‘I hope I am not disturbing you, Éomer?’ he said while joining him in the main reception room.
‘Not at all, Imrahil. I was debating whether to call my sister down for an early lunch or to go for a ride first and eat later. Would you care to join me?’ Éomer asked.
‘I am not sure I have time for a ride, although I would dearly love to…’
A knock at the door disturbed the conversation; a servant brought in an elaborately decorated missive for Éomer.
‘Ah,’ said Imrahil, pulling a similar one out from his tunic pocket, ‘This is why I came. It was delivered not long ago, and I decided to come straight here... Please do open yours.’
Imrahil waited patiently while Éomer read the message, which he then handed to his friend. ‘Yes, mine reads almost the same. So, we have both been invited at last. Not by Lothíriel nor Aragorn, but by Ottakar. Why do you think we have been kept out of this? Me I understand if Aragorn wishes to control the negotiations for Gondor without my interference, I have had my say on all areas relating to Dol Amroth already, I do not need to be present, but you? I do not understand what game this is. I am in two minds as whether to go or not, or even whether to ask Lothíriel herself if I should attend, despite what he says about it being a surprise,’ Imrahil debated.
‘I think we should both go and together,’ Éomer decided without hesitation. ‘This is the last night of his visit, and we are both to witness the peace treaty and put our seals on it the next morning. As he says, it would be a missed opportunity to further build accord between our realms. We should meet with him before the signing ceremony and if this is the only chance available, then why not. If it’s a test, then so be it. We have both been through worse, Imrahil. What can he throw at us – a pink petticoat?’ Éomer replied suddenly irritated.
Imrahil laughed and clapped Éomer on the shoulder, ‘Yes indeed, put like that, you are right. We should not have any doubts… I should not have any doubts about myself. Thank you, Éomer. Since you are the closer, I will come to meet you here just before we are expected, and we will walk down together.’
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Éomer finally caught up with Éowyn, who was looking decidedly jaded. She told him it had been the most entertaining time of her life, and she was pleased he was finally going. ‘Beware, brother,’ she said mischievously, ‘you may end up getting more than you bargained for’, but she said no more than that. Éomer was no fool and had no fear of whatever attention he might receive; he was far less judgemental than Éowyn would have supposed.
The noise of laughter and music seeped into Éomer’s lodgings as he met Imrahil at the door to stroll the short distance down the hill. He was glad of his friend’s company and wondered whether he too was pretending to be less apprehensive than he felt.
Elaborate awnings covered the streets leading to the main entrance of the largest beer hall in the Delantine quarter and Éomer could see entertainers down the side streets either practising ahead of their performance in the main hall or resting after it. The ‘women’ were beautifully adorned and elegant. He was sure he recognised some of his own men amongst the throng despite their vastly changed appearance.
They arrived at the entrance of the hall to the sound of loud jeering; a competition was underway. The capacious beer hall had been decorated in extravagant designs, all red and gold with cushions placed on decking around the three sides of the large hall rather than the usual trestle tables and benches. It was indeed as sumptuous as Éowyn had described it. Evidently expected, a tall very handsome dark-skinned man, who spoke accented but excellent Sindarin greeted them at the doorway. He took them around the crowd of men in the centre of the room who were engaged in the game. A young man dressed in white robes, round faced and tending towards corpulence lounged louchely watching the sport in front of him. There were two vacant seats on either side of him and his attention soon strayed to Éomer as he approached with Imrahil.
The man sat upright with a broad smile breaking across his face, his sparkling eyes flushed with admiration at Éomer’s physique. He looked him up and down most openly, making no pretence to hide his attraction. His eyes crossed briefly to Imrahil, who grimaced a smile as Ottakar held both hands to his chest in welcome and bowed.
‘You need no introduction, Prince Imrahil, it is obvious where Lothíriel gets her looks. And you must be the famous King of the Horsemen, it is indeed a great pleasure to meet you both. I was so pleased to finally meet the Slayer of the Witch-King yesterday. It was an honour only exceeded by your joint presence tonight. Lothíriel has been most selfish to keep you all to herself, so I am deeply grateful that you both consented to join us tonight,’ Ottakar flashed his apprising eyes over both the men.
