Eorl's Saga

"This tale took place some centuries after the time of Fram son of Frumgar, though it begins four-hundred and fifty years before our own time, in the days when Cirion was Steward of Gondor. In those days, the Eotheod had grown very numerous, building many new farmsteads and villages far beyond the walls of Framsburg, and the foremost of them were very rich (for reasons you have heard) and very powerful as well. From his high seat at the Great Hall of Framsburg their chieftain commanded the loyalty of all the Northmen who dwelt between the Misty Mountains in the West, the Grey Mountains in the North, the borders of Mirkwood in the East, and the Old Ford to the South. They had no rivals amongst Men in those parts, for their old neighbours the Bearserkers had been reduced nearly to extinction by perpetual fighting they had been drawn into with Orcs and Wargs (and I daresay with each other), while the humble woodmen who lived south of the Old Ford wouldn't have dared to challenge the power of Framsburg."

"Still, all was not as well as they might wish. I said they were both rich and numerous, and that is true, but their riches were in treasure more than in land. The lands of the upper Anduin themselves were being taxed by the strain of centuries of cultivation in a harsh climate, and the ever-increasing numbers of common peasants found they had less and less share in the great wealth of the descendents of Fram's most loyal warriors, who had taken a large portion of Scatha's treasure for themselves, and who come to rule the people as an hereditary aristocracy whom the chiefs of Fram's line opposed at their peril."

"Thus there were divisions within the people, and grumbling amongst the peasants, who pressed ever harder against the walls of the Misty Mountains and the sinister eves of Mirkwood in their search for new lands to put under the plough. Moreover, the Orcs were multiplying in the Mountains, and the Wargs in the depths of the Wood. Now that they had worn down their ancient and hated foes, the Bearserkers, these evil ones had begun to turn their attention to the rich and easy pickings (as they saw them) of the Eotheod, who had drawn themselves to their attention by encroaching on their own territories in Mountains and Wood. Many skirmishes were fought between them, and the Eotheod began to grow uneasy, and curse the enemies who hemmed them in as much as they cursed the poverty of their soil or their uneven share in the treasures of their nation. "

"But despite these troubles, it was in those days that the Eotheod acquired a new kind of treasure, and one that would forever change the history of their people. Now, the upper vale of Anduin has long been home to many fabulous creatures, from the mighty Dragons such as Scatha in ancient times to the diminutive Holbytlas of the Northmen's legends…"

"I say!" objected one of the Bree-hobbits, stamping a hairy foot on the wooden planks of the floor. "We Hobbits aren't legends! We're sitting right here in front of you, for goodness' sake!"

"I know that!" exclamed the storyteller, with an exasperated air. "But you were and are legends to the Northmen. Truth to tell, Hobbits in these days are nearly unheard of outside of the Shire and the Bree-land."

"But…" continued the Bree-hobbit.

"But nothing!" snapped the storyteller. "Now if I may be permitted to continue?" His bushy eyebrows lowered in a scowl, and the Bree-hobbit nodded silently and resumed pulling at his ale.

"As I was saying," remarked the storyteller, "there were many legendary creatures in the upper vale of Anduin. But the most fabulous of all were the Mearas, the enchanted horses of that land. It is said their sires were descended from the steeds of the Valar themselves, indeed those of Orome the Huntsman, who in the Elder Days oft rode the skies east of Valinor accompanied by many shining spirits to the lands of Middle Earth, where the Host of Oromoe would do battle with fell creatures birthed in the Age of Darkness. Be that as it may, the Mearas had the form of mortal horses, though of exceptional beauty, grace, and longevity, and blessed with many extraordinary powers. They could understand the speech of Elves and Men, when they cared to listen to it, and could gallop at such tremendous speeds that the greatest of their number could ride a distance equal to that from Bree to the Fords of Isen in three days."

The Breelanders stared with their mouths hanging open at this claim, while the Dwarf scoffed and turned his attention to filling his pipe from his own leathern pouch. The storyteller continued:

"But there was one thing no Mearas would ever permit, and that was to allow anyone – anyone, not even a High Elf of the West, let alone a mortal Man – to ride on his back like a common steed. For they remembered the glory of their forefathers, and would not suffer any less than a Maiar spirit, a servant of the Valar, to treat them as a beast of burden."

"Now in those days the chieftain of the Eotheod was Leod son of Grimold of the line of Fram. From his carved wooden high chair at Framsburg, he ruled as justly as he might, though he had few ideas how to assuage the growing land-hunger of his multiplying people. His wife was named Sigrun, and she was one of the comeliest ladies in the land, as fair of speech as of face and figure, though alas she plays little role in our tale."

"Leod and Sigrun had a son named Eorl, who at the time our story begins was a fresh-faced, golden-haired youth of barely 16 years. He was beloved of both his parents and his peers, not to mention all the young lasses of the realm. Perhaps he also attracted the jealousy of some of the powerful nobles who resented his close access to his doting father, but as a carefree youth he was blissfully unaware that any of them might harbour him ill will."

"Eorl had his share of differences with Leod, as lads of that age often do with their fathers. But there was one thing the two of them agreed on, and that was their passion for the hunt – the "Sport of Kings', as the Gondor-men have been known to call it. As soon as the hunting season began on at dawn Midsummer's Day, and until it closed at dusk on the Winter Solstice, Leod and Eorl could be found devoting every spare minute they had to charging across the woods and fields of their northern land in merry chase of their quarry."

"Of course, Leod could not spare as much time for the chase as Eorl, but more often than not they could be found hunting together during those months, often without any servants or guards accompanying them. Whether they succeeded or failed at the hunt – and it was far more common that they succeeded – Leod knew that their time had been well spent, for in learning how to follow trails, hide in bushes and copses, search the lie of the land, and wield weapons on horseback as well as on foot, Eorl was learning the skills he would need to take his place amongst the nation's warriors, and someday as their war chief."

"Now, one afternoon in late September, a gorgeous day in which the crisp autumn air was clear and dry, found Leod and Eorl by a bubbling stream near a Birch-wood some ten miles west of Framsburg, lapping up the cool water in their hands as they sought to quench their thirst. The chase had gone unusually poorly for them that day, and they had not so much as a Coney to show for all their efforts. They were both tired and dusty, and so at first they did not notice when their horses began to whinny and stamp their feet at the ground nervously. But when their steeds suddenly scream and shot off into the forest, Leod and his son shot up, their hands reaching for their swords to see what manner of beast and driven off their mounts in fear. There was a rustling from behind the bushes across the stream, and the two Men stood side by side, waiting to defend themselves from the charge of a wild boar or an angry bear."

"But when the saw what manner of creature stepped through the bushes to pause at the far bank of the stream, they lowered their swords, and stared in amazement. For it was nothing less than one of the Mearas! Its coat shimmered in the clear light of the Sun, as if it were sometimes white, then grey, then silver, then white again. Its lines were clean and smooth, more finely shaped than any mortal steed. Its eyes, dark and wise, stared calmly at the two Men for some moments. Then, without any sign of fear, it lowered its head and began to drink from the stream, while Leod and his son gazed enraptured."

"But as Leod stared at the magnificent creature, he was seized by the sudden passion to claim it for his own. To tame such a magical steed and through the streets of Framsburg would surely secure the everlasting admiration of the nobles and the people. Perhaps it was pride that stirred these thoughts in his heart; certainly it was folly. Almost as if in a trance, he began to edge towards the stream, whispering calming words while reaching for the length of rope that was clipped onto his leathern belt."

"The Mearas suddenly lifted its head up, its ears pricking up straight as it stared directly at the Man who dared approached it. It pawed the ground and gave a warning neigh, and Eorl tried to warn his father not to walk so close to the creature. But his urgent whispers went unanswered, as Leod worked the rope into a lasso, and readied himself to toss it about the Mearas' graceful neck."

"Now, what happened next is a matter of some controversy. There is an official Chronicle of the Kings at Edoras, beginning with preface concerning Eorl's father, which says that the Mearas was but a foal, and that Leod snared and brought it back to a grassy paddock near Framsburg, albeit with some difficulty as it struggled ceaselessly. That account states that a year passed and the foal grew to adulthood before the events I am about to describe, when Leod tried to snare it again so that he could begin to tame it into being his favoured steed for use in the chase."

"The tale I heard when the minstrels sang Eorl's Saga was rather different, for in that version the Mearas was never captured by Leod. Perhaps it is the true tale, or perhaps a more poetical fiction invented by the minstrels themselves; I was not there, and cannot say. But in the saga, the fateful event that shaped Eorl's destiny took place took place in less than an eyeblink. Leod suddenly cast his lasso at the Mearas, even as the enchanted steed leapt forward across the narrow stream, neighing fiercely as it lashed out with its hooves. There was a flash of movement, a sickening thud, and then the Mearas was gone, vanished into the depths of the forest faster than a thought. Leod, his skull crushed by a single blow from the Mearas' hoof, fell to the ground stone dead!"

"For a moment, Eorl stood rooted to the ground with shock, his mind reeling. Just seconds before his father had been alive, healthy and strong – now he lay spawled out on the ground, his ruined face unrecognizable. Eorl dropped to his knees and put his ear next to his father's mouth, desperately hoping to hear any sign of breathing. Finding none, he grasped his father's broad wrists, but there was no pulse. Beyond any doubt, Leod's spirit had left its body, and departed for the halls of his ancestors."

"Eorl did not weep, for he knew his people felt that tears were unbecoming even in the face of bitter grief. Yet he could not help a single tear from rolling down his cheek, less for the sake of his dear father than for that of his beloved mother. How could he face her and bring her the terrible news that she was now a widow? For a long time, he sat on his knees, silent and full of sorrow. Youth, fickle and fleeting, was gone forever; he must face up to his duties as a Man."

"At length, Eorl stood to the ground, his now mind racing as he suddenly realized the consequences of what had happened. He was not simply his father's only living heir; he was now the Chieftain of the Eotheod! He had of course known this day would inevitably come, but he had never imagined it would come so soon. He began to feel the icy grip of fear on his spine as the weight of his responsibilities as a leader of Men bore down on him. Though he had by custom just reached the age of majority, he was barely more than a stripling, and he knew his people saw him as such. How could he hope to lead the warriors of his tribe, when all but the youngest of them were his senior in years and experience?"

"Shaking his head, Eorl turned for a moment and stared into the wood, down the path which the Mearas had followed in its flight. To his own surprise, for all his sorrow and his fear he did not feel rage against the beast, even though the laws of his people made him duty-bound to seek vengeance against it. It seemed to Eorl that Leod had tempted fate in seeking to tame a Mearas for his own, and the gods had chosen to punish him instantly and severely for his overweening pride. A mortal Man's time was short, and his place in the world was fixed by the gods. Woe betide him if he reached above his station! It was a hard lesson to learn, but Eorl never forgot it."

"Saying prayers over his father's body, he turned and began the long walk back to Framsburg; for he did not wish to build his father's pyre in the forest, but rather to cremate Leod before the walls of Framsburg as had long been the custom of the chiefs of his people. Not until late at night, well past the curfew, did he arrive at the gates of the town bearing the news that Leod had died in a hunting accident, and that he was now the Chieftain of the Eotheod."

"The people, who had been summoned to the public square, heard the news in grim silence. The gangly, trembling-voiced boy who stood before them did not seem to cut the figure of a chieftain in their eyes. The nobles, wrapped in their valuable furs, stroked their finely-combed beards and gazed at each other with eyes of flint."

"Eorl's mother Sigrun was devastated by the news of Leod's fall, but she had not the time to grieve. More than anything she was full of fear for her young son, and for herself now that Leod was no longer there to protect her. She knew better than Eorl the treachery and greed of the current generation of nobles who had grown fat on Scatha's treasure, and who oppressed the people with high taxes and many burdens. Leod had been a good man and an able fighter, but he had not been strong enough to bring the nobles to heel. What hope was her then for her son, now that he had assumed the mantle of chieftain?"

"It did not take long for her fears to be realized. Not a week passed after Leod's body had been recovered from the Birch-wood and burned on a pyre just outside the walls of Framsburg before the nobles turned against his son Eorl. After dawn and with a sudden rush into the Chieftain's Hall they fell upon him, swords drawn, ready for butchery. Eorl fled for his life, running from the hall towards the living quarters, and escaped only by the aid of a sympathetic guardsman who let him slip out of the back door and through the postern gate of the town's wall."

"The nobles were disappointed not to have slain their victim, but still counted his escape as of little consequence. Eorl had no followers of note, and a mere boy, unarmed and unmounted, would not last long in the wilderness. They placed a bounty on his head, lest he shun the wild lands to seek refuge in a peasant's hut, and turned their attentions to scheming against each other for the hand of Sigrun – for each fancied that he himself deserved better than any other Man the chieftainship of the Eotheod, and marrying the wife of the former chief was the surest way to stake a claim to his high-backed chair in the great hall of Framsburg. Sigrun for her part did her best to resist their advances, playing one against the other as she desperately bought time for herself and her son. She knew there was little chance he could regain the chieftainship, but she meant to keep that chance alive for as long as possible."

"Meanwhile, Eorl, weary and alone, had fled on foot. After many hours, gasping for breath from his exertions, he ran into the very Birch-wood where his father had been slain; for that was the nearest wood to Framsburg, and he could not risk being spotted from afar in the open country about the town. There was no longer sorrow or fear in his heart, but anger; anger at the black treachery of the nobles, who had sworn oaths by their own blood to serve Leod and his heirs loyally and to the death. Eorl vowed to himself that he would not allow the line of Fram, the legendary slayer of Scatha the Worm, to end with himself. But what was he to do? Despite the charity of a single guardsmen who had pitied him, he had no close-knit loyal followers to call his own. His friends were but striplings who would not dare to stand against the powerful nobles and their well-armed henchmen."

"He knew the peasants had long chafed under the heel of the nobles, and for a while he toyed with plans of stirring up a peasants' revolt. But he was wise enough for his years to know that such a course was fraught with its own perils; the peasants, once stirred up, might just as easily turn against his own line as against the nobles, for the House of Fram had proved of little use in resolving the peasants' growing plight. And in any case, there would undoubtedly now be a price on his head that would make it dangerous for him to reveal his identity to any man."

"So he wandered through the wood, his thoughts twisted and grim, until he came at length to the very place where his father had been slain by a cruel twist of fate. Once again the sadness he felt for his father's loss welled up within his breast. Yet spring still gurgled merrily, unaware of the rage and sorrow of the young man who stood staring into its watery depths."

"Suddenly, Eorl heard a shuffling in the bushes across the stream, and looked up. To his shock, he saw staring back at him the very Mearas who had slain his father but a week before! This place must long have been its watering hole, and he could not mistake those deep, dark eyes for those of any other of its kindred."

The Mearas stepped forward, as if to drink from the stream. But its eyes remained on Eorl, and for a moment it stopped and stood where it was, staring at him.

"'By the laws of our people, you owe me weregild for the death of my father,' whispered Eorl, though he knew there were no means by which he could ever make the enchanted steed repay the debt it owed him."

"In the blink of an eye, the Mearas leapt lightly over the stream and landed on the near bank, standing directly beside Eorl himself. Eorl backed away carefully from the beast, wary of its deadly hooves. He did not wish to give the gods an excuse to permit the Mearas to slay him as it had slain his father. Yet he could not take his eyes off those of the Mearas, which stared at him directly, without any sign of fear or of hostility, and whinnied softly. It almost seemed to be trying to speak with him, though Eorl could not imagine for the life of him what it wished to say. It almost seemed to him, as if the thought were whispered in the back of his mind, that it asked for his forgiveness. But surely, that was impossible. What then did the beast desire?"

"At that moment, something happened which Eorl would never have imagined in his wildest dreams. Slowly and deliberately, the Mearas lowered first one leg, then another, until at length it sat upon the ground. Now staring up at Eorl, it neighed and snorted, gesturing with its head toward its waiting back."

"Eorl could not believe his eyes! Was this creature, which had killed his father for daring to attempt to lasso it, now inviting him to sit upon its back? Eorl feared a trap, feared that the beast meant to slay him as well as it had slain his father. Perhaps the gods had turned against his house, and meant to stamp out the line of Fram entirely? But there was no treachery in the creature's calm, dark eyes, and it merely sat where it was, calmly and expectantly."

"Slowly, as if in a dream, Eorl moved toward the Mearas, reaching toward it with and outstretched hand. It was death to touch a Mearas, he knew, yet as he stared into the creature's eyes he dared fate all the same. Slowly, tentatively, he stroked a single finger along the creature's snowy mane. It shuddered for a moment, freezing Eorl's blood with fear, but then relaxed, and sat as quietly as before as he ran his fingers through the silky hair."

"Then, daring ever further, Eorl moved beside the Mearas, turned, and very gently sat upon its waiting back. It shuddered again, and neighed, loudly this time. Eorl once again felt his blood run cold with fear, but there was no going back now, and no time to react. For faster than a blot of lightning, the Mearas leapt up and took off like an arrowshot towards the edge of the forest!"

"Eorl, who had never ridden bareback before, sunk his knees into the Mearas' strong flanks, and held onto its snowy mane for dear life. As the trees whipped by, faster and faster, and he ducked and dodged them to avoid being smacked across the face, Eorl felt his fear turn to sudden elation. The Mearas was so fast, and yet its hooves hit the ground so lightly, that it seemed as if he were riding the wind itself! Eorl could not longer contain his joy, and let forth a jubilant cry as the Mearas plunged out of the wood and into the open country. It was evening, and the stars and Moon were out, but Eorl could see its course as plain as day. It was heading straight for Framsburg!"

"Eorl wondered, but did not seek to turn the Mearas away from the place which he had fled that very morning. Faster and faster the Mearas raced over the open fields, eating up the miles, until it seemed to Fram as if he and the Mearas stood still, and the world itself was flying past them. Within but a few minutes, Fram suddenly found himself within arrowshot of the walls of Framsburg, and heard the cries of shock and alarm from the guardsmen on the walls as this incredible steed and its dimly-seen rider soared toward the gates."

