Author's recommended listening: Sibelius, Violin Concerto in D minor
CHAPTER I: THE HIDDEN LANDS
The Misty Mountains towered skywards, looming over the lands once called Rhudaur. When viewed from afar, the craggy northern reaches appeared impenetrable, for the steep ravine which clove two tremendous peaks could be found only by those who knew its precise location. The path along this high-walled canyon was treacherous and often adrift in cloud banks which slunk over the eastern ridges, and the long, narrow valley it led to was equally inhospitable. Few animals could thrive in such harsh terrain or at such high altitudes; alpine choughs with glistening black wings flitted between the shadows of scraggly firs and pines as golden eagles hung high in the sky, stalking elusive hares below. Aside from the occasional wildflower peeking forth in spring, the emerald splash of trees was all that offset the desolate palette of the mountainous region, which otherwise lay barren.
It was such remoteness, such bleakness that led the first people of the Hidden Lands to settle there, for they had rightly believed the isolated nature of the Valley would protect them from what lay beyond. Thus all knowledge of their existence passed, and for centuries they became no more than rumours or legend.
A casual glance might have easily misled an uninformed observer to assume there was nothing that distinguished the Hidden Lands from countless other villages beyond the Valley. On the surface, the Hidlands (as the residents referred to it) were no different from the primitive Dunlending hamlets to the south, or the seaside residences of the Gondorians upon the Bay of Belfalas. Throughout the Valley were scattered small clusters of dwellings, each with their own market and central area, in no way dissimilar from simple villages elsewhere.
In the village nearest the entrance of the Valley, the main market street bisected the dwellings with a mess of colour and noise. Craftsmen cried out their prices from beneath faded awnings of orange and yellow as blacksmiths clanged steel upon steel. Old women whose skills were the culmination of generations wove whatever materials were most readily accessible into whatever wares were in highest demand, and the few youngsters applied themselves to their chores with a resigned air, scowling at the incessant scolding of their elders.
Farmers loudly hawked their wares over the din of beasts bleating or flapping their wings against cages, for like any market there was a vast display of animals for sale, designed for a wide array of uses: pigs and various birds for eating, as well as cows for ploughing what little land could be tilled, and for their hides when they were no longer useful. Most cherished of all were goats and mules, used for transporting loads about the seemingly impassable mountains.
Yet tucked amongst all these goods was another, more startling livestock: humans – men, women, boys and girls, of all ages and sizes, every single one emaciated, with sinewy limbs and protruding ribs. Not many were available for purchase, yet these beings languished apathetically in their cages, for they knew their fate was sealed nevertheless. A nearly imperceptible flame burnt in the eyes of some, though most wore the blank expression of resignation.
These were the slave fighters of the Hidlands. Many were born in captivity, while others had once been prisoners brought to the Valley by the rare trader – unscrupulous and in dire need of coin – who had heard rumour of the enticing source of profit. Some fighters had been passed from owner to owner with such frequency that their histories had long ago been lost in the minds of men who cared not.
Training was initiated from a young age; older slave fighters often began grappling with toddlers before they could so much as walk. It was typical for structured training to begin around the age of five or six, or even earlier if the slave showed promise. Upon their tenth birthday – or the day believed to be their tenth birthday – a slave's debut fight was held. However, due to a general lack of concern for their wellbeing, it was not unheard of for a first fight to occur as early as the eighth year, or even earlier if an owner was particularly greedy and feigned to misremember the birthdate of their slave.
Fights were unceasing in the Hidlands. At least one bout was being held somewhere at every point in time, for the free villagers thrived on the thrill and escapism, the gambling and alcoholism. A circuit of the first tiny village might reveal an early afternoon event at the Rope Ring behind the baker's tent, or a fight just after midnight in the gully beyond the edge of the village, or one right after breakfast in the Common Yards.
Every tenth day, however, the Grand Fights were held at the Coliseum just within the entrance of the village. It was on this day a parade of fighters – whether those residing in the Fighters' Quarters on the southeastern side of the village, or in cages scattered about the area, or premier athletes brought in from other villages – were led down along the main street until they arrived at the Coliseum: a massive amphitheatre dug deep into the ground, with seating carved from the earth itself. In the very centre stood a single raised ring, its ropes scarcely higher than the tallest Hidlander's head; its low wood frame was bleached by years under a scorching sun, and its threadbare canvas flooring stretched over rickety boards that bounced beneath the dancing feet of the fighters.
