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The Saga of Erik of Rohan, Chapter 11: Beyond Osgiliath

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Post subject: The Saga of Erik of Rohan, Chapter 11: Beyond Osgiliath
Posted: Thu 16 Jun , 2005 11:53 pm
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Erik Chapter 11: Beyond Osigiliath….

As the morning wore on Erik rode up through the ranks until he came to his friends Rolf Waldeson and Olaf Deorson. They rode with Grima Sigurdson as Captain, and it chanced that Grima was with them when Erik came up.

They were speaking of the thick air, and the heaviness of the cloud, that seemingly oppressed their spirits and slowed their blood. Grima gestured to the East, where all was dark, and said, “It comes from hence, the darkness and the air that weakens us. I deem it will be worse before it is better, my lads.”

As they rode over the bridges at Osgiliath the workmen stopped and stared at them, and Erik could see swarms of men on pilings and half-burned boats, all staring at the host passing by. He shivered, and wished they would not stare so, it made him uneasy. They rode on and came to some crossroads. Here paused the host behind the King’s upheld hand. All sat in silence. Orders must have been given, for suddenly the silence was shattered by the blare of trumpets. Erik saw men blench with fear, and stare with something like terror into the trees. Erik was afraid, too, and wished they could ride on, away from the pull of horror. Yet near here they camped.

The night passed slowly. Some men slept in tents, but some, like Erik, slept under the sky, and all who did so saw the white stars blazing in the blackness, and strange to say their spirits lifted. Erik mused on this, that the day was now heavy with foreboding and the night brought some hope. He knew little of old tales, but this seemed to go opposite, to him, it seemed that things had been turned askew somehow. He slept restlessly and woke heavy-eyed. The men about him were quarrelsome and hasty words flew about; the orders from the Captains came in harsh tones.

Breakfast was quick, they were soon on the way again. As he rode, he thought of Miriel, and he touched her blue ribbon where it lay against his skin under his shirt. Scarce three weeks had passed since that day Theodred had ridden into the nameless hamlet where Erik had lived. Adventure and war he had had in plenty since then. But naught stirred him like the thought of Miriel and her laughing eyes. He said her name under his breath. Yet despair he felt, too, for how could he return to her? What could there be, between Miriel and him? Erik son of no man, from nowhere. Not even a trooper yet, and such home as he had known was many leagues from her father’s inn, the hamlet erased from the surface of the Earth, heaps of ashes all that was left of the wretched place where he had been born.

He remembered what Theodred had said, that it was his misfortune, not his shame, that he was nameless. That his sons would be proud to be Eriksons. How could this be? It had been the kindness of great lord, no more. And then that great lord had fallen in a pointless skirmish, only one of many valiant men to be slaughtered in this awful war.

Of a sudden he knew that the despair was coming from a place outside him. The stifling cloud, he thought. The heavy air. Fear seemed to glide like a great serpent along the roadway beside them. Erik began to take note of the ruins they passed, and he felt a sinking in his heart at the sight of such greatness despoiled. What manner of men had raised these things? And what manner of enemy could throw them down?

Now as they rode, the trumpets would sound at times, and men would shout out the name of the King Elessar, claiming all this terrible country for him. Erik wondered what he could want with such a place. Erik wished he was anywhere else. He tried to swallow his fear, to force his blood to beat quicker and hotter. He thought of turning Ruadh about and running away. He named the horse, patting the smooth neck, and the good beast flicked its ears upon hearing its master’s voice.

When they stopped at midday, Walda told Erik that some men had turned back, unable to march any farther. How Erik envied them, he could have sobbed with longing, he would have gone, he thought, if someone had told him. Then he shook his head and swore, no, he would not run, he would stay it out, no matter to what end it led.

Rolf and Olaf were quieter than was their wont. Seasoned warriors they were, yet this place was telling on them, too. Rolf cast a glance at Erik and frowned. “We have done you wrong, youngling,” he said. “Bringing a lad such as you with us on this road!”

