.
Clasping her fingers warmly, he murmured, "I barely met the man, but I owe him a debt I can never repay. I wish … I wish at least I could mourn him as he deserves."
Sev drew a tight breath before replying evenly, "He died as a warrior. No more would he ask than that."
Looking to the stern Rohirrim faces around him, young and old, and the drifting of grey horses' manes on the breeze, Anardil grudgingly nodded.
"Aye. For him, I hope that was enough."
Then his attention was drawn to a flutter of white, Horus in his garb of Haradrim mourning standing at Darien's side. The older man's blue eyes seemed to look into some far distance, his face stern and still.
Sev followed Anardil's glance and pulled her fingers from his grasp. "If you've something to say to Darien, say it and be done. I've made my peace or at least peace enough for me."
Strange, how a sudden nervousness clutched Anardil's belly as he studied Darien's quiet poise. His gaze took in Horus, always Darien's shadow - or perhaps a brother. What an odd thing that Anardil, a maimed soldier of Middle-earth's great war, could find more fondness for an old enemy than for a comrade of the same battles.
"Horus is a good man," Anardil observed.
Sev looked at him with weary patience. "Yes."
He chewed his lower lip briefly and drew breath to speak, but then let it go. Instead, he reached again for Sev's hand, the touch of his fingers on hers a question. Perhaps she read something of his thoughts in his face, for she accepted his hand and they walked forward together.
Brown eyes and blue looked at the pair as they drew near, Horus lowering his glance and touching his breast.
"Mistress Sev," the Haradrim said in sincere formality, "blessed be your honoured dead, for he has found perfect peace and leaves a mighty memory."
"Thank you, Horus," replied Sev, solemnly.
Which left Darien and Anardil to take each other's measure, two men who knew too much of wars that never quite ended. Anardil thought he saw more grey in Darien's hair than when they first met nearly a year ago. Oddly, it lent an unexpected gentleness to his features, or perhaps it was simply the quiet frankness of his gaze.
Gathering his courage, Anardil said, "If we had met … in other circumstances …"
The thought failed before he could find words. Nonetheless, Darien's mouth quirked wryly.
"Yes. We can add that to a good many ifs."
Somehow that released a bit of the tension and Anardil almost smiled back, glancing at Sev beside him.
Returning his attention to Darien, he said awkwardly, "My lady would not have you and me part with ill feelings between us."
Warmth rose in Darien's eyes. "Mistress Sevilodorf is more generous than I deserve."
"Two days ago I would agree with you." Now a one-sided grin did touch Anardil's lips. "But that was before I saw you risk your life to end Margul's evil." He sobered, studying the Silverbrook lord. "Darien, my people lived in the North for generations without change. We fought, we strove, we hoped … but we seldom imagined that ours would be the generation that witnessed the world altered forever. Now the changes move faster than I can keep up. I have lived to see orcs save human lives and noble lords proven devious as orcs."
Anardil hesitated before adding firmly, "And I have seen fallen nobility restored." The former Ranger held out his hand, meeting Darien's eyes. "I bear you no hostility."
Darien accepted his grasp readily, a rare smile lighting his face and stripping away the lines of care. "Thank you, Anardil Dúnedain. Know that my wish for you will always be peace and safety."
Anardil inclined his head formally, but this new-found accord still did not lend itself to easy conversation. Thus he felt grateful when Darien turned his attention to Sev.
"For you, ma'am," said Darien, "I wish happiness. If ever there is anything you want of me, you know you need only ask."
But Sev frowned and flicked a quick wave of dismissal. "Take care of Evan and Neal as they deserve," she said. "That is all the thanks I need. Go home, Darien. Go home and rebuild, and don't let the past be your master."
With a smile, Darien bowed. "You are wise, Sevilodorf. Perhaps, if it is not asking too much, one day we might claim some good of our meeting."