On the western side of the amphitheatre rose a dilapidated wooden platform from which announcers would cry their commentary and feed the fervour of the crowds, for it was the grand Coliseum were fighters tested each other's prowess, and it was there their owners profited heavily from their struggle.
Should an owner desire to see their fighter succeed and compete at the Coliseum, thus earning them a larger wallet, it was not wise to treat their slave with a heavy hand. Beat a fighter too severely and they might not recover sufficiently before their next fight; starve a slave and they might lack the energy to win. Even so, the owners of fighting slaves had centuries of tradition to draw from, and this gradual accumulation of knowledge had revealed the perfect balance of misery and hope that maintained their fighters' resignation without causing them to succumb to complete despair.
In order to avoid total defeatism, the Dream had been created: should a fighter win one thousand successive fights, they would earn their freedom, the right to walk away untouched, unrestrained. Legend had it that, in all the years since the Dream's inception, only two fighters ever accomplished this feat, and the rules had subsequently been altered to ensure no such success ever occurred again: no divisions by weight or gender, nor any maximum number of bouts within a specific time frame. Moreover, any fighter caught intentionally yielding to their opponent would face a month's suspension upon the first violation, immediate execution upon the second.
Truva was a fighter who harboured a fire invisible even to herself, yet it burnt nevertheless. In the night air – chill despite the hint of approaching spring – she sat with her back against her cage, legs splayed out before her. The enclosure was so small and her limbs so long they protruded from the bars on the other side. She breathed slowly, wincing as each inhalation caused a twinge of pain in her ribs. It was only that morning she had sustained her injuries, yet she was certain her next fight was to be scheduled for the very next day.
Truva's owner was frantic, for the morning's bout had resulted in her nine hundred, ninety-seventh consecutive victory. The enthusiasm for her fighting style, once shared by only a few villagers, had imperceptibly gathered momentum over the years until it reached a fever pitch, reverberating up to the very mountaintops. Even those scarce Hidlanders who had minimal interest in fighting felt the thrill, believing themselves to be witness to history.
Owners typically looked upon winning streaks as beneficial, for wins meant money; consecutive wins meant popularity in addition to more money, and popularity also ultimately resulted in even more money. History demonstrated streaks were always broken, however, if even by a single fight, and this was what allowed the owners to maintain possession of their human property and source of income.
Yet for some inexplicable reason, no fighter Truva's owner had placed before her in the last nine hundred, ninety-seven fights had bested her, ergo he was panicking. Long ago, nigh on ten years, Truva's potential had seemed unhopeful. Not only did she lose her debut fight, she also lost the next, and the next, then proceeded to lose the following twelve bouts. For years, she won perhaps one fifth of all her fights – at a generous estimate – forcing her owner to consider the drastic action of selling or trading her.
Then came Truva's first winning streak: sixty-two fights. For a fighter who had previously struggled to keep her arms up in defence for more than five minutes, winning sixty-two consecutive fights was an astounding accomplishment.
That streak was broken, as expected and intended. The next winning streak followed, however, and the next, and in time Truva's owner was one of the richest in the village, and Truva one of its most popular fighters. Not even Blackbramble, the fighter named for the tallest peak in the Hidlands (as he was not entirely dissimilar in size) could overpower her. Truva relied on her height and speed to utilise a counterattack fighting style, and upon her flexibility to extricate herself from grappling threats; few other fighters could boast of such a versatile skillset.
So it came to be that Truva languished in her cage, dreading her nine hundred and ninety-eighth fight which was certain to come anon; and come it did, just as she and the entire village had predicted, for the more rapidly her owner aligned her fights, the more likely Truva, in her exhausted state, would lose.
Truva's cage was not located in the Fighters' Quarters, where the majority of fighters lodged. She was held instead within the market, where the incessant noise and bustle prevented full rest. It was from this cage Truva's owner dragged her out into the main market and across the way to the Rope Ring. It was late morning, almost afternoon, the second busiest time for fights save early evening.
Fighters passionately despised combat in the Rope Ring any time the sun was up, for its rays blazed down so heatedly it became a third opponent. The square ring was raised half a body above the surrounding wood benches, and in the heat of day the hemp ropes encircling the ring burned to the touch, almost as painfully as the black canvas that lined the base.
Every single bench was groaning beneath the weight of an unprecedented number of occupants, and spectators were crammed into every corner of free space – all engrossed in enthusiastic chatter. Unlike the Coliseum, here was no elevated slope upon which those who wished for a bird's-eye view could stand, forcing some of the smaller villagers to shove and jostle past those who were taller.
