Chapter 17: Nature of the Beast
Lothíriel stared at him dumbly. Surely this was some cruel joke before they pulled out their swords and beheaded her. He wanted her help? With what – regicide? This was ridiculous.
"Your silence makes me wonder if you're slow in the wits or if you're truly shocked with my statement." Beorn smirked at her as she shifted uneasily on her feet. "Are you daft, woman? Speak!"
"You haven't put me in the easiest of positions," she snapped. Beorn's eyebrows rose with amusement. Lothíriel bit her tongue and took a breath before speaking again. "What help could I possibly give you?"
"You are a famed healer," he answered, tilting his head to the side, watching her. "One of my men is injured in a way that is beyond our remedial skills. If you will heal and tend to his needs, we will let you and your fellow here return home. I can see that you doubt my word, but it is all I have to offer. That and your lives."
Lothíriel tried to make sense of what he was telling her, but there were still too many unanswered questions. Questions she wasn't entirely sure she'd get answered. But now seemed as good a time as any to inquire.
"You may be telling me the truth. But you had better be prepared to give me some answers. Where are my other men?"
"Is it not obvious?" Lothíriel's heart froze as realization set in. they'd killed every one of those good men. Husbands, sons, brothers… slaughtered. Beorn's expression softened as though he actually cared. "We are not the delicate aristocrats you've no doubt been exposed to your entire life."
Lothíriel still lacked the words to speak further, but she glanced down at Elfhelm. His usually warm brown eyes blazed with fury and malice as he glared (with one eye) at Beorn.
"Leverage," the Dunlending said, guessing her next question. "We kept this one alive so you might behave reasonably. He's a man of stature, not some guard. It seemed you would be more obliging if there was someone about who motivated you."
"You think those men's lives are worthless?" the Queen cried angrily. Beorn smiled sympathetically, reaching a hand out as if to comfort her, but she recoiled. "I will do what I can for this man. But I have business to attend to further north."
"Ah, you mean the village?" Lothíriel nodded slowly, her brows furrowed. "Yes, well, that won't be an issue any longer. That village has been dead for many weeks." He stared at her open-mouth look of horror, which replaced itself with disgust. Beorn sighed. "It was not our doing. Orcs came through. Ravaged the place. But it occurred to me, once my man was injured, that this village could be of some use."
"You… monster," she snarled, her emotions getting the better of her. "What of the messenger?"
"Oh him. He was paid well, have no fear." Lothíriel had never been so incensed in her life.
"How dare you lie and call my men and me here. And then kill them! Abduct us and expect me to help you! It is you who is daft if you truly believe I will agree to this."
"You've got quite a mouth, my lady." His tone was snide and his smile was getting ever wider. "I think you and I are both aware that your husband would not allow you anywhere near us if he knew the truth. Now come, we don't have much time."
The two men flanked her, one holding each arm. They escorted her away from Elfhelm, who was struggling against his bonds. Beorn followed Lothíriel and she felt his eyes on her. The cave widened as the walked. Deep within was a company of ten or twelve men. She noticed there were swords that bore the seal of Rohan. It made her stomach turn. As they further entered the cavern, all eyes were on her. The two men shoved her toward a pallet, upon which a young man lay.
"His hand was crushed by a horse's hoof," Beorn murmured to her. Lothíriel figured there was nothing to do but kneel down and inspect the man. Indeed, his left hand was wrapped in crude linens and his skin was clammy with sweat. Bluish circles covered his eyelids as he slept fitfully.
"You've gone through an awful lot of trouble for this fellow," she muttered, lifting his hand gently.
"This fellow is my brother," Beorn growled. So it appeared even brutes had a little compassion. Lothíriel turned to face the leader of the Dunlendings.
"How long has it been since this occurred?" she asked.
"A day and a half."
"Long enough for the ill humors of the wound to spread," she murmured. She delicately unwrapped the flimsy bandages and was met with the stench of rotting flesh. With the linen removed, Lothíriel examined the remains of his hand. The palm was a mess of blood, skin and muscle and three of the five fingers were bent, cracked and useless. Bones protruded where was skin had been ripped away. The consistency of his hand was a sloppy disarray of flimsy, wrecked tissue and darkened skin.
"I'll need my pack. I hope you were sensible enough to bring that with me."
Beorn called for a man, who dropped the small leather bag Lothíriel kept her herbs and salves in. She rummaged through it and turned back to the injured man, inspecting his hand once more. Beorn watched her carefully, his expression guarded.
"Can you help him?"
