Arthur was beginning to learn that once a man's name reached the higher circles, the ground under his feet shifted whether he wanted it to or not.
Chapter 10 – First Command
The chamber they had chosen for the review stood high in Minas Tirith, its narrow windows looking out over the Pelennor. Light spilled in across a long table where three officers sat—Torin among them, Lirael standing at his shoulder rather than taking a seat.
Arthur stood opposite, helm tucked under one arm, cloak falling straight, sword at his hip. The stone beneath his boots felt no different than in the yard, but the way everyone watched him did.
The oldest of the officers, a man with iron-grey hair and a Steward's badge pinned to his breast, regarded Arthur for a long moment before speaking.
"You are Arthur," he said. "The wardens call you the Black Healer."
"So I've heard," Arthur answered.
"You've led files in drills," another officer said, glancing at a parchment. "Held the line at Osgiliath. Kept a southern rider alive long enough to reach the Houses." His tone made it sound like a list of weights, not praises. "Men say you do not tire."
"I hold where I'm placed," Arthur said. "The rest is what they choose to see."
Torin's mouth twitched, as if he almost smiled. "He does more than that," the captain said. "He reads a fight quickly. Moves men where they're needed. Doesn't chase when it's stupid to chase."
Lirael spoke next, voice even. "He stands where it's hardest," she said. "The men know it. They follow his orders without needing them shouted twice. I still don't know where he came from. I know what he's done since he arrived."
The Steward's man studied Arthur again. "If we give you a patrol," he said, "your orders are simple: keep the road clear and bring your men back. Can you do that?"
"I can try," Arthur said. "And I won't stop trying until either the road or I is gone."
A brief silence followed. One of the younger officers shifted, quill scratching on parchment.
"Fine," the grey-haired man said. "You'll take a smaller patrol beyond the Rammas tomorrow. Twelve wardens, no more. Lirael will choose which. You will have discretion on the ground. Your report comes back through Captain Torin."
Arthur inclined his head. "Understood."
"You are not yet sworn as knight of Gondor," the man added. "This is a test of use, not formal honor."
"Honor or not," Arthur said, "the work is the same."
They dismissed him. Outside, in the cooler hallway, Lirael fell into step beside him.
"They're seeing how much weight you can carry before something breaks," she said.
"That seems fair," Arthur replied.
She glanced at him sidelong. "Try not to make me look foolish for speaking well of you," she said.
"I'll do my best to protect your reputation," he said, and if there was a trace of dry humor, she didn't object.
The next morning, the eastern gate of the Rammas Echor groaned open to let a smaller band of wardens through. Twelve riders, cloaks drawn tight against a cutting wind, banners furled to avoid drawing more eyes than necessary.
Arthur rode at the front this time, not beside anyone else. His black armor and muted cloak marked him clearly enough.
Eoric rode just behind his right stirrup, reins held steady, shield slung at his back. The usual tightness in his shoulders was there, but beneath it sat something new—alertness sharpened by purpose rather than just fear.
"Ser," Eoric said quietly as they passed under the stone arch, "all packs checked. Water, bandages, spare straps. No one snuck any extra wine, either."
Arthur nodded once. "Good," he said. "If something's missing out there, I'll know who to look at."
"That's encouraging, ser," Eoric muttered, but his tone held a faint note of pride.
Beyond the Rammas, the land rolled out in long sweeps of grass and scattered thickets. Patches of bare earth marked where hooves and carts had worn the soil thin. A chill wind pressed against them, carrying with it the faint smell of damp and distant pine.
"Route?" one of the older wardens asked, bringing his horse alongside.
"South-east loop," Arthur said. "We follow the low rises toward the old watch mound, then swing back along the stream. Eyes on the ground as much as the horizon. If you see tracks, we look at them."
No one argued. The small column formed up and moved out.
The first hours passed without incident. They found cart ruts, old fire pits, tracks of deer and smaller things. Once, they passed a pair of farmers driving a heavy wagon, wheels sinking into soft earth. The men bowed their heads nervously at the sight of armor.
"Road safe, ser?" one called.
"For now," Arthur said. "If you see smoke where it shouldn't be, turn back toward the city and move fast."
"Aye," the man said, flicking the reins to get his mule moving.
The sky stayed clear, thin clouds stretched high. The silence between the wardens took on a focused quality—no idle chatter, just the occasional call when someone spotted a distant movement that turned out to be nothing more than a fox or a bird.
