The Mark rolled out in waves of grass and wind, gold and green under the sweep of the autumn sky. The Golden Storm rode across it, fewer now than when they had thundered from Edoras, but no less fierce. Three Riders had fallen in their first clash, their names spoken softly at night, their gear divided among brothers, their saddles left empty. Forty-seven remained.
They rode hard by day, drilling whenever the road allowed. Rifles cracked in ordered volleys, bolts worked smooth as water, cartridges bit open with practiced teeth. They could fire from horseback at a gallop now, the rhythm of shot and reload as natural as breathing. Powder stained their hands, scarred their tunics, but they rode straighter, truer, sharper than they had weeks past.
By night, they were men again.
The fires were small, but the voices carried. Harthor held court as always, gray-bearded and sharp-eyed, pipe clenched between his teeth. He told tales that blurred truth and boasting, but the men laughed all the same. "Orcs are stupid creatures," he declared one evening, tapping the ashes from his pipe, "but never underestimate stupidity in numbers. I've seen it topple more than one proud captain."
That earned a round of chuckles, and even Edwen allowed himself a thin smile.
Torwald, silent as stone, sat sharpening his blade, scar catching the firelight. He rarely spoke, but his glances carried weight. When he did open his mouth, it was always to correct, to caution, or to drive discipline home. "Your rifles will save your life only if you respect them," he told the younger Riders flatly. "Powder's no friend if you grow careless."
Brandt, seated not far off, grinned as he oiled his rifle. "Careful? I was born careful."
That earned him a cuff from Torwald and a roar of laughter from Harthor. "Careful as a drunk goat," the old Rider barked, his eyes crinkling.
Around them, the other Riders found their voices in quieter ways. Roderic hummed old songs of the Mark while he polished his kit. Eofric, true to habit, passed around slices of dried apple, grinning as the men teased him about hoarding them. Dunwald showed off his scar — an arrow-graze across his arm — claiming it gave him the aim of two men.
Edwen sat apart, golden cloak drawn close, his Storm-breaker laid across his knees. He watched them, listening more than speaking, memorizing every face. They were no longer fifty. Already the storm had taken its tithe. He knew it would not be the last.
Harthor's voice came softer then, pitched so only Edwen could hear. "You look at them as though you'd etch their faces in stone, lad."
"I would, if I could," Edwen said. "Too many are lost to time."
"Aye," the old Rider nodded, pipe smoke curling from his lips. "That's the truth of war. The dead are never truly lost, not while the living remember. But don't weigh yourself down with them. You're their captain. They'll need you for the storms yet to come."
Torwald's voice, flat and firm, carried from the other side of the fire. "Strength, and discipline. That's all that matters."
"Discipline," Brandt said with a crooked smile, "and a bit of luck."
That drew laughter again, easing the silence that followed.
For a while, the fire crackled, and the Riders spoke of little things: homes left behind, sweethearts they might never see again, the taste of bread fresh from the ovens of Edoras. The wind carried their voices into the night, weaving them into the endless grassland, into the storm that was always building.
Forty-seven rode now. By dawn, they would ride again.
And Edwen, staring into the dying fire, knew the storm would claim more before long.
The fire had burned low when Brandt asked, "Captain… what's next for us, after Rivendell? More marching? More killing?"
The question silenced the camp for a moment. Men glanced toward Edwen, curious. He stared into the flames, then lifted his gaze slowly.
"There's more to war than blades and powder," he said. "More than horses. I've been thinking of a machine. A great machine that could change how we move, how we fight."
Harthor snorted around his pipe. "A machine? Lad, no wheel's ever outrun a horse."
Edwen smiled faintly. "Not a wheel of wood. A wheel of iron. Imagine a great engine, boiling water into steam, driving wheels bigger than a man. A train—steel wagons linked together, running on rails, carrying men and arms faster than any rider could dream. From Rohan to Rivendell in days, not weeks."
The Riders blinked.
Torwald raised a brow. "A steel horse?"
"More like a dozen horses pulling in unison," Edwen said. "Fed by fire, drinking water instead of oats."
Brandt leaned forward, eyes wide. "So you sit on it and ride it like a horse?"
Edwen laughed. "No, boy. You sit inside it. Whole companies could fit, riding under iron walls, safe from arrows."
Harthor barked a laugh, shaking his head. "You're telling me men would ride inside a fire-breathing beast? And it wouldn't eat them alive?"
The camp erupted in chuckles, a few Riders miming being swallowed by an enormous steel maw. Even Torwald's scarred mouth twitched.
"Madness," muttered Eofric, though he grinned as he passed another dried apple slice around. "A horse you can't feed hay to isn't worth trusting."
Edwen only smiled, letting their laughter roll. He didn't mind. They could joke all they wanted — he saw the vision clearly. Steel rails cutting across the plains, smoke pillars marking their passage, armies moved like the wind.
One day, he thought, it would no longer be a dream.
But for now, it was enough to share the thought, to hear laughter break the weight of silence, to see his Riders smiling in the firelight.
That night, after the laughter had faded and the camp grew quiet, Brandt slid over to Edwen's side of the fire. He spoke low, as though confessing a secret.
"Captain," he said, "were you serious? About that… train?"
Edwen turned, eyebrow raised. "Do you think I'd joke about such a thing?"
Brandt grinned sheepishly. "Well… yes. But the way you spoke—" He leaned forward eagerly. "Rails of iron, wagons carrying whole companies? That'd change everything. Imagine marching to war without blisters, without losing half our strength to hunger on the road."
Edwen allowed himself a small smile. "You catch on quicker than most."
Brandt's eyes shone with boyish excitement. "I want to see it, captain. Not just hear about it. One day, when we ride home, you'll build it, won't you?"
Edwen stared into the fire, remembering the sound of steel wheels and the hiss of steam from another life. He nodded once. "Aye. One day, Brandt. You'll ride it, I promise."
Brandt's grin widened, and he lay back against his saddle, hands behind his head. "Then I'll hold you to it."
Edwen said nothing, but his chest tightened. He had made many promises in his life. Few had survived the storm.