Éowyn had caught Éomer on his way out to tell him that although she had found Ottakar utterly charming, Gelian had warned her not to be fooled by his demeanour, he was reputedly as razor-sharp as Lothíriel and had not succeeded to his position by being stupid. She also shouted after him, ‘Be careful about what they might put into your drink! Gelian was watching like a hawk and prevented me from drinking some very suspect offerings…’
‘Thank you for your kind invitation, Prince Ottakar. May I ask where is my daughter?’ Imrahil enquired politely.
‘She is behind you. The boys have been amusing themselves with a dagger throwing competition, at which she excels, and the last two in the game are her and Ka’moruk or Corinir in Sindarin. Or perhaps, Prince Imrahil, you might know him by another name?’ he added slyly.
Imrahil looked over to where he could see Lothíriel dressed in only an undershirt and leather trousers looking every inch a pirate, engaged in the final round with a very handsome, athletic man with burnished red hair and translucent hazel brown eyes under strong dark eyebrows. It was a finely sculptured face, which caused Imrahil’s heart to lurch and cry out involuntarily. In disbelief, he strode over towards the pair who had just turned their backs to him. Éomer thought that Imrahil was about to drag Lothíriel away from the scene and went after him to prevent Imrahil causing a fracas.
Corinir turned first, dagger in hand. Lothíriel turned also and on seeing her father, immediately grabbed the dagger hand of her companion, forcing him to drop it. The look of shock on her face was unmistakeable, but she looked straight behind both approaching men at Prince Ottakar and she closed her eyes in a pained expression of understanding and nodded to him in defeat.
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As Imrahil closed in on the auburn-haired man, looking as if he was seeing a ghost, Éomer heard Lothíriel say to the man in Sindarin, ‘He knows, Ottakar knows, we cannot hide this any longer. He must have suspected. The game is up. We have no choice now.’ Corinir nodded his assent, not taking his glittering eyes off Imrahil who stood in front of him staring in incomprehension.
‘But you were lost,’ he whispered eventually. ‘She had been told you had all perished. Why did you not come back to us? She mourned you both every day…,’ he stopped suddenly at the memory which so pained him.
‘Imrahil, I don’t have time tonight to explain but do not cause a scene here. Come and see me on the ship mid-morning tomorrow and I can explain everything, but not now. Ottakar has been clever to work this out, but we are still negotiating the final terms of the trade settlement, and he has just landed a serious blow by uncovering this. Lothi?’
‘Come, all of you, let me make some introductions,’ she commanded. The three men followed after her as she brought them in front of Ottakar who had been watching their reactions most intently. ‘Ottakar Prince, my King has been played and I concede. The game is yours. May I introduce you to my father, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, King Éomer of Rohan… and my uncle, Prince Tuor of Harondor, Lord of Pelargir and Lord Commander of the Fleet of Gondor.
‘Your uncle?’ Éomer exclaimed.
‘Yes, my mother’s younger brother,’ she answered defiantly. Imrahil looked ill.
‘Ottakar, you asked me once what my price was for killing Pallakir. This is my price. A full pardon…’
‘No!’ Tuor exploded and grabbed Lothíriel by the shoulders to turn her to him.
‘… for all grievances against the pirate Ka’moruk, also known as Corinir…’
‘Lothi, no, you cannot squander this on me,’ he cried.
‘… in all your lands. This is my price. Now name yours.’ She turned herself towards Ottakar and looked at him as one expecting the death sentence. Éomer had understood from Tuor’s reaction that this was the apex of the negotiations and Ottakar had the upper hand.
Ottakar ordered five shots of a strong-smelling liquid to be poured out for his guests and gestured King Éomer and Prince Imrahil to sit next to him. The drinks were put down on the small table closest to Ottakar. He gave one to Éomer and one to Imrahil. Lothíriel had not taken her eyes off Ottakar who was relishing his victory. She stood in front of him impassively.
Finally, he stood up and came down the steps to take her hand and he said gently, ‘There is only one thing I want, that you have always refused…’ Éomer’s gut twisted and he saw a spasm of doubt in Lothíriel’s eyes. Surely this man was not going to propose marriage. It had always been her greatest fear that she would be married off to some Haradrim lord and this, he could see, would be the perfect diplomatic solution. Éomer wondered if he would be able to control himself if she accepted. He put his glass down back on the table ready to leap up to grab Ottakar by the scruff of the neck and hurl him across the room if need be….
