"An unexpected enemy has come to the battered kingdom of Rohan and threatens everything their culture is based upon. It is the first challenge for the Mark’s new, young king after the Ring War, and with the Rohirrim greatly reduced and not knowing what lies ahead of them, Éomer cannot be certain to emerge  as the winner."

Disclaimer:

The Tolkien universe belongs to the Tolkien heirs and New Line Cinema,, and I just borrowed part of it for pure, simple entertainment purposes (mine and, hopefully, yours, too). No copyright infringement is intended, and of course, I don’t make even one Cent with this.

Rating:           PG-13 (bordering on R in a few later scenes)

Author’s Note:

I’ve been a fan of the "Lord of the Rings" now for 24 years (which makes me feel very old right now!), and the wonderful movies Peter Jackson made from the books are a fulfillment of one of my dreams, finally sparking enough creativity in me to make my first attempt at a fanfic in this realm (I’ve written plenty of fan fiction in another genre before). As I am very uncertain of the result (with English not being my first language and my probably only superficial knowledge of the "Lord of the Rings"), extensive feedback would greatly help me, whether it meant betaing, correction of obvious mistakes I might have made Tolkien-wise, etc., etc.

As it is my firm opinion that Éomer is severely under-represented fanfiction-wise, I’m making a start with him... plus Karl Urban is simply to yummy to look at. ;->

There is also a sequel (sort of) available now on this site, too, under the title “TWILIGHT OF THE GODS”, a co-production with my friend Timmy2222.

Thanks go to Tanja and Timmy2222 for their invaluable help with this story!!!

Story Note:

Post-RotK, approx. 4 months after the end of the Ring War. This is going to be a very dark, slightly AU-story. There’s no slash in this (sorry for you slash-fans out there), but there will surely "slashing".

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Chapter 1

It was a clear, but stormy day in the Riddermark. The autumn sun was blazing out of a cloudless blue sky, but it’s strength was already beginning to fade and could not warm the strong winds which raged through the broad valley on the outskirts of the Ered Nimrais that led to Edoras, bringing with them the first whispered promises of a long and frosty winter. A winter the people of Rohan were facing with greater worries than usual. The Ring War had cost them dearly in men and stock, and many a village had not been able to cultivate their fields due to the turmoil of war and resulting lack of experienced and hardened workers. Their cattle and other farm animals - sheep, pigs, goats, chicken - animals that had supplied their daily food, had been severely ravaged by orcs and the White Wizard’s Uruk-hai, as well as the assaults of the Dunlendings. Game traditionally was scarce in the plains, and there were many doubts among the elders as to how they were supposed to survive the hard winter that lay before them. Gondor would help, some were saying. Gondor and Ithilien would send them food, they would not let their old and newly-found ally starve, but even to the most optimistic ones it was clear that their ally would not be able to send them much. Too severe were its own losses. So whoever could took to the few patches of forest Rohan had to offer to hunt down the last remainders of game, and the competition among them was fierce. Whole villages were left bereft of grown-up men while they went across the land in a desperate search for food. Unguarded. Open for attack to any foe who dared to set foot into the Mark despite the fierce reputation of its people.

            Among the many parties crossing the open lands, one tiny figure on a grey horse was seen racing with great haste about the plains to Edoras, dwarfed by the towering snow-capped mountains. The grey was dark with sweat, its breath a white cloud in the chilly air as it stretched under its light rider. It was exhausted, but upon the pleading touch of its rider’s hand and an urgent squeeze of its thighs, the young mare responded with one last mighty effort and accelerated even more as it was running up the hill to the Golden Hall.

***

            “Your men are ready, my King.” Gamling, head of the royal guard and faithful servant of the late King Théoden and now his successor and nephew King Éomer of Rohan, was watching from behind as the young king threw the heavy leather cloak with the cape of wolf fur he had handed him over his shoulders and spotted his gloves on the nearby table. “They will be waiting for you in the stables. Your horse is also being readied as we speak.”

            “Very well, Gamling.”

Éomer found that he could hardly await to leave the Golden Hall. This hunting party would be his first opportunity in weeks to finally take to the wild and exciting life under open skies again he had known from childhood on. He had been missing it intensively. For months after his coronation his kingly duties had kept him at Meduseld and in it’s near vicinity, making all necessary arrangements for the change of power in the Riddermark. Meetings with the many elders and majors of the villages in his realm and the few remaining marshals of the Rohirrim. All of them were eager to swear their oaths to their new king and at the same time made sure they gave him a list of their various needs. One thing was found on all of them: Food. Supplies for the long stern winter they were facing. Éomer had heard each of them out and nodded to all of their requests, inwardly knowing all too well he was not in a position to promise them anything. As it were, the supplies in Edoras were as low as in the remainder of his kingdom, and the next promising spot to lead a hunting party to was a hard three day’s ride away in the Eastfold. To hear the concerns of his people all day long without being able to supply any relief to them had left the young king frustrated and feeling powerless, a feeling he greatly despised and was not used to.

It was with great relief then that he heard the news brought by one of the scouts he had sent away a week earlier after his return. It looked as if they had found a pocket of forest which the orcs and Uruk-hai had missed in their rage, and deer, elk and wild boar were plentiful there and just waiting for them to be picked. If they were lucky, they would even find one of the rare wild Eastfold oxen. One of them would be enough to feed all of Edoras for at least three weeks.

Éomer was looking forward to a fight. All that rage and frustration over not being able to help his people out and being confined to the luxurious, but nevertheless limited, halls of his ancestors needed an outlet, and exercise and sword practice simply could not provide it.

            “You have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time, have you not, my Lord?” Gamling said with a slight, understanding smile which deepened as Éomer turned his head in surprise, his dark eyebrows drawn together.

            “Is it so obvious? Or - wait...” The trace of a smirk appeared in the corner of his mouth as he stuffed a few more of his belongings into a bag. “You have known my sister and me far too long not to know.”

“Indeed. Both of you always needed the wide open skies. I remember how hard it was to keep the two of you in Edoras when you were but children. There was more than one occasion on which we had to turn all of the city upside down to find you while the troubled king was waiting. Most memorably of course the incident where you took your then only ten year old sister on a day ride into the mountains.”

Éomer chuckled to himself as he reached for his leather gloves.

“I shall never forget the lecture he taught me when we returned. All of Edoras must have heard it.” He raised one eyebrow.“ But Éowyn enjoyed our ride so much, I believe the trouble afterwards was well worth it.” He paused for a moment, lost in memory. Once again, Gamling seemed to be able to look right into his head and read the melancholic thoughts there.

“We all miss her, my Lord. Her laughter was always a welcome, warming sound and sight in these halls.” He stopped himself, thinking of how rare the sight of the White Lady laughing  - or only smiling - actually had been in those last, desperate years of Gríma Wormtongue’s secret reign, and felt forced to say something uplifting to chase the bitter thought away. “But we all shall meet her again when she comes to your wedding next summer. Now, I suppose that thought should be suited to conquer any feelings of loss and sadness you carry around with you.”

“Indeed.” Another thought the king refused to engage himself in for the time being. As a sign for the newly-welded alliance with Gondor and King Elessar, he was going to marry Lothíriel of Dol Amroth on Midsummer of next year. It was a marriage out of duty, not of love. Apart from Aragorn’s wedding, he had not yet quite made the acquaintance of his soon-to-be queen. She had been described to him as beautiful, delicate and almost elven-like, something he - coming from a people of peasants and warriors - could not figure for himself at all. It was the usual way for monarchs to marry, yet Éomer dreaded it. Pushing the thought away yet again, he slipped into his gloves with more force than necessary. “Thank you, Gamling. I appreciate your efforts at lightening my mood. I know it must be hard for you, too, having lost my uncle and now having to handle his difficult nephew.”

The guard shook his head in negation, a calm, content expression on his face.

 “You have nothing to apologise for, my lord. I understand that your new duties would sometimes feel like a prison to you... Maybe it will help you to know that the people think of you as a worthy king so far.”

For a fleeting moment, Éomer looked very young, - which, at age 28 - he still was, and intimidated by the shadow of his great predecessors and expectations his people had concerning his reign, but then the firmness returned to his dark eyes, and he gave the guard a little, appreciative nod.

“You seem to know a lot about the people.”

“ As your counsellor, is it not my task? It is always important to know what your people say about you, and I am glad I can provide you with their favourable words. There was hardly a day when your uncle did not ask me for them, too. A great ruler distinguishes himself by not having his people serve him, but serving his people, and to hear their voice, he needs many ears. I am providing but two of them.”

Éomer’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and made him flinch.

“He was lucky to have you, Gamling. Just like I am. You served my uncle well, and I would be honoured to share his experience.” Éomer adjusted his belt and the cloak and turned around in search for his bow. “Even if our relationship is different now from what it has been, I want you to always tell me your true opinion in any business I bring to you. Never tell me what I want to hear, or what you think I want to hear, just because I am your king now. You know of my reputation of being stubborn and hot-headed, so I might need to hear wise words repeatedly and forcefully to really listen to them.” He looked up in time to see his advisor’s smile deepen.

“I shall remember your words when the occasion arises. As for the time being, my opinion is that you are fulfilling your duties as deems fit for an heir of Eorl. Except for this hunting party, maybe...” He interrupted himself, but it was already too late. The good-natured look had fallen from his king’s face and been replaced by the determined expression Gamling was familiar with. It usually meant that a discussion was about as useful as running headlong into a stonewall. “Putting yourself in danger to feed your people is a noble deed, but not expected of you. You have enough men under your command who would be willing to go instead -“

“But-“

“-but since it could also very well be the last opportunity for you to ride out and escape your duties for a few days before spring, nobody in his right mind would attempt to convince you otherwise. It would mean that, in addition to the cold, darkness and storms outside, we would have to live with a very grumpy ruler inside these halls for at least three months. Nobody would wish for this to happen.” He silenced and held his breath, praying inwardly he had not gone too far as he felt the king’s piercing stare on himself. Éomer was known to be open for a brand of straight-forward, rough humour, but maybe... The moment stretched and became uncomfortable, as Éomer’s expression was absolutely unreadable, but then it slowly turned into a wicked, knowing smirk. Gamling dared to breathe again.

“I see my words have already done their work, Gamling. What a fool I was by thinking I would have to tell you explicitly how to handle me.” He took his quiver from a hook in the wall and slung it, then went for the bow, briefly casting a glance back at his still waiting advisor. “But rest assured, there has been no deer or elk I came across in all of my hunts which ever posed a threat to me.”

“I was more thinking of the Eastfold oxen and wild boars, my king, but now I am convinced that you could kill them with your bare hands - or a mere glance.”

They laughed both, then Éomer nodded.

            “Go to Erkenbrand then and tell him I shall meet him at the market square. No need to meet in the crowded stables.”

            “Good hunting to you, my king. May your party be blessed with success and may all of you return safely.” Gamling bowed and retreated out of the dressing room.

Éomer nodded his appreciation and - after a short moment of lost contemplation - headed over to where his sword expectantly hung in its sheath. Smiling to himself in anticipation, he picked them up and slung them. The familiarity of their weight felt good. He was a warrior, a man of action. Sitting around on a chair, even a throne, all day long simply was not something he was comfortable with. Théoden had been a very active ruler in his time, and he planned to be the same. For a moment, his eyes fell on the banner on the wall directly in front of him, and he paused, taken in by the image of the white horse on emerald green. The kingly banner of the House of Eorl. It was ancient, and a long line of kings before him had carried it into battle. Now it was his time to do it justice. An intimidating thought, but Éomer was fiercely determined never to fail his people. It was an oath he had sworn to himself the first time when he became a soldier at the age of 16. He had renewed it during the time when his uncle was slipping into darkness through the devilry of Gríma Wormtongue and the White Wizard, and once again when he was banished from the Kingdom, protecting the land with the few loyal men that were left to him even though he wasn’t entitled to it anymore.

It was no conscious act that made him stretch out his arm and touch the ancient velvet with his fingertips for good luck, lost in thought. Finally the moment passed, and he drew his sword and went through a few fluid exercise moves. It felt good in his hands. Ready.

‘Let the wild boars come,’ he thought “After Helm’s Deep, the Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate, there is nothing left in all of Middle Earth that could terrify me.’

 Re-sheathing the steel blade, Éomer gave the room one last thorough glance and decided he was ready. The vibrating sound of his confident steps echoed in the corridor as he made his way to the Great Hall, from where a disturbance could be heard. Four voices. Gamling and two of his door-wardens. And a higher, breathless, female one, yelling in the rolling rhythm of a particularly old Rohirric dialect only incorporated by the nomadic herdsmen of Rohan these days.

“The king! Please, I must speak to the king!”

The sound of that voice was familiar, even if he could not put a name on it, yet. But if he ever heard urgency and desperation in a voice, it was in this. Something bad must have happened somewhere in his kingdom. Electrified by the thought of what it might be, Éomer fastened his steps and entered the Great Hall.

“What is going on?”

The continued disturbance had attracted the attention of other guards and servants, and it was only in the middle of the crowd that the king caught a glimpse of actual fighting going on. A small figure in a wide cape of scruffy-looking fur was wrestling with his guards, the difference of their built making the fight an absurd sight. By all rights, she should not have had even a remote chance of freeing herself, but upon his puzzled shout and the frozen pause that followed it, the tiny figure freed herself from the guards’ grip and flung herself at him with a force born out of desperation.

“Éomer! Éomer! We need your help! You must hear me out!” She crashed against his chest, a whirlwind of fur, blond, matted hair, ragged clothes smelling of horse and sweat and a dirt and tear-streaked face she now raised to meet his questioning stare as he seized her sticky, slick wrists. Recognition struck him like lightning, even though it must have been four years since he last saw her, and she had been just a girl then. One of the nomads who lived with and took care for the great herds of the Rohirrim war-horses. He remembered she had been there on the day of the ritual, watching with pride the great grey stallion she had helped to raise, his beloved Firefoot, choose him over all the warriors who had been standing in the middle of the herd, waiting to have the horses they would go to war with to approach them. Looking happy for him. She could have been only 12 by then.

“Elana?”

“Éomer! Please, don’t throw me out! There is something very ill going on in the Mark these days, and we need your help!”

Éomer felt the questioning stare of the Royal Guard on himself and, letting go of one of the girl’s wrists, held out his hand in a calming gesture to keep them back. Another stern look was enough to remind the other onlookers that they had other business to tend to which he expected them to take care of - now. Silently they left, but the whispers sure enough started to flow through the vast hall as soon as they believed themselves to be out of earshot. Éomer lowered his hand - and frowned as he recognised the dark red stains on his palm.

“What is it, Elana? You are hurt!” He turned her still gloved hands in his and realised they were saturated with blood. “What happened?”

Her pale blue eyes met his with a look of utter desperation in them.

“It is nothing. I am not important. But they are killing our horses, Éomer! They are killing our great herd! Please, you must help us!” Her intensive gaze held his for a moment longer, a moment of stunned shock, before her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the king’s arms.

***

            “Here, my lord, lay her here. I will send for the healer at once.” Gamling pointed at the bed in the guest chamber and waved at one of the children he could see sticking their heads out in curiosity from behind a pillar. The children of Edoras were educated by the elders, and often sent to the Great Hall for a variety of light chores which taught them about the way of Rohan life. Taking care of the horses, saddles and bridles, stables, running errands, helping in the kitchen, cleaning... the variety was endless, and the children, while at first intimidated by the glory of the ancient hall of their forefathers, grew to enjoy their tasks often to a point where they came to perform them even on days when they were relieved from duty.

            One of the smaller girls took the task as hers and approached.

            “My lord?”

            “Éara, it is?”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “Go find Yalánda and send her here. Then go to the kitchen and ask them for bread, broth and tea, and bring it to us.” Gamling watched the girl take off like a playful foal, thankful for her important duty, then turned around to watch his king approach the lair and carefully lower his burden onto the sheets.

            It seemed to Éomer that the girl barely weighed more than a feather, and only as he rose again did he notice her pale, gaunt look and the dark circles under the still closed eyes. A quick survey showed no injuries except for her hands, so little question remained as to what had caused her to faint.

            “It must be exhaustion. Her kin dwells somewhere further south in the valleys of the Ered Nimrais at this time of year. She must have been riding hard for days to bring us these news. Look!” Carefully, he lifted one of her hands and pulled what was left of the glove from her fingers to reveal an open, bleeding wound where the reins had cut into her palm. He laid it back onto her stomach and met his advisor’s worried glance. Behind him, the girl moaned, but did not wake.

“You know her, my lord?”

“She belongs to the herdsmen. She was but a child when I saw her last, but -“ He interrupted himself. “She still is.” Inhaling heavily, Éomer recalled the girl’s last words before she had sunken into his arms. “’They’ are killing our horses, she said. ‘They’?” He looked up. “Who could she mean? Orcs? There are no orcs left in the Riddermark. We killed them all. No orc has been spotted in the entire kingdom for months!”

            “I do not know, my lord. But it troubles me. Orcs we could handle. But if it is some other fell creature -“

            “She said ‘they’. Dunlendings? Could it be them? I would have believed we drove them away once and for all.”

            “We do not know, my lord,” a weak voice came from behind. Éomer turned and saw the girl had wakened. “We neither saw nor heard anything during that night. But when we returned to the meadow to look for our horses four days ago, the ground was saturated with their blood, and there were dead and slashed bodies everywhere for as far as the eye could see, and the few they did not kill yet are wild with terror and unattainable even for us.”

            The sound of her words stunned the king.

            “’The few they did not kill’? How many are left?” 

            “No more than seventy, my lord. They are almost all gone. It was a bloodbath none of us has ever seen, not even during the war. The stench of death is hanging over our valley like a black cloud. We would have burned the carcasses, but we hoped the Rohirrim would know who it was by looking at them. Please, Éomer - my king - you have seen our herd in all its glory. You ride one of our steeds. The sight of what is left of it would bring tears even to your eyes. This is our darkest hour. You must help us!”

            Éomer stared at her, but could not bring himself to envision the image she was describing. When last he had been to the great herd, their number must have been over one thousand. Of course this had been well before the Ring War, and the numerous orc-raids, the battle of Helm’s Deep and, at last, the great battle of the Pelennor Fields around Minas Tirith had taken a heavy toll on both men and beasts, but only seventy... left of 1,000?

            His blood turned to ice water as he followed that thought all the way through to its ugly end: Yes, they had two more main herds, one in the far Westfold, the other one in the very East, but none had been as large as the one Elana’s tribe was guarding, not nearly, and theirs was the only one left where the blood of the Mearas was still running strong. What if their line ended here? What if the killing spread into the other parts of the Mark, as well? Whoever was doing it, men, orc or beast, wouldn’t they move on once they had destroyed everything in one place?

Without horses, their culture would crumble. They relied on them to cultivate their fields. They relied on them for the hunt. They relied on them for trade, to cover the vast spaces of their land. And they relied on them in battle. Without horses, they were defenceless. From the 6000 Rohirrim on the Pelennor, not even one sixth had returned. Around 900 mounted warriors was everything that was left of Rohan’s once mighty army. Even without someone going around killing their horses, the kingdom would need years to recover from the blows it had received.

“My lord?” The youth sat up and seized his hand. “Please...”

Éomer came to his feet as he heard footsteps approach the room from the Great Hall and looked down on their unexpected guest.

“Do not be troubled, Elana of the herdsmen. Your decision to come here was the right one. I will not allow such villainy to go on inside our borders. Our herds, and especially yours, are our livelihood, and we will protect them. Whoever brought that grief upon us shall soon wish he had never set foot into the Riddermark.” He turned to the patiently waiting Gamling. “Get me Erkenbrand and Éothain and tell them to meet me in the hall. We need to hold a counsel.”

“I presume that the hunt is called off then, my lord?”

“You presume wrongly. Winter is approaching fast, and we cannot delay it. We will have to divide our forces. To find the best way, I need to speak with my Marshals. Bring them to me.”

***

            It was afternoon before Gamling returned from the counsel to look after their unexpected guest. To his surprise, he found the chamber he had brought her to empty and the sheets of the bed exchanged. Confused, he turned around and walked with great strides back into the main hall where he found a group of children sitting on one of the benches and listening intently to the ancient tale of Eorl the Young and his mighty steed Felaróf - told by their guest. Amused and relieved, he crossed his arms and stood in the shadow of the closest pillar, listening to the girl’s rolling dialect.

“But he vowed to avenge his father and set on a long hunt for the horse, and all the people of Rohan expected him to kill it. But when he finally had cornered the great stallion, a miracle happened...”

“’Come hither, Mansbane,’ he spoke, ‘and get a new name!’ And the horse looked towards Eorl and came and stood before him, and Eorl said: ‘Felaróf I name you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life’s end.’” Gamling stepped out of the shadow and saw the children’s heads turning his way, their eyes growing huge. Only rarely did they have the opportunity to hear one of the ancient stories of the Mark from the chief of the Royal guard. Elana took up his slight smile. She was a commoner, but their love for their horses tied them all together.

“Then Eorl mounted him, and Felaróf submitted; and Eorl rode him home without bit or bridle, and he rode him in that fashion ever after. The horse understood all that men said, though he would allow no man but Eorl to mount him. He was the first of the Mearas, the wisest and strongest of horses,” she ended the story, delighted by the guard’s participation. “You have looked for me, my lord?”

“You appear to be better.” One stern glance at the children told them that the hour of Rohan lore was over, and they went away, no doubt replaying the story they had just heard and passing it on to their friends.

“I am. I just needed to rest, and a little food your servants were friendly enough to offer me. I am rather embarrassed I came to the Golden Hall in such a wild fashion, fainting in the king’s arms, but I had been riding for three days and three nights with only little rest, and no food for the last day. I did not dare to stop.”

Gamling pointed his chin at her dressed hands.

“What about your wounds? Did Yalánda take good care of them, my child?”

She shrugged.

“It is nothing. They will be healed in a few days. But please, my lord, do you have news for me? What will the king do? Will he help us?”

“He will indeed, Elana of the herdsmen.” Gamling’s gaze went over the hall’s entrance, through which sunlight was flooding in. He motioned her to follow him outside. “As a former Marshal of the Rohirrim, the king knows better than most how dependent we are of the service you and your kind supply. Our herds are our livelihood, and our first duty must be to protect them. Tomorrow at the first light of day, the king and an éored of twenty will ride out to meet your people. You may follow them as soon as you have fully recovered.”

The girl’s face lit up, and it was not only the golden light of the afternoon sun as they stepped outside.

“The king will ride with us?”

“Aye, child, he will. Your plight appears to be a very personal thing for him.”

“I shall be ready to go with them by tomorrow,” Elana beamed, excited. That her people were important enough to the king to ride out with his own éored... “All I need is a good night’s rest. My lord...  I do not know how to thank you. This is so much more than I could have hoped for.“ She started to sink to her knees, but Gamling would not allow her to.

“I am not the king, child, and not even Éomer would accept a bow from you. It was a courageous thing you did, that long, hard ride all by yourself to alert us.”

“How could I not go?” She turned away, the shadow of memory passing over her young, gaunt face. “I love our horses. I raised many of them myself. It aches me more than I can say to think of what happened, and if, by coming here, I can prevent the same fate for the others, it will be the best deed I ever did.” She swallowed, her eyes taking in the beauty of the wide valley. “I just wished there were more left.” A gust of wind blew her matted hair into her face, and she smoothed them away, noticing the line of riders and wagons slowly making their way eastward far below them. “The king looked ready to leave this morning. I hope I did not keep him from some other urgent errand.”

“There can be no errand more urgent than yours, child. And there are enough riders in this city to fulfil more than one.” Gamling’s gaze glided over the stables. “Your mare has been taken good care of. She should be able to carry you when you head back with the king’s men tomorrow. If you want to, you can go and visit her now.”

Her eyes widened.

“I - I would be allowed to see the royal stables? But -“ She plugged at her stained tunic. “-the way I look -“

With a mild smile, the guard shoved her gently in the direction of the stairs.

“I honestly do not believe the horses will care, young lady.”

***

            It was early morning when they left Edoras. The sun had barely begun its ascent in the cloudy sky, and there were only few people to be seen as the king’s éored thundered down the hill on its way to the old path into the White Mountains. Twenty they were, under the king’s and his first marshal Éothain’s command,  their faces stern and determined, clad in full mail, richly embroidered cuirasses, some carrying shields and spears that reflected the sunlight, some only armed with their swords. They were an intimidating sight to all people they passed. Twenty battle-experienced warriors, determined to set an end to the gruesome occurrences they had learned about, and a scrawny, small figure on a light-boned dark-grey mare in their midst, moving at a pace none other than a Rohan horse could have matched over the long distance that lay yet before them. The thunder of their hooves still reverberated from the mountains even after they had passed out of sight.     

***

            It was already dark when they reached their night camp, a frequently used, well-equipped cave set in a winding, narrow gorge shortly behind the first mountain pass. Everything they needed for a comfortable night despite the chilly autumn temperatures was here. Dry wood for a warming fire, sheltered and easily defendable sleeping places, some basic supplies like water and dried bread and fruits, and even a separate, wide cave with straw-covered ground for their horses, easily accessible through the main cave. 

Éomer was glad to finally take off his helmet, and he would be at least equally glad to shed the rest of the heavy armour he was wearing. He was fatigued, but it was a good fatigue. They had covered a lot of ground today. It felt good to be in motion again, to be active, instead of having to linger in the Great Hall, listening to complaints and requests all day long. Yet, before he would be able to sit down and have a cup of wine and some food at the campfire with his éored, there was one unspoken rule to follow, first. A rule that was substantial to the kingdom of Rohan, an ancient law: ‘Take care of your horse, first. Take off his burden, feed him and let him rest, and he will thank it with strength, courage and heart.’

Nobody ever second-guessed that law, and Éomer wasn’t about to, either, as he removed the artfully crafted saddle and  blanket from his steed’s back and laid them to the side, just like the rest of his men did further back. But reaching for the bridle, he encountered difficulties as the grey snorted and threw its head up, pushing against it’s rider with the weight of it’s muscular body.

            “Stop it, mad horse, or I shall leave that bridle on you!” He pushed back, to no avail, and sighed to himself. “I am beginning to think that it must be the blood of a mule, not meara blood, that flows in your veins. Will you hold still now?” Playfully, he slapped the great stallion on the nose and ducked the quick attempt at retribution as Firefoot’s teeth clapped shut only inches over his right shoulder. “You!”

An all-too-well-known prickle in the back of his neck caused him to swivel. Sure enough, he was being watched. The girl. Éomer had no idea for how long she had been standing there, watching their by now standard play, but a notion told him that the sight of it must have been less than kingly. He coughed, feeling caught, and tried to compensate for it with a stern voice.

“Elana.” A hard slap on Firefoot’s neck brought the stallion to his senses. “What can I do for you?” He looked back to where the first of his men were lighting the fire. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the grey with a notion of pride gleaming in them.

“He has grown since I last saw him. He has become a mighty horse. One that befits the king of the Mark.” She dared to take a step closer. “I hope he has served you well so far, my lord.”

“Aye, he has.” Éomer followed her gaze and placed a hand on his steed’s neck, letting it rest there, while the other finally removed the bridle. “He appears to have his own head at times, but then, so do I. We are fit for each other. I would not exchange him for another, not even Shadowfax, were he still available.” Bowing to pick up a bundle of old straw from the ground, he cast a side glance and saw the girl’s face flush with pride.

“He was the first foal I hand-raised. I was nine at the time.” Her gaze rested lovingly on the grey before she finally acknowledged the king’s presence with a small turn of the head. “Do you think he remembers me, too?”

Rohan war-horses usually only suffered their own riders to approach and touch them, but the stallion appeared to be completely relaxed in her presence. Éomer felt he could let her try, and motioned her over. Carefully, she followed and held out her hand for Firefoot to sniff, almost laughing with joy as she felt the warm breath from his nostrils on her palm. Slowly, she placed her fingers on his nose and let them move in tiny circles over the smooth skin, something he had always greatly enjoyed when he was still with her and her tribe. And again, after all the years of war and battle, the grey closed his eyes in delight and allowed her to touch him, as Éomer watched in surprised wonder.

“It appears that he does.” Smiling, he offered her the handful of straw he had picked up to rub Firefoot dry with. “You want to take care of him?”

She beamed, her fingers subconsciously caressing an old scar on the stallions brow.

“I would love to, my lord.” Passing under the horses head, she accepted the straw and began to methodically wipe its torso, content with her task. “Thank you.”

Éomer watched her for moment longer, then turned to look back at the men, who were bursting into laughter further back in the close-by cave. They had already assembled around the slowly catching fire and were looking his way with bemused expressions.

“I will let you know when the food is ready. Tomorrow is going to be another long day, and the day after, just as well. We are going to need our strength.” He walked off.

***

The sun had already set behind the mountains when - on the third day of their travel - they arrived in the gorge that had once been the sheltered winter retreat of the herds for ages. Here, they were protected from the icy gusts that otherwise ravaged the plains and challenged every man and beast that dared to live in the wild during the dark season of year. It was a peaceful, protected place, where even the grass was still green and neither sunburnt by the merciless summer-sun, nor faded to a lifeless pale green-brown by the first frosts, and yet an oppressive silence hang over it like the shadow of a dark cloud. There were no voices to be heard, no rustling of leaves, not even the singing of birds. It was as if they had entered a lifeless, forsaken place.

            They approached the ring of tents at the end of the gorge, set there shortly before the mountain walls retreated to form a long, sheltered valley at the north-end, in a long line, single-file. No one was to be seen. They rode in silence, paying tribute to the oppressive atmosphere and the prominent stench of death and decay, which became stronger and more stronger with every step that they took and planted a cold dread into their hearts... and the hearts of their steeds.

            Éomer found it difficult to force Firefoot on. The great grey which had fearlessly carried him into battle at Helm’s Deep, against the onslaught of the mumakil on the Pelennor Fields and a vast army of all fell creatures this earth held, now shuddered between his thighs, and from it’s flared nostrils came a hard breath that could not be the result of their long ride. They had proceeded slowly over the last few leagues, not wanting to exhaust their steeds yet when an unknown peril was still lying before them. No doubt the grey both smelled and sensed the massacre that awaited them further down the valley. It came to a sudden halt, both front legs rammed into the ground, and neighed. It would not go further.