Near midday, they crested a low ridge. Below lay a shallow valley with a line of scrub on one side and a narrow stream cutting through the middle, its banks muddy from recent rain. Arthur raised a hand and brought them to a halt.
"Spread," he called. "Two to the left, two to the right. Stay in sight."
He turned in his saddle. "Eoric. Take the right pair. You see anything that looks wrong, you signal, then decide whether to hold or fall back. Don't charge by yourself."
"Yes, ser," Eoric said. There was a quick brightness in his eyes—nerves tangled with the weight of trust.
They split, the line widening as they descended into the valley. Hooves squelched softly near the stream; the scrub on the right side rustled in the wind.
It wasn't the wind that caught Arthur's attention.
He raised his hand again. "Stop."
The men reined in. Arthur swung down from George and walked a few paces toward the water. In the damp earth just off the bank, partially smudged but still clear enough, lay a deep, clawed print. Larger than a man's hand, with the distinct curve and weight he'd already learned to recognize.
"Warg," one of the wardens said tightly, having dismounted beside him.
"Older than yesterday's rain," Arthur said, studying the edges. "But not much."
He looked up, eyes scanning the valley. The scrub on the right suddenly felt closer. Crows wheeled overhead again, though not in as tight a knot as before.
"Back on," he said. "We'll follow the stream a little, then turn uphill. No sense sitting in a bowl if something's watching."
They remounted and moved on, pace steady but a little more wary. Eoric kept his pair a little further out now, eyes flicking constantly between the scrub and the ground.
Half an hour later, the land climbed toward an old mound where some forgotten watch post had once stood. Only a tumble of stones remained, half-swallowed by grass. Arthur lifted a hand to halt them again.
"We rest here," he said. "Short. Drink, check straps. Then we head back along the higher ground."
They dismounted. A few men shifted their weight, grateful to be off the saddle. One sat on a stone and took a pull from his waterskin.
"Ser," Eoric called quietly from where he stood a little way down the slope. "You'll want to see this."
Arthur walked over. Eoric pointed toward a patch of ground where the grass lay flattened in a broad, disturbed smear. At the far edge, the soil was scraped in long, shallow grooves.
"Something big slid or was dragged through," Eoric said. "And there." He pointed to a darker patch, half dried. "Blood."
Arthur crouched, fingers hovering just over the marks. He could almost see the shape of it: a body pulled, heels digging in, resistance turned into furrows. The blood stain was not large, but it had soaked deep.
"Direction?" he asked.
Eoric traced the line with his hand. "From the stream toward that rise," he said. "Then into those rocks." A cluster of broken stones and low boulders lay not far off.
Arthur stood. "All right," he said. "We check it, but we don't stumble in blind."
He turned to the men. "Two archers on that ridge," he said, pointing to a slightly higher spur. "You keep arrows on anything that moves near the rocks. The rest with me, shields up. Eoric, you keep the rear tight. If it goes bad, you pull the wounded back. Don't argue with me about it later."
Eoric opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it and nodded. "Yes, ser."
They advanced slowly toward the rocks, shields raised, boots careful on the uneven ground. The wind whistled between the stones, carrying the faint smell of something sour.
"Left gap, close," Arthur said quietly, and the men adjusted, shields overlapping more tightly.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then a shape unfolded from behind a boulder—a big orc with a heavy spear, skin a sickly grey-green, yellow eyes narrowing at the sight of them. Behind it, more shapes shifted. Six, eight, ten—hard to count among the rocks.
"Loose," Arthur heard one of the archers shout. The first arrow took the leading orc in the shoulder, staggering it.
"Forward!" Arthur called, and the line moved with him.
The orcs charged to meet them, feet slipping on the stony ground, snarls ripping the air. The first impact was a tangle of wood and iron; Arthur's shield took a spearpoint that glanced off, sliding along the rim. He stepped in and cut low, hamstringing the nearest attacker, then pivoted to meet the next.
The ground here made footwork tricky. A misstep could mean a twisted ankle or a fall. Arthur watched his footing as much as the blades. An orc swung a crude sword at his side; he caught it on his shield, the impact jarring, and drove his own blade into the gap between its plates.
Somewhere to his left, a warden cried out as an orc's axe bit into his arm. The line wavered.
"Hold!" Arthur shouted. "Shields!"