Sev's gaze shifted pointedly past Darien and he glanced over his shoulder. There Nik stood talking to Alfgard, looking earnestly up at the tall Rohirrim who listened with grave attentiveness. Nearby Alfgard's sixteen-year-old son leant in his saddle to speak with gnarled old Gubbitch, hulking Lugbac standing with hands politely folded alongside.
"We already have, Lord Darien," she said. "We already have."
xxx
Just sitting for hours, her ankle propped on a stool, bored Sira to the bone. Ted worked over at the garrison this morning, and it would be better if Jasimir were working too, because the lad did nothing but torment her. Despite his father telling him off for neglecting his duties, Jasimir would pop into the little parlour where Sira languished to ask stupid questions.
"Not kidnapped by orcs again, then?" seemed to be his favourite, though "Shall I send for Sevilodorf to fix your ankle, or maybe your hair?" came a close second. The latter particularly riled Sira because it reminded her of the time when she and the healer woman were daggers drawn, and Sev extracted revenge by selling her a particularly obnoxious hair dye.
Sira felt ambivalent towards the Rohirrim woman. On several occasions since the horrid events that led to Sira's burnt hands, Sev had shown kindness. Not with the gentleness of a friend, the gods forbid, but rather a cool impartiality which sought no gratitude. The woman had then borne the brunt of the Lord Steward's questioning, allowing Sira to sit in awed silence.
Something else also filled the redhead's mind during the long moments alone - a strange, and not entirely welcome, feeling of comradeship. In the past, Sira and Sev had separately survived the murderous attempts of orcs, and now they shared such an experience. Perhaps all those who escaped life-threatening encounters became somehow connected to their fellow survivors.
Cringing at that thought, Sira wished the minutes would pass more quickly, bringing Ted's evening visit ever nearer. But wish as much as she might, time crept.
Eventually, Jasimir's cheeky face popped round the door again. "You still here?"
"No. I'm not. I'm a figment of your imagination," Sira snapped. "But seeing as you've nothing better to do, you can run an errand for me."
"Who made me your slave?"
"My ankle and your father. Besides, you'll like the errand."
Jasimir's slim form, dressed in his trademark multicoloured clothing, stepped fully into the room. "That must be a figment of your imagination. What errand of yours could I possible like?"
"Buying presents for your friends," said Sira, sniffing in her best hauteur.
Jasimir's eyes popped wide open in disbelief. "For my friends? Who?"
It took a moment before Sira could force the names out. "Lugbac and Sevilodorf."
The lad feigned a fall against the doorpost. "Huh!" Straightening, he commented, "I better fetch Master Banazîr to check you've not gotten concussion or a fever."
"Oh, please be serious for once." Sira stamped her good foot on the floor.
Sighing heavily, Jasimir adopted a sober expression. "Thank you presents, are they?"
"Sort of." A nonchalant toss of red curls dismissed it as a minor matter. "I don't want a fuss making. You go and buy the two little gifts I have in mind, bring them back here so I can attach a short note to each, then slip them into Sev's saddlebags or wherever else you can without drawing attention. I don't want them to be found until after they leave the village."
"Maybe he's not as big a fool as I thought," said Jasimir, smiling.
Sira squinted back at him. "Who?"
"Ted, of course. And if you let him go, you're an even bigger fool than I thought he was."
"Let him go? Ted is no fool, and neither am I. And if you want an invite to the wedding you'd better step quickly."
Heaving another sigh, Jasimir grinned. "All right. What do you want me to buy?"
xxx
Leaving behind the barrowing field and its stern grief, the group of mourners journeyed back towards the village. While those of The Burping Troll would stay a final night in Henneth Annûn to celebrate Raberlon's life with a wake, the Silverbrook lord and his friends had their sights set on the road home.
Their possessions already packed and waiting with the other men at The Whistling Dog, Darien took this last chance to thank Alfgard and Linnet for their hospitality during Horus' illness.
"You are welcome to return any time," the stable-master replied. "Though, hopefully, in more pleasant circumstances."
"Maybe on your way to visit our farm." Nik appeared at Darien's side. "You're a farmer too, aren't you?"