"Fram began once again to panic, for it seemed him that the Mearas meant to ride straight into the heavy oaken gates, dashing itself and its riding to pieces against them. But instead with a sudden leap into the air it soared over the gates and the battlements, full thirty feet high, and landed in the broad street beyond as lightly as a feather!"

"Its dash across the fields at an end, the Mearas now trotted proudly down the main street of Framsburg, stamping its feet and neighing proudly as it carried Fram to the public square, and right toward the broad doors of the Chieftain's Hall, where it came to a sudden stop."

"The people of the town, summoned by the alarm bell that the guards rang from the battlements above the gate, rushed out to see what was the matter. The Mearas continued to neigh loudly as it stood in the square, and soon all the grown men and women and many of the children of the town had assembled there, staring in wonder at the magnificent horse, his hide silver-grey in the twilight, and at the radiant young Man whom they suddenly recognized with shock and wonder as their exiled rightful chieftain Eorl son of Leod."

"The nobles soon appeared on the scene too, accompanied by some of their hired toughs. They threw open the doors of the Hall, demanding to know why the alarm had been rung, and why the people had assembled in the square without a summons from their betters. Their angry shouts and threats soon fell into a dismayed silence, as they saw Eorl proudly mounted on a magnificent steed which they knew at once could be nothing less than one of the Mearas themselves."

"'People of Framsburg!' cried Eorl, his voice suddenly clear and strong. 'Men and Women of the Eotheod. My kinfolk!' The crowd waited silently for him to continue, while the nobles and their henchmen fingered their swordhilts, hesitating to rush and strike against a Man who had defied fate to mount one of the sacred steeds of the gods, one of those Mearas whose speed and deadly accuracy with their hooves were legendary."

"'A great injustice has been done unto my House, and unto all of you!' cried Eorl. 'Look upon these evil creatures who call themselves Men, and who stain the steps of my father's Hall with their presence!' The Mearas neighed angrily, and Eorl continued. 'Oaths they have taken, to Lord and Land; yet they have broken them all! The Goblins of the Mountains and the Wargs of Mirkwood have more honour than these shameless beasts!'"

"'Be silent, brat!' cried one of the nobles, finally finding the courage to loosen his tongue. 'Your line has ended; your days are done! Soon your mother shall marry one of us, and the Eoethoed will have a new chieftain. The people need to be lead by a real Man, a Man of wisdom and experience, not a callow stripling. Know you not there is a price of five-hundred gold pieces on your head, whom any Man or Woman may collect if they strike you down where you stand? Begone to the wilderness, and take your precious steed with you!'"

"'Fool!' cried Eorl, laughing scornfully. 'It is your day that is done. The gods themselves ordain it! Has any Man before, in all our legends, so much as laid one finger upon a Mearas and lived? My father died for even attempting to tame this one. Yet this Mearas has submitted to my yoke, freely and of his own will, as weregild for the death of my father. Felarof I name him, and his submission to me is proof for all the world that I am favoured by the gods. The gods have spoken, my people!'"

"'Aye, they must have!' cried one voice from the crowd. "No other Man could have tamed that magical steed!'"

"'Eorl is our rightful chief!' shouted another. 'Not one of those dogs on the steps, who would rob a blind widow of her last crust of bread!'"

"'Back!' cried the nobles, drawing their swords. 'Back, you swine, or we shall…'"

"They never got to finish their threat, for with an angry bellow Felarof charged into them, striking faster than the eye could see with his deadly hooves, and felling them left and right. The crowd soon joined in, their pent-up fury against years of oppression by the greedy nobles suddenly unleashed. Though armed only with walking-sticks and pitchforks, they threw themselves against the nobles and their few remaining henchmen (most of whom had dropped their weapons and run as soon as Felarof had sprung into action). For all their weapons, most of the the nobles proved themselves to be cowards when faced with an enchanted steed to one side, and an angry mob to their other, and sought to follow their henchmen by fleeing to safety. But the people would not allow it; their revenge was swift and terrible. Some of the peasants were slain, but very soon it was all over, and not one of the black-hearted nobles was left alive. Eorl son of Leod was now the uncontested leader of the Eotheod."

"The guards of the Chieftain's Hall, who had watched the skirmish without intervening, now bowed their heads and saluted their young chieftain. 'Hail Eorl son of Leod!' they cried. 'Hail Eorl the Young!' Soon the people took up their cry, as Felarof gently bowed and Eorl leaped gracefully to the ground, patting the steed along its shimmering flanks. He was soon joined by his mother, who embraced her son with joy, and marveled that he had tamed one of the Mearas for his own. Thus it was that Eorl the Young became the chieftain of the Eotheod, and began a rule as fair and just as it was illustrious with fame.'"

The storyteller paused to take a pull from his mug of ale, and refill his pipe. Then at length he continued:

"For nine years after the accession of Eorl to the Chieftain's seat, his people enjoyed increased prosperity. Eorl seized the estates of the wicked nobles, and divided them amongst the people, which did something to ease the burden of their poverty, though there will still too many of them for such a narrow, infertile land. For himself he claimed the nobles' gold, and added it to his own store. But the people were grateful to him, and Eorl the Young was soon beloved by all for his benevolence, and admired by all for his mastery of the magnificent Felarof."

"Eorl himself, when he was not engaged in the petty affairs of the realm, spent as much of his time as possible on horseback, learning to work with Felarof till each instinctively knew the thoughts and promptings of the other. Guided by his intuitive understanding of the Mearas' moves and temperament he trained his own guardsmen and select warriors to master their own mortal steeds as he had mastered his enchanted one. This horse-mastery soon became a passion that inflamed all of the people; inspired by their Chief's example, they set to work on their own horses, treating them as best they could, and at Eorl's encouragement doing their best to learn how to ride them swiftly in the chase and in mock-combat. Within the space of a few years, the Eotheod began to fashion a force of citizen-cavalry whose fame soon spread beyond their own borders, particularly after several incidents in which Orcish Warg-riders from the Grey Mountains, who had sought to raid Eorl's lands for easy plunder, found themselves thoroughly routed by the horse-masters of the Eotheod."

"This was the state of things when, one fine day in early Spring, when Eorl was twenty-five years old, a strange visitor arrived at the gates of Framsburg. He was mounted on a graceful sable steed, but it was his clothes and his appearance which captured the attention of the people. He was as tall as a Northman, but his black hair was accompanied by sun-bronzed skin, and his grey eyes were wise beyond their years, belying his clean-shaven face and youthful mien. His cloak and tunic were black, and his elaborately-engraved armour, on the breastplate of which was engraved the shape of a tree, was made of polished silver that gleamed like a mirror and glared brightly in the Sun. In his right hand he carried a lance on which was affixed a pennant; on it was displayed an image of white tree on a field of black. "

"He was of course one of the Gondor-men, the inhabitants of that fabled land far to the south of the Eotheod, who were reckoned by all accounts to be the mightiest, wisest and most noble Men in all the world, descendents of the legendary Sea Kings from the dawn of time. Approaching the Chieftain's Hall and being permitted entry, he bowed before the Chieftain's high seat and addressed Eorl directly. He spoke the Common Tongue of the West in an archaic, formal dialect which was unknown in the Wilderland of the Upper Vales of Anduin; though Eorl, based on his knowledge of the rough-and-ready dialect of the Common Tongue in use amongst the traders and merchants of his people, managed to piece together the Gondor-man's meaning."

"The visitor introduced himself as Gelion, Herald of the Army of the Northern Front. He then proceeded to unroll a scroll of parchment, on which were inscribed flowing characters whose likeness was a mystery to the Eotheod; for while no longer unlettered, in those days they wrote only using runes learned from their cousins in Esgaroath and Dale."

"Gelion began to read from the scroll, in a loud, clear voice:

From Erendras, General of the Army of Gondor, Northern Front, to Eorl, Chieftain of the Eotheod – Greetings.

Whereas it is known to all that the Northmen of Rhovanion and their kindred peoples have long been friends and allies to the Men of Numenor-in-Exile, and in particular to the Southern Kingdom, to Gondor of Anarion's line,

And whereas our peoples have long been enemies of the Easterlings of Rhun, who were pawns of the Dark Lord of old, and remain savages to this day,

And whereas one of the said Easterlings, a beast in the guise of a Man who stiles himself Ashgarkan, Scourge of the Westrons, has massed a great army of those Easterlings known as the Wainriders,

And whereas these Wainriders menace the frontiers of Gondor, bastion of the Men of the West, with invasion and ruin, and have vowed to slay every Man, Woman and Child west of the Anduin who does not submit to their yoke,

And Whereas Gondor, determined to preserve her sovereign majesty and honour to the bitter end, yet stands in need of the comfort and succor of its true friends and loyal allies,

Therefore my lord, the Steward Cirion of Minas Tirith, authorizes me to entreat you, O Noble Chieftain, to remember the ancient alliance between our peoples, and to send what troops you may, in particular your renowned cavalry, to the aid of Gondor's Army of the Northern Front at the Field of Celebrant. For which service, the thrice-renowned Eorl son of Leod shall have the eternal gratitude of the Steward of Gondor, which is not a prize that is conferred lightly, and the said Eorl son of Leod may ask of the Steward any boon that is in the Steward's power to grant in the name of the King who shall Return.

Signed on this day, etc., General Erendras."

"The herald then folded up the scroll and stood impassively as Eorl pondered the communication that he had just received. For all his youth, Eorl was not naïve; he knew that Gondor's plight must be very dire indeed to send for the aid of a young chieftain from a distant northern land, whose people had not at any dealings in peace or war with the South Kingdom for many centuries, since before the days of Fram son of Frumgar. Nor would the proud Steward of the land offer to confer "any boon in his power to grant" on a northern foreigner unless the situation were truly desperate."

"Eorl's instincts would have been to politely decline the summons and spare his young men much bloodshed, but for the fact that the Wainriders of Rhun were not unknown to him. Centuries before, even before the time of Fram son of Frumgar, the ancestors of the Eotheod had lived in the plains of eastern Rhovanion, near the borders of the River Running. Then a large raiding-party of those Rhunlings known as the Wainriders had surged out of the East on their bronze, horse-drawn chariots, whose axles were tipped with vicious whirring blades that could cut a Man in two. More cruel than any Orc, the Wainriders' savagery and bloodthirstiness proved without limit as they fell upon the Eotheod, driving them west through the perils of Mirkwood until they found sanctuary in the upper vales of Anduin, their suffering at the hands of their Easterling foes unavenged."

"Other tribes of Northmen in alliance with the Gondor-men had stayed that horde of invading Rhunlings in those far-off days, but now it appeared that at long last they had returned, and in greater numbers than ever. There was not only the current peril to the Westlands, nor the promise of the Steward's gratitude and reward for Eorl to consider – there was the weregild owed to his people for the deaths of their ancestors at the hands of the Easterlings. The blood of many Wainriders must flow before the debt they owed would be repaid in full."

"'I look favourably on your words, Man of Gondor,' said Eorl at length. 'But I must summon the menfolk of my people in general council, in our tongue an Althing – the first such council of our people in some centuries, if I am not mistaken. For though it is my duty as chief to lead the people in war, I have not the power in myself to force them to go to war against their will. Moreover, I will not risk the lives of our young Men in a battle that does not directly concern us – at least, not yet – without their approval. Nor shall I discuss what I might ask of your Steward as a token of his gratitude for our aid until the Althing is under way."

"'The battle we face at Celebrant shall determine the fate of all those who live in the Westlands,' Gelion replied grimly. 'But I am encouraged that you shall hold a council on this matter. I shall be happy to attend and present Gondor's case if my lord Eorl wishes it.'"

"That I do wish, Herald Gelion,' replied Eorl. 'The summons shall go out this day, and the Althing shall take place in the public square here at Framsburg before the Moon is next full."

"And it was as Eorl had commanded. The summons went forth by messengers on horseback, and all Men of the Eotheod above the age of 16 years were commanded to appear before the gates of Framsburg with their horse (if they owned one), provisions for two month's ride, and whatever weapons were at their disposal. Gelion agreed to wait at Framsburg as Eorl's guest, until the day of the althing, when the Eohere (the full muster of the fighting-men of the Eotheod) had been assembled."

"That day at last arrived, and it was bright and clear, with a fresh spring breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the meadows. But the innocence of the day belied the grim purpose for which the Men of the Eotheod assembled. They ranged from tough, seasoned veterans of many skirmishes with Wargs and Orcs to beardless youths who had never before wielded a spear or an axe in battle. The Chieftain had not stated the reason for calling the muster of the Eohere to an Althing, but it could only have been to consult with them on a decision whether to go to war, and to begin the march at once if the decision was to go forth in arms to battle. Full seven-thousand strong they were, their weapons gleaming in the Sun, and to Gelion's seasoned eye what they lacked in professional garb, armament and discipline they more than made up for in desperately needed numbers.

"Standing on the battlements over the main gate of Framsburg alongside Gelion, and flanked by his bodyguard, Eorl began to address the Eohere assembled in Althing. 'My brothers,' cried Eorl, 'I have summoned you here to discuss a matter of the gravest import. The Man who stands beside me is named Gelion, Herald of the Gondorian Army.

He has told me that a peril has arisen in the East, which threatens to drown the Westlands in a sea of flame.'"

"'By the Westlands you mean Gondor, no doubt,' scoffed one of the Men assembled, an aging, grizzled veteran. 'The Gondor-folk are always quick to ask for the aid of others when they've gotten in a scrape too big for them to handle, but stingy enough when it comes to returning the favour.'"

"Gelion turned to Eorl, as if wishing to respond directly to this taunt, but Eorl shook his head and continued."

"'Be that as it may, Halfold son of Grimarth,' Eorl continued, 'this peril is not unknown to the Eotheod, nor is it confined to the lands of the Gondor-men alone. You have all heard in your childhood the terrible legends told of the Wainriders, have you not?'"

"There was a murmur amongst the crowd now. The cruelty and savagery of the Wainriders were proverbial, and it had not been forgotten that their ancestors had been dishonoured by the Wainriders many centuries before, when they had been forced to flee the plains of Rhovanion for the upper vales of Anduin without exacting upon the Wainriders sufficient weregild, the blood-price that alone could avenge the slain."

"Eorl seized upon this very point. 'Brothers, the blood of our ancestors cries out for vengeance! We are numerous and strong. Shall we not meet these Wainriders in battle, and exact from them the price that is due?'"

"'Honour demands it!' cried one man from the crowd. 'Blood for blood!' cried another. A growing murmur of assent began to stir up the crowd. But then Halfold son of Grimarth spoke again:"

"'Fine words, oh Chieftain!' he replied. 'No doubt they flow easily from the tongue of a young man like you, inexperienced in the arts of war. But a veteran such as I am knows well the horrors you would thrust upon us!'"

"Some of the men began to boo and jeer, but Eorl motioned for them to be silent. 'Speak, Halfold,' he said. 'Let us hear your objections point by point. It is to air and then to sweep away such doubts in public that I called this Althing to begin with.'"

"'My points are simple,' replied Halfold. 'You seek to lead us to war for the sake of a distant land, which has not conferred any aid on our people, on the Eotheod, for as long as can be remembered. Even in the long-vanished days of Fram son of Frumgar, when Scatha the Worm devastated our land – where was Gondor? Where is Gondor when Wargs from Mirkwood and Orcs and Goblins from the Misty Mountains launch raids against us today?'"

"Halfold's remarks began to stir a change of mood in the crowd, and they began to eye Eorl and Gelion doubtfully. Halfold, sensing the sudden shift in mood, continued:"

"'Aye, you all know well that Gondorians call no Man 'friend' unless he is of use to them. They think us barely more than savages, and have always looked down their long noses at all the tribes and nations of the Northmen.' He paused briefly, staring defiantly up at Gelion, whose sun-bronzed face was an unreadable mask. Then he concluded, "Men of the Eotheod! Do not lay down your lives, and make your wives into widows and your bairns into orphans, for the sake of Gondor! Let the South Kingdom look to its own problems, and let us live in peace!'"

"Some of the men began to cheer and clap at this speech, while others began to argue vigorously with each other, their raised voices surging up and down, back and forth like the rapids and eddies of a mountain stream. But then Gelion, without seeking permission from Eorl, held up his hand and addressed the Eotheod in a loud, clear voice:"

"'Men of the Eotheod!' he cried. "It saddens me to hear that Gondor thought of so poorly by some of you. For our part, we have only ever had the highest esteem for the Northmen, despite the slanders you have heard just now.'"

"Halfold looked set to reply, but Gelion cut him off and continued his speech. 'Mark me well, Men of the Eotheod! Yes, you may decline Gondor's appeal for aid in war and return in peace to your wives and children – for now. But not for long!'"

"'The tribe you call the Wainriders of long ago, who assailed your ancestors and drove them into these lands, were no doubt related to the Wainriders of today, if only in that all the Easterlings are from the same stock, and many of them have long fought in horse-drawn chariots.'"

"He paused significantly, and then continued. 'But the Wainriders of our own time are not just a single tribe! Their leader, named Ashgarkan, whom many hold to be more a demon than a Man, has united all of the Easterlings under his banner! All of the vast lands that lie east of the Sea of Rhun, far towards the lands of the Rising Sun, are under his sway! He rules all the vast lands of the East with an iron fist, and exacts the last ounce of tribute from the vassal-peoples he has conquered, who are now nothing more than his slaves.'"

"Gelion pointed a long arm towards the East. 'Look towards the Rising Sun, Men of the Eotheod, for there lies your doom! We have learned Ashgarkan is not content to rule the East alone. Late last year his maurauders devastated Dorwinion, ruining the trade of the Northmen of Lake Esgaroth and of Dale. But these things are only in passing. Ashgarkan intends nothing less than the conquest of the whole of the Westlands! If he is allowed to cross the Anduin in force and defeats the Army of Gondor, there will be nothing to stand in the way of his conquest!'"

"'Gelion then frowned. 'I will not deceive you, my friends. Gondor is hard put to it. Our Army of the North has twenty-thousand Men – Ashgarkan has nearly ten times that number.'"

"There were gasps of astonishment from the crowd, most of whom could not conceive of numbers of Men so vast. 'Then it is hopeless!' cried one voice. 'We must pray to the gods, they alone can save us all!' cried another."

