Outracing the Flames RPG

[Folwren]

The light was dim when the attack broke out upon them. Athwen couldn’t tell which direction the arrows came from - probably because they were completely surrounded - nor where to look for the men who uttered such horrible cries. Parith’s head went up and his nostrils flared at the sound and without warning he reared and screamed. Athwen clutched his mane with one hand, and with the other, pulled on one rein. His head came around and his dropped back to his forefeet, spinning about and half cantering downhill, before he turned again and tried to bolt back up.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Athwen saw the figures of horsemen start up the hill after her. She couldn’t count them, there were too many things going on. An arrow passed her head and she heard the whine of wind behind its feathers as it flew by her ear. Then another one grazed her arm and she clenched her teeth at the sudden, sharp pain. Hardly a moment was given her to glance down, and barely had she realized that the blood she saw was from her, that a new worry caused her to forget it.

She had reached the company again, and they were facing around to meet their assailants. Athwen tried to urge Parith forward between two of them, she was weaponless and would be of no use, but he balked, and pawed, and then tried to rear again. Athwen wanted to shriek in frustration and fear, but no sound or voice came to her throat. Her mind was numb and frozen in terror.

And then the Easterlings reached them. The sound of clashing steal invaded upon her ears. She cowered and shrank where she sat upon her trembling horse. But then a hand touched her, reaching across a gap between her and another horse, it closed on her hair, the long, damp locks, close to the scalp. It sent a spark of shattering pain through her head. Her head dropped back, her mouth opened - it was a most vulnerable position, and suddenly she knew it.

She found control of herself at that instant, and when she did, she also gained control of her horse. She grasped the reins and pulled, and he backed obediently, then she rocked forward, bowing over the saddle horn. The grip on her hair didn’t give an inch, and now he yanked, hard, and he very nearly succeeded in his purpose in pulling her from her horse. Athwen screamed involuntarily, and once more her head went back, and her body slipped towards him. She clutched at Parith’s mane.

An unexplainable fierceness flowed through her body. Her eyes darted towards her assailant. She spotted his curved dagger in his belt and she let go of Parith with one hand to reach it. Her fingers closed on the hilt, but before she could draw it out, her hair was released, her hand struck away and then another stunning blow was added to her head. Her senses reeled, but she managed to right herself on the saddle and pull away from the enemy.

But there was another Easterlings, and another, and another, and Athwen suddenly doubted that any one of them would get out alive.

[Nogrod]

It seemed, that four easterlings were coming down the hill. Two of them were too far right for him to have any chances of engaging, but the two nearest to him were riding down on a path he could have chances to intervene. He spurred Thydrë even more, calling her to do her utmost. As the easterlings noted him coming towards them, they very soon changed the angle of their approach. The first started changing his course a bit left, to pass him from that side. The other one coming a bit behind, continued almost to the same direction he was already heading, but making his trail a bit nearer to Sythrics path on the right side. The one coming towards his left side would clearly miss any attack on the party. That was good news. The bad news were, that the one coming behind, could still manouver himself on the others, if the first one would engage him successfully. And the first one was posing a threat to his life, to begin with – the second would come just seconds after that, if the first would miss it... A kingdom for just five able riders! These guys know their trade..., Sythric cursed himself.

Sythric levelled his spear and rushed forwards, pointing the tip of it towards the easterling coming over him from the left. Just before the impact he suddenly pulled the reins back and right, with all the power his left hand could make. Thydrë knew, what was meant, and made a sudden leap rightwards. Sythric ducked simultaneously, and the easterling’s sword cut only air. It would take some moments, before that man could manage to turn around and come back. Just time enough! Before the other easterling could come to grips with this new situation, he saw the spearhead coming towards him. He tried to pull the reins to avoid the collision, but that was too late already. Sythric’s spear pierced through his thin leather-breastplate, just under his armpit, and jerked him off the saddle.

“For Rohan!”, he heard himself bellowing, as he struggled the spear back. The easterling was not dead, but he wouldn’t stand for long, as blood was spurting all over from his trembling body. Turning hastily to see the overall situation, he saw that the easterling he had strayed just a moment ago, was making a turn some twenty yards from him. The battle raged all over him. One easterling was rushing up the hill towards him with speed. He seemed more adorned than the others, and then there was also that something, you just can't point so easily... something like stature. It shined from him yards away.

[Arry]

As the Easterlings came at them, Brand was torn. His gaze flicked to where Meghan rode. He could see her fumbling to get her bow ready as the foe came nearer. His sight of her was lost in less than the wink of an eye as the battle rolled down the hill.

He heard Sythric calling his name . . . something about the enemy coming down from the ridge. And would he ride with him . . .

Again the sounds and crush of battle pressed in on him. Brand kicked against Lady’s side urging her after Sythric. He had no lance as did the older man, And on horse, his short sword was not that effective. Instead he grasped his long stout oaken cudgel firmly in his hand and rode hard against the advancing men.

Lady moved upon the Easterlings as she would have against the wolves that preyed on Brand’s flocks. She evaded the sharp sting of their blades when she could and when that simply was not possible she raised up and struck at them with her hooves.

Three of the foe rushed in to surround Lady and Brand as the oak cudgel sprayed one of their fellow’s brains onto the muddy ground. Two of them slashed at Lady’s hindquarters while the one in front wielded his lance against Brand. Lady’s back hooves flew out behind her, catching one of her attackers hard in the chest, knocking him away from her. The other one’s blade connected with her flank, gouging a long slash along her side. She wheeled and struck out at him with her front hooves.

As Lady made her abrupt turn, the third Easterling thrust his lance at Brand, unseating him. Brand tried desperately to regain his balance, to no effect. He fell from his horse, hitting his left shoulder hard on the ground. His cudgel flew from his grip. Brand scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword. From the corner of his eye he could see Lady still standing, her two attackers now downed. Approaching him was the Easterling with the lance. His eyes were hard on Brand as he put down the spear and drew his own blade . . .

[Farael]

It seemed the day was finally drawing to an end, when an arrow flew across the path of the riders. It was soon followed by another, and another. Osmod’s horse had seen many a fight with wolves, but he had never seen those missiles coming straight at him. He reared, almost throwing Osmod off his mount and kicked the empty air behind him. It took Osmod a moment to realize they were under attack and another moment to bring his horse under control. By the time he was ready, the Easterlings closing in on them and there was no time for him to grab his bow and arrows. They were secured to the back of his saddle but might as well have been left in Bregoware.

Then, he heard a blood-chilling scream. The leader had indicated a charge and the Easterlings were moving in for the kill. Osmod drew his sword and straightened his back, remembering what his grand father had told him.

”Never let them see your fear, lad. A fearless enemy is the most feared enemy of them all.”

The group was in disarray. Sythric was calling out to Brand and then charging by himself, a small clump of riders still held together and Osmod found himself caught slightly separated from the rest. He heard another scream, yet this time a different one. Turning on the saddle, he saw one of those wretched men cheering as he grabbed one of the girls by her hair. It was Athwen.

Blood boiled in Osmod’s veins and he decided to charge back at them. Letting out what he hoped would amount to a battle cry, Osmod spurred his horse towards the riders that surrounded Athwen. Two of them wheeled and faced Osmod, while the third still struggled with the girl. Osmod had no time to smile, but the girl seemed to be putting more of a fight than what the brutes had thought of. Charging blindly towards the Easterlings, Osmod lunged with his sword at one of them yet his attack was repelled by a shield. Osmod’s momentum had him galloping by the Easterling’s side and he stuck out his elbow, hitting the surprised rider on the head and throwing him off his horse. It was not quite the normal Rohan fighting techniques, but it would have to do. He wheeled his horse around where Athwen was struggling bravely against the Easterling, but he miscalculated the angle and found himself too far to help her. There was still another enemy on his horse and he was coming in too fast for Osmod to change his course. The Easterling levelled his lance for a kill but Osmod was able to duck out of the way at the last second. The lance’s point found the back of his arm but it barely scratched his skin. A lunge of his sword later, Osmod had killed a man for the first time.

Athwen had struggled free and Osmod wheeled again and charged at the Easterling by her side. The man simply moved away, letting Osmod by Athwen’s side. It was small consolation and there was no time to stop and talk, the battle ravaged on around them and he could only pray his luck would not abandon him now that his anger was subsiding. He felt a cold pang of fear and tried to press it back, knowing that it was not the time for him to cower and run away.

[Undómë]

Rædwald nodded at Brand to go with Sythric. His lance was already loosed from its holder and he urged Lys forward. He could see the others as he passed along, some engaged in fighting singly, but a number in little groups of two or so, holding off their attackers. He harried the Easterlings in his path, killing two of them as he made his way toward Meghan.

He wished he might have brought the armor for Lys that he’d had in his younger days as several of the Easterlings managed to wound her as the two pushed onward. The horse, however, had not slowed down or shown the least halting in her gait from the cuts, which made him assume they were only superficial.

There were two Easterlings attacking Meghan. One of her arrows had hit the nearest one’s cheek, near the eye, causing him to fall back with a scream. The other plunged toward her with his blade, and she fired another arrow at him, missing. He swung at her, using the flat of his blade. His intention was to knock her from her horse and take her captive.

The force of the blow nearly knocked her from her seat, but she rallied as he rushed in to grab her and kicked him in the neck with her boot. He reeled back; then, catching his breath lunged at her again . . . this time only to meet the sharp tip of Rædwald’s lance as it pierced him in the side, delivering a mortal blow.

[Nogrod]

That man must be their leader! Now you can show them, who the Rohanians are! Sythric thought to himself. It seemed, that he hadn't particularly noticed Sythric yet. That's just the better... Surprise, speed, brutal strength, and then some range to add... Sythric smiled thinly, lowering his spear, staring at the easterling leader approaching him, armed only with a sword.

As he was readying himself to encounter the easterling, the voice of hooves passing somewhere near behind him got him instinctively to check his back. Brand was standing on the ground, some twenty yards behind him, just a short sword in his hand. He was facing an easterling, that was coming on him, at full gallop, a full-sized blade ready to swing. The brutal strenght and range on the one side there too... He’s already dead! “Brand!!!”

