AN: Another chapter that was difficult to write. Thank you to my reviewers and followers, it makes me smile every time I see a new one. :)
Her sword parried his easily. Quickly, she brought the blade round again and sent his bouncing away. She flicked hers against his chest and he froze.
"Yield?" she said, grinning at her opponent. He nodded curtly. As she stepped backwards, gruff laughter echoed around the courtyard.
"Excellent milady!" Grimfast roared, his massive hands coming together in applause. Ailith bobbed a curtsey, her grin still plastered across her face.
In three years, she had come far. Her father had died peacefully in his sleep during her first winter on the Wold. He had been buried outside the Fortress walls and every citizen of the Wold had made the journey to pay their respects. Ailith had stood by the grave with Merewald, her long veil hiding her lack of tears. To her, her father had died many years before. Now his body had followed his mind. She now wore his signet ring on the middle finger of her right hand. It was her only nod to the stewardship of her office.
Since his death, she had worked twice as hard. As well as sword-practice with Grimfast, she learnt how to ride a war horse and throw a spear from Folcred and learnt basic healing arts from Merewald. She took Beleg's advice to get to know her people and opened the Hall during her meals. While she and the men ate, the farmers and shepherds could come and eat with them and tell her or Léonere about any problems they had. In the evenings, she sat with Léonere and learnt the laws of Rohan. Some nights, Grimfast and Léonere told her stories. The vanquishing of the Sorcerer of Dol Guldur; the Halfling and the Thirteen Dwarves; the fall of Moria; as many as they could remember.
Every night she slept the dreamless sleep of the exhausted as her muscles lengthened and toned and the skin on her hands became hard from her constant handling of swords and leather. Her life in Edoras could have been a distant memory. Rarely did she wear dresses now; her clothes consisted of shirts and riding trousers, her strawberry blonde curls tumbling down her back when they weren't tied back by a piece of twine.
She left the men in the courtyard and walked back to her chambers. She had taken her father's room when he had died. Léonere had insisted. One of the maids had filled a bath for her. She fetched some lavender from her own personal herb store and sprinkled it in the water.
The dust and the sweat slowly washed off her as she tipped the water over herself. When she was clean, she sat in the bath and checked her bruises from training. Finally, she traced the small scar on her palm.
"Like the Shieldmaidens of old," she said quietly. Someone knocked on the door. "One moment," she called. She climbed out of the bath and dried herself quickly. She pulled on an old pair of riding trousers and a loose woollen shirt and crossed the room to open the door.
"Oh, it's you, Dúnadan," she said. Beleg pushed past her, a frown on his face. "What's wrong?" she asked as she shut the door.
"I am sorry, little Rohiril. I have to go away," he said absent-mindedly.
"Oh. For how long this time?"
He had been away before, often for months at a time, but he always returned.
"I'm not returning," he said. "I've received word from my Chieftain. Shadows are moving which have not stirred for centuries."
"So you are leaving us for good."
He chuckled and looked around the room.
"I am going to miss this place. And I wish I could see you complete your training. You will make a formidable Rider, Ailith. They will write sagas about you," he said, reaching out a hand and stroking some wet hair off her face.
He pulled her into his embrace.
"Thank for all your help, Beleg. Tell your people that they are always welcome here. As long as my kin govern the Fortress, your kin may seek sanctuary with us," she said quietly.
That evening, after she had bidden Beleg goodbye, Léonere limped over to her in the Great Hall.
"My lady, there is something you should see," he whispered in her ear. She made her excuses and followed him outside.
A shepherd was standing next to a sheep's carcass. She gagged at the stench of decay and then stepped closer.
"These tears here," she said, indicating on the body, "they look like they were made by a wolf but they are far too large."
"A Warg, milady. A pack has come down from the Mountains," the shepherd said. "They are attacking our livestock and we are terrified that it will be our homes next."
She met Léonere's gaze and then nodded.
"Speak to Léonere, my steward here, and he will sort out compensation for the loss of your livestock. I shall speak to the Captain of my Riders and we shall deal with the problem swiftly," she said with an encouraging smile. The shepherd touched his forelock respectfully.
Quickly, she made her way back into the hall and tapped Folcred on the shoulder.
"Warg attack. Sober up, I want this dealt with tonight," she ordered. He thumped his tankard on the table.
"Ride out with us," he said. She paused and looked at him carefully, trying to gauge if he was joking.
"Sober up, Folcred. A drunken Rider is of no use to me, a drunken Captain doubly so!" she said grimly.
"I mean it. You can ride, you can use that damn sword of yours and frankly if there is a pack of Wargs running around, we are going to need as many blades as possible," he replied and Ailith could see that there was complete truth in his eyes. "Grimfast!" he shouted across the hall. The Beorning stopped and looked at them expectantly.
"Do you think the Lady Ailith could join us on a Warg hunt?" the Captain shouted. Grimfast grinned horribly and raised his own tankard in a toast.
"I have no armour!" Ailith protested.
"That leather jerkin with mail sown into the lining that you wear for sword practice, that will give you some protection. Ride in the centre of the group and you will be perfectly safe, my lady," the Captain said.
She bit her lip and then nodded weakly.
The Riders mustering in the courtyard was always an impressive sight but tonight Ailith barely noticed it. She concentrated on her own horse, ensuring that he would be fit for the night's work. The leather jerkin she wore for practice felt flimsy compared to the mail shirts of her Riders. As she mounted her horse, Grimfast trotted towards her on his own vast mount.
"I will stay close to you tonight, my lady. This skirmish is to give you experience of the battlefield, not to let you start fighting. You may defend yourself, of course, but I will be there to make sure you don't get seriously hurt."
She nodded thankfully as Folcred gave the cry to move out. The Wold was dimly bathed in silver moonlight; there would be no need to light torches this night. The Riders moved like shadows across the grass. In the distant, they could hear the snarling and yelping of the Wargs. Spears were raised in anticipation; blades slipped from their sheaths. Ailith unsheathed her own sword and gripped it firmly. Her hand shook with the sudden weight of the steel.
With a dreadful battle-cry, Folcred crested the hill and led them right into the middle of the pack. The Wargs broke apart, snapping and growling at the horses. Ailith started to whimper under her breath. The stink of the Wargs, the thundering of hooves, the glint of the swords and the eyes of the Wargs in the moonlight, it all swirled around her, sucking her into the maelstrom of horror.
A Warg snapped at the legs of her horse. He nimbly jumped away as she clumsily swung her sword at the beast. It bit into the back of the Warg's neck and it collapsed with a grunt. As she swung her sword up, its blood sprayed across her face. Some of it landed in her open mouth, bitter and metallic on her tongue. She laughed and behind her she heard the answering boom of Grimfast.
Neither saw the other Warg keeping pace alongside them. Neither heard its threatening growl through their laughter. It crouched low against the grass and then pounced at the horse and its rider.