Yours to Command

Strangers and Spices

The skilled warrior will take no more than a heartbeat to discern both weaknesses and strengths of his opponent. He will not see them in the brandishing of a sword or the drawing of a bow, but in the eyes of his foe. For there he will perceive the true essence of the man.

(Hyarmendacil: The Art of War)

***

Lothíriel clutched his arm and gasped. Éomer watched, amused, as she leaned forward to make sure she would not miss a word, her mouth forming a small 'o' of excitement.

"...and then the dragon made another pass at our hero, diving down out of the sun to rake him with his iron claws. But Baranor, mighty warrior and beloved of Silmarien the Fair, did not quail under the onslaught."

The storyteller paused dramatically and the crowd held its collective breath. Lothíriel tightened her stranglehold on Éomer's arm and he got the impression she would have liked to jump up and down with excitement, just like the children who were standing at the front of the circle.

As the old man went on to tell how the hero defeated the dragon through some highly improbable feat of arms, Éomer found watching Lothíriel's face much more interesting than listening to the story. She spared no attention to her surroundings, but appeared completely captivated by the tale, biting anxiously at her bottom lip while the fight went on and clapping her hands in delight when Baranor finally killed the beast and declared his undying love to the beautiful Silmarien.

"Oh!" she breathed, "wasn't that simply marvellous?"

Éomer smoothed out the much-abused sleeve of his tunic and exchanged an amused glance with Faramir. His sister's betrothed had joined them on the way down to the main gate of Minas Tirith. He had suggested they stop off at the fair, as he needed to buy something - a plan which had been enthusiastically endorsed by the ladies.

"Marvellous," Faramir agreed. "Do you think we can go on now?"

Lothíriel grinned at him, quite obviously not fooled by his stern tone. "Getting impatient, dearest cousin? At least I don't stop at every stall selling womanly fripperies."

"No, but you do wherever a bard or storyteller plies his trade. That's the third one."

The old man had picked up his hat and came round collecting his reward from the crowd. His eyes brightened when Éomer tossed him a small silver coin.

"Many thanks, noble lord, to you and your lovely lady wife." He bowed deeply before he passed on.

Lothíriel ducked her head, but not quickly enough to hide the colour spreading across her cheeks. Éomer thought it rather endearing, the way she blushed at the slightest provocation, but not wanting to embarrass her further, he settled her hand in the crook of his arm and turned to walk on.

Suddenly, off to the side, he sensed more than saw movement. Out of nowhere, a warning trickled ice-cold fingers down his back. Éomer slewed round, one hand going to the hilt of his sword, ready to either defend or attack. In the same motion he pushed Lothíriel behind his back.

"Éomer?" she asked in confusion, clutching at him.

His guards had come instantly alert. Taut as a bowstring, he scanned the crowd. It had almost dispersed, yet on the opposite side of the small square, a tall man stood, staring at him. Éomer caught a quick impression of a swarthy face and piercing black eyes before the man hurriedly ducked behind some passers-by and disappeared down one of the side alleys between two tents.

Faramir had his own sword half drawn. He frowned. "What is it?"

After a moment, Éomer shrugged. "I'm not sure. Just somebody staring at us."