            Éomer gestured his éored to stop and as he looked back, he found that his men had the same difficulties with their mounts. Placing a hand on Firefoot’s neck, he felt the shudders even more clearly, and it troubled him deeply. Never before had he felt such a terror in his equine ally. Upon the sound of steps coming up to him from behind, he heard his marshal Éothain’s voice.

            “The horses are not willing to go further, my lord. We could force them to, but I rather not. They are clearly terrified of something.”

            “It is the smell.” Éomer had detected the small group of people next to the tents. They were looking their way, but did not move closer. “The smell of their dead. Surely they already know much better what happened down there than we do. I do not blame them for not wanting to see this, but we need to know.” He ran his hand over his steed’s neck and whispered a few soothing words in the accent of the herdsmen into the stallions twitching ears. Urged him silently on with the pressure of his thighs.

            “I will ride ahead and let my people know of their great guest.” Elana nodded at him and forced her mare into a gallop for the last, short distance.

Éomer tried again. At last, the grey took a hesitant step. Another one. The shuddering worsened, but it did what it’s rider was asking of him. Slowly, they approached the waiting people. It was a short line, no more than eight, children mostly, between five and fifteen summers old, now joined by an old man who exited the first tent after their young guide’s excited shouts. More faces appeared, sceptically and mistrustfully peeping from the other tents at the approaching riders. Hardened and weathered by the elements and life in the wild they looked, their long, flaxen hair either flowing behind them in the mild breeze or being tied into braids. They were dressed in stained woollen rags, their faces dirty, but their pale blue eyes were directed at Éomer in fierce inquisitiveness as they all craned their necks back to look up to him and his men as they came to a halt. Their king had come. But would he be able to help them against the evil which had befallen them?

            The old man they had seen first, his back slightly bowed from old age, his face tiered and dreary-looking, stepped forward and sank to his knees, a gesture which was instantly followed by the children, which nonetheless gaped at the éored’s regal outfit from under their eyebrows. Never had they seen more impressive guests.

            “Westu Éomer hál! Hail, Éomer-king. My name is Fréod, son of Farudwýne. The people of the Great Herd greet you and thank you for your coming." Slowly coming to his feet, he cast Elana a quick glance which told Éomer he was probably related in one way or another to her and was thankful for her safe return, even if where she was now was not a safe place to be. The king nodded his appreciation and, giving a sign to his éored, slipped out of his saddle.

            “Thank Elana for her endurance and courage. The way to Edoras is long and, as it seems, still unsafe. We came as fast as we could. What news do you have for us?”

            “Alas, very bad ones. There has been another attack just last night.” The soldiers’ lips became a grim line. “We lost another twenty to thirty horses... and our two guards.”

            “What? Who was it?” The girl’s face became ashen as she dismounted and came to a stop in front of Fréod, pleadingly taking up his hand: “Grandfather, please, you must tell me!”

            “Élana, sweet child -“ He tried to embrace her, but she kept him at armlength, pressing his hand in distress.

            “Tell me, Grandfather!”

            “Galdur und Bèorling.” He did not dare look into her anxious eyes, but did not have to, since she finally allowed him to pull her close as she buried her face on his shoulder in desperation, silent sobs beginning to shake her thin frame. “I am sorry, child.”

            It was an awkward moment. Éomer was at a loss for words. He had believed for war and sorrow to be over for his people, but maybe there would never be a moment where all evil would be truly defeated and the land safe. A moment longer he let the girl and the old man grieve, keeping his head bowed in respect to the dead, the only sounds the breathing of their horses, the creaking and low clanging of their bridles and saddles, and the sobbing of the mourning people in front of him and further back in the tents. A side glance over to the entrance of the valley showed him it had already filled with shadow, and that daylight would soon desert them, so he cleared his throat and spoke up with a grave voice.

            “I am sorry for your loss, Fréod, son of Farudwýne. If it is in our power, we shall put an end to it this very night. Can you tell us what we are up against?”

            The old man shook his head.

            “I wish that I could. But yet again, we did not see them. We only heard the death-cries of our horses at the far end of the valley in the middle of the night. After what had happened six nights ago, we dared not to go there to find out. And in the morning, we found the two men we had left as guards dead and horribly slashed. There is no one and nothing left to tell us who our foe is.”

            “Men or beast? This at least you should be able to tell.”

            “I am afraid I can not. I have never seen anything like this in my life, and I spent its entirety in the wild and know how to read traces. The grass is so thoroughly trampled and the ground beneath it so firm, you cannot find a single clear trace. As for the carcasses...” He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened as he recalled what he had seen that morning. “Go and look for yourselves. The horses have been mauled and slashed, and it would appear as if wild beasts, wolves or wargs, perhaps, did it, yet I have never seen a pack of wolves inflict so much damage on so many horses. And you know the courage of our horses, my king. They have meara-blood in their veins. They would have stood against a pack of wolves. Maybe they would have lost a few among them, but over three-hundred... no.” He shook his head and followed Éomer’s grim look towards the valley of death. “Look for yourself, my lord. Maybe you will be able to read something out of the bodies that we have been unable to see. Yet make sure you return ere the daylight is gone, because it is always at night that they come. And you must be weary and hungry from your long ride, too. We do not have much here, and I am certain you have much better at Edoras, but we would feel very honoured if we could share our food with you. I will go immediately and tell the lads to go and roast a pig.”

            “We came to help, not to rob you of your scarce winter supplies, Fréod,” Éomer rejected, raising his hand. “Your offer is generous, yet we cannot accept it. We know how little food there is available these days in the Mark. We brought our own supplies with us. Let us share a cup of wine when we return, if you will, but you will need that pig to feed your people ere the spring sets in.” He turned to face his men. “I want five men to accompany me when I go in. The rest stays here, tends to our horses and sees if we can help these people in any other fashion. If we are watched, I do not want them to know yet how many we are.” On second thought, he opened his cuirass and shed it along with the chain mail he was carrying. He also took off the helmet with the white horsetail and removed the artfully crafted saddle and the royal blanket from Firefoot’s back to lay everything on the ground. “I also do not want them to know who has come to avenge their deeds. Éothain, Berond, Folca, Hámas and Léod, you come with me.”

            The named followed his example to shed their armour and strip their appearance of all tell-taling things, so that they would enter the valley looking like commoners. Satisfied, Éomer turned to the herdsman once more.

            “I know it will be hard for you to see the wake of this bloodbath once again, but in order to put an end to it, a guide would be most helpful to us.”

            “I will come with you.” The girl freed herself of her grandfather’s arms. Dread of the task she appointed herself to shone in her eyes, yet she had decided that she would not falter. She wanted this nightmare to end, so it had to be done. “Even if my heart freezes at the thought, I will endure it for the sake of those which are left. Yet I cannot force my mare to carry me there. It would be asking too much of her. She is still young, and not battle-hardened like your own steeds. She never smelled blood or heard the death cries of her kind before until six days ago, when she only barely escaped the massacre herself.”

            “Then ride with me.” The king had already remounted his great grey and offered the girl a hand. She accepted it and slid into place behind him, feeling comfortable on the bare horseback.  Éomer  turned the stallion in the direction of the valley entrance. He still sensed his horses’ reluctance, but knew it would carry him there nevertheless. “We will be back soon for that cup of wine you offered us, Fréod. Until then, I appoint you to take good care of our horses. Most of them were raised here, too.” He pressed his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and forced him into a slow gallop.

***

            The shadows had already swallowed the entire valley when they entered, but yet it was still light enough to show the riders the full extent of the doom they had so far only heard about. Yet, as the king reined in his steed to slow him down to a walk and, finally, to a halt, Éomer found that there were no words that could describe what lay before them. He had seen plenty of the carnage of war on Rohan soil and in Gondor, had experienced the stench of blood and decay many times before and walked over battlefields among thousands of dead, yet this was a sight which was somehow worse in a way he could hardly describe.

It was unexpected, not the scene of a great battle where you came prepared and would not allow to let the feel of it get to you. Yet what they were seeing here was nothing else than the slaughter of innocent creatures at a number too great for his mind to comprehend, even if his eyes showed him the carcasses strewn on the meadow for as far as he could see. Grey, white, bay and dark silhouettes lying unmoving on the ground, some great, some small, stallions, mares and foals alike, reduced to dead flesh devoid of life. Many forms were twisted into positions that were too terrible to look at, their still forms slashed and laid open, dark stains marring their hides and drenching the grass on which they lay. Among them and on top of them, scavenging birds picked at the open wounds, ravens with blood-encrusted heads hopping around on the once proud creatures, fighting for the best pieces, and yet even more circling the sky above them waiting to be let in on the feast. Their greedy cries and the flapping of their wings  as well as the buzzing of myriads of flies were the only sounds to be heard in the leaden silence. And over all hung the pungent stench of death.

 The enormity of what had happened in this valley went straight through Éomer’s defences and turned him to stone. On his back, he felt the silent sobbing of their young guide, but it seemed to come to him from a great distance, just like the anguished snort of his steed as it thrust it’s head down in protest. Instinctively, he lowered his hand to the quivering grey’s neck, an unconscious gesture. Only dimly was he aware of his men coming to a stop beside him, neither of them able to utter a word, their own steeds neighing and attempting to back away from the scene against their riders’ will. The moment stretched and lingered, holding them captives in it’s terrible prison, until the girl’s cry woke them out of their stupor.

“Aéras! Oh no!” She slipped from the grey’s back and ran over to the still form of a once white horse which lay in the middle of the meadow.

Éomer turned his head to meet Éothain’s gaze and find out how his men were taking it. His marshal’s frozen face was a mirror of his own feelings. For a long time, there did not seem to be enough air for them to draw a breath and form words from.

“Whoever did this, they will pay like no one has paid before,” a deep voice came from behind him, shaking with both terror and fury. Éomer recognised it as Léod’s and turned around. The young, grave scout’s keen eyes were already fixed on the surrounding mountains, searching for their foes.

“First, we will need to find them.” Éothain followed the gaze up to the circling ravens. But I have to agree with that old man’s words - this does not look like the work of wild beasts. Wolves, and even wargs, only kill as much as they can eat. They do not slaughter entire herds out of sheer bloodlust. Yet most of these horses are, except for the wounds that brought their death, untouched. Look!” He pointed at the carcass of a strong-boned bay next to them. A big bite had been taken out of its throat, but apart from that, there was nothing else. One bite had killed it, and then it had been left to rot on the ground.

“Let us see what else we can detect ere the daylight is entirely gone.” Éomer’s gaze glided from the dead animal up to the circling ravens, and then further up to the surrounding mountains. His voice sounded hollow as despair and cold fury battled for the reign over his emotions, catching him in between. His hands longed for the touch of his sword, and it would have been a release for him to have an enemy, no matter how strong, thrown in front of him to take his rage out on right now. Yet nothing presented himself to him to claim responsibility for the slaughter, and reluctantly, he pressed his heels into his stallion’s flanks to force him further into the valley of death. “Elana?”  He motioned the girl to come back and held a hand out to help her up.

“I am sorry, Éomer. That mare was the mother of my own horse. She was one of the few survivors of the first attack. They must have killed her last night.” She swallowed and was unable to go on. Unable to look at the carnage any longer, she closed her eyes and breathed shallowly through her mouth, but the smell of blood would not abate.

They rode on in silence, carefully choosing their path through around the dead horses, halting here and there to take - against their instincts - a more thorough look in hope to find answers to the riddle. But the further they rode, the clearer it became to them that the old man had been right. This had been killing for the sake of killing. Apart from three carcasses which had been stripped of all meat, none of the other horses had been eaten from.

Twilight had already settled when they came to the distant wall of the valley, where the last of the once mighty herd had assembled, warily eyeing their approach. Éomer came to a halt and gestured his men to follow his example. He did not want to trouble the few surviving horses further, as it was clear to him even from a distance that they were wild with fear. Next to him, a great grey stallion lay in front of the canyon wall, it’s front hooves dark with blood - and tufts of brown fur. Narrowing his eyes, he dismounted and walked the few steps over to squat next to the dead animal, carefully running a finger over the congealed crust and peeling off a piece of sturdy black skin with wiry, brown hair on it. Furrowing his brow, he examined it more closely by rubbing the piece between his fingers and holding it up in front of his eyes.

“Léod?” The next moment, the scout stood at his side to see what his king had found. He did not need to take a second look to know what it was.

“Warg skin. So it is true.” He looked around. “It is hard to believe. This does not look like a place wargs would like. They prefer open spaces for their hunts. And they are not suited for a life in the mountains. They are too great of stature to be comfortable with steep and narrow paths. They cannot climb.”

“Elana?” Éomer turned around. “Are there any other ways into this valley than the one we took?”

She nodded.

“Aye, there are two more. But they are just like the ones your kinsman described. Mountain paths, hardly wide enough to allow a man to walk on them, and very steep. Wargs could not use them, as can’t horses. The only animals who could walk on them, I dare say, would be goats. One of them lies behind that tree over there.” She pointed ahead. The Rohirrim followed her gaze and saw immediately what she meant. As little as they could see of the path in the deepening twilight, it was clear that nothing as massive as a warg could have come that way.

“What about the other one?” Éothain turned around in his saddle to give the other side of the valley a more scrutinising survey, but the shadows were deepening very fast now, and with the darkness, the dark atmosphere in the valley changed to a downright sinister threat. The feeling of being watched from somewhere above was strong, yet not so strong that he could make out the direction it was coming from.

“It lies further back the way we came, on the other side. But it does not look very different.” The girl’s eyes were wide, and the trembling in her voice could not be overheard. She was very frightened. “But we should head back now. Darkness will soon be upon us, and I do not want to be trapped in this tomb when they return.”

“And we will go back.” Éomer still stared down on the fallen grey. It had been a strong horse, presumably the leader, but even he had not been able to fight back hard enough to save himself. At least, he had offered them a clue of what had happened to him, even if the sum of what they had seen did not add up. Ripping himself out of his brooding thoughts, he turned to face his men. “We will eat and drink with your people and relax for a few more hours, and under cover of the night, we shall return here in our full strength and wait for them. Whatever the solution to this riddle may be, should they decide to haunt this place yet again, they shall make the acquaintance of the Rohirrims’ fury.”

            Taking Firefoot’s reins back from the girl, he swung a leg over the grey’s back and turned him around, throwing the great horse into a fast gallop. This time, his steed followed his will readily.

***

            The moon was already on the rise when the line of twenty heavily armed mounted soldiers approached the entrance of the valley, but it was not even half full, so the light it was shedding was scarce.

            Perfect cover. On their way back to the herdsmen’s tents, Éomer had noticed a long cornice on the other side of the meadow, deep and large enough to provide them with a hiding place for their night watch, which was where they were headed now. Silence hung over the  blood-drenched meadow like a death blanket, lending an eerie atmosphere to the night which reminded the king of ancient ghost-stories the elders sometimes told to their eagerly listening children in the long, dark winter months. He remembered all to well how he had been sitting in the Golden Hall on a one particularly cold and stormy winter night, 12 or 13 years old, listening to his uncle’s deep, carrying voice and the story of Fram, son of Frumgar, slewing Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin. It had been a grim, violent story, not destined to be told to young children, which had Éowyn furious with him when he returned to their shared room afterwards, gloating and teasing his little sister when she demanded he’d share the story with her.  Éowyn... for a few heartbeats, his thoughts left the valley of death and went out to the only one left of his kin. He hoped she was happy in Ithilien. Happy with Faramir. She deserved to be happy. In all the long years after their parents death he had rarely seen his sister laugh, and less so in the months and years of darkness that had followed Gríma Wormtongue’s arrival. As occupied as war had kept him over the last years, he had noticed how she had first found new hope at the sight of Aragorn, now King Elessar of Gondor, only to be rejected. Devastated, she had then sought death on the battlefield, where instead she found honour - at the price of the life of their father-like uncle.

            The unexpected sight of her lying death-like among their slaughtered kinsmen and next to the crushed body of Théoden had been the sharpest pain Éomer had ever felt. It had been a moment where he had wished that madness would claim him. It had been a moment where he had wished death for himself. Yet, somehow, they had both survived it. Even Théoden’s death they had been able to put behind them. The king had been granted the honourable death he had always wanted for himself. That was something Éomer could make his peace with. And Éowyn... she, too, had found her smile again. Somehow, between his departure for the Black Gate of Mordor, expecting never to return, and his unlikely survival and mankind’s victory over Sauron, a miracle had happened for his sister’s wounded heart, too. Love and peace of mind, it had seemed to him upon his return to the White City, had finally found her, and he was thankful for the man who had brought them to her as a gift. Yes, he hoped his little, brave sister was happy.

Somewhere up ahead, the cry of an owl pierced the leaden silence and woke the king from his musings. The cornice now lay directly ahead. They were almost upon it. Éomer turned his head, his eyes gliding over a star-spangled deep blue sky, dark rock, a few leafless trees, the meadow, gleaming silvery under the moonlight... and the dark, lifeless forms lying on it. His lips turned into a thin, grim line. He hoped the murderers would return tonight. Whoever they were. Whatever they were. Gúthwine was hungry for their blood, and he felt its weight on his left side, eager to be drawn.

Someone rode into his vision on the right side. Éothain. His marshal, too, looked ready for vengeance. There was no insecurity over the nature or number of their enemy, no second thoughts. No uneasiness. They were ready for battle, dressed in full mail and cuirasses, armed with spears, bows and swords, an éored of twenty seasoned warriors. They had nothing to fear. Whoever else but the few surviving horses of their herdsmen would tread on the grass of this valley, would die.

With this thought, they reached the cornice and dismounted. Silently. Secretively. It was hard to make no sound when one was clad in mail, but they largely succeeded in keeping the noise down. Their horses, too, seemed to know what was going on, for they hardly gave a sound, as well. Éomer laid a hand against Firefoot’s nostrils and felt the stallion’s warm breath on his skin, while his own breath trailed off as white vapour into the air. It was chilly, but there would be no fires tonight.  ‘Soon,’ he thought, ‘soon I shall be needing your courage and great heart again. Help me to avenge your kin.’

His eyes went over to the other side of the mountain wall as his men settled into the cornice behind him according to the orders he had given out while they had been eating and drinking in the tents of the herdsmen. Blankets were unbuckled from saddles and unrolled, together with the hot broth Elana’s tribe had filled their leathern bottles with the only means for a little warmth. This night would be long, and a three-days-ride lay behind them.  There was no need for all of them to stay awake at the same time. Five at a time would do, he had decided, and set himself up for the first watch. There was no way he would be able to sleep right now anyway. Too much was going through his head.

Nodding over to Léod, who also shared this watch with him, Éomer rammed his spear into the ground and leaned with his weight on it until it was standing firm enough to tie his steed to it. It would have seemed like an awkward solution to anyone who wasn’t Rohirrim, as all Firefoot would have to do to free himself was one powerful headshake, but Éomer knew he could count on the great grey. He had felt it on their way out here. The stallion was tense and ready to carry him into battle once more, all quivering and shaking gone. He would not run and ruin their cover. Neither would the others.

The owl cried again, and Éomer shifted his view to see whether he would be able to make out the bird in the darkness.

“Over there.” Léod pointed towards the little grove in the middle of the valley. “The second tree to the right.”

Narrowing his eyes, the king could make out a fleeting movement in the branches, then a small, dark shadow rising into the air. A grim smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Nothing escaped his men’s attention. Whatever would enter this valley tonight, it would not enter unnoticed.

***

            “Théoden?... Uncle?”

            The Great Hall of Meduseld was empty. No sounds, no smells, no signs of life within the ancient walls as Éomer pushed open the doors with the last of his strength. Blood - his own and his foes’ - stained his cloven cuirass and mail shirt, and as he stumbled into the hall to bring his king the tidings of their great victory on the Pelennor, his sword fell from his trembling hand and fell to the ground with a clear sound that was echoed thousandfold from the stone walls. No one came to look for the source of that noise. No one asked. Éomer came to a halt. There was no one here!

            And suddenly, he smelled it, so thick and poisonous, it was a mystery to him why he had not detected the smell before: smoke! The Great Hall was burning! And really, as he turned to the side to look into the direction of the king’s private rooms, he saw an inferno of flames race towards him.

            “Théoden?” Another step deeper into the hall. The heat was intense, and there was hardly enough air left to breathe. Then, suddenly, another thought. An agonising one. “Éowyn? Sister? Where are you?” The fire spread over the walls, upwards to the ceiling. Devouring the banner of Eorl. Ancient tapestry burst into flames, then the wooden throne of Rohan caught fire. “Éowyn!”

Ripping himself out of his stupor, he made a dash for his sister’s quarters, but just before he reached the door, flames shot up in front of him and blocked his way.

“Éowyn, where are you?”

Parts of the roof came down, and he stumbled backwards, shielding his eyes.

“Éomer! Éomer, help me! Help me, please!”

Her voice! Faint, but she was alive! But her room was not where it came from! It sounded as if- he swivelled around just in time to see the heavy doors swing shut behind something that had just left the hall.

“I am coming, Little Bird! Hold on!”

He forced his battered body into a run and burst outside - to see all of Edoras erupt into flames. Hellfire, spreading over the roofs of thatching and turning the buildings into furnaces, and yet nobody ran out of them. There were no screams, no crying, nothing. Except for the sound of hooves further down, a single horse in full gallop, trying to flee the inferno.

“Éomer!”

It was a black horse, and there was someone on its back: Two figures, one in fitting black, fighting with the other while at the same time riding as if Morgoth himself was after him, almost beyond the city walls now; the other –

“Éowyn! Éowyn! Nooo-!”

“Help me!”

“She’s mine now, Éomer! You are too late! You have always been too late!” The voice burst into triumphing laughter, fading in the distance and in the roar of the fire.

“Gríma!-”

***

He woke with a start and saw a face hovering above him, had the hand on the hilt of his sword in a heartbeat - but it was not Gríma’s. Gríma... was dead. Slain in the Shire, so the people told.  He would never again trouble the people of Rohan, or haunt his sister’s steps.

There was worry in the pale blue eyes and the weathered, slightly lined features above him. He recognised this face as the one of his marshal, Éothain.

“Éomer?” The older man narrowed his eyes. “A bad dream?” He placed a hand on his king’s shoulder in reassurance. Only now did Éomer notice the thunder of his heart and his ragged breathing. Embarrassed over having been caught in a weak moment, he sat up and shook off Éothain’s hand.

“Did I say anything?” ‘Or scream?’ If - through a moment of unawareness - he had thwarted their plan - but the marshal shook his head.

“No. I just saw it in your eyes when you woke.” He swallowed and turned his head. “Something is going on. The atmosphere has changed.”

His words mesmerised Éomer. Yet as he stood up, his limbs stiff from the cold ground, he felt it, too. The light had gone. The moon had wandered far towards the east, but it was now barely visible behind a thick layer of clouds. There were no stars anymore. It was very, very dark, and - in addition - a thin layer of fog lay over the ground, further diminishing their vision. But that was not all that had changed. It was just harder to put into words. The horses were restlessly moving, some lowly neighed. Snorted, as if they smelled some fell stench. Behind Éomer, his men came to their feet, wakened by the feeling of an unseen peril slowly rolling towards them like a huge black wave in the night.

Low whispers of  “What is it?” and “Ssshh!”, then silence again as everybody strained their ears. The wind had changed, and what had been a shelter from the elements before lay now directly in its path - and brought the foul stench of something different than dead, decaying flesh along.

Firefoot’s head shot up sudden enough to free himself of his master’s grip and he screamed, a terrified noise Éomer had never before heard from his steed before, but before he could contemplate its meaning, he saw it too: the reflection of two hellishly gleaming eyes and a sparkle of a huge set of jaws jumping towards him! Gúthwine was in his hand before he knew it, scything through the air in front of him in a deadly half-circle while he threw himself to the side. Warm liquid sprayed into his face as an angry bellow threatened to burst his ears, cut short by a dozen spears simultaneously piercing the huge form. The creature fell to the ground. A warg.

A moment of stunned silence, then the anguished screaming of the herd further back and the thunder of their panicked approach as something drove them towards the hidden men. They had but a moment to react and press themselves against the wall of the cornice before the horses were upon them, their charge forcing the éoreds’ steeds  to run with them, or be trampled.

“Firefoot!” The grey passed out of Éomer’s vision, just when a grunting and growling he had never expected to hear again came to his ears, along with a row of huge, menacing forms bursting out of the fog. Uruk-hai. Uruks?! A deadly chill wandered down his spine. It could not be true! They were all dead! They had killed them!

Forcing his shock-numbed body into action, Éomer drew his spear from the ground and threw it at the nearest silhouette which was almost upon him.

“Uruk-hai! Fight!”

And the night exploded into violence.

Where for Eorl’s sake had they come from, Éomer managed to ask himself as he stormed forth to finish the speared abomination off. A cruel-looking blade was swung at him from the other side, and a fast spin and a short move of his sword-arm later he had intercepted it, steel crashing against steel, sparks flying. The huge orc grunted and shot out its arm at him, massive jaws gaping, but Éomer ducked and swivelled, and a moment later, the limb fell to the ground. A death-strike into the monster’s broad chest, and on to the next! Behind him, men screamed in torment. Horses, they needed their horses!

“Éorlingas! Follow me!”

Something dark jumped at  him, and he slashed at it and rolled, came to his feet again and made a break for the middle of the valley, away from the deadly trap they were caught in.

“Firefoot!” The great grey stormed into his direction, an unreal bright shape among the dark, armoured living nightmares blocking Éomer’s way. He ducked another swing, before the terrible impact of a Uruk-club on his back made him tumble and fall to his knees. The cuirass splintered, and something in him broke, an explosion of dull pain. With a grunt and a cry of defiance and rage, he swung around nevertheless, thrusting all his weight into a mighty strike that severed the orc’s leg. A pained roar rewarded him.

No time for the kill, others were blocking his way, ever more surrounding him.

‘Too many! They are too many! This is a full-blown assault! A trap!`

Supporting his weight on his sword to come to his feet, Éomer started in the direction of an approaching orc, drawing back his sword-arm for a deadly thrust as a grey shadow rammed into the creature from behind and threw it to the ground. Rearing, and then coming down on it with it’s full weight behind it’s front legs, it let out a cry of fury and hate. It was his steed, and his blood-smeared hide made him a fierce sight to behold as he passed through the battle like a ghost, eyes white with terror, yet unyielding in the face of death.  To Éomer, it seemed as if he had never seen a more welcome sight as he called out to him in Rohirric, causing the great stallion run right past him without losing any of its momentum. A critical moment when he had to sheath his sword to free both hands, while the Uruks were almost upon him.

Praying the saddle belt was still intact, the king thrust out his arm and got a grip on the pommel, pulled himself up and let out a wild cry of triumph. Riding on a huge surge of adrenaline, he threw the stallion around to see for the first time the full extent of the trap. Wherever he looked, nothing but slashing, roaring, growling shapes of Uruk-hai, more than he could count in the moment that was given to him. From the sights of it, they were at least ten times outnumbered. No chance to win this battle, they’d have to retreat.

“Éothain! Regroup!”

Pressing his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, the king thrust his steed into a menacing black wall of Uruks which blocked him from his likewise mounted marshal, deflecting the first strikes of their axes and clubs with powerful strikes.

“Do not kill the king!”

It was a voice among many, almost drowned out under the noise of the battle, and yet it sent a cold chill down Éomer’s back and diverted his attention long enough to miss the cruelly carved, black blade that was swung against his horse’s shoulder and would have crippled the animal, had its rider not at the last moment shifted his weight to cover the vulnerable spot with his armoured knee. The blow almost shattered the bone through the greaves, but they held. Gritting his teeth, the king lashed out a backhanded strike and hit metal, not killing the Uruk but driving it back long enough to spur his steed and direct the stallion at the gap.

“Éothain!”

Only a short distance away, his marshal was in severe distress, bleeding from three deep cuts which had been dealt to him through the shirt of chain mail, his shield arm broken and useless. Surrounded by orcs.

“Éomer! Here!”

A spear appeared in his vision, being held up for him as he charged across the meadow to the rescue of his kinsman. The notion of a young, bleeding face and wide eyes to his right, cut down by a slashing sound, then he had the spear and once again rammed his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, flying towards their enemies with a battle cry.

His onslaught was fast, it was fierce - and it came too late. While Éomer approached, he saw his marshal half-block a mighty thrust and grimace in pain as the black blade cut through his armour into his arm, blood already gushing down the side of his face and his side. For a frozen moment, their eyes met - and then the thick bolt of a Uruk-crossbow smashed into Éothain’s unprotected neck and threw him off his horse which went down with him.

“Nooo!” It was too late to turn away, so Éomer accelerated, right arm with the spear drawn back to skewer the Uruk in front of him, which was frantically fighting to reload its cruel weapon. Protecting a much smaller figure behind it of which the king could only see part of its dark clothing as he raced towards them, a grey lightning of wrath. Faster!

“Don’t kill the king!”

The crossbow swung towards his face, and with a cry and his full weight behind it, Éomer thrust the spear - and was catapulted off his horse as something slammed into his right shoulder with the force of a battering ram! The reins were ripped from his left hand, and then the ground raced towards him, he yelled - and suddenly, he was under his steed, his right foot caught in the stirrup. The impact of Firefoot’s hooves sent explosions through his body as he was dragged face-down over the ground. A loud clang, and his helmet flew from his head. With a sudden tug, his foot came free - and the weight of the saddle landed on his legs as Éomer came to a stop. Through the loud buzz in his ears, he heard his stallion screaming in the distance, fading. Stunned, numbed and unable to catch his breath, it took all of his fierce will to roll on his back. The thick, feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder into his range of vision, the sight of it too bizarre for his mind to grasp yet, all the more as there was no pain connected to it.

‘Get up, or they will kill you!’ his inner voice commanded, but his body did not respond. The two were detached from each other, unable to correspond, the reality of battle far away in another dimension.

