As the weather warmed, they began to look for the summer garrison that would take their place. They were tired of the hut, tired of seeing the same land every day, tired of the tedious daily sequence of watch and drill. And so it was with joyful relief that they saw at last a mounted patrol of Rangers coming up the road. Miriel was on guard with Mahar, and he frowned a little as they came nearer.

"How many do you count?" he asked, not turning.

She squinted against the sun. "Nine?" After a moment, "No, ten—" And then a soft gasp, and a grin spread across her face, and she nearly laughed with joy. Hannas.

She embraced her friend, felt her new height and strength, stepped back from her and smiled. And she thought self-consciously of her mother as she said quietly, "The Wild agrees with you, mellonen."

Hannas laughed a little. "And you." But both knew it was not a jest.

The patrol was led by Darahad; Miriel knew him, for his family was from Elenost. But he was older than her father, and even more than other Rangers he was grim, close-lipped, never spoke to the children and avoided the trainees. He had lost two sons to the Wild, and his wife had died not long after, of grief it was said, and he now spent little time in the village. But when he spoke, men listened.

The two captains clasped arms, but Mahar's smile was wry, and a raised eyebrow asked the question. Darahad shook his head. "You're not going home, brother."

A short, humorless chuckle. "I knew that. Where, then?"

"You're staying here, with them." He nodded to the men gathered around him.

"And you?"

"Dunland." Darahad's face showed nothing, but the flatness of his voice spoke louder than words.

Mahar's eyes widened, and he blew out a breath. "Dunland?"

"With Telhirion and his maethorneth, and Anna and hers. Apparently," he turned to Miriel with an arch smile, "You have a talent for spying."


"Arahael has reinforced Thurinrim," he told Mahar when they were back in camp. "Sent a patrol to the west end of the mountains, and another to the Lossoth. No enemy will come from the north without warning."

"And you are to ensure none comes from the south."

It was not a question, and Darahad nodded. "Telhirion speaks the Dunland tongue. And his maethorneth," he gestured with his chin toward Hannas, "is as fine a rider as any in the company. So, with our Rohirric outlaw," he nodded to Anna, voice deadpan but the barest hint of amusement curving his lips, "and our archer, we'd be a tolerable guard for any merchant not wishing to chance the wilds of Dunland alone."

Mahar nodded. "What do you expect to find?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

Darahad shook his head. "Arahael thinks the band these two found," again a gesture toward Miriel and Anna, "was all the Druad king would risk. But it is possible another got through, either west of the mountains or east. So we are to make sure. If there is trouble brewing, we'll hear of it."

There was certainty in his voice, though Miriel did not know how he could be so sure. But Mahar seemed satisfied, and asked no more questions. Darahad turned to Anna. "Gather your gear."

The men who had come with Darahad stayed behind in the camp with the winter garrison; Dalbarin and the others would leave the next morning and head north to join the guard on the road south of Bree. Anna and Miriel took two horses from the newcomers, and Miriel thought uncomfortably that she had hardly ridden at all since the previous spring. This is going to be unpleasant…

Mahar embraced Darahad, looked in his eyes and chuckled wryly. "Better you than me, brother."

A thin smile. "True."

Faron said nothing and did not move, only watched. But as they were turning away, he murmured, "Be careful, Miriel."

She turned back to him, and almost laughed in surprise and gratitude. "I'll try. You too."

He nodded.

"He'll be all right," said Anna quietly, as they walked through the trees toward the road. "If he was going to do anything, he would have done it. It may be a long road, but he will walk it. And he will not walk alone."

Miriel nodded, and suddenly, unexpectedly, her eyes burned. They had come to seem like family almost, Mahar and Faron, Dalbarin and Amloth and the others. And then, with a soft catch in her chest, that voice she had heard nearly every day of her childhood, and had not heard now in nearly a year: 'Ir cuian ech natho alerui. While I live, you will never be alone.'


They rode at an easy pace, and for the first few days they met no one on the road. Darahad walked them again and again through their story until they could recite it without thinking.

"I am your daughter," Miriel said tiredly one afternoon, trying not to let irritation show in her voice. "When our mother died, you could no longer bear to stay in our village in north Anorien. So you took my younger sister," she nodded to Hannas, "and me on the road. You served in the Steward's border guard, and you've been training us. Though," she chuckled a little, and glanced sidelong at Hannas, "you're not sure we have the aptitude for it."

"An open question," said Darahad dryly. Then, gesturing to Telhirion, "And who is he?"

