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Enjoy a (rather short, and then again not really short) chapter that introduces a certain someone!

Little Sparrow

Chapter V: An Unwarranted Attack

Another day of riding and a night of journey had fleeted by. The cold dawn was at hand again, and chill grey mists were about them as they broke camp; they had rested their horses only briefly, and now they were ready to set out once more. His horse stood steaming with cold perspiration, but Firefoot held its neck proudly and showed no sign of weariness. Many tall men were mounted behind him, heavy cloaks drawn about them as they awaited orders, and their spears gleamed sharply in the dim light of the distantly rising sun.

"My lord." A voice broke the silence, and he looked back to the rider at his side. Gloved fingers tightened against the reins. "Is it not the hour to depart?"

Behind, the heavy mist swallowed up most of his riders, but the ever-present breathing and stamping of hoofs welled up between the hills. An ever-growing echo. They had skirted the banks of the Entwash, first following the swift-flowing river as it left the old forest of Fangorn; deeply carven into the stones and land, and further still as the flow became sluggish. Languid and chuckling. The grasslands gave way to brackish fens, and a stark smell permeated the air. They were far from home and hearth, and had been for a long time now.

But the Emnets were growing increasingly dangerous, for fel creatures crept down from the mountains, and from the west the Dunlendings became bolder; patrolling was important, if not more than ever, even if it kept his men from their homes and families. It was a dull and disheartening task, but also a mantle he had welcomed with pride.

For a while he sat silent in the saddle, pensive, but at last he spoke. "We will ride the straight way east. Call the heralds."

He put on his helmet.

Then he went out, and behind him trumpets rang out in the mists, answered by many calls and shouts. Thundering over the wide flats beside the noisy river, he led his riders onward down the grey road. Swiftly following their lord in pairs, two hundred strong. His heart felt heavy, thoughts of better days – now long gone – haunting his waking hours, and always he was burdened with great concerns. The voices of counsellors whispered promises of peace in the King's ear, and the people of Edoras, so far from the wilderness, knew very little of the dangers surrounding them.

Two swift hours passed, and they rode on through meads and riverlands. Often the grass was so high that it reached above the knees of the riders, and their steeds seemed to be swimming in a grey-green sea. They knew the lands well, skirting around hidden pools and treacherous bogs. Taking the fastest way over the lands. Firefoot found the way, and the other horses followed in his swath.

Looking out over the plains he saw the climbing sun, red tendrils across a clouded sky, low upon the edge of sight. A bitter chill clung still to the air, and a wind swept across their path, rushing through bent grasses. But soon morning was bright and clear about them, and birds were singing in the meadows, and he wished the tranquil world was not so fleeting. So easily broken by war. So soon, Autumn was to pass, and the bitterness of Winter blew with increasing strength.

The riders climbed and descended rolling hills, making easy marks against the pale sky if not for their great numbers, and his grip on the spear was ever vigilant. Ready. An unease hung heavy in the air, for their scouts had not returned from their patrol through the night. They were good men, and he prayed to the Valar that his fears would be but horrid thoughts with no claim to reality. But there was a sinking feeling in his chest.

At that moment a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see a large bird swoop down over the riders; wings beating, before it was borne away north on the wind. It was gone again. "A carrion bird," said his squire, risen in his stirrups as he gazed after the shadow. Deep brows set in thought.

Then they carried on.

Day came about them, and the sun blinked over the lifeless hillocks, yet still the sight of the dark bird gnawed at his mind. He turned his eyes every so often northward, over the sundering leagues of land; far away he gazed, to the edge of sight where thin stripes of cloud grew into one with a red-tinted haze. Unease bore his thoughts still further on, beyond the dimness and to the open fields of the Eastemnet.

The host rode on, driven by need, and with all the speed they could muster. The steeds of Rohan were swift and enduring, and seldom they paused in their vigilant watch. Though he could not see it, he knew that beyond the haze there was a growing darkness, as if a great storm was moving out of the East. Brooding, a shadow creeping ever closer, and their people had only few allies left to help ward off the storm. The light was in his eyes, turning all the rolling fields of Rohan to gold, and the clouds waned.

Outcrops of beech trees littered the land, between large boulders of hard rock, and there were not many settlements to be found in the region. Herdsmen lived a nomadic existence on the fields of the Eastemnet, driving their great herds across the grasslands as they followed the seasons. But it had been a long while since they had last passed such a camp, let alone any other people, and it worried him greatly.

He drew up his hand, and without a word or cry, the riders halted.