Truva's opponent stalked back and forth just beyond the opposite corner of the ring, where for centuries the tread of fighters had beaten the earth hard. The fighter was unfamiliar to Truva, which was peculiar for such a small, enclosed community like that of the Hidlands Valley. Perhaps this fighter had been brought from one of the furthest villages; rare, yet not inconceivable. Truva's owner was undeniably desperate for any opponent with the potential to break her streak.
The fighter was tall and wiry, not unlike Truva herself, and her hair was likewise braided in tight rows along her scalp to deprive opponents of any opportunity to grab it. Both wore a uniform of grey cotton tunic and leggings: that of all fighters.
As Truva wove between the benches, her opponent climbed up through the ropes. No braggadocio, no crowd-pleasing, just bloody business. Truva evaded her owner, who wished to parade her about and savour the moment of her downfall, and slipped into the ring as well. She empathised with this opponent already; their style was unmistakably similar.
Both fighters lifted their arms high above their heads, hands open and palms forward to demonstrate they carried no weapons. Each walked to the centre of the ring to touch raised hands and indicate acceptance of combat – as though they had a choice – then retreated to their separate corners. The Ringmaster struck a bell to begin the fight.
Save a ban upon weapons, there were no rules. Any method by which victory could be achieved was permissible, given the techniques were combative and did not result in the death of an opponent. There was no time limit, and none save the Ringmaster were allowed to interfere.
Both fighters emerged immediately from their corners upon the ring of the bell, though neither was eager to engage. Truva had everything to lose in this fight, while her opponent had everything to gain; this called for caution. Each threw a few halfhearted strikes to gauge distance yet hung back, waiting for the other to attack.
Truva knew this situation would not benefit her, for already the dull ache of fatigue was beginning to creep down her shoulders into her upper arms; the more time passed, the more significant her disadvantage would become. Despite being a counter fighter, she engaged first. Feinting twice, Truva struck her opponent's midsection with a kick, then ducked down to bring her opponent to the ground, where she hoped to grasp a submission without sustaining any significant damage.
Her opponent blocked her takedown with scarcely any effort. The fighter's defensive skills were not to be underestimated, Truva thought grimly; and though she had never fallen under any illusion that it might be, it was more than apparent this would not be an easy fight.
Truva worked from beyond her opponent's range, striking quickly then darting back. It was an exhausting style, yet Truva hoped desperately her opponent would fall into the trap she was setting. Truva let a combination fly before her opponent proceeded to do precisely as she had planned: rushing forward, right into Truva's anticipant takedown.
Though caught off guard, Truva's opponent would not give in so easily. Each of Truva's successive attempts to solidify her advantage was met with a counter. Truva and the fighter became locked in a cycle of movements, one technique transitioning to another in a whirl of prediction and reaction, each struggling to obtain control. At last the fighter broke free, returning to standing combat.
Truva hardly had time to register her exhaustion upon failing once again to bring the fight to the ground before her opponent attacked, throwing a straight right punch and attempting a kick then— slipping! Truva took immediate advantage of the downed fighter's mistake, smothering her upon the canvas and clamping her arm in an inescapable hold.
When her opponent signalled submission, Truva arose to a thunderous roar of approval and disbelief. Nine hundred and ninety-eight consecutive wins! Many spectators struggled to comprehend the proceedings, despite having observed it all with their own eyes. Truva's owner begrudgingly collected the victory money, in addition to the money of bettors who were surprisingly enthusiastic to have lost. What was a little money in the face of the greatest events they were likely ever to witness in their otherwise mundane lives?
Truva was led back to her cage, still panting. Passing free villagers congratulated her owner and he thanked them unenthusiastically, for his prize fighter – and main source of income – was one fight closer to no longer bringing him any income at all, and he was in no disposition to be pleasant.
When they arrived at her cage, Truva's owner snatched her throat with one hand and brought her face to within a hair's breadth of his own. His scowl caused deep wrinkles to furrow in the rough skin of his face, dark from lounging about in the harsh alpine sun, and the curl of his lip revealed teeth deformed by malnutrition and excessive drinking.
"Listen to me, you pathetic shell of a mongrel!" growled Dregant, for that was the reprobate's name. "Your luck will not extend any further. I will search to the ends of the earth for an opponent who can destroy you if I have to! I will never allow you to be free and give heart to other fighters. I would rather you dead than free!"
Dregant was a strong man, yet Truva was stronger. She could easily reach out and snap his head around, bringing an end to the foul stench he breathed into her face, and to the even fouler poison he breathed into her soul. But to what end? An escaped slave never got far. Despite their unceasing antagonism, the free villagers protected one another in such matters, and an injustice done unto one was done unto all.
