The morning air over Edoras was sharp and cold, the kind that woke the blood and made horses restless. On the steps of Meduseld, Edwen took his leave. His mother held the newborn close, her eyes glistening with worry and pride, while Háldan stood beside her, a silent mountain of support.
"You do not have to go yet," his mother whispered.
Edwen bent low, kissed her brow, and brushed the child's soft cheek with his hand. "If I linger, it will be harder to ride. Storms wait for no man." He turned then, voice steady though his chest ached. "Tell her she was born into a world worth fighting for. And that the storm will always return to her."
He clasped Háldan's forearm, the gesture of warriors, and Háldan returned it with a nod that said more than words. Then Edwen mounted, rifle and sword hanging at his saddle, and looked upon the fifty Riders who waited below.
"Storm and steel!" he cried, lifting the rifle high.
The horns of Rohan answered, and the company thundered forth from Edoras, cloaks snapping, hooves striking the earth like drums of war.
Their rifles rode with them, slung across saddles—long weapons of polished wood and steel, five rounds in each belly, bolts worked smooth by endless drill. The men called them Storm-breakers, half in jest, until the first volley had been fired in perfect rhythm. Then the name stuck.
Among the riders rode men of every age. Harthor the Gray-Beard, with his voice like grinding stones, shouted at a stubborn gelding until the others chuckled. "A horse has more sense than most men," he grumbled, "but twice the pride!" Torwald, scar-faced and iron-backed, said nothing, but his glare alone steadied the line. He rode just behind Edwen, as if the post was his by right. Brandt, the youngest, had the brightest grin, forever too eager with his horse and too quick with his words. Torwald cuffed him more than once for sloppy drill, but the boy only laughed, promising to do better.
These three were not the company, but they gave it a voice. The men muttered with Harthor, obeyed Torwald, and laughed with Brandt. Even in silence, their presence filled the ranks.
For nine days they rode north. Scouts rotated, fires burned low, rations stretched thin but fair. By night, Edwen drilled them still—bolts worked until hands blistered, reloads done blindfolded, volleys practiced by firelight. Brandt cursed beneath his breath each time Torwald barked at him, only to earn another cuff. Harthor laughed at them both, swearing the boy would learn or be shot by accident in drill. Their laughter was rough but real, the kind that carried men through long marches.
The storm found them in the rocky passes near the Gap of Rohan. The scouts had not even returned before black shapes poured from the cliffs, howls echoing, arrows streaking down. Orcs, scores of them, their blades glinting with malice.
"Crescent! Hold your fire!" Edwen roared, raising his sword.
The Riders wheeled as one, horses stamping, rifles lifted. Torwald's voice barked sharp commands down the line, snapping men into place. Brandt fumbled with his clip and swore, only for Harthor to growl, "Load it or die, boy!"
The orcs charged, blind to the storm about to break.
"First rank—fire!"
The volley cracked like thunder, cutting down the front line in sprays of blood. Before the echoes had faded, the second rank lifted rifles.
"Second rank—fire!"
Again the storm broke, black bodies tumbling into the dust.
The orcs howled, but the charge slowed, broken and confused. Edwen worked his bolt smoothly, casing hot in his hand, voice iron. "First rank, reload! Second rank, cover!"
Smoke stung their eyes, horses screamed, but the line held. Torwald rode the flank, steady as stone, calling men back into position when the press grew too close. Harthor loosed a laugh as he buried his axe in an orc that got too near. Brandt, face pale but steady now, squeezed off his shots in rhythm with the man beside him, teeth clenched in grim focus.
Volley after volley smashed the orc wave. Those who reached striking distance were met by flashing swords. Edwen cut down two himself, rifle butt breaking a jaw before his blade drove home. Torwald's scarred face was blank as he gutted one, then pulled Brandt back from a spear thrust that nearly ended him. Harthor bellowed curses, swinging his axe with the fury of a younger man.
The orc captain came last, towering, cleaver raised. Edwen met him in the center, their blades clashing in sparks. A shallow cut burned his cheek, but Edwen pressed in close, smashed the rifle stock across the brute's jaw, and drove his sword through its chest.
The orc line faltered. A last volley broke them, and the Riders surged forward, cutting the rest down until silence fell, broken only by the groans of the dying.
Three Riders lay still, six more wounded. The company moved among them in silence. Harthor knelt by a fallen comrade and muttered a prayer in the old tongue. Torwald pulled Brandt aside when the boy's hands shook too much to bind a wound. "Steady," he said flatly. "Or the next man dies because of you." Brandt swallowed hard, nodded, and forced his hands still.
Edwen stood among them, cloak torn, blood on his cheek. His voice carried low but steady. "They gave their lives so the storm would ride on. Remember them when you lift your rifles. Remember them when you strike your foes. The storm remembers."
The Riders struck their breastplates with clenched fists—once, twice—the sound like a heartbeat in the dark.
That night, as the pyres burned and the stars wheeled above, the campfire talk was quiet. Harthor muttered a joke too soft to laugh at, Torwald polished his blade in silence, and Brandt stared into the flames, his boyish grin gone for now. The storm had claimed its first toll.
And the storm would claim more.