There was a silence in the empty fields, and he could hear the air sighing through the grass and stone-crevices. "Éothain," he called, and his squire drew closer. "We will not go further east, but northward from this point. There is something not right about these lands." He could see the wonder in the man's eyes, but never would his decision be argued. "Send Alger and Bana ahead to Aldburg with word, let them know we shall soon be returning."

His orders were carried out swiftly, and two riders parted from the host; disappearing into the grey mists, while the rest swerved away north-bound. They carried on for several hours, yet nothing caught his attention that could explain his unease, and cold morning turned to noon. The sun rose out of the haze, sending golden beams down upon the scattered trees and glades about them. The wind had died.

Ahead, dark smoke rose in thin curling threads.

Shouts welled up as others noticed the trailing spirals against the blue-grey sky.

With increasing speed, they pressed on towards the fire, and he called for scouts to ride ahead. He spurred Firefoot, grip tight on the reins. Further, covering another five leagues, the vanguard returned with haste. They had spotted a black speck in the distance. A horseman riding back towards them; they halted and awaited him, spears and bows now at the ready, for they all knew a battle was close at hand.

He came, a young and weary man; caked blood marred his face, and slowly he climbed from his horse and stood there a while gasping. He struggled to stay on his feet. At length he spoke. "Is the Lord Éomer here?" He asked, stumbling for words in his haste as his wild gaze flickered over the Éored. "We have been attacked by wild hillmen! They razed our village, and while we drove them back a larger host has been seen heading south in the direction of Aldburg."

Urging his horse forward to meet the outrunner, the young boy's face lit up with joy and wonder.

"My lord Éomer!" He cried, then kneeled with some difficulty. His head lowered.

Éomer drew himself up in the saddle, checking Firefoot. "How long ago was this?"

"They came just before midday, and there was little we could do to defend ourselves. But they were few in numbers, for most of their forces appear to march for Aldburg, my lord. I was sent ahead to give warning before it was too late."

With his head still lowered, all seemed quiet and watchful, and the riders of his Éored listened silently; grim-faced and waiting for their lord's command. The news were grim, and anticipation was heavy in the air. "Give this man a fresh horse!" Éomer called, pulling at Firefoot's reins as his gaze was drawn to the rising smoke. "Ride back to your village – tell them that the message has been received, and we shall soon come to you with aid."

"Thank you, lord!"

The courier climbed into the saddle of the offered horse, bowed his head in farewell, and then spurred his steed. Like the arrow from a bow the great horse sprang away, but they did not spend long watching him for time was of the essence. Haste was needed now. Horns sounded across the plains, and the host turned away from the road and bent their course westward. Spears glistened in the sun. Like teeth bared at the scent of bloodshed.

Red shafts of light coloured the grey-clouded skies; the now high-risen sun was on their backs, dull and chill, and he looked once more to the trails of smoke in the distance. The dreadful feeling had been true, a premonition of something evil, yet they had arrived much too late to protect the settlement. They rode further still, watching the rolling hills and the horizon with keen eyes. Hoofs beat against the ground, resounding throughout the plains, like the rolling of thunder until drowing within the green sea.

The wind changed, harsh and savage against his face, as the light waned.

It was not long before a hurrying darkness, gathering with great speed, rushed up from the East and swallowed the sky. For a moment the air calmed, died, and all was quiet; there was a dry splitting crack of thunder, flashing across the dark and, with it, mingling with its roar, came a sudden rush. Many great droplets of water poured down on the riders, beating against their helmet and shields, obscuring their vision as if the old evils of the world had turned their eyes on them with malice.

Another crack of thunder. The rain came as a blinding sheet, bitter cold, and soon the ground turned to a slippery trail of mud. But they were men of the Riddermark. The cruel weather did little to halt their horses; while the lands were covered in shadow, he knew the hills and grasslands well. They did not falter. As he gazed, Éomer became aware that there was a great stir and movement on the distant plain before them.

Dark, crunching figures weaving through the grass some leagues away.

His men stirred. "Éothain, take your men over the other ridge!" He called over the din of trampling horses, pointing south where contoured rocks stood darkly in the grass. His voice carried by the wind, clear and sharp with order. "Flank them – but keep some alive!"

The rider raised his spear, shouted into the din, and soon thirty horses broke from the host. Éomer led the remainder of his Éored with him, taking the straight path to the Dunlendings down a slow-descending slope; the Wild Men had been alerted to their presence, and there was great movement as they huddled together to face the advancing Rohirrim. Hunting-horns rang loudly. It was not long before the riders were upon them and the horses tore into the raiders.