‘I would like you to dance the Dance of the Crescent Moon for me,’ Ottakar said softly, ‘That is all I ask and to make it a performance the like of which I will never see again.’
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Lothíriel’s guard lowered and her eyes softened into a look of fondness that Éomer had not expected. ‘Ottakar Friend, I will never refuse to dance for you again. Do you have the right costume for me?’ she asked her relief at this request evident.
Imrahil shifted uneasily in his seat, ‘Do you need the full costume for that dance, Lothíriel, I mean there are men present,’ he said somewhat hesitantly.
‘Oh Imrahil, look around you,’ said Tuor tartly, taking his seat next to Éomer. ‘What exactly do you think all the men here are? With the exception perhaps of King Éomer, her performance isn’t going to excite anyone here…’ Turning aside to Éomer, he added cheekily, ‘My apologies for the perhaps, Éomer King, I do not like to make assumptions...’
‘It is waiting for you over there behind the screen the boys have just put up for you.’ Ottakar told her, pointing to the far corner of the hall. She bounded over to it and could be seen as a shadow changing behind the rather thin almost transparent screen. Éomer, attempting to avoid looking over in her direction, surveyed the room. Tuor was right, he doubted that any of the men there had his level of interest in what was being revealed behind the screen.
Éomer could feel himself flushing at his memory of her naked body in the stream when he sensed two piercing eyes boring into him from the side. He turned to see Ottakar looking closely at him, followed by the swiftest of glances downward to his groin area, which elicited an amused smile. ‘I do hope you enjoy this even more than I will,’ he said gleefully, patting Éomer’s hand.
She emerged from the screen to an expectant hush as those present in the room moved to the walls and gave her a huge area in which to dance. She had wrapped a silk shawl around her as she walked slowly to the middle of the room and indicated for the music to start. Éomer audibly gasped as she dropped the shawl, revealing her totally naked mid-drift. Her perfectly formed breasts were enclosed in a tight white bustier laced with silver thread and trimmed with tassels which had small bells tied to them. Just below her waist, wrapped around her hips, was a thick band of heavy silk encrusted with silver bells which tinkled as she moved, from this band descended four floating strips of finely embroidered white silk on each leg which were tied to her ankles by another band of bells. Flashes of her long lithe legs were visible between the overlapping folds as she moved seductively to the centre of the room. At least, thought Imrahil hugely relieved, she was wearing a tight-fitting undergarment to protect her modesty, as the only time he had seen the dance performed was in a brothel in Pelargir before his first marriage, many decades earlier in celebration of a great victory, and the girls there had not been so discreetly covered. There was a reason it was named the Dance of the Crescent Moon.
Allowing himself to feel only slightly more relaxed, Imrahil stole a furtive side glance at Éomer. He was not sure what Éomer would make of his daughter after this. There was no doubting Éomer’s fascination and intense attraction to her, but Lothíriel was altogether more difficult to read. She who was wary around all men who might have an interest in her, was seemingly at ease in his presence, and it seemed more than simply due to her closeness to his sister. His daughter was an enigma to him. There were reasons for him not to encourage the match but in his desperation to protect her, or have her protected by someone in his stead, he would ignore his reservations.
Imrahil knew what was coming and braced himself. He was already in emotional turmoil with the reappearance of his wife’s long-lost brother. He resisted the temptation to bolt and controlled himself to some semblance of composure as Lothíriel began to dance.
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She began by twisting her arms upwards shaking the bells on her wrists as she contorted her long fingers into various poses. As the music gradually picked up pace, she slowly started to move her hips so that the bells tinkled in time to the tune, her hips began to sway rhythmically, all the while shaking the bells rapidly to create their own song within the overall melody. Enrapt though he was by Lothíriel’s dancing, Ottakar still kept a close watch on Éomer’s reaction. Éomer was sitting on the edge of his seat, just staring, seemingly unaware of the bulge showing underneath his tunic on which Ottakar was keeping a second fascinated eye.
The music changed pace again and Lothíriel was let loose. She performed a series of acrobatics, which Imrahil was sure were not in the original version of the dance he had seen, but which were stunning in their elegance and grace, she pirouetted, her arms swirling seductively around her, the bells on her wrists twinkling with each artistic hand movement. Lothíriel could seemingly contort her body into any position, as she twirled and jetéd around the floor, finally performing a forward somersault scissoring her legs over her head to land at the feet of Ottakar and his astonished guests. Ottakar roared his approval and stood up applauding.