Before he even realized it himself, he had turned his body somewhat sideways – Thydrë accompanied his move by taking two steps back, and turning a bit – and thrown the heavy spear with all his strenght. He missed the easterling. A heavy rider spear was no javelin, and there had been no time to aim. But the spear had hit. It had hit the easterling’s horse, penetrating deep into its side. The horse whinnyed in pain and tumbled down to its knees from full gallop, sending its rider off the saddle, flying straight towards Brand.

At the same time, as Sythric saw the easterling tumble on Brand, he sensed the presence of the enemy, just too near now. He had neither time, nor space, to draw his sword, as the oncoming Calimehtar was already about to swing his – and within range, with the strength on his side now. Sythric could see the movement from the corner of his eye. Desperately he grasped his shield, and swung it towards the oncoming blow, trying to parry the hit that was already falling.

[Undómë]

Rædwald

No sooner had the Easterling fallen from his horse than a bone crushing thunk . . . thunk sounded behind Rædwald. His face took on a grimace of surprise fading to a look of fondness and regret as he cast a look at Meghan.

Two arrows sunk deep in his back, followed by another then as it hit him in the chest, sinking toward the old soldier’s heart. Death’s garden bloomed on the field of his tunic; its red flowers growing and spreading until the source of their nourishment was spent altogether. He tumbled from his saddle and lay at last on the cold ground of his last battle, sightless eyes staring into the bloody melee as it swirled about him.

-------

Meghan

She was no seasoned warrior to keep her emotions well in check in the twists and turns of battle. Meghan jumped down from her horse and ran to where Rædwald lay. Her face was as pale as his as she held his heavy head in her arms and keened over him.

In some, anger might then have fueled her actions, and had she been a shield-maiden of the Mark she might have risen up like a berserker and slain many of the foe. But she was not so. The fight had gone out of her at the death of her friend; his death siphoning of her spirit even as his fled his cold remains.

It was an easy thing, then, for one of Easterlings afoot to knock her senseless with his club and hand her up to one of his fellows on horse. She offered no resistance in her dazed state as he carried her back to his Lord.

[Arry]

Brand collapsed under the weight of the Easterling; the suddenness of the impact causing his blade to go flying from his hand as his outflung arm hit the ground. It skittered along the dirt, well out of his reach, and landing at last against a small rocky outcropping.

The Easterling, now astride him, had already drawn a knife from his belt and rising up was about to drive it deep into Brand’s gut. Brand fumbled quickly for his own knife and pushed it hard into the man’s chest, just below his breastbone. The thrust of the Easterling’s knife went askew. But though it did not pierce his gut, it buried itself deeply in Brand’s left shoulder with the weight of the falling man’s body behind it.

And now Brand was defenseless. His knife buried in the toppled man, his club fallen somewhere in battle. His sword, he remembered, had fallen a number of yards away. And it was with a grim determination that he scrabbled toward it.

The effort of simply moving those few yards nearly did him in. His vision was hazy with pain, and he could feel the sticky wetness of his tunic as blood from his wound seeped out. Pale and sweaty, he sat down, his back against the rocks, legs stretched out before him. He drew his blade onto his thighs, gripping it as best he could with his weakening grip. He was cold to the bone and drew his breath in short ragged gasps. The sound of hooves passed by him, and he could make no effort to rise. But the Easterling horseman passed by, intent on other grim business.

Through clouded eyes Brand could just see some body thrown over the horse, in front of the rider. A thick, honey blond plait swung down from the poor creature’s head. A woman hung there loosely; her eyes closed.

‘Meghan!’ he shouted. A sharp burning pain shot through him as he strove to rise. He fell back against the rock . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Child's post

Calimehtar's rage in battle knew no bounds. The "fools" were proving to be more formidable opponents than he had bargained for. Who knew that a ragged band of women and beardless youth could be so tenacious? Even the horses on which they rode seemed to be seasoned warriors as they twisted and turns to get out of the way of the slashing swords and then surged forward with raised hooves to lash out at the enemy.

A number of Calimehtar's men had already been cut down by the swords of the enemy; they now lay bleeding and lifeless on the ground. The lord of the Easterlings cursed under his breath. He had made a mistake in judgment, a major mistake in judgment. It would have been better to wait for the night after the camp had fallen asleep, when he could have picked the strangers off one at a time under the comfortable cover of night. But now they must fight for their life, perhaps attempt to regroup, and run off to fight another time.

While thrusting out with sword and spear, Calimehtar watched in frustration as one of the Easterling horses fell under the assault, the animal's knees buckled under his body. The rider flew off and hit the ground with a resounding thud as Calimentar rushed forward to position himself in front of the fallen Easterling, facing the Rohanite who had sent the spear into the horse's side.

Lifting his sword high above the man's head, he let go a great battle cry and thrust his blade downward at his neck and shoulder. Unable to regain his balance, Sythric would do nothing but cover his head with his shield, in a vain attempt to parry the oncoming blow. The blade was defected but the shield immediately flew from Sythric's tight grasp and fell useless onto the forest floor. Seeing his advantage, Calimehtar dashed in and slashed down with his weapon; his blade cut the edge of Sythric's shirt and sliced into the flesh below, leaving a trail of blood along the man's side. Forcing aside the pain that was just now registering on his brain, Sythric twisted his body, and dropping to the ground, managed to retreat hastily from the attacking Easterling and jump behind the protective cover of one of the horses.

Seeing his victim attempt to escape, Calimehtar raced forward to pursue the wounded man, but was stopped in his tracks by an unearthly howl coming from the top of the hill, "Calimehtar! Come now." The urgency in the voice was unmistakenable. Calimehtar turned and began struggling up the muddy hillside.

_____________________________

The rider had thought to offer his fair haired prize directly to Lord Calimehtar, but one of the others had snapped out a warning that all female prisoner must be taken to the ridge where Aliharmi waited. The man bounded up the hillside, the woman's lithe form still draped over his saddle. When he finally reached the hilltop, Aliharmi reached over and yanked Meghan's body off the horse and then bid the man adieu, telling him to return to his post below. Meghan fell to the ground with a dull thud. Aliharmi bent closer to examine the prisoner and rolled her body over onto her back so that he could gaze upon her face.

Nice, very nice. She'll fetch a pretty penny on the market. Aliharmi rubbed his plump hands together in sheer anticipation of the reward that they would garner. This one still had some life in her unlike the ruined and lifeless women he'd often seen back in Mordor. He took out a knife and rubbed his finger along the edge of the blade. It wouldn't do to ruin the merchadise, yet Aliharmi felt an unrelenting urge to press the blade against the side of her face and place his mark upon the woman. A few cuts and decorative swirls made a face interesting and surely would be appreciated by the discriminating connosieur who enjoyed wild and intriguing women. Aliharmi placed his dagger against Megha's cheek and began to exert pressure with his fingers. He let up for a moment and withdrew the dagger. How much more fun it would be to instill terror in this pretty little soul? Surely, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

He gently rocked the woman awake, patting and fussing over her almost like a young child. Still dazed and confused, Meghan groggily opened her eyes to see the Easterling lord brandishing an ornate blade in the air. He flashed it conspicuously before her face, laying the sharp edge flush against her throat. A smile spread over Aliharmi's face as he carefully began to draw it across her skin.

Out of nowhere came a howling cry like a wild beast trapped in a cage or a beserker who has lost his wits. A young lad, darker than the Rohirrim, grim of visage and utterly desperate, came racing over the hill, utterly oblivious to the danger at hand. He bore an axe in his right hand and a dagger in the left, both extended outward. Aliharmi stood transfixed, scarcely believing that a child like this would dare accost him and suddenly realized the danger he was in. Aliharmi turned from Meghan and cried out for help, "Calimehtar. Come." He stared in disbelief as Dorran charged forward, showing no sign of stopping.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Undómë's post

Meghan felt the sharp sting of the blade as the keen edge slid across her throat. Blood pooled along the neat cut, dripping down into her collar. The pain brought her to her senses; her eyes snapping open to see the horrid, leering face of one of the Easterling warriors looming over her.

She dared not scream or move, fearing his knife would be pushed deeper as he made his furrow along her skin. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer the pressure lightened; there was a loud raging howl and he turned from her abruptly.

Dragging herself up to a sitting position, she saw the younger man from Wulfham come charging across the ground toward her captor. His eyes were ablaze and he charged toward the Easterling as one gone mad.

A desperate anger rose up in her that these foul men should try to harm her or any of her companions, new and old. She felt helpless, though, her weapons were gone, and her small self would be no more threatening to these men than a flea to a wolf.

The small germ of an idea began to take hold. If only she hadn’t left them behind. No . . . there they were! Her hand slid into the top of her right boot and pulled out the two metal needles she used for knitting. She grasped them both in her hands and got to her knees.

The Easterling was focused Dorran’s attack. She scuffled up near him and drove the weight of her body toward him, plunging the sharp tips of the needles through the breeches the man wore. As they pierced the back of his left knee he turned just enough to backhand her away from him. The sharp crack of his hand against her jaw sent her flying backward. She landed a little ways away, her small form crumpled against a tree trunk.

[Tevildo]

Dorran's slender frame collided with that of the massive Aliharmi. Rage poured out from every fiber of his small being. There were too many memories flooding his mind, too many reminders of mothers and sisters and friends dragged off and tormented by the Easterlings. At least Meghan had succeeded in slipping a short distance away from her captor so that she was out of immediate danger.

The more powerful but less agile Aliharmi managed to keep on his feet, but just barely, thrown off balance by the rutted and muddy terrain. Lumbering up to confront his attacker, Aliharmi ripped out his sword and lunged towards Dorran but the attempt fell clumsily short. Attempting to step back and regroup, his feet met with a thick patch of oozing mud. With the Easterling no longer attacking, the young man again threw himself forward, this time slashing sideways with his axe. There was a resounding thud as Dorran sank his axe head into the larger man's chest. His victim fell to the ground instantanously. The body gave one shudder and then fell silent. Filled with a madness he was unable to control, Dorran lunged forward one last time. Lifting the axe above his head, he brought it down on Aliharmi's prone body two more times.

As Dorran realized what he was doing, the young man shook his head in disgust and let the axe handle slip through his fingers. He ran over to where Meghan lay huddled under the tree and bent down to help her. It was at that moment that the Lord of the Easterlings bounded up the hill, scimiter drawn, and charged straight for Dorran and Meghan.

[Nogrod]

The impact wrenched the shield from Sythric’s grip and pushed his whole body backwards. It was a mighty blow. He was just about to regain his balance, when he saw the next swing coming in from above him. Sythric tried to yank his body backwards as fast as he could, to avoid the hit.