Splintering bones as horse met man.

Cries and screeches came, a wall of sounds that made blood thrum in his ears, but there was little to be done against heavy mail and spear, nor against the greatness of the horses. The hillmen shot all their arrows, but under the great weight of warhorses most were trampled in the onslaught. Éomer threw his spear. The riders ripped through the group with ease. The line held on up the hill, and then they wheeled round and charged again; here the line broke, as each sought out new foes. An arrow whirred past his head. Hewing, slaying, driving the Wild Men together. They ran like herds before the hunters, and the Rohirrim went hither and thither at their will, the downpour swathing the fields in grey.

He had drawn his sword, now hacking down any that passed him by; Gúthwinë soon gleamed crimson and dark, carving bone and tissue. He felt a blade pierce his thigh, stinging as blood was drawn, but in one swift stroke the adversary lay dead. Head parted from his body. Pressing a gloved hand to the wound in an attempt to gauge the depth of the cut, Éomer cursed himself for his lack of attention.

It will heal. Firefoot sprang forward at his next command, skilled and deadly as he sought enemies.

Most of the Dunlendings that were left alive then broke and fled, pursued one by one to the death. A few held together upon the hillock, driving resolutely forward, yet here they were overtaken and brought to bay by Éothain's men that came from beyond the slope. The cloudburst carried on, unrelenting, and another gleam flashed across the field. Thunder rumbled, deep tremors through the ground. Bodies lay trampled in the grass, broken under the overwhelming force of the riders, and the murky pools of water were dyed a dark red.

Over the wide fields, the riders hunted down the few stragglers that had escaped with strength enough to run, and soon the sounds had died away.

A deadly quiet lay upon the slopes.

Éomer reined in Firefoot, and his steed trampled restlessly; agitated and excited. He spoke quietly to calm it. Then, with mud and rain trickling down his face, he looked out over the field of battle. His squire approached, checking his own horse, and gave a brisk nod in greeting. "Eight injured, but none too severely that they will not heal," he reported. "And all men are accounted for. Victory is ours."

A silence fell over the pair for a long, thoughtful moment.

The sight before them left him despondent, for while there was no fondness for the vicious men of Dunland, he never wished for war. There had been some peace between the two peoples for some time, and Éomer did not know what had caused the raiders to enter the Riddermark once more. But the thought troubled him greatly. How had they made it this far into the Emnets? What had incited them to pass the mountains?

"Did you capture any alive?" Éomer asked.

Éothain nodded. "Three, although one bit his own tongue before we could stop him." He pulled a face. "Choked on his own blood before we could do much against it."

"Watch them," Éomer said, "I need to know how, and why, they came into our lands."

The riders piled the corpses of their enemies, and he left a handful riders to light a fire once the downpour ceased. The ashes would be scattered, and the smoke of the burning would rise high to the sky; any watchful eye would see it and know that the Eorlingas remained ever vigilant. There was still strength left in Rohan, and any enemy would be met with a swift death by the ends of their blades.

With the end of the raid, Éomer gathered his chosen men and rode once more for the village. Around them, day had turned to late afternoon. Dark clouds smothered the light still, and the ground sploshed beneath their horses as they sank into the deep mud. Only a frail line of light in the far horizon showed the westering sun.

Water dripped from his armor, washing away any signs of battle, and a grim mood was on the riders. While the villagers had fought back the Wild Men, Éomer feared the cost of victory. The plains of the Eastemnet were home to farmers and herdsmen, caring for the earth and its crops, or driving packs of sheep and horses over the grasslands. Only few wielded weapons. Death would surely greet them – he had come too late.

It will be a black night.

When they finally rounded one of the hills he caught sight of their destination, disappearing and appearing every time they climbed a slope. Many houses lay clustered together, with straw-thatched roofs and well-trodden paths; there were no fires burning for the heavy downpour had doused the flames, leaving only dark black smoke heavy in the air. Only a few figures hurried forward to meet the riders, while Éomer approached with a handful men at his side. Éothain, some of his personal guards, and healers followed Firefoot down the hill; the rest remained behind, in readiness, dark silhouettes against the bleak sky to guard the village.

"Welcome, my lord!" One boy ran to his side to greet him.

With a nod in response, Éomer gestured to the village. "Show me to the injured."

