The invasion of Rohan from the East begins as small bands cross the River, testing the Rohirrim at many points. These raiders harass and burn the outlying crofts and villages, driving the folk of the Wold like lambs into the pens of the towns, fear and hunger following hard behind. Then follows the larger hosts with engines of war in their trains, hurling themselves against the sparse-defended walls of the towns. Langhold was only the first, for now assaults begin mounting against every village and town from Stangard to Floodwend. And everywhere comes the rumor of the terror of the black beast with its screaming rider, unmanning even the doughtiest warriors, despair flying before its coming.
Into this conflict where all hope begins to fade, comes the riding of the company of Harwick, who among their number is the Riders Four, the brave ones who crisscross the lands bringing warning to friend, and now fire to their foes. For now alongside them rides Seregrian who, in the midst of battle, at last reveals the full power of the lore and weapons she possesses.
Their first test under fire is to stave off the siege of Floodwend. On that field, Seregrian and Hutha the archer play a game of skill. As the Riders approach the fenced camp of Orcs and their Easterling allies, it is clear the siege-engines must be stopped before they are brought to bear on the town.
Seregrian speaks to Hutha, with whom she is standing outside of sight of the wall. “So now it is time for you to prove your arrows are not just for picking your teeth – or is your mouth only large enough for your feet?” Hutha turns to Seregrian with a dry, humorous smirk.
“So you can turn arrows to ash as they fly, eh, Spitfire? I would like to see that. But do it in this wise: cast your flames toward that stockade there,” Hutha says as he knocks and draws an arrow. Seregrian, with a smirk in reply, casts a bolt of flame towards the wooden palisade. Hutha lets fly, his arrow passing through Seregrian’s bolt, igniting and striking the wall. “Again,” he cries, “and aim higher!”
Seregrian sees what his plan is and begins hurling balls of flame at many points along the palisade. As the firebolts impact on the wooden walls, the flaming arrows pass over the palisade and land inside the camp. Soon there are shouts and chaos behind the walls, and several of the siege-engines are already ablaze. Into this confusion comes harsh shouts and battle-cries as Burnoth, Leofdag and Ulf storm the camp, axes and swords flashing and spinning, driving the Orcs wailing into the flames, or fleeing into the night.
But the Easterlings are not as easy to panic as the Orcs, and they rally near the entrance, their numbers bolstering their courage, thinking they only stand against three. As the Easterlings gather for their charge, a scream comes from their flank, “Naurmenel dan i guid nin!!” and lightning wreaths their weapons and armor, wrapping them in blankets of agony, falling to the ground. Those who somehow remain on their feet are cut down by the whirling axes in Ulf’s enraged fists, ending the fight.
The five stand in the smoldering ruins of the camp, Burnoth and Leofdag smiling and nodding their approval, Ulf cradling his dripping axes with a satisfied sigh. Hutha and Seregrian stand side by side, watching a hut collapse into sparks as if watching a bonfire at a festival, not looking at each other.
“A fine display, Spitfire…”
“Nicely done, Toothpick…”
More battles and ridings come to pass in the following days, as the five riders pass hither and thither across the Wold, striking wherever the invaders gather. The war-chief menacing Floodwend is dispatched, sending the forces of Mordor reeling. Tidings of these deeds spread across the lands, and tales begin to be sung of the Riders Four, and Blodcwyn, the Elf-Flame. Hope begins to rise where none was before, and more of the Rohirrim rise up and stand and follow their valiant example.
The Orcs and their Easterling cohorts are slowly being pushed back from the walls of the towns, then pursued across the plains, as Seregrian and the Riders Four hunt them over hill and through ravine. At last, they are driven to a single fortified bastion, a town of the Wold that fell in the first onset. To assault the town, a full éored of Riders gathers to reduce the town and the enemies within. On the eve of battle, Seregrian is met by Caeorwulf, who shares glad news from across the Wold.
“The news of your deeds has gone in every direction, like the fires from your eyes, Blodcwyn! Your boldness and willingness to help my people has given you renown, and none shall ever question you again. Every town from here to Snowbourn will open its gate at your name, you and any who ride with you.”
“I call these great tidings!” Burnoth says. “No longer must we worry to ride with alarm before it’s too late. Thanks to our elf-maid, the alarm has spread faster than we ever could have done ourselves. I am proud of you, lass!”
The stronghold is stormed by the Rohirrim. The battle goes all their way, and the Easterlings are herded before them into the last tower and walled fort. Seregrian and Hutha merely smile at the walls, which are soon aflame from arrow and firebolt.
But in the moment when victory seems at hand, men and horses begin screaming and wailing in terror. A shadow descends upon the flaming battlefield, and a creature of darkness with vast pinioned wings and rending fangs and claws scatters the Rohirrim, some falling to the monster’s attack, other consumed by a blind horror that leaves them cringing and weeping in despair. Atop the ruined frame of a building the creature perches, and astride the horror is a looming figure robed in black, wielding a terror greater than any steel: a Nazgûl has come.
Only two stand in defiance of this terrifying foe: Seregrian the Elf, and Ulf the Reaver. Ulf has summoned all his hate and rage to ward off the fear, his axes windmilling in his hands, glancing to the Elf to confirm he stands not alone. Seregrian holds both sword and staff before her, the head of Dondangol glowing with a light that is matched by the silver fury in her eyes. Her heart is filling with a gnawing clutching fear – but that fear pales in the glow of the power she gives herself over to.
The air suddenly fills with a voice that could only come from the deepest nightmare. “At last we meet, the child who plays with toys. Meddle not in the affairs of those beyond thy mind and station, lest the Eye cast its gaze upon thee. Get thee home to thy cradle, where thy parents await thee – ah, but I misspeak, thou hast none. Or perhaps, thou dost after all?”
“You know nothing of me, Mortal who plays at power,” Seregrian growls, “for if you did, then you would know your very real peril. Behold, I am a servant of the Secret Fire, against which you and your black Master cannot stand!”
The Nazgûl lets loose with a hideous, piercing screech, a sound for which all near cower and hide. Ulf shrinks to his knees, his axes falling from numb fingers, mindless with fear. Seregrian quails at the sound, but in that same moment a rising fury blasts into her mind from some deep place; hurling Dondangol aloft, she slams the staff to the earth, screaming in her own turn:
“GALAD AN EDRAITH ANIM!!”
And a globe of starlight envelops her, a capsule of radiance as pure and clear as the evening sky. Within that globe, Seregrian feels utter peace and hope, a sensation where nothing is impossible, where failure cannot stand. She rises to her full height and glares in defiance of the Nazgûl, her eyes sparking brighter than mithril in the sunlight.
The Nazgûl falls silent, motionless upon his fell mount. “So the tidings be true. The child hast learned how to play a deadly game. So be it! Thou shalt learn thy lessons at the hand of a greater master, in fullness of time. I go to seek other sport – in the company of a Shade-sister, perhaps…”
And the winged creature leaps to the air, the downdraft of its wings a putrid and evil reek and wings its way eastward. Men begin to recover from their terror and stand hard by, gazing at the scene – Ulf has recovered and is looking upon Seregrian with real worry, for the Elf stands rooted to the spot, her power utterly shorn, her face a mask of revulsion, the light in her eyes dimmed, as she utters only a single word, one that none there understand:
“Gwathwethil…”