First, after the softened impact, it just felt as a gentle touch sliding down his side. But he knew, the easterling hade managed to make a hit that penetrated his breast-armour. The pain would come only afterwards, in its due time. Sythric let his backward motion carry him off the saddle, turning his body as he fell. He got to his feet, Thydrë being between him and the easterling chieftain. He called Thydrë to run, slapping her hard to her back. Time! Time! Sythric saw an easterling horse tramping nervously but idly, some ten yards away from him – its rider had fallen dead to the ground. He took a run towards it, trying to unsheath his sword while making towards it. Glancing fastly behind, he saw the easterling-lord to get around Thydrë – with some effort. Good Thydrë! I love you! But he was after him now.

Then there was that weird, howling cry that about silenced everything on the battlefield. It came from the ridge. And it was followed by a much harsher – but not more secure – call, in a language he couldn’t understand. Sythric saw the easterling-lord’s eyes narrowing, his expression showing growing contempt. Then he spurred his horse up the hill.

That howl came from no fully grown man! Sythric was at the same time releaved as the imminent danger to himself was lifted, and even more worried. He tried to scan the battleground as fast as he could. The easterlings seemed to be on their way up to the ridge. Where were Raedwald, Meghan, Dorran, or Vaenosa? And then he saw it. The cry came from his lips without reflecting on it, his voice breaking as he shouted: “Raedwald!!!”. His eyes had went black for a moment, just as he had seen Raedwald lying on the ground, two arrows on his back. He went through simultaneous bursts of maddening anger and utmost sorrow and pain. Tears bursting from his eyes, he rushed forwards to Raedwald's dead body. But the pain stopped him. His side was in flames now. He tried to make a compromise between the speed and the pain. He was dead. He is dead!

You will not stop now! You will not stop here! He would scorn you, if you let this go unavenged. He would scorn you, if you didn’t try to save this day! All these young people here! Do it!

He called Thydrë and picked Readwald’s lance from the ground, touching the dead man’s shoulder with the tip of it, as a sign of honour - the way the riders used to do. “C’mon all of you, ready to help our friends! Let’s ride up to the ridge, after those bastards! There are people in trouble!”. He tried to jump on Thydrë as usual, and felt the agonizing pain on his side. He had to try again. On the second time he managed to mount her, but the pain almost stunned him. He recollected himself soon enough and spurred Thydrë to a gallop. He didn’t wait to see, whether anyone followed or not. This was a mission he was going to see to its end, whether anyone was in it or not. Those easterlings – and that lord, who had sneakingly got the better of him, while he was helping a friend! But where is Brand? How is he?

[Folwren]

Athwen was gasping as she rode forward. Osmod was by her side. She glanced his direction and wanted to thank him for trying to help her, but she didn't have breath or time. They were coming closer to the others now and at a glance she saw that there was trouble there. Besides the wounded and dying Easterlings on the ground, there were also the bodies of their group, and Sythric, although he was mounting his horse and urging her forward up the hill, appeared to be wounded. Athwen stopped Parith and tumbled down from the saddle, rushing forward towards where Brand lay, half propped up on a rock. She reached out and grasped his arm.

'Brand. Brand!' she cried, her voice frantic. He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw fierce pain and something else she couldn't quite place. 'Can you get up? You've got to fight!' She released his arm to look at the blood stained tunic at his shoulder. He couldn't fight. . . not with that. She looked about her, and to her dismay saw Raedwald lying senseless on the ground. She didn't know if he was dead.

Brand started under her hand and she looked back quickly. His eyes were lifted to something behind her and he gasped her name. Her hands were on the hilt of his sword in an instant and without looking she whirled about with a hoarse cry.

Athwen knew nothing of sword play. She swung wildly, only aiming to hit her enemy. The large Easterling took several paces back at the first fierceness of her onslaught, but then he stood, parrying every stroke with infuriating skill. Athwen hated it. She hated him, and she hated everything else. Her jaw was clentched and there was no maidenly look about her face, but there were tears, tears of rage that only came to women at a time like that.

She made a rash move, a large stroke, and the Easterling dodged easily to one side. She stumbled with the force of her own move. A blow then from his large fist sent her sprawling, with the sword flying from her hand. She lay still one moment, her eyes opened. Directly across from her lay Raedwald, and she had no doubt now that he was dead. Then, between her face and his, she saw, just within reach of her hand, a rohanian dagger. The sound of a heavy boot was behind her. No clear or definite thought came to her as she reached out, quick as lightning, grasped the fallen blade, twisted beneath the man and his groping hands, rose up onto her knees and then...

She wasn't expecting the tearing sound the blade made when it slipped between his ribs. Athwen didn't remember that with such a wound blood would have to come. The dagger was thrust in up to the hilt, and the dark, warm blood flowed out and stained her hand. She jerked back, leaving the dagger within his side. Her eyes nearly started from her head, and the scream she wanted to utter was caught in her throat. She looked up and just saw the brief, dying look in the Easterling's face before he turned and fell. She had killed a man.

Her senses came back in that one, sweeping, horrible moment. She trembled violently from head to foot. Her left hand, her clean hand, lifted to her face, and was placed half over her eyes, and she turned away. She didn't take a step, though, as a sudden sob wrenched her chest. More followed until she was helplessly weeping. Tears quite blinded her. Slowly, Athwen sank to her knees, and then by degrees she bent lower and lower towards the ground until her face touched the cold, wet earth. One hand still covered her face, the other was held out stiffly from her body, half coated in blood.

She cried for Raedwald, for Brand and Sythric. She wept for her home, her friends, her family and her past life. And Athwen mourned for the dead Easterling behind her.

'I can't do it,' she cried, her voice choking and her words probably unable to be made out with her face towards the ground. 'I can't go on. Why didn't you take me with you? Why? Why?' That haunting question - again. She wanted to rise, to run, to flee from death and blood shed, to leave the bounds of the earth, leaving all battle, guilt, and hate behind. But she couldn't. That road was not for her and she had no choice in the matter. And so she lay in the wet grass, completely overcome and completely helpless, crying such tears as she had cried the first day. . .tears she had hoped she would never have to cry again.

[Valier]

Vaenosa was enjoying the peace of the on coming twilight. She enjoyed the time to herself, to scout the area ahead of the group. It gave her a sense of independence and a slight hint of belonging to a group. Vaenosa shifted on Nay's back and moved her bow from one hand to the other. She was leaning Nay to turn around and head the short distance back to the group of riders, when a strange noise began from overhead.Vaenosa cocked her head to the sound, it sounded almost familiar...yet different.


Thunk..........thunk, thunk. Arrows came flying from all directions, some whizzing passed, others grazing or hitting the group. Vaenosa's eyes went wide, she was so surprised she was almost dazed. Everything seemed to be happening so fast.

With a sickening Thwack an arrow lodged deep in her thigh, bringing her back to her senses. Men began to charge from all directions.Nay squeeled in fright and took of, nearly leaving Vaenosa behind. She regained her grip on his reins and pulled back. She was facing away from the scattering group heading towards the right side of the hill. She turned Nay around and almost screamed in the effort, the arrow still lodged in her left thigh was seeping blood down her leg, but she would not leave the others to die.

Readying her own bow, Vaenosa saw Sythric fighting with two Men to her left, but before she could help, Nay squeeled and turned towards an on coming man approaching from behind them, followed closely by another.
Vaenosa let fly a missle, but it went wild, she followed the first quickly with another, it hit the man hard under his out stretched arms, but he continued towards her arms reaching for her.

As he drew closer Vaenosa grabbed for the blade on Nay's side, but Nay had other plans. He drew up in anger and thrashed the man with his hooves. The man went down. He was trampled by Nay's feet as he began to charge at the second quickly approaching man. The man had an evil look and smiled as he saw the advancing woman and rider. Vaenosa dropped the blade as she fumbled to regain her bow and attempt to load another missle, before her estranged horse ran them straight into an oncoming sword.

Nay just kept on charging, head down straight for the now slightly puzzled Easterling. He readied his sword, waiting for the on slaught. Vaenosa's heart quelled as she saw her own death approaching. She struggled to over come her fear, she had seconds left....She raised her bow and shot.
The missle landed in the neck of the surprized Man, splurrting blood from his wound. Nay did not stop, he charged the man as a bull cow would an intruder into his pasture. He plowed his head straight on and knocked the man back at least three meters. Vaenosa could no longer hold on and she was tossed from Nay's back landing hard on the steaming earth.

She lay looking up at the sky. The sounds around her were deafening. The screams, the clashing of blades. Vaenosa closed her eyes, as a tear rolled down her tortured face. But she would not give up. Get up you ninny! You are fine! Get up and do not back down! If you die, then at least you did something in your life that was not selfish! Get up! She rolled onto her right side and staggered up into a sitting position. In her hand, white knuckled she still held her bow. She reached up over her shoulder and found her quiver still there, but only two arrows remained.

She stood and looked around in horror. Many lay wounded , she could not tell from which side. Then a scream of a woman, brought her to her senses again. She saw atop the hill a woman crumpled on the ground and a figure wrestling with a Man atop him. Her mind was set. She looked for her blade, but to no avail. So she loaded her bow and dragging her leg she set off for the hill.

She passed bloodied bodies on the ground, but she kept her eyes solely on the Man ontop of the struggling lad. As she reached the bottom of the hill her leg gave out and she fell to the yellowing grass. She screamed her frustration and pain. She pulled herself up so she was kneeling and lifted her bow. She steadied her hand and let it fly. It sunk only into the leg of the attacker and did nothing to stop his attack. Vaenosa cried as she pulled out her last arrow. Please, let this hit it's mark! she prayed as tears streamed down her face. The world around her seemed to stop as she pulled back her bow string.

Two things happened at the exact same moment. She let her arrow fly and she felt a searing pain hit her in the back. She screamed out in pain as she began to slip from consciousness. She raised her head to see if her arrow hit, but she was sinking slowly to the ground. Where is Nay I wonder? Where has he gotten himself to? Was all she could think as she slumped to the ground, stuck from behind with a spear from one of the many fallen Easterlings.

She lay staring at the blood soaked ground. She tried to get up but could not. Her vision blackened.....She passed out.