"Are you listening? Your victories are meaningless and insignificant; you are nothing more than a miserable slave," he spat. "I will see to it you lose, crushing both you and any last vestiges of hope you harbour in your heart."
At this, Dregant struck her across the face and threw her from him so violently her body fell against the far side of the cage. With an ease due to years of practise, he slammed the bolt across the entrance and locked it in one swift motion. He stalked off as Truva slid down the bars into a seated position upon the ground once more. Such physical brutality no longer distressed her; it was instead the certain truth behind his words which gave her pause. Dregant was not the sort of man to leave the manifestation of his desires to the whim of fate.
She did not believe Dregant would take her death into his own hands, however, for his boldness lay only in words and not actions, and while it was not inconceivable for a slave to be killed at the hands of their master, Truva did not believe the Hidlanders would take kindly to Dregant depriving them of their fun – he risked being ostracised should he succumb to his basest nature. Nor could he destroy her if she secured her thousandth victory, for as anarchic as the Hidlands were, the murder of a free villager was never overlooked. Still, Truva feared what mischief Dregant could yet conceive in the meantime.
It was such gloomy thoughts Truva was entertaining when a disturbance cut through the racket of the market, as half a dozen men exerted all their might in dragging another figure along the main street. When they approached closer, Truva could see the figure was her opponent, body soaked in blood, having been severely beaten for her loss.
The men opened a cage adjacent to that which Truva occupied, one that had stood empty for as long as she could remember. Despite the beleaguered state of the fighter, it took the strength of every single man to contain her within the cage, and still she clung to the jambs as they slammed the gate shut upon her fingers. The crunch of shattered bone was audible, and the fighter screamed in pain and rage. Even as the men left, she continued to hurl herself at the gate, clanging it loudly against the frame. Such actions were pointless, however, for the cage was tethered upright by mighty chains anchored with bores that struck deep into the ground; the craftsmanship of fighters' cages was the pride of the Hidland blacksmiths.
A small crowd gathered to watch as the fighter continued like this for some time, using everything at her disposal to convey her fury to the world. Her voice became as raw as her mangled body before she finally collapsed onto the ground and wept. Truva said nothing, for there was nothing that could be said.
The day continued around those confined. Goods were purchased and sold and villagers came and went beneath the colourful tents of red and gold and green. They were unconcerned as ever with the plight of the pitiful fighters, save those that occasionally gawked at the one who was two bouts away from potentially ensuring her freedom, or the one rumours said came from a distant village.
Even still, day transformed into night with imperceptible changes. As the middle-aged woman selling corn and chickens next to the cages began to pack up her tent, Truva gazed upon the young woman who lay miserably in the cage beside hers. In the dim light of sunset, Truva could see bruises blossoming purple on her skin, and blood already dried on her clothes, and a faded look in her eyes.
"Why did you let me win?" Truva asked bluntly, abruptly cutting through the silence. Her opponent did not respond for some time as her eyes turned languidly toward Truva.
"You are famous, even in my own village," she replied after a pause, her voice hoarse, scarcely more than a whisper. "I live— I lived in a tiny hamlet at the far eastern corner of the Valley. All the communities that distant are incredibly insular; even still, we heard tell of you."
"And so?"
The fighter did not answer immediately. She studied Truva for a moment, pulling herself up into a slumped position against the cage bars before she spoke again. "I was stolen. Like you, I was a prizefighter for my village, but I was free. I earned my own money, chose my own fights, lived my own life. They came in the middle of the night and took me."
It was Truva's turn to be silent. Buying and selling slaves was common – stealing free humans was unheard of.
"I am sorry," was the only response she could offer.
"And it was my belief, if I was to be a slave anyway, if I was to have my freedom so brutally stripped from me, that I might at least assist another on the path to theirs." She took several deep breaths before continuing, "So you must win. You must fight for the rest of us, for those left behind, for those abused and exploited, to show we will not be broken!"
"I have no intention of losing!" Truva replied fiercely. "I would rather face death with fire in my soul than be beaten down and forced to live a life not my own."
"And that is why I let you win," said the fighter, and collapsed in exhaustion, unresponsive.
Several days passed and still Truva did not know the name of her opponent, yet it seemed immaterial. The fighters led fleeting, insubstantial lives; any sense of identity they might have possessed was ground down by the lightness of existence itself; thus even names, that marker of individuality, floated up beyond the mountaintops surrounding the Hidlands like a different kind of bars.
