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Erik of Rohan, the final chapter: Erik gets a name.....

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Post subject: Erik of Rohan, the final chapter: Erik gets a name.....
Posted: Mon 27 Jun , 2005 6:56 pm
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The Saga of Erik of Rohan, Chapter 12: Erik gets a Name……

The hosts of Mordor swarmed over the ground, shouting and clashing their swords and spears, moving at a trot, coming so quick there was little chance for the Captains of the West to array their men. The noise was unbearable, rising to a pitch of terror that made Erik long to fall on the ground with his hands over his ears. But he did not. It was plain to Erik that there was no use setting up tents for the wounded, no use making fires, no use waiting for Death to come to them. So few as they were, they were needed down there where King Eomer raised his standard and set himself in the first line of riders.

Walda went ever armed, but he wore no helm. Now he flung aside his peculiar broad brimmed hat and put on his battered old helm, then shrugged into his mail shirt. It was very snug, having been made for him when he was younger and lither, and so had his sword. But that was sharp and well-tended; he got upon his tall horse and drew his bright sword and said, “Well, if you’re ready lads, we’d best get going.”

Erik buckled the chin strap of his helm. His hands trembled, but his heart did not quail. He mounted Ruadh, and drew his sword. Down into the black melee he charged beside Walda and the others. Rising in Erik was the battle fury that had come upon him at Helm’s Deep, and he spurred Ruadh hard. His sword came down, cleaving an enemy’s head from his shoulders. Erik laughed, and shouted defiance; rising in his stirrups he savaged his way through the ranks of the enemy, joy and power surging in his blood.

The enemy swirled about the Host of the West like a mighty river of dread and terror. Grim faced the Rohirrim encircled their standard and took the shock of the charge. They were borne back, and back, and yet they held their line.



Songs have been made, but what song tells all?
“Stand and wait!” came the call.
A strange and terrifying silence fell
Like an enormous hammer,
Stilling the field.



Most of the enemy flew, but some horsemen regrouped and came on, mad with despair. Their only thought was to take all they could into the darkness with them. Erik did not see the horseman who bore down upon him, nor did he see the flash of the man’s sword in the sudden sunlight that stabbed down from the sky. The sword rose and fell and Erik’s grey eyes widened in astonishment and his body thudded to the earth.

Many hours later the Riders of Rohan and the rest of those who had ridden with King Elessar were scouring the field, searching among the fallen. The wounded Rohirrim were carried to the tents that Walda Bryttason had now set up; horses roaming riderless were caught and tethered. Rolf Waldeson and Olaf Deorson who had come unscathed through the fight were among those moving about, turning bodies over, looking and looking for some man who might still live. Then they came upon Erik. By some chance of war he was not gruesome with blood, but lay face down with his sword arm outstretched. His helm had fallen off and they saw first his bright golden hair tied back with a bit of blue ribbon. Rolf cried out and turned him over.

Olaf stood silent.

Rode up Grima Sigurdson. He saw Rolf kneeling by Erik’s body and he dismounted quickly and put his hand on Rolf’s shoulder. “This is a woeful sight, “ he said. “Our valiant boy lying dead!”

Rolf wept. At last Olaf drew him to his feet. “Come, friend Rolf. For him we can do naught.”

“Said I not it was wrong to bring a boy like him on this road?” Rolf shouted. He shoved Olaf away. “We must bear him hence, man. We cannot leave him lying here.”

Grima nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We are taking the fallen to the foot of that hill. There will we raise a mound tomorrow.”

Olaf and Rolf bore Erik’s body to the place Grima named. There were not so many, after all, for the battle had been short, the end coming unlooked for. All who saw Erik being carried there wept, for the bright and comely lad had been much loved..

The day ended in glory, it is said. Yet the glory was bitter and poisoned the cup of victory. Riders of the Mark would lie here now forever, far from the green fields of Rohan, their bones mouldering in the foreign dust.

There were torches burning about the tents, their light flickering in shining steel and casting baleful shadows over the faces of those who stood guard. Eomer Eomundson came. Weary he was; he still wore his battle dress, and he was filthy with dirt and sweat and blood. Someone caught the reins of his horse as he slid to the ground, and men saluted. He went first to the wounded and he spoke to every man, taking each one by the hand and praising the valour of the Eorlingas who had ridden this road with him.

Leaving the tents where lay the wounded he said, “And the fallen? Where are the fallen?”

“Lord,” someone said, “go you to your rest. Surely the dead can wait until morning.”

He shook his head. “I did not have to wait for them,” he said.

The guards saluted the King of the Mark as he came to where the dead lay under the stars. He walked slowly down each row, looking at each face in the torchlight. When he came to Erik he stopped. “How came this boy to be here?” he said, and all could hear the shock and pain in his voice..

Spoke up Grima Sigurdson. “Sire, it is the poor nameless lad who followed us from the Fords of Isen after Theodred fell. He it is that I told you of.”

Eomer bent and touched the cold still face, brushing back the yellow hair that lay tumbled over Erik’s brow. “Ah, yes. I remember that you told me. What was he called?”

“Erik,” Grima said.

The king stood silent and stared into the night. He sighed and all could see the tracks of his tears down his face.. “We cannot have this man of the Riddermark lie here with no name,” he said at last, drawing his sword. He touched his sword to Erik’s brow, then his breast.

“Rest you easy, Erik Markson,” he said.



Months later when the lowering skies of November brought sleet and snow to Edoras, Helga Ivarsdattir the wife of Olaf Deorson was brought to bed in childbirth. As his wife laboured Olaf sat before the fire with his friend Rolf. They said little, but watched the flames and listened to the wind around the eaves of the snug house.

Then came the midwife bearing a red naked babe lying on a blanket embroidered on each corner with the figure of a white running horse. Olaf rose and took the child from her and he saw that it was a manchild; the boy squalled heartily and fought the air with tiny clenched fists.

“Friend Rolf,” he said, laughing with pride and delight. “Look you here at this new Rider of the Mark! Here is Erik Olafson.”

Rolf caught one of the tiny fists in his callused hand and bent and kissed the wrinkled little face. “Hail, Erik Olafson,” he said.

Then he looked grinning at his friend. “Olaf, this is good work indeed for your first try!”


The End


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