"Your brother," said Hannas. "Our uncle. He has no children, and he's always followed you." A grin flitted across her lips. "He may be a bit simple. But he's stronger than he looks, and obedient. He'll do whatever you tell him."

Telhirion snorted but said nothing, only glanced at Hannas with a crinkle of amusement around his eyes.

"And her?"

Miriel looked at Anna, shrugged. "A stray. We picked her up on the road. Bit of a bitch, but good in a fight."

As soon as she said the words, she regretted them. Fool, pushed the role too damn far. Now you're in for it.

But Anna barked a laugh. "Truer words you've never spoken, girl."

Darahad turned to Anna. "And what did you do, to make you outlaw?"

All jest vanished from her face. It was a true question, for they had not talked through this part of the story before. Anna swallowed, looked away. At last, low and deadly, "Killed the man who tried to rape me. Village headman, no one would have taken my word over his. Left before I could be stoned for a murderer and a whore."

Miriel had never heard such coldness in her voice before. And suddenly, words came back to her, spoken as they rested on a sunny bank north of Bree. 'We stayed with him until I was twelve, thirteen maybe. And then he died.'

The best cover story is not far from the truth? But she knew she would never ask.


They followed the Greenway, the great north-south road that had once joined the two kingdoms of the men of Numenor. Shoots of grass were beginning to poke through the dead brown of winter, and there were hoof prints, several days old but still distinguishable, and a single set of cart tracks ground deep in the mud. Darahad frowned. "First of the season, most likely. And most likely regretting it." He kicked at the soft ground with his boot. "Their problem, not ours."

They had left their gray cloaks behind at Sarn Ford, and Darahad, Telhirion, and Anna had stowed their stars deep inside their clothing. Without those markers, they truly could have been what they claimed: rough, weather-worn, lean almost to gauntness, scraping a living on the margins as swords for hire, at home nowhere but the road. Miriel felt the loneliness of it, and shuddered a little, and longed for the safety of Elenost.

But it is not safe, not entirely. Home is not as it was. Or perhaps I am not.

And then, sudden and strange in her memory, a voice she thought she had forgotten. Slow, creaking, harsh with grief, an old woman speaking to her crippled son: 'Nothing is as it was. The only constant is change.' She had died not long after, Sirhael's mother, that bent old woman who had lost her husband and nearly lost her son to the Wild. They had been words meant to comfort, though Miriel had not understood them then. Perhaps I do now, a little.


The journey south was uneventful, for there were few travelers on the road so early in the year. Those they did meet cast fearful glances at the strange, heavily-armed men, and even stranger armed women, hard-eyed and clearly capable of sudden violence, said little to them and hurried on their way.

"Do we not want information from them?" Hannas ventured to ask, as they let the third such party pass by without question.

Darahad shook his head. "They won't have any. Not what we're looking for, anyway. They'll have come straight up from the south, to be here this early. Won't have taken the time to bother with the Dunlendings."

But something about the next they met caught his eye. Two ragged men on a wagon, heavily laden, pulled by a pair of sturdy horses.

He stood his horse in the middle of the road, forcing the wagon to stop. "What have you got there?"

"Wine," the driver said. And after a moment, "Sir. From the hills of south Anorien."

"Where are you bound?"

The men glanced at each other. The driver shrugged, as if he had no reason not to tell the truth. "The Shire."

"The Shire?"

The man chuckled a little, nervously. "Halflings like their drink."

Darahad nodded, expressionless. "That they do. Had any trouble on the road?"

"No." Apprehension now clear in the man's voice, the implied 'Not yet' as clear as if it had been spoken. "And we don't want any," he went on hurriedly.

Darahad raised his eyebrows, as if this was not he answer he expected. "We heard something in Bree about northmen, stirring up trouble on the road."

The man frowned. "Northmen? Gray-cloaks, do you mean?"

Miriel nearly started, caught herself only just in time, but Darahad remained impassive. "No. Men from beyond the mountains. Druadwaith, the Breemen call them."

The man's frown deepened, and he shook his head. "Seen naught but Dunlendings, and not many of those. Mostly keep to themselves. We've had no trouble, nor heard of any, and that's the truth." A note of defiance, almost a plea: And give us none, we pray you.

Darahad fixed the man with a hard stare. At last, he jerked a nod. "I hope you find none. Good journey to you." He pulled his horse to the side. The others did likewise, and the traders, not questioning their good fortune, lumbered off in their creaking wagon with neither word nor backward glance.

When they had gone, Anna said dryly, "They'll be on the lookout now."