A brief smile lit the tall man's face, and he paused to answer the question while Alfgard and the others walked on. "Yes, I am, though often guilty of neglecting my fields and people. And I would dearly like to see your land and exchange farming lore … but that is not possible."
"Why ever not?" asked the uruk in surprise.
Russ' massive form blocked the slanting sun and cast a deep shadow. "Because I barred them - those who kidnapped you, Nik, and caused all the trouble that has since followed."
The white-clad figure of the Haradrim detached from the departing group, and stepped across to hear the debate.
Nik frowned. "But that is over now. Horus and Darien have helped put things right, and so did the others … aside from that Osric fellow."
Beard bristling over a firmly clenched jaw, Russbeorn remained adamant. He shook his head. "A man might glue together the pot he broke, yet he can never make it as sound as it was before." His voice gentled somewhat as he looked down at Nik. "Remember from where we have just come, and tell me again that things have been put right."
"But you can't blame them for what Margul did," Nik protested, while Darien stood in pale-faced silence.
"We have a saying," Horus interjected. "If a man sows bitter seeds, he should be prepared to eat bitter bread."
"Just so." Russ nodded in agreement.
"We have another also." The Haradrim recited it first in his own mellifluous language, and then he translated. "Forgiveness removes the maggot from the fruit though the hole remains."
Nik screwed up his face in an attempt to grasp the meaning. "So, if the maggot is pulled out, most of the fruit is saved."
"Hm," Russ also pondered. "The destruction goes no further, though the memory of it stays."
"Just so," echoed Horus.
The Beorning squinted. "Thus I should remove the maggots from you by forgiving you?"
"No, no." Horus' white hattah shook from side-to-side. "We are not the fruit."
"Confound it, then! What is?"
Horus held out his palms and said simply, "Your happiness."
Those two words hung in the air for a moment before Nik exclaimed, "Gosh! That's a very clever saying."
"Indeed, and a very ancient one. Mercy, when it can be granted, cleanses the giver of anger as well as easing the burdens on those to whom it is bestowed. This I know well, for I have received forgiveness many times, and given it wherever I might."
Nik beamed at Horus and Darien. "I forgave you both ages ago, and the others. So I've no angry maggot inside me." His glance then slid up to Russ' face.
Scowling, Russ declared, "I'm NOT angry!" Clearly this could not be true, so he tried again. "If I am angry, it is because I have just cause to be."
The expression on Nik's face remained set as he continued to stare at his mentor, and he folded his arms across his chest to emphasise his disapproval.
Further down the road, Anardil looked back. "Should we do something about them?"
The elf at his side merely smiled. "No. They will make their peace. "
xxx
There came the point in the street for the parting of ways, where Neal and Evan waited on horseback, holding Darien's and Horus' saddled mounts between them.
Erin hailed the young men then glanced over her shoulder. "I'm afraid Darien and Horus are dawdling with Russ and Nik. I cannot imagine what they are discussing in such depth."
"Fruit," confided Celebsul quietly to the hobbit lass. "Starting from how to control grubs, they have now moved onto the subject of grape varieties suitable for the Wetwang climate. Nik and Horus in particular are enthusiastic about exotic wines and wish to acquire certain vines. Oh, and the conversation included a brief exchange between Russ and Darien over recipes for pyment."
"Pyment?" Erin asked, her brow furrowing at the thought of recipes for something she had never heard of.
"A mead made with honey and grapes. Delicious with dessert, though it can be quite heady."
Grinning widely, the hobbit exclaimed, "Trust you to know of every kind of strong beverage in existence." But her cheerfulness turned to thoughtfulness. "I wish Russ and Darien could be friends."
"Oh, but they are." Celebsul winked. "They just don't know it yet. Russ' ursine, stubborn streak and Darien's stiff correctness cannot hold out forever against the likes of Nik and Horus."
The hobbit patted her chin with her fingers. "Do you really think so?"