Olaf shook his head, “Nay, friend Rolf,” he said, his voice harsh. “Say not so! We have seen no sign of any enemy.”

“No sign of any enemy! What is all this desolation, but sign of the enemy?” Rolf answered. “This is an evil land. An evil land.”

“’Tis so,” said Olaf. “But we are Rohirrim. We ride with Eomer Eomundson, King of the Mark. When have we ever refused a road? We will spit the enemy on our spears and roast him in his own hellish pits!”

Scarcely had the words left his lips than orders came from the Captains. An ambush had been discovered, and riders were set on to surprise it. Rolf and Olaf tore off with their Eored. There was some fighting, and the ambush failed and the enemy died or fled. Erik stayed with Walda and the packtrain, but he could hear the screaming and shouting. Dread grew in him, making his limbs heavy. The sounds bore such hatred; it seemed to him that the ugly noises were meant only for his ears.

When Rolf and Olaf returned Erik could have wept with relief, so sure had he been that all his friends would be slain. This heartsickness and fear he could not bear, this certainty of death and grief. He made his thoughts turn, gritting his teeth together. He thought of the tall prince who had given him the gold coin and the horse Ruadh, but those thoughts led to the long body on the bier, and the troopers standing guard with spears. He thought of Miriel and tried to imagine her going about her day, walking under the blue sky. Thinking of him, he hoped. He wished he had given her some little thing, but truth to tell, he had had nothing to give.

Another day passed, and another. And ever the fear grew, until Erik felt that he was moving through some horrid thick substance that not only slowed him but chilled his blood and muddled his mind. Though he tried not to, he thought back to when he was a child, hungry and alone, sure that no boy had ever been so friendless and unloved. Folk sneered ever at him, nameless brat that he was, even his mother cared naught, he was only a reminder of her shame. “Miriel,” he breathed. But even that lovely name could not cheer him, and he crushed her ribbon in his hand, as if his fierce grip could bring some perfume of her, some faint breath of some place other than this.

And he saw that all around him were troubled in the same ways. Men seemed downcast beyond reason; except for the one ambush there had been little sight of any enemy. That night they camped in increasing cold, and white chill mists lay about. Men huddled unsleeping by fires and cast worried looks over their shoulders into the darkness. Creatures roamed about, their eyes caught the firelight and gleamed green and savage. Something shrieked high in the air, and the sound shivered along Erik’s bones, turning them to water. He bent his head to his knees, his guts churning. What was he thinking of, thinking that he was a Rider, and wishing to ride to war?

In the early light they broke camp and set out. The agony of the awful night had passed and Erik felt renewed courage and determination stir in his heart. The very airs of the sky fought an unseen battle in the clouds overhead, almost could Erik see the great struggle there. The wind came first from this quarter, then that. Smokes rose, the reeks hurt his eyes and nose, then of a sudden there would be a glimpse of blue sky, and a breath of clean air.

The air throbbed against his ears. High and unseen, terrible creatures flew screeching, but Erik would not look up, he made himself look only between Ruadh’s ears. He began to sing, and all around listened for a space, then took up the song themselves. Such a sound had not been heard in these parts before; the very rocks seemed to listen. But such was the place that the song could not pierce the dead brooding silence, and their voices faded.

About midmorning the order came to halt. All knew that they had arrived at the end of the world, and it seemed as though every man drew a deep breath and set himself steady for what was to come.

Walda Bryttason drew his packtrain somewhat back, under the lee of a great overhanging cliff, and he and the others began to array their gear, picketing the mules and packhorses. Trumpets sounded and Erik clambered up onto a shelf to see what could be seen. Far ahead of him he saw the black gates of the enemy’s fortress. It seemed that a man had ridden from thence and there was some parley with the King Elessar. Erik could hear nothing, only the dreary wind. His mouth was dry. He watched the little far off figures moving about, saw the banners of the great Lords borne back. Then the far off black gates opened and a terrible swarming host of the enemy poured forth.

*******


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