Chapter 27

Flight

"It is not fair! I wish I was out there!" Cirion said as he paced the floor in Eldarion's tent.

Eldarion was sitting on the cot, feeling stiflingly hot and uncomfortable. He was also more than a little frightened by the vague sounds of battle that managed to permeate all the way from the field into the protected atmosphere of the tent. Outside the tent were stationed twelve of Gondor's elite troops to protect the safety of her heir but the Prince still felt a growing sense of anxiety. He fought vainly to subdue it.

"Why would you want to be out there?" he asked genuinely shocked that Cirion could say he wanted to be any nearer to the place from which those awful sounds were emanating.

Cirion stopped his pacing. "Because that's where the action is!" he said as if talking to an imbecile. "That's where you show your real courage, where you make your name!"

Eldarion screwed his face up with disgust. "Where you get your guts ripped out by a massive monster!" he muttered.

Cirion eyed him. "Darion are you scared?" he asked suspiciously.

"No!" Eldarion responded far too quickly.

Cirion sat down on the cot beside his friend. "My father says it is all right to be frightened," he started sagely. "As long as you do not let your fright rule you."

Eldarion nodded. "Yes, he said that to me too, in Saruman's tower."

Cirion's eyes widened as he remembered the Prince's recent experience. "What was it like being held captive by a wizard?" he asked. "Did he turn you into a frog?"

Eldarion laughed. "You do not know much about real wizards, do you Ciri?" he asked feeling a little superior for once as he saw the glint of admiration burn in the younger boy's eye.

"No," Cirion admitted. "Bron is more interested in that sort of stuff than me." He stopped as different emotions crossed his face at the thought of his elder brother. "I hope he fares well," he muttered.

Eldarion heard the concern in the other's voice and gingerly reached out to put a supportive arm around Cirion's shoulders. Rather than object, as the Prince had feared, the younger boy seemed to relish the support of another's touch. Eldarion smiled to himself, save than with his parents, he had never shared such an intimate moment.

They sat quietly for a while but then Cirion jumped down from the cot as if his need for human comfort had been satiated and now his body's desire for movement was paramount. He began to pace again, nervously chewing his finger. Eldarion watched him closely.

Finally he asked, "How did you get the scar, Ciri?"

Cirion looked at him and the pale scar that ran from below his eye to under his chin, dividing the left side of his face appeared even more evident, particularly against the sun darkened skin of the rest of his countenance.

"I don't know if I can disclose such information to you," he said managing to sound incredibly pompous and very young at the same time.

Eldarion was taken aback by the response. "Why?" he asked.

"Because it's a secret!" Cirion said.

"But we are friends, are we not?" Eldarion said.

Cirion snorted. "Yes but this is very important," he said. He hesitated in his pacing, one foot in midair. "You will have to cross your heart and promise not to tell."

"Very well," said Eldarion wondering where all this was leading. "As heir to Gondor and Arnor, you have my word."

Cirion shook his head. "Not good enough, my mother told me I must not tell," he responded. "You have to cross your heart like so," he said indicating what Eldarion must do.

With a sigh Eldarion followed suit. Cirion sat back down on the cot. "You know my father was exiled from Minas Tirith?" he began.

Eldarion nodded. "I never knew why, though."

"It was an issue of honour," Cirion said.

"In what way?"

Cirion shrugged and repeated, "An honour issue," as if that explained all.

"Oh," Eldarion replied, not really sure he understood.

"During the time my father did not come to Minas Tirith, the rest of my family still travelled there. Bron and I started to study at the Military Academy." He stopped, his wide blue eyes blazing at Eldarion. "Why do you not attend there?" he asked.

Since striking up his friendship with the second son of the Steward Eldarion had come to learn that Cirion never got to the end of any story without being diverted off his track on a number of occasions. He indeed talked like he rode his horse; very fast and all over the place! So the Prince took this apparent irrelevance in his stride and shrugged.

"I did attend some classes there," he said almost apologetically. "But mother preferred I have a personal tutor."

Cirion nodded and moved on. "The Academy is a great place to be," he continued. "But it does have some ignorant sons of lords there. One night I heard five of them questioning my father's honour."

Cirion stopped as if his story was complete. Eldarion stared at his friend and cocked his head slightly as if he would hear something more. Finally, realising he would not, he said almost shyly, "I don't understand."

Cirion snorted, again his eyes showed impatience that his friend did not seem able to follow his thoughts. "I had only been at the academy for a few weeks but they questioned my father's honour. What else could I do?"

Eldarion looked blank.

"I fought them, of course!" said Cirion. "I would have beaten them all too if one had not pulled a knife on me." He ran his hand down the scar on his face as if to emphasise the point.

"You fought five boys from your class because they questioned your father's honour?" Eldarion asked with incredulity.

Cirion shook his head. "They were not from my class but from the year three above mine," he said softly. "What else would you have me do? Would not you do the same if your father's honour was doubted?" His wide blue eyes stared curiously once more.

Eldarion gulped. He had never really thought about such an issue before, his father's honour had never been doubted for was he not the King? Why should he need to fight to maintain it and he questioned himself whether he actually would find the courage to fight five bigger boys about anything at all?

"But they were older and stronger than you," he said finally.

Cirion shrugged. "Sometimes you have to fight things that are bigger and stronger than you," he said. "You fought the uruk in the wizard's tower with my father, did you not?"

Eldarion looked unconvinced but sniffed and nodded.

"When you face such a test once more, you will do the right thing, Darion. I know it." Cirion jumped down from the cot. One topic finished he now turned his attention back to the battle. "I wish we knew what was going on!" he said as he moved to the tent flap.

"Stay inside, son!" Came the gruff response from the guard outside.