"'My friends,' exclamed Gelion, 'it is said your gods help those who help themselves, and shun those who give into despair. Now listen! Ashgarkan is mighty in his cavalry, yet he is not without weaknesses. He has few archers, no infantry, certainly no sailors. He has no means of crossing the Anduin but by fording over the shallowest parts.'"

"'The fords to Gondor proper are well defended against maritime assault,' continued Gelion, 'so it is not surprising our scouts report that Ashgarkan plans to cross the shallows to the north of our lands, into the Field of Celebrant. It is there that our Army of the North awaits him. But while we have light and heavy cavalry as well as infantry, we have not the numbers to divide our forces. If Ashgarkan attacks head on, we shall mow down the Wainriders like a scythe mows down autumn wheat – but still they will continue to attack in wave after wave. And in the end, they will defeat us, and all lands west of the Anduin lie open to ruin.'"

"'Then why do you not send more Men to defend your own frontiers?' demanded Halfold, who remained unmoved by Gondor's plight.'"

"'We dare not deploy any more Men north than we already have,' admitted Gelion. 'Mayhap living here in the distant North as you do, you do not realize the role Gondor has long played in defending the Westlands, or that we are besieged on practically all sides? The bulk of the Steward's troops are deployed along our Eastern frontier by the Anduin. Every day they fight and skirmish with the foul Orcs of the Morgul Lord, who has long oppressed our province of Ithilien from his accursed lair at Minas Morgul. And the Steward's only forces in the West are garrisoned at the tower of Angrenost; too few to make a difference. The soldiers of our sister provinces and cities from Lamedon and Anfalas, Pelargir and Lebennin, and Dol Amroth and Belfalas are deployed along our coastline, defending it in common cause with our Navy against the constant raids and harassment of the Black Corsairs of Umbar. To lessen our defences in either East or South the better to defend our Northern marches will simply be to exchange one doom for another. What use is it to repel the Easterlings only to be conquered by the Umbarians or the Morgul Orcs?'"

"The crowd was silent now, and Gelion continued. 'And I assure you, my friends, those foul folk are no better disposed toward you than the Easterlings. There is no Power in this Middle Earth that truly respects the sovereign independence of the nations of the Northmen, other than Gondor. We are the bulwark of the West, without whom you cannot hope to preserve your liberty!'"

"The crowd began to murmur again, more favourably now. 'Then what is it you ask of us?' enquired one of the younger men."

"Gelion smiled. 'You are assembled here in cavalry, and it is more cavalry that we need! Our General Erendras' plan is that while the Wainriders assail our fortified position from the East, your riders, lying in ambush, will attack them from the North. The Wainriders will be thrown into confusion, and forced to split their forces. Then our archers will go to work, and our heavy infantry after them, aided by our light and heavy cavalry as opportunities arise. The advantage of the Wainriders lies in their lightning speed and maneuverability over open ground. There are fierce, yet they lack discipline, and man to man ten of their impetuous warriors are not worth one of our heavily armed and armoured, disciplined, professional soldiers. Once the charge of the Wainriders has first been slowed, then diverted, and finally ground to a halt, they will be bogged down and helpless before the assault of our archers and our heavy infantry. We will mow down the very last of them like a field of ripe grain, and our cavalry will drive those who flee the battlefield to drown in the Anduin! The days will then be far off indeed before the Easterlings ever again menace the Westlands.'"

"The men assembled consider this plan, and began to loudly debate it, some counseling in favour of the participation of the Eotheod, other counseling caution against the smooth words of this finely coiffed outlander. But then a familiar voice once more raised itself above the crowd."

"'And I say again, let Gondor defend its own lands!' repeated Halfold stubbornly. 'Fate governs all things, and no man knows for certain whether your battle against the Wainriders will go well or ill with or without our aid. If we do aid you, we may still ride to our doom.'"

"'Then you will not be moved either by your Chieftain's appeals to honour, or mine to reason?' asked Gelion, doing his best to restrain his temper against this loudmouthed troublemaker."

"'I'm not a child to be talked down to, Gondor-man,' scoffed Halfold. 'Let me put it to you plainly, since it seems your wits are dulled by the hot Sun of the Southlands. If you want our help then you should pay for it, as old tales say you paid your Auxiliaries of Northmen in elder times. And since you are desperate, you should pay for it dearly indeed! Yea, if our blood is to be spilt to aid the Gondor-men, then Gondor should pay for it with gold, and account for every last drop!'"

"Naturally, this argument found immediate favour amongst the crowd, and the tide turned swiftly against Gelion, whose face was marred by a frown. But before he could reply, Eorl the Young intervened:"

"'My brothers, is it payment you demand as the price for coming to Gondor's aid?' asked Eorl, directly and to the point."

"'Aye, why not?' cried one. 'One good turn deserves another!' The crowd murmured its assent, and Halfold beamed smugly."

"'The Herald Gelion,' replied Eorl, 'has informed me that we shall have the gratitude of the Steward of Gondor if we win this battle against the Wainriders.'"

"'A prize that is not conferred lightly,' nodded Gelion, repeating the text of his message."

"'Yet light is its worth,' scoffed Halfold, 'unless it is backed up by gold!'" The crowd cheered him loudly.

"'Do you mock the Steward of Gondor, fellow?' shot back Gelion, whose diplomatic training could no longer mask his anger at Halfold's abuse.

"'Peace!' cried Eorl. 'Brothers, I ask again, do you demand a price of Gondor in exchange for our aid? Yea or nay?'"

"'Yea!' shouted theMmen assembled, thumping their spears and axes against their round wooden shields. Eorl held up his hands again, and the crowd fell silent. He then turned to Gelion.'"

"'The Althing has spoken,' said Eorl gravely. 'The Eotheod shall come to Gondor's aid only if Gondor meets our terms.'"

"'And what are those terms?' asked Gelion warily. Truth to tell, he had secret orders to bribe the Northmen with promises of gold if necessary, but not unless there was no other choice. Things now appeared to have reached that point."

"'It has been suggested that gold should be the price,' observed Eorl. '"But I say unto you that this land has had gold aplenty since the far-off days when Fram son of Frumgar slew Scatha the Worm, and claimed Scatha's treasure for our people. Perhaps we have had gold in surfeit, for it fed the growth of a greedy, oppressive nobility of which you have but lately rid yourselves.'"

"The people nodded in assent to the wisdom of these words, and Eorl continued:"

"'Brothers, our need is great, but it is not for gold. It is for land!'"

"Gelion looked up sharply, his skin turning pale as he realized that Eorl had sprung the trap on him. Eorl grinned broadly and continued. 'Well you know that our people are cramped in the narrow lands between the Mountains and the Wood, and that we struggle ever more to feed ourselves from the meager soil in these parts. Would you not rather live in a wide, open land, where the soil is rich, the grass is plentiful, the Sun is warm, and every Man may have his own broad farmstead, rather than scratching a living off a few poor acres!'"

"'Yea!' roared the crowd, whose love of their native soil was for the moment drowned in their desire for their own large estates, and for a better life in a gentler clime."

"'There you have our price, Herald,' announced Eorl, a broad smile on his handsome young face. 'I know from the tales of old that Gondor was once far bigger than it is, and that many of the lands under your Steward's rule are empty and unpeopled. If you wish for the aid of the Eotheod at the Field of Celebrant, and we have the victory, then your Steward shall display his gratitude by granting us our own land of our own choice in the South in which to settle, and which we shall rule as our own.'"

"'But if you do not help us, there will be no lands for any Westron!' cried Gelion. 'We shall all be enslaved or exterminated by the Easterlings!'"

"'Brothers,' exclaimed Eorl, turning again to the crowd, 'shall we demand land in plenty from Gondor as the price for our alliance with them, and for making war upon the Wainriders at Celebrant? Yea or nay?'"

"Yea!' cried the men assembled, once again thumbing their weapons against their shields. Eorl silence them, and then turned back to Gelion.

"'The Althing has again spoken,' said Eorl, 'and though I am Chief it is beyond my power to gainsay its decisions. If Gondor wants our aid, it will pay the price in conferring on us our own sovereign land in the South. You may take these terms or leave them. What say you?'"

"Gelion stood silent for some moments, his mind racing desperately. He knew that it was far beyond his own authority to confer a grant of any of Gondor's land to foreigners, let alone to agree to sever off entirely and forever part of Gondor's territory to form another sovereign nation. If he consented to Eorl's terms, he could find himself on trial for treason and usurpation of the Steward's authority if he ever again set foot in Minas Tirith."

"And yet, General Erendras had commanded him to return with the cavalry of the Eotheod by any means necessary – those had been the General's precise words. He knew his head would be no more secure on its shoulders if he returned to the Field of Celebrant empty handed than if returned having made a concession for which he had been granted no authority. And even should he be spared military justice, he would die soon thereafter on an Easterling's blade unless the Eotheod dispatched their cavalry to Celebrant. "

"What was he to do? He was familiar enough with the ancient customs of the Northmen to know that an Althing, though very rarely called to assembly by the chieftains, was held to be the supreme national authority of each of the Northmen's tribes. Its decisions were always final, andcould not be reversed by threats, pleas or rhetoric. He pondered the matter, and then made the only decision he could, while placing his fate in the hands of Eru.'"

"'Gondor accepts your terms, Men of the Eotheod' cried Gelion, though his voice was thin and trembled slightly. 'In exchange for your aid at Celebrant, and if we have the victory on the field of battle, our Steward Cirion shall grant the Eotheod your own sovereign land in the South. Its boundaries shall be affixed by mutual consultation and agreement of the Steward Cirion and of your Chieftain Eorl son of Leod.'"

"'Done!' cried Eorl, spitting on his right hand and clasping Gelion's in order to seal the bargain. As a wild cheer rose up from the men assembled, Gelion smiled thinly and nodded curtly at Eorl, while delicately wiping his hand on the cloth of his tunic."

"'Ready yourselves!' commanded Eorl, addressing both the men at arms in the field and his own bodyguard. 'We ride for Celebrant in one hour!' Now that the Althing had made alliance with Gondor and declared war against the Wainriders, its authority was at an end; Eorl assumed at once the mantle of War Chief, whose commands must be obeyed without question until the victory was attained. "

"'Gondor is grateful for your speed,' replied Gelion softly. Still in a state of disbelief over what he had just agreed to, he reflected ruefully that a Herald's life was far from an easy one. Thus he did not notice that Eorl turned to Halfold and winked at him, while the aging veteran – who had saved his life from treacherous nobles nine years before by allowing Eorl to escape from the Chieftain's Hall – grinned knowingly at his master.'"

The storyteller paused again, and took another pull from his mug of ale.

"Fresh out, Butterbur," he nodded. It appeared that the other guests had drained their mugs as well, and the Innkeeper was soon busily scurrying about, the smile on his face growing ever broader has he raked in more coppers. Meanwhile old Goatleaf asked sourly:

"What about the battle then? Are you ever going to get to it, or do we have to listen to more long-winded speeches? My old grandsire always said that a story without…"

"Goatleaf is so fond of speechifying himself," interjected the storyteller, "that he grudges listening to the speeches of others." There was a round of laughter, and Goatleaf cursed quietly before burying his long nose back in his mug of ale.

"To move on to the battle then," said the storyteller. "The Eotheod divided themselves into Eoreds, that is, companies of horsemen, each grouped by their home region and led by an able and experienced warrior. Eorl and his bodyguards, with little time to bid farewell to their families, soon rode through the gates of Framsburg accompanied by Gelion. Eorl naturally rode the magnificent Felarof, and all the Men gazed in wonder at the enchanted steed, whose snow-white coat shimmered in the Sun. Even Gelion was amazed that such a creature would serve any mortal Man. Eorl took his place at the head of the Eohere, while Felarof, whom it seemed all the other steeds both feared and respected, neighed so loudly and was of so proud an aspect that he almost appeared to be a general in his own right."

"They rode south for many days. Spring, first cool and rainy, waxed warm and bright, the days grew longer, and the Sun grew hotter and climbed higher in the sky. Skirting the Misty Mountains to their West, they forded many streams, and passed the Gladden Fields – known to the Gondor-men as the place where the legendary King Isildur met his doom long ago. But the Eotheod knew little and cared less for the tales of Gondor, and pressed southwards with nary a thought for Isildur. Gelion alone paused briefly to reflect on the ancient tales of the fallen King, before turning his mind back to the present."

"At length they came to the eves of the Laurelindorean, the Golden Wood, more often called by the Elves of these latter days Lothlorien, the Dream of Lorien that lies in the West of West. Now for the first time the enthusiasm of the Northmen was curbed, and they fell silent and began to look uneasy. Their people had long feared and distrusted the Elves - though the Elves had given them little cause for such prejudices – but more than any they feared the Elves of the Golden Wood. Their legends said it was ruled by an Elven Witch, whose power was so great and terrible that she could enchant any Man to his doom. It was well known that the few mortals who had been brave or foolhardy enough to set foot in the Golden Wood had never been seen again. Yet now the Eotheod had to pass through a narrow plain that lay between that Wood to the east, and the valley that led westward to the Mines of Moria, a grim place of evil legend where…"

"Now that is truly intolerable!" shouted the Dwarf, slamming down his mug once again. He glowered at the storyteller. "Khazad-Dum, the birthplace of the Dwarven-kind, the City of Ten-Thousand Wonders, a 'grim place of evil legend'? Where do you learn such nonsense, you old tosspot?"

"Have a care, master Dwarf," replied the storyteller, his blue eyes glinting in warning. "Not every 'old tosspot' is what he appears to be. And you should know better than most that the evil reputation attached to Khazad-Dum – the Mines of Moria, as Men call them today – has been more than well deserved since the days of Durin VI."

The Dwarf looked taken aback, and almost appeared anxious for a moment. But then his stubbornness soon reasserted itself. "No matter that Khazad-Dum has fallen into darkness in these sad times," he said, "your tale does nothing but feed the ignorance of these peasants." The Breelanders looked surprised at his rudeness, but even old Goatleaf refrained from rebuking him, for his aspect was very proud and fierce. "And as for the Elves of that accursed wood," continued the Dwarf, "well might the horse-boys distrust them!"

"Now you're the one feeding the ignorance of these – rustic folk," replied the storyteller bluntly.

"Perhaps you'd be willing to offer your own account of things, when this gentleman has finished his tale, Master Dwarf?" interjected Butterbur hopefully, trying once again to maintain the peace between these two strong-willed guests.

"I'd be more than happy to set the record straight if he ever does finish his fairy tales!" replied the Dwarf.

"And I'd be more than happy to finish my tale – which I shall in due course, if I suffer from no further interruptions," rejoined the storyteller. He took another pull from his mug of ale, set down his now extinguished clay pipe, and continued:

"On Gelion's advice, Eorl halted the march of the Eotheod in that plain, and sent scouts ahead to the Field of Celebrant to make contact with the Gondorian Army of the North, and learn from them if there was any news of the whereabouts of the enemy. Gelion accompanied the scouts to vouchsafe for them when they were spotted by the Gondor-men, while Eorl and the bulk of his own men encamped amid the evening twilight in the meadows between the crystal streams of Celebrant and Nimrodel."

"The night passed into day, and day into night again. On that second night at the encampment, the Moon rose bright and full, and the starlight was uncommonly keen and clear. The Misty Mountains reared up like a jagged black shadow to the west, but to the east the outermost eves of the Golden Wood seemed veiled in mist. The Men were quiet and watchful, for something about the mist, which shimmered in the starlight, struck them as uncanny. The horses were restive and uneasy, but for Felarof; he was keen and alert, and his ears were pricked as if he could hear things the others could not."

"Eorl, who had withdrawn from the warriors to the privacy of his tent, found himself as restive as most of the horses and their riders. It had seemed a light thing at the time to gamble his life and those of his men in order to gain new and better lands; but now that the prospect of a terrible battle drew nearer he began to feel gravity of the daunting challenge before him, and the terrible burden of his responsibility for the lives of each of his warriors, from the oldest veteran to the greenest stripling."

"As Eorl paced back and forth within his tent, his ring-mail clinking with every long stride, the scouts returned accompanied by Gelion. All were grim-faced and silent, and Eorl stared at them gravely."

"'What news?' he asked. 'I need not possess the second sight to tell I will not be pleased with what you have to say.'"

"'Indeed not, my lord,' replied one of the scouts. 'It appears we are too late. The Gondorian army is already surrounded by the enemy!'"

"'What?' cried Eorl, his shock blanching his youthful features pale as snow."

"'The Rhunlings must have crossed the river Anduin sooner than we had anticipated they would,' interjected Gelion. 'My comrades are encamped on a low hill which forms the only high ground in these parts. Their backs are to the treacherous marshes of the river Limlight, and their front and flanks are to the enemy. They have fortified the hill with trenches and obstacles, to frustrate a cavalry charge by the enemy; but there is no doubt they are trapped. There are no means of escape or retreat from their position. General Erendras surely did not intend to be caught in this vise; he had planned to lay traps and pits all across the Field both to slow down the enemy's advance, and leave open our lines of retreat. Alas!'"

"'How then shall we fight?' asked one of the scouts. 'The Gondor-men are surely doomed.'"

"'The Men of Gondor shall sell their lives dearly,' shot back Gelion hotly. 'And you saw yourself from afar, under the light of the Moon, that their position is fortified by field works. The enemy will not be able to use their deadly chariots to their advantage, but will have to dismount and attack on foot. Our archers can hold them off for some days before they breach the barricades.'"

"'Aye,' said Eorl, 'no doubt. But I am more concerned about the situation for my own men at the moment. We had meant to scout out the Field of Celebrant, to prepare suitable hiding places so that when the Waindriders crossed the river we could take them by surprise from behind. But the tables are turned, and all surprise is lost; how shall we approach the enemy now? It would be a wonder if this Ashgarkan's scouts have not already spotted our own camp, and are not at this minute bearing news of our arrival back to their chieftain.'"