Darahad nodded. "And if they see or hear anything, the South Road guard will have it out of them."

Similar questioning of two more parties over the next few days yielded the same result, or lack of one. After the last, Darahad shook his head. "If we're to hear anything, we'll have to go into the villages." He glanced at Anna, eyebrows raised in question.

She nodded. "And not the ones on the road. Those are civilized, or what passes for it in Dunland." Her lips tightened. "If there's trouble, I've a feeling I know where it'll be."


They crossed the Greyflood at Tharbad, the river high and perilous with snowmelt from the distant mountains. Miriel shuddered, remembering the crossing of the Baranduin east of Annuminas. She glanced at Hannas as they stood on the bank, eyeing the cloudy, roiling water. "Only a year ago, eh?" she said, softly so the others might not hear.

Hannas nodded, lips tight. "Seems like a lot longer."

But they had horses, tall, strong ones at Darahad's insistence, and that made all the difference. Darahad gestured Anna to lead them, and Hannas to take up the rear. "You know this crossing better than any of us," he said to Anna. And then to Hannas, "And according to your saethir and your father, you can swim a horse like you were born to do it." A thin smile. "Show me."

There were fearful moments, but they roped their gear to the horses' backs, and though they were all soaked to the skin by the time they reached the far bank, nothing was lost. It was not long after noon, but they went no farther that day, and set up camp among the ruins. There had clearly been a great town here once, not as large as Annuminas but of similar workmanship. And more recently occupied, Miriel thought, for many of the walls still stood, and they were able to find shelter from the wind and build a very satisfactory fire to dry their wet clothes in a still-intact hearth. But it was a strange, bleak place, and the wind made unsettling noises as it stole among the stones. They did not sleep well, and left early the next morning.

They rode on for several more days, and passed through two small, disheveled villages without stopping. One night it rained, and the next day there was the first suggestion of mountain peaks far off in the clear morning. They turned east onto a narrow, muddy track beside a river that wound up into the hills. The day was sunny and warm, and in spite of uncertainty, the possibility of danger before and behind, Miriel felt the joy of spring ripple through her body.

But when they came in late afternoon to the Dunlending settlement, she could see why Anna spoke of it with loathing. It was a tiny place, hardly deserving to be called a village, a cluster of ragged huts in a hollow of the hills. Sheep roamed the slopes, and patches of tilled earth clustered wherever the land was near enough to flat. Smoke rose from chimneys, and dirty children played between the huts. But they froze when they saw the strangers, and vanished indoors.

Presently several men came out of the huts, and two more down from the hills. They stood before the riders on the muddy track, blocking the way to their homes. The largest of them stepped forward.

"What do you want? We've got no trouble here. If you're looking for it, you best go back the way you came." The common speech sounded strange and halting on his tongue, as though he did not often use it.

Darahad sat silent on his horse, looking down at the man. They all knew who held the power. Though the Dunlendings outnumbered them, the village men would be little match for the Rangers with their swords and horses.

"We want no trouble," said Darahad at last. "Though we might save you from some."

Silence, and then, "How's that?"

"We've heard that strangers have been here." A flat, humorless chuckle. "Stranger than us. Men from the north."

The man frowned, as the wine-merchant had done. "We've had no outsiders here. You're the first we've seen since winter."

"And before then?"

The man shrugged. "Why would any come here?" A bitter grunt, not quite a laugh. "We have nothing for them. Times are bad and getting worse. We've all we can do to handle our own trouble, without looking for more from outside. Now, you'd best go back to the road."

Darahad stared at him a moment longer, but the man did not move, nor change expression. At last Darahad shrugged, turned his horse and led them back down the muddy path. "No offer of hospitality," he said to Anna, once the hamlet was out of sight behind them.

"No," she growled. But then, relenting a little, "They've little enough for themselves, and nothing to spare for strangers. Looks even worse than it did. I believe him when he says times are bad."

Darahad glanced at her. "And desperate men resort to desperate measures."

She shrugged. "If such measures are to be had."

They returned to the road, went up the next valley and the one after that, and met with much the same reception. As the third hamlet disappeared into the hills behind them, Darahad shook his head. "If there was anything to hear, we would have heard it by now."

Telhirion grunted, and then to Miriel's surprise, he spoke. Quiet but clear, not to Darahad but to Anna. "If there is trouble to be found, it will be in the hills under Methedras."

She looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded. "The Rheg?"

He nodded. Her lips tightened, and Miriel felt reluctance in her, perhaps even fear, if that could be believed.