Éomer was still staring and suddenly became aware of what was showing under his tunic, so remained seated while also clapping his appreciation, trying to calm his body down. Smiling broadly, Tuor descended the steps to bring his niece to the ecstatic Ottakar. Imrahil was looking at his daughter in a new light; she was truly no longer the little girl he had failed; she was not the last of her line; the prophecy was not hers alone to bear. He felt a great burden fall from him when he saw how much care Tuor took with her. Amahlia’s family were not all gone, and he was beginning to feel the full force of his loneliness since his wife had died, which he had not realised had been so intense. It felt as though he had put his grief on hold and now that grief was beginning to flood into him.
He was barely conscious of the next moments when Tuor raised his glass and asked Ottakar if the deal they had negotiated was now acceptable to him. If it was, they would drink on it and have the sealing ceremony in the morning as planned. Lothíriel took her glass from the table, she stepped up to him, linked her drinking arm with his and they both tossed the strong liquid down in one fiery gulp.
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Lothíriel choked a little, ‘What in the name of the Valar was that!’ she gasped as she struggled to get moisture into her mouth. ‘Whoo,’ she exclaimed shaking her head in disgust. ‘Brother, I thank you. That was… fair, and it will not be forgotten,’ she said emotionally as she embraced Ottakar closely, tears in her eyes. He kissed both her hands as he held them in his own and exclaimed fervently, ‘Where would I have been now without you, my little sister? Headless in a ditch or starving to death in a dungeon. We must make this peace work, now that we finally have a chance.’
After downing his glass with the others, Imrahil turned to them all suddenly. ‘Please forgive me. This has all been somewhat unexpected and I need to be alone to reflect on what has been a shock, a very pleasant one, but forgive me, Tuor, you resemble Amahlia so greatly that I am struggling to retain a respectable level of composure. If you would excuse me until tomorrow morning, I will come to see you on the ship,’ he said stiffly. They all bowed with respect and sympathy, while Imrahil quickly turned to take his leave of them.
Sipping the vestiges of his own drink as Lothíriel escorted her father outside, Éomer quickly stopped Tuor from following them. ‘What was in that drink we all had? Mine didn’t taste that strong or that foul. I’m only asking because Lothíriel accidentally took my glass, the one which Ottakar had handed to me and it smelt completely different to the one I have just tasted. My sister warned me to be careful about which drinks I accepted…’
Tuor stared back at him in sudden concern. ‘You did well to tell me of this and you are most likely right to be suspicious. Please do not leave with Imrahil. My guess is he needs to be alone now anyway, and I may well need you if what you suspect is true and the drinks were different.’ He turned back immediately and spoke in Haradrim with Ottakar. Ottakar swore and looked concerned. More whispering ensued. Tuor whistled and one of his attendants arrived at his side. He whispered some instructions. Éomer could tell that the situation was serious as the man’s face went from frivolity to alarm instantly. The man nodded and went to spread the word.
By the time Lothíriel returned, the mood in the hall had changed from engaged merriment to alert watchfulness. Her mood conversely had accelerated to absolute euphoria. Delantir moved to distract her with a dance. Éomer could sense that there was a secret in the room everyone was in knowledge of except himself. Ottakar was issuing his own orders to his attendants around him. Tuor came over to speak to Éomer.
‘Éomer, if I may be so informal as this is urgent, Ottakar meant no harm in this and he is well aware of the possible consequences, which we both hope to avoid. He is most embarrassed to admit this, but he put a herbal potion in your drink, one which helps, how shall I put this, break down a person’s reticence and restraint… to help you relax. He thought you might need it, and because you are so very large, it was a commensurately strong dose and it looks to be already taking effect. This is not good.
Lothíriel is more fragile than anyone except some of the men in this room understand. But all here understand that if she takes this badly, and she may well at some point, there are few here who could constrain her, not without harming her or being hurt by her themselves and this is what we are worried about. Lothíriel can be highly destructive. We need to get her out of the city.