Whatever her name was, the fighter had been dragged off multiple times, sometimes twice in one day, to guarantee the victory of other fighters. Each time she was returned even more battered than when she was taken away. Perhaps it was because Truva supposed she would never have to fight this particular opponent again, or perhaps it was because she knew the fighter's freedom had been so ruthlessly stripped away, but an incredible sense of sympathy for this new arrival swelled within Truva.
As Truva herself was led away upon the sudden arising of her penultimate bout, the fighter even managed to rasp out an enthusiastic "Good luck!" despite her battered state, and settled back against the cage bars to await Truva's return.
It was a long wait. When Truva finally did return, it was in the arms of three men who dumped her unceremoniously back into her cage. Truva appeared unconscious, lying with her back to her onetime opponent.
"—Well?" came the anticipant inquiry, for though Truva's condition clearly indicated defeat, she could sense the fighter's wish to remain in denial until the end. Truva did not respond verbally, merely raised her hand slowly to gesture a positive sign of victory. Her neighbour shrieked in delight and danced around her cage, temporarily oblivious to her injuries, only to collapse and join Truva in lying upon the ground.
Dregant had kept his promise. It was a brutal fight, one of the most brutal Truva had ever faced in all the time since her debut. She had absorbed the entire beating, enduring just until she could catch a flying left hook and send her opponent unresponsive to the canvas. Her body was in ruin, however, and she feared Dregant would take this last opportunity to ensure her defeat by scheduling a fight immediately, perhaps even that very same day.
That was precisely what Dregant had intended to do, yet the villagers would not have it. Such a historic fight be so inequitable? No, that would not do. Every single owner refused to match their fighters with Truva, therefore Dregant had no other alternative than to provide Truva sufficient time to fully recover and train for her thousandth fight.
It was atypical for active fighters to train, as participating in bouts every three days or so left minimal time or need for drilling and such exercises. Thus, the youth populated the Training Compound: fighters who had not yet debuted or whose technique still required refinement. His belief that constraining Truva to a tiny cage would facilitate breaking her winning streak meant Dregant had long ago prevented Truva from visiting the Compound, yet as she approached what could potentially be her final fight, the entire Valley of the Hidlands demanded Truva be in peak condition. While she still spent nights in the market cage, it was with reluctance Dregant allowed her to return to the Compound to train with the other skilled fighters who remained there as instructors.
Months passed ere opponent and date were agreed upon, yet the day came nevertheless. It was the first day of spring, counterintuitively inauspicious in Hidland culture. The temperature had been exceptionally low all week, and a fog had settled in, yet on that day the chill was broken by unseasonably strong sunlight that cut through the gloom.
The market was declared closed, for not a single villager wished to miss the momentous occasion. While owners chafed at the idea of their own possessions gaining freedom, it was out of a perverse joy they inwardly encouraged the emancipation of others'.
Spectators streamed toward the village entrance beneath the morning sun. It was not the tenth day of the cycle, thus not a day when fights would ordinarily be held at the Coliseum, yet there was no other venue capable of accommodating all those who wished to observe, nor indeed would any other venue equal the grandness of the occasion.
A diverse array of Hidlanders took their seats upon the earthen stands about the sunken ring. They chatted noisily with their neighbours as they unpacked food they had prepared and hailed the ale master – the sole guaranteed beneficiary, regardless of the events that transpired.
There was to be a series of six fights before Truva's in order to entice the crowd and build suspense, as well as sell more ale. Though fighters were typically not released from their cages until the last possible moment, several villagers had pressured Dregant into allowing Truva to prepare in advance for a fight that would surely be told in stories for generations. Truva was therefore released early, though such a disturbance to her routine was in truth more of a hindrance than an advantage. She hung back from the crowds, out of sight behind a screen erected for waiting fighters as she loosened her body and mind. Engrossed as she and the other Hidlanders were, they failed to notice a small number of outsiders slip into the village.
Taking advantage of the villagers' preoccupation, these strange Men hitched their horses to an outpost just beyond the foremost huts and slunk past the Coliseum wholly unobserved, paying no heed to the hubbub which emanated from that area. They moved swiftly along the deserted market street, turning down an alleyway into a cluster of huts before entering one. They emerged but a few moments later and returned to the market, then proceeded a short distance further and repeated the same process several times.
At one point, they paused a great while in front of one particular residence, emerging at great last with a straw satchel they had not entered with. Once in possession of this new treasure, they turned back along the market street and crept westward toward the village entrance. They ultimately submitted to their curiosity, however, and approached the Coliseum to observe the events transpiring there.
