Slowly leading his horse on, Nihtwulf carefully placed each footstep as he followed the winding path down the hillside. Being in the border hills of the small mountain range that stretched south from the border of the Lone Lands, the small trail created by animals was all there was to follow, uninhabited as these parts were he was amazed that the animals could find food, or even water enough to survive, the river Hoarwell still lay far off in the east, and it was slow going making his path through these unwelcome parts of the land. But he had chosen this course through the barren lands on purpose, he did not want to be hindered by the roaming orcs he knew still infested a lot of the area. What few men lived here, all sought shelter in the crumbling ruins of the kingdom of Arnor, that littered the countryside here and there.
“Come on…” Nihtwulf tugged on the reins as the bottom of the path approached, and the rolling hills of yellowed dry grass stretched along the mountains beckoned. He knew he’d spend a day or two still, before coming into sight of the Hoarwell, hopefully there would be a passage south following the river, before it joined the Loudwater to form the Greyflood. He had made up his mind to strike out for the gap of Rohan, seeking passage from the west into the lands of the Eorlingas. It was still the shortest route to Snowbourn, and he would be able to circumvent the elven lands completely.
Nihtwulf mounted the horse and let it at a trot along the foothills, the hooves of the horse kicking up small puffs of dust as it stepped lightly across the faded yellowed grassland. The sun was growing hot overhead, so he removed his helmet and fastened it to the pommel of the saddle, enjoying the breeze hitting his face. It had been a good journey so far, and with each step, he was getting closer to his goal, though uncertain at best the fate that awaited there, he was still sure this was the right choice, and that he had to heed the call of the letter sent by Algar. Might it be a lure?, simply to get him back to the mark after his bitter words?. Perhaps, some might have found them too harsh, and too outspoken against the king, but still he held on to his oath, protecting those in need. It was the only honorable thing to do in his view.
Even in the north he had lived up to this, ever the solitary rider coming to the aid of any that asked and needed it. At least up here the orcs were not as gruesomely killing at wanton, as he had witnessed them do across parts of the riddermark. At least here he would not come across sights such as that which had let him to ultimately abandon the lands of home almost six years ago now. He would never forget that fateful morning, when he had come across the small settlement at the northwestern edge of the mark.
It had been a cool morning, winter approaching fast when it had happened. Clad in a fur cloak above his mail, Nihtwulf had steered Fælemearh slowly through the trees of the small copse on the southern outskirts of the settlement. It had been quiet, eerily so, and he had been wary of every step his trusted and proud horse took. Suddenly the horse had stopped though, and no matter his urging it would not continue ahead, Fælemearh had laid his ears flat against his head, and tried to step back, even though Nihtwulf spurred it on. “Come on old boy, what’s the matter?”, but no matter his attempts, the horse gave a frightened neigh and refused to move forward. Dismounting he had unclasped his cloak and laid it over the saddle, grabbed his shield form the halter behind the saddle and hefted it with his left arm and hand. Then making sure his weapons were readily available, Nihtwulf had carefully made his way towards the border of the settlement, the first houses visible through the trees. He knew Fælemearh would not leave, he knew he could trust the steed.
The outskirts of the village had been dark, no dogs baying at his approach, and as a feeling of dread had settled over him, Nihtwulf had drawn his sword and hefted his shield more secure. Something had been off, something had been terribly wrong. Creeping up to the first house, Nihtwulf had looked inside an un-shuttered window, there were signs of turmoil inside, the door had been smashed in. Creeping slowly to the corner of the house, he had glanced into the center of the settlement, and it was there the cruel sight of the evil doings of the orc band, that had attacked the settlement, forever had burned itself into his sight.
At the well, a heap of slain bodies, men, women, children, horses and even a few dogs had lain piled onto each other, at the top a single cruel orc banner flew, displaying prominently the white hand symbol.
It was a gruesome sight, it seemed there had been no end to the killing done by the orc band, terrible cuts were seen all over, cuts from axes, crude swords, arrows thick with dark feathers protruding from many of the corpses. He had fallen to his knees then, a cry of anguish and grief leaving his throat as he had beheld the sight before him through eyes brimming over with tears. Such cruelty, such wanton destruction of life.
It had taken long moments before he had gathered himself enough to stand again, and it had taken him hours to gather enough material to build a pyre around the gruesome pile of bodies, he knew he could not simply leave the remains of the people of the small settlement to rot under the sun. Mid-afternoon, the work done, his face now lined with the streaks of the uncounted tears he had shed, Nihtwulf had finally managed to lit a torch, using embers still warm in one of the hearths to spark the flame.
He had walked up to the pyre, and with slow deliberate movements had set fire to it at several points, the flames at first slowly catching on the damp wood, then more eagerly as it had dried, to make a final resting place for the slain. A pyre that could be seen for miles away.
Standing at a distance he had watched as the flames burned away the sight he had beheld that morning, burned away the memory of those who had lived, of farmers, craftsmen, husbands, the seamstress, the herbalist, wives, and the number of children, that had never gotten the chance to grow into their own rights, and find the meaning of their lives. With a final bow of his head, and a sense of anger hard inside him over the unjust fate of the settlement, he had turned his back on the fire and returned to the copse of trees, slowly making his way with heavy steps back to where Fælemearh was waiting.
Unwilling to ride, he had led the horse slowly towards the southeast, after a while turning towards the north. Towards the borders of Rohan. There was no honor left on the mark he had felt, there was no future.
Camping that evening under the lee of an outcrop of rocks, he had not even bothered with a fire, he had not had the stomach to eat anything anyway, so there had been no need to prepare food. It had been a night of terrors as in his dreams he kept seeing the pile of bodies.
Shaking his head Nihtwulf emerged from the reverie of the terrible discovery, and once again focused on his surroundings, it would soon be time to make camp again, the horse needed the rest, it was by far not having the stamina of Fælemearh, his trusted steed back then. He would have to see if he could procure another of the rohirrim trained steeds once he got to Rohan. They were the better mounts. He leaned forward and patted the horse, whispering a few words of comfort, to it, as much as to himself.
