Caeorwulf and Seregrían arrive at the Harwick tavern and enter the large common room. Several people there hail Caeorwulf and bid him join them, though the conversation around the room softens when Seregrían approaches. She still wears the crimson dress she wore at her encounter with Harding, and all eyes are now on her.
“Everyone!” Caeorwulf calls out. “Here is the Lady Blodcwyn, come from Dwimordene to bring aid to Rohan. She rides out with the dawn mount to help our cause.”
Seregrían looks around at the faces of the people in the hall and says simply, “Good Evening to you all.” She is not as comfortable here as she was in the mead hall; there, she could focus just on Harding and be forcefully diplomatic. In this place, she is reminded of the one time she entered the Prancing Pony, the great inn at Bree: noise, smells, people sitting almost on top of each other, more a rustic camp than a place of fellowship. She is aware of Caeorwulf’s companions pressing in upon her, their curiosity and wonder to the fore.
A man comes from around the bar with a goblet in hand, not a mug. “Welcome, lady Elf, to my tavern. Garfrith is my name. They say Elves prefer wine, in tales at least; accept this, I have not much, but it’s the best I have in the house.”
Seregrían accepts the goblet with a smile, “I thank you for your welcome, good man Garfrith.” She sips, finding the wine weak but flavorful. “And I thank you all, for your welcome as well, though perhaps my coming is not under the best of chance.”
A young woman approaches, “Mistress Elf, is it true what we are hearing? The Langholders will be offered shelter within the walls? I am from Langhold, and the word has gone through the camp like fire.”
“It is indeed true,” Seregrían says. “Caeorwulf and I have only just come from meeting Aldor Harding, and he has given word that all the people shall be brought within Harwick by tomorrow. Things will be arranged as best as can be, I am certain.”
“It will be difficult for some,” another man joins in. “There are houses standing empty, true, but families will have to double and treble up for space. Most of the Langholders are women and children. Few men survived the attack, and they have been pressed into the ranks of the Harwick garrison.”
“We are Eorlingas, and we shall do what we have always done,” Caeorwulf says, “outwit and outlast our foes, and live on. And now we have Blodcywn to aid us, and that encourages me, and should for you, too.”
“But what help can we expect from the Elves? Arms and warriors are our need, and here we have only one, and a young maid at that.”
“And such a maid you have never seen,” Caeorwulf says before Seregrían’s temper rises. “She has traveled far, from out of the lands of the North, even through Dwimordene to come to our aid. She alone brought relief to Stangard, which is now going to be a prospering village once more. Do not let your eyes cheat you. She is a terrible foe, who brings spells of power to punish the wicked. I have spoken with those who have seen her in battle – and this day I shall draw sword at her side, if needs must.”
“The skill of Elves is with the bow, they say,” says a man seated near the bar. “That interests me greatly. I would pit my skill against an Elf in sport, rather than battle, if the tales be true. You say you ride out on the dawn mount, Caeorwulf? So shall I, and my companions, for we would wish to see for ourselves.”
“It is also said, “Seregrían says slyly, “that the Rohirrim have skills with the bow from the saddle – and that is something I should wish to see. If you ride with me tomorrow, we shall both learn, shall we?”
Just as the light grows in the East, the riders depart the gates. Seregrían and Caeorwulf ride with a company of ten spearmen, some with bows – one of them the man from the bar the previous night. The ride-captain, Heruding by name, leads them out the gate and they turn south-east towards the town of Floodwend, several leagues away. Along the road they meet several riders, messengers from Floodwend: the town is shutting its gates to outsiders and bolstering its defenses, leaving the countryside to the enemy.
And they hear other news: tidings of a great band of Orcs that were seen coming down from the East Wall and passing over the Wold in a great rush headed west. They held together in a strong pack, heedless of towns and crofts, not stopping to pillage or attack. All has been quiet since that passing.
Heruding elects to press on until they arrive at Floodwend, even if they arrive in the night. They ride on with only a few pauses until the sun sets, and the stars are alight. The riders are less than a league out from Floodwend, when Heruding calls a halt.
“Did anyone else just see that?” he says. “Look, there in the sky against the stars: something flew past the Moon, or I’m blind.”
“I saw it as well,” another says, “it seemed large, for it to be seen that plainly.”
“Are there more fell beasts in these lands than we heard of?” Caeorwulf asks.
“There are reports of creatures like drakes in the highlands near Eaworth on the upper Entwash,” Heruding replies, “but nothing the like this far east –“ and he is interrupted by a sound, a shrill keening shriek on the wind, seeming to come from above. And now, plainly visible against the waxing Moon, a winged shape flies above them. The sound chills hearts, and a few men cry aloud.
“What devilry is that? Something out of the Black Land?”
“Of that, there can be no doubt,” Seregrían replies. “It is wise to ride on, how far is Floodwend now?”
“You can see the watch-fires there,” Heruding says, “we ride hard, Eorlingas!” And the company leaps ahead, soon reaching the guarded walls of Floodwend, the gate-guards admitting them and closing the gates behind; all are relieved…
…especially Seregrían, who knows something more than her companions could. For high in the airs, her eyes clearly saw the winged shape: thin pinioned wings bearing aloft a slight figure. And in that shrill keening which frightened the riders, Seregrían heard a voice, plain to her ears:
“Heart-Sisterrrrr…”