"'My lord Eorl,' replied Gelion, choosing to honour the Northman with the title, 'if I may offer my advice as a career soldier, you have but two choices; to rouse your Men and attack at once, or to retreat entirely. To retreat will spell the doom of Gondor's army in the North, and the victory of the Rhunlings, of these Wainriders, over all the Westlands. If even one-fifth of them turn north to despoil your own lands then you shall be hopelessly overrun, village by village and farm by farm, and your people exterminated or enslaved like cattle. The menace from the East must be defeated here and now, if it is to be defeated at all. Therefore, I pray you, rouse your troops and ride out at once to do battle against the enemy! You may lose the element of surprise, but I deem that a less evil fate than sitting here waiting to be surrounded yourselves, or than retreating to a certain doom with your tails between your legs.'"

"Eorl was silent for some minutes, though he took several careful glances at the faces of his men. They were grave, but he did not see fear our despondency in their clear blue eyes. If the rest of the men were in the same mood, then he had no doubt they would do what was required of them."

"'We fight,' declared Eorl simply. 'Guntram!' he cried, and a young lad, bearing an elaborately-carved silver horn with a baldric of green slung from his shoulder, stepped through the flaps of the tent and stood to attention."

"Turning to the boy, Eorl said, 'Take up your station, raise the Horn of Fram – aye, that very horn my forefather claimed from Scatha's horde ages ago, which you are entrusted to bear – and sound the alarm. Rouse the Men, and let the Eotheod know that we ride to war this very night!'"

"'As you command, my lord,' nodded Guntram, his young face keen and eager for his first battle, with the lusty passion of a youth who believes himself invincible. He turned and dashed through the flaps of the tent, taking up his position. A few moments later, the entire camp leapt to its feat as two sharp, clear, ascending peals rang out from the Horn, again and again in succession."

"The shouts of Men and the cries of horses echoed across the camp, as the warriors doused their cooking fires and pulled up the stakes of their tents, their company commanders cursing them in colourful language for their lack of haste. Eorl, who hastily buckled-up his own sword-belt and strapped on his green-plumed silver helmet, strode out of the tent, followed by Gelion and the scouts. As Eorl's servants pulled down their master's tent, and Gelion and the scouts took the reins of their own horses, Eorl pursued his lips and whistled sharply. But a few moments passed before Felarof cantered up before him."

"'You have not failed me before, my friend,' said Eorl, gently stroking Felarof's shimmering mane. 'But now we shall both be put to the test!' Felarof neighed proudly, and with a smile Eorl gently mounted his steed – who tolerated neither reins nor saddle – and urged him forward, toward the southern edge of the camp. The scouts rode off to their own duty-stations, but Gelion rode his own black stallion, reared on the grassy plains of Calenardhon, in the wake of their chieftain."

"Eorl waited for some minutes as the last traces of the camp were torn down, and the men mounted their steeds and formed up in their companies. Then, once the vanguard of the cavalry had formed-up behind him, he issued orders to their commanders, and the entire body of the Eotheod, 7,000 strong, began their ride under the stars to their destiny of the Field of Celebrant."

"They soon crossed the shallow stream of Nimrodel, and began riding over the grassy plains in the direction indicated by Gelion and the scouting-party. Eorl, frowning with concern, knew there was little he could do to disguise the passage of so large a body of men on horseback, for the thundering hooves of so many horses could be heard in the air and felt in the ground for many miles off. He was brooding so darkly over the complete loss of surprise, and the price his men were bound to pay for it, that at first he did not notice the mists that began to curl around the Eotheod, wrapping them in clammy tendrils that almost seemed like fingers. Felarof neighed loudly, and Eorl suddenly looked up, realizing that the light of the Moon and Stars was entirely blotted-out by the mist. Yet strangely, the Eotheod did not find themselves shrouded in darkness. A dim light seemed to shine through the mist, like moonlight seen through a veil of cloth, enough that the men could still make out each other's forms."

"'Close up formation,' said Eorl to the commander of his vanguard. 'We don't want anyone getting lost.' Strangely, he but dimly heard his own words as they came out of his mouth, and the commander's reply was barely audible."

"Then with a sudden shock he realized that he could no longer hear the hooves of the cavalry at all! Had he suddenly been struck down with deafness, just when he needed all his physical prowess to survive? Yet the faces of his men suddenly seemed shocked and fearful. They began gesturing to each other, as if none of them could clearly hear each others' words. Eorl felt a chill run down his spine, as he realized that the pall of silence had begun as soon as the strangely illuminated mist had enveloped his army."

"He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to face Gelion, who had ridden up beside him. To his surprise, Gelion's face did not look fearful, and he seemed almost elated. Eorl struggled to hear his words. "Sudden luck…Lady…fate…" But he could understand the Herald's meaning."

"Eorl rode on regardless, for he saw nothing to be gained by remaining in the eerie, silent mists any longer than necessary. Yet it was not long before something dark loomed up in the mist in front of him, and he gave a hand signal that brought the vanguard, and soon the entire Eohere to a sudden halt."

"Eorl rode carefully up to the mass, his sword drawn. Gelion and half a dozen of his vanguard accompanied him, and soon saw that it was in fact a broad, high-wheeled chariot, with two deadly-looking blades projecting three feet beyond the hub of each wheel. Eorl recognized it at once, from the ancient tales, as one of the chariots of the Wainriders!"

"Giving the hand-signal to ready the Eohere for action, he strained his eyes searching for any sign of the horses or riders; yet, he could discern none. Why would a chariot be abandoned in the empty plains in such a fashion?"

"Gelion dismounted, and began to search the ground on foot. A score of paces beyond the chariot, at the edge of Eorl's vision, he stiffened, and then suddenly gestured for Eorl and his men to approach."

"As Eorl neared the Gondor-man, he saw through the mists what had attracted his attention – the bodies of two short, squat Men, armoured in bronze plates, their shaven pates each decorated with a single lock of long black hair. Each of the Wainriders (for such they obviously were) had been slain by a single, white-feathered arrow apiece, which had smashed through the bronze armour and buried itself in their heart of its victim."

"Eorl gazed in puzzlement at the sight, not sure of what to make of it. Had there been some sort of feud between two pairs of Wainrider scouts, and had this pair been slain by the others and their horses stolen? It would not have been a surprising thing in an ill-disciplined army of Easterling barbarians. Yet the arrangement of the bodies suggested that they had been slain instantly and unwares, not after any sort of prolonged quarrel or struggle."

"Gelion broke off one of the arrow-shafts, and examined it closely for some moments. Then his face shone into a broad grin, and a shouted at Eorl and his men as loudly as he could through the sound-dampening mists:"

"'Galadhrim…scouts destroyed…path is clear…the Lady favours us…'"

"Eorl stared at the arrow in wonderment, nodding silently. Gelion was saying that the arrow-shaft was of Elven make! Eorl thought upon Gelion's words, and soon realized their import. These Wainrider scouts had doubtless spotted the Eotheod, perhaps as far back as their camp, and had been speeding back to the main body of their army to bring warning that they faced attack from behind. Yet they had failed in their mission, for a party of Galadhrim Elves, who must had ventured beyond their lair in the Golden Wood, had ambushed and slain them in the field. Their panicked horses, which had doubled back along their route with their chariot when their masters were slain, had been set free; the bodies of the Wainriders had been left where they had fallen."

"'Shall the Golden Wood-Elves aid us in battle then?' shouted Eorl, though he could barely hear is own words. Gelion frowned for a moment, then gestured about with his long arms, and cried back in reply:"

"'Doubtful…the Lady…mist…aids us…ride swiftly.'"

"Eorl realized then, with another shiver down his spine, that this strange mist was no coincidence, no trick of nature. It was a work of sorcery conjured up by the Elf-Witch of the Golden Wood herself, to hide the Eotheod from sight and hearing until they reached the field of battle! Eorl thanked his gods that the dreaded Elf-Witch, for cryptical reasons known only to herself, had chosen to aid the Northmen with her arts rather than hinder them. He nodded to Gelion, who mounted his steed, and signaled to his men. The Eohere soon resumed its swift passage over the grassy plains."

The storyteller paused for a moment, as if deep in contemplation. Then he looked up at the crowd, his blue eyes shining keenly, and said, "Now I'm interrupting my own story, but I'd be amiss if I didn't address a calumny in the Rohirrim's tale – yes, another one Master Dwarf, though this one is against the Elves."

The Dwarf grumbled into his long plaited beard, but said nothing. The storyteller continued, "The Golden Wood of Lothlorien is a dangerous place for mortals to trespass, to be sure, but the Lady who rules it is beyond reproach. More than that – she is a greater friend to Men than most of them can possibly imagine, or will ever know. The ancestors of the Rohirrim, like the Rohirrim themselves today, feared her only out of their own ignorance and superstition."

"You speak as if you know her yourself," scoffed old Goatleaf, who had begun to smoke from a greasy, battered-looking clay pipe.

"And what if I do?" rejoined the storyteller, much to the crowd's surprise. But he waved off any questions, and continued his tale:

"Now, at this point in their song, the Minstrels of the Rohirrim break-off from their description of the ride of Eorl the Young and his Men across the Field of Celebrant. They invite the listener to imagine the dreadful army of the Wainriders, and the fearsome chieftain Ashgarkan in all his power and magnificence. The image they paint is largely their own creation, of course, for their ancestors could not have seen first hand precisely what they describe; yet of old they were familiar enough with the Easterlings and their ways for their account to have the ring of truth to it, and for my own part I believe it to be not too far from the facts."

"Picture, if you will, the Field of Celebrant near the Marshes of Limlight in the pale twilight that precedes Dawn. The Field looks more like an anthill, for it is festooned with thousands of wicker-framed felt tents, and swarming with a mighty horde of bronze-armoured Men, on foot and on chariot, preparing for another assault on the Gondorians. Outlanders have many names for them, from Wainrider to Rhunling, but they call themselves the Balcoth. Many are encamped beside their bronze war chariots, but those nearest the Gondorian encampment are entirely on foot – the trenches and field works prepared by the Gondorian infantry make a cavalry assault impossible. Yet despite this obstacle, the fierce faces of the Balcoth are keen and eager, for they smell blood on the air, and sense their victory is near."

"Amid all this restless stir of Men there is a great wicker-framed tent of scarlet wool felt, surmounted by a roof of brilliant azure. If one entered through this tent, heavily guarded by elite warriors, one's eyes would take time to become accustomed to the dim light within. Then it would become clear; though the smoky air, mounted on a throne of bronze, to which are chained concubines from a dozen conquered nations, and beside which are stationed ever-lit braziers, is Ashgarkan himself!"

"He is near six feet tall with a shaven pate, save for a black pony-tail. He has a strong build, a scarred face, and terrible amber eyes. His teeth are filed to points to enhance the ferocity of his appearance, a necklace of human teeth lies about his neck, and he drinks fermented mare's milk from the skull of his elder brother, who he killed early in his career in his quest for dominion. His tent smells foully, for the skulls and rotten severed heads of enemies, prisoners and failed underlings hang on leathern straps from the rafters, a warning to those amongst his lackeys who might dare to challenge his power. He is possessed of a cunning and subtle mind, and had he been born in another time and place, he might have been numbered amongst the Great, and even the Wise. But it was his fate to be born in a grim and savage land, and that circumstance has made him what he is – a merciless tyrant, all of whose thoughts are bent on war and the conquest of the World. Having subjugated the known lands of the far East in his youth, he has now turned his attention to the lands of the West."

"Outside, as the ruddy light of the Sun now shines above the horizon, heralding another Dawn of woe for the Men of the West, these Easterlings chant and shout ferociously; for the Sun is chief of their gods of the Sky, and they believe the gods favour their quest to lay low the twilight Westlands, and unify all the world under their Kakan, their mighty Chief of Chiefs. Ashgarkan has laid low all who opposed him, has forged out of a hundred warring tribes a mighty nation, has laid a vast swath of the East at his feet, has received placatory tribute from the Grand Vizier of Umbar, and has even received a pledge of fealty from the Morgul Lord of Mordor. He need only conquer stubborn Gondor, the last remaining thorn in his side, and all the World shall lie under the yoke of the Balcoth! So the warriors tell themselves as they go about their tasks, eager for another day of siege and battle against their hated foes."

"Ashgarkan himself girds on his curved sword and strides out of his tent, where his war-chariot and honour-guard await him. His guardsmen ululate triumphantly as he steps proudly onto the chariot, ordering its driver to whip the six black horses yoked to it out onto the field, from where he can supervise the siege of the doomed Gondorians' encampment. All the warriors of the Balcoth bow their heads as he passes them, half-drunk with his own power and glory."

"At last Ashgarkan reaches the open fields below the Gondorian camp, and surveys with satisfaction the progress of his men. It is unnatural for them to fight on foot, though the trenches, traps, and wooden-stakes lodged in the ground have forced them to it; but by sheer numbers they are pressing the Gondor-men into a smaller and smaller corner. Each day that passes sees another trench filled in, another trap dismantled, another rampart of wooden stakes leveled. Another day, perhaps two, and they will reach the earthwork ramparts that form the final defense of the Gondorian infantry. Then they will surge over the walls, swords and spears in hand, and do their bloody work. Ashgarkan has ordered that not one Gondor-man is to be left alive. "

"The Gondorians themselves are determined, but grim and full of foreboding. Their General Erendras, encamped by a standard that bares the ancient banner of Gondor – the White Tree on its field of Sable – has done his best to maintain his solders' morale, but he knows that his position is hopeless now that the Balcoth have crossed the Anduin more swiftly than could have been imagined. He still holds out hope that Gelion's mission has not failed, that the Eotheod will arrive, but the siege has lasted for four days now and there is no sign of the Northmen. If they do not arrive in time, he has ordered his men to sell their lives dearly, and not to permit a single chariot of the Wainriders to cross the Limlight into the northern marches of Gondor as long as a single man of his own army still draws breath."

"Ashgarkan knows nothing of Erendras' hopes, and gloats at the thought of seeing a Gondorian general humbled at his feet before facing the inevitable torture and execution that awaits all captives. He lusts for the day when Minas Tirith has been sacked by the Balcoth, and the Steward Cirion himself lies in chains at his feet, as so many other petty-kings and chieftains have before him. But for now Ashgrakan is content to observe the siege, and await the ruin of Gondor's Army of the North."

"So enamoured is the great Kakan of his own thoughts that he pays little heed to the mist which is creeping over the Field of Celebrant, growing stronger and thicker even as the Sun climbs higher in the eastern sky. The mist is but a brief hindrance to the siege, which will doubtless dissipate before the noon-hour. He urges his Men onward, commanding them to fill in every trench and destroy every obstacle."

"The mist does begin to dissipate, though with preternatural speed that leaves Ashgarkan puzzled. Imagine his shock when, no sooner than the light of the rising Sun once again shines clearly over the plains, two smooth, ascending notes from a horn ring out clearly over the Field of Celebrant!"

"As his warriors begin to shout warnings and raise the alarm, Ashgarkan orders his driver to wheel the chariot about, so that he can get a clear view of the lands to the north. When his sharp eyes look towards the horizion, his olive skin turns pale, and his jaw drops, leaving his mouth hanging open absurdly."

"Yes, the great Kakan is, for once, shocked and stupefied; along the northern horizon a force of enemy cavalry is forming up and preparing to charge! His keen sight soon reveals them by garb to be Northmen, the ancient enemies of the Easterlings, and his practiced eye correctly judges their force as full seven-thousand strong."

"Ashgarkan is both amazed and appalled by this sudden reversal of fortune. How can a force of enemy cavalry seven-thousand strong have evaded his scouts, and approached the very threshold of his encampment unseen and unheard by anyone? He suspects treachery by his own scouts and guards, against whom he vows a bloody revenge; the truth of the matter is never revealed to him. He is wise enough to realize instantly that his peril is greater than it appears, for although his army dwarfs that of the Northmen and the Gondorians combined, in his overconfidence he has made only a cursory effort to secure the perimeter of his own encampment; many of his men are on foot where they are vulnerable, and many of his deadly war-chariots lie empty and idle on the fields."

"'We are attacked!' cries the great Kakan in his deep, gravelly voice, to the shock of his warriors nearby. 'Lift the siege at once, you dogs!' he bellows. 'Set a guard about the Gondor-men's camp, and turn and face the Northmen! Fly like the wind to your chariots!' His men, who know that to so much as hesitate for a moment to obey their great Kakan means certain death, drop their siege implements and race at once to the north, where the greater part of their chariots lie unused and unguarded. Yet the numbers of the Balcoth are vast, and full ten-thousand of them remain behind to keep the Gondorians imprisoned within the walls of their own encampment and field-works. Ashgarkan himself drives forward in his chariot with all speed, determined to take command of the horde of charioteers already mounted and waiting in the field, and lead them against these audacious horsemen from the North."

"Meanwhile, the Eotheod are forming up in their order of battle, as Eorl rides up and down the field on Felarof, issuing orders to his commanders. As Eorl reached the vanguard of the cavalry, who were forming up in neat rows under the watchful eyes of their commanders, he turned and faced his men, ordering the commanders to relay his words down the line:"

"'Men of the Eotheod!' he cries, shaking his long iron-tipped spear. 'Do not fear the enemy! We know their kind of old. They find courage only in numbers; on their own they are nothing. When things seem well for these Easterlings, they are vain and boastful; when things go ill, they show their true colours as cowards! The enemy is numerous, but they are utterly unprepared for us. See how poorly guarded is their camp, and how many of their chariots lie empty and useless in the field. They have grown soft and overconfident. Now is the time to avenge our ancestors! Behind us like only impoverished farms and a slow, creeping death; before us lie new lands and immortal glory! To war!'"

"'To war!' shout the warriors of the Eotheod. The Horn blows again, and with a flourish of his sword Eorl the Young leads their charge against the Wainriders, the Field of Celebrant thundering under their massed hooves."

"The Balcoth scurry to and fro frantically, rousing themselves from their tents and campfires in a desperate attempt to mount their chariots and form up a full line for a massed assault against the Northmen. Yet full ten-thousand of them are already deployed in the field, five-thousand chariots strong, each with a horse-driver and a warrior armed with spear or bow and arrow. Dashing up to these warriors, Ashgarkan takes command of them personally, swiftly forming their ranks into a long, straight line, although one that is only one rank deep - far short of its usual depth."