I believe you keep horses nearby, on the tier above this. Could I ask that you bring at least two here in case we need them. We will have to get her to Harlond and our ship there. The crew and I know how to deal with her when she is stricken. We really don’t know how she will react to what she’s taken. It’s a stimulant… dammit, I’ll not lie to you, it’s an aphrodisiac and for someone of Lothíriel’s past, well, we just don’t know what she will do, but we do know what she is capable of doing. We must get her out of Minas Tirith, and we may need to do this with haste. I would judge you’re the only person in this room except myself who has the strength and speed to deal with her if she becomes violent,’ he said urgently.
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Éomer had seen Lothíriel dance with Delantir before but this was different. She was overly physical with him in the moves. Delantir was struggling and was barely keeping up. Tuor left Éomer to call for his horses to be brought to him and went onto the floor to take Lothíriel off a concerned Delantir. By the time Éomer came back, Lothíriel and her uncle were twirling two strange weapons in their hands. Éomer had heard stories of these but had never seen them in action. They were castatas, two bars of wood attached by a short metal chain – a pirate’s weapon, excellent for fighting in closed quarters such as ships, or the odd tavern.
Ottakar beckoned him over. ‘King Éomer, I must apologise, this is my fault entirely and I take full responsibility. It is considered hospitable in my culture to offer this kind of drink to those who may not feel at ease. I hope you will forgive me, I meant no harm, and it would have done you no harm, merely accelerate the effects of drinking a lot of ale. But Lothíriel, well… We need to exhaust her as much as possible. Do sit yourself down, this is going to be interesting. Lothíriel challenged her uncle to the infamous Castatas Dance, which would normally be fought between two men. He taught her how to fight and he is undoubtedly the stronger but with the added stimulant, I think this could go either way,’ he said settling himself onto the cushions with equal measure of concern and excitement.
‘You said it was a dance but talk of it as a fight…’ Éomer said seeking clarification. ‘Wait and see…’ Ottakar answered. There was no music for this ‘Dance’, although Lothíriel’s bells were tinkling as she moved barefoot around the floor, swirling the castatas over her head. She had one in each hand, as did Tuor. They were both moving the castatas around their bodies in a display of showmanship, when suddenly they clamped each of the four strips of wood together in a loud crack in front of them indicating the start of the dance. The men around stomped their feet to give rhythm to the dance. Both Tuor and Lothíriel placed one of their castatas on two separate poles which were hoisted over their heads too high for either of them to reach.
Ottakar explained to Éomer that the point of the ‘Dance’ was to use their remaining castata to dislodge the one on the pole while staying out of reach of their opponent and yet maintaining the beat of the tune. You were allowed to miss four beats but no more. To keep the beat and therefore the Dance going, you were expected to engage your opponent to maintain the sound of the wood on the wood. It was essentially a trial of stamina as well as speed. If you were able to knock your opponent down for long enough to throw up your castata to dislodge the one hanging, while maintaining the beat, you would have two castatas and be in a position of dominance, at which point the dance was over, at least it was in friendly circumstances...
Lothíriel lunged first. Swirling her castata forcefully towards Tuor who defended himself easily enough, they were just warming up to the rhythm. Click, clack, click, clack, the castatas whirred around the pair, in a sequence which maintained the beat. But it seemed to Éomer that the beat varied in pace and pitch and it sounded almost like music. Ottakar explained to him that there was a set piece of initial foreplay which was why it was called a Dance and it had indeed been designed to sound like a song.
Éomer had no doubt that Tuor was the stronger, but by the Valar, Lothíriel was quick. They both looked as though they were enjoying themselves. It was breath-taking to watch as the castatas were twisted in their hands skilfully so that one or both of the wooden bars touched their opponent’s depending on whether they were holding one of the bars or the chain in between them. Éomer could see that these would be effective weapons in the hands of those wishing to cause serious damage, but they were also incredible reflex training.
These were two exceptionally trained protagonists, however he could not but fear for Lothíriel dressed as she was in a ridiculous outfit for a fight. He could only hope that the bells on her body might prove a distraction to Tuor as they tinkled at her every move. It was certainly quite disconcerting. While her uncle was doing everything to avoid hurting her, Lothíriel was not giving him the same courtesy. With a sudden release of her castata in an effort to dislodge the one hanging above her head, Lothíriel signalled the end of the Dance and the beginning of the competition.