[Nogrod]

Sythric hadn’t time to think about Brand, as he made it upwards, and was seeing Vaenosa up the hill, slipping to the ground, rising up, and then shooting her bow – being followed by an easterling, just going for the kill. He spurred Thydrë to make the best of it.

Just as the easterling was about to give his killing-blow to Vaenosa, he glanced back – hearing someone approaching him with speed. He had no time to curse his lord. Raedwald’s lance pierced him with such a vigour, as to send him flying from his saddle. With a quick yank, Sythric got the lance free of the man. So this is why he loved this spear! I’m beginning to get it! The man fell over Vaenosa, but Sythric had no time to check on her now. There was too much going on at the top of the hill – and he started feeling dizzy. The pain on his side started being unbearable. He didn’t know, how much blood he had lost, but clearly, things started getting foggy around him, the voices softened... Raedwald! “Just remember, that this message to the King... is the single most important thing on your journey”. Brand!! “It’s more important than the lives of any one of those youngsters, and remember also this...” Meghan!, Dorran! “your being alive is the best insurance we have for the message reaching it’s destination.“ Vaenosa! ”Don’t try to be a hero of your conscience, be the hero of your people.” The words of old Hugebryth were dimmed down, confused with his own nightmarish visions... He approached the top of the hill, barely conscious.

[Farael]

There had been one Easterling and then another. Osmod had avoided their attacks but had not managed to land a blow. He had already seen Rædwald go down and Meghan taken prisoner. He knew others had been wounded yet it was not time to stop just now. Osmod had barely managed to parry a stroke by an Easterling rider when a blood chilling scream was heard from the nearby hill. The few riders left wheeled around and dispersed, leaving the field littered with the bodies of their fallen as well as some of the Rohirrim.

Osmod jumped off his horse and kneeled by the side of a fallen woman. It was Vaenosa and she seemed to be out cold. Her hand was still grasping her bow and the dead body of a man was lying nearby. Osmod looked for any cuts or slashes and found none, so he carefully turned the woman face up and was relieved to see she was still breathing. A dark bruise was forming on her forehead so he assumed she had been knocked out, perhaps the Easterling meant to take her as they had taken Meghan.

Meghan… Osmod looked up the hill and saw that the fighting was not over. Yet he was too far to help them and there were people who needed to be looked after. Cursing himself for not being able to do more, he decided to help those he could rather than waste his time, and possibly his life, in a lost cause. As far as he was concerned, those up the hill were by themselves. He prayed the gods would be on their side as well.

[Arry]

‘Help me up!’ Brand’s voice came weakly at first and then stronger as his resolve grew. He forced his mind away from the pain in his shoulder, focusing on the present need . . . to drive away the foe and to bring Meghan safely back to the group. With an effort and a steadying grip on the rock he’d lain against, he got to his feet.

‘Stop your crying, Athwen. Bring Lady near and hold her steady.’

He’d pulled the Easterling’s blade from his shoulder. It had bled profusely, but now seemed down to a trickle. He could barely move the left arm, though, so intense was the pain from the wound. Holding on to Lady’s mane, Brand pulled himself up with his right arm until he was once again astride her. He could not help but hit his left shoulder against the horse and saddle as he clambered clumsily up. And it took all his effort not to cry out as the pain seared through him.

He asked for his cudgel, and someone, he was not sure who, handed it up to him. He grasped it tightly in his right fist and with his knees and voice urged Lady up the hill.

At the top he saw Sythric, barely sitting on his mount and there against a tree was Meghan with Dorran crouched by her. One Easterling lay dead a little ways away and one Easterling hovered over Meghan and Dorran, his scimitar raised.

With a loud cry, he raised his cudgel and bore down on the Lord of the Easterlings . . .

[Naria]

It was nearing nightfall where it was not so dark as to not be able to see ones surroundings, but not enough light to be able to see detail like one would during the bright light of day. Pup had come bounding up behind Starlight and gave a happy bark and Incana looked down with a smile; almost as though nothing at all would interfere with the rest of their journey. As it would turn out she would be terribly wrong about this thought.

Arrows, so many arrows! What is going on she thought. We must run....run as fast as our mounts can take us! Just then she felt Starlight's hind end buckle under her. The horse didn't fall, but she had a very hard time regaining her footing in the wet soil. Incana quickly looked to her right then her left. She saw them. They were ugly, horrid creatures with a relentless pursuit on the group that had become her only family out on the plains. Amidst the confusion, Starlight panicked and reared; Incana was caught off guard and fell to the ground. She saw her horse run into some nearby trees with Pup close behind. Incana, although quite winded, jumped to her feet and retrieved her long knife out of her pouch that she always had hanging from her waist.

Incana backed up, one foot then another her head whirling and her stomach tight with anxiety. One foot then another, until her back hit something which she thought to be a tree. It startled her and she turned around to look an Easterling right in the eyes. He immediately grabbed her and turned her back around to face the carnage once again. He had a choke hold on her neck and a knife in her side. "Move....my pretty," He said with a raspy gurgling sound in his voice. He didn't have to ask again, Incana put one foot infront of the other and the two of them started towards the hill and towards his leader. They were walking past Leod when she found her feet had involuntarily stopped moving. She glanced his way with a tear soaked face and a begging in her eyes for him to help her. Incana only had enough time to see Leod nod before she felt the knife break the skin at her side.

"What are you doing? Keep moving you insolent woman! My master will be very pleased indeed with this prize," He said with a snicker. Incana winced with the pain and once again did as she was told. The Easterling had reached the hill with Incana when she suddenly heard a thwack! The man that was holding her captive released his grip and fell to the ground behind her. Incana wheeled around and saw Leod holding a thick, solid piece of wood. She gave the Easterling a good kick to make sure that he wasn't getting up, for Leod had just rendered the man unconscious, but she didn't want to wait around to find out how long this would last.

Incana peerd down to the side that the Easterling's knife had pierced. She looked back up at Leod, "It's not that bad, only a flesh wound." Putting everything else aside, even her feelings, she grabbed Leod's hand and said, "We have to go and help the ones that have fallen, for we are the only ones that can do so now."

[Arry]

Brand was barely able to keep astride Lady as she made for the Easterling leader. His reserve of energy was nearly tapped out as he brandished his club at Calimehtar. As he leaned to his right to swing the heavy cudgel, he lost his balance and fell, tumbling forward after his club.

He managed to hit the Easterling in the small of the back, a glancing blow, though it would still most likely leave a good sized bruise and be fairly painful for a while. His body, on the other hand, slammed against Calimehtar's left shoulder as he fell and landed in an crumpled heap near Dorran.

Brand's last thought as he hit the ground was that now the Easterling would have three to kill instead of two . . .

[Undómë]

The force of the Easterling’s blow had driven her against a tree. Meghan had not lost consciousness with the impact, but every bone in her back seemed to ache with an agonizing intensity as she tried to move. Dorran was huddled near her, covered in spatter of blood. She hoped it was that of the Easterling he had killed, the one who’d put his knife so cruelly to her throat and cheek.

She’d seen Brand charge the Easterling leader that threatened her and Dorran with his scimitar. But he looked weak even from a distance. His face was pale and slick with sweat from the effort to make the charge. He’d managed to hit the Easterling in the back and had knocked the man a little off balance as he fell from Lady.

One of the knitting needles with which she’d attacked the other Easterling was still grasped in her hand. She lurched up to her knees as Calimehtar twisted to the side from the force of Brand’s blow. With a lunge she drove the thick, sharp needle deep into the side of the Easterlings’ left leg just above and to the side of the kneecap. It broke off just as it hit the kneecap, lodging firmly between the muscle and the bony cap. With a gasp of pain she threw herself down quickly on her back, close to the looming figure. Drawing up her knees she kicked out at his legs, aiming for the knee she’d just wounded, pushing him backward.

Meghan did not wait to see him fall. ‘Use your sling, Dorran, she said, handing him a few of the small rocks on the ground. I’m getting Lady and we’re all getting out of here . . .

[Nogrod]

Just reaching the oaks on the ridge, Sythric realized that he had to pause. For a while he didn’t practically see or hear anything. Had there been an easterling noticing him near enough, he would have been an easy prey. All of his left side was going numb and everything was spinning.

He became aware of the world around him only after the noise of a horse passing him some fifteen yards away came into his consciousness. Brand! What...? It was only then, that he came to see the situation up here. Meghan and Dorran were clinging to each other by the side of a dead easterling, and the chieftain was about to do away with them. And Brand was charging him. Where were everyone else?

He saw Brand swinging his cudgel towards the easterling. He had become aware of the attack just at the last instance, and parried with his scimitar. Brand’s hit went through the defence, but was twarthed by it – and the parrying move unbalanced Brand, sending him off Lady. He saw Meghan rising up and hitting the easterling to his leg. There had to be something in that, as the chieftain howled.

And then Sythric was just overwhelmed by anger. He felt energy pulsing all over his body. This will not do! Young ladies needing to make a desperate defence! You’ll have to stop that monster, whatever it takes! By that he spurred Thydrë towards the easterling, yelling wildly “For Rohan!”, as he went. Calimehtar regained his balance after Meghan's attack, and came to his senses soon enough, seeing Sythric charging him. He seemed immediately conscious, that the situation was not in his favour, as Sythric would have the first blow because of the lance he had pointing towards him. So Calimehtar backed rightwards, finding cover behind two stout oaks nearby, and forcing Sythric to slow down his speed, and lose some of the advantage.

So you know your trade? Well, I know mine too!, Sythric thought to himself and changed his course to meet Calimehtar head on, behind the oaks. Just as he was really slowing down, making the turn left, he spurred Thydrë to full gallop, yanking her a bit more leftwards. Sythric was still coming towards Calimehtar, but now following a trail that would make him pass Calimehtar from the other side of the trees. The easterling seemed confused, and probably got Sythric’s idea, just a moment too late. Before he could back away from behind the trees, Sythric had passed him from the other side, throwing his knife from between the oaks, with his left hand. He didn’t see, where it landed, but judging from the easterling yell, he knew he had hit.

But the throw seemed to be the final thing. The pain on his left side just bursted his brain! Everything went dark. Sythric grasped Thydrë’s neck, just to hold on the saddle. Thydrë slowed down and started carrying him downhill, away from the ridge. But about that Sythric was now totally unaware of. He wasn’t aware of anything anymore. Just pain and darkness. Then came the blissful silence.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Time had seemed to swirl around her, passing extrodinarily fast. No time had been lent to Eostre after the travel through the day, after the bit of conversation, after lunch, and now...

