Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The Dunlendings were camped half an hour's ride west of Edoras, in a dell with a stream running through it. Here at the foot of the mountains, a thin blanket of autumn mist still lingered, with solitary fir trees emerging like sad sentinels, dripping with moisture. They rode silently, the jingle of their gear muffled by the still air. Despite Lothíriel assuring them of their unwelcome guests' peaceful intentions, Éomer and his men had donned all their armour and sent out scouts to make sure they would not be ambushed.

Eadbald had joined their expedition, nervously pointing out what precautions he had taken, but Éomer only acknowledged his words with a grunt and he soon he fell silent. At least the whelp had posted a ring of guards around the camp, although the rider who greeted them gave an impression of boredom. However, he quickly came to attention when he realised he was facing his king.

As they rode into the camp, the Dunlendings emerged from tents of worn, faded canvas to stare at them. Even though the guard had confirmed that the inhabitants were mostly women and children, Éomer kept his hand on his sword hilt and ordered Lothíriel to ride in the middle of their group. He was not taking any chances.

Mostly, the Dunlendings watched them in stony silence, but one of the women called something to Lothíriel, presumably a greeting, to which she waved an acknowledgement. Then whispers of 'forgoil kuningas', 'king of the strawheads' spread through the crowd. Éomer understood that much, although their language had always seemed to him more like the coarse call of beasts than the utterance of men.

Something was very strange though about the camp, he thought, then realised there was a complete absence of animals. In any Rohirric village there would be chickens running around rooting for food, pig pens round the back of the houses and goats, sheep and cows out in the pastures. To say nothing of the horses of course. Here not even a single dog barked at them. Had they all been eaten? It was unnaturally silent anyway, no sound of laughter or cheerful talking, no women singing over their tasks as they spun wool and wove cloth, as he was used to from his own people. They passed a campfire where a woman was stirring a pot of gruel, but her children just sat on the ground and watched lethargically. It gave Éomer a pang to see their dull, lank hair and hollow faces.

They halted in the centre of the camp where a woman and a young lad awaited them in front of the largest tent. The woman's face was gaunt, though her high cheekbones hinted at traces of beauty, and her clothes hung on her thin frame as if they had been made for a much fuller figure. She rested her hands on the boy's shoulders, whether to reassure him or to keep him from running away, Éomer could not tell. Identical black eyes stared up at him, neither hostile nor afraid. He had seen that look before: in those who had nothing left to lose.

"Urho, chief of the Tribe of the Red Deer, and his mother Ilta," Lothíriel introduced the two, having somehow wormed her way forward to his side. "The boy is nine," she added.

So much for his picture of a handsome Dunlending leader. Suddenly Éomer felt ashamed. His wife had been right; there was really only one word for this wretched, starving people: defeated.

He looked down at the woman and her son a moment longer, then swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. "My wife tells me you seek a treaty?" he asked and took off his helmet.

***

They set out to return to Edoras in the bright afternoon sunshine, leaving behind a much more cheerful camp. The Dunlending children peeked out from the tents, and when Lothíriel waved at them smiled back shyly. His men also seemed relieved not to have to fight such a sorry foe and raised their voices in song.