For Author's Not and Disclaimer, see chapter 1

Chapter 29

The camp lay quiet, dusk had come and was now replaced with darkness laying heavy and filled with the soft noises of night in the wild. Crickets chirped and an owl howled as it was in search of pray, a faint rustle carried through the grass even as leather creaked somewhere. The valley gave shelter from the most forceful winds and the grass was tall and soft, providing plenty of food for the horses and suitable bedding for the men in their tents. Small white tents stood in perfect rows, a larger one in one end for their commander to be used in spite of the man's protests. The dying embers of the cook fires in the fire pits cast an eerie glow on white canvas. Reflected here and there of the metal of a shield, leaving a semidarkness that was thick but not impenetrable.

There was a picket line for the horses yet too green to stay and heed their masters when given their freedom of no saddles or bridles. Other were rooming freely through the camp as they pleased, not disturbed at all by the heavy snores of men long used to rough living, nor the occasional explicative when a tree root got too intimate with someone.

The great grey stallion, a warhorse of breed and renown stood by the larger tent, ears swivelling slowly as he took in all the sounds of his herd. Aye, for they were his, he was the stallion, the champion in charge of this herd, the other horses deferred to him, though they had all been brought together from various herds of the mark, in this one, he was their leader. It was a position he had earned when foul creatures fell under his hooves, when his master led the charge through the enemy ranks and he never even faltered.

Aye, his master was the leader of his own herd, the two legged ones, the weaker ones that needed the protection of him and his friends. He was willing to offer it, for did not his master always treat him with kindness and respect? Acknowledging his might and his right to lead the herd as he was supposed to. He was at their front every day, he was the first one to charge through ranks of spears and swords, sharp metal that bit and cut and left bleeding gashes in their flesh. It was a sign of valour and bravery to carry the one in the red-brown armour, his master, whom they all knew too heed, his whole herd. For as he never faltered himself, so did his master always stand fast.

He was worthy, so tiny and fragile at the time he had come to know him by his mother's side. So small and yet so resilient, accepted by his mother as one of their own, and so the stallion had known he was to be his brother. Older mayhap, but smaller and more fragile, but one they were all supposed to know and follow. Tis was important, that they all obeyed his command, and as he was in charge of his own herd, the four legged ones, the stronger ones, he ensured that his fellow herds mates knew this.

He would not allow them to risk his master's safety or anger by not heeding his command. He would not stand for the shame of his herd not doing what they were told, tis was a heavy responsibility, but one he was glad to take. Had not his master so many times proven his loyalty to them, and did he not deserve the same in return? The small two legged colt that struggled to carry a hurt foal, weighing more than he himself. Crying out with pain from the strain and yet refusing to yield, for the other herd was his herd as well.

Aye, his master was one Firefoot would always be glad to follow, and he was proud to serve with him as they shared the herd between them.

Satisfied that all sounds coming from his master's tent were the sounds of a two legged one in sleep, he swieveld his ears once more, and slowly strode through the ranks of tents, inspecting them and checking on their occupants. He stuck his nose in through the opening of one and briefly ruffled through the garments laid aside there, knowing that there was ever the chance of odd bits of leftover carrot, apple or a few grains of oat left. This time there was nothing and he gave a snort, tossing his head.

The sentries patrolling the camp did not care about the sound he and his herd made, they were guarding for threats from the outside, and they had better be valiant, for the scent of prowlers were in the air. A faint whiff carried on the far wind, too far in the distance to be a threat yet, but it was still enough to cause some unease and restlessness as he moved further down the line of tents. There was the one, the one that made him lay his ears against his head and bare his teeth. One of the few of this herd that he felt had no place there. With the red and white beard, the one who had a heavy hand with his horse and a harsh voice when he barked at him.

He was one of the few of these two legged ones who'd treat their horses ill, who were rough and harsh and never showed any kindness, and he did not take the care of his equipment either. He could smell the flecks of rust on the sword and shield, and noted the unwashed wooden bowl outside the tent, upside down, and he placed one hoof upon it. Bearing down his weight until the wood cracked under his hoof he gave a whinny of delight. There was a crack running through the wood and it would now never hold the steaming hot oddly fragrant water the two legged ones liked without leaking.

Pawing one hoof at the wooden stakes that held the tent he loosened them, tis was well deserved, for the mare he had jerked the bridle on so harshly only the day before had been one Firefoot once fancied. Now though, now she was much too shy and subdued to be approachable, and to show his displeasure further he stomped his hoof down on a discarded boot, cracking the leather of those odd things the two legged ones always seemed to need. They were much too soft footed for their own good, they could not run on rocks without those leather things to protect them. Well, this one should find the things were suddenly not much more comfortable to doon than it would have been to be without them. The leather bent and crooked and he was pleased as he moved down the line.