He was then led to the heart of the town, a cobbled square fronted on three sides by houses and stables, and here they found many people afoot. Dismounting, allowing the reins of his horse to be taken, Éomer was guided to a large building as people parted to give passage; even before he entered there was a stark smell of blood and urine. Fear and death hung heavy in the air.

Upon stepping inside, he rocked to a halt on the threshold. The tables had been pushed back against the wall and the wounded lay in long rows on the floor. Women and children; wails and screams muddled together over the shouts of healers and the trampling of hurried feet. The light was dim despite many torches, and long shadows wove across the wall. His gaze rolled over the injured, feeling anger spark within him at the sight.

Éomer removed his helmet.

"Éothain, put our men to work where they are most needed." Then he turned to the young boy that had led them through the streets. "Who is in charge here? Bring him to me, at once when he is able." At the message the boy hurried off, and Éomer approached the first in the line of wounded. Teeth ground together to repress the slow-boiling fury that grew in his mind.

The man's face was ashen pale, eyes flickering but unfocused and the skin was burning upon touch; picking up a small bowl, he fed the patient a little bit of water, although most trickled down the chin and spilled. Cuts ran down his upper body; jagged and dark patches of blood seeped through the linens wrapped tightly over the wounds.

For a while Éomer sat with the man, pressing a cool hand against the fevered brow, but his stare was fixed on the floor. The flickering light from the torches made work difficult, and healers rushed by with fresh water and bandages. A woman sobbed hysterically, her cries of anguish turned into indiscernible screams, but then followed silence. There was much clamor and noise, yet the underlying silence was much worse.

Éomer was about to move on and rise from the spot, when he felt a weak tug at his tunic that made him turn.

A child looked at him, a trembling hand closed rigid around the fabric of his shirt, and she feebly tried to pull him closer to her cot. Fingers whitened. Her face was blackened and discoloured, swelling so that she could barely see, and small gashes dribbled blood down her front. He shifted. Stroking hair from her face, gently coaxing her to lie down again, he motioned for a healer to fetch water. The girl whimpered and small sobs escaped, through lips pressed together in an attempt to appear strong. "Hush, now," he whispered, "You are safe."

Now tears spilled, glittering droplets in the torch-light. "Mother," she moaned. "Mother ...!"

Éomer's heart contracted with pity, eyes roaming across the room once more. Has her mother survived? He feared the answer to the question, for surely the woman would have sat by her daughter's side – if she could. He could not answer the desperate call, and he strove with the anger once more turbulent in his mind. War was ever cruel and cold, but this? What right had the hillmen to attack a peaceful settlement?

When the healer returned with a large pot of hot water, he set to work cleaning the cuts and bruises with careful tenderness. His thoughts were deep at work, for still he could not see the path they had followed. The Fords of Isen were closely guarded from both the Hornborg at Helm's Deep and the fortress of Isengard; and only there, where the river became broad and shallow, could it be crossed. It would have been impossible to slip by unnoticed. So how?

A sweet smell flooded his senses, and he felt the weariness wane and his spirits return; his brow furrowed, for suddenly the air became clear, fresh as if a wind had brought it down from the mountains to be breathed for the very first time. New, like grass touched only by the first dew of morning. His mind calmed, anger abating as evil drained from his very bones.

"What is this?" He inquired, looking to the healer still waiting at his side for his next command.

The woman was about to respond, when another voice spoke instead. She quickly stepped aside. "Athelas, my lord Éomer." A man, grey-haired and aged, hobbled foward with cautious steps. Shakily, he tried to bow, but Éomer swiftly brushed off the greeting; standing up from the floor, the horselord approached and handed the pot of water to the healer.

"Athelas?" Éomer asked.

"Indeed, my lord, it was given to us by the Ranger. Its healing properties are most astonishing–"

Éomer interrupted curtly. "What Ranger?" He stepped further from the wounded, and the elderly man followed as they came to a clear area on the floor, where they would not be in the way. "Please tell me all that has happened. I know you were attacked in the hours before noon, but by how many and at what cost?" A darkened look overcame the other man, recalling what had transpired; there were but few details he could clearly remember and explain, nor did he know where to begin, except the all-devouring flames and the screams.

But Éomer learnt that twenty-five Wild Men had come into the village. They were all dead now, their corpses laid upon the pyres to burn without mourning, and left behind were sixteen other dead – men and women of the Riddermark. Children, hewed down without mercy, to never see another sunrise. Even more lay injured.

"They came from every side, my lord, and we were soon overmastered." The man's hands trembled as he spoke. All blood had drained from his face. "If they had not been so scattered in their assault, there would have been no hope for us to fight back."