Darkness.

She had remembered a bit of panic at the start of the attack, remembered fumbling for her bow and falling into the trees, her horse momentarily panicking and then falling silent when she had slipped off of him... and in the midst of chaos, she couldn't remember what she had done, if anything.

All Eostre knew was now, there were wounded. There was blood on her tunic, she knew somewhere, sometime, she must've attacked someone, something. Her mind was a blur.

Mounting her horse with a wince (she became aware that somewhere she had tripped, her ankle twisting almost painfully; there was a deep gash on her cheek as well, and with the attempt to mount she recognized an arrow's hole through her garments. Where was I?

She gave herself a critical look, moving down the ridge to where she had last saw Sythric being chased by another Easterling...

Don't let anyone have died!

[Folwren]

Athwen was there when Sythric's horse came to a stop by the other horses, grouping miserable and riderless in the falling dusk. She took Thydrë's rein and the mare came to a halt. But Athwen could do nothing with Sythric. The man was sensless, barely keeping his seat, hunched over his horse's neck. His wounded side was towards Athwen and she was loath to touch him, even if she could have done any good doing so.

'Osmod or Leod! Come quick, I need help!' Osmod and Leod were both bending over Vaenosa, and they both looked up when Athwen called. Osmod rose to his feet with a quick word to Leod which Athwen didn't hear and then came to her. 'Get him down. He's badly wounded and he's not awake at all.' Osmod reached up and gently pulled Sythric towards him. Athwen stood nervously by, waiting to see if there would be any way she could help.

There was none as Osmod lifted Sythric to the ground, using his tall, powerful frame to help him. He knelt beside him and began to unfasten the thick, leather guard to get at the wound that caused so much blood. Athwen bent towards him and whispered,

'Osmod, what should I do?'

'Can you stand the sight of blood?' Osmod asked. Athwen shuddered, and somehow the young man percieved it. 'Never mind, Athwen,' he said gently. 'Take care of the horses. Incana and Leod will help me and here comes Eostre.' He nodded towards the hill top above them. 'At least, she may not be coming directly here, but she's still in her saddle and apparently unwounded.'

'I'll make sure all the horses are here,' Athwen said, stepping away. He looked at her over his shoulder and nodded and she immediately turned away.

She went to the horses and silently counted and named all of them. As far as she could tell, they were all there. . .all of them who's riders had been unhorsed. Except Brand's. She turned about and looked for Lady, and in a moment, she caught sight of her atop the hill. Most of them stood in a tight group, but some (Nay was one of them, she noticed in the back of her mind) stood farther away. She went out to bring them in, and when that was done, she would look to their wounds. It would nothing so bad as tending people, she thought, as she started out to fetch the stray ones.

[Arry]

Lady’s eyes were wide as she watched the man and woman leverage Brand onto her back. Could she talk, she would have shouted ‘Hurry, hurry!’ to them. There were still a number of the foe on the hilltop, and she was nervous lest they set upon Brand again.

Brand could hear people talking, but found he had no strength to join in, nor could he help himself up from the ground. Two sets of hands strong-armed him up to the horse’s back. Pain shot through him as his shoulder was jounced in the effort. He found himself set in tightly between two bodies; the one in back lending him the support to stay on the horse.

Lady raced down the hill and away from danger as fast as her legs would carry her. The woman had the reins and guided her toward the group of companions with whom Brand had been traveling. Lady resigned herself to obey, though were it solely up to her she would have run with Brand all the way back to the safety of their lands. She stood still enough as the woman held her by the bridle and talked softly to her. She could see arms reaching up to help Brand down from her back. And she nickered softly to him some assurance that she was there. Then some one came and led her away to where the other horses were gathered.

Brand was barely aware as he was laid on the ground. His shoulder wound had opened up once again and was bleeding. He could hear some one giving directions and someone asking him questions. But the voice was so faint and he could not make out the words.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Calimehtar reeled under the force of the blow. Sythric's dagger had caught him in the fleshy part of his upper right arm. Thankfully, the blade had not penetrated to the bone below, but the wound was bleeding profusely. More importantly, he had lost too many men to continue fighting.

Calimehtar gave the signal to retreat, the sign that his men should gather at the base of the hill on the east side. He scrambled down to the designated spot that they had agreed on ahead of time, but was dismayed to find that only three of his men had survived the onslaught. The results were even worse than he had thought. How could he have so misjudged the Rohirrim? The women had fought like banshees and the young men had made up in determination what they lacked in experience.

Calimehtar cursed under his breath. He would never make such a mistake again. Next time, he would come upon his enemy in the dead of night when he would have a clear advantage. It would not look good to have lost so many soldiers to such a tiny band. That could be fixed, he reasoned, by altering the circumstances ever so slightly. He would tell the Lord of Mordor that the men of Rohan had grossly outnumbered them (there would be no mention of women) and that they were lucky to come out alive. That should at least keep his own neck intact. One of the men tied a bandage around his lord's arm to staunch the flow of blood, and the small party set out in the woods, heading east to find a place to camp.

[Folwren]

Osmod took command as the group drew closer together and they were counted up. Raedwald was dead, but he was the only one they had lost. Sythric was very badly wounded, and Brand had lost a deal of blood from his shoulder. Vaenosa, too, was wounded, though Leod deemed her cuts not so dangerous or life threatening as the two men's.

Sizing the situation up as quickly as possible, Osmod called Athwen and Meghan to him. 'Take your horses, and also take Rædwald's horse, up to the top of the hill where we intended to stop and make camp for the night before we were attacked. There, gather wood and start a fire. Do what you can to prepare camp. While you do that, we'll have to bandage wounds as best we can in order to move them up there.'

'But won't they - mightn't they still come back?' Athwen asked. She looked frightened from her very core out as the asked the question.

'They won't come back after having most of their men killed,' Osmod replied.

'We'll go,' Meghan said. She laid her hand on Athwen's arm and gently led her away towards the horses. They mounted and Osmod handed Meghan the reins of Rædwald's horse. They rode up to the crest of the hill where, beneath the oaks, near complete blackness met them. Athwen shuddered as she entered the shadow and she felt terrified of the darkness.

'Meghan?' she called softly, feeling suddenly a fear of being alone. Meghan must have heard the tremble in her voice - who couldn't have? She was right by Athwen's side and she reached out towards her, her hand touching Athwen's shoulder.

'I'm here. It's not necessary to go farther. Let's make the fire here.'

The two of them set to work finding wood. Their eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness and they found it was not quite so balck as it had first seemed. They continued searching for and gathering the dryest wood they could find until Meghan deemed it enough. Then, as Athwen cleared a place for it and set the wood in order, Meghan searched about in the saddle bags for a tinder box with which to set the flame.

A few minutes later they had a bright little blaze going. It banished the shadows back farther and farther as Athwen carefully added the damp wood. She was just about to ask Meghan how long she thought the others would be when she heard the sound of approaching horses entering the trees. The girls looked up to see Incana riding into the firelight, a horse in tow. Vaenosa was on the second horse, half concious.

Meghan and Incana helped her dismount and led her towards the fire as Athwen sat and watched rather uselessly. Before they had Vaenosa seated, the others began to arrive, and in little time at all. everyone was off their horses, the wounded were laid near the fire, and while they were being tended to by Leod and a couple helpers, Athwen and Dorran prepared dinner while Osmod and Fion made the last few arrangements for the horses.

[Undómë]

The fire Athwen and she had built was burning brightly. A number of the companions were busy at the task of getting the camp ready for the night. Meghan watched as Leod made the rounds of the injured, attending to those who needed him and giving direction to others for their care. Save for the aches and pains of being knocked about and dragged off, her own wounds were minor. Her left hand strayed up to touch the scabbed over cut along her neck and the faint beginnings of a spiral the foul Easterling had traced with his knife.

Someone had made willowbark tea and had given her a small cup to take care of the fierce headache pounding behind her eyes. Meghan closed her eyes and rested her head back on the tree she was sitting against.

‘Here!’ Leod directed two of those still on their feet to put one of the wounded near her. ‘I’ve just put a compress of moss and bound it on his shoulder with some strips of cloth. Just put your hand firmly on it, and we’ll keep it from bleeding. Oh, and I’ve given him some wine; so, don’t be surprised if he simply sleeps through your company.’

It was Brand. His face was pale and cool, though a thin film of sweat lay on his brow. She placed her hand as Leod had directed and sat quietly for a while watching the slow even rise and fall of it as he breathed. He moaned a little, eyes closed, and moved restlessly.

‘Quiet, you great ninny! Be still!’ she said without thinking. It was a phrase she often used when tending some injury to her goats. ‘Just sleep and let yourself heal.’ She leaned back against the tree, making herself comfortable. ‘Just rest, sheepman, the lambs are safe from the wolves. Lady is well, and grazing nearby. Leod and the others are getting everyone taken care of who was wounded. The Easterlings have gone. She bent low and whispered near to his ear. ‘Others are tending the little flock of Bregoware and Wulfham for now. It’s all in good hands.’

The willowbark tea had eased her headache somewhat and eased the pain in her muscles and bones, too. Brand had finally quieted again. A sudden thought made her laugh, of how they had teased each other on their choice of flocks. He had managed to make some points on the positive merits of sheep and as she recalled, she had not the time to make her argument.

She tapped her fingers on his bandage and gave his sleeping form an impish grin. ‘You know,’ she began, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. ‘This is probably a very good time for you to just relax and listen carefully as I tell you about how much better it is to raise goats than sheep. And lucky for you, I have many stories to illustrate my points.’ Meghan crossed her legs in front of her and settled into her monologue.

‘I was just a wee girl of five when my father gave me my first kid to raise. She was a lovely little brown-eyed doe, as pretty as you can imagine, and smart as a whip, too . . .’

[Tevildo]

Except for a few bumps and bruises, Dorran had come out of the fighting in amazingly good shape. Throwing together a simple stew to feed the others, he had then offered to help Osmod and Fion care for the horses. He missed his familiar routine in the stables at Wulfham. In the midst of all this fighting and dying, the horses seemed to Dorran to be his most enduring connection to a normal life. In a real sense, the animals were the most important members of their band. Without their swift legs, the group would never reach Edoras on time, especially now that their journey had been delayed. Dorran spent some time rubbing the animals down, tending to their minor scrapes and cuts, and lugging up an ample supply of dried grass from the far side of the hill so there would be enough for all of them to eat.