Likewise observing the preliminary fights, yet still unaware of these interlopers, Truva was gripped with tension. A decade of fighting could not dispel the entrenched sense of anxiety that tormented her before every bout. No stretching of limbs, no series of exercises, no amount of fighting shadows helped abate the unshakable feeling of inevitable failure.
She was so consumed by her nerves it was not until an unnatural hush fell she turned to see the previous fighters clearing the ring and her opponent entering it. He was a tall, stocky man, sure to have been a highly decorated soldier in any other society. His golden hair was cropped short and his muscles flexed restlessly beneath his uniform; Harrodoc was his name, and Truva had fought him many times before. She usually lost.
"Truva!" Harrodoc cried, his voice unnecessarily loud over the quietude. Truva rolled her eyes, for she had forgotten how much he relished the recitation of a monologue. "Well we all know of your fame! Gathered here are those who wish to witness this unparalleled moment in history, when I shall strike you down in the very moment of your anticipated victory. Come out now!"
Ever contrary, Truva did not wish to emerge – regardless of how fervently she desired the fight to start, she baulked at the idea of being ordered about by this pontificator – yet her eagerness for a conclusion ultimately won out, and she stepped forth from behind the screen.
"Let all present view her at the height of her glory; a most worthy opponent, yet one I shall certainly crush!" Harrodoc boasted.
Truva longed to take her time in walking to the ring, longed to witness every flickering image, to breathe in the smell of roasted potatoes from the couple she had just passed, to feel the pleasantly warm sunlight on her glistening, sweaty skin, and appreciate the overpowering significance of the moment; yet she also loathed the idea of listening to Harrodoc speak. She raced instead through the break in the benches as free villagers reached out to brush their fingertips against their unlikely idol.
Harrodoc wisely ceased to speak the instant Truva entered the ring. It was an immense, circular construction of posts hung with netting woven of thin but strong rope. As there were no corners, Truva took the side opposite her opponent as she had done in two hundred and twenty-one other fights at the Coliseum. Harrodoc grinned maniacally, for he understood his victory would result in the grandest profit of his owner's life, which in turn indicated food and rest for him. He was not afraid to sabotage the lifelong dream of others in order to attain his own temporary gratification.
The hush of the crowd built slowly to a deafening roar, the likes of which Truva had never heard in the Valley before. This was the defining moment of the Hidlanders, even more than it was her own; it was the event that would keep them engaged before the fire on long, freezing winter nights, generations into the future. Yet for Truva, it was nothing more than a fleeting moment.
The bell rang. Harrodoc closed the distance between them at incredible speed. Intending to drive him back and maintain the distance between them, Truva threw a rapid front kick toward his jawline. It landed perfectly.
Harrodoc was down instantly, unconscious.
The spectators' roar cut off sharply as shock reigned. Could it really happen like that? Could history happen so quickly? Was it real?
Suddenly, everybody leapt into action. Those who had lost bets staged their own fights with those they had lost their bets to. Drunkards staged fights with anyone within reach. Women and men who had secretly been cheering for something unexpected to happen simply cried aloud at the joy of being alive in such times. Other village members held Truva's owner back as he struggled to make his way toward the ring, knife in hand.
Truva started; seeing the apoplectic look upon Dregant's face, she wondered whether she had not misjudged him, and he might be capable of taking her life after all, regardless of the consequences. She considered her circumstances: she had neither belongings nor money with which to establish a life in the Hidlands or elsewhere. Legend had it the first fighter to win his freedom died of dehydration just beyond the entrance of the Valley and, upon hearing the stories of the first fighter, the second fighter to achieve the Dream decided to stay in the Hidlands and build his own fighting empire.
Truva could not and would not enact such inhumane evils upon her fellow beings as the second fighter had. She had therefore determined long ago to flee the first instant she was able, even if it meant her death. As soon as Harrodoc hit the black canvas and Truva witnessed the chaos about her, she stalked out of the ring and up through the seating, pushing villagers from her as she made her way out of the Coliseum and toward the village entrance.
Even as she left the tumult behind, Truva collided directly with the foremost of the outsiders, though he was so stout she scarcely caused him to budge. Upon his leather breastplate was emblazoned a golden horse, each of his companions clad similarly. Towering above her, they peered down from light blue-green eyes framed with long locks of untamed golden hair. No clan with such a crest or such fair people resided anywhere within the vicinity of the Hidlands – they were entirely unfamiliar to Truva, and she eyed them warily.
