And so it would come at last to the village of Bancross; a battle borne on wicked feet, crowned with curved swords and jagged spears. A small but bitter taste of the on-going war reached this quiet gathering of homesteads on the plains not far from Edoras.
With every day that passed, the unrest had grown and galloped into a constant, lingering fear for what was a-coming. For weeks and months the rumours had been nurtured as the townspeople whispered and murmured amongst themselves, and the messengers from other towns had left a sour taste when telling of what had befallen them. Loose tongues wagged and gossiped of all things known and unknown, while the guardsmen honed their swords and oiled their chainmail. Something foul was brewing, and it would soon boil over.
The war was already in Rohan, but so far it had been just out of reach for this mostly insignificant town, while others had already suffered hard times. Averel Thane had hired more and more men to the village garrison, and the captain, Denholm, was under strict orders to keep his men and equipment in prime condition, and also to guard a very peculiar house, one that belonged to the Thane himself. Where barley farms, apple trees and growing grass would dominate most of the surrounding landscape, this house stood out much like a sore thumb.
For in that overgrown yard there were some curious things scattered about, such as what appeared to be a tomb shrouded under twisting thorns, surrounded by carved stones. A tomb in itself may have not been so strange, for after all, these lands had not always belonged to the Eorlingas. Many older structures and ruins still remained, and some houses were even built upon the foundations of old.
The most curious of all things however, was a great statue of a pukel-man looming behind the house. A strange relic of an ancient time, carved by wild men from another age. Its like was not unknown to the men of Rohan though, for in Dunharrow and the forest to the east there stood more of the same ilk, all covered with moss and vines, and long since lost their original shape and purpose. Many were the eyebrows raised over this hideous stone-figure seated in this otherwise unremarkable village upon the plains, especially by travellers coming through, and if the townspeople themselves knew why it was there, they would not talk of it. It simply was.
And then, one afternoon, in the late winter season where the nights were still freezing cold and yet the days were duly warmed up by a wishful sun, it came at long last. Horns and shouts sounded from the watchtowers and torches were lit, as the watchful, keen-eyed guardsmen and scouts finally spotted what they had feared for so long. For across the plains to the north, there marched a large band of east-men. A few were riding, while most others walked, and a formidable sight it was, in all its cruelty and wickedness. Their garb was ragged and rustic, in colours ranging from all shades of browns to reds and blacks; crude bone- and horn-strengthened leather armor they wore upon their chests, and some carried curved sabers, while others brandished spears with jagged tips. Their horns bellowed loudly as they crept closer, for they knew they had been spotted, and the stabled horses grew restless and anxious at the unfamiliar sounds, cries and smells that the enemy had brought with them. The garrison’s horns of muster answered their call in turn, and the riders assembled on the courtyard, all clad in mail and green cloaks.
“Riders of Bancross!”, captain Denholm shouted out as he strapped on his helmet and a stableboy readied his horse. “The enemy has come! Forget not what you fight for, and fear not the sting of death! For today awaits not our death, but theirs! For Bancross, for Rohan, we ride!” And so, many of the riders of Bancross rode out the gates to meet the enemy, while Thilwend and others remained to protect the village should some break through, or the battle go ill. There was the captain and his banner-man leading the charge, and the gallop of forty horses thundered across the plains towards the warband, whose numbers were yet uncounted. The sounds of battle soon echoed from afar, and the cries of dying men and the sounds of clashing swords would make many a man and woman be a-feared, but the hearts of the Eorlingas are strong, proud, and brave in the heat of battle.
Those who could not fight, the old and feeble, and the young and untrained, sought refuge in the meadhall on top of the hill, the last line of defence. Other villagers and a number of guards followed them, and soon the hall was without a doubt the safest place to be, even if others decided to stay by their homes and guard their livestock with their own lives, if need be. Old widow Agnes shivered and cried, even as she sat by the hot and roaring fire, fed by thick logs which would burn through the night and give light to the darkness. The cold embrace of death had haunted her for many years, yet she persisted and lingered in the world of the living, much thanks to her love for life despite all its hardships, and she was not yet ready to face the end, even if her long dead family awaited there on the other side.
By her side sat Heard, the blacksmith, who had housed and fed her for a time, and he had become much like one of the sons she had lost. Waelden, Yllfa and their daughter Ethel soon came to the hall, together with Duncadda, and Ethel sat herself down beside Agnes and held her hand, and the young and the old comforted each other in a living testimony of the strength of life. They spoke of memories and lost times, as Yllfa braided their hair until they looked much alike, even if an age apart. The fear and uncertainty smothered their thoughts, and black smoke rose from the damp wood and lay down like an ominous blanket on their heads, as Duncadda left the meadhall to fend for his home and the northern barricades.
The story continues in A prelude to war - Part II
