On the Wings of the Storm

Chapter 1

October 3018, the Eastfold.

The riders coalesced out of the autumn mist like grey ghosts. One moment saw us riding along huddled into our cloaks, cold and weary, the next a menacing thicket of spears surrounded us. My father's men responded at once by forming a tight circle around me, their hands on their sword hilts. Although what they could do, I did not know, for the riders far outnumbered us and some of them had arrows nocked to their bows. These were supposed to be allies not foes, I reminded myself, my throat dry. But they did not look friendly.

One of them nudged his horse forward. A tall man, clad in mail, with a white horsetail flowing from his helmet. "Who are you?" he asked, speaking Westron. "And what do you want in the Mark?"

"We come in peace," Dirhael, the captain of my escort, answered. "Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, sends us and we bear letters from Steward Denethor to King Théoden." At his sign young Megil lifted our banner, the swan-prowed ship hanging limply in the moist air.

The man surveyed us, keen eyes missing nothing, his distrust evident. I wondered what he made of our company of ten Swan Knights and one reluctant princess. Involuntarily my hand twitched towards my bow, useless though it was wrapped in oilcloth. A mistake. The movement arrested his attention. "You there," he commanded, looking at me. "Show your face."

When I hesitated, not used to such a tone of voice, he rode forward another few steps and levelled his spear at me. As Dirhael's hand whitened on his sword hilt, I reached up to push back my hood. But the rider forestalled me, deftly slipping the tip of his spear past my cheek to flick back the heavy cloth.

A murmur of surprise, quickly suppressed, went up from the men surrounding us. Their leader's eyes widened behind the slits of his helmet, but he showed no other reaction. "And who might you be?"

Drawing on years of deportment and etiquette lessons, I squared my shoulders and tried to infuse my voice with confidence. "Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Your king is expecting us."

He looked me up and down, missing nothing, from my mud streaked boots to my crumpled tunic. Why hadn't I put on a fresh one that morning! The rider shrugged. "He might be, but I am not, so you had better explain yourself." His stallion chomped on the bit and he checked him absentmindedly. "And be quick about it!"

Resentment rose within me at his arrogant tone. It was not as if I had wanted to come to this chilly and inhospitable land after all. "And who might you be?" I echoed his words.

At some subtle sign of his, the Rohirrim relaxed and raised their spears. I got the impression they did not consider us a threat. "My name is Éomer, Éomund's son, Third Marshal of the Riddermark," he answered. "My charge is to keep the East-mark safe."

Next to me, Dirhael cleared his throat, but I ignored him. He might have heard this man's name before, but I'd had enough of his high-handed ways. "Well, Third Marshal of the Riddermark," I shot back, "in that case I advise you to do so and to cease bothering your king's allies."

His jaw tightened, but all of a sudden he laughed. "No one could doubt that you're a genuine Gondorian princess. Welcome to the Mark, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth!" He turned to Dirhael. "Where are you headed?"

"With your leave, my lord, along the Great West Road to Aldburg and from there to Edoras."

With your leave? Who was this man? The rider seemed to have come to some decision. "I do not have the time to deal with you now, but you seem to be who you claim you are," he said. "I will let you pass and what is more I will provide you with a guide as far as Aldburg. You will wait there for me."