"Who are you?" she demanded of the Man she had run into.
"We are Eorlingas," responded the Man, scrutinizing her with squinting eyes and downturned mouth. Truva did not know what his words meant, though she had no intention of displaying her ignorance as she squirmed under his curious gaze.
"What is your purpose here?" she pressed.
"That I cannot tell you." Truva bristled slightly at the man's brusque response, yet her situation was desperate. She was in no position to spurn these strangers.
"By what means did you come here?"
"On horse," the man gestured to their herd as he answered.
"Where lies your destination?"
"We return now to the Riddermark." The man may as well have been speaking a foreign tongue for all Truva understood, but in her mind all that mattered was their destination lay elsewhere.
"Take me with you."
"Beg pardon."
"Take me with you," Truva repeated. The man observed her quizzically for a few moments ere another of his companions approached and drew the first away for a hushed discussion. They were not so far away Truva could not hear, yet it did her no good, for their speech was strange and foreign. It nevertheless sounded rich and vibrant, at times as though she might understand if only she focused a little more intently.
"She is not one of us, my lord," said the second man, suddenly reverting to the Common Tongue.
"Without us she is doomed," replied the first, who appeared to be the leader.
"If she were for any reason to cause us to fail our mission... And we haven't a spare horse!"
Truva saw it was in her best interest to interrupt their discussion then. "You may bind me, so I do not cause trouble. I can run – and should I fall too far behind, you may leave me altogether. All I ask is some water and a chance to leave this place."
The leader glanced at his second man significantly, though the response was a mere shrug.
"We will not bind you, though there is no man among us light enough to share his horse; you shall have to keep up on foot. Our water reserves lie with our horses. Come now and we will give you some, ere we move out."
The group of eight men strode off as a unit, and Truva scarcely had enough time to register shock before her limbs moved of their own accord, following after the group. When they reached a cluster of horses just beyond the entrance of the village, the lead Man offered her a skin of water.
"Do not drink overly much. Your body is parched and will not be able to take it all. I will allow you to drink as often as you like, do not fear." Without any further word, even as Truva returned the water to its owner, the riders mounted their horses and turned from the village, peeling out toward the entrance of the Valley.
True to his word, the leader allowed Truva to drink as often as she asked, and even proffered some sort of biscuit to fill her complaining stomach. She strove to limit how often she asked for water, and savoured the biscuit for as long as possible, however, for though she was oblivious as to where they had come from nor how far their destination lay, Truva felt burdened by the knowledge they had not anticipated an additional companion.
It was a rocky, treacherous path which led away from the first village, and Truva initially made better progress than the horses. When the trail bottomed out toward the canyon at the entrance of the Valley, however, the way grew less precarious. The easier the path became for the horses, the more strenuous it became for Truva, and though she was a fighter and in good physical shape, the culture of the Hidlands did not allow for distance running. Most fighters only ever jogged small laps about their own separate Compound, for each village had one, or ran short-distance sprints – anything further and their owners grew concerned about their slaves running away.
Sharp rocks and gritty sand wore at Truva's feet, leaving the soles split and raw as unseen roots sent her sprawling forward. More than once Truva found herself face down on the path, scraped knees and elbows stinging as she spat from her mouth the ashy dust that billowed up about her. All too quickly the refreshing effect of the strangers' water was undone.
Yet Truva was driven by something even more powerful than evading what lay behind. The future she ran toward was laced with uncertainty, yet it was in such indeterminate potential that her hope lay. She was pursued by the knowledge that never again would she be granted any such opportunity; without the strange horsemen – whose appearance had been unlooked for – her fortunes would surely not have turned so favorably. It was this thought, lodged deep in her mind and heart, which urged Truva to keep pace with the horses, however arduous a task it might be.
Riding at the head, the second Man observed her struggles from the corner of his eye and slowed the pace of the horsemen imperceptibly. He dropped back to the leader.
"If this is the pace we maintain, we might not make it out of the valley by nightfall." His hushed tones barely carried over the sound of the horses' hooves.
"We shall reach it a little later than anticipated, yet we will reach it nevertheless."
"If you say so, my lord," said the second rider, then retook the lead.
Truva could not hear the exact exchange, though mere observance of the riders' body language allowed her to perceive what had been said. Keeping the second horseman within sight, she exerted herself to draw even with the leader.
"If necessary, you can forge on ahead and make camp where you originally intended. I am sure you desire to be beyond the reach of the Hidden Lands before nightfall, and I do not wish to impede your progress."
