Eiadric

Several weeks later...

Eiadric stood outside the heavy wooden doors facing the two Marshal’s Guards. It was a chill night and Eiadric felt a shiver as he stood in the stone hallway waiting. The lit torches along the walls did little to warm the place up. ’Autumn has come early this year’ he thought to himself. But he tried not to show his discomfort and checked his urge to pull his cloak tighter around him.

He heard them as they made their way to the top of the steep hill. Then he saw them. Two men and two hounds. They looked around and eventually saw him standing there.

With a shout they ran towards him. He readied himself, took a few deep breaths and gripped his sword firmly. He stood behind the fallen tree with his legs wide apart and raised his sword, ready to strike.

In a strange way he was actually relieved that it had come to this. This was his element. Fighting was something he knew he was good at.

The work he was put to up here was as hard as in the orc settlement. But at least it was outdoors. And the food was better. Every day he looked for a way to escape. He studied the behaviour of his overseers carefully, trying to find a weakness, a chink in their armour.

After a couple of weeks he was sure that it could be done. It would not be without risk. But he convinced himself that he had nothing to lose. So one day as he was put to work he decided it was time.

The steeds galloped with heavy strides across the water up the flat bank and reached the horde of uruks with just enough speed to break through the first three ranks, but no more. At once the orcs swamped the Riders, slashing and hacking, and immediately, four of the Riders were unsaddled and pulled screaming to the ground and were stabbed or beaten to death. Hearing the desperate screams of his friends chilled Éiadric to the bone and he cursed the gods that his life would end this way.

Éiadric felt the familiar rhythm of his horse’s hooves as he rode full speed over the grassy plains of the Westfold. It was dawn and the mist lay like a grey carpet over the rolling hills. He was flanked by the 12 riders of his scout unit at the end of a long pursuit to get to the fleeing orcs before they reached the shallow river, now half a mile or so ahead of them.

It was dusk. Éiadric stood in the cold rain beside his father, glad for the raindrops concealing his tears. They were looking down from a hilltop out onto his uncle’s grazing pastures. He was a mere boy, maybe ten years old. His uncle and the rest of the family were in the main house behind them washing the body of his dead cousin. Finally his father broke the long silence with his stern deep voice “You should not have gone out after the wolf by yourselves. It was foolish. And now your cousin is dead.” Éiadric said nothing.