A dark form started toward him, blade risen over its head to hew him to pieces. It seemed to move strangely slow, leaving him a lot of time to blindly grope with his left hand - the right arm wouldn’t move- for anything to defend himself with. His fingers closed around a hilt.

“Don’t!”

That voice again, but the king barely heard it through the pounding sound in his ears and the furious roar of the Uruk which filled out his entire, blurred vision as the blade descended on him. Knowing he stood no chance of deflecting it, he lashed out with the orc-sword nevertheless, putting the last of his remaining strength into the blow - and felt it cut through tissue and bone with absurd ease. The creature tumbled, its right leg severed, uttering an enraged cry that was abruptly ended with a sharp slashing sound. Something fell to the ground next to him, a round thing. Staring into the widened eyes of the dead Uruk-hai’s head, Éomer experienced a short moment of hope - ‘Help has come!’, before the massive body tumbled down on him and drove the bolt further into his flesh. A fiery white explosion in front of his eyes, then - darkness. 

***

            Elana and her clan stood the valley’s entrance and listened with terror-filled hearts to the hellish crescendo of screaming horses, the sound of steel crashing against steel and an overall infernal roar which sounded as if Morgoth himself had returned from the first age with his army of Balrogs. Every now and then, an anguished human cry could be heard in between, quickly drowned out by the other noise. Darkness and a thin layer of fog emitting from the ground prevented them from seeing anything, but then, there was no need to. What they heard left no question open: The king’s éored was getting slaughtered by the same unspeakable horror which had already claimed their horses.

Elana tugged the old fur cloak tighter around her thin frame. The night was chilly, but it was not the temperature which sent shivers down her spine.

‘ I asked him to help us,’ she thought helplessly, staring with widened eyes into the threatening darkness in front of her, all the while seeing Éomer’s amused grin over her skill with his horse. ‘I am responsible for their death! I did not want for this to happen!’

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up to her grandfather’s sad face.

“It is not your fault, Elana.”

Her eyes started to burn, and for the longest moment, her voice was caught in her throat. An isolated human scream pierced her ears, and her finger dug deeper into her coat.

“There must be some way of helping them. Somehow-“ They had no weapons of any efficiency. Only weak bows and wooden lances to take care of an occasional predator that came to her valley. Nothing to fend off a pack of nightmarish monsters which even a heavily armed and highly-trained éored was unable to handle.

“There is.” Fárlorn, a grim, middle-aged man with a weathered face and their official leader, turned his head. “You must ride to Edoras again. And this time, tell them to send all of what is left of the Rohirrim! You are the only one whose horse is still alive.” She stared at him, frightened by the prospects. Yes, thanks to her foresight of leaving Áriel in a sheltered little cave above the gorge they lived in, her steed was well, but after six days on horseback, Elana could no longer deny that she was exhausted. As was Áriel. They would need more time to reach Edoras again, at least a day more, she figured. And yet, in her heart she understood that it was the only thing she could do. It would not help the king and his men anymore, but it might just save her family. Because sooner or later, she knew, whatever evil it was that was haunting the valley would come for them. Dreading the prospects of the task that lay before her, but knowing there was no way around it, she nodded, her eyes seeking the dark shadow of the cave.

“I will go at once. And I shall make haste, but I fear that we will not be as fast as the first time.”

Fárlorn gently ruffled her hair. Another blood-curdling cry rang out from the dark. She prayed it wasn’t the king. Hopefully, death would come to most them quickly.

“Nobody expects it from you. Just be careful. We do not want to lose you, too, Elana.”

Elana swallowed.

“And you... you be careful, too. I want to see you again when I return.”

“Do not worry. Come dawn, we will leave for the upper feeding grounds. Maybe they will not follow us there. I doubt there will be anything left of our herd to take care of by then.”

“Grandfather?” She exchanged a hug with the old man who had raised her like his own daughter after her parents had perished, and exchanged a nod with the others, before she finally turned to fetch a few supplies and climbed up to where Áriel was waiting for her.

***

            His dream had returned. If anything, it was even more detailed now, the crackling of fire more prominent, the smell of smoke more pungent. And something else had changed, too. There were people around. He could not see them, but their murmured whispers of which he could understand nothing clearly indicated their presence. Éomer tried to clear his throat and call out to them, but failed miserably. A moment later, he was glad he had, for the tone of the surrounding noise had changed from a blurred tapestry of sound to a deep, menacing growl. Yet it was not the growl of an animal, there was definitely something to it that gave him the impression of speech, of an actual language. Maybe, if he just paid enough attention, he would be able to understand. Yet before he was even able to summon his will to focus, the noise subsided to a distant hum, and blackness pulled him under again.

            “-their tents. It’s too -“

            A deep, distorted reply.

            “-must not kill them. Just gather them up and-“

            The two voices were close, very close, and loud enough to cut through the state of dreamy weightlessness he was floating through. Still a dream? He thought that this time, he had woken enough for this to be real.

The deep voice had a question, something short. He only understood the word “him” and instinctively knew that he was meant. He tensed, not knowing what to expect. Was this friend or foe? Would they finish him off or tend to his wounds? Because wounded he was, Éomer dimly remembered, even if he could not feel more than a distant throbbing reverberate through his otherwise numb body. He remembered the sudden, hard impact on his shoulder, and then the fall. Staring into the eyes of the severed Uruk’s head. The rest was blurred. Who had come to his aid? As much as he struggled, it proved impossible to open his eyes.

“Get the cuirass and the mail off him and carry him over. Carefully. I do not want him harmed in any further way.”

The concussion of two heavy steps next to his head, then the creaking of leather as someone knelt down. Two hands seized him less than gently. Inwardly, Éomer braced for the pain which - beyond doubt -  would result from any kind of movement and certainly from the removal of the pierced mail shirt, and would probably knock him out again. In this, he was quite correct.

***

            Despite knowing how long the way back would be, Elana rode hard for the first part of the journey. She wanted to get away from the screams of the dying and the overwhelming sense of doom and evil which had claimed the place she had so far only held joyful memories of. And she wanted to protect her clan. The first time, it had been about the horses. It had not for once entered her head that what took them, might just as well come for them, next. Now, the thought could no longer be left disregarded. They all were in danger.

            Knowing how exhausted her mare would have to be after the long way she had run over the last days, the young woman nevertheless pressed her heels into the animal’s flanks, urging her - pleading her, in fact - to speed up. This way, she saw what was lying in her way almost to late when they rounded another curve of the winding gorge. A huge dark shadow blocked her path, Áriel rammed her limbs into the ground, and Elana went flying over her head. Instinctively, she took position to land on her feet and roll, but the velocity of her fall sent her into a solid wall of rock, knocking all air out of her. She fell on her back, stunned. And stared at the huge pile of rocks which blocked the way.

***

            “He has slept long enough. Get it into him.”

            The voice made Éomer’s skin crawl. His seriously handicapped mind worked hard at placing it, yet for all the familiarity in it he was unable to put a name on it. His intense pondering was interrupted by the sudden feeling of his chin being seized and huge fingers digging into the side of his jaw, forcing it open. His nose barely had the opportunity to register a vile stench right in front of his face, when a hot, bitter liquid was poured into his mouth.

            “Drink!”

            The huge hand pressed against his chin with a force that almost broke his neck, and the stuff ran down his throat, causing his stomach to heave. A violent retching fit followed with the distinct notion of panic, since his mouth was still held forcefully shut even as the liquid began to rise in his throat.

            “Leave him!”

            Virtually at the last moment, the hand disappeared, and a few painful contractions sent the contents of his stomachs out - and the entire rest of his body into the most serious physical pain he had ever encountered!

            All parts of him seemed to wake simultaneously, and before Éomer was even able to yell, the combined thunder in his head, torso and leg flattened him to a point where the merest thought of catching his breath felt preposterous. His eyes snapped open.

            The first thing he saw was a huge, slightly deformed head of a Uruk-Hai captain directly in front of his face, close enough to bite off his head with the huge gaping jaws his species possessed. Its amber, glowing eyes seemed to burn right through him as the creature let out a guttural, menacing chuckle at the sight of its victim’s obvious pain. A wave of sickening stench assaulted the king’s senses and sent his stomach into new contractions.

            “Hail Éomer, king of the Mark,” a smooth, carrying voice belonging to someone he could not make out behind the huge form squatting in front of him said mockingly. “The last king of the Mark.” A short pause. Recovering from the retching fit, Éomer raised his head and his innards  turned into a block of ice, for he had finally identified the voice. Yet it could not be! “Leave us alone.”

            The Uruk growled his affirmation and came to his feet, and as he stepped to the side and made for the others further back, the young king of the Riddermark stared with widening eyes at the pale face of a ghost. A breathless moment where all evil this man had brought upon Rohan flashed in front of Éomer’s eyes, then his face contorted into a grimace of hate and rage, and his breath returned enough in order for him to spit out one word:

            “Gríma!”

***

            The dark counsellor of the late King Théoden took that last step which separated him from his prisoner and looked at the puddle next to Éomer.

            “What a shame. You should not have disposed of the potion I made quite so quickly. After all, it is the only thing that will keep you alive while you are my... guest.” Éomer’s eyes became narrow slits, sparkling with heartfelt contempt. Wormtongue’s gaze found back to him. “You know Uruks. They are half-orcs. They do not keep their weapons clean. Sometimes, so I have been told, they even like to smother their arrows and crossbow bolts deliberately with dirt or dung, so that even if the wounds they inflict on their enemies are not fatal in the first place, they will begin to fester almost instantaneously.” With his chin, he pointed at the black shaft protruding from the king’s shoulder and grimaced. “It is an ugly death. Messy.”

            “You are supposed to be dead! Word was that you were slain by halflings.” Even though Éomer was furious over the appearance of his nemesis of old, confusion still held the rule over him. How could it be? Had he himself somehow brought the slithering servant of Saruman’s back from his dreams? Was he looking at a ghost? It was something that his practical mind refused to believe. But then again, an army of ghosts had saved them on the Pelennor, so who was he to question the possibility?

            His profound consternation brought a thin-lipped smile to Gríma’s face.

            “Ah, I’m afraid those were nothing but a few well-placed rumours. You find someone who has a certain resemblance to yourself, you convince him to follow you... you kill him, put your old clothes and a few tokens people will recognise on him, and make sure he is found. All it takes then to make your own death a certainty to others are a few whispers into the right ears. Men are so easily brought to believe what they want to be true. And of course, the people of Rohan wanted to believe I was dead.”

            “And dead you will be, once and for all, once the people of Rohan are through with you,” Éomer fumed and struggled to sit up. Why couldn’t he feel his arms? “Only will your death be much harder now than if you had received it from the Halflings.” His arms were above him, chained to an iron ring driven into the rock. Numb. Useless. Gríma sighed.

            “I do not believe, my lord, that you are in a position to promise me any such thing.” Turning his back on his captive, Gríma motioned for one of the figures further back to bring him a chair from one of the tents. With a start, Éomer realised where he was, and his eyes widened. Had Wormtongue’s army of monsters killed the unarmed herdsmen? Hissing, he forced himself into a sitting position, even if the hammering pain in his head and torso worsened as a result of the movement. He had hardly settled back into a resting position when his foes’ attention was directed back at him.

“For the time being, my king, you are indeed at my mercy. I could have let them kill you on the battlefield, but I have some further use for you yet. I would not want to deprive you of the privilege of experiencing a lecture the people of Rohan had been coming for a long time.” He paused, an amused, yet distant smile on his face as he got lost in his vision for a moment. Éomer narrowed his eyes. “It was so easy to catch you.” The pale blue eyes with their differently formed pupils returned to him. “Far too easy. A shame in fact, considering how much your kind prides yourself of your strength and wits. I knew exactly what it took to draw you out of Meduseld.” Another meaningful break. Gríma leaned forward, taking on the challenge of his captive’s hateful stare. “You think by keeping the kingdom shut to strangers, to anyone different than you, you will remain a mystery to them. You think no one who is not of Rohirric heritage can figure out the ways your arrogant, racist, self-loving minds work, but you are wrong. It is painfully obvious to any creature which has a brain that there is nothing better than attacking your beloved animal friends to have you come looking for them, fuming for revenge. Your horses, which you deem higher of worth than actual Rohan-born folk who do not match the conception of what a decent man of the Mark should look like.”

“Your words are poisonous as ever, snake, and they are false! The people of the Mark know evil when they see it, and our contempt for you was well-earned from the start! Out of self-pity over not being able to acquire what you craved to possess, you joined forces with the White Wizard to avenge yourself. Éowyn would not look at you for she could see the evil in your heart, not because you are dark-haired! Because she rejected you, you decided to betray your own people to the death. I truly cannot think of a better definition of evil!”

Unfazed by the king’s outburst, Wormtongue continued, his eyes trailing off to the other side now with a malicious expression burning in them. When Éomer followed his gaze, he saw a large group of Uruk-hai, back-lit by the crackling fire, burying their faces in large pieces of meat one of the captains in the middle was handing out. He was glad it was too dark to see their blood-dripping, cruel features in more detail, but the mere thought of what it was they were eating sent an icy shudder through his spine. As if it had felt his glance, one of the creatures started towards them with a big, steaming spit in its hand. Gríma watched its approach and then directed his attention back at his prisoner.

“Is that so? Are evil deeds no evil deeds if the noble Rohirrim commit them? We should ask the people of Dunland what they think of this question. What had they done to you to be driven from their lands into the hills where life is almost too harsh to be sustained? Where innocent women and children die of hunger? You drove them away, and who would refuse to go willingly would be killed. Does this injustice not give them the moral right to hate and pursue you where they find you? How about this as a true definition of evil?”

“I will not discuss the Dunlendings with you, snake,” Éomer sneered. ”You know as well as I do what they did to make us turn on them in the first place.”

Gríma shrugged.

“I assume it all lies in the eyes of the beholder. Anyway, I was talking about the predictability of the smart, cunning Rohirrim: All I had to do in order to draw you out was attacking your precious meara-herd and make it look as if predators did it. Even though we slew so many of them in just one night that your conclusion should have been this was more than an ordinary wolf pack’s work, you were still arrogant enough to come here with only twenty of your men. I must say, I am disappointed. I counted on you to bring at least fifty.” He exhaled. “You would still have lost, but... as I was saying, it underlines the point I was making about your supposedly sharp-witted people: You greatly over-estimate your abilities. Your arrogance has no match in Middle Earth, except maybe for the Elves. To your foes, it is a very valuable character-trait.”

“You shall find that we ‘supposedly sharp-witted people’ will not tolerate the likes of you and your foul company in our land, snake! And if you underestimate our abilities, then all the better for us!” The Uruk had reached them, and Éomer watched in disgust as the half-orc passed the spit to its master. The pleasant smell of roasted meat was carried to him by the light breeze, but all it did to him was turn his stomach, as it was an easy guess where the meat had most likely come from.

His adversary had already taken the first bite and was obviously delighted by their captive’s disdain. Leaning forward on his elbows, he held out the spit within Éomer’s reach.

“You must be hungry. Would you like some?”

The answer was an amazing stream of ancient Rohirric curses not even Gríma had been familiar with so far. To drive his point home, Éomer then spat on the meat he was offered.

“I suppose this means ‘no’, then.” Wormtongue would have raised his eyebrows if he had any. Calmly, he peeled the spat-on chunk off and dropped it, then commenced eating. “Another point to my theory. Supplies are scarce in your land, people are dying from hunger, yet you refuse to reap the wealth of food in front of your eyes. Pity. It tastes delicious, and you will need to eat in order to get through the next days. You will need your strength... what is left of it.” Then his face lit as if a great idea had suddenly entered his mind. “Valar, what am I saying, of course we have not only horse-meat!” He furrowed his brow and held Éomer’s gaze. “Although I suppose you would like the other one even less... and the Uruk-hai would be very upset if I took it from their part of the prey. Uruks are not very fond of horse-meat, you know? They prefer a different taste.”

It took a moment for the terrible meaning of Gríma’s words to sink in. A moment where it became terribly clear to Éomer that he was the only one of his éored they had left alive. And a moment to envision what his foe’s grim company was doing to his fallen men right now further back. There were no words for the horror and rage he was feeling, not thinking, only doing. Enough rage to scream into the pale face in front of him and kick out with his chained feet, knocking the very alive ghost from the chair; enough even to make it to his feet and shove the agony his body erupted with into the background of his mind while he struggled with the chains. Fighting to reach his tormentor who crept backwards on his hands and knees, out of his reach, no matter how hard he struggled, and then got up.

“I’ll kill you, orc-scum! I’ll lay you open and feed your intestines to the pigs, I swear it!”

Another mighty tug, but the chains held, and not even rage was able to hold him on his feet any longer. His weak right knee giving way, Éomer tumbled to the ground.

Gríma was well aware of the fact that a few of his Uruk-hai had followed the quarrel from close-by, and now he motioned two of them to step up to him.

“Get him up!” Hissing another curse in the direction of his foe, the king was pulled to his feet and smacked against the rock with brutal force. “Hold his arms!” Wormtongue stepped closer, his expression turned from mocked amusement to deadly cold as he brought his face close to Éomer’s, his voice toned down to a deadly whisper which was hard to hear over the loud breathing of his two guards. “You are a wonderful example of the arrogant, proud and stubborn people of this land. You embody all virtues the Rohirrim look up to, and despise others for not having. You shall be an excellent object to teach them a valuable lecture before they’ll expire.”

“They won’t listen to a filthy worm!”

“ Oh, but they won’t have to listen. They will only have to look at you! And then they will see that - once denied your privileges and stripped of your shiny armour and the pomp of the Royal Court - you are not different from them: A simple, weak, over-estimated, under-smart... peasant! The free people will thank us for removing the population of Rohan from the face of Middle Earth!”

Éomer’s brow connected with his lower jaw unexpectedly, split his lip and broke off the two lower front teeth, and for a moment, the pain brought tears to Gríma’s eyes as he stumbled backwards. The fingers he carefully touched his mouth with came away bloodied, and looking up, he glimpsed the triumphant sparkle in the king’s eyes, even though his own head-wound was bleeding anew from the impact and the Uruk-hai at his side were almost breaking his arms as they pulled him back against the rock.

“You are bleeding, snake!”

It was but a step that separated them, and Éomer’s mocking remark was enough for Gríma to forget his own order as he took it and seized the black shaft of the crossbow to force it further in with the full weight of his body, finally succeeding in getting the first satisfying scream from his opponent. A violent jerk to the side, and as he slowly turned his wrist with his fingers still clenched around the bolt, he saw all signs of mockery or triumph gone and a familiar and very welcome glaze covering the dark eyes in front of him. Despite the experience he had just made, Wormtongue brought his face once again close to whisper into his half-conscious prisoner’s ear.

“Your people shall pay dearly for your stubbornness, Éomer-king. The lecture I will teach them will be one they shall never forget for as long as they live... even if I do not expect them to last the winter.” He retreated. “Release him!”

Darkness had claimed Éomer before he hit the ground.

A ROHAN GHOST STORY - Chapter 2

Elana was on her way back, yet she was making only slow progress. The way to Edoras had been blocked so thoroughly that passing the fallen rocks with a horse had seemed utterly impossible to her. She needed to think. There was more at play here than first met the eye. Sure, rocks tumbled down from the mountains occasionally. But exactly at the narrowest point of the canyon? With a precision that left no gap open to use, and only after the king and his éored had passed it in the afternoon to be now trapped along with everybody else? In her heart the young woman felt a deep-sitting fear that there was more to the happenings of the last days than the eye could see. A dread that her clan had been used in an elaborate scheme to - kill Éomer?

Shocked by the thought, a little gasp escaped her, and involuntarily her hands pulled on the reins and forced Áriel to stop. Her widening eyes directed at the dark path before her, it finally all came together in her mind. They were not dealing with animals at all! There had to be humans involved in this - after all, they had heard the sound of sword-fighting! Swords on armour, this is what the noise had been! Their precious meara-herd had been set up as a bait to lure their king into a trap - and her task had been to place his head in the sling!

‘Eru, no!’ It was an awful thought.

She had been fond of King Théoden’s nephew ever since the ceremony four years back. Éomer’s first horse he had done duty with since he joined the Rohirrim had been injured in a battle and was returned to their herd after having been healed to enjoy it’s last years. Thus, he had been in need of a new steed, and while Elana had been too intimidated by his stern and distant stance to approach him- all the more as he was standing amidst an entire group of new recruits and seasoned warriors, captains and marshals who all needed new horses - he had somehow spotted her in the middle of her kin, maybe because she had been the youngest one accompanying them on that day. Or maybe he had felt her stare. Either way, they had made eye-contact, and even though she had instantly lowered her head, there had been an intense heat flushing her face as if he had caught her doing something she wasn’t supposed to do.

And when she had finally dared to lift her eyes again and look out from under her eyebrows testingly, she had found to her surprise that his gaze was still on her, but some of the rigidity and harshness in his bearing seemed to have melted away, and there had been a smile on his face. Only the hint of a smile, in fact, so distant and with a faraway quality to it that it led her to believe it had not been her he had seen in the first place.

Eru knew what he had seen in her ragged, thin appearance. Sure, they had all dressed up for the event according to their tradition, but then again, her people were not known for their fancy dresses. All she had done was wash her hair and slip into her likewise freshly washed wool tunic, the white one with the embroidered horse silhouettes on it. Nothing special. And she remembered it had been windy that day, because her long golden hair had been pestering her, always blowing into her face and her eyes and her mouth no matter how often she attempted to stick it back behind her ears. Éomer, obviously, had been amused by it, for he had given her another funny look before he had followed the others into the valley to where the horses where.

Their eyes had met again after Firefoot had chosen him as his future rider, and this time, she had not averted her eyes, which had been sparkling with pride as he approached with the grey stallion, accompanied by her grandfather, the two men exchanging a few words before Fréod had finally nodded her way. Her little foal, her beloved, motherless little Firefoot, would be the king’s nephew’s new steed!

“Lady Elana?” He had called her a ‘lady’! She almost fainted. “Your grandfather here has just told me that you were the one who hand-raised this wonderful example of a meara-stallion. ‘tis true?”

For a moment, she had thought she would not be able to draw enough air into her lungs for a reply, and when the gift of speech finally returned to her, her voice sounded hushed and shy.

“Yes, my lord. He was always very special to me, and I hope, he will be special to you, too.”

She looked up, and her voice grew stronger with pride. “His name is Firefoot.” She made an awkward attempt at curtseying and felt her face flush to a deep, telling red. How embarrassing! Especially when she heard her hero’s laughter! Sullenly, she raised her head, inwardly wishing herself far away. But then Éomer had reached out to gently smooth another nasty strand of hair out of her eyes, and when she looked into his face she saw that his laughter was not meant in mockery of her.

“Do not look at me like this, Elana, daughter of the mearas! I apologise if I led you to believe even for a moment that I might have laughed at you. I most certainly did not. It is only that you remind me so much of my younger sister. She was just like you at this age - shy at first, but at the same time proud and wild... more interested in horses and fighting and adventures than giving a care for the manners of the court her royal surroundings were desperately trying to teach her.”

“Oh...” she had managed to utter, bereft of words, and feeling no less awkward in his presence. Sensing her discomfort with the situation, Éomer had then pulled his hand back and placed it on the neck of the dark grey stallion.

“You said ’Firefoot’ is his name.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“It is a good name. A strong name. He shall be as swift as fire and as terrible to our enemies. I thank you for raising him for me.”

It was a good memory, one she held dear to her heart. Which was why she had to find a way to help, even if the path to Edoras was no longer open. Her spirits sank with each of Áriel’s steps that took her closer toward the valley and the unspeakable horror it accommodated.

Standing at the place where the path forked - the left way leading southwest and deeper into the White Mountains, the right way leading back to their small settlement and the meara-valley - she urged her mare to stop and strained her ears. Nothing. No birds, no insects, no voices. Everything lay under a silence as deep as a death blanket. The thought made her shiver. What if all of them were already dead? The king... his men... and her clan? She had to find out, first!

Reluctant of leaving Áriel back, Elana pondered for a moment whether she should really tie her to a branch, or whether she could risk to let her wait right here, where rock would shield her from unfriendly eyes. She would rob the mare of her only chance of survival if she tied her up only to have her detected by some fell creature accidentally. Yet, she could not risk to have the mare make her way back to the uncertain territory of her family. Áriel was the last horse they possessed, their only means of calling for aid. She could not risk her life! So it was with a heavy heart that Elana decided to tie the young grey to a root still behind the canyon wall, out of sight - as she hoped - of the evil that roamed their lands.

Quick-footed, silent and careful, she then climbed up to the little path under an enormous outcropping which overlooked her family’s settlement. The sight of a huge fire ahead stopped her heart even though she was still a good distance away, and it took all of her will to stifle the cry that wanted to burst from her lungs. Their barn! Their winter supplies were burning! The enemy had moved on, indeed, and now her people were the next victims. Was her family still alive? Or was she looking at another massacre?

Hunching closer into the shadow provided by the rock over her head, she slowly advanced and noticed a great number of people moving between their tents and the fires. People? She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to see better, and the vague feeling that something was out of place with the way these shadows were moving made her skin crawl. They walked on two legs, yes, but - people? They seemed awfully tall... and broad!

Then one of the mysterious things below her bellowed and turned its head, and she fell flat on her stomach and hugged the ground, a violent trembling shaking her. She had seen the thing! It was not human! And it was no orc - she had seen an orc once, they were much smaller and no comparison to this hulking, sinister creature!

‘Valar, what are these monsters?’

Had it seen her, too? Would it come up here to bite her head off? And what had they done to her family? A guttural roar went up to her as she pressed her face into the sparse vegetation on the ground and her hands to her ears in the desire to disappear completely. Others answered the call, and soon the entire gorge was vibrating with the creatures’ wild cries to the point where even small rocks were starting to slide from the slopes.

‘They’ve seen me! They must have!’

Her heart thudded away in her chest in a frenzied beat, almost bursting her rip cage, as she carefully raised her head and - in spite of better knowledge -frantically searched for an escape way. But the path’s end was clearly visible in front of her, and there was just no way to make it over the rock blocking it without being seen from below.

‘Are they coming right now to get me?’

Anxiously she waited for some more long breaths, before the urge to look became unbearable. Incredibly careful, she raised her head behind the cover of a dry bush and peeked down. There was no frenzy among the monsters to climb up and catch her. Rather, they had turned their collective backs on her and went about their own business… whatever that business was. She didn’t particularly care to know, as long as it did not involve her family. Her family…

Narrowing her eyes, she spotted a group of people sitting and standing in the - indeed, in the pig pen. In the pig pen? Where were the pigs then? Trying even harder to see more, Elana could finally make out her grandfather’s face in the glow of the burning barn. He seemed to be uninjured. Likewise the others. Nobody was bleeding or limping, as far as she was able to see. All were tugging their shabby old furs around their bodies to protect themselves from the chilly night, and their expressions were frightened and worried, but it was a great relief to see them all unharmed nevertheless. A huge load fell off her back, but not for long. What was the intention of those things? Why had they rounded her family up like that? Just to burn their barn and kill their pigs? Surely, this alone was bad enough, but nothing against the fears in her mind she had climbed up here with.

A smaller figure, which was entirely clad in black, walked into her view from the right side, talking to those things, and Elana froze. Now, that was definitely a man! And the way the monsters behaved around him, he even seemed to be in command. Who was he? And why was he here? Letting her eyes stray a bit further in the direction he had come from, she detected a motionless figure sitting in a slumped position at the rock-wall, arms chained to the ring they used to tie their horses to, head hanging down in a way which suggested that the man - his broad, tall built betrayed his gender - was unconscious, if not worse. There was an awfully thick, black shaft protruding from his upper body, and even if the person wasn’t dead yet, the sight of it was indication enough that he would be very soon, if nobody helped him. Straining her eyes to find out who the man was, the girl suddenly felt an cold chill wander down her spine. She knew that tunic. None of her clan wore leather tunics, so it had to be one of the king’s men. The long hair hung into the man’s face and was partially plastered to it with blood, so she could not be entirely sure, but - she gasped. It had to be Éomer! Had to be!

Stifling a cry, she focussed harder on him, pleading for a movement. There was none to detect, but he had to be alive, or why else would they have chained him to the wall? Resting her eyes again on the arrow in his shoulder, Elana thought hard. It was hard to concentrate with the turmoil of clashing feelings she was caught up in - relief, shock, hope, pity… and at last, rage.

So it was indeed true: The whole time they had unwittingly been used in an elaborate sham to set the king captive. The thought of it made her feel bad and somehow… stained. Was there the mark of evil now on her? Or would she have a chance to redeem herself? Everything that had happened to the king and his men was her fault! How could she ever undo this? What to do? The way to Edoras was blocked. There was only just one way still open to her and Áriel - further into the mountains, across the higher feeding grounds. Directly the opposite direction. There were a few settlements on that way, too, but Elana was not sure how big their éoreds where, and whether they would be able to be of any help against these awful creatures. It was impossible to count them, the way they constantly moved around, but Fréod had taught her very early how to estimate the number of horses in their herd, and they were not partial to standing still, either. All in all, she figured there were around 200 of these ghoulish things down there. A lot. How was she supposed to get Éomer out of their grasp?

Below, two of the horrible black things roared at each other and started to fight over something Elana could not make out in the twilight. It was then when she realised that dusk lay not so far away anymore. Soon, it would be morning. She would have to come to a decision, and soon.

***

            “What have I told you, brother?”

            “To never challenge Wormtongue openly. I am sorry, Éowyn.” He held her pale face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs and saw the tears in his sister’s dark eyes. She was a strong woman, but she knew she would be truly alone from now on. Behind them, Éomer felt the threatening presence of the dark counsellor’s personal guards. They had granted him a very short moment to say farewell to Éowyn when she had intercepted them in his private quarters where he was packing together a few of his belongings, but that moment would soon be over. He had been banished from the hall of his fathers and forefathers, from the land he was born in. How had it come to that? “I had to try and wake Théoden with the proof I had gathered at the ford. I was hoping to get through to him. I failed.”

            “Let me come with you then! Do not leave me here!”

            It pained Éomer to see his younger sister so upset. He took her cold, delicate hands into his and hoped the urgency he felt was visible on his face.