"I'll stay on guard tonight," he had volunteered to the others. "Perhaps this band won't be back, but how do we know for sure? And there could be other things in these woods...."

What Dorran could not admit to himself is that he simply did not want to lay in bed and try to sleep. His anger in battle, the way he had tried to hack away at the Easterling's prone corpse, had left him feeling distinctly uneasy.

It was Leod who came over and spoke with Dorran, as if guessing the reason for the young man's offer. "I don't think there's going to be any armed attacked, but I do need someone to sit with Sythric, and try to get him to take a bit of this brew. In a few hours I am hoping that he'll start coming to. I'll take the first shift. Try and rest as soon as dinner is over. I'll wake you a few hours after that when the moon is high in the sky. Sometimes, after a battle, the best medicine a man can have is to sit with a wounded comrade and help him through the night. If you see Sythric's breathing flag, or if he falls into a deep unmoving sleep, you must wake me immediately. Other than that just sit with him. You might even want to talk a bit and cool his head with a wet rag. Whether he hears what you're saying or not, part of his mind will know you're there and that's a relief."

"Can you do that for me?" Leod prodded in a testy voice.

"Yes, only....."

Only what?" the healer snapped back.

"I'm not sure I trust myself. Not anymore. Not after what happened on that hill. You probably didn't see, but...."

"I saw. You did what you had to do to try and protect Meghan. That's what's important. The rest was done in the heat of the battle."

"But then I'm no better than them. I'm just a savage hacking away at a dead body. I hate them, Leod. I really do. I don't want to turn into them but that's what all this fighting seems to do."

"It's a problem, lad. I can't deny it. We have to fight because there's no choice. But the fighting can do strange things to people. Just look at what happened to Athwen. Anyways, you're not a monstor because anger got the better of you for a few seconds in battle. If you were a monstor, you wouldn't be sitting here now and agonizing over what you did. Go on. Get some sleep, and I promise to wake you later to take the watch....."

[Nogrod]

Tevildo's post


Immediately after eating, Dorran had pulled out his bedroll and gone off to the far side of camp to try and get a few hours of sleep as the healer had suggested. He had expected to lie on the ground with eyes wide open as disturbing images from the day's events flitted through his mind. What actually happened was different. One moment the young man was lying quietly and watching the others from a distance, some of whom were talking, others eating, while still others rested or slept. The next moment he was sound asleep, remembering and seeing nothing till several hours later when he was woken by Leod.

Dorran went over and sat down next to Sythric just as the healer had suggested. He bathed the injured man's head with a cool rag and kept a close eye on his chest and face to make sure he was breathing normally. Leod had said that Sythric might begin to come to and that Dorran should feed him a special potion if that happened. But so far there were no signs of that.

Dorran was so occupied with his duties that he thankfully forgot to think about the earlier battle or even his own killing of the Easterling. Sythric had been sleeping comfortably for some time when Dorran noticed that the wounded man was beginning to show some signs of movement. His eyelids were still closed, but his hands and legs changed position, and he even tried to roll over once. Surely this must be what Leod had expected, Dorran mused happily, thinking that Sythric would soon recover. The young man ran over to the coals and looked at the pot brewing there. The medicine seemed a bit thick to drink so Dorran added some water to it and then poured some into a flagon.

Dorran bent over to smell the concoction, and a sharp fishy odor assailed his nose. Curious to see what the brew tasted like, he popped a finger inside the flagon and then brought it to his lips to lick. That was his first mistake. The stuff tasted utterly awful. Ugh! He was glad he did not have to drink that horrible liquid. He felt a little guilty trying to feed it to Sythric, but if this was what was needed for him to get well, the poor patient would just have to suffer! After all, Leod was a healer and he must know what he was doing.

He tried to pour the potion carefully to Sythric's mouth. At that instant, Sythric's eyes opened, he gave a deep groan, and struggled to try and sit up. Dorran reached over and mumbled, "You'll have to drink this. Leod says so if you want to get well".
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Nogrod's post


Sythric came out from the void gradually, passing from nowhere to a light sleep. There were vivid images in his mind now. He was wrestling on the ground with an orc on top of him. This was years and years ago, but still more clear as the present. He had his knife in his right hand, trying to make for the throat of the orc – but his hand was firmly gripped from the wrist by the orc. His left hand had the same grip over the orc’s other hand – armed with a dagger, trying to make it’s way to his throat as well. That match of wills and brutal power seemed to go on forever. He sensed the terrible smell of the panting breath just to his nose. The orc was sweating those stinking drops that were raining down all over his face. It was the foulest smell he had ever encountered.

Eventually he had managed to kick the orc off-balance – forcing it to make a balancing move- and freeing his right hand. He had stabbed the orc to its chest, simultaneously pulling the blade upwards backhanded. The orc had let a dull howl, and he felt the thick and warm orc-blood spraying all over his face, some of it entering his wide open mouth.

He spitted the thick and warm liquid out from his mouth, all his muscles tense, as he dashed to a sitting position, ready to fight for his life. At the moment, he felt the agonizing pain in his left side. Then came the soothing voice of Dorran – a bit shaken voice it was, as he had suddenly acted so violently – but it was familiar enough to make Sythric calm down. "You'll have to drink this. Leod says so if you want to get well,". Pictures of the evening rushed through his mind now: the rain of arrows, the easterling chieftain hitting him, Vaenosa being run after by an easterling, Dorran and Meghan clinging to each other in front of the easterling lord... He was coming back to the world here and now.

He drank Leod’s potion – as foul as it tasted – but then again, few really efficient medicines tasted good. Dorran had took hold of his shoulder, assisting him with the flagon with his other hand. He took Dorran by the shoulder with his right hand, and quietly managed to ask, what had happen. Dorran told him his version of the battle, and Sythric listened to it passively, having no energy to actively to engage in the discussion – or being able to understand more than half of it. But then one thing sprang to his mind. Raedwald was dead! He started crying violently – increasing the pain on his side. Dorran tried to calm him, but it was of no avail. Sythric bursted to tears and was shaking all over. Finally he managed to balance himself to quietly whisper to Dorran: “Raedwald... We must bury him... With all the honours we can give him.” Dorran took a firm hold of Sythric, taking him in his arms, and letting the man cry to his shoulder.

Finally Sythric calmed down a bit, and asked, whether Leod had came up with some even fouler potions for him to drink. As Dorran denied it, he smiled weakly. “All that doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Believe me with this. I don’t know what happened up on the hilltop before I arrived – or sometimes after that – but when I had a grasp of the situation, I could see, that you had been brave and courageous! You should be proud of yourself, Dorran. You are a good man: seeing an easterling soldier – or lord – the first time, is frightful, but you had heart enough to fight!”

Sythric was slowly leaning backwards to his resting position. “You’re a good lad, Dorran – a good man you are...”, he said, and then falled back to the bliss of the unconscious.

[Arry]

The low, breathy sound of a flute wove in and out among the words. Soft words, they were that brought up familiar images. Lady and he and Patch, his hound . . . under a night sky; the full moon hanging fat and ripe against the darkness and the stars. It was a fair sound that hung about the words . . . a silvery little ribbon of song . . .

Brand moved a bit, and wished he hadn’t. The pain in his shoulder flared up, less hot and sharp though, he thought, than it had been. His right hand crept up to his left chest, near the shoulder, touching gingerly the bulky bandaging there. The wound it seemed had not bled through.

One and then the other he opened his eyes and saw it was night, just as in his dreams. The fire burned steadily, and many of his companions were already bedding down for sleep. His companions . . . the voice had said something about them . . . that they were safe. No, Rædwald had died, he remembered that.

He struggled up, wanting to take tally of what was going on. Someone placed a firm hand against his chest and pushed him back to his pillow. There to his left sat someone wrapped in a blanket against the growing chill of night. In the effort of pushing him back down, the blanket fell away from the face. Meghan!

‘I thought never to see you again,’ he said, grabbing hold of her hand before she could move it away. He grinned, a gladsome light in his eyes at the sight of her. ‘That was you who was playing, wasn’t it’ He laughed a little. ‘And you speaking . . . funny, I thought I was dreaming about being out with the sheep, with Lady and my hound. But now as I recall they were your stories, weren’t they . . . you and those beastly goats of yours. You have had the advantage of me this time, m’lady. But be warned, I have years and years of stories to better yours and they are all of sheep . . . lovely animals . . .

He coughed and groaned as the sudden movement pained his chest. A cup was offered, his head lifted a bit, so that he might drink. Wine . . . with something in it . . . it slaked his thirst and he knew it soon would send him back to dreaming.

Brand gave her hand a squeeze as he felt the concoction take effect. ‘I promise. I won’t try to get up. Get some sleep yourself, Meghan. You can tell me all the stories you want to tomorrow. Lay down, lay down and rest a while.’

[Arry]

Farael's post

It was a long night for all of them. The wounded needed to be looked after and those who had not been gravely wounded had to help Leod. Osmod sported a bruised arm and a few minor cuts. The pain on his chest had gotten worse after the fight so after the heaviest workload had been done, Leod told Osmod to get some rest.

Yet it would be a restless night. The moans of the wounded in their sleep and the dull ache of his limbs was enough to keep his troubled mind alert. He had given up on them, on those left in the hill, and most of them had been gravely wounded. The questions kept sounding in his throbbing head yet the answers were not there. He felt as if he would never sleep again, so he decided to go stretch his legs.

He walked to the nearby trees as silently as he could. He told himself he didn’t want to rouse the lucky ones who could sleep, but deep inside he knew that he just wanted to be alone. By his bedroll laid one of his drawings, the figures interlaced and crossed so that very few could decipher its meaning. What scared Osmod the most is that he did not recall writing it, but what it depicted was so terrible he did not dare to let those thoughts into his mind. They were there anyway, lurking in the dark unconscious corners.

He thought about deserting them all once again. Taking his sword, bow and arrows and fighting his way to safety or, most likely, death. As he returned to the camp, the grim moods had not subsided and he sneaked towards his mount, who greeted him cheerfully. ”If you only knew my friend, what I am about to do, would you shed a tear for me? Will anyone cry my loss or will I pass, from light to shadow never to be remembered again?”