"The great Kakan, a man of action rather than words, rarely feels the need to give rousing speeches to his warriors. They know without being told that the choices facing them are simple; total victory, honourable death in battle, or torture and execution as punishment for failure. But on this day he chooses to favour them with a few well-chosen words. Brandishing his wicked-looking compound bow, Ashgarkan cries 'Warriors of the East; the Gods of the Sky favour us! See how the Sun rises red and thirsty for the blood of the Northmen! Mow them down beneath your wheels and crush them forever!'"

"Their chilling ululations echoing across the field, the line of Balcoth charges toward the Eotheod, their heavy bronze chariots shaking the field as if the Earth itself were being torn asunder, the sharp blades affixed to each axle spinning with the wheels and buzzing like a horde of angry wasps. Ashgarkan, as is his way, follows them from behind while surrounded by the chariots of his elite bodyguard, to direct the actions of his army in battle and slay any whose cowardice led them to choose to flee rather than to fight."

"Both armies soar across the field like lightning, and within less than a minute they are on each other. Instantly the Balcoth cut through the line of the Northmen like a whirlwind, and it seems as if the battle will be decided almost at once. The terrible blades affixed to the axes of the Balcoth's bronze chariots cut down the horses and riders of almost a thousand warriors of the Eotheod amid fountains of blood, and the severed, broken bodies of Men and horses are dashed about like children's toys, their death-cries hideous to hear and their ruined forms pitiable to see. Screaming exultantly, the Balcoth go to work with spears and swords, slaying the handful of survivors before turning their attention to the rear ranks of the Eotheod, who had pulled back on their reins in horror as they saw the scene of carnage unfold before them."

"Eorl, without time to think clearly, realizes that the moment of truth is upon him. Though he had been in the foremost rank of his vanguard, Felarof had leapt easily above the onrushing chariots of the Wainriders, carrying him to a place of fleeting safety behind their ranks. Some of the most accomplished riders in his vanguard had also leapt over the deadly chariot wheel-blades on their mortal steeds, and they soon form up behind their Chief, shaken but undaunted."

"Eorl's keen eyes find behind a wall of Wainriders to the south a tall wooden pole, from which is affixed leathern banner bearing the design of an angry scarlet Sun on a field of pale blue. Attached to the pole beneath the banner are the feathers of various birds of prey, and hung on leathern straps from it are what look like the skulls of hapless Men.

"A sudden intuition seizes upon Eorl, and turning to the dozen or so riders behind him he cries, 'See! Ashgarkan himself directs the battle safely from behinds his lines, the coward! Form up and charge!' And without further words he spurs Felarof forward, rushing like the wind straight toward the great and terrible Kakan and his bodyguard of elite warriors! Eorl's vanguard follow in his waking, desperately trying to keep up with their young chieftain, but their mortal steeds are soon far outpaced by Felarof."

"Ashgarkan, who had snarled with savage satisfaction as his Balcoth had mowed down the foremost ranks of the Northmen's cavalry, now stares in mixed wonder and bemusement at the lone towheaded warrior on his shining steed who races towards him, moving almost faster than the eye can see. The Kakan barks a command at his bodyguard, who fire a volley of deadly arrows at this brave but foolhardy Northman to cut him down in mid-flight."

"Felarof neighs fiercely, and with incredibly agility dashes sharply to the right and again to the left, evading the cloud of arrows entirely! Now Ashgarkan can clearly see the warrior mounted on the creature; a young man, barely more than a stripling, who grasps in his right arm a long spear with a deadly tip of iron; a metal greatly feared by the Easterlings, for they know its strength but have never mastered the art of forging it. For the first time in many long years, the icy hand of fear lays its chill grip on Ashgarkan's spine, as he realizes that the mad Northman is dashing straight towards him as if his bodyguards were of no consequence!"

"'Fools!' shouts Ashgarkan hoarsely. 'Cut him down with your chariots! Charge!'"

"Whipping their steeds mercilessly, the drivers of the chariots obey their great chieftain without hesitation, seeking to cut down their foe with the blades affixed to their wheels even as the warriors beside them prepare another volley of arrows at him."

"Yet even as their volley is unleashed, Felarof is already in the air. With an incredible leap matching that with which he had soared over the gates of Framsburg nine years before, Felarof soars right over the heads of the bodyguard, landing on the ground but a score of paces before the chariot of Ashgarkan himself!"

"At that moment, a strange thing happens. Even as Ashgarkan knocks an arrow to his bow, he feels his blood run cold with fear. The Kakan knows the Northman can cast a lethal spear-throw before he himself can aim and loose his arrow. With no bodyguards about, with his driver suddenly frozen with panic and standing dumbly by his side, the great Kakan of the Balcoth realizes that nothing at all shields him from this terrible Northman on his bewitched steed, whose upraised spear and ice-cold eyes foretell an inexorable doom."

"At that moment finding himself for all intents and purposes alone, the King of Kings, the Conqueror of the World, before whom countless nations of the East have fallen under the yoke, feels his courage desert him in the face of certain death. Nothing is left in Ashgarkan but the desperate yearning to save his own skin, and live to fight another day."

"Uttering a strangled cry, Ashgarkan rashly drops his bow and arrow, pushes his stupefied driver clear out of the chariot, took up the reins, and whips his frantic horses into wheeling about as fast as they can. Meanwhile, his bodyguard, their attack on Eorl thwarted by Felarof's incredible speed an agility, turned about to witness a shocking and terrible sight; their dreaded overlord, mighty Ashgarkan himself, is on the run! The Kakan is driving his own chariot for dear life away from the lone Northman, who pursues him inexorably from but a few paces behind, his long spear poised for the fatal cast."

"'The Kakan is a coward!' cried one of the bodyguards. 'He would slay us out of hand for even hinting at retreat, but see now how he flees the battlefield himself!' gasps another."

"Even as the bodyguards, both drivers and warriors, stand still in their chariots, their shame at their Kakan's cowardice rivaling their disbelief at the scene, Ashgarkan feels the terrible Northman gaining on him from behind. Finding his courage too late, he releases his hold on the reins and wheeled about in his chariot, drawing his scimitar for a desperate combat against his foe. But even as he does so, Eorl's spear is already in the air, and in the blink of an eye in cleaves straight through the Kakan's armour of bronze plate, lodging itself deep in his heart in a shower of red blood."

"As the scimitar falls from his hands and his spasming body flies out of the chariot, which rumbles off blindly as its panicked horses flee the scene, Eorl, who has rapidly drawn his longsword, cuts off Ashgarkan's head with a single stroke. Felarof stops and wheeled around on his hooves, and Eorl swings low to the ground while still keeping his hold on his mount, seizing the late Kakan's severed head by its single lock of long, greasy hair."

"Eorl charges at the bodyguards, screaming with the battle-fury of the Northmen, while they stare at him in shock and horror. So distracted are they that the sudden assault of Eorl's own vanguard, who had followed in his wake, strikes them like a thunderbolt. Most of them perish at once under the spears and arrows of the Northmen; those few who do not dash off in all directions, some towards their encampment, some towards the line attacking the Eotheod, some towards the makeshift infantry that pinned the Gondorians inside their fortifications, and some wherever they might to save their own skins."

"'This is the head of Ashgarkan, son of dogs and vipers!' shouts Eorl, as his amazed vanguard cries out joyously. 'Follow me!' command Eorl, 'We shall carry it back to the battle, and show it to our lads! Let the enemy see it and despair!' With a shout of victory, they wheel about and follow their young chieftain, who pursues the fleeing bodyguards towards the rear of the Wainriders' line of chariots."

"As some of the bodyguards dash across the battlefield, crying of their late Kakan's cowardly death at the hands of a single Northman, those Balcoth fighting against the Eotheod hear their dispiriting cries. 'The Kakan is slain by a Northman stripling!' 'The Kakan was a coward, punished by the gods!' 'The Sky-gods have forsaken us!'

"The warriors, busily engaged in pitched battle with the Eotheod, or else waiting to take their place in combat, do not pause to heed these cries. But the chariot-drivers, many of whom could not force their way past the line of broken bodies created by their first charge, react with scorn and disbelief. Yet they cannot help but wonder why their great Kakan's bodyguard would doom themselves to certain torture and execution by trying to demoralize them in the heat of battle. Had they lost their minds?"

"Then they see a small group of Northmen approach from behind their lines, shouting exultantly. Even as some of the drivers begin to wheel their chariots around to mow down these impudent fools, the more far-sighted amongst them begin to see what their leader holds from his hand…the dripping, severed head of Ashgarkan himself!"

"The drivers cannot not deny the evidence of their own senses. No longer scorning the bodyguards, they began to join them in wailing in shock and fear. Some of the younger and less disciplined of them break formation and began to ride off in all directions, carrying their astonished warriors with them, unsure whether to spread to the terrible news to others of their tribe, or to flee for their lives now that the Sky Gods have surely turned against their people. This trickle soon became a flood, as the panic of the fleeing drivers and bodyguards begins to infect those Balcoth, warriors and drivers alike, who were still engaged in battle with the Eotheod. Without even knowing the reason for the flight of their comrades, they know no driver or warrior of the Balcoth would dare flee from battle and face the terrible wrath of the great Kakan unless some unspeakable calamity has occurred, one which would put those who flee beyond the reach of punishment by their superiors."

"The Eotheod, seeing this sudden weakness and confusion in their foes, redouble their efforts, the war-fury of all Northmen rising in them as they seek to inflict a terrible revenge for the deaths of their fallen kinsmen under the wheels of the Wainriders' chariots. They are soon joined by Eorl himself and his bodyguard, who to their amazement and joy wave the severed head of the enemy chieftain Ashgarkan about as if it were a talisman. Surging with confidence, they hurl themselves against the Wainriders, more and more of whom are fleeing the battlefield, in chariots or on foot, as the momentum of desertion from their ranks proves unstoppable by their frantic commanders. The tables were turned on the Balcoth, for those who did not flee the battle can no longer coordinate their assult against the Eotheod in another massed charge; one by one, their chariots are surrounded and their drivers and warriors cut down by the spears and arrows of the Northmen."

"Meanwhile, in the broad encampment of the Balcoth, the torrent of charioteers fleeing the battle against the Northmen begins to panic those drivers and warriors who have been struggling to hitch their horses to their chariots and join their comrades in battle. Their panic is stirred into the flames of pandemonium as word begins to spread amongst their ranks that their great and fearsome Kakan, the Conqueror of the World was no more; that he had even, as his shocked bodyguards claim, died a coward's death."

"Instantly, shorn of the guiding will of Ashgarkan, their lust for battle quenched by fear that the Sky-gods have turned against them, they look only to their own welfare, seeking to save their own skins rather than fight and die for a cause which their gods surely scorn and disavow – for why else would they allow the Kakan to die, and an unmanly death at that? They still possess a vast numerical advantage, yet their numbers avail them nothing; without Ashgarkan, and in the grip of superstitious fear, they are like a colony of ants whose queen has been slain. They dash about frantically, to no purpose and with no common aim."

"In the Gondorian encampment General Erendras, surveying the scene from his hilltop encampment, had thanked the Valar for the timely arrival of the Northmen, though he fears they are too few in number. But the sudden wailing from the Balcoth's camps and the chaotic flight of so many of their warriors on chariot, horseback, and even on foot amazes him. At first his wariness leads him to suspect a trap, but his practiced eye soon leads him to realize that the Rhunlings could not afford to design a trap that leaves so many holes in their defences; nor was their any need for such a stratagem on their part, given their overwhelming numbers. As he contemplates how to respond, he notices that riders fleeing from the Rhunlings' encampment have reached the mass of their warriors on foot who had been left to keep the Gondorians pinnined within their fortifications while the bulk of the Rhunlings' forces lifted the siege to combat the Northmen. The same panic that infects the Rhunlings further afield is now manifested amongst these warriors on foot, some of whom throw down their shields and began to flee the scene, while other argue bitterly or dash about purposelessly, as if unsure of what they were about."

"Knowing an opportunity when he sees one, Erendras promptly issues orders to his men. Within minutes, a series of hidden doors and gates in the earthwork ramparts and wooden fortifications of the encampment are opened, and orderly columns of Gondorian infantry began to stream out of them, aiming directly at the wavering host of Rhunlings below. Swiftly forming into wedge formations, their black rectangular shields embossed with the White Tree design held up in a shield wall, their spears thrusting outward, the Gondorians charge the Rhunling warriors at the base of the hill. A volley of arrows from within the encampment first alerts the panicked, squabbling Rhunlings that they are under attack, and the sudden charge of the Gondorian infantry sends chaos through their ranks."

"Some Rhunlings choose to stand and fight no matter what grim rumours they have heard, while many others choose to cut and run. But without their Kakan, the rigid chain of command on which they all rely for orders and direction has broken down entirely; the commanders of the Rhunlings had been selected for their loyalty to Ashgarkan, and have no experience with and, it seems, little talent for taking the initiative by themselves. Rather than facing a united front of ten-thousand Rhunling warriors on foot, the Gondorians face a completely disorganized mob, many of whom are more interested in fleeing the scene than holding their ground."

The storyteller took another pull at this mug of ale, and said, "That ends the immediate narrative of the battle; the tale then resumes its form of a chronicle, and continues as follows:"

"The results were as predictable as they were deadly. Gondor prided itself on having the finest professional infantry in the length and breadth of Middle Earth, and its boast was not in vain. With cold efficiency the Gondorian soldiers went to work, smashing into the quavering ranks of the Balcoth, butchering them with spear and sword until it seemed the very ground was drenched with the blood of Rhunlings. The terrible casualties suffered by these hapless Men, who had been led far from their homes in the East by the vain ambitions of their slain Chief of Chiefs, sapped what courage was left to the Rhunlings. Hoping for no mercy from the Gondor-men – for they themselves had never show mercy to anyone – they either fell on their own swords, or threw down their shields and ran as fast as they could towards the river Limlight, hoping to flee the ill-fated Field of Celebrant and find their way back to the Anduin and make passage to its eastern shore."

"Erednras pressed home his advantage, sweeping away the last vestiges of the force of Rhunlings who had surrounded his encampment, when sending details to begin to repair at once the damage that had been done to the outer defences by days of siege. He also ordered his forces of heavy cavalry to hunt down and slay the Rhunlings who retreated on foot, while his light cavalry were ordered scour the battlefield and return with news of how the battle was progressing between the Northmen and the Rhunlings to the north, and also of how many Rhunlings appeared to have abandoned their encampment of felt tents."

"Perhaps half an hour had elapsed before some of the light cavalry scouts returned, reporting that the Rhunlings were abandoning their own encampment, and that many of them were fleeing towards the Limlight, while others fled towards the Anduin. Erendras was more than pleased by the news, yet mystified as well. 'Why, in the names of all the Valar, did they lose their nerve?' he asked himself repeatedly."

"Perhaps another quarter of an hour elapsed before he received his answer. Several of his scouts returned with a party of a dozen or so riders. One of them was his own Herald Gelion, who looked rather the worse for wear with a fresh scimitar gash marring his cheek and forhead, but was never the less very much alive and in once piece. The rest were Northmen, though of these only one stood out."

"But such a one Erendras had never seen before! Though very young, barely more than a stripling, he had an air of command and confidence Erendras recognized as belonging to a natural leader, a man not afraid to take risks, and what was more charismatic enough to persuade his people to share in the dangers he had chosen for himself. He sat on a steed whose beauty and proud mein were so great that the good General, who had spent the better part of his life around horses in the field, could not help but gasp when he saw it. Yet most strangely of all, this young Northman bore in his right hand a grotesquerie; the severed head of a Rhunling, speckled with clotted blood, its glazed-over eyes frozen in a perpetual stare of shock and disbelief."

"Gelion spoke a few words in the uncouth tongue of the Northmen, and the young man on his magnificent steed nodded and then rode his horse at a canter toward the General, who stood on foot on the muddy, blood-soaked ground. Without preliminaries he flung the severed head in the mud at Erendras' feet, and then spoke in a crude dialect of the Common Tongue of Gondor:"

"'I am Eorl son of Leod, Chieftain of the Eotheod, known to my people as Eorl the Young,' said the Northman. 'There in the muck before you lies the head of Ashgarkan, he who has vexed Gondor exceedingly of late. Without their chieftain, these Easterling cowards are fleeing the scene, just as I prophesied they would. They have abandoned their camp, and many disgracefully fled the battle with my own cavalry, despite their superior numbers and the terrible losses we suffered in their first charge. My lads are hunting them down and putting them to the sword even as we speak. It sees your boys are doing the same, from what I saw on my ride here. Mark you; not one of these Easterling maggots should be left alive to crawl back to this people in the East. Let those who sought to enslave us perish unknown in a distant land far from their own kin, never to be heard from again."

"General Erendras remained silent for a moment as he pondered these harsh and bold words. If the boy spoke the truth, and this was indeed the head of Ashgarkan, that at least would explain the sudden panicked flight and hopeless disorganization of the Rhunlings, whose army had seemed more than competent but a day before. Indeed, there was no other explanation that made sense. Cut off the head, as an old proverb from Lebennin had it, and the body will soon follow."

"Erendras then bowed gracefully, and assumed at once the mantle of a courtier of the Steward of Gondor speaking to a valued guest. 'A thousand welcomes and ten-thousand thanks, o Eorl son of Leod,' said Erendras, in the antique style in vogue at the court of the Steward Cirion. 'Though neither all the gems beneath the earth, nor all the stars of the sky could repay such courage as you and your people have shown this august day, yet Gondor in its sovereign majesty…'"

"'Enough talk!' exclaimed Eorl bluntly, in the tactless style for which the Northmen had long been infamous. 'There is only one reward that interests me for my labours and those of my kinsmen, and it is the one promised me by your Herald Gelion.'"

"Erendras, standing straight up once again, allowed his grey eyes to dart briefly towards Gelion. He noted the man's normally sun-bronzed face was ashen grey, and his left hand trembled as with a palsy. Was he feeling the effects of the sword stroke which had grazed his skull? Or was he fearful that he had promised more gold than his General was willing or able to pay these towheaded auxiliaries? Three chests of gold coins were stored securely in Erendras' tent, but he began to wonder if he might need a fourth."