Cirion snorted rebelliously but turned away screwing up his face with impatience. Then he moved to the back of the tent, squatting down, he let out a long breath.

"What are you doing, Ciri?" Eldarion asked.

"Maybe…" Cirion muttered as he lifted the tent wall.

"Cirion?" Eldarion repeated.

"Look we can crawl under," Cirion flashed a triumphant smile as he indicated the gap below the canvas.

"Why would we want to?" Eldarion asked, feeling his disquiet grow.

"To see how the battle goes of course!" Cirion said. "Come on!" With that he ducked under the canvas wall and disappeared.

"Cirion!" Eldarion hissed. "It's dangerous out there! My father told me . . . Cirion!"

But the Steward's second son had disappeared. Eldarion cursed and cast a glance towards the front of the tent where the guard stood. He wondered if he should call them but then a rush of guilt at such potential disloyalty rushed through him. He hesitated a second longer but he remembered his promise to the Lord Steward to watch over his younger son. Biting his lip, Eldarion followed Cirion under the tent wall and out into the dangerous world beyond.

King Eomer of Rohan urged his warhorse, Firefoot, on. Behind him the rest of the Rohirrim screamed their chilling war cry as they swooped down from the higher ground towards the main battle area where the cavalry and chariots of Mosek the Serpent raced towards them.

As the two opposing waves crashed against each other there was a crack as loud as thunder through the air. Horses, men and chariots collided into each other and were ripped apart agonisingly.

Eomer, at the forefront of his men, used his knees to guide Firefoot between the horses and his sword to smash apart any foe that came before him. His eyes flashed angrily across the cavalry, searching faces looking for the tattoos of a snake. He was still angry from the earlier taunts of Mosek. Desperately he wished to confront the arrogant Easterling and make him pay for his conceited words.

"Where are you, vermin?" Eomer shouted angrily. It made him feel better to scream his defiance but he knew it was more appropriate to channel his rage into his sword arm. So he did and forced his horse forwards, a whirlwind of courageous zeal, dealing out death indiscriminately to all his enemies.

The Rohirrim surged through the Easterling cavalry; an irresistible force and the Easterlings fell before them, unable to match the tenacity and courage of the sons of Eorl. The Easterlings turned their steeds to run away.

Through the chaos of the retreat, Eomer let out a roar as he finally laid eyes on his prey. Mosek was aboard his chariot at the back of his men, screaming at them to stand and fight. But when the Serpent's eye fell upon the Rohan King bearing down on him, vengeance blazing in his face, the Easterling turned his chariot, whipped his horses and made to return to the safety of the lines of his main army.

Eomer growled his disgust as Mosek sought to leave him in his wake; he spurred his horse after, halving the distance between them.

"Stand and fight me!" he screamed after the fast retreating Mosek.

The Easterling glanced over his shoulder and seeing how quickly Eomer was catching him, he whipped his horses more violently. The chariot lurched forward, wheels bumping over the uneven ground. The mutilated heads of Mosek's enemies swung crazily from the chariot's side.

Eomer coaxed more speed out of Firefoot, as all the horses' hooves thundered across the plain they drew away from the area where the fighting was taking place back towards the Easterling lines. Eomer looked up as he got nearer to the main host of the Easterlings that still waited to be called to the battle. He thought that he could hear their cries of encouragement to Mosek but the wind that blew past him chased all sound from his ears before he could properly translate it. He knew he would have to catch the chariot soon or have to rein in Firefoot, for even the courageous King of Rohan with his bloodlust roused, knew the futility of urging his horse into range of his enemies' archers.

"Fly, Firefoot!" he pushed, bending low over the horse's withers but still retaining his heavy sword in his hand, ready for the moment he was near enough to use it.

The galloping horse of Rohan was almost caught up to the chariot now even though the vehicle was travelling at a terrifyingly fast speed. Mosek, realising that he would not make his sanctuary, took the spear from its place at his side. He whipped his horses once more and then turned so he faced the opposite direction to the one in which his chariot was travelling. His arrogant eyes gleamed like the blade at the end of the spear that he levelled at the King of Rohan's fast approaching chest. Insolently he leaned out as far as he could to lessen the space between him and his enemy.

Eomer smiled grimly at the movement. He sat back in his saddle, raised his sword and as he came within range of the spear he lashed out at with all his might. Firefoot adjusted to the shift in his rider's weight distribution without altering his stride pattern. Mosek, leaning precariously out of his chariot, however, was not so able to rectify his forward movement. A look of sheer horror flew across his brutal features as he realised he had over-reached himself. Belatedly he tried to turn back and grab hold on to the side handles of his chariot. But as Eomer dashed the spear from his hands, he was unable to reach the handles and instead pitched off the back of his chariot and fell, sprawling into the dirt.

The chariot continued its headlong flight towards safety, going noticeably faster once relieved of its occupant's weight. Eomer slowed Firefoot and turned him around, to approach the motionless figure in the dirt. Behind him the main host of the Easterlings began to move forward.

Eomer approached suspiciously and stopped at Mosek's body, sword raised should he need it. He did not, for as Mosek had hit the ground at speed the Serpent's neck had been broken, evidenced by his now lifeless eyes staring towards the grey sky from a head that rested at an abnormal angle to the rest of his body.

Eomer snorted with frustration, annoyed that he had been denied the chance to deal the fatal blow, Firefoot pawed at the ground with impatience.

"It is not I who will eat dirt this day, Easterling!" Eomer muttered. He spat on the body in disgust.

Then aware that the mass of his enemies was marching towards them, Eomer gently eased Firefoot back to his own lines, to rejoin his Rohirrim once more. He did not give Mosek the Serpent the respect of a backward glance.