Part 4

They followed the tracks—which were clear enough, where the ground was soft—along the Forest trail, over the little wooden bridge spanning the Willow Brook, and onto the main Doro Lanthron road.

“Nine horses,” said Legolas to Eowyn, as they crouched beside a set of hoof prints, “shod with iron, and clad in armour, like their riders. These are not outlaws, melmenya, hiding in the shadows. These men ride openly, and they do not care who sees them.”

He looked up at Sighard. “Did you say that your farm was beside the road, Master Sighard?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“They will have passed it last night, Lassui,” said Eowyn, quietly, “long before Master Sighard set out.”

Legolas nodded. “I hope so. But we had better hurry, just in—”

“Someone is approaching,” said Haldir, suddenly, “on foot.”

Legolas listened, frowning. “A child...”

Moments later, a short, dark-haired boy came running out of the trees. “Dad!”

“Sig-lad,” cried Sighard, sliding from his horse and gathering his son in a fierce bear-hug. “What’s happened—is your mother—”

“She’s all right, Dad. She’s fine. But Master Elmer,” he said, referring to their neighbour, “someone killed him and burnt his house down. Mistress Alfled got away with the little ’un. She’s with Mum.”

...

Sighard’s farmhouse was, thankfully, still standing.

His wife, Mistress Edyð, who had made her home as secure as she could by barricading the doors and windows, quickly put Mother Cynwise to bed, and insisted that the elves and Eowyn sit down to eat whilst they planned their next move.

“Thank you,” said Legolas, accepting a bowl of stew. “You are very kind.”

“Nonsense, my Lord,” she said, bluntly. “It’s what neighbours are for.”

In the discussions that followed it was decided that Sighard, with his local knowledge, should continue to accompany Legolas and the others, at least as far as Doro Lanthron—his wife giving him her silent permission by bringing his sword, and setting it on the table before him—and that his son should be sent to Eryn Carantaur, to fetch a troop of warriors to protect the settlement from further attack.

“Sig-lad’s a born woodsman,” said the boy’s father, proudly. “There’s no one can catch him once he gets into those trees.”

Legolas wrote a brief note. “Ask to be taken to Lord Caranthir,” he said, handing it to the boy and smiling when the lad gave him a solemn little bow and tucked it safely inside his shirt. “Give him the letter, and answer any questions he may ask you, as best you can.”

Sighard’s wife hurried downstairs from the sleeping platform above. “My neighbour has something to tell you, my Lord,” she said.

Legolas glanced at Eowyn, and the pair rose, and followed her back upstairs.

The haggard woman was sitting up in bed, her young boy curled in her arms. “I seen them before,” she said, urgently, “years ago.”

Legolas knelt down beside her and, taking her hand, patted it gently. “When, mistress?” he asked. “And where?”

“During the war,” she said, hoarsely. “They rode through our village, my Lord, on their black horses, in their black armour, cutting down men, and women, and children, just for sport. They came out of Mordor...”