"Who are—?" she began.

"Clan of the Dunlendings," Anna growled. "Wilder even than the others. And more hatred in them, for they have the worst land." She grunted. "Their own fault, so the other clans tell. Said they would fight with the others against the men of Rohan." At Miriel's frown, Anna chuckled. "Ancient history, girl. But it's not dead yet, and not like to be. They promised to fight and then sold out, betrayed the other clans to the Rohirrim. Of course they got nothing for it, pushed out along with the rest. So the Rohirrim despise them as Dunlendings, and the Dunlendings hate them as traitors. Rock and a hard place, but they put themselves there." She chuckled again, unpleasantly. But there was something in her eyes that did not quite match her expression.

They rode slowly up into the rocky hills. The way was not easy, often steep and rough, their nerves on edge as the valleys narrowed, and they watched in pairs at night. And so they were tired and short-tempered when at last they came to the villages of the Rheg.

These were scattered across a flat upland plateau, the last space of arable land before the hills began climbing in earnest toward the mountains. The largest settlement was in the center of the plateau, surrounded by fields that reminded Miriel of those she had seen in the Druadwaith country far to the north, soil thin and rocky. But still it was a larger village than any they had yet seen, and there was some sort of public house at its center. Anna jerked her chin toward the solidly built structure, low stone walls and thatched roof. "Not much, but you can get a drink, if you like barley wine. Beer's not half bad either. And there's room on the floor for folk from the outlying villages to stay the night." Hannas looked hopeful, but Anna grunted and shook her head. "Wouldn't recommend it. Rats and fleas."

Darahad smiled thinly. "I wasn't planning on it."

Hannas said softly to Miriel, as they rode behind the others, "How does she know all this?"

Miriel bit her lip, and remembered her promise. Much though she dislike lying to a friend, even by omission, she shook her head and shrugged. "Must have been here before."


Eighteen years earlier

The Rheg villages were the worst. They had to leave the cart, hidden behind an outcropping of rock well off the road, and make their way up the rocky path on foot, goods laden on the horses and on their own backs. She struggled, pack nearly too heavy for her, tripped and sometimes fell. Her mother would help her up, but he never did, only stood and stared down at her. "Clumsy bitch," he muttered, and strode on as soon as she regained her feet. But it was worth their trouble, or he reckoned it was. Few traders ventured up this far, and the folk of the village were eager for goods, what little they could afford. But they were not friendly, even though he plied them with all his charm, for he could be charming when he wished. She was secretly satisfied to see his jokes fall flat, and his stories garner nothing more than shrugs, and perhaps a grunted, 'That so, eh?' And he cursed them behind their backs, and charged them double.

But the girl. There were others, later. But there was only one in her memory. The girl was only, ever, her. 'Beca,' the girl had whispered to her, as she took Anna's hand, out behind the public house in the dead of night, when all the men had at last fallen into drunken sleep. No lights and no moon, the girl sure in blind dark, her hand warm in Anna's. She was older, two or three years perhaps, enough that she knew what she was doing. Sure and swift and eager, and they were soon so caught up in it, both of them, that they did not hear the footsteps.

When he flung the door open they froze, blinded by the lantern. Beca recovered almost at once, pulled her clothes around herself and shoved Anna behind her, trying to protect the younger girl. But it was no use, and they both knew it. His shouts roused the village. Her father, who owned the public house, stumbled out raging, still more than half drunk. He beat her, though less effectually than he might have had he been sober, and swore that she would marry before the next turn of the moon. "For it you're woman enough for that," he spat in her face, "you're woman enough for a man." Beca was silent, as tears and blood dripped down her face. And that was Anna's memory of it, more even than her own tears, her own pain, for she was beaten as well, so badly that at last her mother had to beg him to stop before he crippled her. But she only remembered Beca's tears, and her silent, blazing eyes.


Notes:

I went back and forth over whether to stick to my "no warnings" resolution for this chapter. As a writer, I chose to prioritize dramatic effect over psychological safety, though it went against my instincts as a teacher. If that was the wrong choice for you, I'm sorry.

According to what little I've been able to find online, it appears that Tolkien based the Dunlendings on the Celtic Britons who were driven to the margins of the British Isles by the invading Anglo-Saxons (i.e. the Rohirrim). Uncharacteristically, he only gives us one word of their language, forgoil (though, perhaps appropriately, it is an insult). But an enterprising game-maker has apparently decided that the most likely language for them to speak is Old Welsh, so I'm going with that.

And hat-tips to Faulkner and Octavia Butler :)