Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Chapter 16

The Haradrim would not have taken the most direct route. Éomer held onto that thought throughout the long night and endless day that followed. At first Éothain tried to cheer him up by reminding him that the men might indeed be harmless Gondorian wool traders, but his reassurances rang false. As for Éomer, he knew with absolute certainty that enemies had entered the Mark and were closing in on their unsuspecting prey.

They had to pace themselves, stopping every now and again for a rest, but though he knew it would do no good to push the horses to foundering, pausing for a break was almost impossible to bear. It felt as if his whole being was concentrated on reaching Lothíriel, the need for speed crowding out every other consideration.

By mid morning they passed the site of the herders' camp and picked up the trail leading southwest, marked not only by the hoof marks of many horses and sheep, but also by the wheels of the waggons used to transport the tents and other gear. Éomer could have howled aloud when he envisioned their slow pace. Why hadn't he sent Lothíriel and Tarcil home to Edoras at the first hint of trouble? Or not taken her to the Emnet in the first place. When he thought of his promise to keep her safe, he tasted ashes in his mouth.

One of his scouts tried to discover if anybody else had come that way since, but it proved impossible to be sure. Grimly they settled into the pursuit again. From overhead the summer sun burnt down on them, inexorably slipping into the west, reminding him of time passing away, more precious than gold.

In the afternoon they reached what had to be last night's camp. A couple of hours later the trail split where the herders had turned south, while the main track continued towards the Entwade. And here for the first time they found traces of more than one group of riders ahead of them. Aelred, his best scout, pointed out the smaller hoof prints of a pony in a muddy patch of grass, overlaid by the marks of shod horses. The icy fist gripping Éomer's heart tightened further.

They changed between their spare horses regularly, but even so it felt as if they advanced at a snail's pace across the wide, flat grassland. Involuntarily he was reminded of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli traversing these same plains on foot, in pursuit of Saruman's orcs. At least they were on horseback. Unfortunately, so was their quarry.

None of the men spoke much anymore, husbanding their strength against the fight to come. As twilight deepened into the third night of racing across the plains of the Riddermark, Éomer felt as if his will alone kept them going.

Shortly before midnight, they got to the Entwade. The sky had clouded over, robbing them of even the faint starlight, so they decided to call a brief halt for the darkest hours of the night. Éomer knew it made sense to rest the horses and let them eat the supply of oats they had brought with them. The men too would be better for a couple of hours of sleep.

But as he lay in the soft grass, listening to the frogs croaking in the nearby river, Éomer could find no rest. Before his mental eye he saw a picture of Lothíriel struggling in her captors' hold, of Tarcil lifeless and cold. The Haradrim would not bother to abduct them. Surely they knew they had no chance to smuggle such valuable prisoners through most of Rohan and Gondor. No, their intention had to be to simply kill the boy, making sure he would never assert his claim as rightful king of Harad. As for what they might do to Lothíriel...

He jumped up, unable to bear his thoughts any longer. Seeking out Unferth, who was standing watch, he told the man to catch some sleep. Pacing the bounds of the camp, alert to any suspicious noise or movement, at least kept his mind focused.

As soon as the brief summer's night lightened enough so they could make out the path, he woke his men. There were a few groans, but nobody protested. They were no more than a day's ride from Edoras, and it enraged all of them that their enemies dared to cross their land with impunity. In grim silence they took up the pursuit again, alternately walking and pushing their weary horses into a trot.