Yours to Command

Blood in the Water

The mark of the true warrior is to know when to act and to do so swiftly and decisively, throwing his enemies into disarray. He will know how to grasp that moment between recognition and action and turn it to his advantage.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

***

A warg! And not just any warg, but one of the largest Éomer had ever seen crouched in the water, ready to jump. The fur on its back silvered with age, eyes alight with malice, it surveyed the party gathered in the forest glade. Éomer cursed when he saw that the man who had guarded the opposite side of the stream now lay motionless on the ground. The animal must have crept round the edge of the clearing whilst their attention had been fixed on the two young noblemen.

Beside him, Elphir unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion, but hesitated to move, lest the warg be startled into deadly action. Amrothos cursed steadily under his breath, his eyes locked on his sister.

On the beach, Princess Lothíriel turned to her nephew, a bewildered expression on her face. Please don't say anything! he thought. Too late.

"Alphros, what's the matter?"

The warg turned its large head towards them. Éomer saw the little boy shaking with fright.

"Alphros?" the princess asked again, her clear voice carrying across the suddenly silent clearing. One of the women whimpered softly.

If the warg had been able to smile, it would have. Éomer knew that they were far more than just clever animals. No, they possessed an evil intelligence and a lust to inflict as much pain as possible. This one looked like a survivor from the Ring War and the fact that it had chosen to approach from the river, attacking them on their weakest side, showed its cunning. Why hadn't they brought any archers!

"Keep still," Éomer commanded in the voice that had carried across the battlefield of the Pelennor, and she froze where she stood, grasping that something must be very wrong indeed. Alphros clutched the edge of her tunic and whispered a few words to her and he saw the blood draining slowly from her face.

Still clutching her boots in one hand and her thin wooden cane in the other, the princess slowly edged forward, and Éomer realized at once that she wanted to put herself between the boy and the beast. A brave thing to do, but probably futile. He had seen wargs tear out a grown man's throat and then move on to their next victim in less time than it took to draw a sword.

Up in the trees, a magpie scolded loudly at the unwonted disturbance, the only sound to break the tense silence. Éomer had experienced this particular feeling before, being balanced for one breathless moment at the edge of a cliff, before plunging into a whirlpool of violence and bloodshed. His chance to act - if he could take it.

"Firefoot! Here!" he called.

The big grey reacted instantly. He pulled away from Oswyn's slack grip and in a couple of long strides reached his master. Éomer made a grab for the cantle of the saddle as the stallion ran by. He leapt up, and catching his foot in the near stirrup, used the momentum to swing up. They had practiced this manoeuvre a hundred times, but never before in such deadly earnest. His heart beating furiously, he gripped his legs tightly around the stallion's sides and reached for his sword.

All the time, Éomer knew that he would be too late. He had to cross the clearing; the warg only had to pounce. As he saw it, his only chance lay in startling the beast so much that it decided to turn tail and run.

He yelled as he drew his sword. Ahead of him, the warg lifted its head, mouth hanging half open as if in a grin, to show a formidable array of sharp teeth. It had not pounced yet, almost as if it wanted to wait until the very last moment to extend the agony of the prey. Or the anguish of the rescuer? No easily startled youngster this, but a veteran fighter and not in the least intimidated. For a heartbeat, the glittering black eyes met Éomer's, a malignant awareness in them.