Clasping the shoulder, finding it thin and withered with age but not without strength, Éomer nodded; there was no shame in fear, even the greatest warrior would feel its touch on the eve of battle. Farmers, attacked without warning in their own homes? It would be a terror that would not soon leave; clutching their hearts for a long time and haunting their dreams even longer.

"Take courage," Éomer said, "Bravery is fighting where there is little hope of victory. And your people fought well."

The old man lowered his gaze.

"We have only few able men left in our village," he spoke quietly, "–they picked up arms and fought back as well as they could. But it was the Ranger that killed the most." Again, this mention of a stranger from the wild north puzzled him, and Éomer asked the village head to tell him more. This wanderer, usually so elusive; bringing forth unusual aid in this great hour of need. "She had followed their tracks here, and it was also her that warned us of a greater host pressing south."

"She?"

"Yes, my lord, for it was a woman that came to our aid." With a hand he motioned to the many injured that lay about them, eyes once more returning to meet the warrior's keen gaze. "–she stayed a while after, helped to tend wounds with strange herbs that were almost like sorcery. But then she slipped away, much too soon before we could give proper thanks."

Èomer's brow was deeply set as he listened, at first a good deal distrustful, and wondered what had driven the Ranger to depart in such a haste. But his uneasiness wore off; by helping the villagers, surely that would be proof of no ill will, and both his uncle and father had told him stories of the Watchers, back when he had been but a child. He should much rather feel gratitude.

"And why did she not stay?"

A grim look came about the elderly man. "Beyond the hills, to the west of here, there is a farmstead. The hillmen passed through there first, on their way to us. When she heard the news of your arrival, she returned with haste as there were still some survivors. She left a message for you, my lord, and bid me give it to you upon your arrival. The Ranger found riders there." For a moment he hesitated. "Slain."

With a heavy heart, Éomer understood what fate had befallen his scouts; why they had not returned in the night. He knew them, like he knew all his men, and they all had wives and children waiting for them to return home. In vain will they now look to the horizon. But they would not return. Then he nodded briskly, thanked the old man, and called Éothain to his side. There was little time before the darkening hours of twilight, but Éomer would not leave his riders for the carrion birds to feed on, alone somewhere in the fields.

"Leave half the company here to protect the village," he told Éothain as the pair strode from the house in haste. "The rest will ride with us."

Placing the helmet on his head once more, he accepted the reins of Firefoot and mounted swiftly. A great stir met them when they rode out from the village, as many horses fell into place around and behind their leader. It was raining still, small and cold drops beating down on them from an overcast sky; leaden and ominous.

They went on for perhaps another couple of miles. Then the sun gleamed golden-red out of ragged clouds, slanting down the hill, and the rain lessened. A long-drawn wail came down the howling wind, like the cry of some evil, but then there was a silence; quiet fell over them. Going west a mile or so they came to a dale, and at last they halted. The hill opened southward, leaning back into the slope but in the deepest hollow lay a farmstead. Here, destruction had raged as well, and the main house was left in crumbled ruins.

It was yet another miserable sight, and a murmur rushed through the riders before Éomer led them down the slope.

A figure, cloaked in grey, coalesced out of the misty haze.

The sun went down, and the very world seemed sorrowful and gloomy in that moment. Éomer saw the light of the sunset fade, and a shadow crept out of the corners of the Wold. He nudged his horse forward, approaching the lonesome Ranger that remained still and watchful. He noticed the sword and the bow, but neither weapon was drawn, and so he brought up a gloved hand in greeting. With the gesture, the figure stepped forward to meet him and pulled back the hood of the grey cloak.

Éomer then saw the face of a young woman.

"Who are you?" He asked, speaking in Westron. Handing his spear over to Éothain, he then broke from the group to approach alone. "What brings you to the Mark, and whom do you serve?"

Her eyes were dark in the waning light, but bright and keen as she watched them; small cuts and black-and-blue marks dotted her face, and her clothes were travel-worn. Blood soaked her sleeve, and mud streaked her boots. A silvery pendant shone at her neck, catching his eye for a brief moment before the light changed to a dullness. "I greet you." She spoke with a quiet calm, never faltering despite the many riders bearing down upon her. Her eyes flickered over him, pausing briefly at his weapons. Éomer, now by her side, dismounted and they came face to face.

She inclined her head.

"I am called Rell," she then answered, "–one of many that walk these lands, seeking to protect what little peace we may have. I came from the North."

