Cliving is a well-fortified town seated on bluffs overlooking the rolling plains of the Eastfold, and is the seat of Athelward, the Reeve of the Norcrofts, a man who by all accounts is reeling from his recent widowing. Other accounts speak not only of the despondent Reeve, but the surge of villagers seeking the safety of the walls, flying from the bands of orcs and wolves crossing the plains unhindered.
It is to the gates of Cliving that Seregrían and the Riders Four now approach, as the sun approaches noon. The gate guards admit the company and watch in wonder as they pass into the town, the four Riders tall and proud as befitting the Rohirrim; but all eyes are riveted on Seregrían as she reins up by the fountain courtyard, the Elf-maid astride a war-horse with a great wolf stalking at her heel.
Just before their arrival, Burnoth and Seregrían plotted out their best chance for finding out news and learning the true situation of Cliving. The Riders Four would move among the townsfolk, especially the marketplace and the taverns; Seregrían, in the meantime, would seek audience with the Reeve himself, and use both her skills with words and the shock value of her Elvish presence to persuade the court to confide to her what others might not learn. Later that evening, they would meet and compare their accounts and decide their next move.
Word arrives from the mead hall that Athelward will receive the newcomers at once. Seregrían elects to stay in her travel garb, presenting a bold and forward posture to Athelward and his court. As she enters and walks down the length of the hall, she can once more hear the comments and awestruck remarks from the townsfolk over the sight of an Elf in their midst. She then meets the Reeve, Athelward seated in his chair, a look of vacant eyes which turn slowly to wonder as he rises in greeting.
“And who is this,” he says, “who comes to my hall on the wings of the storm, so they say? Truly this is a marvel, that one of the Fair Folk should come unto the halls of Men. I, Athelward of Cliving, bid thee welcome!”
“Westu Athelward hál,” Seregrían replies with a courteous nod. “Seregrían is my name, in your tongue called Blodcwyn. From the Dwimordene my paths have led, and I have ridden with the men of the Mark from Stangard to Harwick to your gates with tidings of war, and of hope. War marches on your borders, indeed the lands outside your walls are now the stage for a terrible drama of fire and foes. I and my friends have arrived to offer both swords and counsels for your aid.”
“And just whom are these friends of yours in your company? Are there more Elves in your train, skilled at arms as we have heard in long tales past? If the situation is as dire as you say, that would be the greatest aid we might look for in this hour.”
“The friends I speak of are the Riders Four, servants of your lord Éomer charged with raising the alarm throughout the land and striking any and every blow they can. I have ridden far these last days in their company, brave and faithful Men, and they have been both true to their word and their errand.
“Now we come to Cliving, Reeve Athelward, with these tidings: open war has come to Rohan from both east and west. From across the River, the forces of Mordor moved towards the men of the Wold, but the Black Hand has been forced back for the present. From the west, the White Hand moves as well, and we must turn our eyes to meet that threat in turn.”
“From the West, say you? The White Hand – you speak of Isengard, and the wise Saruman, ever the friend and ally of the Eorlingas? Nay, Elf-child, I would discount any tidings of hostile intent from that quarter; though I confess there have been reports of rogue bands of orcs causing great harm to the crofters, and they are being dealt with as we speak. For many sellswords have crossed our lands in recent days, and I have accepted their labors willingly, since by their efforts the folk of Cliving are safe within my walls and need venture not abroad.”
“Ignore the warnings at your peril, yours and your folk. For even as we arrived in your lands, the rumors of the White Hand are everywhere. Crops burned, homes leveled, and your people lie dead beneath the skies, prey for the carrion or even the orcs themselves!”
“Trouble me not with your tidings of doom, Elfling. Let us turn to other matters. Your companions are from Lord Éomer, you say? Then they should be brought here, to be feasted as befitting their station. Go, find them, and return with them so they may know my hospitality properly!” Seregrían sees this for the dismissal that it is, nods in parting and leaves the hall, her mind racing ahead at what she has learned.
As night falls, the Riders Four gather with some of the Cliving Watch at a fellowship fire outside the mead hall. There, they talk and debate the news they have found during the day.
“Such a tangled and twisted web of tales we hear, brothers,” Burnoth says. “And I am not certain whether what we learn is truth or falsehood. The Reeve mourns his dead lady, to be sure; as do all the townsfolk. But these rumors of his duel with the son of the Reeve of Elthengels? A bizarre turn of events, that.”
“This Reeve is unlike any of the others we have met in our ride,” Leofdag says. “Harwick, Floodwend, and others, all the Reeves rise to the call once the threat is made plain. But Athelward makes no move to defend or seek the enemy abroad – as if he is simply waiting for them to breach the gates.”
“Or awaits a signal from elsewhere,” comes Seregrían’s voice as she approaches the fire. Leofdag and Hutha make room for her as she joins the council. “I watched his eyes and heard his voice today – and I also heard and watched all others in the hall as we spoke. Nothing is as it seems here. News I have from those who have ridden far speak of orcs of the White Hand prowling the lands from here to Eaworth westward, and as far south as Hytbold, though I do not know the names.
“They speak of the Orcs mocking and bragging their foes – but sellswords I spoke with revealed strange tidings that the Orcs themselves are ordered not to assail Cliving – why is that? Why would the orcs stay their bloody claws from this place alone among all the towns?”
Hutha says, “Perhaps it is Cliving’s fortifications that stall them –“
“Did that stop them at Floodwend?” Ulf joins in. “You and Blodcwyn burned their siege engines, you saw what they can do. Though they were the foes from the East, you think the White Hand is less cunning? I know, I have seen what they can do first-hand – or have you forgotten, Hutha?”
“It is the Reeve who disturbs me the most,” Leofdag says. “I think Blodcwyn speaks truly; he seems to wait for some signal – and that the orcs are waiting for that same signal bodes ill. He waits, and stalls – his words remind me of Wormtongue!”
“Wormtongue - there, you have it!” Seregrían cries. “Just the same as Stangard, we see it here: minions or like-minds with the White Hand, weakening and delaying, holding true hearts in check while the enemy moves freely. Do you not see, my friends? I know it sounds wild and reckless, but it all makes sense. The venom of this Wormtongue pours into many ears, and not all Men might stand proof against its wiles. My folk know the White Wizard and his powers, chief among them his command of words and voices; and if his servant Wormtongue is any student of the master, then his words are just as deadly as his master’s spellcraft.
“It is clear we can do no good here, and our labors would fall to no purpose,” Burnoth declares. “Riders, we must leave this town and move on to the next task. This is what I propose: we ride south to Hytbold and determine what can be done there. Blodcwyn, will you ride with us once more?”
“Of course I shall,” Seregrían answers, “but not just yet, hear me out. I can remain here for one day longer, keeping the Reeve off-balance as to your purpose. That will give me the chance to find out more of these hidden plots, if there is anything to be uncovered. I can then rejoin you all at Hytbold in a day.”
“You would ride alone, across the Eastfold, without us?” Ulf asks, “I like that not, lass; with the growing peril of Isengard, none of us should be abroad without the company. You forget what we spoke of at the waters?”
Seregrían replies with her quirked grin, “I do not forget your gentle words to me, Reaver. And remember, I shall have Warfrost and Dagorlach with me; I shall ride fast, and not alone. Burnoth, your counsel is sound, and I would have you all agree with him.”
So it settles that before dawn, the Riders Four shall depart and ride south for Hytbold. As the men move along to find food and a corner to sleep, Hutha thumps Ulf’s shoulder. “So, ‘gentle words’? What brought that on, Ulf?” To which Ulf responds with a solid punch to Hutha’s head before stalking off…