            “Someone has to look after our uncle, Éowyn. We cannot leave him alone - all by himself - at that snake’s mercy. He is still our king! We must attempt to break this evil spell. And Théodred... someone needs to tend to Théodred. I know his wounds are grave and it is not looking good, but I do not want to grant Wormtongue the opportunity to sneak up and kill him. To poison or stab him, just to be rid of Théoden’s heir once and for all. It would not be below him to do so, you know that. And you don’t want for this to happen either, do you, sister? He is family. We have to protect him.” He squeezed her hands and bent forward under the pretext of giving his sister a kiss on the brow, but just before his lips touched her skin, he tilted his head ever so slightly and muttered in a low voice: “I will be back soon. I will gather all that are still loyal to the king, and when I return, we shall dispose of Gríma the usurper. Fear not, little bird. And be strong!” He kissed her and felt her hands squeeze his, then freeing themselves of his grip and pulling him close, not wanting to let go.

            “Marshal? It is time.”

            He ignored the stern voice from behind and looked down to lift Éowyn’s chin with a finger until she met his eyes. So much sorrow…

            “I know you are strong, Éowyn. We must not let him win.”

            “He won’t.” No more tears, but a desperate, haunted look which made Éomund’s son feel like a traitor to desert her. ‘But I am not the traitor, Gríma is! And he shall pay for it! For as long as there is a single breath left in me, I shall pursue his death!’

His sister’s short reply brought a ghost of a smile to his lips as he took a step back and let go of her, ready to follow the impatiently waiting guards. ‘Be strong, little one,’ his gaze told her wordlessly before he turned on his heels to leave. ‘I will be back!’

            “Don’t challenge Gríma! Don’t challenge Gríma!...”

            His sister’s voice reverberated through the pounding of his head as the king of the Mark finally came to, spit out into an early twilight by the same black flood which had pulled him under during the night.

            “Éowyn...”

            His sister’s name tasted bittersweet on his lips. She had always been smarter at this game than him. While both of them were equally passionate in their loyalty and protectiveness of their kin, Éowyn had somehow emerged as the shrewder strategist, not to mention the better diplomat. Better at keeping her thoughts to herself and her face unreadable, whereas Éomer had a reputation for his bluntness and hot temper. Unlike his sister, he was not adept at hiding his emotions well when he was angered. A deficiency, he had to admit, but yet something he had so far refused to work on. After all, his reputation as a hothead had served him well in his soldier’s life so far. Usually, people thought at least twice before they decided whether having the marshal’s wrath upon them was really worth the ill deed they were thinking of committing.

            “Gríma is too cunning. Too powerful. We cannot touch him yet. Do not challenge him openly, Éomer!”

            The stench of cold smoke reached his nostrils, and together with the images of a burnt-down Edoras from his dreams, it was enough to wake the king with a jolt. The voice from his dream faded to a the memory of a whisper in the first cold breaths of morning, too frail to resist grim reality. Two muscular, dark-skinned legs obstructed Éomer’s view of the proceedings around him, and he raised his head against the hammering pain behind his forehead with a sense of foreboding.

            “Drink!”

            A wooden cup was offered to him, and the stench rising from it told him it was the same potion he had been forced to swallow during the night. Already, his stomach heaved in anticipation of a repeat.

            “There are two ways we can do this, my lord,” Wormtongue`s oily voice emerged from behind the Uruk-hai’s broad back. As he stepped out of its shadow, Éomer saw to his satisfaction the damage he had done clearly on his adversary’s face - a blood-crusted, swollen lip and a dark bruise that covered his entire chin. Very well. At least he had some result to show for his own blinding headache. “One: You give up your resistance and drink this - and keep it inside - without trying to cause further problems to us, or two: You spill it like last night, you continue to be a nuisance, and we might have to kill one of your innocent kinsmen to teach you some respect for all the work that went into the potion that will ultimately safe your life - at least for some time. Choose wisely, Éomer-king!”

            Éomer cast a quick glance past the orc’s right side, from where he had picked up the notion of being watched. It was the face of the girl’s grandfather who was looking at him from behind in deep concern, and behind him, he could see the others. So they had left the clan alive so far. It was a relief, but not a great one. Wormtongue was not to be trusted. Surely he had only spared them for now to use them as a means to subdue their king. He hated to admit it was a smart approach. So it was with reluctance that he finally nodded.

            “I cannot promise you I will be able to keep it inside… but I will try.”

            The pale blue eyes in the white face became narrow slits as the dark counsellor taxed his’ opposite’s expression.

            “You better try hard, last king of Rohan. You know I will do it.”

            “Aye, I know…” ‘…you are vile enough to kill unarmed, innocent people, even children!’ Éomer wanted to add, but bit back at the last moment. Insulting Gálmód’s son further would not gain him any advantage in his current situation. For now, he would have to try to keep up his strength and be patient. Something the young king of the Riddermark had always found exceedingly hard to do.

            With a guttural grunt, the Uruk squatted down in front of him and pressed the cup against Éomer’s lips. Breathing shallowly through the mouth to escape the putrid smell, he emptied it with four deep swigs - and shut his eyes as a wave of nausea originating from his rebelling stomach threatened to overwhelm him.

            “Fight it,” Gríma said coldly. “You spit it out, it will cost you a man’s life… or a woman’s!”

            The bile had already risen half the way up his throat, burning like fire. He swallowed air to force it down, concentrated. And slowly but surely, the feeling began to subside until all that remained was a hot throbbing in his middle. Exhausted from the effort, Éomer finally looked up to his tormentor and saw the derogatory twitch in the corner of his mouth.

            “Very well. After all these years in your and your uncle’s service, this is the first true indication that the stubborn descendants of the house of Eorl can indeed be taught! I am very pleased with you.” He rubbed his hands together against the cold morning air and turned to go. “The potion will give you strength for the day. We will leave in one hour. Use it to rest.”

***

            It was as Wormtongue had said. A ghostly pale sun had barely begun its ascend in the sky and started to melt away the thick blankets of fog which still lay over the narrow valley, when they finally came for him.

            Cautiously leaned back with his good shoulder against the rock wall he was chained to, Éomer had been watching the Uruks’ preparations for the breaking of their camp for a while, his thoughts circling around the fate of the good people which had been rounded up in the pig pen like animals. There were many children among them. As much as he hated Gríma, the king refused to believe that his adversary would send his ghoulish army against them. Or would he? After all, no scruples whatsoever had stopped Gálmód’s son to plan genocide at Helm’s Deep!

            ‘Aye, but only because he would not have to watch them die there,’ he concluded, taking Wormtongue for a man who would rather try to avoid witnessing the carnage his actions implied. But what kind of ‘lecture’ was he speaking of? You could not teach lectures to dead people. An indication that the herdsmen would be allowed to live? If only he could believe it. Musing over Gríma’s motive in his mind, Éomer watched his enemy’s army getting ready to move. He was impressed against his will by the straight-forwardness of the Uruk-hai. Once told their tasks, they appeared to get to them single-mindedly and did not stray from them until they were done. Very efficient, very convenient for whoever would be leading them.

Still, one question remained unanswered: What was Gríma’s hold over them? Why did they obey a scrawny, not at all intimidating weakling of a man? Granted, Wormtongue was - in his own, twisted ways - fearsomely cunning and intelligent, but as far as Éomer knew the different orc-species, they did not care much for intelligence. To impose yourself upon them as their leader, you would have to make them fear you. It was hard to see how Gríma had accomplished that. And how he had managed to get a hold of them, first. To Éomer’s knowledge, all of Saruman’s Uruk-hai had vanished in the sudden rout after their defeat at Helm’s Deep. The Huorns of Fangorn had taken their revenge on them, a sight he had found hard to believe even though it had happened right in front of his eyes. Nowhere in the Riddermark had a single Uruk been seen after that incident, so it had been taken for a fact that they had all found death. Obviously, like Gríma’s assumed death, this also had been but a rumour, born out of hope. Out of hope, his ever vigilant kinsmen had let their guard down. It appeared that hope came with a very high price these days.

            Shifting his position, Éomer gritted his teeth as another bolt of agony travelled through his nerve-endings from his pierced shoulder - he knew it had been pierced for he could feel the iron tip of the bolt scrape over the rock behind him whenever he moved his back, and the backside of his tunic felt sticky and slick with blood. Gríma’s potion had brought part of his strength back, but it had also increased the amount of pain he was feeling from a dull throbbing to a thunderstorm of hurt which made it increasingly hard for him to focus. Despite the morning chill, his brow was already beaded with sweat.

The fleeting reflection of something bright at the rock wall opposite his position brought Éomer brought him back from his inner musings. What - the merest notion of a movement. The king narrowed his eyes in an attempt to make out what exactly it was that had caught his attention. Something grey and furry. Something that did not want to be seen. Straining even more, he concentrated on the spot behind the empty branches of a dried-up bush. And there it was again, just for a heartbeat - the notion of the first light of the day reflecting on golden hair. He shifted his view at once away from it, choosing to let his eyes rest on a pair of horses some wild-looking humans who appeared to be Dunlendings were loading with supplies, and his heart missed a beat. It had only been a brief glimpse, but since he had not seen Elana among her rounded-up family, he had already been worrying for the girl. Now he knew where she was, and where she was was even better than he could have hoped for!

Taking a care not to let the direction of his gaze betray the girl’s position to his enemies, Éomer’s eyes strayed up and over the outcropping he had seen her on again, this time accompanied by an urgent prayer.

‘For Eorl’s sake, Elana, take your horse and ride to Edoras! Raise the alarm! Call help!’

His lips formed a grim line as the king imagined how it would be to have Edoras’ Royal Guard and the majority of the remaining éoreds come to their aid and kill this orc-scum which soiled the ground of the Mark through their sheer presence once and for all. But he would not let them kill Gríma. Gríma... after all that writhing, stinking, poisonous snake had done to his kin and country, he would claim the privilege of bringing Rohan’s bane to justice entirely for himself - and this time, his death would be very real, and certainly not a merciful and quick beheading...

            Revelling in his thoughts of vengeance for a while longer, Éomer finally noticed the object of his violent reflections walking towards him with the two Uruk-hai captains that always seemed to accompany him. Not knowing what was to come, he tensed. The dark counsellor came to a halt in front of him and stared down taxingly while his hands played with a heavy-looking chain.

            “It is time, my lord...I hope you rested as I told you to, as this is going to be a very long, hard day, and it looks like you are not in the best of conditions, if I may say so.” A brief sparkle of malevolent pleasure accompanied Wormtongue’s words. He passed the chain to the creature to his right. “Put this around his neck.”

            For a moment, Éomer thought of resistance as he watched with wary eyes the Uruk squat down beside him. His pride forbade for him to suffer any slight through the hands of an enemy willingly. Giving in would be the first step towards giving himself up.

‘No! No use.’

It took a fierce effort to push the thought aside. There was nothing he could do, and fighting an impossible fight would only worsen his condition. There was no way of telling whether Gríma would grant him the opportunity for an escape attempt, but if it came, it would be foolish having to let it pass because he had no strength left to make use of it.  The metal band was closed around his neck with an audible sound which pierced his heart with its finality, yet Éomer refused to let his despair show. He looked up, jaw set, to the one who was holding the other end of the chain.

“What is your plan, filth? Where are we going?”

Pale blue eyes met his unflinchingly. Oh yes, Gríma enjoyed looking down on him for a change! What a triumph for him to finally have the one who had opposed him even during the days of his secret reign over Rohan on his knees, and at his mercy!

“You shall see soon enough, my liege. Now get up. And remember: Any kind of disobedience will result in the death of one of your kinsmen.”

The long hours on the cold ground had done their work to a point where the king found it almost impossible to follow Wormtongue’s order: His arms, chained to the rock for the entire night, were numb, his legs were stiff, and as soon he began to move his battered body, the real extent of the injuries he had sustained could no longer be denied by his stubborn mind When Éomer finally made it to his feet, he was drenched in sweat and his middle and upper body were throbbing like a rotting tooth. In addition, it felt as if all of Rohan’s blacksmiths were busy in the limited space between his ears, pounding their hammers into the delicate, soft matter inside his head in a steady rhythm to get out. It was a major achievement he had made it to his feet on his own, an accomplishment of his still iron will. Sooner would he die than let Gálmód’s son triumph over him.

“Bind his hands behind his back!”

The Uruk-hai grunted their affirmation and went to work; one seizing the king in a grip which would snap his neck if he put up resistance while the other one opened the chains around his wrists, only to draw back his arms and lock them again even tighter on his back. The pull on his bad arm drained the colour from Éomer’s face.

“You must be very afraid of me, snake,” he spat, not able to bite back his contempt any longer. “Your prisoner is injured and in chains, and still you choose to hide behind the broad backs of your Uruk-hai. They may be loathsome, vile creatures, but at least they possess courage, which is more than can be said of you!”

“You would be well councelled to keep that heated tongue of yours behind your teeth, my lord,” his adversary sneered in a low, dangerous voice. “Or shall I rather say, it would be in your kinsmen’s best interest? The Valar know I am in a charitable mood today, which is why I will not punish you for your words, but be warned that this may be subject to change if you continue in this fashion. I may not feel like burning the rest of this clan’s belongings, yet, but I dare not say how I might feel about it an hour from now. If you insist, I shall leave nothing but the black ashes of their tents behind.” He countered Éomer’s glare with a meaningful side-glance at the watching herdsmen.  

Again it was Fréod’s face which brought the king to his senses. Slowly tilting his head to the right against the Uruk-hai’s firm grip, Éomer found the eyes of Elana’s clan directed at himself, their faces full of fright and worry. Their destiny seemed to lie solely in his responsibility. They had already lost their winter supplies and their horses. If help did not arrive soon, they would have to starve. He would not have them suffer even more, like the loss of their shelter and their few possessions, only because their king was persisting on keeping his pride intact.

The surge of fury abated. He needed to keep a cool head. He could not afford to let others bleed for his rage. All his adult life he had been roaming the Mark in protection of his people, he would not burden his conscience now by becoming responsible for their misery. Even more so as the faces he was staring at appeared to be more concerned for him than for themselves. Sobering at the discovery, he exchanged a meaningful look with the clan’s leader.

‘Do not fear for me,’ his expression said. ‘I can hold my own.’ At least he hoped so. Gríma obviously did not want to kill him, at least not yet. This was a knowledge Éomer hoped he would be able to use to his advantage, even though he could not begin to think of a way just yet.

“The hour is getting late, my lord,” Gríma spoke into his thoughts, his courteous tone in stark contrast to the implied meaning of his words. “We must move, as your presence is being highly anticipated in other parts of your kingdom. We must not let your people wait.”

A broad hand pressed against Éomer’s back and pushed him forward towards a bay horse the two Dunlendings he had observed earlier were holding ready for him. The king’s heart sank as he took in the appearance of his new mount: Being of under-average height, the poor creature was severely underfed to the point where its rips were clearly visible through its dull hide, and the thin legs seemed barely fit to support its own weight. This was no steed to stage his escape with. Firefoot... he needed Firefoot, more now than ever. Even with his hands tied on his back and thus not being able to shift his weight to where it would not hinder his steed’s speed , Éomer was sure the grey stallion would have been able to carry him to safety and even outrun the two wargs he spotted now for the first time at the head of Wormtongue’s army. But such musings were useless. By the look of things, his trusted horse was lying dead among the rest of its kin further behind in the valley. He would have to find another way.

Not wanting to give away either his disappointment nor his true condition through his posture, Éomer straightened as he walked down the cordon between the patiently waiting Uruk-hai, his bruised and battered body crying out in pain. Roaring laughter rose as he briefly stumbled in the mud and almost fell to his knees. Insults were shouted at him. He blocked them out, instead focussing on the horse they were leading him to.  But then something shiny tumbled into his path, and he could not help himself, he had to see what it was. The sight of a blood-spattered, pierced cuirass froze his blood. He recognised it instantly, and a different kind of pain assaulted his senses. Éothain, his trusted marshal and brother-in-arms of many years... Léod, the 19 years-old, keen-eyed scout he had moved into his personal éored only shortly after his return from Gondor... all the others... all were dead. 19 men had been gruesomely slain last night, 19 of Rohan’s best warriors. The last man standing - was him. The question was for how much longer.

Something hit him in the chest and fell to the ground to the rising roar of the surrounding creatures: Éothain’s helmet. And another one. A third one. Éomer closed his eyes, not wanting to see the devastating hail of his dead soldiers’ belongings. Another helmet hit his thigh, then, suddenly, a sharp voice rang out.

“Enough! We have much ground to cover today, and we need to move! I know you are impatient to pay him back for the massacre which has been committed against your kind! There will be a time for your vengeance, but it is not now. Seat him on the horse, and then we shall be on our way. Rohan is waiting for us!”

They lifted him onto the saddleless horse, an action which alone was an insult to any self-respecting Rohirrim, and fastened a second chain to the iron collar around his neck, the end of which was fastened to the saddle of the guard to his right, another blow to the king’s feeble last remainders of hope. He was secured from two sides now by chains, his weak horse bound to a third guard in front of him, and his hands tied on his back. Gríma Wormtongue was too cunning to take any chances with his valuable prisoner. If he was to escape from his foe’s grasp, something unexpected would have to happen. His eyes again sought out the outcropping where he had seen the girl earlier, but there was nothing left to see for him. He hoped she was already on her way to Edoras.

A rising roar woke him with a jolt as the Uruk-hai screamed their affirmation to their master’s command, so powerful, it shook the surrounding mountains. The guard in front of him spurred his horse, and Éomer’s own steed broke into a well-paced trot, followed by a host of running orcs. The last thing the captured king saw before the winding path blocked his view was the image of the frightened herdsman in front of their burnt-down barn.

***

            Elana sat in silence on the ridge high over her clan’s invaded settlement, a place she had carefully chosen. Where she was sitting, the wind was blowing into her face and the wargs she had seen would not be able to pick up her scent, and Áriel was back in the secret cave. Deep in thought, she watched the host of nightmare creatures break camp and take the king with them. What was she supposed to do now? The burden which lay upon her back was the hardest she had ever felt.

The way to Edoras was blocked. There was no way of clearing the fallen rocks with a horse. For the same reasons, she could not use the two mountain paths in the valley. Which led her to the question of how their enemies had managed to bring their own horses with them. Was there a way somewhere, some connection through a secret cave nobody knew of? It was hard to believe. Still, she could not afford to lose valuable time searching for it. The way the young woman understood the situation, there were really only two paths of action open to her, and both involved going the same way the enemy went, as there was no other way out of the meara-valley. Of course, since the path was winding almost directly westward through the Ered Nimrais, it also meant that each step would take her further away from Edoras - and capable help.

 She could ride ahead of Éomer’s captors and alarm the settlements which lay on the way, but it would be a risky course of action. She could not be sure about where they were headed, yet, and in the course lose them. And if she knew one thing, then that their young king would die if help did not arrive soon. Any delays in his rescue would come at a very high price.

Which turned her thoughts towards the second risk: She knew not how large the other settlements’ éoreds were. The nearest one, situated one and a half day’s journey further west was not big. Sometimes, her family had taken the trip to celebrate Midsummer with their kinsmen, but as far as Elana remembered, she had never seen more than fifty people at that place, women and children included. While a full éored consisted of 120 riders, only Edoras and a few more settlements in the Westfold were populated enough to both man and equip them. As most of the others were basically self-contained when it came to their protection - a tribute to their often extreme remoteness - it was possible for an éored to consist of no more than ten men. Hardly enough to fight the enemy they were faced with.

And there was another risk: With the winter wind mostly blowing from the west, the wargs - and maybe those horrible dark things, as well, would be able to pick up her scent.  Áriel was fast and could probably outrun a warg, but the idea of one or even two of these huge, savage predators on her heels made her very afraid. There had to be another way.

So, what else could she possibly do? Ride after them, keep out of their sight and reach and observe... until she was sure which way they were headed? Was this the way to go? It sounded awfully passive. Like cowardice. She did not like the feel of it at all. But as she glanced down again into the quickly emptying gorge below her, she understood that it was the path she would have to go down at least for the first part of the journey. It was too late by now to ride ahead. She would wait a little, and then follow the broad track they would inevitably leave at a safe distance.

***

The sun had passed its highest point in the sky behind the mighty peaks of the White Mountains, but its bright face could no longer be seen from below. A thick layer of dark, rain-promising clouds had - around midday - first assaulted the light, and shortly afterwards, a slight, uncomfortable drizzle had started to fall down. The Uruk-hai, of course, did not mind. They did not mind cold, or heat, or pain; they knew no fear, nor fatigue, nor exhaustion. They had already been running for the better part of the day, putting the leagues behind them without a single break. If anything, the horses would probably need a break before they would.

Éomer had experienced the legendary stamina of the White Wizard’s creatures before, but only now, as he observed them more closely in order to find a possible weakness to the tough, ferocious fighting-machines, did he notice just how bad his situation really was. All in all, he estimated Gríma’s army consisted of somewhere between 150 and 180, most of them Uruks and a few Dunlendings between them. His éored had undoubtedly done some damage, but even so, it would take a massive force to pose a serious threat to his captors. He knew that one of his marshals, Elfhelm, had to be somewhere in the region they were travelling through. He had left Edoras about three weeks ago to inspect the progression of the repair work at Helm’s Deep and to see how things were at Isengard further to the west. If he was lucky, they’d run into him and his éored. Yet Éomer also remembered clearly enough that - due to the post-war lack of men and horses - Elfhelm had only taken about fifty riders along with him when he left. Not nearly enough to take on a battle with Wormtongue’s Uruk-hai.

Inwardly sighing to himself, Éomer redirected his gaze from the steady up and down of broad, dark backs in front of him to the surrounding landscape. They had reached the high plains of the Westmark and continued west on one of the main mountain roads. If they did not change direction, they would reach the Gap of Rohan in about three days. The chance that Elfhelm and his men were still around was not that small. Against better knowledge, the king found himself occasionally scanning the distant hills for the uplifted tips of spears.

Another thought entered his head and added to the chill the slight drizzle had planted into his body: A number of smaller settlements lay along the way they were taking. Gríma appeared to deliberately avoid the larger ones, which would be armed well enough to put up resistance and maybe cause him problems on his way. The ‘lecture’ he had been talking about... it  would no doubt be brought as a punishment to the unprepared clans of the remote Westfold, first, the nearest of which they would reach in about another day’s journey. What did Galmod’s son have in mind? A massacre as a humiliation of his foe? To demonstrate how truly powerless he was? The thought alone made the king shudder. What could he do to prevent it?

Not having anything else to brood over or occupy his mind with, Éomer shifted his attention to the horse which was carrying him. It appeared to be a simple beast, no pureblood Rohirric war-horse with meara-blood in its veins, but then again, its trot was swift enough and it did not flinch from the vile running creatures which surrounded them, a credit to the animal’s courage. There were few horses which could endure the presence of both orcs and wargs, their worst natural enemies. Maybe it was a better steed than he was giving it credit for. Maybe... maybe it would prove useful for him, yet, if the opportunity for an escape would present itself.

‘And how likely is that?’ the voice of reason within the back of his mind sneered. ‘With two guards holding on to the chain around your neck, your hands tied on your back and neither saddle nor bridle to direct your horse with, which - lastly - is also bound to the one in front of you! If you want to escape, you might have a better chance to wait for the night and sneak away in the darkness.’

Right. Éomer harboured no doubt that Gríma would find something to chain him to for the night, and sneaking away from two patrolling wargs and a host of Uruk-hai would be a deed worthy of many songs. A deed he could hardly hope to accomplish. No, his only hope lay within the animal which was carrying him. The question was how responsive it was. Having been on horseback ever since before he could properly walk, Éomer, like all Rohirrim, knew that given normal conditions, he would be able to direct a horse of Rohirric upbringing simply through use of his legs and bodyweight, and his own sense of balance would not let him slip from its bare back even at a full-speed canter. He possessed the necessary level of riding skills. But what about his steed?

Casting a secret glance at the surroundings guards, the king found to his satisfaction that the long, steady-paced journey seemed to have lulled them into a stupor, for they did not appear to pay overly much attention to their prisoner and were lagging a bit behind.  Very well.

Very lowly, too lowly almost for his own ears, he began to hum, a soothing, calming sound in pace with the animal’s steps. His efforts were rewarded with a first, slight twitch of the bay’s ears, first one, then the other. It heard him. It was paying attention. A very slight smile tugged at the king’s mouth, but he strangled the life out of it with a quick look at Wormtongue’s dark silhouette further ahead. The animal was listening. Very well. A few low clicks with his tongue, and both brown ears turned backwards, in fact the horse was almost turning its entire head now.

Time to take the next, slightly more difficult step. He had to be subtle about this. If the horse responded too rashly to his efforts, his enemies would know at once what he was up to and think up further measures to make his escape impossible.

‘You will not betray me, will you, horse of Rohan?’ he thought - and applied pressure to the beast with his right thigh. A simultaneous, subtle shift of his weight - and his steed responded. Only with a slight change in direction, very accidental-looking to the surrounding guards. Except it wasn’t! Excitement took a hold of Éomer as he repeated the whole procedure to the other side. And again, the inconspicuous animal performed flawlessly and confirmed to the man it was carrying that it had indeed once been the mount of a capable rider. Not of a Rohirric soldier, because it was too short to be used in battle, but a person experienced in the art of becoming one with his horse. It knew helps and orders given in the subtlest ways, even without saddle or bridle. The only question still open was the one concerning its speed and endurance. There were only four other horses among Gríma’s army as far as he could see: One belonging to the dark counsellor himself, and three more to the guards around him, which looked suspiciously like Dunlendings to Éomer. Dunlendings - since when could they ride? They would be no match for him, and their steeds didn’t look much better than his own. Gríma - would probably not chase after him if he ran. His adversary was smart enough to know that he could very quickly turn from hunter to prey if only the slightest chance for revenge would present itself to his prisoner, and even with the bolt in his shoulder, Éomer was sure he had what it took to kill Wormtongue single-handedly. That left as main obstacle the two warg-riders. He knew from experience that wargs could - at a short distance - outrun almost every horse. Would the small bay horse he was sitting on be able to stay ahead of them over a distance of maybe half a league?

‘How big is your heart, my friend? Big enough to carry us both to safety?’

            Picking up his humming again, Éomer watched with silent satisfaction the effect on his steed. He could be mistaken, but it felt more relaxed under him. A quick glance to both sides. The guards were still not paying attention, and the level of noise from the grunting and panting Uruk-hai seemed loud enough for him to switch to a very low, Rohirric chant which barely required him to move his lips. The horse snorted and held now both ears constantly in his direction. Its movements became soft and fluent under his weight. It was his now for the taking. Inwardly cursing about not having his hands free to stroke the animal’s neck and thus confirming their newly-formed bond as he did with each horse he broke in, Éomer’s thoughts returned to one of the few happier memories of the last years before the war, a memory tied to the same place they were riding through right now...

“I can tell there is something on your mind, brother. Why don’t you tell me?” Eowyn’s face was flushed from the onslaught of the cool wind as she slowed down the bay mare from a breathtaking canter to a trot, and finally, to a walk. The animal was breathing hard after the race, but the way it proudly held its head and tail up high, she could tell it had enjoyed the wild chase as much as its rider. Riding bareback, with the feeling of the mighty muscles moving below her and with nothing to hold on to but the long flowing mane, the experience had been as close to actually becoming one with her steed as possible, and the rush of excitement was still making her reel as she turned around to face her brother, her long, golden hair flowing like a banner in the wind, wild and free. “What is it, Éomer? You did not expect to lose, did you?” She laughed.

Éomer looked at her in wonder, his heart suddenly aching with overwhelming love he felt for his younger sister. ‘I should take her along more often,’ he thought, unable to take his eyes from Éowyn’s radiant smile. A sight he had not seen in months, if not years. Her whole body language had changed from the stiff, tense bearing she always displayed at the Golden Hall to that of a young, carefree woman with a hunger for life. ‘Far away from that snake’s influence. The poison of his sick mind cannot touch her out here.’ He returned her smile and directed Firefoot alongside her mare.

“I do not envy you the triumph, dear sister, but you won because you are by far the lesser burden to your steed,” he teased her good-naturedly and allowed his stallion to bump into the slender bay’s side. “But even so, I have to agree that the mare appears to be a good pick. A suitable birthday present for the White Lady of Rohan, even if its colour is wrong.”

She sighed theatrically.

“When will the day come when my proud brother, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, will honestly admit he has been beaten by a woman at a fair game?” she laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Tell me, will I live to see it?”

“You may, but ‘tis was hardly a fair game,” he gave back, cracking a big, brotherly grin at her. “Let us ride back, stuff you into the heaviest armour we can find and load a few bags of sand on your horse’s back as well. Then we repeat the race and shall see who emerges as the winner.” She groaned and moved as if to hit him, but of course, he blocked her and seized her wrist in an iron grip. “Now, this would be a game you would most definitely lose at, sister. But I would not call this fair, either. Only this time, it would be your disadvantage.”

“Maybe so, but I could beat you with the sword. You know I have won in battle against several men of your éored already.”

“I must admit that I heard about this rumour.” He let go of her wrist, and even though he had been gentle, Éowyn pretended she had to rub it to renew the flow of blood to her fingers. “But even so, there is a reason why I am their marshal.” The grin was back. No way would he have his younger sister win a battle of words on his own turf. “You could not beat me, and I suggest you do not try, for I would not want to crush my sister’s high spirits before we return to Edoras.” At the last moment, he realised his mistake and bit down hard on his tongue, but it was already too late. The shadow of dread had already returned to Éowyn’s face and caused the smile to drop from her face so quickly and thoroughly that it seemed to have been but a brief illusion of happiness. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Éomer frantically sought for a way to undo the harm he had done, but it was her who spoke first.

“Éomer... I don’t want to go back to Edoras.” The sight of his sister’s dismay pierced Éomer’s heart. “I cannot tell you how much I dread it, this feeling of foreboding and decay... the oppressive silence in the dark halls...” Her eyes stared into the void. “Our uncle’s illness... the descent of our kingdom... and the haunting echoes of his steps... I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”  She finally turned to look at him, her gaze pleading.  But what could he do?