"Yes," she answered slowly, setting his arm down. "But his hand will have to be removed." Beorn stared at her as though she'd told him wargs were harmless. She sighed in an exasperated fashion. "You asked me if I could help. I can, but not if you're going to restrict my actions. We have to get rid of this hand. It will do him no good in life and serves only to spread disease."
"And what do you purpose he do with one hand? Draw? A man with only one hand is useless to me."
"Is a brother with one hand useless to you as well?" she asked quietly. He turned his blue eyes on her and scowled. "He is not all together inadequate. He can still ride a horse, or hold a child. Certainly his life would not be over."
"His life in my service would be over," Beorn muttered, looking at his brother.
"And it appears that is all that matters." Lothíriel avoided the man's glare as she tied her hair back. "I'll need fresh hot water, a knife, and clean linens. The sooner the better. Oh, and I would like my guard brought here so I can tend to his injuries as well."
"Bossy wench, aren't you?" Beorn's grin returned as he ordered his men to do as she directed. Lothíriel decided it was best if she ignored that remark.
-o-
"My lady's never sewed a day in her life," Lady Iviel divulged to the King of Rohan, who chuckled. "Of course, we tried to teach her. But she was always slipping away to be with her brothers."
"She's fond of them."
"Quite." The woman smiled. They'd spent an hour talking the night before and resumed that morning after breakfast. It'd taken Éomer a while to get Ivriel comfortable with him, but she opened up to his warm smiles and quiet assurances. He'd learned a lot about his wife, her dislikes and fancies among them. He lamented not being able to ask Lothíriel these questions directly and hoped she wouldn't be upset with him or Lady Ivriel.
"And does my lady enjoy making mischief with her brothers, as my sister did?"
"Oh she was the naughtiest child," Ivriel answered with a smile. "But so lovely. She could charm you right into forgetting why you were angry."
"That sounds familiar," Éomer muttered and grinned. "My sister and wife are strikingly similar, Lady Ivriel. It's almost frightening."
"Certainly," the woman agreed. She was about to say something else when the door opened, light pouring into Meduseld. A guard strode quickly into the hall, bowing as he reached his monarch.
"Forgive me, my lord." The man looked agitated and disgruntled. Éomer waved his apology aside, eyebrows raised in question. Lady Ivriel stood and excused herself with a curtsy. The guard waited her to exit before he took a step toward the King. "Something has happened."
"Something?" Éomer stood, his heat beating loudly. "What something?"
"Her Highness' company has been broken," he hesitated. "A routine ride of the Mark found their camp. Her guards were slain and the horses, gone."
"What of the Queen? And Lord Elfhelm?" Éomer could scarce believe what he was hearing.
"Neither were found among the bodies." The man took a breath and proceeded. "The men who found this rode hard all night to inform us. They say the camp was destroyed. It looked to be the work of orcs."
"Or Dunlendings," Éomer snarled. "A pox on Elfhelm for convincing me to allow this. Ready my éored."
"But we do not know where the Queen is."
"Ready my éored," the King nearly yelled. The man bowed low and sprinted away. Éomer sat back down, staring at the table. This was madness. Complete madness. What would the Dunlendings want with Lothíriel? Don't be stupid, he chastised himself. They want to continue their little game. But it was no longer a game. Burning empty villages and barns was one thing. Abducting his wife and Marshall was quite another.
Éomer shuddered to think what Lothíriel might be suffering at the hands of the brutes. He swore silent vengeance against any man that touched her. He tried not to imagine what barbaric things they'd done or were doing to her and Elfhelm. He prayed that they'd somehow managed to escape the attack, though he doubted it.
"My lord?" He looked up to see the guard at the door. Standing, Éomer made sure his sword was on his person and followed the man out. His éored of twenty men was assembled before Meduseld. Two of the men belonging to the Mark that'd discovered the camp rode with them. Firefoot stood awaiting his master's hand. Mounting the horse, Éomer nodded to the Riddermark.
"It will take over a day to reach the site, my lord," one of the men said. Éomer nodded and they started off at a brisk trot.
"We have a lot of land to cover. And if there are any Dunlendings to be found, let them taste our swords for their offenses against Rohan and against the King. Forth Eorlingas!"
A/N: Now would be a fabulous time for reviews. Comments on this or previous chapters? Suggestions for further chapters? I'm open to ideas and changes. Don't worry, due credit will be given to concepts used. But I'm at a fork in the creative road and reader's opinions would be super-great. Thanks again for the lovely support of my readers. You're all too kind.