Gurzab Kurv

The next morning, he awoke to the smell of fish cooking. She checked the wound and found it as well as could be expected. No sign of infection...yet. As he ate, she dismantled the campsite, returning the rocks to the river. From the cut boughs, she fashioned a drag, opf sorts, stretching the blankets between two poles.

The moment he realized her intention, he argued against it.

“I am not allowing you to drag me on that thing.”

“And I am not carrying you to Edoras, Steward’s Son. You will ride, or you will walk on your own until you pass out, and then you will ride anyway.”

In the end, they reached a compromise. He walked as far as he was able, and then allowed her to drag him until his pride could not handle the beating. She was incredibly strong for such a small person, but even so, the going was slow, and the ride far from pleasant.

They traveled from dawn until dark for three days, living off dried meat and elf bread which he argued her into sharing after the first night. On the third night, she finally allowed him to take a watch. She curled up on the bare ground, next to the fire, having refused to take even one blanket from him. The night was cold, but she didn’t even seem to be shivering. Still it pricked at his pride.

He dragged himself painfully upright and draped his cloak over her. He could see her mouth moving, muttering in a language he didn’t recognize. Some of the words sounded Haradric, but he couldn’t be sure. He sat close to her and listened, hoping to find some clue to the mystery in her dreams.

She woke screaming. The sound echoed through the empty grasslands, shocking him so badly he stumbled backwards. Ignoring the pain in his side, he shook her gently. At his touch, she sat straight up, and pushed away from him.

The screaming stopped abruptly. She stared, eyes wide, not seeing him. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her against his chest, an instinctive reaction. He felt her stiffen and then collapse, shaking uncontrollably. He stroked her hair trying to calm her, wondering what sort of nightmare could possibly elicit such a reaction.

“A dream. Only a dream,” he murmured, at a loss for words or comfort. She suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled away from him.

No further words were spoken that night. She turned away from him, staring into the darkness, refusing to return to whatever nightmare had awoken her.

Over the remainder of the journey, he learned why she did not sleep. Each time she gave into sleep, she woke screaming. Sometimes he would hear her muttering in her sleep in a language he didn’t understand. One word he could make out, a word with no meaning, “Dag’redan.” Sometimes it sounded like pleading, sometimes he could make out nothing at all.

The sleepless nights did not help their speed. Both travelers suffered, and his wound was beginning to take septic. He could feel the heat radiating from it whenever she removed the makeshift bandages. But she continued to drag him steadily closer to their goal, driven on as if by some unseen hand.

By the time they came within sight of the hill city, the fever was burning full force. She abandoned the pull and hauled him to his feet, by his hair.

“I did not bring you all this way to have you die within sight of the gates, Steward’s son. Now move your feet.”

The guards stopped her. He could not make out what was being said. He could no longer tell where the pain was coming from. It seemed to flow through him like blood.

* * *

“Send for Beorn, son of Bethel. He will speak for me. Or has the hospitality of Theodan King become such that he would allow the son of the Steward of Gondor to die on his doorstep?” She snapped to the man in front of her.

The man looked skeptical. He reached out to catch Boromir as the other man sank to his knees, peered into his face, bright with the fever that burned in his blood. “Bema’s blood, it is the Steward’s son. How?”

“Time is short. He is in need of more talented healing than I can offer,” she could see help coming from behind him. A broad man and a woman nearly as broad, both sandy haired. The woman led a horse.

“Out of the way,” the broad woman ordered the guard. “Can’t you see the man is sick? Buffoon.” The man lifted the injured man as easily as if he had been a child - no mean feat - and the three of them hurried into the city, ignoring the muttered protest of the gate guard behind them.

The broad man smiled at her warmly in spite of the circumstances of her arrival. “Just one time you should come to visit us for purely social reasons.”

“Your monarch has made his feelings about me very clear. My presence here puts you both in danger. If it were not a matter of...” she looked pointedly at the man slumped over the back of the horse.

“I understand. What have you brought us this time?”

“The eldest son of the Steward of Gondor.”

She heard him let out a soft whistle.

“He ran afoul of the White Hand on the banks of the river, not three days ride from here.”

“Isengaard has come so far already? The king must be told.”

“The King will not listen. But if this man dies, it may well mean war with Gondor as well as Isengaard.”

“I have heard that Denethor is a...difficult man.”