“Éowyn... you know I have to leave for the northern borders very soon, and I cannot let you stay here unprotected. There are too many fell things going on in the Mark these days, and most of the times, it is the smaller settlements which fall prey to them. At least you will be safe at Edoras. I doubt they are feeling strong enough yet to attack us there.”

“I would rather fight a host of orcs than face the evil which is ruling Meduseld,” she rebuked hardly, and her tone did not leave him any other choice than giving it back. “You cannot imprison me in this tomb for the living forever while you take every chance to flee from it yourself!”

His eyes flared up in sudden anger.

“Flee from it? Our people need protection, sister, that is why I’m constantly gone! Do you not think I would rather stay and fight that snake in our own halls to keep him from spilling his poison across our lands?”

She did not flinch under his hard stare.

“But you expect me to fight that fight, and all alone, too!”

“No, Éowyn! I expect you to take care of our uncle, not to fight Gríma. And I expect you to stay out of harm’s way until we can concern ourselves with him. Is that so hard to understand?”

“I do not wish to be left behind like a child or weak, old woman every time the men ride out to protect our country! I have proven myself to be a good rider and fighter, and Rohan is in dire need of those!”

“We will go back tomorrow like I said. And I will say no more.” He brusquely turned Firefoot around. “It will be dark soon. Let us go back.”

“You are thinking of her...”

Wormtongue’s voice spoke into his brooding and pulled him back into the grim reality. Éomer tensed and felt his stomach twist into a knot, his usual reaction to the dark counsellor mentioning his sister. Éowyn’s harsh words were still in his mind, even more vividly now with Rohan’s bane riding so close to him. He had to fight to keep a bland face. He did not want to show his foe how close he had hit to the mark.

“I can see it in your eyes. I am thinking of her, too, sometimes. Quite often, in fact. But I believe my confession is hardly a surprise to you.”  Gríma had reined in his horse until he had fallen back far enough to talk to his prisoner. A gesture ordered the guard on Éomer’s right side to fall back for as far as the chain let him. Now they were almost riding side by side... like good friends. The thought sickened the king, and Gríma’s words caused his blood to boil to a point where he found it impossible to further ignore him. Too much in fact to even be able to cast more than a brief glance over out of the corners of his eyes without trying to find a way to strangle him even with bound hands. When he finally found his voice for a reply, it sounded cold and hard like steel.

“She is out of your reach, snake. You can do whatever you want to me, but at least she won’t have to endure your lecherous looks anymore. Just the thought of you used to make her sick.” His eyes remained fixed on a group of leafless trees up ahead.

To his surprise, Gríma smiled. Not looking at his adversary, Éomer did not see it, but he heard it nevertheless.

“And you would be the one who knew how she felt about me.”

‘Just what is he insinuating?’

Éomer snorted.

“Everybody knew. She wore it out on her sleeves. If you failed to notice, it was probably because in your greedy mind, you already possessed her! You never had a care for how she was feeling about you, because Saruman would have given her to you either way. And to bend her to your will, you would probably have subdued her with the help of one of your potions.” It was a frightening thought. He looked over. Strangely enough, Wormtongue was still smiling, but it was not the malicious expression he had expected. A faraway, wistful shadow lay on his pale features before he turned to face the king.

“Her will? What do you know about her will? You were never there to hear the bitter words she was speaking to herself in her loneliness; a wild, free spirit stuck in a cage by the traditions of your people and the stubbornness of her own brother! I was drawn to her because of that spirit. Not in a thousand years would I have tried to destroy it.”

Éomer’s brow furrowed. He had been ready to shoot back with an acid reply to any of Gríma’s rebukes, but this confession caught him off guard - all the more as it sounded perfectly honest.

‘You know he’s always been a master of words,’ he reminded himself. ‘Do not fall prey to his subtle insinuations!’ But even so, he could not prevent himself from feeling a sharp pang of guilt as he thought about the counsellor’s accusations. It was true: When - after becoming a warrior at the age of 16 - had he ever been there for Éowyn for longer than a mere few days, except for the period where an injury he had sustained in battle had forced him to withdraw from active duty for an entire summer? His éored had been constantly on the move in protection of the eastern borders of the Mark, and through his skill and dedication he had climbed up the hierarchy so fast that he had soon made himself indispensable, a valiant, skilful warrior with a fierce sense of loyalty.

Some would have said he was a driven soul, someone who searched for valour in battle because he was lacking elsewhere. And as much as he would have objected to the notion in the presence of others, Éomer knew that deep down inside it was probably true. Ever since the death of their parents when he had been but a boy, he had been running away... from the feeling of loss, his own inability to deal with the situation, to stand up to his inner feelings. Instead, he had tried to fill in for his father - an eleven year old boy fiercely watching out for his seven year old sister. Never allowing anyone to get too close and hurt her. She had been the only family left to him, and at his mother’s deathbed he had sworn himself to protect her any way that he could, whether it meant by defeating their enemies on the battlefield or by keeping her out of harm’s way at Edoras.

Gríma’s head turned around to finally face him. Something in his face twitched as he recognised the result of his words in his prisoner’s expression.

“Yes, it was you who put her into the cage... you and your uncle.” It was uncanny how that snake seemed to be able to look right into his head and read his mind. Stubbornly, Éomer stared at the broad back of the Uruk-hai in front of him. “By over-protecting her. By making her feel useless, and weak. Someone who could not hold her own. You never acknowledged her riding and battle skills. Sure, you practised with her, you saw how good she was and how much she craved to join you in your constant fight, but every time the Rohirrim rode into battle, you ordered her to stay behind like some old woman. And when she finally pleaded to be allowed to ride with you, you looked at her as if she had lost her mind. And maybe she had.”

Éomer’s head snapped around.

“Watch your tongue, snake, or-”

“Or what?” Gríma did not flinch under the dark, diamond-hard stare. He had the king where he had wanted him all along - had pried his fingers deeply into his most vulnerable spot. Oh yes, the potion worked. One of his favourite recipes. One that had worked wonders on the late King Théoden, as well. At first, it seemed to lend the fatigued patient strength, but once the body had broken down this ingredient of the potion, the ensuing weakness would be even worse than before. And then there was the other part of it, the one that kept the mind of the unsuspecting victim wide open to suggestions of any kind...“Do you remember that incident from four years back, you had just received your first serious wound in a battle and had to drop from active duty for quite a long period...”

Éomer’s eyes became narrow slits.

“What about it?”

“What would you say if I told you that your sister was envying you? Of all the attention you received, the concern of your people and the honour that went with having survived a battle where chances had stood against you. She would have traded with you in a second and gladly accepted the price, but since she was denied that possibility, she thought that the pain served you right. In her eyes, you had been punished for the way you treated her. In her mind, your enemies had avenged her! What would you say?”

“I would call you a liar, just what you have always been. A sick creature that thrives on the misery of others and enjoys to enhance the other’s hurt by whispering your poisonous words into their ears.” There was a cold fury in the king’s voice, but no conviction. He was definitely making progress. Oh, this was delightful!

“But it is the truth.”

“Coming from your lips?” Éomer spat. “Say what you will, it is something your twisted brain has conceived. It has nothing to do with the truth. Even if Éowyn had harboured such feelings, she would have never told you. She would rather have told me.”

“You are wrong, for she did tell me.” Gríma allowed himself a sly smile. “Right there in your room, actually. You were sleeping, and she was tending to you when I entered the room to find out for the king how you were faring. We had just heard the healer’s news that you were likely to recover completely in the course of time. Very good tidings, I deemed, especially for your sister... but her expression was not joyful when I entered. It was... rather sad. I asked her why, and so she told me.”

Éomer could not think of a reply. His mind seemed to be void, shocked into numbness. Éowyn - having taken delight in his pain - and confiding in their greatest enemy about it? It could not be! But he could not think clearly anymore. It had to be one of Wormtongue’s lies. If only he could have been sure!

Sensing the growing distress his prisoner was in, Gríma bent forward in his saddle to whisper with great confidentiality: “It appears to me that I know more about your sister’s secrets than you, her brother and only family. Tell me, Éomer, king of Rohan, if you think you two are so close, how can this be? How can a man that you thought your sister despised as much as you have access to all of her secret wishes and desires, whereas you - the brother who swore to keep her from harm - have not?” He paused and waited for a reply, but it was very clear that his words had stunned the king into silence. “You do not know? Well, I believe I should give you the time to think about it, then. We shall continue our talk about your beautiful and enigmatic sister tonight. Maybe you will have found some answers until then.” He spurred his horse and went to reclaim his place at the top of the procession. The seed had been planted. Tonight, there would be more of the potion. Slowly but surely, Éomer of Rohan’s mind would be pried open - and then corrupted until his vengeance would be complete. If he did this right, the king would die by his own hands...

***

            The darkness was almost complete. The blackness of the new moon lay like a silken blanket on the land and even the comforting faces of the stars were veiled from searching glances by a layer of clouds. Sky, mountains and the ground, all was one in the middle of the darkest night Elana had ever encountered.

            Never since her parents had perished nine winters ago - her father in a warg-attack, her mother from a fever - had she felt so utterly alone. Sitting here in the middle of nowhere with her back to the wall with no one to talk to, no one to confide in and no one to give her courage, she wondered whether she was really doing the right thing. Her family was thinking she was on her way to Edoras, when instead she was following Éomer’s captors. Her family was thinking she would bring them help, and food - something they would especially need very fast with their winters supplies gone. What if anything happened to her out here? What if one of the wargs that travelled with these nightmarish creatures patrolled the night and found her sitting here, unsuspecting? What if it was watching her right now?

            ‘Nay, it isn’t,’ she admonished herself, stuffing the last bite of the flat cake she had taken along as provision into her mouth, her gaze wistfully resting on the small, flickering dots of fire she could see in the distance, the campfires of their enemies. How much she longed for a little more light and the comforting warmth of a campfire. But it would require an act of utter stupidity to build one herself for every foe to see. ‘Stay calm. Áriel would smell them if they were close, wouldn’t you, Áriel?’ She turned her head and looked lovingly at the ghostly pale appearance of her horse which was peacefully grazing close by.

            “Áriel?” Stretching her legs, Elana scrambled to her feet and walked the few steps over, hungering for a little warmth and comfort. The mare lifted her head at her approach, but stayed still and allowed her to lay her arms around the slender neck. Maybe she was feeling just as lonely as she did, out here in the darkness with none of her kin present, with no shelter from the falling rain and blowing wind. Winter was approaching fast, and with nothing to eat, how should her clan survive it?

            Survival... she wondered how Éomer would spend the night. Would he even survive it? What if the arrow had hit something vital, or had been poisoned, what if he had lost too much blood? Her hands moved in circles over the muscular, warm neck of her horse, and the touch of a living, breathing creature soothed her anxious mind for a moment.

‘He is a warrior, he is strong! One arrow cannot be enough to kill him. Of course he is still alive!’ ‘- But you saw the things that captured him! What if they only took him with them as live food?’

Valar, what a disgusting thought! They had not killed her family, so they would surely not eat the king! Elana was dismayed by the awful thoughts which assaulted her from that pit of her very active imagination. It had to be the darkness that spawned them. Everything looked better in the daylight, and come dusk, she would ride in a great circle around their foes and make for the nearest settlement. After one day of following them, she was certain now that this was the place the darkly clad man and his army were headed for. She would warn them and tell them to get ready to free their king.

‘Will they believe me?’

She had no time to follow that thought further, for her horse had suddenly stopped grazing and stood now like a statue, listening, eyes wide, nostrils flared, drinking the wind. Elana’s heart skipped a beat. What was ailing her mare? Desperately trying to pierce the darkness in front of her, she stood at the horse’s side, ready to jump on its back at the first sign of trouble, her nerves tingling. Even then, if it was the wargs, it would probably be too late. She knew how fast the orc-wolves were. In order to outrun them, you needed a good head start. So what now? Run? Not run? Standing there under the black sky, electrified and fully expecting to see the sparkle of the predators’ eyes in front of her every second now, Elana almost screamed when her mare suddenly gave a low, short snort and then whinnied.

“Ssh, Áriel! Quiet!”

And then she felt it, too, the concussion of heavy steps on the ground, a rhythmic noise coming closer. Someone was approaching them fast. But who? Friend or foe? Before she could think of anything to do, her mare started forward with a muffled neigh, her neck proudly arched, just as a tall grey figure materialised from the blackness in front of her, unreal like a vision: A great, muscular horse, easily twice Áriel’s size, was moving towards them in an majestic, powerful trot meant to impress; its grey hide marred with many dark stains. Threateningly throwing its massive head and then arching the strong neck, it finally rammed its hooves into the ground and - half rearing - came to a stop to taste their scents with widely flared nostrils, its eyes rolling menacingly, daring them to move closer. There was no rider on its back, nor was there a saddle, but it was wearing an artfully crafted bridle Elana had seen before. The sight of the great stallion robbed her of her breath.

“Firefoot!”

***

“Food, my lord. You need to eat!”

The pleasant smell of roasted meat woke Éomer from the daze he had been spending the last hours in ever since they had raised the camp for the night. Not surprisingly, he was still chained to the tree, more hanging than sitting and unable to lie down even though he felt too weak by now to stay upright. All strength he had miraculously possessed after what had happened to him just one night before, and which had enabled him to spend the entire, long day on horseback without needing support, had deserted him now and left him feeling hollow and feeble as if in the claws of a terrible illness. His shoulder was a fiery pit of molten agony, and yes, he felt feverish, too, his teeth clattering with cold one minute before the sensation of burning up flushed through his body and made him break into a sweat in a steady change.

It took a huge effort just to raise his head as the spit was once again held in front of his face. Somewhere behind it hovered Gríma’s pale face. Not wanting to look at his adversary, Éomer shut his eyes tightly.

“Curse you, snake...” He had meant to shout it, but was unable to summon the necessary power. Even a sneer seemed to cost too much strength in the state he was in. He could not even spit on the offered meat like the night before, as his mouth was as dry as desert sand. Another shudder ran through his body. His constitution was deteriorating frighteningly fast.

“But you have to eat, my king. You see where your stubbornness has gotten you.” Wormtongue shook his head in mock compassion. “Where should your strength come from if you starve yourself? The potion alone will not sustain you for long, I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid?” Éomer opened his eyes, for a moment seeing two blurred Gríma’s in front of him, rather than the real man. “What do you still need me for, anyway?”

"You won't have to wait much longer now to find out, son of Éomund. Tomorrow around midday, you shall know more." Gríma paused and held out the spit once more, but his prisoner just turned his head to the side and shut his eyes again, uttering an involuntary groan as the movement sent another bolt of pain through his right side. "You don't want to eat. Well, I'm gonna have mercy on you for now, seeing how this whole business I'm putting you through has certainly damaged your appetite, but from tomorrow on, you will eat, or I shall have the food forced down your throat, do you hear me, my lord?"

Éomer spared himself an answer.

"Let me see your shoulder again." Now his prisoner responded - by flinching. With a meaningful look at his Uruk-hai captains, Wormtongue moved in and grasped the crossbow bolt close over the angry red skin of his shoulder, forcing an anguished groan from the king as he slid one finger a nail deep into the wound. Éomer fought against this torment, but was no match for the brute strength of the two orcs holding him.

"My lord, please - you must hold still! My aim is not to hurt you, but to determine whether the wound is already festering. If you move around like this, I will not be able to help you!" He retracted the finger and held it in front of his nose, the pale blue eyes staring at his foe who - under his breath - muttered a few well-chosen curses in his direction before leaning back, utterly spent. Wormtongue faked a hurt expression. "Ah, well... such is the fate of all healers, I guess, to be the subject of intensive swearing for only wanting to do good."

"You - the most poisonous viper of the Mark, a healer?" Éomer would have laughed had he found the strength in himself. Another flash of heat brought beads sweat to his brow.

Gríma raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"Yes indeed, my lord, believe it or not. I will heal the people of Rohan of their arrogance. Tomorrow, you shall be witness of the enlightenment I bring to your people, even if this can, of course, only be the first step on that never-travelled path to humility for them. Haughtiness of this magnitude is not lightly healed. Some subjects of the treatment need a rather strong dose, I'm afraid. Look at you!" He sniffed his fingertip and made a face. "I regret having to inform you that your wound is not in a good state, my liege. I shall have to make the potion stronger this time, and you will drink it, or you will first lose that arm and then die an ugly death..." A meaningful pause. "I realise there are none of your kin around this time to threaten you with, except for yourself. Tell me then, Éomer of Rohan, do you want to die, or will you drink the medicine I am giving you willingly?"

His prisoner snorted in disgust.

"You call it medicine?"

Gríma let out a hurt sigh.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could already have done so numerous times. You know that yourself. In fact, I could kill you right now, if I chose so...” Again, he waved the half-empty spit suggestively in front of the king’s face. “And what a death that would be! Éomer, the eighteenth king of the Mark, descendant of the noble house of Eorl the Young, dying on a spit they use to roast pigs on... and smouldering over the fire side by side with a delicate piece of meat from with his beloved animal companion...” He clapped his hands in delight. “Yes indeed, this would be a song worth listening to. Alas, we do not have any witnesses here who would spread the word, so I am afraid we will have to postpone this procedure. Although I am quite sure my servants would much enjoy it, as well.”

It took Éomer a huge amount of self-restraint not to rise to Wormtongue’s provocation, and not to look at the spit he was retracting now to commence eating. Was that really Firefoot’s meat that snake was sinking his teeth into?

‘He will say anything to have his way with me,’ he finally decided, fighting heroically against the surge of rage the dark counsellor’s words had stirred up in him. ‘He would even say it came from the corpses of my dead men, but even he would not lower himself to that sort of animalistic behaviour. He deems himself much higher than the creatures that serve him! He would not cannibalise his own kind!’

It sounded good. Rational. Yet he had not seen the grey stallion all day, not even in the distance... and Firefoot knew to follow his rider if circumstances ever separated them. The horses of the Mark were not even trained to do that... they did it out of their own, free will, the result of a bondage so strong, it would lead them – in case they and their rider were ever captured alive – to pursue either freedom or death before they would let an enemy ride on their back. But... where was Firefoot? Strangling the life out of the newly awakened fit of desperation, Éomer looked up again, his eyebrows forming a sceptic line on his brow.

“So you don’t want to kill me.”

His adversary shrugged, clearly enjoying his part in this unsatisfying guessing game.

“Not yet, at least. Maybe not for quite some time, but... I am not certain yet. It all depends, I’m afraid. On the situation... on my mood...” his eyes widened suggestively, “...on the development of the next days... There are still too many variables. I may have to change and adjust my plan. I am afraid I cannot promise to relieve you of your pitiful existence anytime soon...”. He came to his feet and looked down on the king. “What I can do is prepare some more of the potion for Your Highness. You look as if you have use for it.” His dark form disappeared into the night, leaving his prisoner to his dark brooding...

***

            “Sshh, Firefoot! Shh... I will not harm you, you know that. Is this not why you are here, to look for comfort in the presence of Áriel and me? Come on, great horse of the Mark, be still. Do not fear me!”

            Elana knew better than to outright approach the obviously terrified and deeply torn stallion. She stood rooted to the ground, one hand held out in offering, hoping to talk her way into the mighty grey’s mind. The way he was throwing his head and rolling his eyes at her told her that he would indeed attack if she moved his way too rashly… but he also wanted to approach her. He was not sure yet about her intentions, even though there had to be some part of his memory strong enough to shine through the veil of horror and death which had descended on him one night ago and left him wild with terror. Something had led him to her, and maybe it was not just the prospects of companionship with another member of his species.

            The young woman granted him the time to come to his own decision as she continued to let him hear her soothing voice, at the same time she took in his appearance and shivered. There was so much dried blood on him, he did not even look grey anymore! Certainly it could not all be his, and from where she stood, she could see nothing more than some minor scratches on his neck and broad chest, but alone the thought that it was maybe Éomer’s blood, or that of his men made her tremble.

            ‘Maybe it is orc-blood,’ she tried to calm herself, still mumbling in a low voice without even recognising her own words. What colour would their blood be? She had never seen a dead orc, but there was something about these ghoulish creatures that told her that their insides must be black like a starless night.

            “Do you not remember me, Firefoot? Do you not remember the one who nursed you and took you with her into her tent in that particularly cold winter-night when your mother died after she had given birth to you? You were black then. A little black, wet, motherless foal. I did not hurt you then, and I will certainly not hurt you now. Do you not trust me?” One step in the stallion’s direction, her eyes closely observing the grey’s body language. How the ears flattened against his head in another threat. How he danced to the side with flying hooves, demonstrating the skill and strength of his terrible weapons. A single kick would be strong enough to break her bones. Out here, all by herself, it could possibly mean her death.

Behind her, Áriel imitated the dance and neighed, longing to be set loose, waking her rider from her contemplation. No, she would have to wait and hope that the king’s steed would sooner or later come to its senses. There was no use forcing this. Turning away from him, she went over to her own horse and began to gently stroke the mare’s delicate neck. What did it mean for her plan to have Éomer’s horse at hand? A swifter escape, once he had made it on Firefoot’s back. Áriel wouldn’t have to carry them both, making the task of outrunning the wargs virtually impossible. Still… how to get to this point? She couldn’t simply ride into the enemy’s camp and tell Éomer to jump onto Firefoot’s back! No, there was no use trying to come up with a solution. She still needed help, and as soon as the first daylight would greet the new day, she would go and find it.

Steps approached her from behind. Hesitant, but already close. Elana smiled to herself, but didn’t turn. Closer still. Warm breath on her neck, a feeling that brought a warm glow to her stomach. Slowly, she turned on her heels and – at last - laid her hands on the great grey’s face, her delicate fingers gently caressing his nostrils and mouth, and then moving up all the way to his ears, unaware that she had slipped into a low, soothing hum.

“Aye, my little one, you remember me. And you will help me to get your master back, will you not?

***

“I am very pleased with you, my king.” Grima gestured his captain to leave after he had watched the procedure of giving the potion to his captive. The king had taken it willingly enough this time, so the drug was already working. Blowing into his cold hands and rubbing them together against the cold, Wormtongue sat down again on a rock opposite Éomer’s position. “At last, you seem to have understood the urgency of this little game of ours... even though it appears to be still not to your taste.”

This time, it did not take a huge amount of restraint on the king’s part not to answer to his adversary’s provocation. He barely heard him, in fact, over the pounding hammering of his heart in his ears as he fought once again to keep the vile liquid inside. He held no doubt that the Wormtongue could have made it easier for him to hold down, less revolting, but of course this was nothing but another part of his elaborate plan for vengeance. Éomer did not want to think about what the potion consisted of. Too many foul ideas came to mind, and they were probably all true, and more besides...

Somewhere behind, a line of large, black silhouettes was moving in front of the campfire. The Uruk-hai were uncharacteristically silent tonight. Gríma’s doing, likely. A Uruk’s roar carried over a long distance and would inevitably attract enemies if it was heard, especially here, in Marshal Erkenbrand’s ever vigilant realm of the Westfold. Just how had Wormtongue been able to acquire them? Where had they been hiding all these past months since the battle of Helm’s Deep?

"I can see your thoughts on your face,” his foe spoke softly into Éomer’s thoughts. “You are wondering about my army. How I assembled it, since all of Saruman's Uruk-hai were believed killed at Helm's Deep. Is it not so?"

The king did not answer, but again the Wormtongue's uncanny ability to know precisely what was going on in his head made him twitch. Gríma leaned forward as if he were about to share a particularly well-hidden secret with his prisoner.

"The truth is, they were. At least to my knowledge, all of the White Wizard's army was destroyed either by the Rohirrim or the tree-druids of Fangorn. The reason for my servants to be still alive is that they were never part of that army. They are my creation and absolutely loyal from the moment on they come into being, and not even my almost omnipotent master knew of their existence... just as he never knew that I had closely watched the procedure he had employed to breed his Uruk-hai to build my own breeding pits in the caves of the Misty Mountains."

Éomer's gaze returned from the distant campfire to him, and even through the deep daze his prisoner seemed to have already sunken into, Wormtongue saw the horror his words had invoked. He shrugged.

"Of course they are nowhere near as large and sophisticated as the ones at Isengard, but they are well hidden and out of your kinsmen's reach. When we return there, I expect that my servants will at least have another fifty ready to join. And when I return to the Westfold in about four weeks, I shall have an army of 400 Uruk-hai and 200 Dunlendings ready to lay your people's settlements into ashes. Marshal Erkenbrand will not be a hindrance to us. I know he is currently at Edoras to find food for his starving people, and upon his return, he shall find nothing but ruins, and his people reduced to the same kind of beggars and thieves they used to look down on with disdain for generations. Maybe I’ll capture him and let him live, too, for a while, to witness the spectacle of watching his people starve to death and as a guarantee that the Rohirrim will not attack us... just like you.”

A dramatic pause as he made up his mind to give away his big secret.

"Yes indeed, my king, listen closely, for this - at last - is my plan: I will let the people of the Mark stay alive for as long as they don't force me to dispose of them. I will ride through their villages, with my servants setting fire to their winter supplies and killing their stock, and using you - their king - to demonstrate that there is nothing special to the heirs of Eorl, nothing that sets you apart from the other people of Middle Earth you look down on so haughtily. To show them that they are nothing more than ordinary peasants who would have never been mentioned in songs or books if not by sheer chance they had gained the friendship of Gondor. Gondor gave you this land. It is Gondor who secured your eastern borders for generations. It is Gondor who gives you the steel to make your weapons and armours with. Without the help of the blood of Númenór, you would still be wielding wooden clubs and spears instead of carrying mail and swords and lances and hard shields into battle. Saruman's army would have crushed you underfoot without the knowledge Gondor has taught you. So tell me, Éomer-king, what precisely is it that the people of the Riddermark are so proud of? What have you or your forefathers ever achieved by yourself?"

Éomer stared at him, unable to keep his thoughts focused. He knew that Gríma had just uttered some incredible insults about his kind, but pressed to repeat them, he would have failed. The words were racing in and out of his mind like a swarm of little silvery, slippery fish, dashing apart every time he stuck his hand into the water to grasp them. To his horror, he found that the leaden state had also overtaken his tongue, for he could not, for the life of him, remember how to use it. What was happening to him?

‘Bastard drugged me…’ was the last conscious thought before he slipped into a state between dream and waking.

Wormtongue had followed the decline of his prisoner into the sub-conscious realm with keen interest. The potion had worked fast, and Gríma wondered whether he had made it a bit too strong this time. He did not want Éomer to end up raving mad. He wanted the effect to be subtle, and his prisoner still in possession of his personality while he whispered his deadly poison into his ears. The king’s mind was now wide open for everything he wanted to plant in there – guilt… despair… the feeling of having been betrayed by his own kin… Whatever he would come up with, it would enter the king’s memory as a fact, whether he told Éomer that he had killed Théodred with his own hands to seize the throne of Rohan, or that King Théoden had banished him for raping his own sister. Ideas were springing faster to mind than he could count them. He had created a void that longed to be filled with the most rotten images and emotions his twisted, dark mind could derive. And, wonderfully, his victim would not remember either having been spoken to nor having been drugged afterwards… and tomorrow, when his strength would diminish yet again, he would ask for more…

Smiling to himself, Gríma came to his feet and sat down next to the unmoving king of Rohan. Éomer’s eyes were open, but glazed with the effect of the drug. He was waiting for new memories. A moment of collecting himself, then the dark counsellor set to work…

***

            It was cold. And wet. The shabby old fur coat she was wearing had kept her reasonably dry and warm, but her limbs were nevertheless stiff from the night on the hard, half-frozen ground with nothing more to keep her comfortable than a thin woollen blanket. But it had been neither the constant drizzle that had woken Elana, nor the silent throbbing of her aching body. It had rather been the sudden sensation of a great animal stepping up to her and blowing her warm, slightly smelly breath into her face.

            Smiling, she opened her eyes and found her mare looking at her curiously as if asking how she could still be sleeping when they had been awake for so long already. Heavier steps further away told her that the stallion was still around, too. Very well. Time to get started. Time to quickly eat the leftovers from the flat cake and get on the road again.

            “Áriel…” Pushing herself into a sitting position with one hand rubbing her eyes, the young woman squinted at the once again cloudy sky… and froze. The position of the sun… it could not be that late, could it? “Oh no…!”

She jumped to her feet, inwardly pleading that this was still a dream, but the wet drizzle in her face felt real enough, so real that the hard fact could no longer be ignored: The morning was long gone, and half the day had already passed – with her being asleep! When she had laid down for a moment during the endless night, close to morning, with the moon already starting to set in the east, she had not meant to sleep at all, but only to give her exhausted body a chance to renew its strength for what was lying ahead of her. She had meant to wait for dusk to ride hard and get ahead of the king’s captors, to alert the village they were headed for, but somehow in the comfortless, desolate blackness closing in on her, the second night she had not slept, exhaustion had apparently overwhelmed her, and now she had lost half a day! As her searching gaze glided over plain in front of her, she noticed with a sharp pang of guilt that the army she had been following had already left, their fires obviously having been put out so long ago, they were not even smoking anymore. This was a catastrophe! Some help she was!

“Áriel, come here!”

Hastily, Elana gathered her few belongings from the ground and saddled her horse, in her head repeating an endless litany meant for the Valar to have mercy on her for her failure.

***

Éomer’s unfocused gaze was directed at the horizon, following the movement of the better part of the Uruk-hai Wormtongue had sent ahead to clear their path. A host of 100 of the nightmare creatures was now rolling towards the unsuspecting village of Iséndras like a flash flood on rocky surface after hard rain: violent, deadly and unstoppable, set to destroy everything in its path. He shuddered and prayed that maybe, by sheer chance, Marshal Elfhelm and his éored would be there to prevent the worst, even if the situation did not leave much space for hope.

Grimly he reminded himself how unlikely it was to meet his able kinsman and trusted friend of many years as he watched the dark, menacing silhouettes running half a league ahead of them and putting more distance between themselves and the rest of Gríma’s army by the minute. ‘Elfhelm must be on his way back to Edoras. Winter is approaching fast, and his errand can not have kept him at Isengard and Helm’s Deep for long. He will not risk being surprised by the first storms of winter on the plains.’