"Thank you for your concern, but it is not necessary," said the leader. "We are making decent time and shall be secure wherever we rest tonight."
Truva fell back, both unwilling and unable to make further conversation. Not only was she at a loss for words, her breath caught in her lungs and throat upon every inhalation, and her mouth felt full of cotton. She was certain her legs would collapse against her will with each step she took.
Truva was just beginning to lag behind the group when the lead rider issued a low whistle and all members reigned in their horses, guiding them to a low tree so slight it was practically a bush. They dismounted and pulled water and food from their panniers, taking a seat beneath the paltry shade of the tree.
It was a few hours after midday, and though the spring air might have felt pleasantly warm to one who was just emerging after having spent all winter tucked away inside, the sun bore down unbearably hot upon Truva. All her body longed to do was collapse on the ground, yet her spirit knew she would never arise again should she do so. Truva therefore refused to sit, choosing instead to shake out her legs and stretch. With gratitude she accepted additional water and a mouthful of biscuit from a rider she had not yet spoken with, though that was all.
The riders' rest concluded much sooner than Truva would have liked. Her feet, accustomed to being eternally bare, protested at being beat against such rough terrain, and her legs threatened to buckle as her calves and thighs seared in pain. It was through pure strength of will Truva was able to force one foot in front of the other as the riders mounted up and departed again.
They continued on until dusk, at which point they had reached the steep canyon that formed the exit of the Valley. Here they slowed to a walk, though Truva could not comprehend why.
"Stay vigilant," came the soft warning from the leader. Truva was too physically overwhelmed to so much as keep her head up, let alone look around, yet their caution was unwarranted. The riders and their peculiar companion passed through the bottleneck unchallenged, and continued to travel on into the pathless hinterland beyond the Valley.
Despite her exhaustion, a thrill ran through Truva. As a slave, she had never passed beyond the borders of the Hidlands. Even free villagers rarely came so far, instead relying upon the rare trader to bring them what little they could not provide themselves. Each passing moment brought new sights Truva had only ever dreamt of seeing. Beyond the insular Valley, the dying glow of dusk revealed the Hidlands were but a tiny link in a staggering chain of mountains running as far as the eye could see southward, Blackbramble Peak nothing more than a single diminished spire amongst a vast range of summits.
Another arm of the mountains extended northwestward, at the foot of which ran a river, impressive in Truva's eyes even from a distance, for she had never witnessed anything greater than tiny trickles of snowmelt. The waters of the river ran west for quite some distance before they hooked southward, enclosing vast, open plains which featured nothing save dry, golden green scrub far into the distance. Her vision having always been obscured by the mountains surrounding the Hidlands, Truva struggled to comprehend the vastness of the new land that lay before her.
Night had fully descended by the time the riders made camp in a copse of windswept pines. Through drooping eyes, Truva observed as they organised watch, then determined a foraging pair as well as a cooking pair. Though she felt somewhat guilty, Truva was extremely grateful the riders did not seem to expect anything of her, for she did not believe her spent body capable of any further movement. She collapsed beside the leader as he built a campfire, ignited it, and set water to boil.
Noticing her observation, the leader asked, "What is your name?" but Truva was already fading off to sleep, unable to answer when he asked if she did not wish to eat supper.
"Let her sleep," said the second rider, approaching from a foraging mission with a handful of mushrooms and some greens. "She can eat tomorrow morning; it is better she rest now."
"You are right, Éofa," said the leader, and Truva was awake no more.
Author's notes:
Thank you for reading the first chapter of The Lady of the Rohirrim! As unrefined as the title may be, it was born of my obstinate desire to retain the "LotR" acronym, and for that I implore that you grant me some forbearance.
This work is dedicated to my Sam, without whom I would have gotten as far as Frodo without his Sam – that is to say, not very far indeed.
From catching grammatical mistakes to allaying my prodigious self-doubt, this work would not exist without such a good friend and beta. (Any mistakes are the result of my own inability to leave editing very well enough alone, and not any oversight on their part.)
Thanks also to ABACUS on AO3, for their boundless effort and determination to see ships actually sail!
I highly, highly recommend reading this work on AO3 (under the username blueoncemoon). The editing process on AO3 is a great deal simpler, and therefore the version I maintain there is far more refined. It is also far easier to engage in comments, even as a guest!
As I absolutely adore comments of all kinds, please do not hesitate to share your thoughts, questions, opinions, impressions, corrections, or criticism! Even general greetings are warmly welcomed!
I thank you once again for reading this far, and if you have enjoyed what you have read, "Forth now, and fear no darkness!"