"Yes, I do. If I'm any judge of such matters, cuttings and recipes will travel from Silverbrook to Wetwang where the vines will thrive." The elf's expression turned serenely thoughtful. "Alas, for a year or two, they won't produce fruit for harvesting, so I may have to visit Russ with a large sack of grapes to try out the pyment. During all this, an exchange of information and advice between the two holdings will inevitably lead to an invitation for Darien and Horus to drop by for a sip of mead if they are ever in the area."
Erin squinted suspiciously at Celebsul. "Hm. I think Nik and Horus might just get some encouragement along the way from a certain silver-haired elf."
The arrival of the four fruit enthusiasts saved Celebsul from having to answer. Horus and Darien took their leave of the others with promises to visit The Burping Troll again come next summer. Sevilodorf told the Haradrim to continue taking his tonic for another week. Then she cautioned Darien about Evan's mischievousness, which manifest even now in the whispers and laughter passing between the lad and his brother.
"Make sure he keeps up his studies." Her words followed the Silverbrook lord into the saddle.
"Oh, I will. Though his craft might never be quite as artful as your own, my lady."
The enigmatic inference was lost on all but Sev, Anardil, Celebsul and, of course, Horus.
Huffing in strangled mirth, Anardil threw his arm around Sev's shoulder and whispered, "Point well scored, and with a 'my lady' thrown in for good measure."
Just as they were about to ride away, Neal called out. "Lug, catch these."
A huge hand reached up and neatly snagged the pouch that the young man threw. Peering inside, Lugbac beamed.
"More horehound drops!" Looking up he added, "I did another good thing?"
"Those are for the two good things you already did," Evan replied, laughing. "You saved Sev and you saved Sira!"
As the thudding of hooves moved the young men away, Lugbac furrowed his brow in concern, for the matter of human names often confused him.
"Who's Sira? When did I save her?"
Gubbitch clouted him gently behind one ear. "Tha daft chuff – it's red-headed lass tha carried down off that there hill."
"Oh, aye." Grinning anew, Lugbac popped a sweet into his mouth and crunched blissfully. A moment later, he mused, "That were ages ago." Small splinters of sugar coating flew from between his teeth. "Fancy, gettin' more treats."
"Aye, fancy." Gubbitch rolled his eyes. "Tha'll be spoilt rotten."
Meanwhile, Horus looked down from his saddle and touched a finger to his forehead. "Expect the cuttings to arrive in January, Master Nik."
"Thanks. I'll get the ground ready. Goodbye for now."
The uruk waved them off, as did all, aside from Russ. Yet he managed a curt nod.
"People," the Beorning muttered. "Far too many people. Time to get home to some peace and quiet. Lots of peace and quiet. Weeks of peace and quiet. I haven't had an uninterrupted pipe in days. Can't sleep for all the nattering going on."
Still grumbling, the giant turned around and set his great legs into a reaching stride in the opposite direction. "No need to dally longer."
When he turned, on his back already hung the pack bearing the few belongings that he and Nik had brought. Nik abruptly realised Russ was leaving and he spun to face the friends he left behind.
"Goodbye, everyone!" the little uruk called merrily. "Goodbye for now!"
He grinned and waved to the chorus of replies, then wheeled about to catch up with Russ. It took three of his strides to match one of Russ', but he settled into his pace as easily as a hound.
"Say, Teach," he said, "When we get home, can I go fishing?"
"You can do anything you like."
"Great! I'm going fishing, then. Although I still need to fix the roof over the grain room. Plus we must plan the perfect place for the grapes, and then …"
Enormous bear-man and wiry, undersized uruk-hai, the unlikely pair receded up the village street towards the road north. Behind them, Erin twisted this way and that as she fretfully watched both sets of friends depart.
"Goodbye!" the hobbit lass cried. "Goodbye! You all must promise to write at Yuletide!"
Then she turned and the much-reduced group resumed walking together.
"You know," she said, "this might turn out to be a good day after all."
xxx
TBC …