"'In terms of the gold that shall be paid to you as a token of Gondor's friendship and esteem, of its gratitude for your loyal services….' he began, only to be interrupted by the young chieftain."

"'Gold does not interest me!' cried Eorl, his blue eyes shining fiercely. 'I have it aplenty. I have upheld my part of the bargain, Son of Gondor, and now you must uphold yours – or that made by your herald on your behalf, and to which I hold you. It is in land that my people are poor, and it is in land that we shall be paid. Tell me, where is the land allotted to my people? I would see it with my own eyes, before calling our wives and children to make the long journey south from Framsburg to their new homes.'"

"'Land?' asked Erendras faintly, his own skin turning as pale as Gelion's."

"'Yes, land!' replied Eorl swiftly. 'Your Herald promised us a generous allotment of land in Gondor's territories, to be ceded to my people forever. It was for this prize alone that we fought and won this battle for you,' he continued, not entirely ingenuously."

"'You promised what?' hissed Erendras, his composure completely forgotten for the moment. He glowered darkly at Gelion, who seemed to shrink back in his saddle.

"'Forgive me, sir,' replied Gelion, holding up both hands. 'But you instructed me to take all necessary measures to enlist the Northmen to our aid. I have done so, and they have carried the day for us, as you have seen.'"

"'I see that we have purchased the freedom of Gondor at the price of surrendering who knows how much of its soil to these towheaded barbarians!' shouted Erendras, no longer bothering to disguise his hot-blooded fury. 'Has our proud nation sunk so low in these latter days? Fool! How can you have presumed the authority to make such a bargain? The Steward Cirion will have both your head and mine on the chopping block!'"

"'Mind your words, Gondor-man!' interjected Eorl coolly. "Do not call my people barbarians. You would do well to remember it is our valour alone that saved your skins this day." He had backed away from the General, and his bodyguard were now fingering the hilts of their swords. Erendras' own Gondorian infantry men had swiftly formed a screen of shields and spears around the Northmen, making a sudden fight an all-too-real possibility."

"'Do not speak to me thus, Eorl son of Leod!' shot back Erendras. 'I am a General of the Army of Gondor, a loyal servant of the Steward Cirion. The blood of the Sea-Kings flows in my veins, and for all that I look but fifty I have walked this earth for eighty-six years. Respect is due - beginning with your addressing me by my proper title.'"

"'Then listen well, General," replied Eorl. "I had hoped for peace and friendship between our peoples when the Wainriders were defeated. I do not want to see one battle piled on top of another, with many of the Easterlings not yet slain, and still able to cause mischief. But I will not tell my Men they have fought in vain, for many of them have died this day, even my own standard-bearer Guntram. By the gods of my people, I shall exact your Herald's promise from Gondor to the last letter, and by force of arms if I must. You shall not evade the price of land that is due to us."

"Erendras looked ready to pull the youthful Eorl off his horse and strike him down, but one of his adjutants took hold of his arm. "With respect, sir," said the adjutant, "no matter the depths of Gelion's folly, this is not a matter that can be settled by the military authority. Gelion's promise was on behalf of Gondor itself, and on that account only the Steward Cirion personally can settle this matter. Might I propose that when the last remants of the Easterlings have been dispatched, this Northman, this Eorl son of Leod, accompany us to Minas Tirith? Let him present his case before the Steward, and let the Steward give his judgment in the name of the King Who Shall Return."

"Erendras, still breathing heavily, remained silent for a few moments. Then he nodded gruffly. 'By the Valar, Captain Tilion, you have spoken well. I cannot gainsay your logic. So be it.' Facing Eorl again, he continued, 'Will you agree, Eorl son of Leod? When the enemy is utterly vanquished and the Field of Celebrant secured, will you accompany us to Minas Tirith and accept the judgment of the Steward?'"

"If I must travel to the Mundburg to obtain for my people the lands owing to them,' replied Eorl, using the name given by the Northmen to the famed White City of Gondor, 'so be it. But this judgment of your Steward's had better be nothing more than a confirmation of Gelion's promise. If I am swindled by the fancy words for which you Gondor-men are famous, then by the gods I will not forgive or forget it!"

"'We shall see,' replied Erendras curtly "Return here at Noon tomorrow, for our march southward shall begin at that time.' 'Sergeant!' he then barked at a nearby infantryman. 'Place the Herald Gelion under arrest. Strip him of his weapons and confine him to his quarters. Give him medical attention, but keep him under guard at all times. He shall accompany me to Minas Tirith to face the Steward's judgment of his words and deeds. You men over there,' he continued, gesturing to the screen of infantry around Eorl and his bodyguard, 'stand aside and let the Northmen return to their own ranks.'"

"The Gondorian soldiers moved swiftly, and all was as Erendras had ordered. Gelion was taken into custody, and Eorl and his men returned to their own army, which under the direction of its commanders had split into several smaller groups, and was mercilessly harrying any surviving Wainriders that they could find. They were soon assisted by parties of Gondorian cavalry and infantry, who also torched the Wainriders' tents, smashed the wheels of their chariots, and unleashed their horses to roam freely on the grassy plains of the Field of Celebrant. "

"What was left of the battle soon wore down to a murmur, and Eorl delegated the mopping-up tasks to his commanders, while retreating to the privacy of the tent that had been prepared for him. He felt sorry for Gelion, for whom he had taken a liking on their ride south together, but for the most part he was consumed by worries over his new troubles. He had promised his people land, and he knew that his own rule as Chief of the Eotheod depended on fulfillment of that promise. Over a thousand Men of the Eotheod, sons, brothers and husbands, had been slain by the Wainriders because Eorl had sworn that new lands in the South for all the Eotheod would be the reward for the bravery of its warriors. If he failed them in that promise, then not only would shame and dishonour be heaped upon him, but his own line, that of Fram the Worm-slayer, might very well be brought to a swift and ignoble end by the vengeful relatives of the fallen."

"Pondering this, Eorl feared all the more the traps that might me laid for him at the Mundburg. There was not an enemy in the world whom he feared on the field of battle, as the events of the day had shown; but an elder in the council chambers was a foe to be reckoned with by a young man unversed in the arts of word-craft. All the moreso when that foe was a Gondorian, for the skill of that ancient people at twisting words and finding cryptic meanings in clear speech was legendary amongst the plain-spoken Northmen. Fearing what the morrow might bring, Eorl slept fitfully that night, feeling little of the thrill of victory enjoyed by his victorious warriors.'"

The storyteller paused briefly, taking a long draught from his mug of ale. Wiping his bearded mouth on his grey sleeve, he then continued:

"So the tale enters upon its last stage, though perhaps the last part is the most important.

The next morning Eorl awoke early, and summoned his bodyguard to him, ordering them to be ready to depart for the Gondorian encampment at a moments' notice. He received reports from his commanders, who confirmed that those of the Wainriders who had fled the battle had either drowned in the marshes of the Limlight, or drowned when crossing that river or attempting to swim the broad Anduin; or else they had been hunted down and slain either on the Field of Celebrant itself, or the grassy plains south of the Limlight. A few might have slipped through the net, but even so not one living Wainrider could be found anywhere west of Anduin."

"Eorl grunted in satisfaction, and then set about the funeral arrangements for the fallen. Tradition dictated they should be burned at nightfall in the presence of their chieftain, but Eorl did not have the time to wait; he ordered the pyres to be constructed at once. It was a labour of some hours, but by Noon the pyres had been lit, and the souls of the fallen commended to their ancestors. They had not been fully extinguished when he departed with his bodyguard, leaving word to his commanders that the Eotheod were to camp on the Field of Celebrant, sustaining themselves on their rations and the bounty of the countryside roundabout, while he traveled to the Mundburg to receive formally the promised grant of land from the Steward of Gondor - a bluff Eorl prayed fervently would not be exposed as false. He soon arrived at the Gondorian encampment, and found that it had already been disassembled and was ready to march."

"He was led to General Erendras, who nodded curtly had him, but offered no formal words of greeting. The General barked his orders, and then Gondor's Army of the North began its long march back to Minas Tirith, awaiting the laurels of victory and the thanks of a greatful people. Only Erendras and Gelion felt they had little to celebrate, and on that account they seemed even more taciturn than Eorl."

"'The army crossed the narrow but treacherous shallows of the Limlight, and thus passed over the frontiers of Gondor and into its northernmost province of Calenardhon. They came across several parties of Eotheod, returning from their slaughter of the fleeing Wainriders. Erendras had glowered at them with suspicion, and Eorl felt it prudent to order his men to quit Gondor's territory and join their comrades at the Field of Celebrant. They did so eagerly, but Eorl noted to his displeasure that Erendras suddenly ordered full five-hundred of his light infantry and half as many cavalry to separate from the army and maintain a watch on the frontier until they received further orders. Doing their best to hide their disappointment at their delayed homecoming, they made north for the Limlight, believing that their purpose was to snare any remaining stragglers from the Rhunlings. Eorl knew very well that their real purpose was surely to keep a watch for any further incursions by the Eotheod on Gondorian soil, which they would be bound to report; but he wisely held his tongue for the time being."

"So the army marched south for many days, as the weather grew from warm to hot and the Sun from bright to fierce. Eorl and his lads were sweating uncomfortably in the late spring heat, but even so they looked with admiring eyes on the broad, rolling lands about, whose bright green grasses bespoke the fertility of the soil. Felarof neighed and whinnied joyously many times as they crossed Calenardhon, and each night when the army stopped to make camp he would gallop about the meadows, and feed eagerly on the lush, sweet grass. Yet there were no houses, nor cultivated fields, nor any sign of habitation by Men. It seemed there was indeed land and to spare - good land - to be had for the taking in Gondor. It was simply a question of Eorl claiming his due."

"At length, the army crossed the river Entwash, and the scenery changed abruptly. The blue haze that had long smudged the southern horizon swiftly reared up into huge, snow-capped mountains – the Ered Nimrais or White Mountains of Gondor, half again as tall as the Misty Mountains with which Eorl was familiar. They soon came upon a broad, stone-flagged road, which they followed to the East for many miles."

"The road then turned South, and the army continued along its swift way. It was early summer now, and the climate and scenery changed yet again. It was blazing hot; a fierce, humid heat such as Eorl could never have imagined possible, and in which he never could have felt comfortable. The land seemed parched, and he noted there were many strange trees and plants the likes of which he had never seen or heard before. A Gondorian officer tried to explain to him the great value of the olive tree, and the many uses to which it was put by the Gondor-men, but Eorl paid him little heed. His chief thought was that any land south of the White Mountains would surely be too hot, too dry, and too alien to be of any use to a northerly people like the Eotheod. When he met this Steward Cirion, he would be sure to focus his claims for land on the green province of Calenardhon."

"At length, one sunny day at the height of noon, the army began to mount a crest in the road, beyond which lay a spectacular view. Eorl could see the broad river Anduin flowing to his left, growing browner and lazier as it neared the encircling seas that lay not far beyond the Southern horizion. An intricate series of trenches and scattered boulders of stone scarred a vast swath of land on both sides of the Anduin, though Eorl could not imagine its purpose. To the East of Anduin, the land rose up abruptly through dark pine-forests into black, barren, jagged mountains that seemed to scrape the the sky like giant claws. Eorl shuddered at the sight, without fully knowing why, and turned his attention to the West instead."

"There, climbing up the lower slopes of a vast, snow-crowned mountain peak stood a sight that caused Eorl to exclaim aloud in shock, and his bodyguard to cry out to their gods. The Mundburg, the Minas Tirith of the Gondor-men, was at last before his view!"

"Eorl simply could not believe his eyes. He had known that the Mundburg was, famously, built of stone - which in itself was strange to him, for that was a building material alien to the Northmen. Yet he had assumed that the reports of its gigantic size were nothing more than legends. Truly, every Man measures things by the standards of what he knows, and it was inconceivable to Eorl that Minas Tirith could be much larger than his own wood-beamed and turf-roofed town of Framsburg."

"Yet here was Minas Tirith in all its glory; its smooth stone walls, each hundreds of feet high, rising tier-upon-tier sevenfold up the slopes of the mountain, the spaces within each tier crowded with stone mansions the least of which put his Great Hall at Framsburg to shame. More than a mile its lowest tier sprawled out into the plain, and half a mile and more it climbed up the mountain slopes. Its highest tier was crowned with a mighty- pillared citadel of creamy white stone, and by a thin, snow white tower, soaring perhaps some three-hundred feet above the courtyard of the highest tier. That tower surveyed the lands about, distant and remote from the world far below."

"'Surely the gods themselves must have built this place!' exclaimed Eorl, who despite himself could not suppress his wonder and admiration – which perhaps were not untinted with a twinge of envy. 'To build such walls, to build a thing so vast…it is beyond the powers of mortal Men!'"

"There was a time,' observed General Erendras – who had remained close to Eorl throughout the entire journey, even though he spoke to him very little – 'when the Men who built this city were so esteemed that the High Elves of the West themselves accounted them as wise as the Valar. But in the end they proved but Men, subject to time, folly, and decay like all the rest.' He searched Eorl's face, as if for some sign of knowledge of these matters, but finding none he frowned dourly and spurred on his mount to the last stage of the journey, Eorl following in his wake."

"Thus it was on a late afternoon in summer that Eorl the Young passed for the first time through the steel outer gates of Minas Tirith, past the statue of King Anarion the Fair which has stood in the public square of the lowest tier since time immemorial, and found himself in a true city of Men."

"The army began to disperse into companies that returned to their barracks or, for the married men, to their homes. But Erendras, accompanied by Eorl and his bodyguards, and with Gelion in tow under escort as a prisoner, proceed directly along the main road that zig-zagged up the mountainside towards the citadel. Through the first level they rode, and then the climbed up the second, and the third. Felarof seemed uneasy amongst the press of the crowd in the narrow city streets, many of whom stared and pointed both at the magnificent horse and its exotic rider, but Eorl whispered words of comfort to the steed and he remained calm. Up and up they climbed, the air becoming noticeably cooler in the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth levels."

"Finally, as they reached the crest of the sixth level, the Gondorians dismounted, and motioned for Eorl and his men to do the same. 'Horses are forbidden in the Fountain Court or anywhere about the Citadel on the seventh level,' explained Erendras briefly. Eorl looked on with some reluctance as Felarof, who appeared dangerously skittish, still followed the other horses that were led away by the stablehands, from whom Eorl exacted a promise that on no account were they to so much as to touch his steed. Thinking this some custom of the Northmen they humoured him, unaware it seemed of the peril to their lives if they roused the magnificent steed before them to deploy his lethally quick hooves. Eorl would have preferred not to have been parted from Felarof at all, but reasoned he could not afford to offend a Gondorian law when about to enter into negotiations of grave importance with the Steward of the realm.'"

"Eorl and his men followed Erendras, the prisoner Gelion, and several Gondorian guardsmen through a series of dark, narrow tunnels burrowed into the living rock of the mountainside, and climbed a flight of stone steps from which they emerged once again into the bright daylight. They had now reached the seventh level of the city, and Eorl took the opportunity to examine it up close. It was quite different in character from the lower levels, for they were given over to the common people of Gondor, but the seventh level was reserved only for the Steward, his servants, retinue and guards, and his most valued guests. Despite the bright Sun a notably cool breeze flowed down perpetually from the massive snow-covered mountain to the West, which upon inquiry a guard told him was named Mindoluin."

"They followed a gravel-surfaced trail to a grassy court, in the centre of which was a pool and a fountain, and the dead, withered husk of an exotic-looking tree. Four guards garbed in archaic armour and tunics and wildly impractical silver helmets decked with the wings of seabirds stood at attention about the tree, holding their spears at the ready. Eorl guessed that the tree surely was connected to the image of the White Tree sported by every banner, tunic and shield in the Gondorian army, and perhaps had been the same one in life, though he could not imagine why it merited a constant guard. He declined to ask, though, for his attention was on more pressing matters."

"Passing the Fountain Court (as the court of the Tree was known), they found themselves at a flight of steps that led up to the marble-pillared and vaulted Citadel. Eorl whistled as he stared up at the building, which appared even vaster from up close than it had from afar, and also at the slender nearby tower, which to the south of the Citadel rose nearly three-hundred feet above the Fountain Court. This tower was of snow-white stone, which stood in contrast to the creamy-white masonry of the Citadel, and appeared even to Eorl's inexpert eye to be much more recent in construction. 'The Tower of Calimecthar, from which the Steward surveys the lands about the lower Anduin from afar,' grunted Erendras, who had noted Eorl's interest in the building. 'Come!' The bronze doors of the Citadel swung open - though no servants had appared to open them - and Eorl followed the Gondorians into the cool, dark recesses of the Throne Room.'"

"As they proceeded over the marble floor, Eorl took in the onyx pillars, the arched windows that let in narrow beams of sunlight, and the high, vaulted marble roof. He had never been in such a room before; somehow it struck his youthful sensibilities as alien and even oppressive, as if weighed down by the burden of too many long centuries. This feeling was reinforced by the countless statues set into recesses along the walls, each one, its face and robes carved in stone in astonishingly lifelike fashion, representing a long-dead King from the days when Kings had still ruled Gondor."

"At last, approaching the western end of the Throne Room, Eorl saw clearly amid the dim light the throne itself, a massive, heavy seat carved out of stone, and approached by a flight of steps. Above the throne was the image of winged crown carved in sliver, which hung suspended by a chain from the rafters. Yet the Throne itself was vacant, as it had been for nearly five-hundred years. At its base and to Eorl's right was a narrow, high-backed chair of polished black wood, and it was in this Steward's Chair that Cirion sat, and from which he ruled his sprawling realm."

"Cirion the Steward himself was a man of perhaps sixty years in appearance, though his face belied his age; the blood of the Sea Kings, the Numenoreans of old flowed strongly in his veins, and he was well over one-hundred years old. Yet his smooth-shaven face had but few lines, and his white hair seemed dignified rather than hoary. His grey eyes had dark pupils that seemed like deep pools of water, which concealed far more than they showed. He was dressed in simple robes of plain black cloth, though he did sport an elegant silver necklace to which was affixed an antique medallion bearing the engraved image of the White Tree."