She made no response. Politics were of little concern to her. Arbitrary borders did not interfere with her hunts.

Together, they carried the unconscious man into the house. The broad woman - Hrefna, Beorn’s wife - was already heating water. The woman stripped off the makeshift dressing, frowning at the wound, and set to gathering up herbs for a poultice.

The girl watched silently from the corner of the room as the woman went about her work. When the Steward’s son was made as comfortable as possible, Hrefna crossed to her, looked her up and down and ordered her husband to bring in bath water. Sighing inwardly, the girl resigned herself to being fussed over.

Once his wife’s idea of hospitality was satisfied, Beorn and the girl retired to the outer chamber, leaving his wife to watch over the injured man.

“How long?” she asked, watching the door.

“Not long, I suspect,” her friend replied. “Are the rumors all true then?”

“Haradrim slavers raiding in the south. Full Hands of orcs and goblin-men wearing the insignia of Isengaard. I’ve killed Warg riders within the borders of Rohan in the past month.”

“And Theodan has lost his mind. He refuses to acknowledge the death of his own son. He has banished Eomer, for no crime but speaking the truth. Shadow has indeed fallen across the land. And still you hunt.”

“I am needed even more now.”

“Will your thirst for blood never be satisfied? How long until you fall beneath the poisoned talons of your prey?”

“Poison is the least of my worries, old friend. I suspect at least three days of slow torture await me at the hand of Mordor’s dogs. But there is killing to be done, yet.”

“My brother would be saddened to hear of your death.”

It was an old argument.

“When death comes for me, it will come silently and I doubt even the wind will carry the story. Where is Bors?”

“He rides with Eomer.”

She let that information settle. Eomer banished. Theodan King completely useless, slave to the tricks of Isengaard’s hound. Shadows indeed. A loud knocking interrupted her musing.

Beorn answered it. She could see several men standing in the shadows outside the door.

“I know she came in by the east gate, not two hours past. There is no use denying it.” She recognized the voice. Oily as the man who spoke, it raised the hackles on the back of her neck. Her fingers went reflexively to the vial at her throat, and she let one of the throwing blades drop surreptitiously into her hand as she stepped past Beorn.

“I warned you not to return to Edoras, girl,” a sybilant voice hissed from the darkness to the left of the doorway.

“Fear not, snake, I’m not staying,” she returned, voice low and dangerous. “Once the Steward’s son is free of the fever, I return to my hunt.”

“You have brought death to Edoras.”

“Better I had left him to die just within the borders, Grima? Has Theodan-King sunk so far into the madness that he would risk open war with Gondor while the wolves of Isengaard snap at his heels?”

“You have gone too far this time, whore,” He stepped towards her, she saw his hand raise, preparing to motion the guards to take her. She matched his movement, closing the distance between them and spoke quietly so that only he could hear, “Do it, worm. Let us pit the hound of Isengard against the fangs of Mordor, and see who fares better.” She rolled her wrist slightly, so that he could see the naked blade in her palm. “A single scratch, milord,” she murmured, smiling widely, “and Rohan will be free of you and your poisoned tongue.”

His eyes widened, stark terror gripping him as he stared into her eyes.

He turned and scurried back into the darkness, tripping over the hem of his robe in his rush to escape her gaze. The guards followed, eying her warily.

“He fears you,” Beorn said softly.

“He has reason to fear me, as you have reason to fear him. He is Saurumon’s creature and has been from the beginning. I warned you.”

“He has the King in thrall. Some sort of dark magic, I’ll wager.”

“Hush,” Beorn’s wife came up behind them. “To speak so is treason, and you will find yourself in the dungeons,” she admonished her husband.

He lowered his voice to a whisper, but continued, “Were it not for my family, I would have ridden with my brother. Edoras is no longer safe.”

“Safer than the roads.” She stood completely still watching the darkness where Grima had disappeared. “Perhaps I will stay a while longer,” she murmured. “It seems there may be good hunting here.” She glanced back at the bedroom where the Steward’s son now thrashed and moaned in the grip of the fever. “Beorn, take your wife to bed. I will watch him for a while.”

The woman started to argue, but her weariness won over her pride. “Hopefully the fever will break before morning. Do not be afraid to wake us if his condition worsens.” She heard the sound of the door closing and she was left alone in the darkness with Boromir.