Warriors of the Twilight (Updated Version)

Chapter Four

The cold winter morning dawned, and Eohelm found himself standing at the bedside of his friend, the man who had taught him all he knew of war. The changes that night had wrought on the older man was stunning, and repulsive. His skin had turned from merely pale to gray, and the veins and arteries beneath showed dark blue and black. Within four hours of Thego coming into Edoras, the skin around the wound had turned black, and was now frightfully hot to the touch.

The physicians had tended Thego all through the night, but the man's condition merely worsened, despite their best efforts. Nothing more could be done. Thego was dying.

Heavy hearted, Eohelm sat down, putting a hand on his mentor's shoulder.

Almost all I know have you taught me, Thego. You have been to me as a father, after my own was slain. He swallowed back tears, but not as much from sorrow as anger. One question had plagued him all the night through, and his heart yearned for an answer, that the pain of his mentor might be avenged.

Who has done this?

The man on the bed groaned, looking up at Eohelm with fevered eyes.

"The men—" he gasped, "The horse traders..." Thego coughed, and his eyes closed, his sentence unfinished. But as far as Eohelm was concerned, the sentence only confirmed what he had suspected.

The men who came to trade killed him.

Numbly, Eohelm stood, watching the physicians carry out the lifeless body of his mentor. Time seemed unreal, as everyone else had exited the room.

Some time later, the door behind him opened, and heavy footsteps jolted Eohelm from his stupor.

"Son of Eogal?" A firm voice came from behind. Rochmel, Thego's sturdy second-in-command, had come from Dalefold during the early hours of the morning, as quickly as the message could be relayed that Thego was wounded. "The king has called for you."

Eohelm stood, following his commander down the cold streets and into the golden hall. The rage that had fueled his gate the day before had dissipated into a numb state of denial. He was barely aware of his own feet, let alone his surroundings.

When he came to himself, he stood in the Golden Hall, along with the physician whom had attended to Thego in his last hours.

"Is it true that Thego is dead?" Theoden asked, speaking to the men before him.

"Yes, my lord." the doctor bowed his head slightly. "He died this morning of his wounds."

"I see." Theoden's face was troubled. Eohelm knew it was not only grief that troubled the man—though there was a goodly measure of that—but also the fact that whatever Thego knew about these mysterious 'Rangers' had died with him.

"My liege," the physician who had primarily tended to Thego spoke, "I believe the arrow that we removed from the wound was poisoned."

"With what?" Rochmel demanded, anger showing clearly on his face "If it be from poison that he died, how is it that you did not draw it from the wound?"

"It was beyond my skill, sir. It was no poison I have cured before, and spread faster than any infection or poison I have ever seen." The man shook his head. "I did all I knew how, but this was...." he trailed off, as though he didn't know how to further explain what had occurred.

"I see." Rochmel replied bitterly. His eyes were hard. "Well, I certainly hope that if one of your friends is poisoned, that you swiftly find a cure."

"Peace, Rochmel," Theoden instructed. "I do not wish for strife between my men as well as from outside."

Rochmel lapsed into a sullen silence. He glared angrily at the physician, but that was the extent of what he could do.