A cold wind blew from the north, moaning a lamentation for the war. It was then that Osmod heard a voice calling his name. Yet it sounded far, far away and at the same time close, as if inside Osmod’s own mind. He knew the voice and he understood the message even if no more words had been spoken. Walking back to his bedroll, he erased the grim picture and drew a new one with his finger on the dirt. It was simple, composed by just three runes and a name. The meaning comforted Osmod all the same. To Edoras, for Rædwald. Finally, a sudden quietness took over his soul and he slept. He would not wake until the following morning.

[Folwren]

The night's blackness pressed in on Athwen like an oppressive storm as she lay huddled in blankets close to the fire. She could not shut her eyes, for each time she did, the image of the dagger sinking into the Easterling's side came back as vivid as when it happened. Or, which was even worse, she would see the flaming houses as she had from the top of the ridge where she and her horse had first seen the devistation of their home.

But finally she was able to slip into an uneasy sleep where she was not conscious of having closed her eyes. The sounds of the night mingled in together until they were all one with silence and the flickering orange and red light of fire darkened unto blackness and she slept.

The night was not half through when her mind awoke and once more brought back the horrible images. She tossed and turned where she lay, the dreams torturing her mind, until suddenly she started up, half awake, half delerious with sleep and nightmare, uttering a piercing cry breaking the stillness.

'Ean!' she called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!' Her voice rose to nearly a scream and she was crying. Athwen struggled wildly to free herself of tangled blankets and skirt and she tried to get to her feet, blinded by unreality and tears, a heavy fog seemed to rise around everything. She wanted to search, to look again. . .she had seen so clearly her sister, her mother. . .and they were gone. . . 'Eanlaen!' she called again, desperately, wildly. She sobbed helplessly, standing where she had lain and wrapping her arms tightly about herself.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. She quivered but didn't turn to look to see who it was. But then a voice spoke, whispering softly in the stillness that followed her outbreak. 'Athwen. . .'

'No,' she whispered, her breath trembling with the word. 'It's no good. I didn't want. . .I didn't want to stay. You know I didn't. Not when. . .not when everyone. . .' She drew another shuddering breath and her tear blinded eyes darted back and forth as though watching for something. But nothing came and nothing happened and minute after minute she stood there, absolutely still, except for the jerking breaths her crying brought in and out.

[Undómë]

She gave him a list of horrible consequences that would befall him if she found he’d gone back on his promise. But he was already slipping into sleep and the grip on her hand was loosening. She tucked his hand beneath the blanket and pulled the edge of his covers up under his chin. Her fingers slid gently over his scarred cheek.

Meghan was tired. Her head had quit its fierce ache, but now her joints and muscles picked up the protest of this awful day. She spread out her bedroll close to Brand and eased herself gratefully into it.

She did not know how long she had slept, but the fire had burned very low when the shrill cry rent the night. Meghan sat up, her heart pounding. ‘Please, please let it not be another attack!’ she gasped, her sleep fogged eyes taking in the hill top in quick glances. There were no figures moving about save for that of the young woman, Athwen. And she stood as if rooted to the spot where her blankets now lay in a tangle.

'Ean!' Athwen called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!’ The girl hugged herself in the cold night air, calling out once again in a wild voice. ‘Eanlaen!’

She approached the young woman with some caution. Athwen looked as one possessed, and Meghan had no desire to add to whatever demons had come to her in the night. She thought of herself when she was just a little girl and her father had died. There were terrible dreams that had come to her after his passing. And she remembered what her brother had done for her.

‘Athwen,’ she said softly, laying her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. There was no response at first; then, Athwen began to talk, but not to Meghan. Something or someone invisible held her attention. Still Meghan knew it would do no good for her just to stand her, cold in the night, battling demons. And she suspected that the real demon was the girl, herself. She had made some choice, for good or ill, it made no difference to her at this point, and now that choice preyed on her mind.

Meghan stooped down and picked up the tangled blankets, wrapping one around the other woman. ‘Ean’s not here, Athwen. It’s only me, Meghan.’ She spoke gently, putting her arm round Athwen’s shoulders and walked her haltingly to where she’d left her own bedroll. ‘Only me . . . and look, here’s Brand. He’s sleeping and so are the others. It’s night and we’ve had a bad, awful day. It’s no wonder your dreams are filled with frights and dark things.’

‘Come, you’re so cold. And I can see your weariness in your eyes.’ She pulled the girl down to her blankets. ‘Snuggle in against me; I’ll put my arms around you tight . . . just like my brother used to do to drive away the terrors in the night for me. I’ll hold you safe. And when the light comes you can tell me of this Ean that you called after. I’d like that . . . to hear a little of your life . . .’

‘Lie down, won’t you, Athwen? Come take some rest . . .’

[Eowyn Skywalker]

The attack had brought about chaos; there were wounded, even dead. It was striking in its odd accuracy—she had been cynical before, and now things had come true. Eostre had escaped with injuries that looked far worse than they really were, a twisted ankle that may've neared breakage but had fortunately escaped it, and blood staining her face and garments.

Nothing more than pain. Nothing that she couldn't bear.

Nevertheless, for her to sit down and try to rest after the wounded had been brought back to the top of the hill (if they weren't already), the worst of them tended to carefully... it was almost impossible. An improbablity she knew would bring about a dull sense of fatigue the next morning if she didn't try to recover.

Perhaps she didn't care.

Someone had died.

She tried so hard to sleep in the night, along with the rest of the camp, but it was elusive. Things were simply uncomfortable now; it'd be all the more easy to be silent.

[Folwren]

Did she really feel the arms about her? Drawing her in and casting warmth over her entire body? Athwen heard the gentle voice breaking into her troubled, dreaming mind, but she didn't really understand the words. Still, they calmed her enough to lead her away from that horrible black abyss before her. The arms directed her to lie down, and always that soft, calming voice spoke to her.

'Lie down, won't you, Athwen? Come, take some rest. . .'

The world was not as bleak and empty as she had supposed. She had not been left completely alone. Someone had been sent in her time of greatest need. . .

She was safe, and she knew it. She shivered as the last bit of cold left her and then she made one last sob and was silent, curled up by Meghan's side with the young woman's arms about her. The embrace was like a shield, impassible and guarding, and she was not alone. That's all she needed. The dreams did not return and Athwen slept, worn out by the day's troubles, like a child in its crib.

[Arry]

Brand stifled a groan. Not because his shoulder pained him, but because he was snug and warm beneath the blankets and he could put off no longer the call of nature. He wriggled his torso a bit beneath the covers . . . aahh, good! . . . the pain that had been so sharp and hard last night had diminished with sleep. He drew back the edge of the blanket where he’d pulled it to his forehead and saw that the sun was just about to rise.

With as quiet an effort as he could, he leveraged himself up to a sitting position. A few of the companions were already up. One was crouched on the other side of the fire, feeding the flames with fresh kindling and broken branches. And someone, perhaps the same person, had filled a pot with water and set it over the fire.

There were a number still within their bedrolls. Not too far from him he saw Sythric. The man was pale and Brand hoped his wounds were of the sort he could recover from.

He turned his attention, smiling as he considered her sleeping form, to Meghan. And there, curled snug against her was Athwen, still lost in sleep herself. He had a vague remembrance of some disturbance in the night . . . someone crying out. And Meghan had got up to see to it. He pulled the blanket down slightly from her face and brushed a few wisps of hair back from her face. There was a thin line of scabbed over wound that came up from her neck to spiral onto her cheek. He touched it lightly with his fingertips.

With a little effort he rolled away from the sleeping women and got to his feet. For a moment he felt quite light-headed and he wondered if he might topple over altogether. But a few deep breaths seemed to bring his balance back and he went off toward a clump of trees and bushes a little ways from camp.

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

He stopped on his way back to camp and dragged in a little more wood for the morning fire. The effort of doing just that surprised him. He was relieved when he’d reached the fire and was able to leave off the burden.

After washing the dirt and pitch from his hands, Brand crouched down near the flames and tried to warm them as best he could. He could see his breath in the chill. Leod was stirring some herbs into the pot of hot water, making tea. Brand allowed himself to be looked over by the healer, who pronounce him fit enough to ride but issued the stern warning that there was to be no abrupt of his left arm lest he tore open his wound. The old man gave him a cup of steaming tea and sat down beside him at Brand’s request.

‘Tell me of the others, grandfa . . . Leod,’ Brand asked after a few sips of the welcome warm brew.

Most of the wounds Leod explained to him were fairly superficial; their bearers would be sore and bruised for a number of days but they would be fine to ride. The worst, Brand was told, were himself, Vaenosa, and Sythric. Brand assured Leod he would be able to ride that day, even if only a half day or so. Leod raised his brows, and said nothing further about that.

Vaenosa, he did say, had been struck deeply in the left thigh with an arrow. He’d taken it out of course, but the muscle would be painful and inflamed for quite a while. And with too much activity it might open up and re-bleed. Also, she’d been wounded in the back by a spear. She was breathing alright, so it hadn’t punctured a lung, still it was a large wound that again might re-open if she did too much activity.

Sythric was the most injured, battered and wounded almost beyond his endurance, Leod told him. He was getting medicines to help him, and he seemed awake now, but it was likely that how he felt would determine how far, or even if, they would travel that day.

Brand nodded his head thoughtfully at all that Leod told him. He assured the healer, too, that he would take his counsel and cut short the ride if Leod felt the others were not up to it.

Talk then fell to grimmer subjects. Rædwald’s body could not be left to the mercy of the birds and beasts. ‘Then let us honor him as we did the fallen of your village, Leod,’ Brand offered. ‘There are plenty of branches,’ he went on. ‘Let’s see to those who are able gathering enough for a pyre. We’ll send him off as best we can.’

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

After a light breakfast, all of those able to walk gathered the fuel for the funeral blaze. Rædwald was washed, his hair braided, and he was dressed in a clean tunic and breeches. His mail shirt was put on over it, his helm on his head. His body was laid atop the heaping of branches and twigs, then, and his spear laid by his side. Brand cut a length of mane from Rædwald’s horse and laid it in the old warrior’s hand.

A number of the companions stood round the pyre, torches burning. In silence and almost as one, they thrust their brands into the tangle of twigs and wood. The flames leapt up; the fire racing from twig to branch about the pyre.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ Brand murmured low, as he pushed his torch into the piling of wood. ‘I’ll keep watch over her, as I promised. All speed to you now. Rise up in the smoke, Rædwald. Let the flames carry your spirit to a peaceful rest.’