"A Ranger of the North," Éomer said with some astonishment, and she nodded. "I am Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. But pray tell, what brings you here in these troubling times? It is seldom we see wanderers so far east of the Mountains. Your arrival was certainly timely."

The Ranger drew herself up, and he noted how tall she was for a woman; standing only one foot shorter than he, she responded. "My path is my own, my lord. I am following my kin east, but no more can nor shall I disclose. But do know this for certain, that my presence here is with no malice towards your people."

His eyes blazed and flashed at her inhospitable reply.

"Wanderers in the Riddermark, claiming to be allies or not, would be wise to tread with care," he warned. "There are many spies from the evil lands – and they come in many forms most unpredictable." His gaze flickered over her as he spoke. Eyes narrowed, but naught else betrayed her to reveal her ire, and her stance remained calm. For a moment his eyes lingered on her sword, but unless she moved to attack neither would he.

There was no honour in striking down a woman.

"I serve only the chieftain of my people, and I pursue the servants of Sauron in whichever land they may go. You should give thanks, my lord, for my aid. Not shun it. A dozen Dunlendings lay dead, slain by my hand – where I could just as easily have chosen to disregard the plight of innocents, for they are not my people. I warned your Éored of the second host, enemies that would otherwise have gone unnoticed." His jaw tightened at forthright speech, but he felt some amazement at her for not relenting. For a moment he was reminded of his sister, both proud and stubborn; unbending.

Éomer stepped back. "You have not told me all, but I see the truth in your words. Will you not speak more of your errand? Without secrecy and in full?"

At this she shook her head. "I have no right to share any more than what I already have, and as such I must do you a discourtesy. My lord, I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues, and I was to but pass unseen through your realm – if not for a duty to protect those in dire need. Forgive me for not speaking in plain words, but I cannot without a heart heavy with regret. I must hope you will therefore pardon it to one who has been given orders of such secrecy."

"Very well," he said, "You are pardoned from not speaking the true and full tale, albeit it is most sought. But know that I must therefore remain wary of you."

Then, with their exchange coming to a close in the slow persistent drizzle that soaked both spirits and garments, Éomer walked around her and found what he had come for. She stepped aside, head bowed, and allowed him to pass. On the grounds between the buildings lay three bodies; coarse cloths had been pulled over them, dark-black patches seeping through the fabric. A hole had been dug in the muddy ground in the first line of grass closest to the house. Swords rested by their side, cloven helmets and armour familiar even in the lessening light.

These men were his riders.

Éomer drew his sword. His men. He kneeled, heedless of the sludge and cold, and lowered his head in prayer as Gúthwinë dug into the ground. May your spirits ride freely by the side of Béma, my brothers!

He could feel the Ranger's gaze upon him.

Twilight was descending, cloaking his surroundings in shadow, when his attention fell on another pair of bodies laid out not far from his riders. His mind recalled the words of the old man – survivors – and so he raised his eyes. Once more he looked at the woman, and he felt his heart pierced by the sudden keenness of her glance. "I knew not your customs, but I hoped a proper burial would be in order," she said, "Much rather than leaving them here for the crows to pick."

"We bury our dead," Éomer spoke with reassurance. "When we can." Then he called Éothain forward and released her gaze. His squire had wordlessly followed his lord's conversation with the Ranger, but quickly stepped up to his side. "Have the men set up camp, we shall stay here for the night. And then we shall dig their graves." Both his riders and the farmers would be laid to rest here, with the green hills and endless skies a peaceful company; hopefully their spirits would find solace. "Who lived here?" He asked.

"Follow me," she said.

The Ranger walked to the stables, halting once to see if he was following, and then slipped around broken beams into the burnt-down building. The smell of burning and ash was heavy upon the air, but the damage could have been much worse; the rain had saved the roof, and as he stepped further inside he came across areas completely untouched by the fire. In one stall he came across a horse; with a shining grey coat, shimmering almost like silver, and clever deep eyes; slung across the fence was a plain but well-kept saddle and several travel-packs, all likely the possessions of the Ranger.

But she carried on to the next stall, brushing a finger to her lips before speaking in a hushed tone. "They survived the raid, but it is their parents I have placed outside with your men." She allowed Éomer to step past her, and in the pile of hay he found three small figures huddled together in sleep. A horse-blanket had been drawn over them. He exhaled sharply, relief flooding him at the sight; the children had been spared. "There has been very little I could do to comfort them, for I do not speak your language. What shall happen to them now?"

"I will take them with me," Éomer said, "To Aldburg. I will find a home for them."