He let his gaze sweep the broad valley in the southern fringes of the Ered Nimrais they were travelling through, desperately looking for a sign, but with an already low spirit. The plan Wormtongue had finally chosen to reveal to him the night before was too cruel to think through all the way to the end. The people of the Mark were already paying a hefty price after the long war against both the White Wizard and Mordor, with many villages depending on outside help to sustain them with food. More hardships of the like Gríma was planning to lay on them would inevitably lead to major famine – and death. There were hardly enough men left in the Riddermark these days to cultivate the vast fields as it were, unthinkable what would happen to their settlements if yet more died of hunger. In his youth, while his parents were still alive, Éomer had once made the experience of what extreme hunger could do a people. How it reduced first strength and then spirit, turning honest and giving men into covetous and distrustful ones, and sometimes, even forcing them to become thieves and steal the things they needed to live from their fellow neighbours and kinsmen until finally, when all was lost and nothing left to find or steal, all that was left to do was to lay down and die.

Just shortly after he had turned nine, an entire summer without rain had left their fields dry and their crops dead in all of the Eastmark around Aldburg, their home. The harvest that year had been a major catastrophe, and the people had already known at the beginning of fall that not all of them would live to see the next spring. It had been a frightening experience. One he did not want to see repeated. One he would do all in his might to avert if it still lay within his power.

The main body of Gríma’s advance army had already vanished from sight, and Éomer shifted his view again to the greatly reduced group of Uruk-hai that had been left behind to guard him and his adversary on their slower approach to Iséndras. There were only around thirty orcs left. Not an unstoppable force. But with the chains around his neck and wrists, his escape would still have to be the result of outside help. Thirty – plus one warg patrol – were still too many for him to handle, even if Gríma’s potion had once again worked wonders on him, considering how feeble he had felt just the night before. If any opportunity would present itself to him today, he would be ready to seize it.

Settling into a slightly more comfortable position on the bare horseback, Éomer finally fell prey to the monotony of their approach again, allowing himself to slip into a daze to retain his strength for a time when he would need it. They had four leagues to travel yet...

***

            “Éomer? Tell me that this is not true! Tell me this is a misunderstanding! Artlas told me that-“

            “Do you have her?”

            “Yes, but –“

            “Then bring her in, and mind your own business, Elfhelm!”

            The older, broadly built warrior narrowed his eyes in disbelief – and he refused to leave, even as he motioned his men to bring forth the young, frightened-looking woman Éomer had ordered him to summon to his tent. What was that mud-blooded Rohirrim thinking to question him openly in front of his men? Éomer knew he had probably had too much Ale and wine after that raging Midsummer-celebration, but that was no excuse for his second-in-command to reject his orders! So, maybe he was drunk, but he was still clear enough to know what he was doing, and as Third Marshal of the Riddermark, it was his well-deserved, damned right to exercise! Valar, he was risking his neck every time they went on patrol to rid the Mark of the marauding orcs that kept just coming at them from all directions, so these weak, whiny peasants could bloody well show a bit more of their gratitude.

            “You cannot be serious about this, Éomer! You are not yourself!”

            “And you, my friend, are forgetting your place!” A dangerous glint lay in Éomer’s eyes as he slowly shifted his attention from his rebellious second-in-command to the girl his men were leading into his large tent now. She had caught his eye when she had brought him the first cup of wine. The tight, buckskin tunic was artfully tied with leather straps over her womanly frame, a promise of the body under it. She could not be older than twenty summers, with a delicately cut face, high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. She had the long, blonde hair that was standard for the most women of the Mark, and curls that softened her innocent young face to an almost elven likeness. The hard work necessary to sustain life out here in the Westfold had given her a lean, strong body, and – for a Rohan woman – she was quite tall. Perfect, he had decided right there and then.

            “My lord? You were asking for me?” Her voice trembled as she stood before him now, slender arms hugging her wiry frame. Behind her, Elfhelm’s frown indicated very clearly that he did not approve of his younger superior’s actions. Again Éomer locked eyes with his comrade-in-arms of many years in a silent battle. ‘I am the king’s nephew,’ his granite-hard gaze said. ‘You object to my will, and you will be punished. Do you understand me? ’The older man, his mentor for many years, narrowed his eyes, but remained silent. He was a seasoned, experienced warrior and knew what the punishment for mutiny against his superior officer would be.

            “Marshal Elfhelm, take your men and leave!” Éomer’s voice was firm and determined and there was a hard glint in his dark eyes as he spoke, a threat that only existed between the lines, yet a very potent one. Not only meant for Elfhelm, in fact, as the faces of the two men further back told him that they did not like what he was about to do, either. Would he have to court-marshal them all for mutiny, or would they come to their senses?

Finally, after another long moment of silent wrestling of their wills, his old friend gave him the curt nod he had been waiting for, but the rigidity with which he finally turned on his heels to leave his superior’s tent was an indication that he was still very much in opposition to what he knew would happen once he had left. Éomer hardly cared as he motioned the girl to step closer. “What is your name, woman?”

            “Théandran, my lord.” She kept her head lowered as she obeyed hesitantly, averting his gaze at all costs, and bent her trembling knees in a formal, stiff curtsey. “But-"

            “Look at me!” Large pools of blue met his gaze – and widened slowly as she saw the clear intent on his face. “You are beautiful.” His hand touched her face, her quivering lips, and slowly traced her cheekbone back to her ear, his fingertips moved into her hair, playing with the golden curls for a moment before they glided further down on her neck. She trembled under his touch. In his intimidating presence.

            “Please, my lord... I’m awaited at home. I cannot-“ Her voice sounded husky and choked as if it barely fit through her throat. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer raised her chin with his free hand while the other one was still resting on the back of the young woman’s neck.

            “Tell me, Théandran... are you afraid of me?”

            “I –“ She interrupted herself as the hand on her neck slid down to her shoulder blades and urged her forward. “My lord?” Breathless now. Her eyes widened. Desire... or fear? “No, my lord, but my family-“

            “-is safe, and they know you are safe here, too.” He was close now, his body next to hers, smelling her sweet scent, which was doing unbelievable things to him. His voice dropped to a deep, confidential whisper. She tried to step back, but he wouldn’t allow it. “There is no place in the entire kingdom, not even Helm’s Deep, where you would be safer right now than here with me... or do you think you would have harm done to you in the presence of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark?” He ran his other hand from her chin down her neck, briefly stopping in the pit of her throat before his fingertips traced the delicate arch of her collar-bone. The right one was still holding her tight, even though her reluctance was painfully obvious.

            “No, my lord...” She shuddered and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. “Please... don’t!”

            “Ssh... don’t speak...” he made, impatient, the building pressure in his lower body making it almost impossible for him to focus on opening the leather-straps that were holding her tunic together. “I did not send for you because I wanted to talk.” There now. It was out. His actions had spoken clearly enough before, but now he had also said it out loud, and Théandran responded. Again she fought to withdraw from him, panicking now, but again he held her back and instead crushed her to his chest with barely restrained force, annoyed by her continued resistance.

            “Don’t!”

His fingers had opened the first straps and uncovered her shoulders as the tunic gave way. Her hands intervened and clasped his in a desperate attempt to stop him. “Please – this is not your right! You cannot do this!”

            “You think it is not my right?” He shot her a furious look and forced her hands away. “Every day we ride out and risk our lives for you people, every battle that we go through our blood is spilled, and now you want to tell me that it’s not my right to take what I want in return? Where have you lived so far, that you don’t know the way things work, woman?” With a fierce demonstration of his superior strength, Éomer forced her arms down. She was no match for him as he pressed his mouth hard onto hers.

For a moment, there was a hint of the sweet, ripe taste of whine, the notion of the exquisite softness of her lips, before it disappeared under his forceful assault to form a hard barrier. Her head jerked back, but he followed it almost faster than she could move away, not even hearing her terrified whimpering over the thunderous boom of his own pulse and the pressure building in his body, longing for release, tongue searching to penetrate the wall in front of it, his grip on her so fierce her arms would turn purple the day after. He hardly noticed the impact as they stumbled against the door-post, interlocked in an awkward dance, the slight curvature of the body underneath his driving him mad.

            Unexpectedly, her mouth opened – and when he followed she bit down hard on his tongue and lower lip, drawing blood! The sudden pain cut through his lust like a knife, and for a moment, surprise slackened his hold enough for her to free one arm. How dare she – she hit him squarely in the face and flung herself backwards, out of his grasp, but stumbled and fell, her tunic ripping in his still iron grasp and revealing her all the way down to her waist. Huge blue, wet eyes stared terrified up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, for the eternity of five heartbeats looking at the red stain there before he forcefully threw down the piece of leather he had ripped off and moved after her, now seriously enraged. Who did that wench think she was to deny him?

She screamed and frantically moved backwards on all four, but he was even faster as his fingers closed around her ankle and yanked her back, under him. She kicked, first at his face, then, below him, aiming for his groin, finding his inner thigh and forcing another painful grunt. Backhanding her came by sheer reflex and without restraint. His knuckles connected with her mouth full force. For a moment, she was stunned. As was he. He had never hit a woman before. Not like this. Not at all!

A small bubble of inactivity where they just stared at each other, he kneeling over her, she frozen in a backwards motion. Slowly, with a dreamlike quality, her hand touched her mouth - and came away bloodied. His strike had split her lip. Large blue eyes met his in utter confusion – and stark, naked shock.

            For a heartbeat, words of regret shot through his head – ‘I did not mean to…’. Then anger replaced it. At himself. Then at her, for making this so difficult!

            “You see what you have done now?” he yelled into her face, outside of himself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, for she could no longer bear to look at him, the image of the protector she had been carrying around in her heart for years entirely destroyed and turned into that of her worst enemy; her lower, bloodied lip quivering in voiceless terror. “This is your own fault!”

Her presence, the maddening softness of her body under him made it impossible to pull back. He had to have her! “Now quit fighting. I do not want to harm you further.” He opened his belt. “What happens now is up to you...” The body underneath him shuddered, but her fighting spirit had finally been broken, and the suppressed, low sobs she was uttering as he tore away the torn remainders of her clothing were the only sign she was still conscious as Éomer claimed his reward...

            “Forgive me for asking, my lord, but you appear to be rather introverted today. Is something ailing you, something I can help you with, or are you not feeling well? Is it your wound?” Gríma’s silky voice oozed its way through the vivid memory that played in Éomer’s head and woke him from the half-conscious daze he had slipped into. For the first time, he was thankful for it. The incident had only happened last year, and right in the village they were headed for. It hung like a black cloud over the meadow of his conscience, casting a large, deep shadow. The people would not have forgotten him, much less forgiven. Sure, he had been drunk, but forcing himself on that innocent young woman – and hitting her, too! - one of the people he had vowed to protect with his life… The very thought sickened him. What had come over him that night?

“My lord?”

Éomer remained silent, eyes staring unfocused into the distance without seeing the surrounding landscape. Instead he saw his friend’s face. Elfhelm’s expression had left no question open that he had been disgusted by what his marshal had done to that girl. In fact, now that he remembered more clearly, all the men his éored consisted of had looked at him as if he were a particularly lowly kind of mutant orc when they had left the village the morning after. Valar, how could he have forgotten? And now he would be confronted with the consequences of his doings again, and he harboured no doubt that – once the villagers had recognised Gríma Wormtongue’s captive – they would rather cheer the dark counsellor for his deed than try and free their morally more than questionable king. Not that he could blame them.

            “Oh, but of course... now I understand,” Gríma straightened in the saddle, recognition lighting up his pale features.. “It is the incident with the farmer’s daughter that occupies your mind, isn’t it?”

            Why couldn’t this snake keep his poisonous trap shut this one time instead of constantly having to pry his finger’s into his wounds? And how did he know? How much did he know? Had Elfhelm told him? But Elfhelm hated Gríma almost as passionately as he did, so how -? As much as he fought to keep his stoic expression intact, Éomer could not avoid casting an secretly ashamed glance at his adversary.

            “I should have known. Your mind is like a deep black pit that attracts all fell news it can possibly get it’s greedy fingers on. Nothing delights you more than hearing about other people’s misery… or causing it!”

            Gríma shrugged and did not bother to display false sympathy.

            “But my lord, the entire Riddermark has heard about this! Your own men spread the word like wildfire! According to Marshal Elfhelm, who I think used to be a friend of yours until this dreadful event, you hurt that woman badly enough for her to be barren now. The healer they brought her to after you were through with her was certain of that. The poor thing will never have children... and presumably, no husband either, for who would want to have a wife who is unable to fill her home with the laugher of their own children?” A meaningful pause. Wormtongue could tell by the look of the king’s face that his latest blow had hurt him to the core. Along with the last defences of his mind, Éomund’s son’s self-control appeared to have vanished as well. The grim, stoic mask behind which he had hidden his thoughts just one day earlier had dissolved to an open display of shame and guilt. “It was a monstrous thing to do, even for someone like you, whose reputation has preceded him for years..”

The dark counsellor let the sentence trail off, knowing fully well that his captive would not be able to ignore the loose end. His plan had taken on a life of its own now with the drug working to its maximum degree. Whatever he would imply, whatever he would hint at, Éomer’s kidnapped mind would take his words and provide images for them from the very wells of his own memory. Lies would turn into fact, and it would work even better due to one of the king’s very own character traits: His immense sense of pride made it virtually impossible for him to ignore any implications his foe dropped, in the process being forced to bury his conscience with an ever-growing amount of guilt, which Gríma was happy to feed into. Spinning intrigues and artfully crafted nets of lies had always been something the son of Gálmód had excelled at – and a well of never-ending delight for him if it worked as well as here.

            “What do you mean, even for me?” Éomer’s hesitant question was rewarded with an incredulous look.

            “Please, my lord… don’t tell me you don’t know about your own reputation! I would deem it far too prominent for you to have missed it, since you Rohirrim soldiers always pride yourselves of your perception and ability to read people! Please, don’t say that you do not know your people’s opinion concerning your person!” Gríma rolled his eyes and let out a short laugh which clearly indicated how ridiculous he deemed the king’s question.

            “What reputation?” Éomer’s puzzlement grew to the point where he wasn’t even paying attention to his surroundings anymore. His foe’s hinted implications had brought a hot, pulsing throb to his innards, and he was sure his face looked flushed with shame. What kind of a nightmare was this? Had he been blind all the time?

Wormtongue inhaled deeply and then sadly shook his head, as he began to recapitulate, slowly and pointedly, as if he were speaking to a stubborn child.

            “Where shall I begin? Your reputation of a man who thrives on bloodlust? A man who actually enjoys the act of killing and the carnage of war and doesn’t take it as a necessary measure to protect his people? Who would prefer to kill his enemies slowly for his greater pleasure, if it weren’t for the fact that there are too many of them to do so? A man who – protected and preferred by his noble descent and relationship with the king - had risen through the ranks far too fast for the taste of most of the soldiers he rode with, and who achieved a position of great power at an age where he was hardly mentally matured enough to use that power wisely? The reputation of a man who expects to be rewarded for his deeds by the people he is serving - and who will ruthlessly take whatever he wants, with little or no concern to whom it belongs, and whether it is given willingly? - That, my lord, is what your people, who you think love and value you, think of the late King Théoden’s nephew.” He paused, his expression hard and pitiless. “Do you want for me to continue, noble king of Rohan, or will that suffice for now?” He stared into Éomer’s widened eyes with all sincerity he could muster, even though his inner satisfaction was almost too intense to bear. The king appeared to be unable to answer, and when he finally did find his voice again, it sounded weak and lacked conviction as well as justified anger, which told Gríma all he needed to know.

            “This is but your own mind talking. I do not believe that my people-.”

            “You do not want to believe me, aye, I can see that, my king. And I do not blame you, for who would like to hear such things about oneself? Yet I can see in your face that you know I am speaking the truth. Maybe it is a good sign that finally you seem to feel something equivalent to shame. Maybe, if I allowed you to live longer, you would change for the better, but…” He took a deep breath. “No. I am sorry. It is too late for that… and alas, it also comes too late for your uncle.”

A hurtful twitch in the king’s face. Another strike right through his defences.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but… let it suffice to say that your scandalous behaviour very much poisoned the well of King Théoden’s sanity in those unfortunate days of his illness. He had hoped for you to be a help for him in those hard days, a crutch for him to lean on, but instead you took away what balance he had!” He shook his head. “A sad story, really. And all the time, you blamed me for your uncle’s misery… You should have spoken with your sister more often. She knew what the real reason for Théoden’s grief was. Your banishment had nothing to do with me – it was a direct result from your behaviour. After that incident with the woman, you were no longer tolerable as a representative of Rohan nobility. This course of action had been my councel to your uncle for a long time, but alas, Théoden’s illness had made him blind for what was going on in his kingdom, and unfortunately, he needed your skills as warrior, as the situation was too precarious for Rohan. That he did eventually banish you came as a surprise even to me. He must have had one of his clearer days when he signed that warrant. Alas, you had been gone for a too short time for the people of Rohan to forget you after the king’s son fell and Théoden himself was slain on the Pelennor Fields of Gondor, and your own great deeds on the battlefield spoke louder to the Rohirrim for a while than their doubts. When you returned from Gondor, they welcomed you as their king… but their memory is returning, my lord. And the voices among them that call for having you replaced by someone worthy are getting louder… and more.”

Wormtongue opened his mouth to continue, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of three dark columns of smoke which were slowly rising from behind the hills they were headed for, too far away yet to carry the stench of the fire to them. The procession came to a halt, and the remaining Uruk-hai launched into appreciate grunting as they pointed towards the site of their brothers’ doings. Éomer’s eyes also were fixed on the first messenger of destruction, but his numbed and stunned mind did not make the immediate connection. His head was reeling from Wormtongue’s revelations and the still prominent images of the bleeding, shivering woman in front of his inner eyes was too distracting for him to be able to deal with yet another catastrophe. A sickening wave of nausea turned his stomach, and he had to bow his head and shut his eyes to fight it, not noticing as the dark counsellor’s attention shifted back to him.

“Get him off the horse!”

            Suddenly, it took the king an considerable amount of strength just to raise his head, a sensation as if all of his strength had suddenly been sucked out of him by some unseen force. Something was seriously wrong with him. Everything - foreground, background, Wormtongue’s face and those of the Uruks further back - everything looked strangely flat, distant and drained of most of its colour. Without warning, an unexpected stroke of heat raced through his veins and bathed him in sweat.

            “But we are not there yet,” one of the Dunlendings who had one end of the chain secured to his saddle grunted. Wormtongue shifted his view from the prisoner to his guard, his voice still sounding patient as he explained the strange order to his follower.

            “No. But the king wishes to take a walk.” His gaze found back to Éomer, who was too much struggling with his suddenly deteriorating condition to really listen. “He is a very active man, our king, a person of great stamina and endurance. Sitting on horseback all day long without an opportunity to stretch his legs is not something a true descendant of the house of Eorl rejoices in, is it, my lord?”

            The words were clear, and still their meaning escaped Éomer. Valar, what was happening with him? This was a feeling as if he were severely drunk, only without the nice warming glow in his stomach. He was unable to think, unable to talk, unable to do anything but stare in utter confusion at the dark figure in front of him.

            Orders were bellowed, and then a sudden, sharp tug at the chain around his neck. Unceremoniously, the king slid off his horse’s back, and yet his instincts still landed on his feet, but his legs were too weak to carry him, and so he sank to his knees in the middle of a large puddle of mud. Laughter surged up all around him, and yet it seemed very distant.

            “You see,” he heard Gríma’s voice from above, speaking to his army, “the Rohirrim proudly call themselves “horselords”. Yet by the sight of this, wouldn’t you rather agree they should call themselves “piglords”, for they seem to share the same fondness of dirt and mud as their naked, squealing, undignified farm animals!” More laughter. Éomer felt the concussion of heavy steps next to him, water and mud splashing under the weight of a horse. The smell of wet fur. “Give me that!” Somewhere over Éomer’s head, one end of the chain changed its possessor. Another tug, and he fell forward, face down into the puddle, to the amusement of his captors. His right side exploded in agony, and deep within his mind, sub-consciously, Éomer was certain he would never ever be able to use his sword-arm again.

            “Up, up, ruler of the piglords!” Wormtongue’s mocking voice teased him. “Your vassals are waiting for their king! And what a fine sight you will be to their commoners’ eyes!” He turned his horse around and send it into a fast trot, dragging his captive behind for a few yards before he stopped again and looked over his shoulder. “You better get up, my liege. It would not pose a problem to me to drag you all the way to the village, but what should your kinsmen say? You do not want to look them in the eye the way you are looking now, would you?” Squeezing his eyelids shut for a moment, the dark counsellor looked up into the rain. “We still have about one league until we are there. If you stay on your feet, the rain will clean you at least a bit and make you more presentable. More... kingly.” A nasty smirk. “It is your decision, son of Éomund.”

CHAPTER 3

The stench of the fire lay over the devastated village of Iséndras like a death-blanket as they entered it through the east gate, up to their ankles in mud. The sky was dark, even though the sun had hardly passed its highest position, and a black, ashen rain fell down and covered men and creatures alike as they walked the broad path into the settlement towards a raging inferno of flames. It was the largest building of Iséndras – the old barn – which had become a victim of the fire, along with everything it had once housed. The flames roared and licked angrily into the sky, and the heat they generated was much too intense for any of the villagers to get near and try anything as mundane as an attempt to extinguish the fire.

            The sight of it was painful enough as it was, but the near and distant sounds of weeping and sobbing, and the desperate cries of the terrorised locals made it even worse and turned Éomer’s gut into a tight knot as he stumbled through the mud. The sight of the first pens did nothing to lessen his anguish as he spotted the unmoving shapes of the settlement’s cattle and sheep at the far back. Thick, black arrows and crossbow bolts stuck out from the animals necks and heads, and some had even been laid open and hewn to pieces by the Uruk-hai’s crude blades, their blood still oozing lazily into the ground. The stench of the massacre invaded his senses even through his own deteriorated state. Gríma’s army had been thorough. As far as he could see, not a single animal had survived.

            Éomer dreaded to look further, but could not help it. There was some morbid fascination to all scenes of slaughter that made it impossible to avert ones eyes. Maybe it was that his racing mind was still searching for a way to dismiss the scenes as false, nothing but a fever-induced nightmare, maybe it was that he was still trying to rationalise the extent of death he was witnessing, but whatever it was, he failed. The next pen. Pigs. Everything inside it dead, too. Next to it, the sound of weeping rose into the air. A woman, dressed in stained, wet woollen rags, her face dirty, was cradling her unconscious husband in her arms, who was bleeding from a head-wound. Two small children tugged at their father’s clothes in a desperate attempt to force a reaction, their ash-blonde wet hair plastered to their tear-streaked, freckled faces. They froze as they spotted the new arrivals, and terror once again filled their innocent faces as they searched for an explanation for what had happened to them – and whether it was over or not.

The king’s stomach twitched in memory of his own childhood trauma. This very sight had been what had first stirred the wish in him to become a warrior. This look of utter despair and horror on peoples faces when they came to his father or – later – to Edoras to ask for help. The feeling of helpless fury while he had listened in on their descriptions of what had been done to their villages… and last, but not least, the destiny of his own parents. The sight of his father as they brought him home after that fatal ambush, his body slashed and broken. Éomer had been barely eleven years old at that time. Eighteen years had passed since then, but he had never forgotten that particular day. All it needed for a perfectly accurate memory was for him to close his eyes, and he was there again, on that accursed summer-afternoon...

It had been a hot day, and after the traditional sparring session with his friends he had been by the pond fishing and watching out for his sister, when that first anguished cry had pierced the moisture-laden air. For a moment, an icy chill as if someone had walked over his grave had mesmerised him and caused the tiny blond hairs on his arm and the back of his neck to rise. Death. If he knew anything of it, than that this was the sound of it. Someone had just died. His head snapped around in search for its source, and that had been when he had seen the procession of horses and men entering Aldburg from the southgate. The trout that had risen to his bait and was now fighting for its life on the other end of the rod he held had been completely forgotten as he let it fall where he stood. Out of the corners of his eyes, he had seen Éowyn frozen to the spot where she had been playing with her little wood-horses, looking in the same direction with an all-too-knowing expression on her face.

“Éomer?” Her eyes had been huge, and until the present day, Éomer still asked himself whether his little sister had recognised their mother’s voice mother before he had. Although sub-consciously, he probably already had, too.

“Come!” He had seized her little hand, but had been too fast for her as he made for the marketplace from where it had risen as fast as his legs carried him. Somewhere along the way, she had slipped from his grip without him even taking notice. Out of breath and his heart drumming a relentless beat in his chest, he had seen the men of his father’s éored – ‘But there are so few of them! Where are the others?’ – coming to a halt next to the ancient tree, some of them still mounted, while others were gathered in a tight circle on the ground, their heads bowed, looking down on something... or somebody. Some of them bleeding, and there were quite a few horses with them without riders!

He had not been able to spot his father’s distinctive helmet with the flowing white horsetail on the back among them, and somehow, even though he had still been too far away to make out any distinctive facial features, he had known right then that it had to be his father in their midst. The premonition had hit him in the guts like a goblin’s club and forced him to slow down to a shaky walk. And then he had heard the slowly rising, wailing sound again and recognised the voice, and he knew his life would change forever.

Catapulted into a trance by this sudden knowledge, he had come to a halt just outside the circle, still unnoticed by the adults around him, and his searching glance through the moving bodies had locked on a sight his young mind was not ready to digest: Théodwyn, his mother, kneeling in the dirt despite wearing one of her best gowns, her face hidden from Éomer’s sight as it was pressed against the one of the person lying unmoving on the ground, with her long, blonde hair flowing down like a golden river, arms locked around the body in a fierce embrace, as if she wanted to hinder life from leaving the man in her arms with all of her willpower and strength. He knew those clothes! They were his father’s! The sight of this was unsettling enough, but then Éomer had found his gaze transfixed by two thick, feathered shafts that stuck out in the air over her head, while their other ends were buried in the man’s – his father’s! - chest. There was very little blood, but it looked... all wrong!

“Éomer?” His sister’s breathless, frightened voice as she came up behind him, her little hand tugging at his tunic. Then a moment of utter silence – and her scream. “Papa!” Unlike him, she was able to move and flung herself at their dead father as Éomer was still standing there, frozen to the spot and unable to take his eyes off the horrible sight.

The people’s faces – except for his mother’s – had turned then to look at him as he shoved his way through the crowd to finally get the first, full view of the mutilated body of his dead father. Thankfully, shock had claimed him right there and prevented him from falling apart where he stood. Instead, it had been like walking through a dream, one of his rare nightmares after having once again heard too many vivid descriptions of his father’s errands. Somehow, he had made it to the fallen’s side, and still his mother had not acknowledged his presence with any sign, not even as he sank to his knees on the other side of the body. Unable to take his eyes off the thick black lengths of wood, and the pale, lifeless face of his father behind them, partially covered by his mother’s and sister’s hair. A thin red river had trickled over his cheeks and chin and there was a deep gash from his nose to his left ear, too, but the blood had already congealed and the flow had ended, because there was no more heartbeat in the cold body to drive it out of his wounds.

All this redness on the grey skin was decidedly unreal. There were no natural colours this bright and aggressive. This had to be a dream! And then he had seen more of the red glistening on his father’s stomach, where it had saturated the fabric of his tunic and stained the mail he was carrying, and the boy’s mind detached itself from the body it lived in.

‘Death,’ had been the only thought Éomer had been capable of before a concerned young face – ‘Elfhelm. It was Elfhelm.’ – had obstructed his vision and asked him something Éomer did not react to. ‘So this is what death looks like… this is what it feels like.

But in truth, he had felt nothing - except numb. And hollow. He had not even wept when they had brought him and his sister home to have their nursemaid look for them while they tended to Théodwyn. All of the afternoon and well into the night, when exhaustion had finally claimed him, he had been sitting in his chamber holding his weeping sister. Not one tear had left his eyes while he had listened for hours to the sound of her despair, and in retrospective, he had always asked himself how it could have been.

Maybe it had been because the sight of the cold, pale body in front of him had nothing in common with the vibrant, commanding person his father had been in life. An broadly built, strong and intimidating, yet passionate and giving man, greatly beloved by the men he rode with, by the people he served… and by his family. And now, he was dead, like so many before him. Ambushed by creatures Éomer had never thought would be able to harm the Marshal of the Eastfold. To the eleven year old boy he had been, his father had seemed invincible... but he had not been, nobody was, and this one summer day  - the day that his childhood had ended - he had been taught that bitter lesson once and for all. Hope… was dangerous. Nobody was safe – ever! Somehow, it just seemed to belong to life in the Riddermark: There would never be a time for its people when war and tragedy would not lurk to jump at them at them around the next corner. Each second you let your guard down could be your last. A lesson he had kept in his mind for all these years… until he had abandoned it in time to give Gríma this one chance of taking revenge.

The burial, in a way, had been even worse then the initial shock at the marketplace. The three days between the killing and the ceremony had been long enough for him to make him come out of the shocked daze and really feel the sharp spike of pain - and to come to an understanding of what the loss of his father actually meant. Despite of the obvious things that would cease to exist and which came with Éomund’s position as lord of the Eastfold – knowledge of all the things that went on in the Mark, the respect and love from the men of his éored and the people under his protection, all of which had been nice, but not things Éomer was dependent on… his father’s death meant that nobody would be there to take care of their family in times of need. His mother was currently certainly not in any position to. There would be no more valuable advice for life and adolescence for him, on how to grow up in order to be able to walk in the footsteps of a great man … no more gripping bedtime stories of the Mark’s heroes told in his father’s deep, soothing voice; no embraces, no hair-ruffling, no lectures, no more fighting or hunting and riding lessons which had always been Éomer’s favourite pastimes with his father because those had been the rare moments when he would have his undivided attention and affection. All this had taken its time to settle in the young boy’s mind, and now that it had, the knowledge was devastating.