She had grabbed Tuor’s castata and pulled him off-balance enough to force him to roll forward on the floor, and she turned to retrieve her castata which had failed to dislodge the one hanging. She needed to re-engage swiftly to maintain the beat and launched herself on to her uncle who laughed as he moved to avoid her. She had an amused smile on her face as she swung herself backwards and almost struck him on his shin, but he rapidly protected himself, thus providing her with the beat she needed to maintain. This contest continued with neither conceding and with no noticeable tiring on either side. It was mesmerising, an intense, fast, physical version of Faradin, anticipating your opponent’s moves, taking advantage of any imbalance to force them to fall away far enough to release your castata upwards to knock your second weapon off its hook. Tuor had just succeeded in forcing Lothíriel back enough to release his castata to dislodge his second, when to prevent him from catching the falling weapons, she threw her own weapon at him with the obvious intention of springing upwards to catch his two falling castatas herself.
As soon as she had thrown her castata at her uncle something in Lothíriel’s demeanour changed dramatically. She became rooted to the spot, watching her uncle fumble the catch of the castata she had thrown at him. Both falling castatas clattered to the ground in hushed expectant silence, the faces of the men around the room showing only anxious watchfulness. Tuor barked an order and Éomer witnessed the level of control he had over the men who immediately started to leave the hall, quietly with no fuss or backward glances. Ottakar laid a hand on Éomer’s arm to ask him to remain seated with him.
Lothíriel was facing them and stood closest to the main entrance out of which the men were filing but she wasn’t looking at either Éomer or Ottakar. She was looking in horror at her uncle. ‘Mother,’ she cried out in Sindarin, ‘Mother!’ Éomer realised that she was looking at her uncle but seeing her mother. What she was looking at in her mind was overwhelming her and she was shaking in a silent scream.
‘Lothíriel, come with me, my darling. I will protect you from this, come with me. We will go and find her together,’ Tuor was saying to her softly but she was not listening. The men were all out of the hall, only Ottakar, two of his closest attendants, Éomer and Tuor remained. Éomer could see that Tuor had been careful to kick the castatas away towards the departing men to pick up and take away and was strafing the room for potential weaponry. Tuor was nervous.
Lothíriel was shaking her head, screwing her eyes up, as if struggling with a memory, trying to see what she had just had in her vision moments before. ‘I can’t see, I can’t see, why can’t I see?’ she cried in frustration. She turned to see the doors closed and locked.
‘Lothíriel, let me help you. Come and sit with me,’ Tuor pleaded. She was pacing up and down frantically, muttering to herself.
Then without any warning, she ran at the corner of the hall, leapt onto a corniche which jutted out from the side and launched herself through one of the small gaps above the doorways whose shutters were open to give the room some air. Unseen by those below as she was above the awnings, she was able to slide down to one of the alleyways not protected by the men outside and she was gone.
Tuor swore loudly. He knew he would not be able to follow as he was too large to fit through the gap – none of them would. He ordered the doors to be opened and ran out onto the streets with Éomer fast behind him. ‘The men all know not to tackle her when she in this state. Be very careful Éomer, she is much stronger and faster than you think. She almost killed Imrahil once with a dagger. She doesn’t know she’s doing it, she is re-living the events of when she was captive. She has no memory of those three days and then something triggers it and she changes. It is impossible to tell what she will do but if anyone tries to stop her, she is more than capable of killing them with her bare hands. We have found it is best just to let her go and to track her. Unless she is about to kill someone or do herself harm, we do not interfere. Oh by the Valar, where has she gone? We have to get her to the ship,’ he explained to Éomer as they ran down the side streets trying to work out where she could have gone.
They heard shouting and the clatter of horses’ hooves on stone. ‘Shit,’ swore Tuor, ‘She’s found your horses.’
They both accelerated to the source of the commotion. One of Éomer’s Riders was struggling to calm a severely startled mare, the other was laid out on the floor being brought round by concerned onlookers.
‘I’m sorry, Sire, she came out of nowhere faster than an arrow and kicked Léohalf to the floor as she leapt onto Firefoot,’ the man garbled. ‘She was too quick for us. We were not expecting this, and she spooked Elflight.’ Éomer grabbed the horse off his man, quickly subduing the rearing horse. Tuor was impressed. Éomer did not wait to hear the rest of the man’s explanation.
With Tuor’s last shouts to him, ‘Do not try to restrain her, get her to Harlond. I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ ringing in his ears, he raced after her.