"He sat silently, calm and tranquil, while the necessary rituals were performed. Erendras, Gelion, and the other Gondorians bowed deeply before him. Eorl noted that Gelion's face appeared wan and pale, but he seemed determined to maintain his composure before his lord. Eorl's bodyguard bowed likewise as a gesture of respect for this powerful outlander. Eorl himself did not wish to bow before a man whom he considered no more than his equal in authority, and so he merely nodded his head politely."

"Cirion's eyes now appeared cold, and he turned his attention to Eorl. Signalling to the others that they could stand at ease, he spoke directly to the young chieftain, saying, 'Eorl son of Leod, by what right do you not pay the Steward of Gondor the respect of bowing in his presence?'"

"'By right of brotherhood,' replied Eorl, 'the botherhood of one ruler of Men to another.'"

"'Know you not,' replied Cirion, 'that I rule this land in the name of the King of Gondor, and exercise the authority of his sovereign majesty? What Man can claim botherhood with the line of the Kings of Numenor of old?'"

"'No King has ruled this land in ages,' replied Eorl bluntly, drawing on what little he knew of Gondor and its history. 'You rule your land and I rule mine. And it is to discuss land that I am here; a promise was made to me by yon herald, Gelion, and I mean to exact it from you.'"

Cirion smiled thinly at this flaxen-haired boy's impudence, and then turned his attention to Gelion.

"'Prisoner Gelion,' said the Steward, 'is it true that you promised a concession of land by Gondor to Eorl and his people, in exchange for their aid in the battle against the Rhunlings?'"

"'It is, my lord,' admitted Gelion simply."

"Erendras, appearing puzzled, interjected. 'My lord,' he said, 'if I may be so bold, how did you know of this, when I sent no messengers ahead to inform you of it? I had wished to keep the matter secret from as many of our people as possible, and bring the matter to you attention myself, here and now.'"

"'The eyes of the White Tower see farther than most Men can imagine, General Erendras,' replied Cirion, with a cryptical smile. 'Ask not how I know this thing, and content yourself that I do.' Turning back to Gelion, the Steward asked sternly, 'By what authority did you do this thing, to grant any of Gondor's sovereign territory to outlanders in exchange for any price?'"

"'I had no authority to do so, my lord,' admitted Gelion, who refused now to look Eorl in the eye. 'I was instructed by General Erendras to say or do whatever was necessary to obtain the aid of the Northmen in battle, and I did so.'"

"Eorl waxed wroth, as he began to realize he had been used as a pawn. 'A thousand of my Men like dead on the Field of Celebrant for the sake of Gondor,' he said hotly, staring fiercely at Gelion with his bright blue eyes. 'Did they sacrifice their lives for a lie, you treacherous cur?'"

"'Peace, Eorl son of Leod!' said Cirion, turning his own stare towards the young chieftain, and strangely Eorl felt unable to reply. He kept his tongue in cheque, brooding over how he had been manipulated, while the Steward continued his interrogation:"

"'Prisioner Gelion,' said he, 'you have admitted to surrendering Gondorian territory to outlanders without first receiving the authority of the Steward, who alone may act in the name of the King Who Shall Return. This is surely treason, with which you are now formally charged. What have you to say in your defence, before I pass judgment and sentence upon you?'"

"His voice wavering only slightly, Gelion replied, 'My defence is necessity, my lord. Had I not promised what I did, the Northmen would not have fought for us; had they not fought for us, we would have lost the battle against the Rhunlings; had we lost the battle against the Rhunlings, those savages would even now be laying waste to Anorien, and besieging us here at Minas Tirith. On what account is it treason to do what was necessary to save this realm from disaster? Treason the charge may be, but I reject it; necessity is my defence.'"

"Cirion was silent for a time, as if pondering the matter deeply. Turning to Gelion, his face grim, he said, 'Well spoken, though it is said that facing the prospect of the headsman's axe can concentrate the mind powerfully. No matter; Prisoner Gelion, on the evidence before me I find you guilty of treason against the realm of Gondor.'"

"Gelion's face turned ashen pale, and he bowed his head in shame and fear. But then Cirion smiled shrewdly. 'Mark you," he said, "I had no choice in the verdict. The facts were clear, and the law is the law. But now to the matter of your sentence.'"

"'Gelion stared upward, the barest trace of hope in his eyes. 'Though the sentence for treason is death,' continued Cirion, 'it is in my power as Steward to apply the Royal Prerogative of Mercy. Since you did what you did out of the noblest of intentions – your desire to preserve the freedom and security of Gondor – and since it is thanks to you that the Northmen carried the day for us on the Field of Celebrant, I shall exercise that prerogative now. I hereby commute your sentence entirely. You are no longer a prisoner, and are free to go from hence at once.'"

"Cirion nodded to the guards, who swiftly removed the cuffs that had bound Gelion's hands together. Some of the colour returning to his face, Gelion replied, 'A thousand thanks for your mercifulness, my lord. But where I shall go and what I shall do, I know not. My career in the Army is finished, now that I am disgraced by conviction as a traitor.'"

"'As the supreme commander of Gondor's army,' replied the Steward, 'that is my affair. I hereby order that no mention of your conviction shall be included in your record.' Gelion seemed surprised, and the Steward smiled again. 'Moreover, in these dark times I have need of Men who are bold and daring, Men who are not afraid to risk all in order to do what must be done. I therefore promote you henceforth from Herald to the rank of Colonel, serving under General Erendras.'"

"Gelion appared astonished now, no less so than Erendras. 'General,' continued Cirion, 'take Colonel Gelion with you to the barracks. Exact the necessary oaths from him to formalize his new commission. Organize a regiment of volunteers to be placed under his command. Report back to me from time to time on his progress in bringing the regiment to fighting-trim shape under his leadership.'"

"'As you wish, my lord,' replied Erendras formally, though his astonishment was still evident on his face."

"'A hundred-thousand thanks, my lord!' exclaimed Gelion gratefully. 'I am in your debt. I hope only not to disappoint you.'"

"'See that you don't, Colonel,' replied Cirion, his manner once again cool and reserved. 'The Steward of Gondor rewards success and punishes failure with equal vigour.'"

"The Gondorians bowed deeply and marched back toward the exit from the Throne Room, leaving the Steward to turn his attention once again to Eorl and his men. Eorl had now found his tongue, and was quick to use it."

"'A happy ending for Gelion,' exclaimed Eorl bitterly, 'who has been rewarded for his slyness and false promises. But what of me and my people? I stand and before you a victim of fraud at the hands of your subordinates. I demand justice, and by the gods I shall exact it.'"

"Cirion now had a bemused smile on his face. 'The hot temper of the Northmen mixed with the bold impetuousness of youth,' said he. 'Your success on the field of battle is in part explained. Less skilled are you in the arts of counsel and speechcraft, where you have much to learn.'"

"'Do you mean to bandy words all day?' asked Eorl grimly. 'What say you? Shall you grant a just result to the Eotheod, or must we claim it ourselves?'"

"'Do not make idle threats, Eorl son of Leod,' replied Cirion, no longer smiling. He stood to his feet, and Eorl noted to his surprise that the old man was even taller than himself. 'Gondor benefitted from your aid on the Field of Celebrant, but our army is still larger and better trained and disciplined than yours. You would fare ill if you tried to take our lands by force, for our strength does not rest upon that of a single Man as did the Rhunlings'. Moreover, this time you would not have supernatural aid from the Lady of the Golden Wood to lead you to victory.'"

"Eorl's bodyguards began to whisper amongst themselves at this strange remark, and Eorl felt distinctly uncomfortable. He knew well the superstitiousness of his people, that notwithstanding their friendship with Radagast the Brown they exhibited a fierce hatred of anyone amongst their own kindred so much as suspected of witchcraft and sorcery."

"'Is that your reply to me, then?' asked Eorl, trying to maintain his composure. "

"'Indeed it is not,' said the Steward. 'I have many things to say to you, but only in private.' He snapped his fingers, and a coterie of brown-liveried servants appeared from the shadows of the alcove behind the throne. 'Take these men to the guest quarters," he said, gesturing to Eorl's bodyguard, "and see to it they are well-fed and cared for.' Turning again to Eorl, he said, 'Accompany me on a walk, Eorl son of Leon, and we shall discuss Gelion's promises to you.'"

"Sensing that all might not be lost, Eorl nodded to his men, who followed the servants towards their waiting hot baths and sumptuous meal. Cirion took Eorl by the arm, and led him down the long onyx-pillared corridor of the Throne Room, through the bronze doors (which again mysteriously opened without any human agency), and into the fading daylight of late-afternoon. They continued to walk, down the steps and past the Fountain Court, and down a long gravel path over a stone-flagged courtyard."

"At length, they reached the very pinnacle of the seventh level of Minas Tirith, and stood by a low stone wall. Immediately below the wall was a drop of hundreds of feet towards the sixth level, and a view thousands of feet down towards the first level, and many miles across towards the East."

"Releasing his hold on Eorl's arm, Cirion now pointed eastward, waving his own arm in a broad gesture."

"'Eorl son of Leod,' he said, 'tell me what you see.'"

"Puzzled, Eorl replied, 'This city, the river Anduin, its valley, and mountains on the horizon.'"

"Cirion narrowed his eyes. Still pointing eastward, he said, 'No, tell me what you see yonder.'"

"Eorl now focused his gaze on the black, jagged mountains that frowned over the Eastern horizon, looking more than ever like sharp claws, or the fangs of some beast of prey."

"'If you are pointing to those dark mountains,' he said, 'I see that their foothills are swathed in pine forests, but their sides and peaks are barren and lifeless. They have an ill-favoured look.'"

"'Indeed,' replied Cirion. 'Now, indulge me if you will. Stand here and look to the East for some minutes, and I will ask you my question again.'"

"Eorl did as he was asked, while the Sun began to sink in the western sky behind his back, behind the shoulder of Mount Mindoluin, and the mountains to the east were swiftly plunged into shadow. He stared only for a brief time after this, before pointing his own arm eastward."

"'Yonder vale, in those far mountains,' he said. 'It is…glowing, it seems. A queer corpse-light, like a willow-the-wisp one sees now and again in marshlands.'"

"'It is indeed a corpse-light' nodded Cirion grimly. 'Know you what that vale is called, and what horrors lie within? Know you indeed the name of those mountains, or the land beyond them?'"

"'I know little of Gondor and its lore,' shrugged Eorl."

"'Then listen, and prepare to add to youf store of wisdom,' replied Cirion. 'That vale is named Imlad Morgul, the Vale of Dark Sorcery in our tongue. Within lies Minas Morgul, the Tower of Dark Sorcery, ruled over for centuries by a grim and terrible lord whom Men whisper is undead.'"

"'We have heard grim rumours of this Morgul Lord, even in distant Framsburg" nodded Eorl. He began to feel his blood running cold as the superstitions of his people whispered in his ears at the news that the Morgul-lord was undead, but Cirion was not yet finished."

"'Those dark peaks,' continued the Steward, 'are called the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow. And beyond them, to the East, lies Mordor, the Black Land.'"

"Eorl's face was now pale with shock. 'That is Mordor?' he gasped. 'It lies on Gondor's very frontiers?'"

"'Of course!' exclaimed Cirion. 'Did you think otherwise?'"

"'I have only heard it described as in the 'East',' whispered Eorl. "And we know little of the lie of the lands south of the Limlight. Truth to tell it has been so long since we Eotheod have heard any news concerning the Black Land itself, I thought it almost half a legend.'"

"'The memory of mortal Men is short,' replied Cirion wryly, 'and what they forget they call a legend.'"

"Turning once again to Eorl, he continued, 'Are you aware the late Ashgarkan, whom you slew in an act as notable for its miraculousness as for bravery, styled himself the Conqueror of the World?'"

"'So Gelion said,'" nodded Eorl."

"'I have said the eyes of the White Tower see far,' continued Cirion. 'What if I told you the Morgul Lord had pleged his fealty to Ashgarkan?'"

"'That Ashgarkan in life was a powerful Man indeed, to inspire even an undead wight to fear him,' replied Eorl, feeling a sudden pang of regret that his enemy had proved a coward in the moment of truth; it lessened the glory of his own victory."

"'So thought Ashgarkan thought himself, I deem,' replied Cirion. 'Doubtless he exalted in the conceit that he was so powerful even the Morgul Lord must bend the knee to him. If so, it proves his ignorance of these matters was as profound as yours.'"

"His pride offended by this remark, and fearing the Steward meant merely to distract him, Eorl said, 'Come, what has any of this to do with the matter at hand? We are here to discuss the grant of land promised to my people.'"

"'It has everything to do with it,' replied Cirion solemnly. 'Now listen, and do not interrupt, so that you no longer number amongst the blind and deaf who wander about the world with no understanding of what they do, or the significance of what goes on about them.' He paused, and then continued."

"'If Ashgarkan thought that the Morgul Lord was his servant, then the so-called Conqueror of the World was as great a fool as he proved to be a coward at the end. For the Morgul Lord serves but one alone, a Black Master whose name I will not utter here, so close to his own land. You know him in your legends as the Dark Lord of old.'"

"'You mean…'whispered Eorl."

"'Name him not!' hissed Cirion. 'Now listen. There is no such thing in this world as coincidence, nor blind luck. The fates of Men and all other kindreds are bound up in forces and powers deeper and higher than themselves. I cannot see all; but I know that many things which have transpired over many long centuries are part of a great and terrible stratagem, a stratagem that has not yet been fully revealed.'"

"'A stratagem by whom, and to what end?' asked Eorl."

"'By the Dark Lord who dwells in Shadow,' whispered Cirion, 'or else his servant the Morgul Lord acting at his behest. It matters not which. Suffice to say, everything that has the effect of strengthening the East and South, and weakening the North and West, is part of this stratagem. All of it serves the designs of the Enemy. Ashgarkan was but a pawn, though he knew it not. Had he succeeded in conquering the Westlands, his usefulness would have been at an end, and his own death swift and sure. The Morgul Lord and his Black Master are the powers the lie behind all assaults on the lands West of Anduin, and they will stop at nothing until they have achieved their end; the utter subjugation of all of Middle Earth, unto the Breaking of the World.'"

The storyteller paused for a moment, his grey-bearded face suddenly looking haggard and grim. He stared at the faces of the crowd before him, all of which were now hushed and silent. Even the Dwarf appared grave and watchful, while old Goatleaf for once was at a loss for words. Even Butterbur was listening apprehensively, having entirely forgotten his concern with coppers and pitchers of ale. The storyteller nodded gravely, and then continued:

"'Learn now Gondor's role in this,' continued Cirion. 'All lands West of Anduin have their own troubles, some greater and some lesser. Your own people have many, though we have not been able to offer you aid and comfort till now. But you must understand why Gondor looks always to its own defenses.'"

"He gestured eastward again. 'Gondor is no ordinary realm. It is and has ever been the enemy of Mordor, the bedrock of the West, the first and last defense of the Westlands against invasion and total subjugation by the East. All our thoughts, all our efforts are directed against Mordor and the schemes of its Morgul Lord, and the Dark Enemy whom he serves. For five-hundred years, Eorl son of Leod, we have been perpetually at war.'"

"Cirion paused, searching Eorl's eyes. He then continued, 'For the sacrifice of your Men at the Field of Celebrant, I offer my sorrow; for your own bravery and mighty deeds, I have my thanks. But you must know that countless thousands of Gondorians have sacrificed their lives over the centuries so that your own people and others could live in freedom, even if not always at peace. Without the might of Gondor your people will cease to exist, unless as slaves of the Enemy.'"

"Eorl was silent for a time as he pondered these grim words and their implications. Being unlearned at statecraft, he still could not see the point of the Steward's words when it came to the matter at hand. He said, 'I will not gainsay your wisdom. But I must still ask you what these things have to do with Gelion's promise. Do you mean to grant us a concession of land, or not?"

"'I am happy to do so,' replied Cirion, to Eorl's surprise. 'I do not object to granting you virtually the entire province of Calenardhon if you wish, save only for the watchtower of Orthanc at Angrenost. Calenardhon, though its soil is rich and its climate is mild, has long been abandoned by our own people save for a handful of doughty settlers and our military patrols. I am even happy to grant you full sovereignty over those lands, recognizing you as the King of your own realm, rather than a mere Chieftain of your people who acts as a vassal of Gondor, dwelling on a lease of land from it.'"

"'Then why did you not say so at the outset?' asked Eorl, his sudden joy tempered by lingering suspicion of the wilyness and wordcraft of the Gondor-men."

"Because,' replied Cirion, 'I shall not grant these concessions to you on Gelion's terms. If you wish these boons for yourself and your people, you must satisfy my own terms instead.'"

"'And what terms are those?' asked Eorl grimly, expecting a trap to be sprung on him at any moment."

"'Gelion told you you could have a grant of lands, and even of sovereign authority over them, as the price for your aid on the Field of Celebrant,' said Cirion. 'But I deem that price too much given in exchange for too little. Gondor must have more from you before it will give you what you seek.'"

"'And what is it you wish of us?' replied Eorl warily."

"Cirion took hold of Eorl's arm, and spun him back toward the East."

"'To help defend Gondor against that,' exclaimed the Steward, gesturing toward the Black Land, "in perpetuity, not merely once. Gondor must have alliance with you, and you must swear a solemn oath, binding upon all your successors after you, that the King and the Realm of the Eotheod will answer Gondor's call whenever again we are threatened by invasion from the lands East of Anduin.'"

"'That is a high price for us to pay,' replied Eorl,'"and not that to which I had agreed.'"

"'But you shall agree notwithstanding,' replied Cirion. 'And not merely to obtain lands and title, but to secure the future of your people. Gondor is strong, but not as strong as it once was. The East waxes, and the West wanes. Gondor needs an ally, and I believe that it shall be you and your people. And you could do with a powerful ally of your own. With whom shall you align if not Gondor? And if Gondor falls to the Enemy, what hope shall there be for your people?'"

"Eorl pondered these words in silence, staring at the Mountains of Shadow. A sudden flicker in the eerie greenish corpse-glow from the Morgul Vale sent a chill down his spine, and he realized at once that there was only one decision both necessary and right."