[Undómë]

She had not allowed herself to cry for him. There had been so much to get done and others to see to that she had tucked him away in a corner of her mind . . . for later . . .

And even now as she stood near the burning bier the tears did not come. This past day was a time so jaggedly out of context that his death did not seem real to her. But she knew when it would hit her . . .

Back in the low hilly country where they set their goats out to pasture . . . that’s when the sadness would o’erwhelm her. Against the sky and hills of home a figure would be missing; no more to be seen with his wide grin and his low easy voice moving his flock about, keeping them safe . . . she would not hear the tinkle of the little bells that sang out sweetly from the end of his staff as he walked along . . .

In the small black hole inside her where he had disappeared, she dammed up her tears, and when she was safe again at home he would cry for him.

Meghan’s hand reached beneath her cloak to fetch out her little wooden flute. No song came to her that she might play for him. The music, too, it seemed was dammed up with her tears. Instead, she threw the flute up to where he lay. Caught in the wavering heat from the fire, it shimmered for a moment as it fell upon his still form.

She gathered her cloak about her, shivering as she did so; though the heat of the flames echoed in the redness of her cheeks.

[Nogrod]

Comforted by Dorran, Sythric fell in deep sleep. Towards the morning, his dreams got lighter, and eventually he was aware of people getting into that so familiar morning-hassle of a riding-camp. Then he heard Raedwald being mentioned.

He is dead! ... He is dead! Sythric managed to open his eyes, and saw a pyre being readied, Raedwald’s body was being hoisted on the top of it. Not the lance!, he yelled inside his mind, noting Raedwald’s lance beside the man at the pyre, as Brand was just about to lit the whole thing.

Sythric struggled himself up. The pain was there, yes it was, but Leod’s potions seemed to work. Half of his body was downright numb. It was a weird sensation to walk without feeling the left side of his body at all. And it was hard indeed, just keeping the balance that way. He has stuffed my side with some magic, I say..., he thought, as he pulled along with the others, surrounding the pyre.

He took his place in the ring around the fire beside Meghan and watched the flames consume the body of Raedwald. “Goodbye, dear friend”, he whispered in a low voice. He felt, that Meghan had heard him. Then he gazed the people around the pyre. It was a solemn moment, and everyone seemed to have gone deep inside themselves. Vaenosa was tightly bandaged and looked pale, Brand seemed to stay firm with pure willpower. There is a sturdy man! He could have made a rider indeed!, Sythric thought to himself, simultaneously eying the rest of the company.

Then his eyes settled back to the pyre. Raedwald’s body was already being eaten by the flames, turning black and charred. I will miss you, my friend. And curse it, I couldn’t be there to help you yesterday! But I had to take on those ones coming downhill – as they were the worst threat to us all, and I was there – and you were not... And I took Brand with me – and look at him now! We took the bruises, and you took to the eternity! You really had safeguarded those others, I just know it. It’s the way you did your part. Oh, how I miss you! Raedwald! He threw his gaze around the ring around the pyre once more with wetted eyes. These are just amazing people, the power of Rohan is in these young people, I have known it all the time! You were not alone, Raedwald! We are not alone, anyone of us! You helped to save them once, I have to be ready to do that again! He catched Vaenosa’s eyes and tried to smile comfortingly – probably failing altogether. She’s a spirited young lady. How good, I was there in time! But could have been earlier..., he thought, and continued by himself: I would surely prefer ten riders as a company, but as the things are, she is a real fighter – and these others too. I believe it now!

The movement he sensed from the corner of his eye brought him back to the present. Meghan had picked up her flute, and was staring at it intensely. Then she threw it to the flames. Sythric felt the tears bursting from his eyes, but fought back this time. He saw Meghan pulling her cloak around her, shivering, but not crying.

Sythric took the two steps needed to come by Meghan’s side and wrapped his right arm around her, pressing her tenderly against him. Meghan glanced at his eyes for a moment, full of sorrow, and then turned her gaze to the pyre again. Then they just stood there, in silence.

Eventually the people started to disperse from the pyre, but Sythric and Meghan remained still. They just stood there, Sythric having his arm around Meghan, and Meghan just gently leaning to him. They didn’t need any words, as they felt the sharing of the same anguish, together.

“We’ll make you a new one”, Sythric whispered to Meghan’s ear, “He would have appreciated it.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly: “You know he would have. You’ll just have to play once more to his memory, one day.” With that he let go his hold and turned to face her. “Be brave my girl. We both have suffered a great loss, but for his sake, we will have to continue.” He tried a smile again, and felt again having missed the intended effect. He slowly turned away to go back to his bedroll.

The pain was back, as he kneeled to collect his things from the ground. He grasped them anyway, biting his lip not to yell from the pain. He walked to Thydrë and started to pack her up. Suddenly he turned around, facing most of the others, and declared in all the voice he had. “I’m going to ride with you today, but if I’m dropping behind you during the ride, just keep going, don’t hesitate to continue. I can take care of myself, if needs be. And if someone else is falling behind, we might make it together. The mission is now the first thing we have, the thing that counts. We wounded can be left behind in a need.” With that he turned back to continue with his packing, finding out, that certain movements just burst his side with a pain too strong to deal with – and so he had to make pauses as he packed Thydrë, trying to hoist and tie things on her without his left hand. I could do with some of that medicine of Leod’s. If for nothing else, then just to ease the pain, he thought to himself. Suddenly he turned again towards the others. “Oh, and collect every useful item those dead easterlings bore with them. I’m sorry, but I can’t be of help with that now.”

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Fire claimed the body of their fallen comrade; a companion murdered by the fell blows of an enemy far greater than a small company could ever hope to surpass. A war was coming, but for now there was a greater fear undertone. One had been claimed, body to ashes. As far and fast as they had come, they had not yet escaped the flames.

Ashes.

Fire had claimed the village. And now fire had claimed the body of Raedwald. And Eostre had no heart to cry even after she had stared into the heat of those flames to glance away and blink eyes into the dimmer lights with white overriding. She couldn't. How could she?

And now that the flames dimmed, and most had left the pyre's side, things were a strange sort of silent. They would leave soon. In the meantime, there were bodies to search; perhaps there were things left to scavage from the corpses. Weapons, perhaps gold or rope; even clothing might almost have been of use to the rumpled party in some ways.

Edoras had to arrive soon, before more people were murdered.

[Folwren]

Athwen had wept. The tears had come silently, quick, and unstoppable. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t known him for real. She had been acquainted with him for a couple days, but that was all. . .nothing past a common acquaintance.

And now, as they waited until they could continue, the tears were dried, but a deep, heavy sadness settled over her like a wet cape. She couldn’t shake it and it weighed her down until she felt like she wanted to cry again, just to relieve herself of the pressure. But she didn’t. She drew a shuddering breath instead, rose to her feet and went to her horse.

‘I don’t know how long it will be until we leave, lad,’ she said, running her hand up his neck and then placing it on his head. He looked at her and allowed her to put both her arms around his face, cradling him near her chest. ‘I want to ride you now,’ she whispered. ‘I want to run. Gallop. Flee all this.’ She glanced over her shoulder and watched for a moment as Leod dealt out care to one of the wounded. ‘Maybe we can.’ She let her arms drop and then went for his saddle and blankets. She had him saddled in a matter of minutes. ‘They won’t be ready for some time now,’ she told herself as she tightened the girth and turned the stirrup back down. ‘I’ll hardly be missed. Everything is already packed up. All that needs to be done is preparing the horses. I’ll be back by the time they’re finished. . .’ She held the bridle in her hand and slipped the bit into Parith’s mouth. ‘We’ll go for a short run, lad, down at the bottom of the hill.’

Without looking behind her for fear of someone catching her eyes and asking questions, Athwen began to lead Parith out from beneath the trees. She would mount him in the open and then ride back down the hill. There was a straight place beneath, long enough to enjoy the run, but not so long that Parith would loose his breath or become tired in the sprint. She ached to feel the wind of speed in her face. That, at least, would be just like it used to be.

[Farael]

Osmod had help to set up the funeral pyre and to place Rædwald on top of it. It was not a job he relished, but it was the least he could do for such a good man. He could not, however, be the one to lit fire to the wood. He thought about volunteering himself but a sudden bout anguish stopped him short. What he had done so far and his prayers would have to suffice. As the pyre was lit, Osmod thought a silent prayer for his fallen friend, asking the gods to let him into the halls of those who had died with honour. Perhaps Rædwald had not been a great general nor he had won many battles, but he had fallen trying to protect a friend and that was just as important. Generals may win wars, but men like Rædwald were true heroes.

After Rædwald funeral was done, it was time to go back down the hill to search the bodies. Something useful may have been gathered from there. Osmod felt sorry for the fallen, now that the heat of the battle had worn off. They were men just as him, not those beastly orcs. He wondered, while picking up a shield that seemed to be in good state, whether they would be forgiven by the gods. Maybe they didn’t know any better.

Weary and still aching, he made his way back to the camp. He had only gathered a shield and a waterskin, as his had been punctured by a lance. He looked at his horse’s wounds quickly but decided to keep him saddled. They would probably be leaving shortly anyway.

Walking over to Brand he asked him in a low tone of voice.

“I know I have not been acting much as a leader, not with Sythric bossing me around anyway, but I still feel responsible for my group of riders. And well… even if we just met I feel responsible for you all as well.”

He shifted his weight around, feeling slightly uncomfortable disclosing his thoughts to a stranger.

“ I know we must make haste, but any success we may find at the Golden Hall will be marred if we loose one of our group to exhaustion or if we ride ourselves to the ground. We can’t leave anyone behind with the Easterlings still prowling around, but let those of us who are healthy take the lead. The rest can follow as fast as they can manage.”

Searching through his saddlebag, Osmod produced his family’s horn. He had forgotten about it during the skirmish.

“Take this if you want, to alert us of any danger that may befall you. Perhaps Leod and Meghan can stay with you to help should anyone’s wounds worsen. Eostre, Dorran, Fion and I will ride ahead and we’ll have the night’s camp ready for when you arrive. I know it is our duty to make to Edoras as fast as we can, but by chance or destiny we have been forced to deal with adversity. Death prowls close, Brand, she will take each of us if we give her a chance.”