All roads now lead to Hytbold as many forces converge upon the walled town of the Eorlingas for a meeting of doom. The Riders Four have ridden far to warn the people of the Eastemnet of the approaching menace from both east and west, the Black Hand and the White, and now ride hard for the town to bring the tidings they have gathered. At the same time, the Thanes and Reeves of the East are gathering here for the Witan, to decide on defiance of their king or staying their hands and blades from assailing their foes. And also to this fateful crossroads rides Seregrían in a race to warn the men of Rohan of treachery and deceit from among their own.
Seregrían rides Dagorlach to the edge of endurance and beyond, the faithful horse flagging but still pounding away the leagues, feeling his rider’s anxious fear and growing rage. Almost at even pace with the horse runs Warfrost, the mountain-wolf showing the strains of the wild ride as well. Glancing every so often at her voiceless companions, she tries to gauge how much strength is left to them. She has halted several times to allow the two beasts rest before running once more; but now she is reluctant to halt again, as if some desperate call can be heard on the wind.
The sun has westered, and the sky to the east darkens with approaching night. Seeing that there must be one more halt, Seregrian reins up on a rise that overlooks the plains of the Sutcrofts, the lush green moors and pastoral expanse that is the south of these lands. She jumps lightly from the saddle and alights on the rocks, Dagorlach heaving and lathered but still willing to bear the Elf-woman further into peril. Warfrost has flopped onto the cooling stones, tongue lolling out and sides heaving in exhaustion. She also feels the strain of the ride but is also driven on by the urgency of what may be happening ahead.
Seregrian wonders at this thought, as she looks out over the vast rolling plains before her. Why is she so driven to ride to the aid of the mortals, these Men whom but a year ago would have earned nothing save her loathing? Her task is to fight the Shadow and bring the battle to the Enemy; her task is also to move among the Free Peoples and show them they do not stand alone. Dwarves, and now Men, have harkened to her words, heeded her voice, and fought at her side. But is this what she actually should be doing? For an ever-present thought pervades her mind like smoke on the breeze: what of her mother?
Not since Floodwend has Seregrian entertained thoughts of her own situation, not since the night of her arrival when the morroval shadowed her path, or when she confronted the Nazgul with the power of her staff, and swooned, and dreamt of the last time she saw Thandwen, alive or otherwise. She swore that this errand would not stay her or interfere with the ultimate goal of redeeming her mother – but as she considers it, that is precisely what is happening with these troubles among Men, riding and running across the lands. But a high yip from Warfrost brings her reverie to a halt. The wolf has risen to his feet, sides heaving and nose working, testing the wind.
Seregrian squats besides Warfrost, running a gloved hand through his shaggy coat. “Man nostich, Naisauth, mellon nin?” (What do you smell, Warfrost, my friend?) After a few moments, she smells it too: smoke, mixed with a pungent reek. Looking skyward, she notes the winds blow from the east, where stand the rocky heights that form the East Wall of Rohan and, nestled in a hollow among the rocks and shielded by the pines, also stands Hytbold, not a league off by now. The warning on the breeze is all too plain: war has come ahead of her, and it may already be too late!
Giving Warfrost a pat on the shoulder, Seregrian crosses to Dagorlach, who appears still fatigued despite the halt, but his eyes are bright and strong. “We are losing the hour, you two. I must ask you for one last burst of speed, or the race will be lost. Will you run for me once more?” Dagorlach nickers and paws the stones, and Warfrost, panting still, looks at her with a seeming expectant gaze. She smiles grimly, and springs onto Dagorlach who immediately starts down a stony narrow path leading to the grassy carpet that stretches out from the heights. Warfrost follows in the horse’s track. When they reach the grass at the bottom, they explode into a quick run and a near gallop, pushing against time and the setting sun, the last leg of the race about to start.
The road leading to Hytbold runs through lands dotted with small homes and farmsteads, most of these abandoned or destroyed. One of these just atop a rise has just been put to the torch, the all-too familiar figures of orcs darting through smashed doors and holes in the fences, bent on slaying any living thing they find, whether for rage or for food. They turn about at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, followed by a high shivering howl, and laugh at the sight of a single rider seemingly being chased by a wolf.
All laughter ceases at the sound of a woman’s voice, screaming in the hated tongue of the Elves: “Nor na lim i dagor! Yrch! DOSTACH AEN!” And the orcs scream in their turn, lightning and blasting fires erupting from the very ground they stand upon, and those few who do not burn flee shrieking in fear toward the town.
Atop the rise, framed by smoke obscuring the setting sun, Seregrian raises Dondangol on high, reveling in the power coursing through her, and screams out:
Naur an gyth nin! Seregrian Tolnev!