There, the young one, the young colt out for the first time without this herd. He had just left his own mother behind, a mere scrawny colt who still seemed to stumble and was unused to what was expected of him, though some of the older ones were kind enough. His master would not let them treat the colt cruelly and he was glad for it. The little one was unused to this though, tossing restlessly and he had kicked off his other cover that the two legged ones needed to guard them from the cold. Whinnying again he pawned at the tent, tapped a leg with one hoof until the two legged colt stirred, and jerked upright at the intrusion. Seeing whom it was who had disturbed his sleep he gave an embarrassed smile and muttered something, before wrapping the green covering more tightly around himself and going back to sleep.

Snorting and shaking his head Firefoot continued through the camp. There was a mare tied to the picket line that never had seemed to mind his advances and that was something he wanted to cultivate. Finding the mare tasting the air heavily, nostrils flaring he nudged her, and nuzzled her neck.

The scent of the prowlers were stronger now, it was making his herd uneasy. The wind was bringing the scent of the foul dog like creatures to them, so it was unlikely they were aware of his herd. If they got much closer though they would know. The two legged ones, his master, would not let them harm this heard but the new ones were uneasy. They were scared, and that meant it was time to try and make the others see what was going on. Nuzzling her neck again he ambled over to where one of the more seasoned ones stood, spear in hand.

Burrowing his nose in his side he pushed at him, nipped at his shoulder, and pushed his head against his cuirass. The man was instantly alert and called out to his friend. They had been with the herd long enough to know he wanted them for something. Well, if they weren't fast enough to understand his nudges, he was happy enough to use his teeth. Three of them mounted up and rode out, patrolling the camp in circles, it would scare off the prowlers he knew and he gave the man a light nudge in thanks. They were well trained by his master, he had taught them well how they were supposed to perform and who was in charge.

The scent of the prowlers faded away in the night as the patrolling men scared them off. Sometimes he really wished his master would take a little more care, but while the two legged ones were loyal, they were not very good at looking after themselves…

Snorting and tossing his head over the ignorance of the two legged ones Firefoot strolled back to the tent where his master was. Some time ago, many seasons now, he had been in one of the small white tents, which Firefoot had liked much better. Then he had been able to guard him better… He'd woke him with a bite when the stench of the foul orcs came near, and he'd killed the snake that sought to make its way into the tent one night. His master never even knew as the shadow had glided silently through the grass, but he had sensed it. He could smell it, and the black thick cord like creature stood not a chance against steel shod hoves and a war horse.

The battle had been short, the snake had not even had time to realize the threat, before one mighty hoof crushed the head and left the body to thrash.

He had a good master, one who appreciated his effort in the morning when he found the dead body of the snake outside his tent. Not all of his herd were as fortunate, but he had a good one, and well trained. He had praised him for his vigilance and given him the oats that would have been his own breakfast. Not all of the two legged ones were as kind.

Which was why he had later saved him from the apples that had somehow snuck in into his tent.

Apples weren't to be trusted, it was best to dispose of them safely as quickly as possible before they could do any harm. Aye, it was pure kindness to sniff them out and dig them out of the pack to be rid of them. He would not take the risk that they attacked his master in the night when he slept, tis would be a horrible neglect on his side if he was to do that… No, apples should be defeated when they were discovered, it was safest that way.

He did not like it that they forced his master to stay in the big tent now, and he knew his master was not that fond of it either but it was the way it had always been. The leader of the herd had the big tent, and his steed had to stay guard outside. Certainly, had he made his way inside he felt he would have been allowed, after all, had not his master many times slept in his stall? Was it then not only fair that he bedded down in his masters stall? If he wanted to that was, and he liked it better in the open air where he could make certain there were no more threats approaching them.

Making his way to the back of the tent, just to where the narrow cot was placed on the other side of the white canvas and soft snores were heard easily he settled down. Folding his strong legs under himself to be more comfortable he laid his nose against the canvas, his breath causing the canvas to rustle just a little, and on the other side a hand thrown out came to rub against his nose through the fabric.

He had a good master, they were hard to train, or so he heard, but this one had proven well worth the effort and he was proud to lead the herd with him…

A Temporary End...

Thank you all who's read and reviewed, the Cricket is thrilled...

Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.