Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 52 - The Greater Design

If Prince Eldarion was afraid, he hid it well. At least, so it seemed to Malbeth. With each passing hour, they drew closer to the borders of Rhûn. With the memory of the aftermath of The Black House still uncomfortably fresh, Malbeth had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on his captain for any signs of distress. It seemed he was not the only one doing so, if the way King Aragorn kept his horse always in step with his son's was any proof. Thus far though, Eldarion appeared as calm in his saddle as any of the men (not to say that anyone was particularly at ease about their current destination...). 

There were no signposts, towns, nor lines in the earth by which one might know that 'this was Gondor' and 'that was Rhûn'. The further north and east they traveled though, the more the character of the land changed. Far behind were the marshy green furrows of Emyn Muil; even the Plains of Dagorlad and the Ruins of the Black Gate, horrible as they were, had been familiar landmarks. With the crossroads at Osgiliath nearly three days behind them, Malbeth was just about as far from home as he'd ever been before. The last time the army of Gondor had ridden for Rhûn, Malbeth had been a young foot-soldier, only just come of age and stationed in his home city of Pelargir. Prince Eldarion and King Elfwine had both been on that campaign to the Sea of Rhûn though, and were likely reliving this journey with at least some degree of recognition. So much had happened in the five years between then and now though. 

A marsh harrier flew by overhead, its dark-tipped wings and pale breast oddly reminiscent of the gulls which frequented Pelargir's ports. The bird of prey let out a short cry before catching up updraft and spiraling into the clouds. If there were any rodents nearby, they would have little refuge from the keen eyes of the circling hunter. These lands were broad and open; brown-grey hills rolled endlessly beneath the horses' hooves, with few trees to break the vastness of the horizon. Low mountains could just barely be seen away to the north-east, brooding over the landscape like hunchbacked sentinels. Recalling maps of Middle-Earth, Malbeth understood that somewhere beyond these mountains lay the Sea of Rhûn. Somewhere even further beyond the sea lay Morgothrone, the shadowy Easterling capital. No man of the West had ever seen that city and returned to speak of it, or so it was said. 

That was precisely their aim though. King Aragorn and King Elfwine had chosen their men with care for this journey into the east, and Malbeth swelled with quiet pride as he looked around himself. Ohtar was here too, as were Fulthain and Fasthelm, two of Elfwine's favourite Riders. Bergil meanwhile remained in Minas Ithil in Lord Elboron and Lady Eruthiawen's service. Qufar, the Haradrim driver who had survived the Siege of Minas Ithil, also remained in the Vale with Princess Túrien and Prince Sufyan; Chieftain Na'Man had brought several of his own men along the road to Rhûn. The Haradrim rode near the rear of the column of fifty, some looking less disgruntled than others to be traveling on the backs of horses rather than Mûmakil. 

Two dark shapes appeared in the distance, cresting the swell of the hills like a pair of ships upon a sea of grey-green grass. Their horses closed the distance quickly, and when everyone recognized the scouts whom Aragorn had sent ahead there was a visible easing of tension amongst the ranks. 

"Hold." 

Aragorn gave the order with a word and an upraised hand, and all reined up their horses mid-stride. When the scouts rode up before the king, Malbeth couldn't help but lean forward in his saddle, eager to catch every word of their report. 

"There is a party of riders, Your Grace," announced the younger of the two knights. "Just over yonder ridge. They no doubt saw us, and are aware of our presence." 

King Elfwine shifted in his saddle, the handle of his axe rising up within easy reach of one shoulder. Many of the other Riders of Rohan were similarly put on their guard, as were the men of Gondor and the Haradrim. One again though, King Aragorn held up a hand, asking for calm.