Part 13

Far below The Shieldmaiden, two tiny figures, with two even tinier dogs, were ‘putting up’ a flock of birds, which looked, to Eowyn, like little more than a spatter of black ink on the smooth green hillside.

One of the riders raised his arm, and Eowyn understood that he was setting his falcon upon the prey. And, leaning over the bow rail, she narrowed her eyes, and stared at him, muttering, “Is that…?”

“Yes, melmenya,” said Legolas. He hopped up onto the gunwale, put his hand to his mouth, and whistled.

At his call, the falcon seemed to abandon the hunt and, turning in a wide arc, began spiraling higher.

“My gods…” On the ground, the hawking party had spotted The Shieldmaiden and were staring up at her—and Eowyn could easily imagine the looks of wonder on their faces—but the falconer was reaching for his bow. “Could his arrow hit us from there?”

Legolas put on Arador’s glove. “It would have to be a very lucky shot, melmenya.” He held out his fist. “We are at the limit of his range, and a fast-moving target.”

“But we are getting closer, and he is a skilled archer.”

Legolas whistled again—this time a long, haunting melody, rising and falling like birdsong—and, suddenly, the falcon was standing upon his hand. It closed its wings, and settled, watching the elf with huge, ancient eyes.

“It is Rochiriel,” said Eowyn. “She is his pride and joy—she was a gift from Eomer. But why—”

“We will take good care of her, melmenya.” Legolas stroked the falcon’s breast, soothing her with Elvish endearments.

Eowyn, meanwhile, had pulled out her handkerchief and was waving it over the bows, and shouting, “Faramir! Faramir! Do not shoot! It is us!”

“Melmenya,” said Legolas, smiling, “we need some raw meat.”

…

“Here,” said Eowyn. She had dashed down to the galley and cut a morsel of rabbit flesh, and she dropped it into his free hand. “You must not give her too much, Lassui, or she will get ‘fed up’ and refuse to hunt.”

“It is a cruel sport, melmenya.”

“I know.”

“But she understands what we want of her,” said Legolas. “Master Eldacar,” he called, “might we take a leaf from your notebook?”

Both Eldacar and Arador, though unable to leave their stations, had been watching with interest. “Of course, my Lord.”

Legolas led Eowyn to the scholar’s desk. “Write a note, melmenya—make it as small as you can. Explain that we are heading for the Dead Marshes and ask Faramir to bring help.”

“And Rochiriel will take it to him?” Eowyn picked up the pen.

“If we ask her nicely.” He stroked the bird. “We will slip it under one of her jesses. It should not trouble her.”

…

Rochiriel means ‘daughter of a horse lord’.