He stepped into the space, taking some of the weight, feeling the strain of three orcs pressing against two men. His arms still moved with the same calm rhythm, muscles burning only in the abstract. He shoved forward hard, unbalancing one of them long enough for the wounded warden to recover his position.
Arrows hissed overhead, two more orcs dropping with shafts in throat and chest.
On the flank, Eoric kept the rear tight as ordered, shield high, sword ready. When one orc tried to slip around a boulder to come at them from behind, Eoric saw it first.
"Right rear!" he shouted, then moved with his two men to cut it off. His first parry was almost too hard, sending his own blade wide, but he recovered, stepping in with a shorter, neater stroke that opened the orc's arm. One of his companions finished it.
The fight was sharp and brief. The orcs had chosen the rocks to even the ground, but they hadn't counted on arrows or on a line that adjusted quickly. When three of them fell in rapid succession, the rest broke, scrambling back into gaps between the stones and disappearing into the scrub beyond.
"Don't chase," Arthur said, breathing no harder than before. "We came to clear the road, not to hunt shadows."
The men held position, shields still up for a few heartbeats in case the orcs thought better of their retreat. When none returned, the tension slowly leaked out.
"Check each other," Arthur said. "Call out anything worse than a scratch."
One warden had a deep cut along his upper arm; another sported a swelling bruise along the ribs where a spear haft had struck. Arthur bound the cut tightly enough to stop it from opening on the ride back, fingers sure and efficient, words few. Other scrapes he left to be cleaned properly in the city.
He straightened and looked around. The archers made their way down from the ridge. Eoric approached, helmet tucked under one arm, face flushed but eyes steady.
"Rear held, ser," he said. "We stopped one trying to circle."
"I saw," Arthur said. "Your first swing was too heavy. The second was better."
Eoric grimaced. "I felt that, ser."
"Good," Arthur replied. "Feeling it means you can fix it next time."
They took a moment to drag the dead orcs into a pile and mark the place with a rough cairn of stones. Not for the orcs' sake, but so future patrols would know someone had bled here recently.
The ride back to Minas Tirith was quieter than the ride out. The men were tired, but it was the honest fatigue of work done, not the hollow taking-stock after a rout. The wounded warden with the arm cut sat straight enough in his saddle, bandage stained but holding.
At the Rammas gate, the guards took one look at the faces, the marks on armor, and waved them through with little ceremony. The city's white walls rose ahead like a familiar hill.
Later, in a smaller room near the barracks, Torin listened to Arthur's report. The captain's face was unreadable as he followed the lines of the written account, finger tracing each entry—tracks, patrol route, contact, casualties.
"No deaths," Torin said when he finished. "One bad arm, a few bruises, a pile of orcs who won't trouble the road again."
"That's the count," Arthur said.
Torin set the parchment down. "You didn't chase when they ran," he said. "You held the men together in bad ground. You gave a green warden a place to stand and he didn't disgrace it."
"Eoric did well," Arthur said. "He needs more practice, but he listens."
"He'll get it," Torin replied. He studied Arthur for a moment. "The higher circles will like this report. They care about numbers. They'll like that all the names on this one came back."
"I like that too," Arthur said.
Torin snorted softly. "Don't get used to it," he said. "But enjoy it when it happens."
When Arthur stepped back into the barracks later, the noise dipped the same way it always did, but it didn't feel quite the same. A few men looked up and nodded instead of pretending not to see him. Someone called, "How bad was it?" and the answer—"Bad enough, but we handled it"—seemed to travel down the room on its own.
Eoric sat on his bunk, carefully cleaning his sword. He looked up as Arthur passed.
"Ser," he said. "Next time, if you want me to hold the rear again, I'll be ready."
"I know," Arthur said. "That's why I'll give you something harder."
Eoric blinked, then smiled, a tired but genuine flash. "Yes, ser."
That night, standing once more on the high walkway and looking out over the city lights, Arthur felt the path beneath his feet narrow and sharpen. The summons to the council, the first independent patrol, the clean report—none of it made him a knight yet.
But somewhere in the upper circles, his name now sat on a desk with others that would be discussed when they spoke of command and of the men they might one day call to kneel and rise with new titles.
For now, he thought of the cut on a warden's arm that had not gone too deep, of Eoric's steadier hands, of the road they had left a little safer that day. The rest would come, or it wouldn't.
When the next horn sounded, he would be where the line looked thinnest. That was real enough to hold on to.