What had made the burial an even more excruciating experience for him were the ancient Rohirric rituals. As a male member of one of the noblest families of the Mark, he had not been allowed to grieve openly like his mother and sister. Eleven years of age was considered as being old enough to show the regal composure of the lords and kings of his country, and while they had carried his father’s kingly-clad, but lifeless body to the place where all lords of the Eastfold were buried, he had been standing next to his silently weeping sister and grief-stricken mother at his uncle’s and his cousin’s side, stone-faced as expected of him, but inwardly crying out in despair and rage over this injustice. Only Théodred’s hands on his shoulder, giving him a compassionate squeeze as the procession passed them by, had offered some token of relief to him on that day, but it had hardly been more than a drop of comfort in an ocean of woe. And when they finally handed him his father’s helmet with the broken nose-protection in the form of a golden horse, he had made a silent vow to himself: to become a soldier of the Mark as soon as they would let him, and to use his skills to hunt down every orc he’d ever meet, to kill every single one he’d ever come across, and to repay them in blood for the tragedy they had brought upon his family.

That same night, Théodred – then a young man of 24 - had sneaked into their room when everybody had been sleeping, except for Éomer. He had motionlessly lain in his bed, crying silent, bitter tears of grief, loss and rage with no one present to comfort him, and when his cousin had sat down next to him, he had at first stubbornly pretended to be asleep, for he had been uncertain about what the king’s son expected of him. But Théodred, albeit a young man himself, had not been one to be easily fooled, and upon the low, but persistent call of his name, Éomer had finally turned his face to him, ashamed of his tears and expecting an admonishment for the lack of his restraint. What happened then came as a surprise, as his cousin had opened his arms and embraced him.

“Let it out, little one,” Théodred had whispered into Éomer’s ears, careful not to wake Éowyn, who had been sleeping nearby. “You were very brave today, but I know just like you what it feels like having to hold back when all you want to do is cry out in rage and despair. Come, let it out.” And this one time, in the silent hours of the night after his father’s burial, Éomer had allowed himself to succumb to his grief like never again afterwards.

From that day on, his persona had changed from the outgoing and lively boy he had been to one who always made sure to keep his distance and observe. Someone who never let a person get so close to him that their death would hurt him. He kept his composure, he made it a point to keep his feelings guarded – expect for fury and passion against their enemies, for those were considered noble character-traits in the Rohirric culture which could be openly displayed - and he became the one person to steady his sister in her grief., even if he was unable to reach their mother.

He had hardened, determined to never again show any weaknesses, neither to his foes, nor to his friends. The boy had become a man, hell-bent on honouring the memory of his father and protecting his kin… what was left of it. - Where had it all gone wrong?

He had not finished that thought when the woman looked up, and the wailing sound just like the sobbing were choked in her throat as her eyes found him. Accusation lit up her bright blue gaze and pierced Éomer’s heart.

‘She knows who I am. She knows what I did.’

He had to look away, and his face flushed with a shame so deep, it scorched his innards. Oh yes, the people had anything but forgotten him. And how could they, after his monstrous deed? Was the woman still around? Would he have to look in her face? The king cringed at the prospect. Of course she would still be here. And when she saw him, she would point her finger at him and shout out his sins for all to hear. Maybe she would walk up to him and hit him! Maybe - maybe he ought to be thankful for Gríma’s massive army; maybe – without their presence - his kinsmen would stone him! But then again – maybe death was the only way still open to him to restore at least some of his dignity. Maybe, if he asked for forgiveness and then killed himself… maybe his place in Rohan’s history would mercifully be left out in the songs of future generations. Maybe they’d name someone else 18^th king of the Mark because the one they had for a few, brief months would put the entire kingdom to shame if his deeds and reputation became known.

He was glad to leave the woman behind as Wormtongue urged his horse into motion again and the chain around his neck pulled Éomer forward. The burning sensation of her gaze on his back followed him all the way to the next corner.

Yet his anguish only grew as they slowly advanced, for there were more people moving all around them the more they proceeded towards the centre of Iséndras. More voices and the notion of activity – children running, women and men shouting and fleeing from them towards the marketplace – from where the terrifying roar of the flames and a wave of heat emitted. The menacing shadow of Wormtongue’s advance-army was clearly outlined by the blazing fire in the background as a dark silhouette made it’s way down towards them. The warg-rider. His ferocious mount snapped at a woman who dared to cross its path on her frenzied flight into her hut and barely missed her. The sound of ripping fabric could be heard, a short, terrified shriek, and then the woman had reached the sanctuary of her home and slammed the wooden door shut behind her.

“They’re waiting for you, master,” the orc snarled and spit in disgust. “We killed only those who wouldn’t stop opposing us.” His words sent a shudder down Éomer’s spine.

“Very well, Âshgnak. I am pleased with you. Expect a reward once we are done with the Riddermark.”

“You are too friendly, master.” The creature turned its mount around and led the way to the waiting crowd, closely followed by Wormtongue and the stumbling king.

They were getting close to the site of destruction, close enough to feel the heat and smell the biting smoke. By the time the entire army had reached the marketplace, the barn had become a huge blazing inferno of hellfire and the flames licked hungrily at the surrounding houses, with the first thatched roofs already catching despite the villagers frantic efforts to keep the fire from spreading. Who was not involved in the activity stood unmoving in the middle of the great open place, forced to welcome the invaders by the threatening minions of Gríma Wormtongue behind their backs. The atmosphere thickened.

***

Smoke bit into Éomer’s eyes and lungs and made him cough, but even though his sight was blurred and his eyes watering, the king spotted a group of men among the crowd that looked more furious than frightened, their expressions and weaponry giving them away as the village’s soldiers. Apparently the unexpected attack had robbed them of their horses, but they were armed nevertheless. Hands were clasped around the hilts of their swords or spears, and bows were pointed in the direction of the arrivals as the enemy spilled into the place like a black, foul flood. The king’s heart went out to his brave, yet hopelessly outnumbered kinsmen. They were looking death straight into the eye, yet pride and honour kept them from backing down even against overwhelming odds. His gaze found their captain, a brave, stout man he knew from personal experience to be a valiant fighter, and a silent prayer went to the Valar. He hoped that the man would be sensible. Sometimes, there was no sense in pride. It was a lesson Éomer himself had had great difficulties to learn, but an important one. Nobody would be helped by it if the lives of good warriors were needlessly thrown away. One had to pick the right occasion to make one’s stand. But of course recognising them was something that could not be learnt, only felt. It was a matter of instinct. And Éomer’s instincts as a warrior told him that this was a lost cause.

And yet there was also the knowledge – despite the hardships history had had in store for his people ever since the first days of the Mark – that their endless courage in the face of overwhelming odds against them had always been the one defining character-trait which enabled the descendants of Eorl to prevail. The last, and maybe most encouraging proof being the recent battle at Helm’s Deep. Almost in all major battles their songs and sagas told of, the Rohirrim had faced impossible odds, and yet through their skills, determination and fierceness as well as their ornery will they had endured. Of course the captain of Iséndras would not shrink from the challenge Gríma Wormtongue’s army presented to him – it simply wasn’t in his blood. Very soon, if no miracle happened, blood would be spilled...

Éomer did not know what exactly he intended by staring at the broadly-built man, trying to get his attention. A moment later, he had it, when the captain’s gaze glided over the rows of the intruders – and found him. The king tried to put it all into his eyes despite the huge surge of shame he felt welling up in him.

‘Let them pass through! Do not attack them! If you attack, they will burn down the village and the blood of your people will saturate the ground! There will be a time for revenge, but it is not now!’

The blue eyes widened in recognition – and disgust! Before Éomer could cast his glance to the ground, he saw a string of muttered curses leave the man’s lips before he turned his head to speak to the man next to him, where the reaction was repeated. He had been identified! The sting was sharp and the pain worsened with the rising of angry mutters and shouts all around him. They had spotted him. Even in his deranged state – without his kingly regalia, mud and blood-caked and drenched to the bone - they knew who had returned to Iséndras in spite of it being the place of his disgrace, and his accursed name was passed through the crowd in low whispers and mutters. All the evil his foe had done to Eomund’s son before was nothing compared to the bottomless guilt and sudden fit of extreme self-loathing the crowd’s reaction stirred up in him. For a moment, Éomer wished that someone would jump forward and finish him off. Behead him, or even gut him, he didn’t care. Whatever they’d do to him, he deserved it. All he wanted was get away from this awkward situation, no matter how... a feeling that turned into sheer agony when he spotted a familiar face among the folk in the first rows. He froze. Was unable to escape the accusation engraved into the young woman’s delicate features. A surreal coincidence had it that Wormtongue chose this moment to speak.

“People of Iséndras! Listen to me!”

For the first time in his life, Éomer was glad to hear Gríma’s voice. It took the focus off him for a moment, but there could be no doubt that it would return. The noise died down to the point where only the angry roar of the fire behind could still be heard. Gríma paused and let the moment build before he continued. Yet for the life of him, Éomer was unable to break from the young woman’s piercing stare. ‘Why did you return?’ it asked him. ‘Because you wanted to see the misery you caused? Are you pleased with yourself now, my lord?’

“I know you must be afraid,” Wormtongue meanwhile continued from the safety of his horse. A circle of Uruk-hai was shielding him from the listening, angry crowd. “You do not know what hit you. I understand that you must be wondering why this horrible attack happened to your village, what you have done to deserve a punishment so severe and who in fact it is that is punishing you!”

Another meaningful break. Despite his misery, Éomer felt like jumping onto the counsellor’s steed and snap the worm’s filthy neck. All it would take to bring down the White Wizard’s vulture to where he could reach him was one unexpected tug at the chain which Gríma had casually wrapped around his wrist. The way it looked to Éomer, its end was not even secured to the pommel of his saddle. There was still one more chain to get rid of, though, but the Dunlending who held it appeared to be distracted by the surrounding crowd. If he brought Gríma down… the Uruk-hai would kill him, but Éomer did not care. Maybe this was a way to redeem himself. Maybe his people would forgive him if he killed their attacker without caring what would happen to himself! And maybe… being slain in the course of this deed would not be the worst thing that could happen to him. Because even if he somehow, by some miracle, would be able to return to Edoras, the city of his forefathers and noble kings of Rohan, how on earth should he ever again find peace of mind or forgiveness in himself for what he had done? Wouldn’t it be infinitely better to sacrifice himself for his people?

But he could not move. Nor could he breathe. Because still that woman’s gaze had him pinned like a horse that had run into a pike during an attack, and the pain was just as sharp. Yes, he wanted to die.

“My name is not important,” Rohan’s bane interrupted his thoughts, the pale, merciless gaze locked on the village’s captain. “I am merely the instrument of others, wrath personified of those who are too weak to avenge themselves on you for decades and centuries of oppression and murder. Of having their homes destroyed and their children die of hunger because you decided that they were not good enough to share this land with you, that their worth was less than yours because their hair and skin were darker than those of Eorl’s heirs. It was reason enough for you to violently chase them away from the lands they had inhabited for as long as they could think, back to a time when the Riddermark was still named Calenardhon and belonged to the realm of Gondor. It was reason enough for you to harass those who where unfortunate enough not to look like you because they did not have the fortune of being born a thoroughbred Rohirrim! Whether their mothers were raped by men of other races or whether they sprang from an unlikely love between a man and a woman of different race was of little concern to you! They could try as they might, they would never be more than filth in your eyes! At best, you made fun of them, and they ended up perpetually being the subject of your clean-blooded, blonde children’s cruel jokes. But it also was not below you to punish them even much more severely for what they could not change, too.” Gríma exhaled. Again his gaze found the captain’s – and held it. “I am here today to teach you respect for those other people you look down on so haughtily, just because you possess what they have not! You look upon them as lowly beings, no better than orcs, as thieves, while you never understood yourselves what it feels like having to feed your family even in times of famine. But fear not, proud Rohirrim, for I am here to teach you that valuable lesson and heal you of your delusions of grandeur once and for all!”

Angry murmur rose all around them in reaction to his words, and as Éomer stood and watched, still contemplating whether he should go ahead and seek forgiveness in death, he felt the tension rise to an almost unbearable level. What was about to happen seemed unavoidable. He knew what the beginning of a violent outbreak shortly before the slaughter began felt like. Did Gríma know it, too? Was he counting on it, even? Did he want for his prisoner to witness the massacre first-hand?

The king swore under his breath, inwardly praying for the captain to come to his senses and save his village from annihilation. From his position behind Wormtongue’s horse, which – luckily – shielded him from at least some of the villager’s eyes, Éomer watched the spectacle unfold when a sudden tug on the chain around his neck made him stumble out of the beast’s shadow.

“In case you are wondering who the pitiful creature is I brought along to witness your education – I already heard his name wander through your rows, and yes, it his him indeed - it is your king!” The murmuring quickly became a shocked silence over which only the flames could still be heard. A collective gasp, and then nothing more. With a sudden swing of the chain’s end against his prisoner’s head, Wormtongue forced Éomer down on his knees in the middle of the marketplace. Something hot began to trickle down the back of his neck as the crowd gasped in response.

’This sorry-looking, pitiable filthy excuse for a presumably great warrior is the noble King Éomer, former Marshal of the Mark and son of Éomund, Lord of the Eastfold! A true descendent of the noblest house the Riddermark has to offer. The epitome of all that a man of Rohan could aspire to be.” Silence. Éomer felt their piercing glances on him, and even if he could not bring himself to lift his head and meet their eyes, he knew what expressions their faces held.

“And now look at him: Bereft of his kingly accessories, filthy, dirty and wet! And weak, not even able to look you in the eye, so ashamed is he! What is left now of that royal grace that separates him from those he is leading war against? What is there that sets him – and you – apart from the Dunlendings, except your good fortune of having been born on the presumably ‘right’ or should I say ‘stronger’ side?” Another tug at the chain almost brought his prisoner down. An anguished groan escaped the villagers. To Éomer’s ears, it sounded like they were cheering. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable. There would be no honour in death for him. There would only be death, nothing more: And yet he welcomed it.

“Leave him be!” a firm voice rising from the angrily muttering crowd demanded. It was answered by an angry roar.

“I warn you-“ Wormtongue began, but his voice was drowned out by the sudden uproar.

It happened from one moment to the next. There was no build-up, no warning, and Éomer didn’t even see the first wave of the attack because he was still reeling from the blow to his head. A moment later his vision cleared, arrows were flying, spears thrust and the crowd was surging towards the invaders with fury in their screaming faces. Behind him, two of his Dunlending guards sank to the ground with an anguished grunt, and the chain around his neck slackened. He turned on his heels, eyes wide, just realising that Wormtongue was in fact now the only one who had a hold of him, and he was being distracted by the riot!

A few fast steps backwards, a violent tug with his full body weight behind, and the chain fell down. Except for his still chained hands, he was free now! Movement behind him. He swivelled.

“Your arms, my lord! Stay still!”

His arms were being seized, and then there was a metallic crunching sound. The chain gave way, and Éomer pulled his arms from his back against the violent screaming of his neck muscles and the agony in his right side, unable to suppress an anguished grunt. Around them, the battle roared, and all kinds of sharp and pointy objects scythed through the air. The chains fastened to the ring around his neck fell off, cut by – his kinsmen? He stared at the three men surrounding him in stunned bewilderment. What were they doing?

“Go, my lord! They’re coming for you!” The captain. He was holding the reins of the scrawny bay horse he had been riding the past days and motioned for him to move. How could this be? After what he had done, how could they help him? Another frantic gesture. “Quick!”

“The king! Don’t let him get away!”

“Come!”

No time to think this through. They were sacrificing themselves for him. Everything would be in vain if he hesitated now. Éomer closed his fingers around the skittish bay’s mane and found to his dismay that he was too weak to make it onto the horse’s unsaddled back one-armed. The next moment, he was lifted up and swung his leg over.

“Go! Go!”

A last, brief glance into the sweat-beaded, concerned faces broke his heart. They were doing this because he was their king, and because the honour of the Éorlingas would rather force them to die than have their monarch insulted by an attacking force, no matter what they thought of their ruler. They despised him, but would sacrificed themselves for him nevertheless.

“Thank you. I-“ Words failed him. A group of Uruks was coming their way with swinging blades. A brief nod that Éomer hoped expressed all he felt for his people, then he thrust his horse around and kicked his heels into the animal’s sides.

            “The king!” Gríma’s voice, faintly recognisable over the roaring battle, but behind him. “He must not escape!”

His bad arm pressed against his torso, Éomer urged his steed forward for all he was worth, and the scrawny horse responded with an explosion of speed that took his breath away. The thin body stretched under him, became a horizontal line as the hooves hammered the ground in a frantic rhythm. A quick glance backwards. His vision blurred from the wind and smoke, Éomer saw a huge dark shape clear the battling crowd and charge after him. Gríma was sending the wargs to retrieve his prisoner! He could not see the second one, but was sure that he would encounter it very soon. Presumably, its rider would be trying to cut off his path.

His hand firmly grasping the bay’s mane, the king ducked even deeper until he practically lay on his horse, and silently prayed for his steed to give all it had, all of its great heart – and more, if needs be!

“Run! Run!” Another glance. The warg was gaining, the threatening grin of the deadly jaws coming closer. There was no doubt they’d be torn apart if the creature brought them down. Wargs were known to be too ferocious even for their own riders. They did only what they wanted to do. They did not follow orders. Even if Gríma wanted him alive, if that warg behind them decided it wanted to bite off his head, he’d be a carcass. Nobody would stop it.

Another look. Closer still! Too close! The jaws opened. Éomer’s reaction was sheer reflex – a hard tug on the mane he was holding on to, a violent shift of his body weight, and he virtually threw his steed into a narrow alley. For a precarious moment, the bay’s hooves slipped on the wet stones before it found its balance again and – brushing against a wall with its left side – regained its speed. A short praise together with an appreciative pat on the horse’s neck as they chased down the alley. They had won a few lengths with their unexpected turn, but now the warg was back behind them and gaining again… and Éomer still couldn’t see the other one! Another alley, another abrupt turn. Again the ploy worked, but up ahead, the huts were thinning out. They had reached the end of the village, and nothing lay before them but wide open ground.

            “Run, my friend! Just a little bit further!” From experience Éomer knew that the great orc-wolves were an explosion of speed for maybe a quarter league at the most. They were still fast after that; but a good horse could surely outrun them in the long run, and what the one that was carrying him was lacking in constitution, it made up for in bravery. It would tear itself to pieces to carry them both to safety. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe – another look back. The distance had grown. Not much, but visibly enough for him to feel a slight twitch of optimism. ‘Yes. Yes!’

“Come on! Come on!” He knew the horse was already doing its best, but just in case, he kicked his heels into the flanks and then shifted his weight again, more forwards, onto the bay’s shoulders where it wouldn’t hinder the animals movement as much. Strained even to lift his body up… and the horse responded. Another surge of speed. Faster! The distance grew, and the sight of the slowing predator behind them forced a wild, triumphant cry from the king as they cleared the last hut – and a huge dark shape jumped at them!

            No time for a reaction. For a moment, Éomer felt lifted as his steed’s hooves left the ground in a frantic attempt to jump over the second warg, then an obscene crunching sound and the impact. The king was thrown from the animals back and against a mountain of muscle under wiry, brown fur. A horrible scream, a gurgling, roaring noise, then Éomer hit the ground with bone-shattering force. A few heartbeats long he lay on his back and stared at the smoke-marred sky, all wind knocked out of him, and then a huge, ugly head moved into his blurring, darkening vision; a notion of glistening white jaws along with the stench of rotting meat…

***

                Elana had been riding hard for hours to make up for the time she had lost, but when she saw the great columns of smoke billow into the air behind the rolling hills she was headed for, she knew she was coming too late. There had been no warning for the people of Iséndras. The foul flood of nightmare creatures had assaulted them out of the blue, thanks to her. She swallowed and felt her insides burn. How many had died because of her failure? The sound of a galloping horse to her right side didn’t even cause her to turn her head. Firefoot had been around the entire morning, running freely alongside her and Áriel, still skittish and terrified from his experiences two nights before, but longing for companionship just the same. She had not dared to tie the great grey to her saddle, instead counting on the fact that the stallion’s need for comfort would continue to keep him around She needed him. If destiny chose to present her with an opportunity to come to the king’s aid, she would need his steed to carry him. Her young, delicate mare – her already exhausted mare! – would not be able to carry them both to safety against the ferocious speed of the wargs she had seen. That moment though, she had all but forgotten about the stallion when she saw the rising dark monument to her failure on the horizon. She barely dared to climb up the next hill to have that dreaded closer look… but she had to. This was not a time to listen to her strong, inner voices of cowardice which kept whispering in her head to ride to another settlement in order to raise the alert and keep out of harm’s way. To let their warriors handle this crisis, because she was just a 16 year old tribeswoman. A girl! Girls were not supposed to fight, were they? If there just hadn’t been that feeling of being responsible for this mess…

            “Sweet Eru…!” It was as bad as she had thought when they reached the high ground and were rewarded with a sweeping view of the Westmark’s rugged landscape: Up ahead in the not-too-far distance, about half a league away, the devastated village of Iséndras lay under a poisonous-looking dark cloud. Towards the centre, the violet-greyish swirling ash was lighted from raging fires, and even from where she stood, faint echoes of battle could be heard. She swallowed, her stomach tying itself into a painful knot. This was her fault. She could have prevented this slaughter! Why, oh why had she fallen asleep? That dark man’s horrible army was down there slaying her kin, and it was all her fault! She had lured the king into the trap, and she had not alarmed her kinsmen when it had been in her power. Did she ever do anything right?

The young woman felt truly miserable as she allowed her hard-breathing mare to slow down to a trot, uncertain of what she was supposed to do now. Ride down there anyway, see whether she could be of help in the aftermath of the massacre? Look for help someplace else? But where? The next settlement she knew of consisted of only a few farms and lay about a day east from here. They would not be able to be of help! Elana was not even sure whether they had armed forces there at all! She had never travelled far enough from their territory to know. All she knew about the settlement was what her family had been telling her. So, riding ahead seemed to be out of the question. All the more as she would certainly lose the enemy’s tracks in the process, thus leaving the king to his destiny. It would mean breaking the silent oath she had made to do everything in her power to rescue him... if he wasn’t already dead. Oh, what to do…! It was a half-hearted decision which finally caused her to urge Áriel along in an strength-preserving, trot…  towards the burning settlement.

Fear took her heart with a cold hand the closer she came, for with the dwindling distance the signs of the still raging battle became even more obvious. It appeared to come from the village’s centre. Why, really, should she go there? What could she do, except getting herself killed, too?

Again uncertain, she pulled at the reins and came to a halt only a short gallop away from the first huts, when – out of the corner of her eyes – a movement demanded her attention. She shifted her view and froze: A large, frightening shape with powerful shoulders was rounding the village’s outer huts with long, powerful leaps, almost headed at her, but not looking her way as far as she could tell. What –

Before she had finished the thought, a brown horse bolted through the narrow way between the two first huts, and the warg crashed right into it and lunged for the base of the animal’s neck. The terrible impact sent the horse’s rider flying full-force into their attacker and his steed somersaulting with the warg’s jaws sunken into it’s neck. With a terrible, gurgling scream, it tumbled to the ground.

The gruesome sight forced a gasp from her and made her gag as the orc-wolf’s jaws ripped free from the poor animal’s flesh without opening. Blood spurted from the horrible wound as the predator swallowed and buried its ugly head again in its dying prey. The horse was done for – what about it’s rider? A bad feeling, a very bad feeling turned her innards to water as she shifted her view to the unmoving figure on the ground.

‘No no no no….’

But it was the king. She was sure of it, even if she had not seen the broken shaft of the black arrow still protruding from his shoulder. The fall had looked bad enough for him to break his neck, but then Elana saw another figure scramble to its knees further back, and without thinking, she rammed her heels into her mare’s flanks, pure instinct. The impact had not just dismounted Éomer, but the warg’s rider as well, and the huge predator was busy feasting on its prey. This was the one chance she had! Áriel jumped into motion, and they raced towards the gruesome scene – ‘If he is unconscious, how am I going to pull him into the saddle? – What if he’s dead?’ – when suddenly another huge shape burst from the alley! Glistening white fangs grinned at her as the warg jumped straight at her without so much as a pause, and she shrieked. Threw her weight onto the mare’s other side and turned them both away from the advancing beast in an angle so sharp she could have touched the grass with her right hand –away from Éomer! A sharp clapping sound. The mighty jaws had snapped shut inches away from her horse’s rear.

“Run Áriel! Run!” Finally, her turn to defeat death. She ducked behind the mare’s neck and stood up in the stirrups to take the weight off her steed’s back. The dark-grey mane whipped her face as she virtually thrust the mare forward, giving her head free, and the wind roared in her ears as the half-meara launched into a race with the grim reaper. A brief glance over her shoulder: The warg was falling back in reaction to their fierce explosion of speed, but not so far that the hopelessness of the chase made its rider abandon the attack. Of course he had to know as well as Elana that they would not be able to keep up their speed for long and was already settling into a pace that would ultimately wear their prey out . He could not know that Áriel had already been running hard for hours, and that that moment would presumably come very soon. Even the legendary speed and stamina of the mearas had its limitations. The girl did not know where the warg’s limits lay, but had a premonitory feeling that the hunter would triumph in the end. Already, she felt the hard pumping of her horse’s lungs, heard the hard, ragged breathing. It was painfully obvious that Áriel would not be able to keep her pace much longer, and still there was nothing in sight that could be of help for them, only the wide, rolling hills.

“I know you are tired,” she finally uttered in Rohirric, patting her steed’s sweaty neck in a desperate plea “- but you can do this! You are faster than him! Come on, Áriel!” She let her hand rest where it was and looked back again. The same view. The warg was not so close that it represented an immediate threat, but then again it didn’t look as if it was going at full speed. It was chasing them and at the same time conserving its strength. Its rider was counting on his steed’s superior stamina. He was in no hurry to bring them down. Sooner rather than later, prey would be his. She saw the terrible confidence written all over the ugly face even over the distance and froze: She would die today.

***

Muttered words. Heavy panting and growling. The repercussion of heavy steps all around him. A sickening, foul stench. Warm, foul-smelling air was blown into his face. Something dripped onto his cheek and oozed its way down to his ears. It stank. A deep, menacing snarl, then an outburst of angered yelling. Movement. Something to his right side roared and wandered out in the distance. The smell of blood and guts. His head was being lifted, and his mouth forced open. Éomer knew the procedure by now, and even the vile taste of Gríma’s potion did not bother him anymore. The connection between his mind and body was very frail now, very delicate, and his once iron will weakened to the point where he could not even move a finger. Why was he still not dead? The discussion went on over him, but it took more concentration that he had to offer to make sense of the words.

            “Yes, today. The smoke must be visible over many leagues. It will attract the attention of the Westfold’s éoreds, and when they arrive here, we must not be here anymore. I know Erkenbrand is at Edoras these days, but that doesn’t mean he left his territory unguarded.” A question was grunted. “Put him onto a saddle: Tie him to it, if you have to, but make haste. We need to leave here at once.” Another question. Wormtongue was beginning to sound angered. “I do not care which one you take! Tie him to the warg if you have to, but we have to move quickly now.” Incredibly, another objection. Éomer waited for the sound of a sword and a falling head, but in vain. “Yes, he will remain in the saddle. I made the potion strong this time. It should keep him up until nightfall. By then we need to be at least five leagues away from here! Move it!”

            Silence. Then the familiar sound of hooves nearing. Vague relief. They would not tie him onto the warg, praise Eru! As much as Éomer knew he was finished, there were still certain things that simply shouldn’t have to be. Strong hands seized him from both sides and lifted him up as if he were a scarecrow which had been felled by a gust of wind. There was no pain. His flesh had been driven past that to numbness, following his dazed mind. The discovery renewed his hope that it all would soon be over….

***

            It was impossible to shake their pursuers. The chase had been going on for she didn’t know how long, but it felt like an eternity to her, and the terrain had become increasingly rougher and trickier for the tired legs of her exhausted mare. Áriel was dark with sweat, her body so hot that steam rose from her into the chilly air, and her breath came in hard, ragged bursts. Twice she had already stumbled in the last minutes and barely avoided a fall, and their enemy had both times almost been close enough to make use of the opportunity. The warg-rider was chasing her all with the accumulated experience, cunning and patience of a seasoned hunter. Never hasty, never spoiling an opportunity by acting too rash, and always near to close in for the kill upon even the smallest mistake of his prey. His method became more frightening by the minute.

            The mare stumbled again, and this time, Elana was almost unseated. She shrieked and desperately clawed at the dark grey mane to straighten herself in the saddle. Another look back. The warg was gaining on them now. It’s paws had a better grip of this treacherous terrain and it was closing in now to finish them off, the gaping jaws grinning at her and promising her an ugly death, girl or woman or not. Orcs and their steeds had no noble concerns, no higher morale that would lead them to spare the supposedly weaker from being slaughtered. Her gaze travelled over the yellow, murderously sparkling eyes of the huge predator and down to its lolling red tongue. Her blood would be just as red…

            “Áriel…” she whimpered, a terrified, pleading sound. It was impossible to turn her eyes away from the approaching predator. Each of its mighty leaps brought it closer now as they ascended another long, steep hill. The mare’s rear-muscles were trembling from the strain of the uphill run, She was rapidly nearing breakdown now. One way or the other, this would be the last hill for her.

            Behind them, the panting of the orc-wolf was getting so close that Elana did not even dare to turn around for another look for fear that the image of the gaping jaws would freeze her. They were losing this race. The grim reaper would have his harvest, no matter where she turned now. A cold fist pressed her innards together as they finally reached the top of the ascent with one last, mighty effort, the warg now so close on their heels that its foul breath assaulted her nostrils. She braced for the excruciating pain of being torn apart…

            A sudden flurry of activity in front of them. Pale sunlight sparkled on metal shields and helmets, blinding her. The notion of a great number of horses, moving all around her, then an alarmed scream from the left.

            “Warg-rider!”

            A rush of activity as swords were drawn and spears readied. The next second, the thunder of hooves drowned out everything else as a vast group of horses and riders swept past her by like a raging river around a rock. What- ? Who-?