"'I accept your terms, Steward,' nodded Eorl, uncouthly grasping Cirion's hands to seal the bargain – he felt it inapproptiate to include the full gesture of first spitting on them, as he had done with Gelion. 'Gondor shall forever grant its province of Calenardhon, save its tower at Angrenost, to my people under my own sovereign authority as King, and the sovereign authority of my line after me. In exchange, the Eotheod pledge to answer Gondor's summons to war, and fight in its defense whenever it is again invaded from the Eastlands.'"

"'So be it,'replied Cirion solemnly. "I call upon the Valar to witness our oaths, and Eru Illuvatar to seal them.'"

The storyteller paused, took another long draught from his mug of ale, and sighed. Then he continued:

"'And so we come to the final act of our tale. The Treaty of Minas Tirith was put in writing by Cirion's scribes, and signed by Cirion and Eorl within a week. Its terms were in essence as I have stated them. Eorl then returned to the Field of Celebrant with his bodyguard, to inform his warriors of the Treaty, and to lead them back to their ancient lands about Framsburg so that they might prepare their families for their great migration.'"

"The warriors were overjoyed to learn that they had been granted an entire province, indeed the largest and northernmost province of sprawling Gondor, the one which of all its provinces was most suited to their tastes in climate and vegetation. They quickly decamped the Field of Celebrant and followed the long path home, arriving at Framsburg and its surrounding lands towards the end of Summer."

"The word soon spread amongst the people, and all that autumn and winter the land was ablaze with activity, as people prepared to carry with them what they could to their new homes, and also abandon their old ones. Not everyone, it should be said, was keen on the move; some who were old, or attached to their land, or whose individual plots were relatively large and fertile, refused to leave their ancestral homelands in the Upper Vale of Anduin. Eorl did not begrudge them these sentiments, and indeed when the time came for the great migration the following Spring he released them from his authority, to dwell in their now near-empty homeland as best they could. There descendents still live in those parts today, about the shores of the Anduin near the Carrock, or along the western eves of Mirkwood, where they have mingled with kindred folk and are known as the Woodmen."

"But by far the majority of the Eotheod were more than pleased to leave their cramped and impoverished Northern homeland for broad, fertile lands under a Southern Sun. As soon as April was well under way, and the last of the snows had melted, Framsburg was put to the torch, so that its fortifications did not make it a haunt of brigands once it lay empty. Not a few tears were shed on account of this deed, but all knew that it was necessary. Once Framsburg had thus been returned to nature, the Eotheod turned their back on their homeland and set out; men, women, children, wagons full of goods, columns of cows and sheep, pigs and fowl, and most of all of horses. Warriors rode in their vanguard and at their tail, in a great column many miles long. At the head rode Eorl the Young, proud to be leading this people to a better life in a new land. And so greatful were they for his gifts to them that they began to call themselves Eorlingas after his own name, a name that those people still call themselves by to this very day."

"It was late spring when the long column of the Eorlingas crossed the River Limlight, and so into the former Gondorian province of Calenardhon; now their own land, which Eorl had chosen to name the Riddermark, in honour of the horses and horsemanship of his people, though in the Common Tonge of Gondor that name is rendered as Rohan."

"While the people set about claiming their own homesteads – a task accomplished smoothly and without conflict, for there was room and to spare – Eorl and his comrades and retainers, as well his his still-fair mother Sigrun, rode south and east to the place where the North-South road crossed the Mering Stream, which now formed part of Rohan's frontier with Gondor."

"Here, as had been arranged the previous year, they met on the western shore of the stream a party out of Minas Tirith. Steward Cirion and his retainers were there of course, and an honour guard of Gondorian infantry led by General Erendras, and by Colonel Gelion, with whom Eorl generously reconciled. Also present was a tall, thin Man with long white hair and beard, garbed in flowing robes of white, leaning on a long black staff, whom Eorl had never met before. His mein was dark and foreign, but he possessed tremendous dignity, and Eorl somehow sensed that great power lay hidden beneath his elderly form. Felarof himself shyed away from this strange Man, as if for once the great steed was afraid of a mere mortal.

"Cirion introduced the Man as Curunir, a friend of Gondor since time immemorial who had lately returned from a journey of many decades in the mysterious East and South. Cirion left them to their own devices for some minutes, and Curunir then introduced himself to Eorl as Saruman the White, a Wizard of renown. The name was not unfamiliar to Eorl's ears, for the White Wizard had long gone by the name of Saruman when he journeyed into the Northern lands, and tales of his exploits were whispered amongst the Northmen alongside those of Radagast the Brown, who was well known to them. Eorl felt uneasy in the presence of a Wizard of such tremendous age and power, but Saruman soon set his mind at ease."

"'Congratulations to you, Eorl son of Leod!' exclaimed the White Wizard, in a deep, mellow voice that was at once a balm to the listener. 'Fram's line has long been a brave one, and your own boldness has served your people well!'"

"'I am honoured by your words, Saruman,' replied Eorl."

"'The Northmen have always had a special place in my heart,' smiled Saruman. 'And you and I might soon prove to be neighbours. Long have I wandered far and wide, but I am old now and weary of traveling, and seek a place where I can dwell securely and focus on my work. In years past I have often spent my time in the Westlands at the tower of Orthanc at Angrenost, or Isengard as it is rendered into your tongue, and I am of half a mind to arrange its lease from Gondor for my own purposes. Rest assured, if you and I become neighbours, you will have my fond friendship. If you have any troubles, you need only call on me and I shall do all that is in my power to aid you.'"

"'The friendship of a Wizard is a valuable prize,' said Eorl, bowing graciously. 'Should you become our neighbour, I have no doubt that Isengard and Rohan shall remain fast friends and allies throughout the ages.'"

"'Have no doubt of that at all!' laughed Saruman, his dark eyes flashing keenly. 'But you and I can chat later, my friend. This is your day. Go and claim your just reward!'"

"Eorl thanked Saruman again, and then turned to the meadow behind him where the Gondorians awaited them. As the Rohirrim watched, and even Felarof observed keenly, Eorl sat on his knees before the Steward Cirion, who began the ceremony of coronation forthwith:"

"'Eorl son of Leod,' intoned the Steward, 'do you accept the charge of Kingship, its rights, burdens and obligations?'"

"'I do accept it,' replied Eorl solemnly."

"'Do you agree to bind your eldest male heirs to the Kingship, its rights, burdens and obligations in perpetuity?'"

"'I do so agree,' exclaimed Eorl."

"'Do you agree to abide by the Treaty of Minas Tirith, and bind your successors forever by its terms?'"

"'I do agree to so abide and to so bind,' said Eorl."

"'Will you swear oaths by all that is sacred to you to honour these agreements, and bind your sucessors to them by the power of your oaths?' asked the Steward."

"'I do so swear by the gods of the Eotheod,' replied Eorl, who felt himself suddenly moved to add, 'and also do I so swear by the Valarian gods and the god Eru Illvatar, venerated by the Gondor-men.'"

"'Bow your head,' said Cirion, and Eorl did so. Cirion made a gesture, and into his waiting hands was placed a golden crown, forged in the smithies of Minas Tirith the previous winter. Holding it over Eorl's head in both his hands, Cirion proclaimed in a strong, clear voice:"

"'By the power invested in me as Steward of the Realm of Gondor, exercising the authority and sovereign majesty of the King Who Shall Return, I name you Eorl, King of Rohan.' He placed the golden crown on Eorl's head, and stepped back. 'Arise, your majesty!' exclaimed Cirion."

"Cirion arose, and all present, both Gondorians and Rohirrim, bowed before him – save Cirion and Saruman alone, who nodded at him as equals."

"'Present the King of Rohan with his sword, shield and arms!' exclaimed Cirion. Several members of the Gondorian honour guard stepped forth, one bearing a sword, another a shield, and a third a banner affixed to a golden staff. Cirion took the magnificently-gilded sword in its bejewlled scabbard, affixed it to King Eorl's belt, and said 'With this sword shall you smite the foes of your people.' He took the shield, placed its grip in the King's left hand, and said 'With this shield shall you protect your people from harm.' He took the standard, led the King to grip its shaft with his right arm, and exclaimed, 'By these arms shall all Men know you, and with them shall you guide your people in peace and rally them in war.' Eorl looked up at the design on the banner, which like his new shield was embossed with a White Horse on a field of green – a heraldic emblem designed by Cirion's scribes, and symbolizing the magnificent steed Felarof (who had been the talk of Minas Tirith during his brief stay there) galloping across the green fields of Rohan.

"'It is done!' eclaimed Cirion. 'Hail to the King of Rohan!' 'Hail to the King!' shouted all assembled, and then there was cheering and applause, as King Eorl whistled and the steed Felarof galloped up to him. The King vaulted lightly onto the magnificent horse's back, and all agreed on how noble and majestic was their appearance – the young King, magnificently crowned, armed and armoured, astride his enchanted steed, who neighed proudly as he witnessed the great good fortune of the mortal Man he had befriended in a birch-wood in the North many years before."

"Thus from Eorl sprang the line of the Kings of Rohan, who rule that land to this very day under their current monarch Thengel, the seventeenth King; and from Felarof sprang the Mearas of Rohan, who to this day are steeds of especial magnificence and mystical power, and whom the King of Rohan alone is permitted to touch or to ride. The people themselves prospered, and even the least of them was secure for many generations from poverty or famine. They built a nation which has waxed strong and proud, the Realm of the Horse Lords. And thus, Eorl's Saga reaches its end."

The storyteller downed the last of his ale and appeared satisfied, while an approving mumur began amongst the crowd. But, one of the Bree-hobbits raised his hand shyly.

"Pardon me," he said, "but if that is the end of the saga, perhaps it is not quite the end of the tale. What happened to Eorl after he became King? And what does his tale have to do with that of Fram and Scatha the Worm?"

"A fair question," nodded the storyteller. "Eorl's fate, of course, was in the end that which awaits all mortal Men. But he lived for many long years, married happily, and sired many strong sons, the eldest of whom was named Brego. Eorl, his mother Sigrun, and his wife and children settled in a fortified longhouse at Aldburg, near the foothills of the White Mountains, and secured their vast share of Scatha's gold within a heavily-guarded treasure-house nearby. Sigrun remained at Aldburg until the end of her days, dying peacefully in her sleep after a respectable term of years."

"Alas, Eorl did not die peacefully, but was slain by a stroke of ill fortune. When he was in late middle age, a party of bandits from East of Anduin crossed the river and were harassing the homesteads of the Rohirrim in the region the called the Wold, which lies between the Limlight and the Entwash. King Eorl led an expedition north to punish the raiders – alas, he did not take Felarof with him, but one of Felarof's offspring of but three years old whom he hoped to train in combat. While the Rohirriem were scouting the land one morning there was a sudden ambush, and whether due to the youth and inexperience of his steed, his own dimming powers as old age advanced upon him, or simply the whim of fate, the King was slain by a stray arrow. The raiders were wiped out, naturally, but victory had come at a grevious cost."

"Eorl's corpse was taken back to Aldburg in a solemn funeral train, and the whole nation was plunged into deep mourning. Felarof neighed frightfully at the site of his friend's body, and then took off into the grassy meadows, never to be seen again by mortal eyes, although thankfully his offspring by the female horses of the Rohirrim remained at their place with Eorl's heir Brego."

"Brego himself had spent much time visiting the Gondor-men at Minas Tirith, or Mundburg as the Rohirrim called it, and their ideas and culture had left their impression on him. Rejecting the immolation of Eorl's body on a pyre in the heathen custom of old, Brego decreed that Eorl would be interred in a stone-lined tomb in the Gondorian fashion. He selected a site for the tomb near the hill of Edoras, not many miles west of Aldburg."

"The Rohirrim were as clumsy as stonemasons as they were gifted as woodworkers, so to cover the crudity of the roughly-hewn stone blocks that lined the tomb they were surfaced with turf. Eorl was buried within and granted all the honours, songs and reverential speeches that were his due. "

"The next morning, Brego was formally invested as the second King of Rohan. He was about to depart for Aldburg when, to his astonishment, he noted that overnight the turf above Eorl's barrow-mound had sprung alive with beautiful, fragrant white flowers known as Simbemyne."

"Brego took this as a sign, and decreed that Edoras would henceforth be the new capital of Rohan. A wooden-beam town and walls were built there under his direction. But his great achievement was to build new hall, one more fitting for the majesty of a King."

"Brego had acquired some learning in the principles of architecture and engineering from the Gondorians, and by his own hand he set out plans for a great hall that was vaster and more magnificent than any Northman had ever seen before. The carpenters shook their heads, but went to work regardless, and under Brego's watchful eye the gigantic wooden hall was in time constructed, dominating the landscape for miles about."

"Its timbers were far thicker than were required to support its weight, and the carpenters soon discovered why this was. For after King Brego dismissed them with his thanks, he then summoned all the metalsmiths of Rohan to Edoras. He had a plan both to make his hall a place of such splendour that even the Gondor-men would be impressed, and at the same time to rid himself of the burdensome need of guarding at all times the treasure from Scatha's horde."

"The metalsmiths were even more skeptical than the carpenters had been, but set to work notwithstanding. Their work proceeded very slowly, for by its nature it was much slower and more painstaking than that of the carpenters. But bit by bit, they progressed in their task – melting the gold coins from Scatha's horde into thin sheets of gilt, with which they then gilded the elaborately carved beams and pillars of the great hall at Edoras."

"Years passed until finally, after fully a decade of work the Meduseld, the Golden Hall, was complete! I can vouch myself that its shining beams are a beautiful sight even from afar, and from up close it is most impressive. Even the Gondor-men have expressed admiriation for its craftsmanship, and that is saying a great deal."

"I might also add that in this deed Brego displayed perhaps greater wisdom than any of his predecessors, even Eorl himself. For Scatha's gold had been a source of greed and contention amongst his people ever since the time of Fram son of Frumgar. By melting it down and gilding Meduseld with it, Brego ensured that that the gold won by Fram at a terrible price would be held forever in trust by the Kings of Rohan, affixed as it was to the very beams and rafters of their great hall, but unable to cause further mischief amongst the people. From that day to this the Rohirrim, even their Kings, have measured their wealth in land and beasts acquired and safeguarded by their own efforts or those of their forebears; coin is nothing more than an occasional medium of exchange for them. The lust for gold and the dark passions attendant upon it has been lifted from their hearts."

"And as for Rohan itself, it has had an illustrious history, which - alas! - is far too long to relate to you tonight, even were my voice were not growing too weary to do so. Suffice to say that Rohan is indeed strong and proud, and that it is fast friends with Gondor to its south, and with the Wizard Saruman to its west, who for many years has dwelt at Isengard as he long ago planned. And that, Master Hobbit, is indeed the end of my tale. I trust it has met with everyone's satisfaction?"

"It has indeed, sir!" exclaimed Butterbur, rising to his feet and beaming appreciatively. "Far more than I expected to tell the truth, and perhaps far better. You've earned some weeks of room and board on the house, if you wish it."

"I might wish it, or I might not," replied the storyteller. "I am in any case grateful for your generosity. Perhaps you could make good on it now, at least in part? A pot of tea, a large bowl of stew, a loaf of bread, a good-sized portion of cheese, and a number of fruit tarts seem in order at the moment. And more pipeweed if you please!"

"Right away sir!" replied Butterbur with a strained smile, as he immediately began to calculate how much of the night's profits might be consumed by the old storyteller, whose appetite it seemed considerably exceeded his girth. Meanwhile many of the Hobbits and Men thanked the storyteller for his efforts with gifts of copper coins – though not old Goatleaf, who quickly finished the last of his beer and stalked off into the night, rain or no rain, before he was called upon to contribute his share.

Butterbur returned with a heavily laden trade of food for the storyteller, who tucked into it as if he had not eaten properly in weeks (which judging by his appearance, thought Butterbur, he probably hadn't). The innkeeper was gratified to receive more orders of ale and food from the crowd, which soon made up for the dent that the storyteller's appetite had put into his take of coins for the evening. But as he bustled about taking orders and bearning in trays of food and drink from the kitchen, the tacturn Dwarf, whom it seemed everyone had quite forgotten about, cleared his throat loudly.

"Excuse me!" he proclaimed. "But it appears all of you have neglected something. I was promised an opportunity to redress the calumnies against the Dwarven race that marred yon greybeard's tale."

"So you were," said the old storyteller, between gulps of stew and bites of bread. "Be my guest! I'm done with speaking for tonight if I can help it, and no doubt these good citizens of Bree would be happy to hear one more exotic tale to help them while away a dark winter's eve."

"Yes, do tell Master Dwarf!" beamed the innkeeper. "I've often had Dwarves as guests here at the Pony; but you're a close-lipped lot, if I may say so. I've never heard a Dwarven tale in all my years, but would be much obliged if you would honour us with one." The Bree-men and Hobbits nodded in agreement, and offered encouraging words to the Dwarf.

His injured air dissipating somewhat, the Dwarf took a long pull from his mug of ale, wiped his beard clean, and then sat up as straight as he could, his plain, brown-bearded face sombre.

"I am not surprised you have never before heard a tale of my people," he began, "for we have learned though many ages of bitter experience not to be overly trusting of outsiders. Knowledge is power, and it is not meet that those not of the Dwarven kind should know too much of our trials and ordeals, nor that they should know anything of our secrets. There are many tales I know which I am sworn never to relate to outsiders, for they form part of the secret lore of our race. But there is one tale I can tell you, at least in its essentials. It touches on the issue of the gold that was stolen by Fram and his brigands in the tale you heard earlier. And my tale will relate to you something of the trials and the tragedies of the Dwarven kindred, for which it seems outsiders oft have little sympathy. We know we are a stunted and unlovely people by the standards of Men and Elves – no, do not deny it! – but you shall see our tales are no less eloquent than theirs."

With this introduction, the Dwarf then assumed a hushed air of gravity, as if the tale he was about to relate was near sacred in its importance, even if not forbidden to outsiders. "I shall tell you now of Khazad-dum, Dwarvenhome of old, and the follies and ill-fortune that led to its tragic fate."