            The éored passed her in a frenzied pace and rushed down the hill in a deadly wave of glistening, sharp steel. For a moment, Elana thought she heard the furious roar of the great orc-wolf, then it, too, was drowned out by the horses and the sounds of the battle. Fighting to catch her breath and eyes wide in wonder about what had happened, she turned her steed around and allowed her to slow down to a walk. One hand went to the wet, dark neck and patted it gratefully. The lean torso between her legs was pumping like a pair of bellows, but Elana’s attention was elsewhere. The warriors were returning. Behind them, the columns of smoke were still marring the pale afternoon sky in the distance.

            A moment later, the shimmering spear tips and helmets flooded over the edge of the hill towards her. Pulling the reins, Elana came to a halt as a tall, fierce-looking warrior with a dark horses-tail on the back of his helmet rode up to her. As glad as she was to see him and his men, the piercing scrutiny of his dark grey eyes made her want to shrink and hide, especially when she saw the blood-covered spear in his hand. His éored – about fifty men, Elana assumed – assembled close behind him as he came to a stop in front of her, eyes narrowed.

            “What are you doing out here on your own, child?” His deep voice fitted his impressive frame. “The war may be over, yet it should be in every Rohirrim’s blood that the Mark is never a safe place, especially for the lone traveller. You were lucky.”

            “Aye, my lord,” she admitted, intimidated by his superior stance and sudden recognition of his artfully crafted cuirass and helmet. She had seen him before many times, but only from a distance. ‘Marshal Elfhelm!’ It is Marshal Elhelm!’ Her heart jumped in sudden excitement. It could have only been the Valar’s will that she had run into the Lord of the Eastmark in the time of her greatest need. But what was he doing here? This was not his territory! “Aye, I know that. And I thank you and your men for saving me. A moment later, and my foe would have killed me.”

            “It looked that way, yes.” Elfhelm looked back, and a grim, satisfied expression wandered over his broad, bearded face. A cruel, twisted scar wound its way down his brow to the corner of his left eye and added to the air of the seasoned warrior his reputation spoke of. It made Elana wonder what had happened to him when he collected it. ”But the proximity of his prey made the filth careless. Now he’s food for the ravens. Orcs…” He grimaced in disdain. Another scrutinising glance at her. “So… what are you doing out here in the wild, all on your own, child? And who are you?”

“I am Elana of the Great Herd, my lord. My being here is not my own choosing. A few days ago, our herd was attacked and almost wiped out, so we called Edoras for help… and the king himself answered our call. with his personal éored. What we did not know though was that it was a trap! We were used as bait, my lord, to lure the king into the trap. Someone captured the king! I was following the enemy to see where they were going, and then find help for Éomer.”

Deadly silence. For a moment, all which could be heard on the top of the hill was the blowing wind and the ringing of metal parts from bridles and armour. The brown eyes in front of her narrowed in disbelief.

“Éomer is out here in the Westfold?”

“Aye, my lord. He was captured by an army of huge orcs two nights ago – and he is badly wounded!” Gradually Elana became aware that the entire éored was staring at her with stunned expressions, then – as if sent by Eru himself – a distant neighing sound rose through the air from below them.

“Elfhelm! There!” One of the soldiers pointed the way she had come. A great, grey horse came running their way like an apparition, its head wearing a familiar bridle of brownish-red leather. The men gasped as it became clear even to the last of them that the young woman in front of them was speaking the truth.

“That is Firefoot, or Eru strike me where I stand!” Elfhelm’s expression turned from scepticism to open concern. Elana nodded.

“Aye, it is him. He has been following me since yesterday, but I didn’t dare tie him to my mare.” The marshal’s attention returned to her, and the sudden urgency in his gaze told her that he needed to know everything – at once.

***

Fire. Raging fire. Blistering heat that seared his lungs, and with the thick stench of smoke, forced him to cough and made it almost impossible to breathe. The fire had spread, and now the village was burning to the ground. Black rain falling down on them, stinking, ashen mud. Screams. Those awful screams of the wounded and dying… The images burnt themselves into Eomer’s mind. So much blood. So much death.... because of him.

“You should not have encouraged them, my liege,” a reproachful voice trickled into his ears from the left. He was too weak to look, too devastated by the destruction they were riding through. “Now see what you have done. I had no intention to let it come to this.”

A woman stumbled across their path, her clothes torn, her face ash-smeared and a look in her eyes that reminded Éomer of a horse that was wild with terror. She was holding her bleeding, strangely twisted arm and shouting a name again and again, seemingly oblivious to their presence. The Uruk-hai shoved her out of their way without so much as slowing down, and she fell to her knees in the mud and cried out.

The marketplace. The scene of a massacre. Bodies lay strewn in the dirt, and the rain on the ground was reddened by their blood. More crying and pained shouts, more misery. Two limping men, their faces hardly recognisable under congealed blood, were dragging another one, more heavily wounded soldier to the side before he came under their army’s feet.

Death wherever he looked. His kinsmen had sacrificed themselves for him, and he had not even been able to make use of the opportunity they had bought him with their lives.

A sudden flurry of motion at the end of the marketplace, something bright, eerily out-of-place in the sinister surroundings. Too weak to lift his head, the king stared at the source of the disturbance from under his eyebrows. His jaw dropped open. It was a horse. But there was something wrong with it, something he could not name at first. Something was off. Something with its colour... and its feel. It was of a sickly pale white, a colour that seemed to spread its ghostly glow into the darkening twilight as it pranced in front of the houses, up and down, up and down, but without the sound of hooves that belonged to the image. It threw its head and sent the long mane flying, and as it did so, Éomer saw that its eyes were of a dead, hollow black. A blackness that seemed to reach for him, to suck him in. Slowly it dawned on him that he was not looking at a real horse, a creature made of flesh and blood. It was an apparition… a vision that sent a chill down his spine as he finally grasp the meaning of it.

“My lord?” Gríma continued to speak to him, but as far as the king was concerned, the dark counsellor was not even there as he stared mesmerised at the prancing stallion.

It was Sleipnir. The ghost horse that only those who were about to die could see. He had heard about it from several men in the aftermath of the battles he had been in, men who had been so severely wounded that they had soon afterwards died. The memory of their wide-eyed stare at a point where nothing had been except grass had spooked him back then, and even more when they had uttered the name. As a long-time member of the Rohirrim cavalry, Éomer had been well-versed in all kind of Rohirric lore and sagas, but there had always been parts of it he had rejected as utter fairy-tales. The tale of the ghost-horse had been among them, but now the pale, riderless horse was waiting for him to take him away to the realm of death. And - strangely enough - Éomer found that he was not frightened by the prospects. In fact, he welcomed them, but when he opened his mouth to invite the stallion to come closer, it bolted away… to stop at the end of the alley… and wait.

The sight of it brought a sudden smile to his lips.

“What is it, my lord, that you find so amusing? Will you not let me in on it?”

But Éomer’s smile only deepened, and there was an unexpected joyful glint in his eyes as he saw the ghost horse break away again, only to slow down again at the last hut of the village… and wait again.

***

            “No, please! You cannot leave me here! I need to see-“

            “You cannot come with us, Elana,” Elfhelm declared with rock-hard determination in his voice. The daylight was fading, and soon it would be impossible to follow the tracks the enemy had left. They would have to make haste. And from what he had been able to gather from the reports his second scout had returned with – the first one had insisted on further following the enemy – the situation looked more than stern for Éomer. They had to come to his aid as soon as they possibly could, even if he was not yet sure about his strategy. “You will stay here, or return to your people as soon as your mare has sufficiently recovered. We are heading into battle. You will not be of use to us there, and I will not see you needlessly killed. You did much for the king already, and it will not be forgotten once we’ve freed him. But in this situation, you will be a hindrance to us. Go home, girl!” He turned away from her mask of frustration to face his expectant men. “Fránca, Bernhelm, you ride to Marshal Erkenbrand’s stronghold. Tell them to send a fresh rider to Edoras with the tidings we have, and then gather what men they can give you and meet us at Helm’s Deep. Once we’ve freed Éomer, that will be where we shall await you. The Deeping Wall and the gate have not yet been repaired, but even so, it’s probably the only place where we can hold off an enemy’s army long enough to have half a chance, but you’ll have to make haste!”

            The two men nodded their affirmation and urged their steeds into a fast-paced canter.

            “Lord Elfhelm-“

            “I will not repeat my words.” Elfhelm turned his horse way from the girl. His men looked eager to leave. The image of the smouldering ruins of Iséndras behind them turned his bloodstream into a churning white-hot river. Nobody could do this to the Rohirrim and live to tell about it, not while there was a single breath left in him. “Go and help the villagers, they will need every hand they can get. If you want to make yourself useful, this is the place where you are needed. Not where we are going. Let’s go, Rohirrim!” The angry yell of his éored answered him as he kicked his heels into his steed’s sides and took off . Thunder followed him.

            Elana watched them disappear in the diffuse twilight with a sinking feeling in her stomach. While the marshal’s word made perfect sense and she certainly did not want to experience his éored’s battle with the dark man’s army, the bitter feeling of being unjustly left out was unshakeable. She wanted to see Éomer freed. She needed to see him alive and well to feel better.

The sound of hooves neared her from the left and distracted her from her gloomy thoughts, and when she turned around, her aching heart felt a little comforted as she spotted the dark grey silhouette that was coming her way at a swift trot.

“Áriel…” She took a few steps in the mare’s direction and her fingers closed around the simple bridle while the other hand caressed the horse’s face. “What are we supposed to do now, little one?” She turned around to face the smouldering ruins of the village. The marshal had been right. Her place was here, at least for the night. Tomorrow she would begin the journey home, but tonight... this was where she could help, even if she dreaded to see the full scale of what had happened to the people of Iséndras. Reluctantly, she made for the first huts in the fading daylight…

***

            They had stopped. Éomer did not know for how long they had ridden, nor where they were or how late it was. All he knew was that it was dark, and he was weary and tired and wanted nothing more than go to sleep... preferably without having to wake up. The ghost horse had been following them all the way from Iséndras and was passing them again on the hill to his left, but Éomer did not even bother to look up anymore. In his life, he had come to know fundamental exhaustion before, had in fact experienced it many a time, but never anything like this. He felt hollow... as if he were on his way to becoming a wraith. This must be what their state felt like. Insubstantial, weightless. As if the wind could carry him away like an old, dried autumn leaf. Would he pass over into that realm, or would Sleipnir be faster and carry him to where his forefathers were looking down on him?

            Again he was being seized by powerful hands as a horrible thought occurred to him: He would not be accepted among the great kings! Eorl the Young, Helm Hammerhand... his uncle... he would disgrace them with his presence! They would never tolerate someone in their midst whose soul was stained with the blood of his own people! Which great deed had he done to outweigh his sins in their eyes? Leading the Rohirrim to victory on the Pelennor? No. Most of that honour went to Théoden, and if it had not been for Aragorn’s arrival with the army of the dead, they would still have lost. The glory of that day was not his to have, not his own. The battle at the Morannon? Same again. That time, they had been saved by the courage of two halflings. What had he ever done to deserve a place among his forefathers?

            With a thud, he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground and his hands again seized and tied. He hardly minded. The concerns of his body were so far removed from him now, its signals were no longer reaching him. He was not even cold anymore. The heat from the burning village seemed to have followed them out here, into the deepest, darkest realm of the nightly Westmark. It was strange in fact for as far as he could see, they had not built any campfires, even though the night was so chilly that he saw white vapour rise from the Uruks’ mouths with every breath. But who was he to complain about this state he was in? It had been well-earned. He deserved every bit of what Wormtongue had come up with. Maybe... maybe some higher force had brought the dark counsellor back from the dead to haunt him for his sins. Maybe... this was the Valars’ retribution against those who misused their great power.

‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ his father had always told him when Éomer had still been a boy, and he had listened eagerly, pretending to understand. But he hadn’t. And when power had passed to him, what had he done with it? Instead of protecting his kin with it, he had used it to intimidate the people who were looking up to him and depended on him, he had corrupted it, tweaked and twisted it to bring about his will, to take whatever he wanted, whatever rank he wanted to achieve, whatever woman he desired to have, and in the process burnt down all of the young boy’s ideals of that time when he swore the soldier’s oath seemingly a lifetime ago. He had failed his kin on a scale that was impossible to comprehend.

            “My lord...?” Hands wandered over his body and probed for broken bones. He did not care to look at Wormtongue, not even when his adversary – and the way it looked to him now, supernatural judge - inspected his shoulder again and a telling whiff of sickening sweetness reached his nostrils. His eyes remained focussed on the shiny white horse on the hill as it turned its proud head and looked at him...

***

Elfhelm did not know how late it was when he finally saw the black silhouette of Thor, his experienced first scout, look out for them from the next hill. The moon had already wandered a good part of its way to morning on the starlit sky, and there was not a sound to be heard all around them as his éored slowed down to a walk, except for the hard breathing of their horses, shingling of little metal parts on saddles and bridles and muffled steps on grassy ground. Thor’s presence could only mean that the enemy was very close. They met halfway up the hill.

            “Marshal?” the scout acknowledged his superior with a curt nod. Elfhelm gave it back, eager to hear his report. “It is good to see you. We need to act immediately. The timing would be just right, as half of the enemy’s army appears to be asleep.” He pointed at the hill with his chin. “They are about a quarter-league away, nestled into a niche below one of the steeper hills. I dared not to move any closer, because they have a warg-patrol on duty. And I suppose they are already suspecting something is ill, because the one we killed did not return to them.”

            Elfhelm furrowed his brow as he looked in the direction the half-Dunlending was indicating. It was less than a perfect opportunity. They had been riding for four hours straight, and both them and their steeds needed rest. But could he afford to wait?

            “What can you tell me about the enemy? How great is their number?”

            “Like I said, Marshal, I dared not to get too close, for they were wary already, and the warg-rider was constantly circling their host. But I think it is safe to assume that we are faced with a host of at least 150 Uruk-hai.”

            “150! The girl said there were about 200!”

            Thor shook his head.

            “They are definitely less, although I cannot give you their exact number. It was too dark for a better calculation.”

“What about the king?” Elfhelm’s twisted into a knot in expectation of his scout’s answer. He and Éomer had been riding together ever since the current king had started his soldier’s duty at the age of 16, and even before he had known the boy from his service under his father Éomund. Elfhelm had been there to comfort the boy on that dreadful day almost two decades back, when he himself had been but a young man of 24 years. When Éomer had finally been allowed to join the armed forces, it had been his éored the boy had been assigned to, and Elfhelm had taken him under his wings – not only out of an obligation to the late Lord of the Eastmark, but because he had been moved by the sincere boy’s dedication to becoming a great warrior and protect their people. He had taught Éomer everything he had known, from battle skills to strategy to survival techniques. About the value of honour, and pride, and courage. About respect. Mercy and compassion. Duty. Whatever there had been to know about, he had taught young Éomer, and even though the boy had been so much younger than him, he had understood quickly... and learned to apply his new knowledge.

Apart from Éothain – ‘who is dead now!’ – he was, as far as he knew - the only one whom Éomer would not permit to address him as “king”. They were and always had been friends. He would not let his friend die.

Thor’s face was shadowed, but his voice sounded grim enough.

“Again, I could not see much, but… if it is indeed Éomer, we need to move. Even from a distance, he appeared to be rather lifeless. They had tied him to the saddle in order for him to stay on the horse.” A leaden pause as silent communication passed between the two men. ‘We both know what this means. Éomer is not one to fall from a horse’s back unless he is unconscious.’ Elfhelm’s lips formed a thin line. “And when they stopped, they had to pull him down. I did not see him move on his own.” He took a deep breath and looked at his marshal in expectation. Determined, Elfhelm gave his scout a curt nod and then turned around to face his men.

            “Rohirrim? You stay here and wait. Make no sound, the enemy is close. Thor and Findárras, you come with me. I need to see for myself... and we will need to discuss our strategy.”

***

            “I do not believe it,” Findárras, Elhelm’s second-in-command, muttered into the grass as he peered down from the steep hill they were lying on. “I thought they were all dead. That there were none left after the battle at the Hornburg. And yet there they are!” There was very limited activity in the camp below them, but there were enough of the hulking dark shapes moving around in the pale moonlight to give them unmistakably away. Uruk-hai. The most fearsome breed of orc ever to disgrace the face of Middle Earth. Somehow, he had hoped for the girl to be mistaken.

            “They must have come from outside the Mark, although what would lead them here is completely beyond me. Or should I rather say ‘who’? I do not believe for a moment that Uruks, as advanced as they may be to common orcs, would act like that – set up an elaborate trap to lure Éomer out of Edoras, and then capture, but not kill him? Uruks are no strategists. There has to be a human foe behind this scheme, mark my words,” Elfhelm growled while he was staring in equal disbelief at the large host of Uruk-hai below. These… foul things had killed Éothain, who had been a good friend of his. From what the girl had told him, they had killed Éomer’s entire personal éored, most of which had been experienced long-time warriors Elfhelm had known for at least a decade. A deep, churning rage started to build in the pit of his stomach. And where was the king himself?

            “There’s the warg!” Thor mumbled next to him, pointing a finger at the right end of the upwards-turned U-shape the army had built their camp in. “Still patrolling. But he cannot pick up our scent where we lie.” The wind was blowing into their faces.

            “But he will pick it up if we attack them from that side, long before we actually reach them, and as far as I can see, these Uruks have range weapons. These are no club-wielding, primitive creatures like trolls – I am certain they know how to use a bow or crossbow. If we attack from this side, they will inflict heavy damage on us... and we cannot come from here, either.” Findárras scratched his beard pensively. “With this wall in his back, the enemy is untouchable.”

            “Whoever commands that army is no fool,” Elfhelm admitted. “Which confirms that it can’t be a Uruk. Thor, can you see-“

            “I see the king!” the scout suddenly hissed in excitement, barely able to restrain his voice. “There! Almost in a direct line below us, in the middle of the ‘u’. I cannot make out his face, but it has to be him!”

            Elfhelm concentrated on the dark shape Thor was pointing out to them and narrowed his eyes. It was hard to say. There were no campfires, and the moonlight was not bright enough to illuminate details such as faces. The man was lying on the ground and did not move. He was not wearing any distinctive armour, and while he appeared to have long hair, it looked darker than Éomer’s. But then again, it had been raining for hours. The marshal had known the king almost all his life, but even he was unable to recognise him. He would have to trust his scout.

            “And you are certain?”

            “I am. In addition to his appearance, they are also keeping him well behind their line of defence. If someone would try to rescue the king, he would first have to plough through their entire army to get him – and get out that way again. Impossible… at least for a force as small as ours. We are at least three times outnumbered, and they have the advantage of the place. A direct attack would result in disaster.”

            “Indeed.” Elfhelm bit his lower lip, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “The warg-rider is patrolling in front of them, and they have this cliff to protect their backs. Nothing can come at them this way… or at least they think so.” He peered down at the steep, rocky slope… looked at the lying silhouette again… and again at the steep wall beneath them. Then at his two companions. The slight, grim smile on their marshal’s face told them all they needed to know…

***

            “At last, it looks as if your destiny has found you, brother.” The slim, ethereal figure had somehow made it unnoticed through the lines of Uruk-hai, and as Éowyn stood before him, Éomer saw a hard, unforgiving glare in her – for a Rohirrim - uncharacteristically dark eyes. It was a trait they both shared, yet in this moment, it seemed to be the only thing they shared as she came to a halt at his feet without making the slightest move to free him. “Now that you’ve tasted it, how do you like it?”

            “I am sorry, Éowyn,” he croaked, shocked by his sister’s vengeful appearance. His pitiful state seemed to amuse her. There was a cruel expression on her beautiful face he had never seen before, the delicate lines utterly devoid of compassion as she continued to stare down at him. ‘An early spring morning, still touched by frost,’ his men had always decribed the White Lady, but of course never to his face. He had found out anyhow and always wondered about the expression, for he knew of Éowyn’s great capacity for passion and compassion. But as she stood before him now, her long, blonde hair blowing in the slight, chilly night breeze, his sister lived up to her reputation. Her gaze was sheer ice and froze him to the core. “I never intended to… I never wanted-“

            “Your words are the words of a coward,” she interrupted him brusquely, her voice deep with anger. “Not even in the face of death do you have the courage to openly admit your failure and stand by your mistakes. I spent years withering in the dark shadow of Meduseld, imprisoned by your fears, and now you think you can just plead for forgiveness and everything will be forgotten?” She took a deep breath, and her her gaze turned even colder. “You do not even mean your words. You will say anything you think I want to hear, even though you will never understand what you did to me. You are like a dog that desperately wants to please its master. You are pitiful. I am ashamed to call you my brother.”

            There were no words that seemed fitting as a reply. Her words were sharper, the pain they inflicted more agonising than any sword. They hurt even worse than Wormtongue’s, for as masterfully as his captor handled language, it was Éowyn he had loved ever since she had been placed into his arms for the first time as a tiny bundle wrapped in a blanket when he had been but four years old. All through their youth, their adolescence and maturity, she had looked up to him, confided in him and sought his protection and comfort when her days had been almost too dark to bear. And now... she hated him?

Behind her fragile silhouette, Sleipnir thrust his head down and continued his dance on the slope. He was closer now, but still did not dare to approach him. Éomer hoped he would not wait much longer, he was yearning to get away – from his captor, his bad conscience, even from his sister now. He had barely ended the thought when Éowyn’s face melted away… and suddenly his uncle was standing in before him. Not the King Théoden filled with life he had followed into battle on the Pelennor, but the old, bent, dishonoured prisoner of Saruman’s. He was leaning heavily on a staff, and his eyes were looking at his nephew with tragic disillusionment.

            “You achieved what you craved for more than anything else in the world, sister-son. Hail, Éomer-King! You must have been pleased indeed when the messenger brought the news of Théodred’s death. Nobody stood between you and the throne of Rohan anymore.”

            “Pleased?” Éomer’s eyes widened at the horrible accusation. “I was as shattered as you, uncle! Théodred had been like a brother to me! If you remember, it was I who brought him home all the way from the Fords of the Isen. Would I have done so if I had wanted his death?” But he could not get through. Théoden’s face was grief-stricken as he glanced down on the fallen king.

            “Alas, I had not listened to Gríma’s accusations for a long time. I had been hoping that you would still find your way, that you would start to listen to what the people were saying. I had such high hopes for you…” To Éomer’s dismay, the old man started to weep. The thin, weak body shook so hard that the staff fell from Théoden’s grasp, and he swayed.

“Uncle…” Frantically searching for a way to redeem himself, Éomer stared up, his lips moving, but the words would not come to him… and when he blinked, Théoden was gone and it was his captor he was looking at. The pale blue eyes went straight through his defences all the way down to his ugly, stained soul, and the thin lips curled into a nasty smirk.

            “You were talking, my lord? To whom? There is no one here.” Éomer remained silent. The gaze was almost hypnotising. He could not avert his eyes... nor could he close them. Gríma moved another step closer, and the malicious smirk deepened. “Are you bidding your kin farewell... or are you asking them for forgiveness? They will not hear you, my liege. They are far away... or dead.” The dark counsellor squatted down next to his prisoner and eyes gleaming in delight.

            He could not think... or speak. He. Could. Not. Those pale eyes...

            “Are you praying to the Valar to let you die? Spare the effort. I will not let you die... not yet. What you witnessed today was barely the beginning. Soon, the entire Mark will experience what the people of Iséndras tasted today. It is only a matter of time before the kingdom of Rohan will be wiped off the face of Middle Earth.” He laid a hand on Éomer’s hot brow and then held out the water-skin he had brought along with him, pressed it against Éomer’s tightly shut lips. And shook his head in disapproval. “It is water, my lord. You are running a fever. You need to drink.”

            “Leave me alone, snake...” Finally, his tongue obeyed him, even if it was hardly a whisper. The next moment, his chin was being seized and a cool liquid filled his mouth. He swallowed, too exhausted to fight Gríma off. It was a bad sign that the scrawny counsellor was by now stronger than he, but hardly a wonder. The water tasted strange on its way down, and as Éomer turned his face away, he knew he had once again been given one of his foe’s potions. Closing his eyes and sinking back as Gríma came to his feet at his side, he closed his eyes and wondered briefly what it would do to him ... as a sudden shout rang out in the darkness, and all hell broke loose!

            The thunder of hooves approaching the opening of the niche they were settled in was not to be overheard – someone had come to his aid, and from the sound of it, it was a big éored, more men than he had taken along on his ill-fated venture into the meara-valley. Elfhelm? Could it be Elfhelm? No. The Lord of the Eastmark had to be home by now, back at Aldburg... or at least at Edoras, waiting for his king to return from his own errant to issue his report. It could not be his teacher and friend of old.

‘And he is not my friend anymore. Not after what I have done. He would not risk the lives of his men to rescue his immoral king.’ – ‘ Then who is it?’

Dazed and confused, Éomer tried to turn his head at the sound of the roaring Uruk-hai, but was too weak to even sit up. Wormtongue stood still next to him, but his foe’s attention was entirely consumed by the sudden attack, the pale eyes focussed on the darkness beyond as he shook his head in open bewilderment.

“I cannot believe your men are stupid enough to attack us here! They will pay a hefty price for their boldness!” he sneered and rushed away, leaving him lying on the ground, a muttered curse trickling from his lips as he left to organise their defence. Pathetically scrambling in the dirt, Éomer somehow managed to push himself into a half-sitting position against the rock he was leaning on, just when, with a swishing sound, an arrow passed over his head and embedded itself in the cliff behind him. An arrow of a familiar design. For the duration of a heartbeat, the sight of it forced the vaguest hint of a smile on the king’s face… but it died with the next. Did he want to be rescued? What for? His men – more men! - were dying for him in this attack, and not because they loved and honoured him, but out of duty. Because it was an impossibility for any self-respecting Rohirrim to let themselves be insulted by an enemy in that way. Because it would be a signal of weakness to their other foes, such as the Dunlendings, if they allowed an enemy to capture and kill their king without any kind of retribution. No, an example had to be set; the attackers had to be destroyed – for the sake of the Mark. They did not do it for him, but they were dying nevertheless, loading yet more guilt onto his already burdened mind.

Further back, a horse’s awful dying scream could be heard, drowned out by the triumphant roar of a Uruk. Mesmerised, Éomer stared into the darkness, while at the same time he registered from out of the corners of his eyes that the ghost horse was following his gaze intently. The way the battle raged, its service would be needed someplace else sooner than here.

‘No,’ he thought, desperate. Sleipnir started down the slope... away from him. ‘Don’t leave me here! Take me with you!’

Sand trickled on his head. He was too absorbed to notice. The stallion rushed down the hill with bizarre effortlessness. He almost seemed to glide. Soon, he was among the Uruks. They paid him no attention as he charged through their rows to where another desperate cry was ringing out.

‘No, come back!’ Éomer’s eyes started to burn with agonising despair. Why was everybody deserting him? Now it looked as if not even death welcomed his presence anymore.

More sand. And gravel. A flint hit his head and fell to the ground. Reflexively, he looked up – and squinted as a load of sand rained into his eyes, but just before his sight vanished, the king caught the glimpse of heavy boots. What-

“Éomer!” The voice sounded muffled and strained with effort, but he recognised it nonetheless. Yet it could not be! It had to be a vision, something his dazed mind had come up with to torture him  with yet again. Still there was more gravel raining down on him…

The next moment, a heavy weight landed at his left side, and he forced his eyes open, blinking heavily to force the sand out. Elfhelm’s broad, scarred face filled out his vision as he kneeled down next to him, open concern written all over his features.

“Éomer?” A hand grasped his good shoulder and gave it an assuring squeeze as the marshal cast a quick glance in the direction of the battle. Nobody had noticed the unexpected guest yet, but they could not hope for their luck to last much longer. Elfhelm’s attention returned to his king as he widened the sling he had wrapped around himself and slid it over Éomer’s head and shoulders, careful not to touch the protruding bolt. “This will hurt, but it will only be for a short time. Hold on!” He pulled the sling tight, wrapped one arm around the younger man and gave the rope a quick tug.

They were yanked upwards so fast that Éomer had no time to prepare himself for the pain, and his initial grunt became a yell as the rope slid under his bad shoulder. Elfhelm’s hand over his mouth came too late. Not far from them, a dark silhouette spun around on its heels – and shouted out, frantically yanking the Uruk-hai next to it around. The Uruk had a readied crossbow in his hands as it closed the distance with huge strides, already aiming.

“Faster, Thor! Faster!” As the cruel weapon was lifted up at them, Elfhelm struggled to both keep the limp form of his friend in the sling and prop his feet against the rock-wall to send them spinning in order to provide a more difficult target. A cry from above – “The rope!” – then a sudden drop. Something passed the marshal’s left ear so close by, he felt the slight draft of air, before it embedded itself into the slope behind as they were violently jerked upwards again. The older warrior grunted as the rope cut into his rip cage. More Uruks had abandoned the battle and were headed their way now! “Thor!”

One last tug, a violent upwards move – and then eager hands helped them over the edge of the cliff. An angered scream reached their ears from below. Frantically, Elfhelm freed himself from the sling and pressed a hand against the king’s neck. He found a fast-beating, strong pulse. Good… but why was his skin so hot? It felt as if Éomer was burning up from the inside!

“Éomer? Come on, we need you awake! Thor, give the signal!”

“Marshal, we need to move!” Findárras urged them on from the edge of the cliff, peering down in concern, while the scout blew the horn. Their riders would abandon the attack now, separate into three groups of equal size and head for the first settlement in the direction of Helm’s Deep on different paths in order to confuse the enemy. “They’re all coming our way! It’s like an angry beehive down there!” He ducked a flying arrow and retreated.

“I know,” Elfhelm grunted, still shaking the moaning king and shouting into his friend’s face. “For Eru’s sake, Éomer, wake up!” His efforts were rewarded when the younger man’s eyelids fluttered… and then opened to reveal a dazed, confused look. A short, grim smile crossed the marshal’s face as he speedily propped Éomer into a sitting position to slide his hands under his shoulders. “Welcome back, my friend. I need you to stay in a saddle. Can you do that?”